Complete Sharhe Ghalib

A DESERTFUL

OF ROSES Commentary on the

Urdu Divan-e Ghalib

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Dr. Frances W. Pritchett

Professor of Modern Indic Languages Department of Middle East and Asian Languages and Cultures Columbia University New York

ABOUT THE PROJECT This

project

begins

in

sheer

pleasure, as a chance to combine superb poetry with some

gorgeous architecture and share it with anyone anywhere in the world. I will try to present basic information about the ghazals straightforwardly, but I also plan to put in whatever scholarly niceties my heart desires. I make no assumptions about you, dear reader, except that you are interested enough to take a look, and to find what you can or what you wish. Hours and hours of my life will go into making this site, and many of them will be hours of absolute delight. So I will already have had my reward. I hope the poetry of Ghalib holds rewards for you too, but years of teaching have shown me that it's not up to me. If Ghalib wants you, against all odds he will reach out and grab you; he chooses his own readers, as he makes clear in {60,7}.

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'A Desertful of Roses', my title for this project, is loosely based on {147,3}, which really speaks of 'a desertful of the glory/appearance of roses'. In the true spirit of Ghalib, it's not at all the same as 'a desert full of roses'. It might even be like 'a handful of air' and thus be nothing at all, since a desert is an empty and rose-free place to begin with. Ghalib likes to measure things in such units: there's a 'desertful of fatigue' in {11,1}, and a 'cityful of longing' in {16,2}; in {18,2} we even find a 'two-world-ful desert'. And when it comes to gardening in the desert, I can't help but mention the irresistible {214,6}.

About Ghalib, you may know a great deal already, and in that case you may want to go straight to the ghazals. If you don't know much, let me say a few introductory things. Mirza Asadullah Khan (1797-1869) was born in Agra into a military family of Central Asian immigrants; he lost his father and then his uncle in childhood, and lived for most of his life on his share of a pension from the British East India Company (his uncle had served as a Company military officer). He was well-educated and precocious: by the age of twelve, he claims, he was already writing prose and poetry. In both Persian and Urdu, he wrote most extensively in the traditional mystical-romantic genre of lyric poetry called ghazal. His family was well-connected, and he was married at the age of thirteen to a girl from an even loftier family. Soon thereafter he moved to Delhi, where he lived for the rest of his life, except for one long trip to Calcutta. He was lively and sociable, ironic, witty, liberal-minded, with humanity and a sense of humor that delighted his many friends. Writer of some of the most enjoyable letters in Urdu, he revelled in the new English postal service and conducted a lifelong correspondence with his many Muslim, Hindu, and English friends. Financial difficulties were a constant headache: he never owned books, or a house, or any property except an inadequate patchwork of pensions and stipends from patrons. But even when the roof collapsed during the monsoon, he never for a moment abandoned his vision of the world. He sought to maintain at all costs the leisured, Persianized lifestyle of the Mughal aristocrat he knew himself to be. He tried hard to induce the British to become the kind of literary patrons the Mughals had been; the Rebellion of 1857 was the most painful time of his life. He died in 1869, in straitened circumstances. His wife did not long survive him; they had had a number of children, but all had died in infancy. For the best account of Ghalib's life in English, much of it told in his own words through his letters and other writings, see Russell and Islam. This is an admirable book that deserves to remain in print forever. If you want to read only one good basic book about Ghalib, this is the one. If you are interested in the larger question of Urdu and Hindi and their literary development, here are some good books for background reading. I've also put together a few of what I think are especially evocative images of Ghalib's life and times.

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Ghalib's poetry, from his teenage years onward, created a sensation. Written in both Persian and Urdu, it was lavishly praised by its admirers, and bitterly attacked by those who thought he was taking what should be lyrical, romantic, and mystically yearning poetry and twisting it into something far too cerebral and convoluted. The nearest parallel in English literature is perhaps the advent of the Metaphysical poets, with their consciously awkward constructions and unromantic metaphors (think of Donne and his twin compasslegs and his flea). During his lifetime, Ghalib was given a lot of grief about his ghazals- and much less praise than he knew he deserved. He was accused of creating fine-sounding but overwrought and even 'meaningless' poetry. Over the past century, though, his genius has shone forth with an authority that has been, if anything, increasing. A whole commentarial tradition has sprung up to assist the reader; there are also the Ghalib Institute and the Ghalib Academy and Ghalib conferences and Ghalib journals and special Ghalib Numbers of other journals-- and movies, and many fancy coffee-table books, and an Indian tv serial.

So let the curtain rise on what it's ultimately all about-the poetry itself. Obviously the GHAZAL INDEX, the access point for the 234 ghazals themselves, is at the heart of this project, but most readers will want some explanation first about how the whole thing is put together. The section called ABOUT THE GHAZALS contains a general account of how the poetry is presented here, with information on texts, arrangement, commentary, dating, meter, transliteration, etc. If you don't know anything about this kind of poetry, however, you might want to begin by having a look at ABOUT THE GENRE, which tries to offer an overview. Please be patient as I gradually build and improve this website. It may seem very limited at first, and not all of the promised parts will be hooked up, but I am looking forward to enhancing it over time. This project is by far the largest piece of academic work I've ever undertaken. It was originally planned as a book (in maybe three volumes), and I began to work systematically on it in fall 1999. Then came the events of September 11, 2001. I felt then that I wanted to start making it available immediately rather than after several more years, and to everybody rather than chiefly to a small number of scholars. The website was designed and made in February-March 2002 (which was about as early as I had the skills to do it). The first ten ghazals went online on April 12, 2002. The CSS stylesheets for the ghazal and verse pages, developed by Gary Tubb, were introduced in July 2002. The software for the 'script bar' was created by Sean Pue, and was installed in October 2002. I finished the first run-through of the divan on Nov. 17, 2007, and at once started the second one. Anybody who has received as much kindness and help as I have could say thanks forever. So let me confine myself to a truly fundamental list: my family; my long-ago Urdu teachers Moazzam Siddiqi, Bruce Pray, Khaliq Ahmad Khaliq; my advisor and ustad C.

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M. Naim; my ustad, collaborator, and longtime friend Shamsur Rahman Faruqi; my ghazal-loving friends, including Aditya Behl, Peter Hook, David Magier, Andy McCord, Carla Petievich, Vijay Seshadri; my students (official and unofficial) over the years, especially Sean Pue who helped me realize I should do this project; the very knowledgeable members of the Urdulist; the National Endowment for the Humanities, which gave me a research grant for work on this project; my consultant friends Ben Johnston and Dan Beeby of CCNMTL; my best serendipitous collaborator and Paninian CSS-maker Gary Tubb; the astonishingly skilful and ingenious script-arranger Sean Pue; Vasmi Abidi and Ali Farzad Sherazi for commentary and error-correction; and finally, Columbia University in the City of New York, my home as well as the home of this project.

ghazal as a genre The word 'ghazal'

means something like 'conversations with women'; like the genre itself, it originates in Arabic. Early Arabic ghazal revolved around two broad themes: the rakish celebration of wine, women, and song; and the elegiac lament over lost love. By the time the ghazal passed into Persian from the early eleventh century onward, this second theme had come to have mystical overtones: separation and suffering were at the heart of love, and the faithful, longing lover was even a kind of martyr. (For discussion, see the latter part of 'Convention in the Classical Urdu Ghazal' [site].) The splendid centuries-long history of Persian ghazal is described in detail in E. G. Browne's four-volume A Literary History of Persia (1906; [site]). Through Persian, the medieval ghazal also came to develop major traditions in Turkish and Urdu. Nowadays, the ghazal remains vigorously alive only in Urdu. The rest of this discussion will focus on the classical (i.e., 18th/19th-century) ghazal in Urdu. Formally speaking, a ghazal is a set of two-line verses (they aren't technically 'couplets', since in most of them the two lines don't rhyme). Ideally there are to be an odd number of them, and ideally the number is to be something like seven or nine. They share a strictly-defined Arabic-derived quantitative meter; for a full account see A Practical Handbook of Urdu Meter [site]. And at the end of each verse they also share a common rhyme syllable, and after it usually common refrain word(s) as well. Beyond this, the verses of a ghazal share only the larger ghazal universe of stylized characters, scenes, actions, and images. A ghazal, in short, is a series of semantically independent two-line mini-poems that have a strong formal unity-- but usually no particular unity beyond that. Thus in performance, oral reciters and singers freely reorder the verses of a ghazal, and almost always omit a good number of them. The first verse of a ghazal commonly incorporates the rhyme and refrain at the end of both lines, instead of only at the end of the second line. If it does this, it's called an 'opening-verse'. Under oral performance conditions, this feature enables the listeners to perceive the formal structure of the ghazal more quickly. The last verse commonly includes the poet's chosen penname; if it does this, it's called a 'closing-verse'. Both these features reflect the ghazal's expectation of oral performance. The traditional venue for oral performance was the mushairah, which consisted of a smallish group of patrons, connoisseurs, master-poets ('Ustads'), and apprentices. Most mushairahs were based on a 'pattern' line

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announced in advance, so that everybody's ghazals were formally identical (sharing meter, rhyme, and refrain). This made them extremely comparable, so that individual achievement stood out most strikingly. Poets recited in order of increasing seniority; because of the emphasis on apprenticeship over time and the required mastery of technical skills, the seniormost poets were politely assumed to be the finest. Everybody had a small notebook in which he (women rarely attended mushairahs) quickly jotted down verses that struck his fancy, for later discussion with friends. Famous poets were the rock stars of their day; bands of their apprentices were even known to riot when they encountered each other in the streets of Lucknow. Although the majority of ghazal poets were upper- or middle-class Muslim men, ghazals by women, by people of other religions (including Hindus, Sikhs, and Christians), and people of working-class backgrounds, are amply documented. For details of this literary culture, and its self-documentation in anthologies called 'tazkirahs', see 'A Long History'. All poetry is made out of other poetry, but not all poetry is glad of it; the ghazal, however, delights in its huge treasury of earlier verses. The very origins of Urdu poetry included macaronic (mixed) Persian/Urdu lines and verses; the classical training for a poet included memorizing literally thousands of verses by earlier Persian and Urdu Ustads. There were various technical terms for the deliberate or inadvertent use of another poet's line, or idea, or image. If deliberate, it was either a tribute or a challenge-- or usually both; if inadvertent, was it creative coincidence, innovative development, or vulgar imitation? And was every usage of the early masters sacred, or should modern idiom be given precedence? Mushairahs acted as technical workshops in which issues like these could be publically addressed. The ghazal is the (usually first-personal) voice of a passionate lover who laments his lack of access to his beloved. This lover is always construed as masculine. In some verses the beloved is very clearly feminine (as for example when women's clothing is mentioned); she is then either a courtesan, or an inaccessible lady in pardah. In other verses the beloved is very clearly masculine (as when the beginnings of the coquettish adolescent boy's beard are said to appear). In most verses, the sex of the beloved can't be decided for sure. This undecideability is partly due to the brevity of the verses, and to the emphasis on the lover's feelings rather than descriptions of the beloved. In Persian, it's also due to the nature of the grammar: verb endings don't vary with gender. In Urdu, the beloved is always treated as grammatically masculine. Some modern readers have worried over the depiction of the beloved as a beautiful boy; the implications of pederasty worry them. But if the beloved can be envisioned as a beautiful boy or a courtesan, he can also be God, and plainly the ghazal is the very reverse of autobiographical. Similarly, the lover can speak as a caged bird, a hunted animal, a naked madman, a drunkard, or a voice from beyond the grave. The point is the transgressiveness, the liminality, the rush to break out of this flawed, doomed, restricted mortal world into a larger, truer universe. The moth flying into the candle flame is one of the ghazal's emblems; the blooming rose whose 'smile' is also her death-warrant is another. The classical ghazal world, with its aristocratic patronage and its famous Ustads, was killed off in the aftermath of 1857. Ghazals nowadayare often either obscure and elite, printed in small poetry journals; or popular and 'filmi', composed along moon-June-spoon lines for Hindi-Urdu films. Modern mushairahs too are greatly changed: they tend to be public performances, like concerts, presided over by popular moderators who adjust the performances to the mood of the audience. To some extent they constitute a middle ground between the elite and the popular.

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Further resources: S. R. Faruqi and F. W. Pritchett, 'Lyric Poetry in Urdu: the Ghazal' [site]; F. W. Pritchett, Nets of Awareness [ site]; A Desertful of Roses, 'Bibliography' [site]; the work of S. R. Faruqi [site].

Can we know Ghalib? Our access to the classical ghazal as Mir and Ghalib knew it is inevitably limited and one-dimensional. Just think of all the forms of access to the poetry we don't have, which poets and connoisseurs did have in that world. ultural submersion, orality, lifelong exposure mushairah, ustad-shagird What do we have instead? good written texts; serious study over time comparative multilingual backgrounds tazkirahs-- *my article on tazkirahs as sources of info on classical literary culture commentaries, such as they are the issue of the oral tradition and the apocryphal verse: {219,1} And of course, Ghalib's own self-presentation poetry as 'meaning-creation' (quoted by Hali, 139). He writes to Taftah in 1862: [bhaa))ii shaa((irii ma((nii-aafiriinii hai qaafiyah-pemaa))ii nahii;N hai] (Khaliq Anjum 1:335); interestingly misquoted by Bekhud Dihlavi: {1,4} Ghalib's demand for attention-- metal mirror, not glass {34,2} the unusual lyrical coherence of {49} Ghalib's own handwritten versions, with their deep sense of artistry Ghalib quotes his own ghazals out of order in his letters: *evocations* 'letter-play' too {56,5} as opposed to print technology? {60,7} Ghalib teaches Hali how to interpret a verse {57,7} he is proud of his rab:t {62,9} a very rare personal ghazal, grieving for Arif {66}; also Mirza Yusuf one {202,9} but what about {139}-- personal, or not? interpreting his thoughts on {155,2} Ghalib on his own style {155,3} the third-person 'poet' {159,4} the 'ay' for 'juz' anecdote {230,5} publishing his ghazals in newspapers: {161,1}, Ashraf ul-akhabar; {178,1} with a VERY INTERESTING letter on the subject of his ghazals ghazals in Dihli Urdu Akhbar: {111,1}*; {120,1}; {125,1}; {163,1}; {201,1}* his pro-British response to Sir Sayyid on A'in: *SRF translation* his long letter on poetics: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2 p. 612ff.

Translating Ghalib

is a no-win situation. The things you can't achieve are numerous and frustrating; the things you can achieve are more like happy accidents that can rarely be repeated. In all of world literature there can be few genres less translator-friendly than the classical Urdu ghazal, and in all classical Urdu ghazal there can hardly be a poet more resistant and opaque to translation than Ghalib. What is translation? On a platter A poet's pale and glaring head, A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter, And profanation of the dead. The parasites you were so hard on Are pardoned if I have your pardon, O Pushkin, for my stratagem.

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I travelled down your secret stem, And reached the root, and fed upon it; Then, in a language newly learned, I grew another stalk and turned Your stanza, patterned on a sonnet, Into my honest roadside prose-All thorn, but cousin to your rose. -- Vladimir Nabokov My article on translations of a nazm of Faiz's based on {78,3}

Other translation problems

(don't worry, there are still plenty-- matters of word choice, background info, etc. etc.) how to provide background info? --e.g., paper robe info in {1,1} problem of 'we' for I but also for 'we' lovers, 'we' humans Nazm on poet's assumed voices, {59,2} 'liver' {30,2} and other untranslatables problems of grotesquerie {39,3} Of course, this doesn't stop the translators, nor should it. comment on: Aijaz Ahmad ones, Bly, Russell, others? some examples based on {20}; some even better examples based on {111}, the famous sab kahaa;N it's not as if I have succeeded very well myself-= some of my attempts (1984): {75} and {80} = more of my attempts (1991): {5}, {49}, {126} = my one attempt to preserve qaafiyah: {58,1} = an attempt that I never published: {174,1} Peter Hook's neat experiments in English ghazal; compare Agha Shahid Ali's a few translatable things-- a sense of humor {40,2} some more or less capturable lyrical moods-- {35} some especially promising 'translatables' are included in the SETS list discussion of dar-o-diivaar one and similar special cases {58}; also {59} but: radical untranslatability of 'meaning generators' {32,1} four i.zaafats in a row {56,2} Nabokov faced a similar problem, and described it very well: 'I have at last discovered the right way to translate Onegin.... I am now breaking it up, banishing everything that honesty might deem verbal velvet'. He sought to make a translation that would be 'ideally interlinear and unreadable'. He recognized that many translations appear to be readable only for unsatisfactory reasons: 'only because the drudge or the rhymester has substituted easy platitudes for the breathtaking intricacies of the text' (Brian Boyd, Vladimir Nabokov: the American Years (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991, pp. 320, 322, 335).

Choosing a gender for the beloved

is one of the worst ordeals, when you set out to translate ghazals into English. No matter what choice you make, it can't really satisfy you. For the purposes of this commentary I have chosen to make the beloved female, whenever a choice must be made. One of the main reasons for this decision is practical convenience: since the lover and almost all other ghazal characters are male, making the beloved female means that she stands out. Pronouns become less ambiguous: you have 'she' and 'her' as well as 'he' and 'his' to help clarify the antecedents of pronouns, without the need for cumbersome explanatory brackets. explicated in Nets of Awareness Chapter 12, 'Poetry and Morality' (in Nets, I made the beloved masculine-in-quotes) beloved as clearly a male youth-- {9,2} has a list

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parallel verse by Mir {75,3} Bekhud Mohani {111,7}

Ghalib is the supreme 'meaning creator' -ma((nii aafiriin -- of Urdu ghazal. His poetry has attracted over the past century a very large-- and not always very helpful-- body of commentary. A DRAFT of my recent article on the commentarial tradition in PDF form. Nazm as the archetypal commentator Nazm explains how to compose a verse-- i.e., technically {60,4}; second line is to be composed first: {183,1} Nazm's tirade on excessive wordplay {69,2} Nazm presents Mir and Ghalib as non-Delhi-language poets {92,7} Nazm: poets should write about the 'very famous' {98,1} Nazm praises metaphorical subtlety of a certain kind {98,7} Nazm hates many pahlus, loves much meaning {215,8} difficulties of access to commentaries: Shadan {78,1} patterns of imagery: Schimmel on fire imagery some systematically-grouped SETS of verses for further study deal with {1,1} issues argument in {9,3} about refusal to recognize multiple meanings total ignoring of sound effects, {26,7} problems of 'natural sha'iri' bias {70,3}, {76,2} his own letters-- Persian connections SRF, Nayyar Masud, Naim SRF: old commentators didn't use dictionaries {119,2} link to SRF's inti;xaab copy of naim conf. paper in pdf form? AND YET... despite all difficulties, the poetry still comes through, we still love it somehow. (Vali-- door to new mazmuns open till doomsday)

About the Ghazals Ghalib's 'traditional divan'

in Urdu forms the basis for this project. This traditional divan -- his muravvaj diivaan -contains much less than half of his writing, however: it omits two major groups of his poems, and all of his prose. Let's pause for a moment to consider the penumbra of other work that surrounds the poems we will be studying. (1) PERSIAN POEMS: None of his Persian poems are in this collection, though he composed a large amount of Persian poetry and thought very highly of it. It has of course been published, but has received much less critical attention than his Urdu poetry. In fact most of it is very much like his Urdu poetry: sometimes only a single verb, or some small grammatical particle, enables us to say whether a ghazal verse is in Persian or Urdu. For a look at some of his Persian poetry in translation, see Yusuf Husain or Russell and Adani. (2) PERSIAN AND URDU PROSE: Ghalib was also proud of his various Persian prose works. During the dark days of the

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Rebellion of 1857 he shut himself up in his house and wrote the most famous of them, Dastanbu [dastanbuu], an account of the events of 1857 in which he used only old Persian words and avoided all Arabic ones (Khwaja Ahmad Faruqi has done a translation). In addition, he wrote a number of very elaborate, formally arranged letters in Persian. What people really loved, however, were his more casual and intimate Urdu letters, which he himself only gradually came to value. These were collected and published even in his lifetime. Nowadays, the best source for them is the four-volume work of Khaliq Anjum. Many have been translated in whole or in part by Russell and Islam and Daud Rahbar. (3) OTHER URDU GHAZALS: In addition, many of his Urdu ghazals that are well known from reliable manuscript sources are not included in the 'traditional divan'. Four times in the course of his life (1841, 1847, 1861, and 1862) Ghalib oversaw the printing of his Urdu divan, and never did he choose to include ghazals from this substantial body of early manuscript material. Some of the unpublished material consists of variants of verses that he did publish, but others of the verses are unique, and are fully up to the standard of his best work. It is a mystery why he never chose to expand his published divan. I have included those of these unpublished verses that (1) come from published ghazals, and (2) are particularly recommended by S. R. Faruqi either in his selection of the best verses (these verses are starred on their verse pages), or in an earlier list. For further discussion see {4,8x}.

Within the 'traditional divan' are Urdu poems in four genres. In the latter part of the divan are found: five odes [qa.siidah] some worldly and some religious; seventeen verse-sets [qi:t((ah] of varying lengths, including the famous one in praise of a betel nut; and sixteen quatrains [rubaa((ii]- the genre made famous in English by Fitzgerald's classic Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Because life is short, all these as well we are going to ignore. (Though I did manage to smuggle in the betel-nut one in {95,1}.) The heart of the 'traditional divan' is its 234 ghazals [;Gazal], which contain (by my count) 1,459 two-line verses. The shortest possible ghazal (called an 'individual') is one verse long, and there are 19 of them; the longest ghazal, the famous {233}, runs to 17 verses. The ghazals are not presented in the divan in any thematic sequence. Nor are they presented in the order of composition. In fact, some of them are quite difficult to date with precision; but the scholarship of Kalidas Gupta Raza enables us to make a reasonable chronology. In many earlier ghazals, the poet used the pen-name of 'Asad'. When he discovered that another poet was already using it, he changed over to 'Ghalib'. You will thus see both pen-names in the divan. The divan presents the ghazals in the traditional style: in alphabetical order by the last letter of the refrain [radiif] (or, if there is none, of the rhyme [qaafiyah]). However, within those last-letter groupings, the ghazals are not then arranged by next-to-last letter as one might expect. Their internal arrangement within each last-letter group is

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given only by tradition: they are in whatever order the poet himself (or his first authoritative editor) chose for them. Almost the only traditional requirement is that the first verse within the first last-letter group should be a praise of God. Because of circumstances involving the four different editions published in Ghalib's lifetime-- the various manuscript sources, the errors of calligraphy, the additions, the small discrepancies-- the many printed editions of the divan are nowadays mostly very similar, but not quite identical. For example, the verse that some editions treat as {2}, an 'individual', is incorporated by others as the last verse of {8}; the longish ghazal that I call {15} is treated by some editions as two separate ghazals; the two separate ghazals I call {97} and {98} are treated by some editions as a single very long ghazal. And there are occasional slightly variant wordings, as in {6,5}, {29,4}, {50,1}, {50,2}, {96,4}, {115,6}, {152,2}; and small rearrangements of verse order, as in {35}, {48}, {186}. Most of these differences are relatively minor (especially in modern editions), but they needed to be resolved in some coherent way, so I decided to make a clear choice of sources.

The textual sources I've relied on for this project have been basically two: Arshi for the texts of the verses (with a single small disagreement in {170,3}), and Hamid for the ordering of the ghazals. (For the texts of the unpublished verses, I use Raza; and I arrange them by appending them to their published portions.) All my textual sources for this project are listed in the Bibliography. No scholar in the field will be surprised by my choice of Arshi; his comprehensive and authoritative work is in a class by itself, and it is a sad commentary on the state of Ghalib studies that it is so often out of print. We all owe a tremendous debt to Arshi's textual scholarship. Arshi does, however, arrange the ghazals in an idiosyncratic order, basically chronological (as far as he can manage) and unfamiliar to everybody except those scholars who use his edition. Arshi also, alas, punctuates the ghazals, which in my opinion is a sad lapse of judgment. In my own versions I have eliminated his punctuation. Nowadays it seems that all editors feel free to impose their own choice of English-style punctuation on the texts of classical ghazals, as if they were English poems-- except, of course, that imposing extra punctuation on an English poem would be an inexcusable editoral intrusion. (Don't let me get started on all this, it's too depressing.) I wanted to present the ghazals in the traditional order that goes back to Ghalib himself. Of the several widely available modern editions that I could have followed (and that differ from each other only in small ways), I chose Hamid's largely for sentimental reasons: his edition was the one I first used when I began to study Ghalib seriously, in Lahore in 1979-80. During that year I bought so many paperbound copies of it that my bookseller finally let me have one of his few, hoarded, fancy hardbound ones as well. It is still with me,

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full of memories and notes. (It was losing its binding, and becoming a diivaan-e be-shiraazah like the one in {18,5}; but I recently had it rebound.) There is no tradition of numbering Ghalib's ghazals consistently for easy reference. The numbers I've used are assigned only by me, but they are also the numbers you'd arrive at if you numbered according to Hamid's edition. As you'll see, my own translations of the ghazals for this project are the very reverse of literary: they strive to reflect the actual text as faithfully as they can. They are designed not to give you a fine reading experience in English, but to help you get as close as possible to the Urdu. Translating the ghazals of Ghalib in a serious literary way is a doomed mission in any case; it's basically impossible. Not only can you not capture the wordplay and multivalence that are at the heart of Ghalib's genius-- you can't even figure out how to assign the beloved a gender.

Ghalib has been called a 'difficulty-loving' [mushkil-pasand] poet, and not without reason. He is the only Urdu poet to have inspired a whole commentarial tradition. Over the past century, something like a hundred commentators have offered their services to help Urdu readers interpret his poetry. (A detailed list of them is given by Muhammad Ansarullah.) For many reasons, including my deep love of the poetry and my only slightly less deep irritation with most of the commentators, I am now joining their ranks. I am not the first English-language commentator-- C. M. Naim (1970 and 1972) and Sarfaraz Niazi (2002) have preceded me-- but I am the first nonSouth-Asian, and the first person who's not a native Urdu speaker, to join the group. I feel both very much in the tradition, and very much out of it. I incorporate into my commentary passages from some of the most important previous commentators. The Bibliography lists all the commentarial and reference materials used in this website. All translations are my own, and are as literal as I can manage to make them. The commentators are not always as helpful as one might wish; for a sample of my problems with them, see {26,7} or {90,3}. I will also gradually add more comments (and sometimes more commentators) to earlier ghazals as seems appropriate. Please keep in mind that for years to come the whole website will be a work in progress, subject to change in every part as it grows and evolves. It will contain all the scholarly things I would have put in a multivolume book, as well as various informal and idiosyncratic things that I will add when it seems like the thing to do. Having my own handmade html pages, on my own website, is seductive. This project feels partly formal, but also partly like space for experimenting and thinking aloud-- more like a place for discussion than like an academic manuscript. Here, in chronological order, are the commentators I consider most significant for the purposes of this project. They are the ones I find

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especially thought-provoking and suggestive; their views will often be cited. If I include a commentator's words, it doesn't always mean I agree with them; it may mean just that I think them worth reflecting on, possibly for their very unhelpfulness. My selections make the commentators look more terminology-minded than they really are, since I go out of my way to include their (rather uncommon) use of technical terms. However, I include only a few of their occasional discussions of metrical details, or their arguments about extreme subtleties of Persian and Urdu grammar, idiom, and usage. (1) GHALIB himself has commented analytically, in his letters, on fourteen verses. He has also made more general mention of other verses; all such references have been incorporated, as translated by me, and parallel translations by Russell and Islam and/or Daud Rahbar have been indicated where they are available. The most reliable modern textual source for Ghalib's Urdu letters is Khaliq Anjum. (2) HALI, Ghalib's pupil and biographer, published his memoir of the poet in 1897. While this memoir is not formally a commentary, it contains many remarks and observations about the ghazals. Almost every relevant passage from it has been incorporated here; the translations are my own. (Hali is also the best source for anecdotes.) (3) NAZM Tabataba'i, who published his work in 1900, was perhaps the most important and influential commentator of all. I translate and incorporate a great many excerpts from his idiosyncratic, persnickety, often intriguing and insightful work. (4) BEKHUD DIHLAVI and

(5) BEKHUD MOHANI seem to form a matched set, both publishing their work in 1923-24. They represent the reliable, common-sense, bread-and-butter commentarial mainstream. The former is more concise and prosaic-and more likely to copy from Hali and Nazm. The latter, for whom I've gained more respect over time, illustrates, embroiders, tries multiple perspectives-- and ignores Hali, and constantly argues with Nazm. (6) C. M. NAIM's two brief commentaries (1970 and 1972) cover only a small number of verses, but they are of special value because he wrote them in English; thus he can speak for himself without my interposition. I have included substantial excerpts from every instance of his commentary. (7) NAIYAR MASUD is better known nowadays as a fine shortstory writer, and has only commented (1973) on a handful of verses-though most of them he has treated in fascinating detail. I have included at least brief excerpts from every instance of his commentary. (8) S. R. FARUQI's very valuable commentary (1989, and the revised edition of 2006) includes only certain verses that he thinks other commentators have misunderstood; I have included excerpts from every instance of his commentary. He has also, however, compiled a selection from the divan and the unpublished verses, identifying those verses he considers especially excellent. I have

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marked these verses with an asterisk following the verse number, on the verse page. I have also used his recommendations of other good unpublished verses to include; for details see his selection. Elsewhere in his numerous books and articles he has discussed other verses, and I hope eventually to include some of these discussions as well. For the serious modern Ghalib scholar, Faruqi is a rare jewel among commentators. He has also sometimes answered my questions personally by giving his views about particular verses; all such informal, unpublished contributions by him are identified and dated, and are included in my own commentary. When it comes to other commentaries, earlier commentators have been preferred to later ones, and influential ones to obscure ones. Commentators whose work I have looked at to some extent, but who have been cited and used less frequently, include the following: AZAD (1880) contributes a few illustrative anecdotes VAJID (1901) comments only on the 48 ghazals that end in alif . His little-known work is available in an *online version*. HASRAT (1905) offers very brief notes on only some verses BAQIR (1939) synthesizes many other commentators' views SHADAN (1946) is both disarming and exasperating JOSH (1950) can be helpful on occasion ARSHI (1958) suggests useful parallels between verses CHISHTI (1959) writes as a modern academic MIHR (1967) offers accessible help for the modern beginner GYAN CHAND (1971) comments on some of the unpublished verses I also quote some 'occasional' commentators, people who have offered their own thoughts after visiting this site. So far, the most significant such commentator has been Vasmi Abidi, to whom I'm grateful for many useful error-corrections as well. The comments and help of Mr. Mat Ansari, Mr. Mohsin Naquvi, Mr. Ali Shirazi, and other members of the Urdulist are also much appreciated.

*THE MAIN GHAZAL INDEX* -- The allpurpose comprehensive access point for all the ghazal pages, which in turn are the only comprehensive access points for all the individual verse pages. Ultimately, there will be 234 ghazal pages and about 1,459 verse pages. (Please wish me luck and stamina.) This main index provides access to the first verse of each ghazal in the whole divan, in traditional order (based specifically on Hamid). In order to minimize scrolling, this main index will provide five sub-indices that together contain the whole divan in order: * ghazals {1} - {48} * -- ending in aa * ghazals {49} - {83} * -- ending in b through m * ghazals {84) - {129} * -- ending in n through h * ghazals {130} - {180} * -- ending in e and ii == part one * ghazals {181} - {234} * -- ending in e and ii == part two

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The system of transliteration

that

I devised to show the precise Urdu sounds and spellings in 'plain roman' is academically satisfactory, in that it uniquely encodes every letter of the Urdu script. But esthetically it's of course clumsy. It was designed to use only the characters on an ordinary keyboard, so that it could be displayed properly on all possible monitors. It was also designed to create no special character-sequences that could be mistaken for ordinary English letter sequences, so that it could permit global search-and-replace operations. Please note that I don't mean for my online transliteration to be any kind of authoritative text, as far as historical detail goes! For example, I always spell the Persian prefix bah , 'with', as a separate word; whereas some texts at some times prefer to reduce it to a b and join it to the next word. I often display a compound word in a hyphenated way that clearly shows its two component parts, even though some texts write the two together. I want it to be very clear for students how the words are built up. The 'plain roman' transliteration that I've typed in supports the Urdu script, Devanagari, and diacritic displays that have now been put into place. The SCRIPT BAR with its menu of choices should be visible near the top of every ghazal page and verse page, and at the bottom of almost all other pages. (If it's not, you probably have a very old browser and might need to get a new one.) Here is an account of the basic 'plain roman' transliteration system used for this project. This account tries to clarify the Urdu script, Devanagari script, and diacritic display versions available for the Urdu text parts of each page. Here is a page on Sean Pue's website for further technical information. For Urdu readers: The Urdu script fonts now available are not what I'd ideally want; they're mostly forms of somewhat curvy nas;x, rather than the elegant nasta((liiq of my dreams. But there is one lovely one available now: 'Nafees Nastaleeq', available from Sean Pue's page indicated above. We can hope for even more improvements in the future, and since we are in unicode, it should be possible to adopt them without redoing the whole site. For Devanagari readers: Here is a special note explaining some of the oddities of spelling that you'll notice. Please remember that the Devanagari is a transliteration of the Urdu letters, and is not intended to reproduce modern standard Hindi spellings. Instead, it's intended to bring you as close as possible to what Ghalib actually wrote.

The Urdu metrical system is very lucid and refreshingly rational, once you know it. It's much easier to learn than English meter, because it's much more systematized. And it's far more useful, because the classical ghazal poets all agreed on it and were extremely careful to use it precisely. I have indicated the meter in a brief but accurate way for every ghazal. Here is a

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description of the metrical code I have adopted for identifying the meters. Meter sometimes affects the spelling of words in metrical lines. For example, mere aage may be scanned (and thus spelled) as mire aage in order to shorten the first syllable. I have shown such scansionbased spelling changes in the texts of the ghazals. If you'd like to know more about the Urdu metrical system, here's just the thing: *Urdu Meter: A Practical Handbook*.

THE 'PLAIN ROMAN' TRANSLITERATION SYSTEM USED FOR 'A DESERTFUL OF ROSES' NOTE: A 'roman-with-diacritics' choice will appear within the script bar as a separate option, parallel to Urdu script and Devanagari. But all three of these display modes are based on a java-script transformation of the system described on this page. This 'plain roman' version is what I originally typed in. For technical information, please see Sean's 'more information' page. Devanagari readers, please take note of some special considerations. Since capitals are used meaningfully in my system, proper names in transliteration do not begin with capital letters. In every case, a modified consonant is represented by a diacritic marker placed BEFORE the consonant itself. While this is cumbersome, it permits global search-and-replace operations to be performed. Other seemingly repetitive treatments of various special letters have the same goal: to create forms that can never appear in ordinary English prose. The modified letters that truly change the pronunciation of the word-- the three retroflexes /;Te ;Daal ;Re/; the letter /;Gain/; and the nasalizer /;N/-are represented by a capital letter preceded by a semicolon, so that they are quite conspicuous. The other modified letters-- those that affect only spelling-- are represented as lower-case letters preceded by diacritic markers (semicolon, colon, or period). In the case of vowels, doubling is used as necessary to indicate length. The pronunciation guide is based on the one worked out by the 'Literary Cultures in History' project, under the guidance of Shelly Pollock. (I helped work it out too, so I'm glad to put it into wider circulation.) Urdu letter sets that are pronounced identically (in order of first occurrence):

t -- :t

;s -- s -- .s ;h -- h ;z -- z -- .z -- :z ===========

=ROUGH ENGLISH PRONUNCIATION GUIDE=

alif

aa

aa

as in 'fAther'

dagger alif

;aa

;aa

as in 'fAther'

word-internal alif-madd

:aa

:aa

as in 'fAther'

be

b

b

as in 'Bin'

pe

p

p

as in 'sPin'

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te

t

t

as in English, but with the tip of the tongue touching the teeth as in 'breadth'

;Te

;T

;T

as in English, but with the tongue curved back to touch the front of the hard palate

;se

;s

;s

as in 'So'

jiim

j

j

as in 'Jar'

che

ch

ch

as in 'esCHew'

;he

;h

;h

as in 'Hope'

;xe

;x

;x

as in the Scottish 'loCH'

daal

d

d

as in English, but with the tip of the tongue touching the teeth as in 'breadth'

;Daal

;D

;D

as in English, but with the tongue curved back to touch the front of the hard palate

;zaal

;z

;z

as in 'Zoo'

re

r

r

as in 'dRama'

;Re

;R

;R

as in /;D/, but with the tip of the tongue flapping quickly on the roof of the mouth

ze

z

z

as in 'Zoo'

zhe

zh

zh

as in 'leiSure'

siin

s

s

as in 'So'

shiin

sh

sh

as in 'SHove'

.svaad

.s

.s

as in 'So'

.zvaad

.z

.z

as in 'Zoo'

:to))e

:t

:t

as in English, but with the tip of the tongue touching the teeth as in 'breadth'

:zo))e

:z

:z

as in 'Zoo'

((ain

((

((

in practice, as a 'wild card' vowel: it can emulate any of the short vowels, according to the particular word involved. (In theory, it is like the glottal stop before the 'o' when you say 'Uh oh!')

;Gain

;G

;G

more or less as in the French 'Rien' (though from the back of the throat)

fe

f

f

as in 'Fast'

qaaf

q

q

as in 'sKate' but pronounced much farther back in the throat; this

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description really does not do it justice, but I don't know how to improve on it kaaf

k

k

as in 'sKate'

gaaf

g

g

as in 'Gate'

laam

l

l

as in 'Love'

miim

m

m

as in 'Mother'

nuun

n

n

as in 'Not'

tanviin

:n

:n

as in 'Not'

vaa))o

uu -oau v

uu o au v

as in 'pOOl' as in 'rOte' as in 'cAUght' as in 'Vile'

he

h

h

as in 'Hope'

chho;Tii ye

ii y

ii y

as in 'bEEt' as in 'Yellow'

ba;Rii ye

e y

e y

as in 'gAte' as in 'Yellow'

hamzah

))

))

as a glide between two vowels, or sometimes as in 'bIt'

i.zaafat

-e

-e

as in 'gAte'

nuun-e ;Gunnah

;N

;N

as a nasaliser following any vowel

do-chashmii he

h

h

as an aspirator for the preceding consonant

zer

i

i

as in 'bIt'

zabar

a

a

as in 'bUt'

pesh

u

u

as in 'lOOk'

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== SETS == (SOME POSSIBLE STUDY MATERIALS)

The best initial context for understanding any of Ghalib's verses is usually the set of his own similar verses. A special GRAMMAR PAGE includes many unusual, idiomatic, and archaic forms. The sets below are informal ones that I have put together partly logically and partly idiosyncratically, for the kinds of future study that I might like to do myself. There's also a SETS PAGE FOR MIR that provides comparative material. The first group on the present page consists mostly of sets based on Urdu grammar and structural words and literary devices. I consider these to be fundamental and obvious choices. But it also includes a few tentative categories of my own, like 'humor', 'mushairah', and 'grotesquerie', that I want to think about further as I work on the divan. More instances and examples of such sets will be found in the Index of Terms, especially under ;husn-e ta((liil , iihaam , inshaa))iyah , kinaayah . The second group consists of a few illustrative examples drawn from the hundreds of imagery sets (the liver, the mirror, etc.) and thematic notions (the beloved's having no mouth, etc.). I chose them partly for importance, partly for distinctiveness, partly for level of occurrence (neither inconveniently frequent nor extremely rare), sometimes just because they intrigued me. In order to keep this page from getting too long, the full lists of examples are given in the verses to which links are provided. The third group consists of a small number of 'translatables', verses that seem to lend themselves especially well to translation into English. An asterisk shows that some special explanation or comment is included, or something else of particular interest. If you want to use the SEARCH box in the top left corner of this page, remember to spell Urdu words the way I do (you can check them with the 'Plain Roman' option on the script bar); for a complete set, keep in mind that there may be plural and oblique forms too, and/or variant spellings for the sake of meter (as in these cases). A,B == Sequences of nouns or phrases, or the two separate lines, with various ways to connect them, such that the reader must work to figure out the relationships. {2,1}; {4,4}*; {6,1}; {6,8x}; {7,3}; {10,6}; {14,5}; {15,17x}; {21,1}*; {21,8}; {22,5}; {26,2}; {27,1}; {24,6}*; {37,2}; {53,5}; {68,3}; {71,3}*; {75,6}; {77,3}*; {79,2}; {94,2}; {95,2}; {96,1}; {96,5}; {97,9}; {97,10}*; {101,1}; {102,3}; {106,1}; {108,8}; {113,1}; {114,5}; {115,1}; {119,7}; {125,3}; {133,1}; {145,4}; {147,3}; {152,2}**; {152,4}; {155,1}; {158,3}; {162,1}; {163,2}; {163,3}; {163,5}; {166,5}; {170,2}; {172,2}; {175,7}; {182,2}; {187,1}; {188,1}; {190,1}; {194,3}; {194,4}; {203,1}; 203,2}; {206,3}; {206,4}; {209,6}; {209,7}; {213,1}; {214,2}; {214,6}; {214,9}; {214,10}; {215,1}*; {215,7}; {217,1}; {219,6}*; {221,2}; {223,2}; {226,1}; {226,4}*; {226,5}; {227,3}; {228,2}; {228,10}}; {229,1}; {229,6}; {230,1}; {230.5}; {230,7}*; {232,6} AUR == Some verses that exploit the possibilities of aur, including both 'more' and 'other' as well as 'and'. many verses in {62}, of which it's the refrain; compare the limited uses in {66}; {86,4}; {111,11}; {160,1}*; {160,4}*; {160,6} BAH == Some verses that exploit the meanings of bah as 'with' and 'like' and 'toward', and its special sense as 'by' (in an oath).

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{75,3}; {75,5}*; {77,4}; {92,5}; {109,1}*; {221,1}* BASKIH == The meanings of baskih as 'although'; and also 'to such an extent' and 'since'. {1,5}; {12,3x} ( 'z-bas ); {13,5}*; {17,1}; {17,4}, az-baskih ; {28,1}, perhaps only 'extent'; {49,7}; {49,8} ('z-bas ); {49,9}; {53,11} ( 'z-bas ); {62,1}; {72,6}; {111,11}; {149,4}; {172,1}; {206,1} ('z-baskih ) BHI == Some verses that exploit the complexities of bhii -- both 'too' and 'even', etc.: {15,13}; {36,9}*; {90,4}; {99,5}; {108,7}; {112} (in refrain); {116,5}*; {123,4}; {124,7}*; {129,2}; {131,2}; {132} (in refrain); {136,1}; {142,2}*; {143,5}; {147,1}; {148,9}*; {151,4}; {153,3}; {153,9}; {154,4}*; {157,2}; {162,3}; {175,1}; {177,1}; {202,6}; {221,2}*; {224,1} CATCH-22 == You're damned if you do, and damned if you don't. (You can only escape from flying bombing missions if you're insane; but if you want to escape from flying bombing missions, you're sane...) {15,2}; {24,5}; {41,3}; {78,4}; {97,3}; {112,2}; {121,4}; {123,7}; {145,3}; {151,7}; {153,1}; {161,6}; {174,5}; {177,1}; {184,2}; {202,5}; {203,4}; {205,1}; {209,8}; {215,5}; {231,9}; {233,11} DEFINITION == verses that challenge, question, or discuss the meaning of words {6,9x}; {9,1}; {22,4}; {33,3}; {60,2}; {86,1}; {86,5}; {86,6}; {86,7}; {101,1}; [116,1}; {125,2}; {126,9}; {147,1}; {162,8}; {162,10}; {163,3}; {174,8}; {181,2}; {203,4}; {209,3}; {229}, most verses DIALOGUE == Examples of verses in which someone else's speech is quoted, other than the lover's. {4,1}; {7,7}; {15,15}; {19,2}; {20,11}; {21,2}; {21,8}; {22,9}; {25,9}; {32,3}; {46,1}; {46,7}; {59,2}*; {66,4}; {71,10}; {72,7}; {77,8}; {91,10}*; {99,5}; {100,6}; {104,1}; {107,4}; {116,6}; {116,7}; {116,10}; {123,6}; {126,6}; {126,10}*; {134,2}; {143,5}; {151,4}; {151,9}; {178,9}; {178,10}; {191,4}; {193,5}; {201,9}; {209,1}; {209,2} EK == Examples of verses in which the multivalence of ek (or ik )-- 'a, an', 'single', 'mere', 'singular', 'unique', 'excellent'-- is exploited {6,6}; {10,1}; {10,4};{10,6}; {10,9}; {14,5}; {18,5}; {24,6}; {25,5}; {26,2} EXCLAMATION == The sheer expression of strong emotion that can cover a range of tones and shades; these are, of course, often left for the reader to supply {1,3}; {5,8x}; {7,5}; {17,3}; {17,8}*; {17,9}; {19,6}; {20,5}; {20,8}; {20,9}; {21,11}*; {21,12}; {26,3}; {35,8}; {46,5}; {48,4}; {51,3}; {71,7}; {71,8};{71,10}; {80,3}; {100,8}; {110,2}; {112,5}; {112,7}; {112,9}; {114,4}; {119,9}; {120,4}; {121,5}; {124,4}; {124,6}; {125,9}; {126,3}; {126,4}; {126,10}; {129}; {132,3}; {132,4}; {133,3}; {138,5}; {141,4}*; {148,4}; {148,7}; {148,8}; {151,1}; {153,1}; {153,5}; {155,2}; {157,4}; {158,2}; {158,5}; {159,2}; {159,7}; {162}; {163,2}; {166,1}; {166,5}; {167,7}; {170,6}; {173,10}; {178,8}; {179,1}; {179,2}; {179,3}; {193,4}; {199,4}; {201,4}; {201,8}; {201,9}; {202,2}; {202,5}; {202,6}; {202,8}; {203,3}; {206,4}; {208,12}; {208,14}; {214,2}; {214,6}; {215,1}; {215,5}; {216,1}; {228,8}; {230,3}; {230,6}; {230,7}; {231,3}; {232,7}; {234,2}; {234,10} FILL-IN == Some verses so general and unspecified that each reader is invited/compelled to invent his/her own content. {3,3}; {11,1}; {22,6}; {35,3}; {46,2}; {50,2}; {68,2}; {70,3}; {71,2}; {78,2}; {80,3}; {81,4}; {115,9}; {131,3}; {160,1}; {160,3}; {161,5}; {163,5}; {179,1}; {180,4}; {191,8}; {208,9}; {208,12}; {230,9} GENERATORS == Some examples of the many verses framed as radically

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indeterminate, closure-refusing 'meaning generators'. {3,12x}, {4,4}*; {4,5}; {5,4}; {15,10}*; {15,11}; {15,17x}; {18,2}; most verses of {21}; {22,1};{24,1}; {25,6}; {26,8}; {32,1}*; {35,4}; {36,7}; {38,5}; {53,10}; {57,6}; {57,8}; {64,1}; {71,3}*; {75,6}; {79,1}; {92,5}; {94,2}; {95,2}; {96,1}*; {97,10}; {98,10}; {99,7}; {100,8}; {101,5}*; {106,1}; {107,5}; {108,2}; {108,8}; {110,1}; {111,1}; {111,14}; {119,6}; {125,5}; {126,3}; {131,8}; {136,1}; {138,1}; {141,3}; {147,3}; {152,1}; {152,4}; {158,3}; {167,1}; {169,3}; {183,4}; {190,1}; {190,4}; {196,7}; {202,3}; {202,4}; {203,2}; {206,2}; {206,3}; {208,5}; {208,8}; {213,2}; {214,3}; {214,10}; {219,1}; {220,2}; {223,2}; {230,1}; {230,7}*; {232,4} GROTESQUERIE == A category of my own that I am working through and discussing in the verses that I think display it. It seems to be based on excessive physical literalness of an off-putting kind. {6,4}; {8,4x}; {25,7}, perhaps; {39,3}*; {39,4}*; {57,4}, perhaps; {60,9}; {62,6}; {67,3}; {69,1}; {72,2}; {87,6}(?); {87,8}*; {108,7}; {140,3}; {161,7}(?); {173,3}; {173,6}*; {177,4}; {178,4}*; {190,5}; {190,7}; {196,6}; {200,2}(?); {223,1}; {233,2} HANUZ == Verses in which the double meaning of hanuuz as both 'still' and 'now' is exploited. {3,4}; {13,6}; {10,9}; {27,5}; {35,2}; {38,2}; ghazals {67} and {69}, with the refrain of hanuuz; {98,9}; {98,10}; {99,6}, abhii ; {130,2} HERE/THERE == Verses that juxtapose things 'here' [yaa;N] with those 'there' [vaa;N]. {15,2}; {15,3}; {15,4}; {15,5}; {15,6}; {15,7}; {24,6}; {25,8}; {43,3}; {115,7}; {122,1}; {167,9}; {185,2}; {205,4} HI == Verses that make significant use of the various possibilities of hii (restrictive, intensive, etc.). {13,1}*; {14,8}; {17,3}; {26,3}*; {115,1}; {119,4}; {175,3}*; {175,7}; {224,1}; {234,5}* HUMOR == Some of the many verses that are witty, light, and actually rather funny. {19,4}; {20,11}*; {40,2}; {50,3}; {55,1}; {62,4}; {62,7}; {62,8}; {65,1}; {68,1}; {68,5}; {70,1}; {77,6}; {78,4}; {90,1}; {90,3}; {90,5}; {91,11}; {95,1}; {96,6}; {97,1}; {97,5}; {98,8}; {99,1}; {99,4}; {101,3}; {101,8}; {101,9}; {104,1}; {108,6}; {110,2}; {111,7}; {111,12}; {112,10}; {116,1}*; {116,3}; {116,6}; {119,10}; {121,7}; {122,1}; {123,6}; {131,4}; {133,2}; {137,1}; {138,4}; {138,5}; {140,4}; {140,5}; {143,1}; {151,8}; {152,3}; {159,2}; {159,6}; {162,9}; {163,4}; {163,7}; {169,2}; {170,7}; {174,6}; {178,3}; {178,8}; {208,1-4}; {208,10}; {209,2}; {210,1}; {210,6}; {219,3}; {231,2}; {231,3}; {231,4}; {233,5}; {234,2} I AND == Ambiguously emotive 'I, and' [mai;N aur] or 'I am, and...' [mai;N huu;N aur] constructions. {5,6}*; {16,2}; {30,1}; {42,4}; {64,4}; {71,3}*; [{85,7}, as a prose example]; {97,8}; {145,2}; {151,2} IDIOMS == Some of the many verses that rely on idiomatic expressions, often in unexpected and 'revitalized' ways. {1,4}; {1,5}; {11,2}; {15,1}; {21,7}; {21,8}; {21,11}; {24,4}; {25,2}; {35,8}; {35,10}; {38,6}; {39,4}; {40,1}; {44,1}; {46,7}; {48,2}; {50,3}; {51,1}; {53,1}; {53,5}; {54,1}; {55,1}; {65,1}; {67,3}; {68,3}; {70,3}; {71,9}; {75,3}; {85,3}; {85,7}; {87,1}; {88,3}; {91,2}; {97,1}; {99,4}; {108,4}; {111,16}; {114,1}; {114,4}; {121,2}; {123,6}; {124,1}; {124,4}; {130,2}; {132,1}; {132,2}; {132,6}; {133,4}; {137,1}; {141,4}*; {148} (whole ghazal); {151,1}; {151,6}; {163,9}; {167,2}; {167,3}; {170,7}; {175} (whole ghazal); {176,5}; {179,4}; {189,1}; {189,3}; {191,1}*;

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{191,2}; {191,8}; {201}; {205,3}; {205,6}; {207,3}; {208,10}; {210,1}; {212,3}; {215,2}; {219,9}; {226,4}; {229,4} INEXPRESSIBILITY == Verses that affirm the impossibility of describing something. {1,2}; {5,4}; {9,8x}; {10,2}; {15,11}; {16,4}; {16,8x}; {17,5}; {18,4}; {20,8}; {34,3}; {39,4}; {49,2}; {56,2}; {58,9}; {68,5}; {75,6}; {86,8}; {87,4}; {88,3}; {92,5}; {97,2}; {113,4}; {129}*; {136,7}; {172,3}; {183,2}; {194,6}; {197,1}; {201}; {208,5}; {210,5}; {227,3} IZAFAT == A few of the very many verses that take exceptional advantage of the i.zaafat construction (and sometimes similarly of kaa / ke / kii ) {3,11x}; {4,9x}; {15,11}; {16,1}*; {16,2}; {18,1}; {18,5}*; {24,1}*; {24,5}; {25,9}; {33,2}*; {38,5}; {39,3}; {49,10}; {56,2}; {57,6}; {61,7}; {71,3}*; {75,6}*; {75,7}; {77,2}; {90,4}; {93,1}; {96,5}; {101,5}*; {112,8}; {119,3}; {123,1}; {141,3}; {151,3}; {152,1}; {152,4}; {158,3}; {164,12}; {183,4}; {196,4}; {206,2}; {220,2}; {223,1}*; {228,3}; {228,6}; {230,2} JO == Verses that take special advantage of the multivalences of jo {20,9}* KAHAN == Some examples of the use of kahaa;N to be both an interrogative marker and a scornful rhetorical question. {4,1}; {5,4}; {5,08x}; {20,5}; {26,3}; {43,8}; {77,1}; {77,2}, kis qadar; ghazal {85}, with the refrain of kahaa;N; {98,4}; {111,1}; {115,7}; {123,3}; {158,3} KIH == Some verses that take special advantage of the complexities of kih - as a quote marker, or 'since', or 'in that', or 'which', or 'so that', or 'while' {13,6}*; {15,1}; {15,8}* ('which'); {20,7}; {22,1}; {45,4}; {46,7}; {58,6}; {58,10}; {99,2}; {110,1}; {112,3}; {116,4}; {147,1}; {158,8}; {166,4}; {191,7}; {201,4}*; {201,5}* ('so that'); {214,10}*; {219,9}* ('while'); {226,3}; {229,1}; {231,5}, jo KYA == A few of the many verses that exploit the sensational multivalence of kyaa. {10,2}; {14,4}; {15,10}*; ghazals {19}, {21}, and {46}, with the refrain of kyaa; {22,1}; {31,2}; {32,3}; {64,3}; {77,1}; {78,3}; {87,10}; {91,9} (by implication); {99,7}; {107,7}; {111,1}; {118,1}; {120,1}; {120,11}; {123,2}; {126,8}; {138,1}*; {148,3}; {150,1}; {151,9}; {162}; {163,9}; {167,5}; {178,5}; {180,5}; {183,3}; {202,7}; {205,5}; {209,11}; {228,10}; {231,3}; {231,7}; {232,4} MAGAR == Verses that exploit the double meaning of magar as both 'but' and 'perhaps'. {3,1}*; {15,10}*; {35,7}*; {36,1}; {41,8}; {58,10}, 'but'; {62,3}; {159,1}*; {161,10}; {163,4}; {180,5}*; {183,3}; {204,8}; {205,2}*; {214,3}; {219,5} MIDPOINTS == Verses in which small, usually adverbial, elements are grammatically positioned in between two clauses, so that they can easily be read with either one {6,14x}; {10,8}; {11,5x}; {22,3}; {24,3}; {25,3}; {25,6}* with jaise ; MUSHAIRAH == My own experimental category: some verses particularly well suited to presentation at a mushairah [mushaa((irah]. {5,2}; {6,3}*; {14,9}*; {22,4}; {26,9}; {29,1}; {39,2}; {43,6]; {48,2}; {50,1}; {50,3}; {51,2}; {56,6}; {58,2}; {63,2}; {70,2}; {75,4}; {78,2}*; {80,9}; {81,5}; {86,1}; {86,5}*; {86,6}; {87,2}; {87,6}; {88,2}; {90,3}*; {90,5}; {91,11}; {95,5}; {96,2}; {97,5}; {98,11}; {100,6}; {101,4}; {101,7}; {102,1}; {102,2}; {106,4}; {107,2}; {107,7}; {108,5}; {110,3}; {110,4}; {111,3}*; {111,8}; {111,12}; {111,15} ; {112,1}; {115,2}; {115,4}; {116,3}; {116,6}; {118,2}; {120,5}; {120,6}; {121,1}; {124,3};

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{124,4}; {126,11}; {133,4}; {136,2}; {137,1}; {138,4}; {140,4}; {143,1}; {151,6}; {153,7}; {157,3}*; {163,7}; {164,3}*; {165,3}; {167,3}; {167,6}; {168,3}; {169,2}; {173,7}; {174,3}; {178,2}; {178,6}; {179,4}; {180,3}; {193,2}; {196,6}; {199,3}; {200,1}; {200,2}; {205,8}; {207,3}; {208,7}; {208,11}; {209,3}; {209,4}; {210,1}; {216,2}; {217,5}; {226,2}; {226,4}; {231,7}; {234,2}* OPPOSITES == A few select examples from among the dozens and dozens of verses that make use of pairs of opposite terms. {1,2}; {3,3}; {4,1}; {8,2}; {17,1}; {22,4}; {25,9}; {26,1}; {29,3}; {41,4}; {46,3}; {53,10}; {66,9}; {68,2}; {86,1}; {101,8}; {107,6}; {109,1}; {111,15}; {112,3}; {112,10}; {113,7}; {126,11}; {147,2}; {154,1}; {176,3}*; {183,5}; {185,2}; {196,7}; {232,1} PARALLELISM == Some examples of similarity of structure between the two lines of the verse, such that the reader must decide whether comparison or contrast is intended, and along what lines. {4,5}; {17,7}; {19,6}; {20,9}; {21,12}*; {22,5}*; {22,6}; {26,8}; {31,1}; {33,7}; {34,5}; {48,1}; {49,11}; {62,9}; {62,10}; {63,1}; {71,2}; {71,7}; {77,3}; {87,1}; {87,5}; {91,3}; {91,5}; {91,7}; {91,8}; {97,9}; {97,10}*; {102,3}; {107,3}; {111,15}; {120,11}; {125,3}; {127,3}; {131,8}; {136,3}; {153,4}*; {155,3}; {157,6}; {164,1}; {164,4}; {164,5}; {169,7}; {169,8}; {186,5}; {190,9}; {191,7}; {191,8}; {194,2}; {201,7}; {201,8}; {204,1}; {205,4}; {208,2}; {208,3}; {208,4}; {208,5}; {208,9}; {209,5}; {209,6}; {209,7}; {209,8}; {215,6}; {215,7}; {229,1} POETRY == Verses that refer to poetry and its composition and qualities. {1,4}; {11,3x}; {12,7x}* (Bedil); {14,1}; {18,5}; {24,6}; {24,8}; {26,10}; {29}; {33,4}; {36,11}* (Mir); {43,1}; {44,1}; {43,5}; {50,3}; {53,11}; {60,7}; {62,10}; {62,11}; {86,9}; {91,11}; {92,7} (Mir); {92,8x} (Mir); {99,9}; {100,9}; {108}; {111,9}; {112,3}; {114,7}; {116,10}; {120,1}; {120,11}; {121,8}; {123,5}; {133,1}; {141,1}; {149,5}*; {169,13}; {173,11}; {175,6}*; {177,12}; {201,8}; {202,8}; {203,2}; {204,1}; {209,6}; {209,7}; {214,10}; {214,12}; {216,3}; {232,9}; {234,8}; {234,13}; {234,14} REPETITION == Some of the many verses that display conspicuous repetition of one or more important words within the verse. {1,3}; {4,2}; {4,6}; {7,1}; {12,7x}; {17,8}; {17,9}**; {19,3}; {20,7}; {21,13}; {26,7}; {26,9}; {32,1}*; {35,8}; {51,3}; {58,2}; {58,7}; {59,5}; {70,2}; {75,2}; {91,3}; {92,6}; {96,1}; {98,10}; {114,4}; {121,4}; {126,10}; {127,1}*; {127,2}; {127,3}; {164,5}; {189,8}; {196,3}; {200,1}; {205,6}; {205,7}; {208,14}; {209,5}; {209,9}; {215,6}; {215,7}; {219,1}; {224,1} STRESS-SHIFTING == Verses in which different words can be emphasized in ways that change the reading {17,3}*; {36,2}, {86,3}; {88,4}; {107,5}; {110,1}; {116,1}; {119,6}; {120,10}; {132,3}; {158,2}; {161,2} SUBJECT? == A few of the many verses in which there can be two (or more) possible subjects for a verb, and the reader must decide. {21,3}*; {36,7}; {46,7}*; {64,2}; {86,2}*; {86,4}; {103,1}; {112,3}; {120,11}; {167,1} TRANSITIVITY == Verses with lines in which both 'A is B' and 'B is A' are equally possible. (Note: this usage has nothing to do with transitive or intransitive verb forms.) {1,4}; {1,5}; {4,13x}; {4,15x}; {6,5}; {10,6}; {11,1}; {12,7x}; {16,6x}*; {16,9x}; {17,5}; {18,7x}*; {20,5}; {24,1}; {24,3}; {25,1}; {58,1}; {61,7}; {75,2}; {87,9}; {138,1}; {165,1}; {166,1}; {172,1}; {181,6}; {188,1}; {221,1}; {221,3}; {222,1}

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VARNAH == Verses that exploit the double meaning of varnah (or sometimes vagarnah) as either indicative or contrafactual; some clearer cases are included for comparison. {3,5}; {3,14x}; {5,3}; {10,10}; {13,4}; {15,12}*; {13,1}; {15,15}; {59,4} ; {71,4}; {77,2}; {89,3}; {90,1}, maybe only future?; {91,1}; {95,4}; {99,8}, maybe only contrafactual; {109,1}, mostly indicative; {146,2}; {212,3}; {212,4} WORD == Verses of what I am calling 'word-exploration', or investigation of the possibilities of some single word (or sometimes concept). {9,8x} on ;xa:t:t ; {15,9} on betaab ; {17,9} on qismat ; {18,7x} on benavaa))ii ; {19,7} on ;Gam khaanaa ; {26,7} on ;haq ; {42,3} on naazish ; {60,1} on jalnaa and taab ; {75,2} on zabaan ; {91,5} on harchand ; {95,4} on bhed ; {98,6} on shaahid ; {99,7} on words for 'worship'; {100,2} on muqaddar ; {100,3} on man:zuur ; {100,4} on :zarf ; {110,2} on gardish ; {114,7} on ((ar.z ; {118,4} on lahnaa ; {123,11} on kashash ; {131,7} on rang ; {136,1} on taqriib ; {140,6} on udaas ; {141,2} on laal ; {141,4} on munfa((il ; {147,2} on saaz ; {153,8} on khulnaa ; {159,4) on kalaam ; {172,3} on chhe;Rnaa ; {180,2} on hathka;N;Daa ; {192,3} on giraa;Njaanii ; {193,2} on aab ; {196,2} on tu;Nbaa ; {196,5} on se guzarnaa ; {198,2} on pardah ; {200,3} on ((aari.z ; {204,8} on taab ; {209,1} on kahnaa ; {218,3} on havaa ; {219,1} on nikalnaa ; {228,1} on dimaa;G WORDPLAY == Some examples of the remarkable number of verses organized around wordplay. {1,5}; {4,12x}; {5,7x}; {6,2}; {7,2}; {13,1}*; {15,5}*; {16,4}; {16,5}; {20,3}; {23,1}*; {26,4}; {41,6}; {64,1}; {75,2}; {88,1}; {90,2}; {90,3}*; {91,10}; {92,1}; {95,1}; {96,3}; {97,1}; {97,3}; {98,6}; {98,11}; {99,3}; {99,10}; {101,8}; {102,2}; {102,3}; {105,1}; {108,1}; {108,2}; {108,4}; {108,5}; {109,1}*; {111,3}*; {111,8}; {111,9}; {111,10}; {111,11}; {112,6}; {112,8}*; {113,1}; {113,7}; {113,8}; {113,9}; {114,2}; {114,3}; {114,5}; {117,1}; {117,3}; {118,3}; {119,2}; {119,10}; {120,3}; {120,6}; {121,1}; {121,6}; {121,8}; {123,1}; {125,1}; {126,4}; {126,7}; {132,7}; {136,5}; {137,1}; {138,4}; {138,5}; {139,2}; {141,5}; {143,2}; {143,6}*; {147,2}; {147,3}; {149,5}; {152,1}; {153,1}; {153,7}; {153,9}; {154,1}; {155,2}; {157,2}; {157,5}; {157,7}*; {158,4}; {161,1}; {161,9}; {163,8}; {164,6}; {164,10}; {165,2}; {166,2}; {167,6}; {170,4}; {171,1}; {172,1}; {176,5}; {180,7}; {183,5}; {183,6}; {183,7}; {183,8}; {186,5}; {189,1}; {190,6}*; {190,10}; {192,5}; {193,5}; {194,2}; {195,1}; {196,6}; {200,1}*; {202,1}; {204,4}; {206,3}; {212,4}; {214,1}; {214,8}; {217,2}; {219,4}; {222,1}; {226,4}}; {226,5}; {227,2}; {230,3}; {234,4}; {234,5}; {234,13} YOU AND I == Verses that juxtapose the (intimately addressed) beloved and the lover. {13,3}; {17,6}; {71,2}; {71,9}; {88,3}; {190,7}; {190,9}; {208,5} *ARCHERY: {6,2} [BELOVED IS A MALE ADOLESCENT: {9,2}] [BELOVED FALLS IN LOVE: {13,2}] [BELOVED HAS NO MOUTH: {91,4}] [BELOVED HAS NO WAIST: {99,4}] [BELOVED IS TALL: {38,4}] [BELOVED SEEMS TO BE GOD: {20,10}] [BELOVED SEEMS NOT TO BE GOD: {20,3}] [BELOVED VISITS LOVER: {106,2}] BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} *BONDAGE: {1,5} CANDLE: {39,1}

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CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} *CLOTHING/NAKEDNESS: {3,5} COMMERCE: {3,3} *CURLS: {14,6} [DEAD LOVER SPEAKS: {57,1}] *DESERT: {3,1} DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5} DOOMSDAY: {10,11} *DREAMS: {3,3} DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} [EROTIC SUGGESTION: {99,4}] *EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3} *EYES {3,1} FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} FOOD: {6,4} FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} *GATHERINGS: {6,3} *GAZE: {10,12} GOOD/BAD: {22,4} *GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} *HOME: {14,9} *HOPE/DESPAIR {4,10x} IDOL: {8,1} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} INFIDEL: {21,12} *ISLAMIC: {10,2} JALVAH: {7,4} JAUHAR: {5,4} JIGAR: {2,1} LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} LIGHTNING: {10,6} *LOSING/FINDING {4,6} [LOVER IS A BIRD: {126,5}] MADNESS: {14,3} MIRROR: {8,3} *MUSIC: {10,3} NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} [PLURALIZED ABSTRACTIONS: {1,2}] RELIGIONS: {60,2} *ROAD: {10,12} SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} *SKY {15,7} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT FAMOUS LOVERS: {100,4}] [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} *SPEAKING: {14,4} *SPRINGTIME: {} *SUN: {10,5} *SWORD: {1,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} *TESTING: {4,4} *TRICKERY: {} {3,8x} 'UNION': {5,2} VEIL: {6,1} *VOWS: {20,2}

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WINE: {49,1} *WINE-HOUSE: WRITING: {7,3} ZARRAH: {15,12} TRANSLATABLES == A few examples of verses that seem to lend themselves especially well to translation. {4,2}; {4,6}; {50,3}; {62,2}; {80,9}; {91,3}; {92,2}; {95,6}; {97,2}; {97,4}; {97,11}; {97,12}; {97,13}; {98,4}; {101,4}; {104,1}; {105,2}; {107,3}; {107,4}; {110,6}; {110,7}; {110,8}; {113,7}; {115,5}; {136,3}; {174}; {177,5}; {179,2}; {234,6}

== GRAMMAR NOTES == (SOME STUDY MATERIALS)

Normal Urdu/Hindi grammar is relatively easy and straightforward. But Ghalib's verses make life difficult for everybody. Even if you're a modern native speaker, there will probably be aspects of Ghalib's grammar that you'll need to study. (Modern English speakers need to do a bit of work when they read Shakespeare, too.) If you'd like more systematic help, check out the Urdu/Hindi resource page-especially the Naim grammar materials made available there.

COMMON GRAMMAR PATTERNS

(some examples for practice) AANAA == {97,3}; {142,1} AAP as polite 3rd person pronoun == {4,7} AAP as oneself == {17,3}; {92,7} 'ALWAYS' CONSTRUCTION == {151,1}; {151,6}; {151,9}; {215,1} APNAA == {43}; {86,5} AUR PHRASES== {3,1}; {62}; {86,4} BAAT == {116,4} BHII == {112}; {132}; {158,5}; {173,4}; {175,3}; {189,3} CHAHIYE and its complexities == {189} COMPOUND VERBS == {5}, {19,5}; {20,2}; {25}; {48}; {90,5}; {137,1} CONTINUATIVES == {20,1} CONTRAFACTUAL == {20}, {31}, {32}; {99,5} DIRECT DISCOURSE == {90,3}; {140,2}; {232,4} DISTRIBUTIVE FORMS== {10,11}; {15,12}; {16,1} DEKHNAA (look at, see)== {106,1}; {106,4}; {120,5}; {153,1} EXCLAMATIONS == {2,1}; {7,7}; {17,8} FUTURE == {25} FUTURE SUBJUNCTIVE == {14,4}; {46}; {88}; {89}; {99,1}; {124,1}; {163,1} HII == {115,1} KAHIIN as 'lest' indicator == {106,3}; {121,7}; {151,7}; {191,3} KAASH == {31,3}; {132,4}; {162,3}; {191,3}; {202,5}; {208,12} IMPERATIVE == {56}, {79} INFINITIVE == {1,2}; {17}, {48} INFINITIVE as neutral imperative == {111,16}; {147,3} INTERROGATIVE == {85} INTRANSITIVE VERSUS TRANSITIVE) == {170,3} IS versus US == {173,2} IZAAFAT == {16,1}*; {49}, {53}, {80}; equational: {173,8}

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JAANNAA for 'consider' == {16,5}; {101,5}; {110,5}; {140,2}; {159,6} JAB TAK with NAH == {214,1} KAA vs. KE PAAS == {140,4} KAR CONSTRUCTION == {60} KAR DELETION == {97,4}; {172,1} KE of possession as not agreeing == {160,3} KHONAA as both trans. and intrans. == {153,6} KIH == see the examples on the SETS page KO in place of KE LIYE == {140,1}; {174,10} LAGNAA and LAGAANAA == {105,1} LAGNAA with OBLIQUE INFINITIVE == {4,5} MAANNAA as either trans. or intrans. == {125,8} MILNAA == {97,1} NAH...NAH == {3,3}; {20,9}; {119,8} NE vs. non-NE FORMS == {153,9} NEGATION complexities == {87,3} OBLIQUE PLURAL AS INCLUSIVE == {219,1} OMISSION OF SUBJECT == {97,3} PASSIVE OF IMPOSSIBILITY == {205,4} PAST PARTICIPLE, ADJECTIVAL == {4,5}; {7,2}; {87,7}; {97,9} PAST PARTICIPLE, ADVERBIAL == {16,3}; {19,4}; {131,4}; {151,4}; {151,7}, with ba;Gair ; {233} PAST PARTICIPAL, NOMINATIVE == {174,5} PERFECT (INTRANSITIVE) == {3,4}; {5}; {6}; {14}, {34}, {35}, {41}, {164,9} (discussed in connection with participle) PERFECT (TRANSITIVE) == {4}; {18,5}; {19,7}; {29} PERFECT for subjunctive == {10,4}; {25,5}; {25,6}; {111,7}; {111,12}; {111,15}; {111,16} PERFECT-- skewed correlation with English == {164,2} PHIR-- {4,5} POLITE IMPERATIVE used for subjunctive == {91,2}; {157,5}; {178,9}; {220,1} POSSESSIVE as both 'of' and 'belonging to'== {41,6} POSTPOSITIONS == {57}, {59}, {61}, {64}, {72}, {78}; {87,7} PRESENT HABITUAL == {86} PRESENT HABITUAL TO EXPRESS FIRM RESOLVE == {119,10} PRESENT PARTICIPLE == {97,4} PRESUMPTIVE == {111,1} RELATIVE PRONOUNS, JAB-TAB == {173,3} RELATIVE PRONOUNS, JITNAA-UTNAA == {98,5} RELATIVE PRONOUNS, JO-VUH == {6,3}; {10,1} RESTRUCTIVE vs. UNRESTRICTIVE clauses == {229,6} SAA/SE/SII == {14,5}; {22,1}; {86,4} SAKNAA == {3,6}; {7,6}; {20,3}; {89} SAMAJHNAA as 'to believe' == {90,3} SE == {190,1} SUBJUNCTIVE == {191,7} SUNNAA as both 'hear' and 'listen to' == {199,3} YAA / YAA as 'now' and 'then' == {139,6}; {176,7}; {177,7}

IDIOMATIC EXPRESSIONS IDIOMS == Also, see the many complex examples linked on the SETS page. baat colloquially omitted == {151,1}; {169,7} balaa == {58,1} banaa))e nah bane etc. == {175,3}; {191,1}*; {191,8} bas == {210,1}

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bhalaa == {21,11} bhuule se == {151,8} bhii == Sometimes it doesn't mean either 'too' or 'even'-- as in Mir {967,1}: ;hairat se ham to chup hai;N kuchh tum bhii bolo pyaare . chhuu;Taa == kisii se chhuu;Taa = something was reluctantly, under duress, left by X. == {85,6} dekhaa jaanaa as 'endure' == {153,1} dekhiye as 'let's see' == {98,4} farmaanaa for karnaa == {19,1}; {19,2}; {25,6} goyaa == {5,1} haa;N as 'indeed' == {66,5} hotii aa))ii hai == {86,1} hii sahii == {9,4}; {91,4}; {148} jaatii hai ko))ii == {7,5} jo in non-relative uses == {20,9} jo kih == {39,4} kahaa;N yih, kahaa;N vuh == {27,2}; {85,7}; {219,9} kahe ba;Gair etc. == {3,6}; {59} kahii;N as 'somehow' == {193,3} kisii ko kuchh kahnaa == {86,3} ko))ii == special emphatic negative use, {7,5}; {119,9}, {148,7} ko))ii din aur == {66} kuchh idioms == {89,2} lo for 'just look at this!' == {99,5} ma((luum == {4,3}; {82,1}; {101,3}; {108,4}; {154,2}; {155,2}*; {217,2} passive for absolute refusal == {153,1} rahaa for rahe (futr. subj.) == {102,1} sahii and its special uses with nah and hii == {9,4} to == {193,1} vuh to mean aisaa == {14,6}; {20,6}; {22,2}; {23,1}; {234,3} vuhii to mean aisaa hii == {6,11x} yih to mean aisaa == {11,2} ;xaak idioms == {114,1} yak- as a Persianized idiom former == {11,1} ;zaraa == {177,2}; {193,5}; {207,3}

ARCHAISMS aave;Nge for aa))enge, etc. == An archaic form of the future and subjunctive. == {9,9x}; {19}; {73,1}; {86,9}; {90,3}; {117,3}; {120,7}; {147,1}; {173}; {192,4}; {195}; {196,5}: {201,2}; {204,10}; {205,8}; {207,3}; {224,1}; {225,1} aa))iyo for aa))e;N , etc. == {176,5}; {196,4} dekhaa chaahiye for dekhnaa chaahiye == {1,3}; {94,1} hii forms == {90,5}; {210,2} hote tak == {78} huujo == {190,6} jaa))e hai for jaataa hai, etc. == Note by Prof. Peter Hook (April 2003): 'The jaa))e hai , jaa))o ho , jaa))uu huu;N pattern is an alternate but now obsolescent form of the present habitual. The pattern is still found in standard Marwari and Gujarati ( jaa))uu chhuu , jaa))o chho , jaa))e chhe ). Undoubtedly it must also survive in many rural dialects spoken in UP, MP, Haryana, and Rajasthan. Whether jaa))e hai is older than jaataa hai is hard to say. It might represent a conflation of Eastern jaa))e (still used in some places in UP in its ancient OIA present habitual sense and in some frozen phrases and formulae) with the more westerly jaataa hai , a later (MIA?) innovation.' Note by Christina Oesterheld (December 2004): Helmut

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Nespital has discussed the emergence of the "old present" in Urdu poetry in "The linguistic structure of Hindavi, Dakkhini, early Urdu and and early Khari Boli Hindi" (Berliner Indologische Studien, Band 11/12, Reinbek: Dr. Inge Wezler Verlag für Orientalistische Fachpublikationen, 1998, pp.195218). Another source is Stuart McGregor, "The Language of Indrajit of Orcha: A Study of Early Braj Bhasa Prose" (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968).' == {13,6}; {17,2}; {17,4}; {48,9}; {51,2}; {57,9}; {67,3}; {75,3}; {81,2}; {86,4}; {92,2}; {101,7}; {116,2}; {116,9}; {120,7}; {131,6}; {149,2}; {149,3}; {151,3}* {152,4}; {153} (most verses); {158,4}; {167,4}; {170,3}; {178,10}; {185,1} (though not necessarily); {187,1} de hai ; {190,1}; {193,2}; {196,6}; {199,1}; {205}; {208,8}; {208,9}; {210,5}; {228,5}; {233,8}; {233,10}; {233,12}; {233,13}; {233,14} kisuu kii == {186,3} kam hu))e pah == {16,5} ke tale for ke niiche == {101,7} kiije == This is an archaic form for the passive kiyaa jaa))e : examples include {4,1}; {5,4}; {9,6}; {53,10}; {119,1}; {119,7}; {123,4}; {125,3}; {132,6}; {140,3}; {148,2}; {177,10}; {182,1}; {192,2}; {201,8}; {202,7}; {209,7} ko == {107,3}, discussion; raah chalto;N ke saamne == [{99,2}] rakhyo etc. == {14,1}; {92,4}; {171,2}; {177,13}; {186,1} talak == {15,13}; {19,1}; {19,2}; {25,8}; {140,3}* tis par == {139,11} varnah replaced by vagarnah == {15,15}

INDEX OF PROPER NAMES THIS INDEX IS IN ENGLISH ALPHABETICAL ORDER. MORE NAMES AND INFORMATION WILL BE ADDED TO IT AS THE COMMENTARY PROGRESSES. Adam / aadam -- In Islamic as in Judeo-Christian religious tradition, the name of the first man. His creation was not approved by the angels (Qur'an 2:30-34). == {96,3}; {98,2}; {219,3} 'Ali / ((alii -- The Prophet's cousin and son-in-law. == [{98,1}]; {141,5}; {216,1}, as saaqii-e kau;sar 'Ali Bahadur / ((alii bahaadur -- Navab Ali Bahadur was the ruler of the state of Bandah [baa;Ndah], and a patron of Ghalib's. == {99,10} Allah (God) / all;aah -- An invocation of God, often exclamatory, more formal than 'Lord'. == {48,4}; {121,5}; {162,2}; {167,7} Anonymous -- A bystander of some unspecified kind who offers a (usually sympathetic) comment, to or about the lover, almost always in the closingverse (because of the presence of the pen-name). == Some examples: {7,7}; {15,15}; {20,11}; {22,9}; {25,9}; {32,3}: {71,10}; {72,7} Anqa / ((anqaa -- A bird from Arabic story tradition, whose single defining trait is his not-there-ness. Whenever you try to catch him, he's gone. == {1,4}; {5,3}; {145,1} Arif / ((aarif -- Ghalib's brother-in-law, whose early death evoked the melancholy ghazal {66}. == {66,5} Asad / asad -- The poet's early pen-name, before he changed over to 'Ghalib'. His own comment on it: {219,1}. A list of closing-verses in which it appears: {2,1}; {3,6}; {3,14x}; {4,16x}; {5,9x}; {6,14x}; {7,7}; {13,7}; {16,10x}; {18,7x}; {19,7}; {23,1}; {25,9}; {27,8}; {34,8}; {35,10}; {38,7};

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{41,8}; {42,6}; {45,5}; {49,12}; {50,3}; {64,6}; {71,10}, Asadullah Khan; {78,7}; {81,5}; {109,1}; {112,10}; {113, 9}; {114,7}; {119,10}; {140,6}; {141,7}; {148,10}; {152,7}; {153,10}; [{155,3}]; [{158,9}]; {167,10}; {189,9}; {190,10}; {193,5}; {199,4}; {200,3}; {210,7}; {214,12}; {221,3}; {228,10} Atish / aatish -- Khvajah Haidar 'Ali 'Atish' (1777-1847) was a well-known ghazal poet. == {89,1}; {92,7}; {97,1}; {164,9}; {164,9}; {167,6}; {191,9}; {203,4}; {234,1} Azurdah / aazurdah -- Mufti Sadr ud-Din Khan 'Azurdah' (1789-1868), scholar, Islamicist, and poet, was a close friend and confidant of Ghalib's. == {38,6}; {90,3}; {97,10}; {144,1}; {234,7} Bahman / bahman -- One of the legendary kings in the Shah-namah. == {120,12} Banat un-Na'sh (Daughters of the Bier) / banaat un-na((sh -- The constellation of the Pleiades. == {111,3} Barbud / baarbud -- The name of a famous Persian musician. == {177,8} Bedil / bedil -- Mirza 'Abd ul-Qadir 'Bedil' (1642-1720) was a famous IndoPersian poet whom Ghalib greatly admired. == {12,7x} Brahmin / barhaman -- The Brahmin, as a symbolic high priest of Hinduism; his distinctive mark is the sacred thread [zunnaar]. == {60,8}; {120,8}; {204,7} Bu Turab/ buu turaab -- Literally, the 'father of dust'. A title of Hazrat 'Ali. == {98,11} Bulbul (Nightingale)/ bulbul -- The sweet singer of the garden, and the archetypal lover of the rose. == {33,3}; {58,8}; {77,3}; {80,1}; {111,9}; [{126,5}]; [{145,2}]; {187,2}, ((andaliib ; {199,3}; {210,4}; {228,5}, ((andaliib ; {228,8}, ((andaliib ; {230,5}; {231,5} Dagh / daa;G -- Navab Mirza Khan 'Dagh' (1831-1905), a famous ghazal poet. == {30,1}; {87,3}; {96,2}; {101,5}; {111,10}; {189,10}; {191,7}; {197,2}; {208,11}; {219,2} Darab / daaraab -- One of the legendary kings in the Shah-namah. == {120,12} Darban (Doorkeeper) / darbaa;N -- The lover has one too, but of course the only one who really counts is the beloved's. See also Pasban. == {10,7}; {31,3}; {111,12}; {151,2}; [{202,7}]; {233,15} Dard, Mir / miir dard -- Khvajah Mir 'Dard' (1720-85), a famous Sufi and ghazal poet. == {38,6}; {60,8}; {95,2}; {98,3} Darvesh / darvesh -- A wandering religious mendicant who is expected to live on the alms given by the pious; see also Faqir. == {24,3}; {162,9} Delhi / dillii -- [only one ref?] == {19,7} Dijlah (Tigris) / dijlah -- The Tigris River, in Iraq. == {22,8} Faqir / faqiir -- A wandering Muslim ascetic, who ideally lives on alms from the pious and generous; see also Darvesh. == {96,6}; {139,1}; {160,1} Farhad / farhaad -- In Persian story tradition, a stone-mason who fell in love with the princess Shirin, wife of Khusrau. He's also known as Kohkan. The gist of his story is told in {1,2}. == {1,2}; {36,8}; {101,2}; {174,7} Faridun / fariiduun -- One of the legendary kings in the Shah-namah. == {120,12} Farishtah (Angel) / farishtah -- One of God's invisible winged servants; they often assist him in monitoring the doings of humankind. == {36,10}; {38,6} Firdausi / firdausii -- The author of the Shah-namah [shaah-naamah], the Persian national epic. Ghalib speaks of Firdausi (c.934-1020) as the greatest of poets. == {139,1}; {219,6} Ghair (Other) / ;Gair -- The Other Man, the (true) lover's (false) competitor for the favors of the beloved. See also Raqib. == {10,10}; {13,3}; {15,9}; {28,2}; {36,7}; {41,5}; {42,1}; {43,2}; {53,4}; {53,6}; {77,7}; {83,1}, said of a foreign country; {86,1}; {87,6}; {89,2}; {98,5}; {103,1}; {112,6};

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{115,2}; {115,6}, aur ; {116,4}; {116,6}; {119,3}; {119,8}; {124,1}; {126,10}; {148,4}; {151,7}; {153,3}; {153,7}; {180,1}; {189,6}; {191,4}; {198,2} Ghalib / mirzaa asadull;aa;h ;xaan ;Gaalib (1797-1869) -- the poet as commentator == {1,1}, {6,1}, {6,2}; {28,1}; {34,2}; {57,7}, quoted by Hali; [{75,3}]; {97,5}; {110,1}; {111,1}; {112,3}; {115,6}; {155,1}; {155,2}; {155,3}*; {159,4}; {160,1}; {167,3}; {169,1} (2 comments); {183,5}; {191,7}*; {193,1}; {209,4}; {216,1}; {230,5}, quoted by Hali. In other cases, the poet quotes verses in his letters == {26,1}; {38,5}; {41,1}; {46,1}; {46,2} (2 instances); {46,6} (6 instances); {62} (2 instances of most of ghazal); {70,3} (2 instances); {85,8} (2 instances); {95,1}; {111,1-2}; {115,1}; {124,1}; {126}; {126,1 & 8}; {127,3}; {135,1}; [{139}] (?); {142,2}; {150,1}; {151,1}; {154,1}; {157,4}; {160,2}; {160,6}; (2 instances); {161}: 2 instances, various verses; {162,3}; {163}; {177,2}; {177,13}; {178,1} (2 instances); [{180,6}]; {180,7} (2 instances, with one word changed); {189,8} (3 instances); {191,1}; {191} (2 instances); {201}; {205,8} (echoed in a Persian letter); {208}; {208,12}; {209,1} (2 instances); {216,1}, 2 instances, various verses; {219,1}; {228,10}, 2 instances; {229,7}; {231,3} and two more verses Gul-chin (Flower-picker) / gul chiin -- He is another version of the Hunter, and a danger to all the inhabitants of the garden. == {101,7}; {199,1} Hamzah / ;hamzah -- The hero of the Persian/Urdu romance called qi.s.sah-e ;hamzah or daastaan-e amiir ;hamzah. I have written a book about this romance. == {22,7}. A major feature of Hamzah's world is the :tilism == {3,9x}; {29,3}; {157,7}; {173,11}; {203,2} Hindi / hindii -- The word literally means 'pertaining to Hind', or 'Indian'. It was sometimes used by Ghalib and his contemporaries as another name for their own language, which they also called 'Urdu'. == {88,3}; {148,10}; {150,1}; {178,1} {189,2}; {189,2}; {161,1}; {194,5}; {228,4}; {228,10} Huma / humaa -- The king-maker bird of Persian story tradition: anyone upon whom his shadow falls is destined to wield royal power. == {49,3} Hur (Houri) / ;huur -- A celestial damsel of the kind that will be available to (male) believers in Paradise. See Quran 44:54 and 52:20. == {100,6}; {111,7}; [{139,1}]; {159,1}; {231,2} 'Id / ((iid -- The great Muslim festival that occurs at the end of the daytimefasting month of Ramzan, and is inaugurated by the sight of the crescent moon. == {107,5} Insha / inshaa -- Insha'allah Khan 'Insha' (1756-1817) was a lexicographer, occasional prose writer, and ghazal poet. == {190,10}; {191,5} Iqbal / mu;hammad iqbaal -- Sir Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938) , admiringly known as Allama [the learned] Iqbal, was not only one of the founders of Pakistan and a Persian poet of note, but also the greatest Urdu poet of the twentieth century. == {16,8x}; {24,6} Isa (Jesus) / ((iis;aa -- In Islamic tradition, one of Jesus's chief miracles is his ability to breathe on the dying and restore them to life (for the basis of this idea see Quran 5:113). == {9,7}; {215,1} [ibn-e maryam]; {222,1} Jallad (Executioner) / jallaad -- He usually acts at the direct and even enthusiastic command of the beloved. == {62,7}; {163,5}; {176,1} Jamshid / jamshiid -- A famous Persian king in the Shah-namah who owned a magic world-revealing Cup, the jaam-e jam or jaam-e jamshiid . == {33,2}; {95,2}; {100,8}; {120,12}; {174,3}; {219,6} Jur'at / jur))aat -- Shaikh Qalandar Bakhsh 'Jur'at' (1748-1809) was an Urdu poet in ghazal and other genres. == {126,3} Ka'bah / ka((bah -- The holiest religious site for Muslims; it has the form of a squarish black building, and is located in Mecca; on its origin see Qur'an 2:125-27. The Ka'bah also marks the Qiblah, or direction of prayer, for Muslims (Qur'an 2:142-50). == {22,2}; {86,5}; {93,2x}; {95,1}; {115,2},

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;haram ; {118,1}; {120,8}; {123,10}, ;haram ; {141,5}; {161,10}; {163,7}; {208,9}; {231,6}; {232,6}, ;haram Kausar / kau;sar -- The name of a fountain and river in Paradise, from which all other rivers are believed to flow; see Qur'an 108:1. == {98,1}; {216,1} Khizr / ;xi.zr -- Khvajah Khizr is an important figure in Islamic folk tradition. More information about him is given in {68,1}. == {12,7x}; {68,1}; {151,4}; {159,6}; [{174,9}]; {215,9}; {234,3} Khizr Sultan / ;xi.zr sul:taan -- This young prince (1831-57), a son of Bahadur Shah Zafar's, was also a shagird of Ghalib's -- {174,9} Khuda (Lord) / ;xudaa -- A reference to God, of a slightly less formal kind than 'Allah' would provide. See also Rab. == {7,7}, ;haq ; {79,2}; {83,1}; {83,2}; {86,8}; {88,4}; {106,2}; {107,6}; {112,5}; {112,7}; {112,9}; {115,8}; {120,2}; {120,4}; {124,6}; {132,7}; {141,3}; {141,4}; {150,1}; {162,4}; {176,4}; {199,4}; {205,2}; {215,5}; {228,2}; {229,3}; {230,11}; {234,10} Khusrau / ;xusrau -- Khusrau Parvez was the husband of Farhad's beloved Shirin. He is identified with the historical Khusrau II (r.590-628), the last king in the Sasanian dynasty. == {101,2}; {120,12}, kai;xusrau ; {121,8} Kohkan / kohkan -- 'Mountain-digger', an epithet for Farhad. == {1,2}; {3,6}; {42,6}; {121,2}; {204,2}; {204,3} Laila / lail;aa -- The beloved of Majnun. == {18,3}; {42,2}; {95,1}; {104,1}; {139,1}; {166,2}; {175,4}; {208,10}; {214,2} Lucknow / lakhna))uu -- For information on Ghalib's visit to the city in 1827, see Russell and Islam, pp. 46-47. == {123,9} Majnun / majnuun -- In Arabic story tradition, the classic mad-- literally, 'jinn-possessed'-- lover of Laila. His real name was Qais. == {6,1}; {6,10x}; {18,3}; {23,1}; {35,10}; {42,2}; {61,3}; {139,1}; {140,6}; {147,3}; {159,5}; {166,2}; {208,10}; {214,2}; {228,7} Malak ul-Maut (Angel of Death) / malak ul-maut -- The one among the Angels whom God sends to claim human souls when the appointed deathhour has arrived. == {66,7} Mani / maanii -- A famous Central Asian miniature painter. == {184,1} Mansur / man.suur -- The famous Sufi of 10th-century Baghdad who was executed for the heresy of repeatedly and publicly proclaiming an al-;haq, 'I am God/Truth'. == {21,8}; {100,4}; {128,1}; {204,2} Masiha (Messiah) / ma.sii;haa -- A name for Jesus/Isa; more generally, any rescuer or healer. == {55,1}; {208,2} Mir / mu;hammad taqii miir -- Muhammad Taqi 'Mir' (1722-1810) was Ghalib's great predecessor, and only real rival, as an Urdu ghazal poet. == {1,1}; {6,4}; {31,1}; {36,11}*; {56,1}; {58,8}; {75,3}; {81,3}; {86,2}; {86,7}; {92,7}*; {92,8x}*; {111,1}; {111,1}; {111,10}; {137,2}; {154,4}; {161,7}; {197,2}; {204,9}; {208,9}; {206,2}; {213,2}; {217,2}; {227,1}; {228,9}; {232,6} Mirza Yusuf / mirzaa yuusuf --Ghalib's younger (and only) brother (born 1799/1800), who went mad in 1826 and remained so until his death from a fever in 1857. == {202,9} Momin / momin --Hakim Momin Khan 'Momin' (1800-52) was Ghalib's contemporary and a well-known Delhi ghazal poet. == {1,1}; {5,1}; {56,1}; {86,9}; {87,10}; {89,1}; {99,3}; {119,3}; {125,1}; {126,7}; {153,6}; {159,2}; {177,1}; {177,6}; {199,1}; {204,9}; {208,8} Murgh (Bird)/ mur;G -- The lover may be imagined as a Bird who is trapped or snared, and thus deprived of access to his beloved garden. == {101,7}; {112,7} Musa (Moses) / mus;aa -- Hazrat Musa, the Islamic counterpart of Moses, experienced on Mount Tur the unbearable glory of God's presence (Quran 7:143). == {36,5}; {53,2} Najaf / najaf -- The Iraqi city, sacred to Shi'a Muslims, where Hazrat 'Ali is

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buried. == {123,10} Nakhshab, Moon of / mah-e na;xshab -- A proverbial magic feat, in the form of an artificial moon that rose and set; see verse commentary for further information. == {38,2} Nakiren (Recording Angels) / nakiire;N -- The two angels, Munkar [munkar] and Nakir [naakir], who visit a dead Muslim in the grave, sit on his shoulders, and interrogate him about his good and bad deeds. == {163,4} Namah-bar (Messenger) / naamah-bar -- He carries letters and messages, usually (but not always) from the lover to the beloved. See also Qasid. == {14,9}; {46,4}; {106,1}; {159,4}; {160,4}; {176,4}; {201,1} Namrud (Nimrod) / namruud -- [get info] == {26,6} Nasih (Advisor) / naa.si;h -- The Advisor is always right in a prudential, worldly sense, and is always trying to straighten the lover out; but naturally the lover never listens to a word he says.== {4,7}; {19,3}; {19,5}; {20,5}; {60,8}; {61,8} Nasikh / naasi;x -- Shaikh Imam Bakhsh 'Nasikh' (1776-1838) was a wellknown ghazal poet, and a friend and correspondent of Ghalib's. == {92,7}; {98,11}; {111,1}; {111,9}; {112,9}; {163,4}; {167,9} Nayyar / nayyar -- Arif's friend, Navab Ziya ud-Din Ahmad Khan 'Nayyar' (1821-85), a ghazal poet who also used the pen-name 'Rakhshan' [ra;xshaa;N]. == {66,8} Pari / parii -- In Persian story tradition, members of the Pari race (the word is a cognate of 'fairy') are born of fire, can fly, and are exceptionally beautiful. They are female; males are called pariizaad. Paris tend to fall in love with mortal men, but since children of Adam (aadmii) are made from dust, these affairs are always problematical. == {14,4}; {43,1}; {153,8}; {162,5}; {223,2} Parizad (Pari-born) / pariizaad -- In Persian story tradition, these are males of the Pari race; though the term seems sometimes to apply to female Paris too. == {95,1}; {111,7} Parvanah (Moth) / parvaanah -- The Moth is an archetype of the lover (and mystic), as he helplessly circles the candle and finally, embracing his doom, flies directly into the flame. == {45,5}; {75,4}; {81,3}; {166,3} Pasban (Gatekeeper) / paasbaa;N -- Who else could guard the beloved's house so zealously? See also Darban. == {43,4}; {127,2}; {234,7} Personifications -- Some especially conspicuous examples of abstract (semi)personification, often addressed with the vocative ay : 'Desert' in {3,1}; 'Opening' in (8,2}; 'Kindness' in {15,2}; 'Self-adornment' in {15,3}; 'Weeping' in {17,2} and {87,2}; 'Ardor' in {27,1}; 'Suspiciousness' in {34,4}; 'Sky' in {66,5}; 'Relish for enchainedness' in {72,1}; 'Incompleteness of the fire-shedding breath' in {76,2}; 'the Card-player of Thought' in {81,2}; 'Tyranny-invention' in {101,1}; 'Longing-stride' in {137,1}; 'Crowd/rush of Hopelessness' in {157,4}; 'Laggingness' in {157,5}; 'Pleasure of Freedom' in {158,2} Prophet -- There is one clear reference to the Prophet Muhammad, though he is not named. == {14,10} Qais / qais -- The real name of Majnun. == {3,1}; {6,1}; {95,1}; {104,1}; {175,4}; {204,2} Qasid (Messenger) / qaa.sid -- The messenger who goes back and forth between lover and beloved. See also Namah-bar. == {40,2}; {97,4}; {152,7}; {159,4}; {205,3} Qiblah / qiblah -- The niche in a mosque that shows the direction of the Ka'bah in Mecca, so that people can pray facing toward it. == {86,5}; {131,1}; {131,8}; {164,3} Qur'an / quraan -- Ghalib occasionally quotes passages. == {91,6} Rab (Lord) / rab -- A reference to God, of a slightly less formal kind than 'Allah' would provide. See also Khuda. == {4,8x}; {6,2}; {6,10x}; {14,1};

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{39,2}; {43,2}; {46,4}; {62,2}; {68,1}; {110,3}; {111,10}; {124,7}; {136,2}; {153,3}; {166,5}; {168,3}; {173,6}; {179,3}; {186,1}; {192,3}; {203,1}; {203,3}; {230,10} Raqib (Rival) / raqiib -- The (true) lover's (false) competitor for the affections of the beloved. See also Ghair. == {6,1}, as 'enemy'; {26,2}; {26,4}; {43,1}; {56,4}; {65,1}; {76,1}; {80,4}, ;hariif; {80,5}; {97,7}; {99,3}; {111,5}; {115,6}; {124,2}; {184,1}; {201,1}; {216,2}; {233,7}, heart vs. eye Rekhtah / re;xtah -- Ghalib referred to his language variously as 'Rekhtah', 'Urdu', and 'Hindi'. The rigid division into 'Urdu' and 'Hindi' is a latenineteenth-century innovation. == {36,5}; {36,11}*; {51,4}; {92,7}; {111,1}; {111,2}; {116,10}; {155,3}; {163,1}; {201,1}; {208,1} Rizvan / ri.zvaa;N -- The keeper of a special garden (also called Rizvan) in paradise. == {10,1}; {31,3}; {35,9} Ruh ul-Qudus / ruu;h ul-quduus -- The 'Pure Soul', a title of the angel Gabriel. == {91,11} Saiyad (Hunter)/ .saiyaad -- The beloved can appear as a Hunter. == {71,4}. Often reference is made to her pursuit of the lover as her 'prey' [.said]. == {15,14}, {45,2}; {72,1}; {101,7}; {232,3} Samandar (Salamander) / samandar -- For information about this firedwelling creature, see the commentary on {38,7}. == {38,7}; {56,6} Saqi (Cupbearer) / saaqii -- The beautiful, temperamental, coquettish youth who serves the drinkers in the wine-house. == {12,2}; {18,1}; {21,6}; {30,1}; {47,2}; {57,7}; {87,9}; {97,5}; {132,6}; {159,3}; {169,5}; {169,8}; {169,10}; {175,3}; {193,4}; {216,1}; {221,1}; {226,4}; {232,2} Sauda / saudaa -- Mirza Muhammad Rafi 'Sauda' (1706?-81) was famous for his work in a number of Urdu literary genres, including the ghazal. == {56,1}; {92,7}; {111,1}; {154,4}; {202,6}; {231,5} shagird (pupil) / shagird -- The shagird or pupil is defined by his relationship to an Ustad, a master who has agreed to accept him, correct his verses, and generally instruct him in the art of Urdu poetry, especially the ghazal. == {35,8}; {66,8} Shah (King) / shaah -- In most cases the dates make it clear that the reference is at least probably to Bahadur Shah 'Zafar' (1775-1862; r.183757); for some verses the current ruler was his predecessor, Akbar Shah II (r.1806-37). == {14,1}, shaahinshaah ; {110,8}; {120,12}; {121,8}, ;xusrav ; {124,7}, baadshaah ; {125,10}, ;hu.zuur ; {138,6}, farmaa;N-ravaa-e kishvar-e hinduustaan ; {174,9}; {177,8}; {177,9}, shahinshaah ; {178,10}; {180,6}; {181,7}; {218,1}, shahryaar ; {218,2}, baadshaah Shaikh / shai;x -- The Shaikh is a general emblem of complacent piety. He disdains the lover for ignoring the letter of the law, and the lover disdains him for ignoring its spirit. == {38,6}; {60,8}; {204,7} Sheftah / navaab mu.s:taf;aa ;xaan sheftah -- Navab Mustafa Khan Sheftah (1806-69), poet and tazkirah writer, was an excellent friend and frequent correspondent of Ghalib's. == {86,9} Shirin / shiiriin -- In Persian story tradition, the wife of Khusrau who was the beloved of Farhad.== {42,6}; {121,8}; {174,7} Sikandar (Alexander) / sikandar -- Alexander the Great, the worldconqueror, was misled by Khizr and deprived of the Water of Life. == {215,9} Sulaiman (Solomon) / sulaimaan -- An ideal type of the divinely guided king; see for example Qur'an 27:15-44, 38:30-40. == {120,12}; {208,2} Tajammul Husain Khan / tajaamul ;husain ;xaan -- The Navab of Farrukhabad, a potential patron for Ghalib. == {234,9} Talib Amuli / :taalib aamulii -- A Persian poet (d.1626) who was the poet laureate of Jahangir. == {216,1} Tur / :tuur -- the mountain on which Hazrat Musa experienced the presence

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of the Lord. (Quran 7:143; 28:29-30) == {53,2}; {60,11}; {231,7} Ustad / ustaad -- The Ustad is a recognized master of the art of poetry; he may or may not choose to accept and train shagirds == {11,3x}*; {15,15}; {34,2}; {36,11}*; {38,6}; {59,1}; {167,6} Vahshat / ;Gulaam ((alii ;xaan va;hshat -- Ghulam 'Ali Khan 'Vahshat' was a friend and shagird of Ghalib's. == {86,9} Va'iz (Preacher) / vaa((i:z -- As the voice of orthodoxy, the Preacher is even more irritating to the lover than the Shaikh, and for his part naturally considers the lover a hopeless reprobate. == {60,8}; {92,6}; {163,5}; {219,9}; {229,7}; {231,3} Yaqub (Jacob) / ya((quub -- The father of Hazrat Yusuf; he wept for his lost son until he ruined his eyes. == {61,2}; {111,1}; {111,4}; [{204,4}] Yusuf (Joseph) / yuusuf -- Hazrat Yusuf, the Islamic counterpart of the Biblical Joseph, was one of the Prophets; his story is told at length in the Quran, Sura 12. See also Yaqub and Zulaikha. == {10,9}; {36,6}; {61,2}; {111,4}; {111,5}; {202,9}; {204,4} Zafar / bahaadur shaah :zafar -- The last nominal Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah 'Zafar' (1775-1862; r. 1837-57) was a ghazal poet himself; he was a willing patron of Zauq, and after Zauq's death a grudging patron of Ghalib. == {90,5}; {111,1}; {163,1}; {163,2}; {163,9}; {164,14}; {231,9} Zafar Iqbal / :zafar iqbaal -- Zafar Iqbal (1933-) is a modern Pakistani ghazal poet. == {86,7} Zahid (Ascetic) / zaahid -- The Ascetic is a renunciant, always preaching the joys of the life to come and deprecating the pleasures of this world; he considers the lover self-indulgent, and the lover considers him shallow. == {10,1}; {85,2}; {133,3}; {196,6}; {203,1} Zauq / ;zauq -- Shaikh Muhammad Ibrahim 'Zauq' (1788-1854) was a contemporary and rival of Ghalib's; Zauq preceded Ghalib in the prestigious post of royal Ustad, and Bahadur Shah always liked Zauq better. == {7,7}; {15,11}; {19,1}; {22,3}; {34,7}; {38,6}; {46,6}; {77,8}; {78,6}; {91,8}; {97,3}; {151,4}; {202,6}; {231,5} Zuhuri / :zuhuurii -- A famously complex Persian poet (d.1615), cherished in India and ignored at home, who became the poet laureate of Sultan Ibrahim 'Adil Shah of Bijapur. == {92,7}; {100,9} Zulaikha / zulai;xaa -- When Yusuf was a slave in Egypt, Zulaikha was his owner's wife; because of her slave's great beauty, she fell in love with him. The whole story is told in the Quran, 12:23-32. == {111,5}; {194,5}; {204,5}

BIBLIOGRAPHY == WORKS IN ENGLISH == BROWN, Edward Granville. A Literary History of Persia (4 vols.), Bethesda, MD: Iranbooks, 1992 [1906]. All four volumes are available online, if your library has access to the American Council of Learned Societies' History E-Book Project. For Columbia people, here are the links to [ vol. 1 ] (up to Firdausi, 1000 CE); [ vol. 2 ] (Firdausi to Sa'adi, 1000-1290); [ vol. 3 ] (The Tartar Dominion, 1265-1502); [ vol. 4 ] (Modern Times, 15001924). This is a classic work, and full of valuable background material; if only because it's shaped everybody's literary attitudes, it's well worth studying. DAUD RAHBAR, trans. and ed. Urdu Letters of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987. HARCOURT and HUSSAIN. E. S. Harcourt and Fakhur Hussain, trans. and ed. Lucknow: The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture, by Abdul Halim Sharar. London: Paul Elek, 1975. KHWAJA AHMAD FARUQI, trans. Dastanbuy: A Diary of the Indian Revolt of 1857. Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1970.

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NAIM 1970. C. M. Naim, trans. and ed. Twenty-Five Verses by Ghalib. Calcutta: Writers Workshop Redbird Book, 1970. NAIM 1972. C. M. Naim, trans. and ed. Ghalib's Lighter Verse. Calcutta: Redbird Book, Writers Workshop, 1972. NIAZI 2002. Sarfaraz K. Niazi, trans. and ed. Love Sonnets of Ghalib. Lahore: Ferozsons, 2002. PLATTS. Platts, John T. A Dictionary of Urdu, Classical Hindi, and English. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1930 (fifth impression). This dictionary is also online through DSAL. PRITCHETT. Frances W. Pritchett. Nets of Awareness: Urdu Poetry and Its Critics. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. There is also an online version onthe Univ. of California Press website. PRITCHETT 1991. Frances W. Pritchett. The Romance Tradition in Urdu: Adventures from the Dastan of Amir Hamzah. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991. An extended version is on this site. PRITCHETT AND FARUQI. Frances W. Pritchett, in association with S. R. Faruqi, trans. and ed. Ab-e Hayat: Shaping the Canon of Urdu Poetry. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. A slightly corrected version of this work is online through DSAL, with page numbers linked to the original Urdu text. PRITCHETT AND KHALIQ. Frances W. Pritchett and Khaliq Ahmad Khaliq. Urdu Meter: A Practical Handbook. University of Wisconsin at Madison: South Asian Studies, 1987. An online version of this handbook is provided here. QUR'AN. A. Yusuf Ali, trans. and commentator, The Holy Qur'an. Beirut: Dar ul-Qur'an, 1992/3. Online version: [site]. RUSSELL AND ISLAM. Ralph Russell and Khurshidul Islam, trans. and ed. Ghalib 1797-1869; Volume I: Life and Letters. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1969. RUSSELL AND ADANI. Ralph Russell and Iftikhar Ahmad Adani. Selections from the Persian Ghazals of Ghalib, With Translations. Lahore: Pakistan Writers' Co-operative Society, 1997. (Russell translates into English, Adani into Urdu.) RUSSELL 2003. Ralph Russell. The Oxford India Ghalib: Life, Letters, and Ghazals. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003. SCHIMMEL. Annemarie Schimmel, A Dance of Sparks: Imagery of Fire in Ghalib's Poetry. New Delhi: Ghalib Academy, 1979. SCHIMMEL 1992. Annemarie Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade: The Imagery of Persian Poetry. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992. SHAHNAMAH. Firdausi, The Epic of Kings (1010), trans. by Helen Zimmern: online at MIT and at *Univ. of Australia*. STEINGASS. F. Steingass, A Comprehensive Persian-English Dictionary. London: Routledge, 1988 [1892]. This dictionary is also online through DSAL. YUSUF ALI. A. Yusuf Ali, The Holy Qur'an: Text,Translation and Commentary. Beirut: The Holy Koran Publishing House, n.d. [1934]. YUSUF HUSAIN, trans. Persian Ghazals of Ghalib. New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 1980.

== WORKS IN URDU ==

ARSHI (1904-1981). imtiyaaz ((alii ((arshii -- Divan-e Ghalib / diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- New Delhi: Anjuman Taraqqi-e Urdu, 1982 (2nd ed.) [1958]. All references are to the ghazal numbers and page numbers in Part 2, called navaa-e sarosh within the volume. AZAD (1830-1910). mu;hammad ;husain aazaad -- Water of Life / aab-e ;hayaat -- Lucknow: Uttar Pradesh Urdu Academy, 1982. Photo offset of: Lahore: Naval Kishor, 1907. This edition is already online at DSAL, and is also linked to the the Pritchett and Faruqi translation. BAQIR (1927?-1972). aa;Gaa mu;hammad baaqir -- Ghalib's Speech / bayaane ;Gaalib: shar;h-e diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- Lahore: Shaikh Mubarak Ali and Sons, 1943 [Lahore: Shaikh Barakat Ali and Sons, 1939].

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BEKHUD DIHLAVI (1863-1955). sayyid va;hiid ud-diin be;xvud dihlavii -- A Mirror of Ghalib / miraat ul-;Gaalib -- Calcutta: 'Usmaniyah Book Depot, 1934 [Delhi: Mahbub ul-Mutaba, 1924]. BEKHUD MOHANI (1883-1940). sayyid mu;hammad a;hmad be;xvud mohaanii -- A Commentary on the Divan of Ghalib / shar;h-e diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- Lucknow: Nizami Press, 1970 [composed 1923]. CHISHTI (1896-1984). yuusuf saliim chishtii -- A Commentary on the Divan of Ghalib / shar;h-e diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- New Delhi: Itiqad Publishing House, 1983 [Lahore: Ishrat Publishing House, 1959]. FARHANG. sayyid a;hmad dihlavii -- Asifiyah Dictionary / farhang-e aa.sifiyah -- Delhi: National Academy, 1974 [1896], 4 vols. FARUQI, Shamsur Rahman (1936-). shams ur-ra;hmaan faaruuqii -- An Explanation of Ghalib / tafhiim-e ;Gaalib -- New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 1989. A new, augmented edition came out in 2006. An index to both editions of this book is provided here. FARUQI 2. A Selection from the Complete Urdu Works of Ghalib / inti;xaabe urduu kulliyaat-e ;Gaalib -- New Delhi: Sahitya Academy, 1993. 2nd ed., 1999. A list of the verses contained in this book is provided here. FARUQI 3. Four Essays on Ghalib / ;Gaalib par chaar ta;hriire;N -- New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 2001. FARUQI, S. R. et al. A Course in Rhetoric / dars-e balaa;Gat -- New Delhi: Taraqqi-e Urdu Bureau, 1981. GYAN CHAND (1923-). gyaan chand -- The Interpretation of Ghalib / tafsiire ;Gaalib -- Srinagar: Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture, and Language, 1971. HALI (1837-1914). ;xvaajah al:taaf ;husain ;haalii -- A Memorial of Ghalib / yaadgaar-e ;Gaalib -- New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 1986 [Kanpur: Nami Press, 1897]. HAMID (1901-1980), ed. ;haamid ((alii ;xaan -- Divan-e Ghalib / diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- Lahore: Punjab University Press, 1969. HASRAT (1875-1951). fa.zl ul-;hasan ;hasrat mohaanii -- A Commentary on the Divan of Ghalib / shar;h-e diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- Karachi: Al-Kitab, 1965 [1905]. JOSH (1883-1976). labbhuu raam josh malsiyaanii -- The Divan of Ghalib with Commentary / diivaan-e ;Gaalib ma(( shar;h -- Delhi: Atma Ram and Sons, 1950. KHALIQ ANJUM, ed. ;xaliiq anjum -- Letters of Ghalib / ;Gaalib ke ;xu:tuu:t - New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 1984 (vol. 1), 1985 (vol. 2), 1987 (vol. 3), 1993 (vol. 4). MIHR (1895-1971). ;Gulaam rasuul mihr -- The Voice of an Angel / navaa-e sarosh, mukammal diivaan-e ;Gaalib ma(( shar;h -- Lahore: Shaikh Ghulam Ali and Sons, 1967. MIR (1722-1810). mu;hammad taqii miir -- The Complete Works of Mir, Volume 1 / kulliyaat-e miir, jild-e avval, mukammal chhih diivaan, ;Gazaliyaat - Ed. by :zill-e ((abbaas ((abbaasii -- Delhi: Ilmi Majlis, 1968. [Facsimile ed., New Delhi: Taraqqi Urdu Bureau, 1983.] MUHAMMAD ANSARULLAH. mu;hammad an.saarullaah -- A Ghalib Bibliography / ;Gaalib bibliyograafii -- Aligarh: Aligarh Muslim University, 1972. Updated edition: ;Gaalib bibliyograafii, kitaabe;N -- New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 1998. NAIYAR MASUD (1936-). nayyar mas((uud ri.zvii -- An Interpretation of Ghalib / ta((biir-e ;Gaalib -- Lucknow: Kitab Nagar, 1973. NAZM (1852-1933). ((alii ;haidar na:zm :tabaa:tabaa))ii lakhnavii -- A Commentary on the Urdu Divan of Ghalib / shar;h-e diivaan-e urduu-e ;Gaalib -- Hyderabad: Matba Mufid ul-Islam, n.d. [1900]. RAZA. kaaliidaas guptaa ra.zaa -- The Complete Divan of Ghalib, in Historical Order / diivaan-e ;Gaalib kaamil, taarii;xii tartiib se -- Bombay: Sakar Publishers Pvt. Ltd., 1988.

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SHADAN (1869-1948). sayyid aulaad ;husain shaadaa;N bilgraamii -- The Seeking Soul / ruu;h ul-ma:taalib fii shar;h-e diivaan-e ;Gaalib -- Lahore: Shaikh Mubarak Ali, 1967 [Lahore: Matba Koh-e Nur, 1946]. SHARAR. ((abd ul-;haliim sharar -- Guzishtah Lakhna'u / gu;zishtah lakhna))uu yaa mashriqii tamaddun kaa aa;xirii namuunah, taarii;xii-oja;Graafiyaa))ii ;haalaat -- ed. Shamim Inhonvi. Lucknow: Nasim Book Depot, 1965. VAJID. mu;hammad ((abd ul-vaajid vaajid -- A Commentary on the Urdu Divan of Ghalib, called the Rapture of Investigation / shar;h-e diivaan-e urduu-e ;Gaalib mausuum bah vajdaan-e ta;hqiiq -- Hyderabad: Matba Fakhr-e Nizami, 1901: [site]

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A DESERTFUL OF ROSES Commentary on the Urdu

Divan-e Ghalib

dast-gaah-e diidah-e ;xuu;N-baar-e majnuu;N dekhnaa yak-biyaabaa;N jalvah-e gul farsh-e paa-andaaz hai It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time. Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.... Felicity, ah! Time is the hooded enemy, The inimical music, the enchantered space In which the enchanted preludes have their place. --Wallace Stevens (cf. {98,4})

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GHAZALS ENDING IN

aa Ghazal 1 5 verses (out of 9); rhyming elements: iir kaa composed 1816; Arshi #1

{1,1}* naqsh faryaadii hai kis kii sho;xii-e ta;hriir kaa kaa;Ga;zii hai pairahan har paikar-e ta.sviir kaa 1) about whose mischievousness of writing is the image/painting a plaintiff? 2) of paper is the robe of every figure of the picture

Notes: naqsh : 'A painting, a picture; portrait; drawing; a print; a carving, an engraving; a map, or plan'. (Platts p.1145) sho;xii : 'Playfulness, fun, mischief; pertness, sauciness; coquetry, wantonness; forwardness, boldness, insolence'. (Platts p.736) ta;hriir : 'Setting at liberty, manumission; --writing elegantly and accurately; writing, description'. (Platts p.312) paikar : 'Face, countenance, visage; form, appearance, figure; resemblance, portrait, likeness'. (Platts p.300)

Ghalib: [1865:] First listen to the meaning of the meaningless verses. As for naqsh faryaadii : In Iran there is the custom that the seeker of justice [daad;xvaah], putting on paper garments, goes before the ruler-- as in the case of lighting a torch in the day, or carrying a blood-soaked cloth on a bamboo pole [to protest an injustice]. Thus the poet reflects, of whose mischievousness of writing is the image a plaintiff? --since the aspect of a picture is that its garment is of paper. That is to say, although existence may be like that of pictures, merely notional [i((tibaar-e ma;ha.z], it is a cause of grief and sorrow and suffering. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 837

Nazm: The author's meaning is that in life, we become separated and divided from the True Source, and separation from that Beloved is so grievous that even a figure in a picture complains about it. And after all, the existence of a picture is no existence! But it too longs to become lost in God: it laments its life. The suggestion of the paper dress of a plaintiff is present in Persian too, and in Urdu in the poetry of Mir Mamnun, and I've seen it in the poetry of Momin Khan too. But the author's saying that in Iran there is a custom that the justice-seeker puts on paper robes and goes before the ruler-- I have never seen or heard any mention of this anywhere. As long as in this verse there's no word that would make manifest an ardor for becoming lost in God, and a hatred for worldly existence, we cannot call it meaningful. Nobody deliberately composes things without meaning. What happens is that because of the constraint of scansion and rhyme, there was no scope for some necessary words, and the poet considered that the meaning had been expressed. Then, however many meanings have

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remained in the poet's mind, they should be called [in Arabic] 'meanings internal to the poet' [al-ma((nii fi))l-baa:tin ash-shaa((ir]. In this verse, the author's gist was that the figure in the painting is a plaintiff about an insubstantial, unworthy existence. And this is the reason for its paper robe. There was no scope for 'insubstantial existence' because it was awkward, and his purpose was to compose an opening-verse. In place of 'existence' he put 'mischievousness of writing', and from this no presumption about the cutting out of 'existence' was created. Finally, even to his face people said, 'This verse is meaningless'. (1-2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that existence is a cause of pain and suffering because of its instability and mortality. The commentary is that the world-- that is, the population of the world-- is a plaintiff, about the Eternal Engraver's mischievousness of writing. (The dress of a plaintiff, according to an ancient custom of Iran, used to be of paper, the way in Hindustan those with complaints used to carry a lighted torch in the day, or in Arabia they used to put a murdered person's clothing on a spear and go to seek vengeance.) The meaning of 'mischievousness' is 'not to stay fixed'. And 'not to stay fixed' is already proved, because of the picture's having a paper robe. That is, the common custom is that a picture is made on paper, and paper is a thing that gets ruined quickly. By 'every figure in the picture' is meant the totality of animals and plants. And all these things are destined for oblivion. The only difference is that a flower withers in the course of a day; for a human's death, no [fixed] interval has been decreed. Even things made of wood, stone, metal finally become useless and broken. When all the things in the world are in this state, then for an image of existence to be a plaintiff about its instability and contingency, is a complete proof of the poet's lofty imagination and uncommon inventiveness. In my opinion this verse is meaningful, and the thought is one heretofore untouched. To call this verse meaningless is to do violence to the claims of justice (9).

Bekhud Mohani: I am entirely astonished at Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i's words. Five objections to one verse, and those objections too such that a sound taste puts its finger to its teeth [in amazement]! The aforementioned gentleman doesn't find any word in this verse that expresses aversion to insubstantial existence. Although in the first line, not to speak of aversion, a powerful word like 'plaintiff' is present. And the complaint too is such that the plantiffs, like those seeking vengeance for the murder of an innocent, have donned paper robes. 'Aversion' was a commonplace word; so in such a place why would a pulse-taker of words and meaning like Mirza have selected it? After a look at what I have submitted, probably [;Gaalib;an] it cannot be said that the verse is in the realm of 'meanings internal to the poet'. And it hardly depends on my reply. Mirza himself has given a response: {13,1}. As for the claim that people told Mirza to his face that this opening verse was meaningless, in my opinion it's not necessary to give a reply, because the aforementioned gentleman has not given any source for this information. But it’s necessary to say this much: that if such a thing happened, it’s no cause for astonishment. There are many such 'connoisseurs' today; nor were they few in Mirza's time either.... I am astonished at Janab [Nazm]'s presumption-- that he didn’t even reflect that Mirza chose this opening-verse for the opening-verse of his divan. He ignored the fact that the rank Mirza held as a poet, he also held as a judge of poetry. The pitilessness with which Mirza made a selection from his own poetry [for publication]-- such examples are not to be seen even in the case of the Persian purists. Then, those venerable elders who were destined to have the honor of taking part in the making of the selection-- in that day there was heartfelt acceptance of their understanding of poetry, their grasp of

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subtle points; and even today people don't dispute their decisions. Everyone also knows that Mirza's divan was published in his lifetime. Even after the publication of his divan, Mirza lived for some time. It's astonishing that he never had the suspicion, 'My opening verse is meaningless!'. [Arabic:] 'Take heed, you who are insightful'. (1-3)

Baqir: Except for [Nazm] Tabataba'i, all the commentators call this verse meaningful. (7)

Shadan: Naushervan the Just hung a chain outside his bedchamber; on the bedchamber end a bell was tied. Seekers of justice used to come and pull on that chain, and used to wear clothes of paper. Naushervan used to call them in and provide them with justice.... Jahangir too had this chain copied. He called it the Chain of Justice. Naushervan was its inventor. [Information about the history of paper at various times and places, and then brief paraphrases of Nazm's criticisms.] The word ta;hriir , which has had to come in as the rhyme, is the worst disrupter of the meaning. I am applying a canvas patch to satin. If the possessors of accomplishment should approve, then that's fine; otherwise, I mean no disrespect: naqsh faryaadii hai kis hastii-e ;Gam-taa;siir kaa [the image is a plaintiff of whose grief-affecting existence?] naqsh faryaadii hai kis kii duurii-e dilgiir kaa [the image is a plaintiff of whose heart-seizing distance?] naqsh faryaadii hai kis ke ;hijr-e daaman-giir ka [the image is a plaintiff of whose garment-hem-grasping absence?] I don't mean one of these very lines-- but rather, that there should be some well-formed line expressing this thought. (91-93)

Josh: Some say that this verse is nonsensical. But this is entirely an injustice. Mirza [Ghalib] Sahib says in a style of feigned ignorance, 'Who has, through his artisanship, displayed so much mischievousness in the image of every creature, that each individual is unable to endure that mischievousness, and can be seen to make a complaint?' In the second line is the verbal device of 'elegance in assigning a cause'. The clothing of a picture is of paper. Mirza takes that clothing to be the clothing of plaintiffs. 'Mischievousness' refers to the coming into being, and destruction, of substances, and thus to the various types of events that keep erasing one creature after another. (49)

Faruqi: The words of the verse hint at still another meaning, and in this connection Ghalib's commentary guides us. The key question of the first line is 'whose': that is, as yet it has not been proved which being it is against whose 'mischievousness of writing' the image is a plaintiff. In other words, this verse is indeed about the transience of existence or its inescapable grief and suffering; but its fundamental question is, who is that Power before whose might and grandeur everything is helpless? The first line's 'whose' is more interrogatory than astonished: it is possible that if 'whose mischievousness of writing?' can receive a true answer, then the 'figure in the picture' can seek justice. The 'image' is, in truth, man, who is speechless like a picture, and who in a language of speechlessness is making the complaint, 'who ensnared us in suffering?'. Consider this point also: that the image is speechless, and its very speechlessness is the proof of its being a plaintiff. Ghalib was very fond of this kind of paradoxical utterance. In addition to the affinities ('image', 'writing', 'of paper', 'robe', 'figure', 'picture') Ghalib has also taken good care in this verse to have harmony of sound ( faryaadii , kis kii , sho;xii , kaa;Gazii hai pairahan har paikar ) [in which ii occurs four times, ai and ar three times]. In the second line there is

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a special emphasis on har , which knocks against the two r's of paikar-e ta.sviir and increases the elements of intensity and mystery in the line. The first line is also constructed as inshaa))iyah , that is, interrogative. Interrogation is Ghalib's special style. It's possible that he learned the art of interrogation and other interrogative principles from Mir. But the first verse of the divan, the theme of which ought to have been founded on praise of God, calls the arrangement of the two worlds into question. This mischievousness, or free-spiritedness, or lofty-mindedness, is Ghalib's special style. Mir too has called the arrangements of the Creator of the Universe into question; for example, in his very first divan he says [M{468,2}], ko))ii ho ma;hram-e sho;xii tiraa to mai;N puuchhuu;N kih bazm-e ((aish-e jahaa;N kyaa samajh ke barham kii [if anyone might be intimate with your mischievousness, then I would ask what were you thinking [that it was] when you overthrew the gathering of enjoyment of the world?] Seeing the word 'mischievousness' the suspicion arises that Mir's verse might have stuck in Ghalib's mind. But to use the theme of the mischievousness of the Creator of the Universe, and on top of that to turn that mischievousness into a subject for question and place such a verse at the head of the volume-this mischievousness was possible only from Ghalib. (1989: 22-24) [2006: 24-26]

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} CLOTHING/NAKEDNESS: {3,5} WRITING: {7,3} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses (Raza p. 112), from which he chose five (Hamid p. 1) for publication in his divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Carla Petievich suggests 'caprice' as a translation for sho;xii, and I like it a lot. Only 'capriciousness' would be even more accurate, but it doesn't quite sound as if it does the harm that 'mischievousness' actually does. There has been a great deal of commentarial controversy about this verse, stemming both from Nazm's notorious claim that it is meaningless (despite his then immediately proceeding to explain its meaning), and also from the strong reaction he provoked-- at great length from Bekhud Mohani, but in one way or another from virtually everybody else. Nazm makes a similar claim of meaninglessness about {5,3}, {17,5}, {28,1}, and {223,1}, among other instances. But look at how Ghalib begins his own analysis, in a letter to a friend written only a few years before his death. Why does he say 'listen to the meaning of the meaningless verses' [ma((nii-e abyaat-e be-ma((nii suniye]? Along with this verse, he explains two others: {6,1} and {6,2}. I've written an article about the commentarial tradition, using this verse as a particular example: "The Meaning of the Meaningless Verses". Harish Trivedi suggests a mention of the fact that Faiz took the title of his first volume of poetry (1943) from this verse. Not only that, but Faiz inserted an i.zaafat into it, making it naqsh-e faryaadii , which could mean something like 'the complaining image' or 'the image of the plaintiff'. (From this phrase, by an act of very free transcreation, Agha Shahid Ali took the title of his book of Faiz translations, The Rebel's Silhouette.)

{1,2}* kaav-kaav-e sa;xt-jaaniihaa-e tanhaa))ii nah puuchh .sub;h karnaa shaam kaa laanaa hai juu-e shiir kaa 1a) don't ask about digging through the tough-lifednesses of solitude! 1b) don't ask about the digging done by the tough-lifednesses of solitude!

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2) to make daybreak from night is the bringing of the river of milk

Notes: kaav-kaav : 'Digging, excavating, hollowing out; --examining, investigating; ...pains, toil, labour, trouble'. (Platts p.808) sa;xt-jaanii : The state of having a 'tough life', being resilient and stubborn and hard to kill, like a weed.

Nazm: kaav-kaav is 'digging, scraping'. The meaning is, in solitude and separation, don't even ask about the kinds of excavation and wear and tear that I experience at the hands of the movement of tough-lifedness and the inability to die. To pass the night, and to turn it into morning, is not less than bringing the river of milk. That is, just as it was a difficult task for Farhad to bring the river of milk, in the same way it's extremely difficult for me to turn night into morning. In this verse the poet has used as similes Kohkan for himself, the mountain for his tough-lifedness during the night of separation, and the river of milk for the whiteness of daybreak. (2)

Bekhud Mohani: The sound of Farhad's axe falling on granite seems to be heard, and kaavkaav has taken on an onomatopoetic role-- for the invention of which the wreath is on Mirza [Ghalib]'s head. (3)

Josh: But there is a special point in the second line.... That is, success in bringing milk proved to be a message of death for Kohkan. In the same way, I will be able to end this evening of grief only by dying. (49-50)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; OPPOSITES NIGHT/DAY verses: {1,2}; {4,13x}; {46,2}; {66,6}; {85,1}; {97,13}; {107,1}; {107,2}; {120,10}; {125,6}; {131,5}; {158,3}; {161,2}; {180,4}; {190,8}; {211,1} PLURALIZED ABSTRACTIONS: To be called sa;xt-jaan , 'tough-lifed', is not a compliment but almost an insult; it implies a weed-like hardihood, a kind of shamelessness. To pluralize its abstract-noun form is just as clumsy in Urdu as it is in English, and seems to multiply the awkwardness, clumsiness, and relentlessness indestructibility of solitude. For other such pluralized abstraction see {8,4x} for 'flowingnesses'; {21,7} for 'wanderingnesses'; {35,3} for 'simplicities'. In {108,7} we have 'fatigues/laggings'. In {111,2} and {153,7} we have 'party-adornings' (or even 'party-adorningnesses'). In {149,4} we have 'unveilednesses'; in {155,2}, 'bloomings'; in {167,1}, 'immoderatenesses'; in {190,8}, 'helplessnesses'; in {211,1}, 'intoxications'. The first line is almost incomprehensible until we hear the second-- a typical ploy in the mushairah-based oral poetics of the ghazal. And in fact, the whole verse would be incomprehensible unless we knew about Farhad and Shirin. Farhad was a stone-mason; he saw the princess Shirin from a distance and fell desperately in love with her. His helpless passion became the talk of the town. Shirin's husband, Khusrau, decided to mock him by playing a cruel joke. He told Farhad that he could have Shirin if within a fixed time he could cut a channel through the Pillarless Mountain [koh-e be-sutuun] to bring milk for her bath. The task was impossible, but such was Farhad's mad zeal that eventually he had almost completed it. Alarmed, Khusrau sent an old woman to tell him that Shirin was dead. When he heard the news, he plunged his own axe into his forehead and died. This story is told in varying versions throughout the Persianized cultural world, but its most famous literary source is the Quintet [;xamsah] of the Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi (1140-1230). Of the five masnavis contained in

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this work, the second, and most famous, is 'Khusrau and Shirin' [;xusrau shiiriin]. Khusrau is identified with the historical Khusrau II (r.590-628), the last king in the Sasanian dynasty, and Shirin is an Armenian princess. The grammar of the i.zaafat construction makes both the active (1a) and the passive (1b) readings possible. For a similarly multivalent case involving the related kaavish , see {13,7}. And don't the two readings work brilliantly, as the two halves of a terrible night? You have to claw your way through deserts of loneliness, before deserts of loneliness claw their way through you. And who is the 'you'? Ghalib doesn't say. So of course it can be any of us.

{1,3}* ja;zbah-e be-i;xtiyaar-e shauq dekhaa chaahiye siinah-e shamshiir se baahar hai dam shamshiir kaa 1) the uncontrolled/uncontrollable emotion/passion of ardor-- it's worth seeing! 2) the breath/life/edge of the sword is outside the sword's breast

Notes: ja;zbah : 'Passion, rage, fury; violent desire'. (Platts p.378) shauq : 'Ardour, zeal, eagerness, avidity; alacrity, gaiety, cheerfulness; curiosity'. (Platts p.736) dekhaa chaahiye is an archaic form of dekhnaa chaahiye ; GRAMMAR. dam : 'Breath, vital air, life...; --edge (of a sword)'. (Platts p.525)

Nazm: dam has two meanings, 'breath' and 'edge', and here both meanings are related and suitable. He has said 'breast of the sword'-- the meaning is that in my eagerness to be slain, such passion is attracting the sword's dam that it is drawn out of the sword's breast. (2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They call the temper and sharpness [aabdaarii] of a sword the dam of the sword. And this aab is always on the outer part of the edge. The lover declares the aab of the sword's being outside the sword to be evidence of the uncontrolled passion of his ardor, and the claim includes a clear proof. Who can doubt that the verse is aabdaar ? (10)

Bekhud Mohani: The edge of a sword faces toward the outside, but the ardent lover, in the extreme ardor for martyrdom, entirely forgets that everyday fact; instead, he thinks that either out of an ardent desire to slay him, or drawn by his ardent desire for martyrdom, the edge of the sword has emerged from the breast of the sword. This verse is based on 'elegance in assigning a cause'. (4)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; REPETITION SWORD verses: {1,3}; {4,14x}; {12,3x}; {19,4} This eagerness could be an illusion of the lover's passion. Or the uncontrolled enthusiasm could be that of the sword itself, which has come to share the lover's passion. Or, as Faruqi has suggested (July 2000), the emotion could be that of the beloved. The first line gives us a promise of a spectacle, but the emotions may well be those of the beholder. The real delight of the verse must be the lovely wordplay on dam , in which both its meanings-- the edge of a sword, and the breath-- are dead-on perfect. Is that why the word shamshiir has been so conspicuously repeated, to alert us to the fact that plays it two roles? It is both a weapon and a manifestation of 'ardor'; and of course, we can't tell whether the ardor is its own, or the lover's, or the beloved's. Another verse in which inanimate things quiver with eagerness: {120,6}.

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{1,4}* aagahii daam-e shuniidan jis qadar chaahe bichhaa))e mudda((aa ((anqaa hai apne ((aalam-e taqriir kaa 1a) let intelligence spread the net of hearing to whatever extent it might wish 1b) no matter to what extent intelligence might spread the net of hearing 2a) the intention of my world of speech is the Anqa 2b) my world of speech has no intention at all 2c) 'intention' is the Anqa of its own world of speech 2d) the Anqa is the object/intention of its own world of speech

Notes: mudda((aa : 'Desire, wish, suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift'. (Platts p.1015) ((anqaa : 'A fabulous bird, the phoenix; a rara avis... --adj. Scarce, rare, hard to get or find; wonderful, curious' (Platts p.766 *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, you can report my speech to whatever extent you may desire; it is impossible to arrive at its meaning. Even if the ardor for intelligence becomes a hunter and spreads the net of hearing, so what? The meaning of my speech is the Anqa bird, upon which a net can never be flung. In short, my verses are entirely mysteries [saraasar asraar]. (2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, my speech is entirely a mystery from the Unseen [saraasar asraar-e ;Gaibii]. It is not popularly comprehensible, such that every Tom, Dick, and Harry would be able to understand it. Accordingly, Mirza Sahib says in one Urdu letter that poetry is a name for theme-composition [ma.zmuun-nigaarii , though what Ghalib actually wrote was ma((nii-aafiriinii], not for rhymeweighing [qaafiyah-pemaa))ii]. (10)

Bekhud Mohani: No matter how much effort the power of understanding makes, it is deficient in understanding the goal and purpose of our speech. Gesturing toward his own 'love of difficulty' [mushkil-pasandii] and 'difficulty of style' [mushkilbayaanii], he says that his poetic speech is very difficult to understand. Perhaps for this reason, growing annoyed, he versifies a thought very similar to this one: {62,2}. (4)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IDIOMS; POETRY; TRANSITIVITY As Faruqi has pointed out (July 2000), to say mudda((aa ((anqaa hai , 'the meaning is an Anqa', is also an idiomatic way of saying that something is meaningless. Ghalib's Anqa verses do in fact tend to be obscure and complex. Line two is 'transitive': it plays on the ability of Urdu grammar to freely interchange 'A is B' and 'B is A'. So we can say either that the mudda((aa is an Anqa, or that the Anqa is a mudda((aa . It is usual to take the apne in the second line as equivalent to mere apne , 'my own'. But it literally means 'belonging to the subject of the sentence', thus yielding the abstruse (and very post-modern-looking) meaning (2c). Moreover, we must then ask whose intention-- mine in writing poetry, or yours in seeking to understand it? The result? An early example of a kind of verse that might well be called 'meaning generators', since they're impossible to resolve into one interpretation. There will be many more of these to come.

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I used a free transcreation of this verse as a source for the title of Nets of Awareness. Could there possibly be a better introduction to Ghalib's poetry than this verse?

{1,5}* baskih huu;N ;Gaalib asiirii me;N bhii aatish zer-e paa muu-e aatish-diidah hai ;halqah mirii zanjiir kaa 1a) Ghalib, even in bondage I am {restless / 'fire-under-foot'} to such an extent 1b) Ghalib, although even in bondage I am {restless / 'fire-under-foot'} 2a) a link of my chain is a {singed hair / 'hair-that-has-seen-fire'} 2b) a {singed hair / 'hair-that-has-seen-fire'} is a link of my chain

Notes: baskih : 'although'; [also short for:] az-baskih : 'To such an extent that; --inasmuch as, whereas'. (Platts p.154)

Nazm: They call a restless and impatient person one with 'fire under his feet'. And when fire is under the feet, then it's as if the ankle fetters are singed hairs. And it is known that when a hair 'sees' fire, it curls up and takes on a form like that of the link of a chain. (2)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse too 'elegance in assigning a cause' has been employed. The circles of the chain look like eyes-- eyes which are fire-raining and from which sparks of the fire of love are emerging, and which make the prisoner of love restless and uneasy. (4)

Baqir: [The commentator Sa'id] writes that a burnt hair gives rise to a kind of bad smell. In my opinion, the appearance of a bad smell in chains does not generate any meaning. (8)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH; IDIOMS; TRANSITIVITY; WORDPLAY BONDAGE verses == {1,5}; {4,12x}; {15,13}; {15,14}; {19,5}; {19,6}; {22,2}; {92,1} A remarkable number of interpretive possibilities are opened up by the double meanings of both lines of the verse. In the second line especially, we can read either 'A is B' or 'B is A'. The verse can thus be read as emphasizing either how impossible it is to keep me confined (my fiery passion turns my chains into frail curls of ash); or, secondarily, how burnt-out I am by the effects of passion (the ring of a singed hair is sufficient to make a chain for me). This is the first of many examples of the wonderful (and wonderfully exploited) powers of baskih to multiply meanings within a small space. The expression muu-e aatish-diidah , a 'singed hair', has its literal meaning elegantly revived in this verse: a 'hair that has seen fire' takes on the appropriately round shape of an eye, and also the round shape of a link in a madman's fetters. In fact, if you've ever seen a burnt hair, you'll know it really does curl into a loop as it burns. In addition, it contributes to a set of words with an affinity of evoking parts of the body: 'foot', 'hair', 'eye' (from diidah ). Baqir's observation is an excellent example of the ghazal's poetics at work. The bad smell may be there in reality; but if it can't be used in poetry, it's not there in the ghazal world. For another verse about the impossibility of stopping my desert-wandering, and the uselessness of the (round) chains on my feet, see {92,1}.

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Ghazal 2 1 verse (out of 6); rhyming elements: and aayaa composed 1816; Arshi #2

{2,1} jaraa;hat tu;hfah almaas armu;Gaa;N daa;G-e jigar hadyah mubaarak baad asad ;Gam-;xvaar-e jaan-e dard-mand aayaa 1a) wounds, a present; diamond, a gift; liver-wound, an offering-1b) wounds, present, diamond, gift, liver-wound, offering-2a) congratulations, Asad, the comforter of an afflicted soul came by 2b) congratulations, Asad, the sympathizer who has a compassionate soul came by

Notes: dard-mand : 'Afflicted, compassionate, sympathizing'. (Platts p.511). ;Gam-;xvaar : ''Devouring sorrow'; afflicted, sorrowful, sad; -commiserating, pitying, condoling, sympathetic; one who commiserates, or condoles, or sympathizes (with), a consoler, comforter; a sympathetic or intimate friend'. (Platts p.772) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By ;Gam-;xvaar the Advisor is meant, and the 'congratulations' are from the Shaikh. (2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The ;Gam-;xvaar , who had gone to persuade the beloved and induce her to meet with me, has come back from there bringing gifts. (21)

Bekhud Mohani: By the jaan-e dardmand is meant the Executioner, the beloved, Passion, or the Advisor. (16)

Baqir: If anyone swallows a diamond, then his heart and liver are wounded, and if diamond powder is applied to a wound, there is extreme pain in the wound. (28)

Chishti: ;Gam-;xvaar can mean passion, and also the Advisor. Here only passion is meant, because these gifts come to the lover from the court of passion alone. (237)

FWP: SETS == A,B JIGAR verses: {2,1}; {4,14x}; {7,4}; {16,1}; {17,7}; {20,4}; {21,11}; {30,2}*; {35,1}; {35,4}; {35,6}; {38,7}; {39,4}; {49,6}; {51,2}; {56,5}; {62,6}; {67,3}; {72,2}; {77,5}; {78,3}; {85,5}; {88,3}; {99,1}; {106,3}; {114,1}; {120,11}; {138,7}; {158,1}; {158,2}; {164,2}; {164,11}; {173,3}; {176,6}; {184,3}; {186,5}; {204,6}; {210,4}; {214,5}; {214,6}; {230,5}; {232,8}; {233,2} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of six verses (Raza p. 112), from which he chose only this one verse (Hamid p. 1) for inclusion in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. There are some differences of arrangement with this verse. Arshi and Hamid place it as a fard right after the first ghazal; Bekhud Dihlavi and Bekhud Mohani and some others insert it as the last verse of {8}. On all matters of verse-order I follow Hamid. Faruqi maintains that the bringer of gifts could be the beloved, or the Advisor; but it could not be Passion itself (July 2000). I agree with Nazm

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and Faruqi. Why personify the abstract 'Passion' as a solicitous friend, when we have more developed and provocative candidates available? If the giftgiver is the beloved or the Advisor, we can also then reflect on their reasons for giving such gifts. How different in fact are the motives of the beloved and the Advisor? dard-mand , literally 'pain-possessing', can apply to either the visited (as in 2a), or the visitor (as in 2b). In either case, it can be read either ironically or sincerely (since the lover always desires his destiny). This is the real relish of the verse-- isn't the visitor really doing the lover a favor, bringing him what he wants? And is the visitor truly a sympathizer with a compassionate soul, or simply a visitor to one in need of compassion? The ironies and complexities are inextricably rich. They rest on the meaning of ;Gam-;xvaar , literally 'grief-eater'. But who is the grief-eater? Again we see the i.zaafat in all its multivalent glory. For another look at a 'grief-eater', see {11,5x}. The three kinds of gift have different nuances of meaning, but such nuances don't seem to be exploited here, except to show that every possible kind of gift is involved in this transaction. The more obvious reading (1a) groups the six items into three sets of two. But the reading (1b) is also enjoyably ironic; it evokes the coming of a visitor, arms loaded with a jumble of all kinds of amusements and comforts and thoughtful things for the sick or suffering one. This is the image of the kind beloved; for her cruel counterpart, see {77,6}. On the general theme of the beloved as visiting the lover, see {106,2}. For another consoling sick-room visit, see {233,5}. This is the first verse to mention the 'liver' [jigar]. Not much is made of it here, but I wanted to start gathering together the 'liver' references. For further discussion, see {30,2}.

Ghazal 3

6 verses (out of 9); rhyming elements: uud thaa composed 1821; Arshi #4 {3,1} juz qais aur ko))ii nah aayaa bah ruu-e kaar .sa;hraa magar bah tangii-e chashm-e ;hasuud thaa 1) besides Qais no one else came into the field of action 2a) perhaps the desert was as narrow as a jealous eye 2b) but [nevertheless], the desert was as narrow as a jealous eye

Notes: magar : 'If not, unless, except, save, save only, but; besides, however, moreover;--perhaps, perchance, peradventure, by chance, haply, probably, possibly; in case'. (Platts p.1061) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, only Qais has made a name for desert-wandering; except for him, the desert is like a jealous person's eye toward anyone else except him; it's not been said (?) as if the desert, despite its breadth, is as narrow as the eye of a jealous person. Here magar means 'perhaps'. (3)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The reason might be that the desert was narrow like the eye of a jealous person, so that there wasn't even scope for any other lover. (11)

Bekhud Mohani: The first line expresses longing: alas, that no one turned out like that except Qais. In the second line he expresses hatred: this coquetry by the desert never gave me a chance. (5)

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FWP: SETS == MAGAR DESERT verses == {3,1}; {4,8x}; {5,4}; {6,10x}; {6,14x}; {7,6}; {11,1} ;{11,4x}; {12,7x}; {16,4}; {16,10x}; {17,2}; {18,2}; {18,3}; {214,2} EYES verses == {3,1}; {3,3}; {3,12x}; {12,4x}; {14,8}; {15,16x}; {22,4}; {25,7} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses (Raza p. 221), from which he chose six verses (Hamid p. 2) for inclusion in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The two meanings of magar can both work here. The 'perhaps' meaning preferred by the commentators makes the second line a cause of the first line (as in 2a). Perhaps the narrowness of the desert-- the proverbial narrowness of a jealous person's eye, or simply a 'jealous eye'-- caused everybody except Qais to stay away. Perhaps the desert warned them off with a hostile glare. Or perhaps the desert even literally was so narrow? (Perhaps many are called to the lover's life, but few are chosen.) For another use of the 'jealous eye', see {3,10x}. But why stop with one meaning when two are so manifestly there for the taking? For the 'but' meaning creates another, equally provocative relationship: the desert loved Qais so specially that even though no one else was even on the scene at all, it remained possessively vigilant, so that the 'eye of a jealous person' is exactly what it showed. For another meditation on the desert's love for Qais, see {175,4}. The word ruu , literally 'face', has an affinity with chashm , 'eye'. Faruqi suggests (July 2000) that this verse should be compared with {117,1}. I would add {228,7} as well.

{3,2} aashuftagii ne naqsh-e suvaidaa kiyaa durust :zaahir hu))aa kih daa;G kaa sarmaayah duud thaa 1) distractedness fixed up the shape of the 'suvaida' 2) it became apparent that the property/wealth of the wound/scar was smoke

Notes: suvaidaa : '(dim. of saudaa ) ...The black part or grain of the heart, the heart's core; --original sin. (Platts p.704)

Faruqi: I have worked out this meaning: aashuftagii (that is, anxiety of temperament) erased from the heart the scar of passion, naqsh-e suvaidaa . It became apparent that the state of the scar of passion was only that of a stain of smoke, which becomes clean through scrubbing and scouring. [Naiyar Masud has argued that durust karnaa means to fix up or adorn, not 'to erase' or 'to clean'. In a dictionary sense he is right, but Shaukat Merathi and Agha Baqir support my reading.] The tone of the second line is disdainful and sarcastic: when you look at the scar it seems very solid, but in truth its property is only smoke, it has no substance, it has no stability.... Ghalib's point is that the scar of passion, or the scar of the smoke of sighs, is a commonplace thing without any stability or necessity. If we reflect on the relationship between the scar of smoke and the smoke of sighs, the meaning of the verse becomes apparent: if the essence of something is smoke, how can it have any stability? Smoke in its nature is something that swiftly diffuses and vanishes, so how can its scar have any substance? The accomplishment of the verse is that 'distractedness' and 'smoke' have an affinity of meaning [of movement and dispersedness]. In addition to this, Ghalib is saying that distractedness erased the scar. After all, the scar for which he uses distractedness as a metaphor was made by smoke. Here,

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Ghalib is labelling that very distractedness as a cause of the scar's vanishing. This kind of impossible metaphorical speech is Ghalib's special style. (1989: 27-29) [2006: 27-31]

FWP: Ultimately, suvaidaa is a diminutive form of the word saudaa , which means literally 'blackness', but in Urdu, metaphorically, 'madness'. In the ghazal world, it takes the form of a small black spot at the center of the heart that can be interpreted almost at the poet's pleasure. The term appears in {6,10x} in connection with Majnun's passion. For a (relatively) straightforward use of suvaidaa , and further discussion, see {93,1}. There's a mystical use in {96,2}. And then, Ghalib also compared it to a betel-nut; see {95,1} for the amusing evidence. In {113,8}, he plays explicitly with its relation to saudaa . Then {229,2} involves it with a bouquet of flowers. This is one of Ghalib's most difficult verses, because it carries abstraction and metaphor to such extremes. The commentators' views are all over the map, and some of them express themselves so obscurely that I'm not even able to translate their thoughts with confidence. (I'm not sure if it's their fault or mine, but probably both.) Faruqi's analysis is the most lucid one that I've found, which in this case isn't saying as much as usual. Sometimes I think I understand this verse pretty well, and then I lose my grip on it again. I figure that every commentator is allowed to be at a loss occasionally, so this can just be one of my occasions. At least I can claim the merit of knowing that I don't know!

{3,3} thaa ;xvaab me;N ;xayaal ko tujh se mu((aamalah jab aa;Nkh khul ga))ii nah ziyaa;N thaa nah suud thaa 1) in dream/sleep, thought had a transaction/deal with you 2) when the eyes opened, neither was there loss nor was there profit

Notes: mu((aamalah : 'Transacting business (with), dealing (with), trading, or bargaining (with); --dealing, transaction, negotiation, business, commerce, traffic; bargain; contract; correspondence; --sexual intercourse; --proceeding, procedure; behavior; --affair, matter, concern; particular; --cause, or suit (in law), a case'. (Platts p.1046) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the time of passion passed as if in a dream. (3)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, what we had understood about You, was nothing but a thought of our own-- and that too a thought in the state of dreaming. (6)

Chishti: If the addressee of 'you' be taken to be the world, then the meaning will be that in reality worldly life is a deception. (240)

Naiyar Masud: It has not been said that in a dream, 'I' had dealings with you. It has been said that in a dream 'Thought' had dealings with you. And all the beauty of the verse is hidden in this word. (103)

Faruqi: But if 'Thought' did the transactions, and not I, then what is meant by 'Thought'? Here the first idea is that the speaker, saying this, knows that since he was sleeping, he was not the doer of whatever happened in the dream-world, the doer was only his 'Thought'. Thus it's clear that here the philosophical meanings of 'Thought' are intended: that is, the power that keeps safe the images/aspects collected by the senses, at the time when those images/aspects would not be present....

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In this way, there are two important things in the verse: the first is that the doer of the transactions was 'Thought'; and the second, that the speaker doesn't remember what those transactions were. The interpretation of 'there was neither loss, nor was there profit' is just this: I no longer remember the details of that dream, and perhaps this was natural, because the doer of those transactions was 'Thought', not I. In this way this verse expresses the theme of human action being trifling/unprofitable; but the tone is so firm and forceful that there's no suspicion at all of emotionality. He's composed a devastating verse. (2006: 32-34)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; OPPOSITES COMMERCE verses: {3,3}; {3,11x}; {21,10}; {58,5}; {60,7}; {61,5}; {66,7}; {79,2}; {91,1}; {141,2}; {154,2}; {162,11}; {164,4}; {164,7}; {168,1}; {201,8}; {213,1}; {214,8}; {226,4}; {233,9} DREAMS verses: {3,3}; {4,13x} EYES {3,1} The heaped-up ambiguities of the first line cry out for resolution or clarification. Is the transaction a mere dream? A mere thought? And above all, what is thought in a dream? What kind of transaction is it? The first line inclines us to guess that it might be a romantic transaction or 'affair'. After all, a whole subcategory of ghazal verses is called 'description of an affair' [mu((aamalah-bandii]. Could there have been great joy, or suffering, while the eyes were closed-- a whole dream of passion? We wait for what will surely be a romantic second line of love and loss. In the oral performance arena of the mushairah, the interval between the first line and the second one is often considerably (and even coquettishly) prolonged. This increases the shock value of the second line when it comes: the imagery is not romantic at all, but entirely drawn from the world of business, and the outcome is both neutral-- there was neither profit nor loss-and neutrally reported. Thus the interpretive space generated by the verse becomes much larger, and full of narrative possibility. Was the dream literal, or metaphorical? And in the second line, were those eyes that opened literal, or metaphorical, or both? What did really happen, anyway? The commercial imagery-- transaction, profit, loss-- and the static, status-quo result leave the question of tone entirely open. Is the tone bitter, rueful, resigned, philosophical, neutral? And since we never do find out what the transaction or affair was anyway, this is one of those haunting verses with a carefully contrived reflective surface. It's the kind of verse into which we are thrown back onto our own resources, and forced to read pretty much what we like. While this verse plays with dreams, {14,3} similarly plays with madness.

{3,4} letaa huu;N maktab-e ;Gam-e dil me;N sabaq hanuuz lekin yihii kih raft gayaa aur buud thaa 1) I now/still take lessons in the school of grief of the heart 2a) but only this: that 'went' is 'went' and 'was' is 'was' 2b) but only this: that 'went' went and 'was' was

Notes: hanuuz : 'Yet; still; further; just now, at present; hitherto, to this very time'. (Platts p.1239) raft means 'went' in Persian, gayaa means 'went' in Urdu. buud means 'was' in Persian, thaa means 'was' in Urdu.

Nazm: That is, the time of enjoyment once was, and now has departed. (3)

Bekhud Dihlavi:

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The school of the grief of the heart is an entirely new and untouched metaphor.... There can't be any better words for portraying the ungovernability of passion. (11)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, passion and mystic knowledge are a field of study of which there's no end. From the eternity before creation up to today the time has been spent in learning-- but it's still the first day. (6)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ The two meanings of hanuuz effortlessly set two scenes for the verse. If I now take such lessons, which I did not take before (during the days of my youth and happier love?), it is not surprising that I'm only at the beginning of my experience of the grief of the heart. While if I still take such lessons, and yet remain such a novice, it shows how huge and unfathomable is the experience of loss. Perhaps I make no progress because I myself am fixed on those two basic concepts and refuse to abandon them. Yet they have abandoned me-- 'went' has departed and 'was' used to be (cf. 2b); I have lost not only joy, but even the vocabulary for expressing my memory of it. Joy is not at one remove from me, but at two removes. Yet with all this, there's such an effect of simplicity, directness, sorrow! The combination of subtle construction and emotional resonance is Ghalib at his best; not even he can always pull it all together like this. It has a quality that's almost 'unattainably simple'.

{3,5}* ;Dhaa;Npaa kafan ne daa;G-e ((uyuub-e barahnagii mai;N varnah har libaas me;N nang-e vujuud thaa 1) the shroud covered the wound/scar of the flaws of nakedness 2a) otherwise, in every attire/guise I was a shame/honor to existence 2b) otherwise, in every attire/guise I would have been a shame/honor to existence

Notes: varnah : 'And if not, otherwise, or else; although'. (Platts p.1189) libaas : 'Garment, vesture, raiment, robe, apparel, clothes, dress, attire, habit; appearance; guise; a veil'. (Platts p.949) nang : 'Honour, esteem, reputation; --shame, disgrace, infamy, ignominy'. (Platts p.1156) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, only by dying was the flaw of nakedness erased; othewise, in every attire I was a shame to existence.... It's only a similarity of words that carried his mind aloft and away. (3)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I was so devoid of human qualities that my existence was a cause of shame to the world. (6)

Mihr: This verse points the mind toward that verse of the Holy Qur'an, in which it is said, 'Oh ye Children of Adam! We have bestowed raiment upon you to cover your shame, as well as to be an adornment to you. But the raiment of righteousness,-- that is the best' (Qur'an 7:26). (23)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH CLOTHING/NAKEDNESS: {1,1}; {3,5}; {6,1}*; {6,7x}; {6,11x} LIFE/DEATH: {7,2}

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SHAME/HONOR verses: {3,5}; {9,1}; {24,1}; {83,1}; {98,8}; {99,5}; {102,1}; {114,6}; {115,6}; {119,5}; {119,7}; {120,4}; {139,7}; {139,8}; {159,3}; {220,2} SHAME/HONOR: The powerfully multivalent word nang means 'honour, esteem, reputation; --shame, disgrace, infamy, ignominy' (Platts 1156); it thus flips back and forth according to context between the two possible forms of public judgment and (dis)repute. To prove the duality of the word, consider {99,5}, in which not nang but be-nang is clearly a powerful reproach. The related nangaa means both 'naked' and, secondarily, 'shameless' (Platts p.1156). Nazm, like Chishti, accuses the poet here of mere wordplay, but he is certainly doing 'meaning-play' as well. The similarly two-faced word 'shame' [sharm] can even explicitly become a source of pride, as in {24,1} or {83,1}. See also {98,8} for another piquant use of 'shame'. The commentators insist on reading nang only as 'disgrace', but 'honor' works perfectly well too, and multiplies the meanings of the verse. If we take this alternative reading, we have something like, 'the shroud covered the flaws of nakedness after my death; otherwise, while I was alive, no matter what kind of clothing I wore I {was / would have been} an honor to existence'. Now perhaps the lover is saying this semi-sarcastically, but there's no reason he wouldn't or couldn't say it; we have many examples in which the lover speaks sarcastically to or about worldly authority. (For a few examples among many, see some of the verses in which he confronts the Advisor.) He may also be proud of his nakedness, as he is proud of that of Majnun in {6,1}. He may mean to say that only the shroud was able finally to cover him; otherwise, his whole life long he flaunted his nakedness and disgrace, even when he (outwardly? seemingly?) wore clothing. This is in fact just the kind of thing the lover does; his pride in his passion, and his rejection of the fine facades of the worldly, are right at the heart of the ghazal world. The commentators make the lover grovel. But Ghalib's lover is just as often unimaginably arrogant; and sometimes, as in this verse, he's both at once. The word varnah is flexible, and can suggest either a past condition or a contrafactual situation. It's also a key to the whole structure of the verse, for it signals a contrast between the clause before it and the clause after it-- but what contrast, exactly? The possibilities include: being 'covered' with something versus wearing 'attire'; death (in a 'shroud') versus life (in 'existence'); 'scars' and/or 'flaws' versus either 'shame' or 'honor'; 'nakedness' versus wearing 'attire'. Compare {220,2}, which is also about issues of shame and honor, life and death.

{3,6} teshe ba;Gair mar nah sakaa kohkan asad sargashtah-e ;xumaar-e rusuum-o-quyuud thaa 1) Kohkan was not able to die without an axe, Asad 2) he was stupefied/dizzied by the intoxication/hangover of customs and rules

Notes: sar-gashtah [= sar-gardaa;N] : 'The head whirling round,' dizzy, vertiginous; stupefied, bewildered, confounded, amazed, astonished; wandering, straying; distressed, humbled, depressed'. (Platts p.910) ;xumaar : 'Intoxication; the effects of intoxication, pain and headache, &c. occasioned by drinking, crapulence, crop-sickness; headache or sickness (arising from want of sleep, &c.); languor'. (Platts p.493)

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Nazm: It's a taunt against Kohkan for being so bound to custom and rule, which is contrary to madness and freedom.... If the intoxication of passion had been perfect, he would have died without smashing open his head. (3-4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, hearing of the death of Shirin, he ought to have heaved a sigh and passed out of this life. But he wasn't able to do this. (12)

Bekhud Mohani: In order to show the bondage to customs and rules as contemptible, he has selected the word 'intoxication', and before it he has said 'stupefied'. (7)

FWP: Upon hearing of Shirin's death, Farhad smashed in his head with his own axe. Thus the literal meaning of sargashtah forms a nice resonance: he smashed in his head because his head was spinning. Usually intoxication is the lover's state; here, it is a miasma of conventions and externals that fogs the lover's brain so badly that he is reduced to using a conventional and external tool like an axe. Even more perfectly, the ;xumaar can be a sort of hangover (see definition above), something left over after intoxication, something from which the lover would recover in time-- except that in this case there is no more time. For a more charitable interpretation of Farhad's prowess with an axe, see {36,8}. For further discussion of the general motif of snide remarks about earlier lovers, see {100,4}. And in {121,2}, Ghalib even offers a truly affectionate thought about Farhad.

{3,7x} ((aalam jahaa;N bah ((ar.z-e bisaa:t-e vujuud thaa juu;N .sub;h chaak-e jeb mujhe taar-o-puud thaa 1) where the world had the breadth/expanse of the carpet/spread of existence 2) like dawn, the tearing/fissure of the collar was to me a warp and woof

Notes: bisaa:t : 'Anything that is spread out; surface, expanse, expansion; carpet; bedding; chess-cloth or chess-board, dice-board; --goods, wares, &c.'. (Platts p.154) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Gyan Chand: chaak-e jeb is chaak-e garebaa;N , which is a sign of madness. In the field of the eternity-before-creation, where the whole world was waiting for the coming of the carpet/spread of existence, for me only the tearing of the collar was a garment. The way they say that with the coming of the crack/fissure of dawn, the collar of the night becomes torn, and on the horizon the whiteness of dawn becomes visible. Thus they call the dawn the 'tearing of the collar'. The gist is that even before the creation of the world I was absorbed in madness. (p.65)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} Raza p. 221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the first verse in the ghazal as Ghalib originally composed it; then come the next two verses after this one, then come the six verses from the published divan. Apparently the vision is of a primal world spread out in darkness, like a carpet or floor-spread of some kind. The 'crack' or fine white line of dawn then appears on the horizon, tearing apart this darkness, giving the world definition, opening out the prospect of light and day. For discussion of the motif of the tearing of the collar, and more examples, see {17,9}. In a similar way, the speaker's tearing open of his 'collar' (really a long narrow neck-opening) is the 'warp and woof', the basic weaving threads, of

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which the lover's own life is primally made. The act of tearing the neckopening of course destroys many threads of the very 'warp and woof' of which the kurta fabric; it makes a long narrow rip that reveals not the whiteness of dawn, but the lover's vulnerable, palpitating, much-wounded breast. The claim that this 'tearing open' is the 'weaving' of the speaker's life is of course paradoxical-- but it's still no stranger than many other aspects of the lover's existence. The wordplay between ((aalam , 'world', and jahaa;N , which besides being the relative pronoun also means 'world', is also elegant and enjoyable.

{3,9x}* ((aalam :tilism-e shahr-e ;xamoshaa;N hai sar-basar yaa mai;N ;Gariib-e kishvar-e guft-o-shunuud thaa 1) the world is an enchantment of a {'city of the silent' / cemetery} from {end to end / 'head to head'} 2) or I was alien/destitute in the country/land of speaking and hearing

Notes: shahr-e ;xaamoshaa;N : ''The city of the silent'; a cemetery'. (Platts p.738) ;Gariib : 'Foreign, alien; strange, wonderful; rare, unusual, extraordinary; -poor, destitute; meek, mild, humble, lowly; --a stranger, foreigner, an alien;-a poor man; a meek or humble person'. (Platts p.770) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Gyan Chand: For me, the world is entirely an enchantment. Nothing told me of its reality, since I was a stranger in this world. The gist is that I wasn't able to understand the language of this place. (65)

FWP: Raza p. 221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the third verse in the ghazal as Ghalib originally composed it. After this follow the six verses in the published divan, and that concludes the original ghazal. Gyan Chand's text has buud-o-nabuud , which seems a far less probable reading than Raza's, since it sacrifices the excellent wordplay; as always, I follow the latter. An enchantment [:tilism] is a magic world, a narrative concept developed to the highest possible degree in the Dastan of Amir Hamzah. An enchanted world in which no one could speak or hear, or did speak or hear, would be a fine venue for a hero to explore. But the speaker feels that either he's trapped in a cemetery, or he's an 'alien' or 'destitute'-- no matter what the explanation, he's the one who's alone and miserable. Needless to say, without the wordplay of 'city of the silent' for 'cemetery', this verse wouldn't have a leg to stand on. While we're mentioning body parts, 'head to head' is a great touch, in a verse based on speech and hearing.

{3,10x} tangii rafiiq-e rah thii ((adam yaa vujuud thaa meraa safar bah :taali((-e chashm-e ;hasuud thaa 1) narrowness was a companion of the road, whether it was nonexistence or existence 2) my journey was with the rising/star/fortune of a jealous eye

Notes: :taali(( : 'Rising, appearing (as the sun), arising; --s.m. Star, destiny, fate, lot, fortune; prosperity; --the (false) dawn'. (Platts p.750)

Gyan Chand: :taali(( : a doer of :tuluu(( . In astrologers' terminology, the constellation that would show on the horizon at birth, or at the time of asking [some question].

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Ghalib here ought to have written :tuluu(( , but through the coercion of the meter he composed it as :taali(( . The narrowness of the jealous eye is well known. His destiny, or presiding constellation, too will be narrow. Whether I remained in nonexistence or in existence, narrowness stayed with me-- as if I was traveling inside a jealous eye. The meaning of 'narrowness' is 'to be narrow'-- that is, anxiety. (66)

FWP: EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3} Raza p. 221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This verse begins a different, ham-:tar;h ghazal from the same year, but there's no reason not to include it, for comparison purposes, along with the present ghazal. This and the following four verses constitute this second complete, unpublished ghazal. A jealous eye is of course proverbially narrow; for another example, see {3,1}. The idea that the speaker's journey was always accompanied by the :taali(( of a jealous eye lets us know that his fortune was always 'narrow', grim, inadequate, grudging, rather than being wide or open like a smile. In fact, this 'narrowness' followed him around everywhere, and was always his companion on the road. Even more enjoyably, the term :taali(( reminds us of the astrological sense in which one's fate is governed by the 'rising' of a star (from which the sense of fate or fortune is an extension). The round eyeball (like a star) of a jealous watcher would be 'rising' in the sense that it would be low on the horizon, that it would be in the ascendant (with its power increasing), and that it would follow the wretched speaker 'narrowly' wherever he went, even apparently on his journey into nonexistence.

{3,11x} tuu yak-jahaa;N qumaash-e havas jam((a kar kih mai;N ;hairat-mataa((-e ((aalam-a nuq.saan-o-suud thaa 1) collect a whole world's worth of the {odds-and-ends / bric-a-brac} of desire; for I 2a) was an amazement-merchandise-trader at the world/condition of loss/harm and profit/benefit 2b) was an amazement-merchandise-item of the world/condition of loss/harm and profit/benefit

Notes: qumaash : 'What is collected hence and thence, anything picked up here and there; trifles, things of no value; household furniture; merchandize, goods, stuff; silken cloth; fine linen; close or thick texture (in cloth, paper, &c.); -breeding, manners'. (Platts p.795) ;hairat : 'Perturbation and stupor (of mind), astonishment, amazement, consternation'. (Platts p.482) mataa(( : 'Merchandise; goods, chattels, furniture; clothes, effects; utensils; valuables'. (Platts p.990)

Gyan Chand: ;hairat-mataa(( is that person whose property/goods would be only amazement; that is, 'amazed'. Oh addressee! you alone must collect, with desire, the wealth and property of the world. I, having seen the business of the world of profit and loss, remained absorbed in amazement. Because ultimately all this property will take its leave, and there will be nothing but loss/harm. (66)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT COMMERCE: {3,3}

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Raza p. 221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the second verse of a different, ham-:tar;h ghazal from the same year. The grammar of the second line is certainly awkward. Gyan Chand's suggestion doesn't feel very comfortable, but I can't come up with any other way to read it. But if we once grant that ;hairat-mataa(( must be read as a compound, a number of doors open. For one thing, why must it mean a person whose merchandise or property consists of amazement, as in (2a)? It could equally well-- and grammatically speaking, even better-- mean an item of merchandise characterized somehow by the quality of amazement (2b). Then that second reading also connects elegantly with the first line: the speaker in effect urges the addressee to buy him at a flea market! The world of profit and loss contains what might be called a loss-leader: an unusual item of bric-a-brac that epitomizes or evokes 'amazement'. You, the addressee, can get it cheap, so why not take advantage of the chance, and stock up? And is what you're stocking up with the 'odds and ends of desire' meaning odds and ends that themselves contain or epitomize (the speaker's?) desire? Or are they odds and ends that are necessary for the creation or expression of desire? Or are they odds and ends for which you, the addressee, have at least some desire? That, after all, might be why you're willing to stock up on them. The i.zaafat works its magic very powerfully in this verse. On the yak-jahaa;N construction, see {11,1}.

{3,13x}* puuchhaa thaa garchih yaar ne a;hvaal-e dil magar kis ko dimaa;G-e minnat-e guft-o-shunuud thaa 1) although the beloved had asked the state of the heart, but 2) who had a mind/taste/nose for obligation/supplication to speech and hearing?

Notes: dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance; intoxication; high spirits (produced by stimulants, esp. by drinking bhang, &c.; --the organ of smell'. (Platts p.526) minnat : 'Kindness or service done (to); favour, obligation; --grace, courtesy; --entreaty, humble and earnest supplication; --grateful thanks, praise'. (Platts p.1070)

Gyan Chand: Although the beloved asked about the state of our heart, it wasn't in my power to accept kindness/favor from speech/conversation. Therefore I said nothing to her. (67)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Raza p. 221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the fourth verse of a different, ham-:tar;h ghazal from the same year. The beloved is obviously willing to rely on the usual communicative means, since she asks a question, and expects to hear an answer. But the lover has extraordinary scruples, or diffidence, or visions of radical autonomy: he can't stand to be indebted or obliged or a supplicant before 'speech and hearing'-he has no 'mind' for it. (And of course, with amusing wordplay, he has no 'nose' for acts that involve the 'mouth' and 'ears'.) His radical autonomy apparently deprives him of the chance to communicate with the beloved-- a contretemps that seems to happen fairly often (see {115,7} for another example.) Another verse with clever wordplay on dimaa;G : {21,7}.

{3,14x}

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;xvur shabnam-aashnaa nah hu))aa varnah mai;N asad sar-taa-qadam guzaarish-e ;zauq-e sujuud thaa 1) the sun didn't become acquainted/familiar with the dew; otherwise I, Asad, 2) from head to foot {was / would have been} a {tribute to /petition of} the relish of prostration

Notes: guzaarish : 'Payment; tribute; representation, explanation; statement; petition, request'. (Platts p.900)

Gyan Chand: If the sun would fall on the dew, then at once the dew arrives at the sun. But if the sun wouldn't show kindness at all in its direction, then the dew will remain oppressed and deprived. I too, from head to foot, wanted to do prostration in the presence of the beloved. But she never paid any attention to me at all. (67)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH ISLAMIC: {10,2} SUN: {10,5} Raza p.221. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the fifth and final verse of a different, ham-:tar;h ghazal from the same year. The two possibilities of guzaarish , 'tribute' and 'petitioni', and the two possibilities of varnah , contrafactual or simply the perfect form, make for two distinct readings: =the sun didn't invite me to such familiarity; otherwise, I would have immersed myself completely in the relish of paying tribute through prostration (the sun didn't shine on the dewdrop, otherwise it would have collapsed and then evaporated) =the sun didn't permit me such an action-- otherwise (if only things had been otherwise, if only it had done so!), I was entirely a petition for the relish of prostration (the sun didn't pay any attention to the dewdrop, and didn't heed its ardent plea to be shone on and evaporated) But there's also the very enjoyable wordplay of the speaker describing himself as 'entirely' or, literally, 'from head to foot', eager for the relish of 'prostration'-- an action which of course involves the whole body from head to foot.

Ghazal 4

7 verses (out of 5 + 11); rhyming elements: aa paayaa composed 1821; Arshi #5 {4,1}* kahte ho nah de;Nge ham dil agar pa;Raa paayaa dil kahaa;N kih gum kiije ham ne mudda((aa paayaa 1) you say, 'we won't give back the heart if we find it lying somewhere' 2a) where is the heart, that it would be lost? We found out [your] object 2b) where is the heart, that it would be lost? We attained/'found' [our] object

Notes: mudda((aa : 'Desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift; -object of search'. (Platts p.1015) kiije is an archaic form of the passive; GRAMMAR.

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Nazm: That is, your expression is saying: if we find your heart lying somewhere, then we won't give it back. Here, there's no heart at all that we might lose and that you might find lying somewhere. But from this attachment/intimacy we understood that the heart is in your custody alone. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Indeed, hearing this, I've understood your meaning: that is, you yourself have stolen my heart. (12)

Bekhud Mohani: Indeed, when you said that, I found the reward I had asked for: that you too pay attention to me, and value my heart. (7)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KAHAN; OPPOSITES LOSING/FINDING {4,6} Ghalib originally composed one ghazal of five verses, and another of eleven verses (Raza p. 222), from which he selected the seven verses (Hamid p. 3) that he combined into a new ghazal and included in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The two Bekhuds explicate (2a) and (2b) respectively. The Urdu is carefully ambiguous, and Ghalib surely intended both. For another such play on paanaa , see {153,6}. dil kahaa;N kih gum kiije is a wonderful question. 'Where is the heart, that we could lose it?' is the obvious meaning, but it also contains 'Where is the heart?'-- which of course is just what you'd say if you did lose your heart. Or you might say, 'Where is the heart?' and be eagerly looking for it, specifically because you wanted to lose it [kih gum kiije]. There's also the strong rhetorical-question possibility-- as if I had a heart! How the hell would I have a heart?! It's almost insulting, as well as absurd, to think that a passionate lover might still retain a heart! And then of course by so utterly not having a heart that you can't even lose it, you claim to have found or attained your goal. For another ambiguous use of mudda((aa paayaa , see {4,15x}.

{4,2} ((ishq se :tabii((at ne ziist kaa mazaa paayaa dard kii davaa paa))ii dard-e be-davaa paayaa 1) through passion, the temperament found the relish of life 2) it found a cure for pain, it found a pain without cure

Notes: Nazm: That is, for me life was a single pain: passion became its cure, and it itself is an incurable pain. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The style of expression [in the second line]-- upon whom, except for Mirza Sahib, has such extreme excellence been bestowed? (13)

Josh: As if the pain without cure made our passionless life enjoyable, and this very pain without cure proved to be a cure for that former pain. (52)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION; TRANSLATABLES A lovely achievement, wry and amused and relishing its game of paradox. Although Nazm (followed by other commentators who echo his approach) unhesitatingly assumes that the verse is first-personal, there's nothing in the grammar to make it so.

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It's also a lovely verse for mushairah performance-- the first line sets up a cheerful, optimistic assertion: passion provides the 'pleasure' or 'relish' of life. Then after a suitably suspenseful delay (under mushairah performance conditions), the second line starts out by supporting the affirmative first line: passion is, or brings, a cure for (other, ordinary kinds of) pain. Only at the last possible minute do we get the final, balancing assertion: passion itself is, or brings, a pain without cure-- and the 'punch'-word, be-davaa , is withheld until the last possible moment. The i.zaafat in the second line is optional, but I can't manage to persuade myself that if we remove it the resulting meaning ('it found a cure for pain, it found that the pain was without cure') is a real addition to the verse. The second line is also so full of non-connectors that I've always used it to encourage students who are learning the script. In fact I put it on my famous Urdu tshirts. For a parallel to the second line see {4,5}. Also, note that this verse constitutes a second, supererogatory opening-verse for the ghazal. As a rule, this kind of display is just a flourish of virtuosity on the part of the poet. In this case, Ghalib grafted the opening-verse of one ghazal onto the first half (including the opening-verse) of another ghazal, to make the version he chose to publish in his divan. Note for meter fans: The spelling of mazah as mazaa is to accommodate the rhyme. Such changes are permissible liberties that occur occasionally when it's convenient for the poet. In this ghazal, the same liberty, with the same word, is taken again in {4,7}.

{4,3}* dost-daar-e dushman hai i((timaad-e dil ma((luum aah be-a;sar dekhii naalah naa-rasaa paayaa 1) it's an ally/friend of the enemy-- the trustworthiness of the heart is 'known'! 2) I saw sighing [to be] ineffective, I found lamentation vain

Notes: Nazm: That is, in a sigh there's no effect, in a lament there's no access [rasaa))ii]. There's no trusting the heart, for it's a friend of the enemy. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here 'enemy' means the beloved.... [In the second line] he's given a fine proof [;subuut] of the enmity of the heart. (13)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, it [=the heart] itself doesn't wish for the beloved to be restless, or the Rival to writhe. The enemy's friend is an enemy too. (8)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY verses: {4,3}; {42,4}; {43,7}; {53,4}; {53,10}; {64,4}; {97,6}; {120,2}; {126,8}; {139,3}; {148,4}; {195,1}; {201,3} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} dostdaar-e dushman is such a great phrase to say, combining alliteration (those heavy repetitions of daal, echoed in i((timaad-e dil ) with wordplay ('friend' and 'enemy'). And naalah naa-rasaa paayaa with all those long aa sounds, surely suggests a sigh, the aah . This colloquial use of ma((luum as a vigorous negative exclamatory marker is very common; see the grammar page for more examples. The second line purports to give a 'proof' for the claim in the first line about the untrustworthiness of the heart. Yet if considered carefully, this evidence only proves the coldheartedness or inaccessibility of the beloved, not the unfaithfulness of the lover's own heart. As so often in the ghazal, the lover would rather castigate himself, even to an implausible degree, than say anything reproachful about the beloved. If his

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sighs and laments receive no response, the fault is surely not the beloved's, but that of his own traitorous heart, which treacherously takes the beloved enemy's side and refuses to be (sufficiently? effectively?) importunate. Or: as Nishtha Singh rightly points out (Feb. 2005), the heart could be that of the beloved, and the 'enemy' the Rival or Other. On this reading, the lover is complaining that the beloved doesn't heed his sighs and laments, because she's already inwardly prejudiced in favor of another-- and of course lesser-lover.

{4,4}* saadagii-o-purkaarii be-;xvudii-o-hushyaarii ;husn ko ta;Gaaful me;N jur))at-aazmaa paayaa 1a) simplicity and cleverness, self-transcendance and awareness-- [all present at once!] 1b) [her] simplicity and cleverness, [her] self-transcendance and awareness! 1c) [my] simplicity and [her] cleverness, [my] self-transcendance and [her] awareness! 1d) [her] simplicity and [my] cleverness, [her] self-transcendance and [my] awareness! 1e) [her] simplicity and cleverness, [my] self-transcendance and awareness! 1f) 'simplicity'-- and cleverness! 'self-transcendance'-- and awareness! 2) I found beauty, in negligence/heedlessness, [to be] courage-testing

Notes: Nazm: That is, the beautiful ones' ignoring the lover, and showing ignorance of his situation, is only in order to see the lover's heart and to test his courage. In reality, it's cleverness and awareness, and outwardly it's simplicity and ignorance.

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that in order to see the lover's heart, the beloved feigns simplicity; and in reality this simplicity is special cleverness and even trickery. The placing of the words is beyond praise. (13)

Bekhud Mohani: The negligence of the beautiful ones is in order to see the lovers' hearts. That is, they want to test whether the lovers consider them naive and simple, and gather their courage for insolence. When it's thus, then how is it simplicity? It's awareness! (8)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS TESTING verses == {4,4}; {4,9x}; {4,16x}; {25,4} The commentators seem not to notice the amazingly complex interpretive possibilities for the first line. By giving us four abstract qualities, devoid of verbs, connected as simply as possible (A and B, C and D), Ghalib invites-and by his indecideability also compels-- a multitude of readings. For after all, the 'and' can be a sign of genuine linking (A and B have common qualities); or of opposition and contrast (A-- and on the other hand, B); or of some kind of surprise or paradox (A-- and B!). Since none of the four qualities are specifically assigned to either the beloved or the lover, the possible mathematical permutations become remarkable. I've spelled some of them out above in my readings of the first line. (There could no doubt be more as well.) This open-ended multivalence makes the verse one of the most conspicuous 'meaning-generators' in the whole divan. Is her show of 'negligence' just a clever tactical maneuver? Or does her beauty and 'negligence' itself test my courage, so that I have to be capable and alert to endure it? And aren't those particular four words excellently selected and placed to generate multivalent, and ambivalent, meanings?

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For other examples of such versatile construction, see {71,3} and {97,10}. For an instance in which beloveds are saadah purkaar , see {108,8}.

{4,5}* ;Gunchah phir lagaa khilne aaj ham ne apnaa dil ;xuu;N kiyaa hu))aa dekhaa gum kiyaa hu))aa paayaa 1) the bud again/then began to bloom, today our heart we 2) saw [having been] turned to blood, found [having been] lost

Notes: Nazm: A lover without a heart expresses the suspicion about the bud, that this is my heart which had been lost for a long time. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is, our heart has turned to blood and dripped out on the ground by way of our eyes. It had gone, and nowhere around was there any trace of it. Today we saw that very heart, and found it again. That is, this rosebud, which in the spring season has bloomed a second time, is our heart itself, which in winter had turned to blood. For the heart the simile of 'bud' is often used. (13)

Bekhud Mohani: 1) Today my heart is turning into blood; from this I know that spring has come. 2) A lover without a heart sees a bud and expresses his suspicion: This is my heart, that had been lost for a long time. 3) Because of the coming of the spring season, my tumult of madness became fresh. 4) God knows what happened to the heart in some springtime, that when that season comes its wounds become fresh. And when the glance falls on the bud, it freshens the memory of the turned-to-blood and vanished heart. 5) Spring came and my heart turned to blood and began to be as if lost. (8)

Arshi: Compare to {164,2}. (160)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; OPPOSITES; PARALLELISM LOSING/FINDING {4,6} The second line here strongly evokes the second line of {4,2}-- dard kii davaa paa))ii dard-e be-davaa paayaa -- and will be echoed in turn in the second line of {4,6}-- ham ne baar-haa ;Dhuu;N;Dhaa tum ne baar-haa paayaa . In all three cases the line is split at the midpoint (which in this meter involves a quasi-caesura) and parallel phrases are placed on each side, involving repetition, sound echoes, and the use of an arresting and paradoxical-seeming statement. If anything, this one is the pick of the lot, because each half of the line is also paradoxical in itself. If a heart has already turned into blood and thus melted away, how can you 'see' it in this state? And gum kiyaa hu))aa paayaa works just as neatly in Urdu as 'I found it lost' does in English. For another study in lost/found subtleties, compare {153,6}. This verse is unusual in that the various relationships that are usually negotiated between the first line and the second are here negotiated between the first half of the first line, and the second half of the first line combined with one or both of the two halves of the second line. Bekhud Mohani does an excellent job of suggesting some of the wide variety of ways in which those relationships can be arranged. (In fact, Bekhud Mohani does such a lovely, imaginative, and revelatory job that I want to salute him for it, and to thank him for opening my eyes to many of these rich possibilities.)

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For example, does 'the bud again/then began to bloom' refer to my heart's being turned to blood, or to the spring season? Is the losing of the heart the same as its being turned to blood, or are these two different situations? Is there a cause and effect relationship of any kind here between the bud blooming and the fate of the heart? If there is, which is the cause and which the effect? This verse is an inherently unresolvable one, with so many possibilities generated that no definitive interpretation is possible. I'm going to call such verses 'generators' of meanings. The convenient little adverb phir can readily be used to mean either 'again' or 'then', which makes it an excellent tool for meaning-creation. For example, it is used with both possibilities in: {6,6}; {14,2}; {20,6}; {35,1}; {35,2}; {97,3}; {99,8}.

{4,6} ;haal-e dil nahii;N ma((luum lekin is qadar ya((nii ham ne baar-haa ;Dhuu;N;Dhaa tum ne baar-haa paayaa 1) the state of the heart is not known-- except to this extent, that is, 2) many times we sought it, many times you found it

Notes: Nazm: The theme of searching for and finding the heart. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we aren't informed and aware about the truth of the heart's condition-- when it went, and how it went. That is, passion is a matter of loss of control, such that one doesn't even know when it originates and how it originates. (13-14)

Josh: There doesn't seem to be any special necessity for the word ya((nii . (53)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION; TRANSLATABLES LOSING/FINDING verses: {4,1}; {4,5}; {4,6}; {4,16x}; {12,7x}; {153,6} The commentators find this verse clear, and indeed it is. It can even be called a classic verse of the 'unattainably simple' kind. But it has its own sort of subtlety too. The second line is partly natural (one could well look many times for something lost) and partly impossible-- how could the beloved keep finding the same heart over and over? Was it constantly rejected and given back to the lover, each time running off once more to be found again by the beloved? Was it a different heart each time-is it 'the heart' in the abstract sense, not just the lover's heart? Or have lover and beloved enacted their predestined relationship-- or at least their first encounter, at which the heart transaction presumably took place-- countless times? For other studies in seeking and finding, compare {4,16x} and {153,6}.

{4,7} shor-e pand-e naa.si;h ne za;xm par namak chhi;Rkaa aap se ko))ii puuchhe tum ne kyaa mazaa paayaa 1a) the outcry/uproar of the counsel of the Advisor sprinkled salt on the wound 1b) the bitter/sharp/brackish counsel of the Advisor sprinkled salt on the wound 2a) let someone ask him, What relish did you find [in tormenting me]? 2b) let someone ask him, What relish did you find [while I found so much]?

Notes:

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shor : 'Cry, noise, outcry, exclamation, din, clamour, uproar, tumult, disturbance'; as an adjective, 'disturbed, mad; salt, brackish; very bitter; unlucky'. (Platts p.736) aap is a polite form for 'you' (literally, the 'self'), which here is used out of courtesy to mean 'him'; and tum is of course the familiar form of 'you'. mazah is here spelled mazaa to fit into the rhyme.

Nazm: aap refers to the Advisor, and gives an air of respect; and the purpose is reproach. And relish and bitterness are among the qualities suitable to salt. (4)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the Advisor's inappropriate advice sprinkled salt on the wound, the pleasure of which the heart alone is receiving. Let someone ask him-- that is, Hazrat the Advisor-- what pleasure he received. (14)

Bekhud Mohani: In the second line first he says [the polite] aap, then [the familiar] tum. The word aap is not only for ostentation; rather, its point is perhaps that he considers the Advisor worthy of respect, so that he considers it disrespectful for him himself to ask, so he says to others, you ask. Or else he fears that his heart is sore and that at the time of asking he might not be able to maintain respect before the Advisor, and the matter might escalate for no reason. (9)

FWP: Faruqi says, 'The verse can also be read with the invented compound shorpand , meaning sharp, pungent, alkaline advice. This is in fact a better reading, because it becomes more versatile' (July 2000). I've suggested this excellent possibility as (1b). It also provides a direct source for the salt that is sprinkled on the wound, since the advice itself is 'salty' (see the definition above). The question asked of the Advisor is usually read as expressing scarcely veiled resentment (2a). But consider {17,7}, in which the lover's wounds revel in salt. So perhaps the question is a solicitous one (2b): your salt/advice-sprinkling was great for me, but could you find any relish in it? ('Was it good for you too?')

{4,8x}* hai kahaa;N tamannaa kaa duusraa qadam yaa rab ham ne dasht-e imkaa;N ko ek naqsh-e paa paayaa 1) where is the second step of longing, oh Lord? 2) we found the desert of possibility [to be] one footprint

Notes: imkaa;N : 'Possibility, practicability; power; contingent existence (in contrast to vujuub or necessary existence)'. (Platts p.82)

Gyan Chand: This verse causes me to remember the dwarf [vaaman] avatar from Hindu mythology. In order to embarrass some king, he [=Vishnu] came in the guise of a Brahmin, and asked him for three paces' worth of land on which to build a hut. The king agreed. In one footstep, the dwarf encompassed the whole world; in the second, the underworld [paataal]. No space at all was left for the third footstep. Ghalib says, how can the breadth of our longing be described! The whole world, and all its possibilities, are only one footprint. Where has our longing even placed a second footstep? Where is there even scope for it? (67)

Naim:

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The world is commonly referred to as the 'world of possibilities,' ((aalam-e imkaa;N . The poet has used dasht in the place of ((aalam ('world, universe,' or 'state, condition'), which conveys the poet's subjective atititude towards this world, which is vast and yet barren and unattractive for him. The craving within the human heart is boundless; it is always reaching out for newer horizons. In face of it this world of myriad charms and endless possibilities seems only lacklustre, a wilderness, and its vastness only the extent of one footstep. The poet's passion demands vaster regions. The world is only one footprint, i.e., it indicates only that someone has been here. But that person's journey didn't end here, he has gone forward leaving his footprint behind, only one print. The world is considered to have been brought into existence by God because of a desire on His part to manifest Himself and to look at Himself. But this manifestation is still much less in magnitude to God's glory. God's desire did not find total fulfilment of expression here. Many more worlds are still behind the veil. Even the present world is constantly going through changes. (1970, 26-27)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the second verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,1}. It's astonishing that this marvelous early verse was treated by Ghalib as a stepchild and left unpublished throughout his lifetime! And it's far from alone in that melancholy distinction. On this website I'm trying to provide a small measure of redemption: when (1) published ghazals have unpublished verses, and when (2) these verses are singled out by Faruqi in his selection, then I include them. We've already seen examples of this inclusiveness in {3}; but I've chosen the present verse to be the locus classicus for more general discussion. Another unpublished verse is discussed by Naim in {22,2}; another by Mihr in {92,7}; others by Faruqi in {98,10}; {111,9}; {112,9}; {119,9}; {120,1}; {217,2}. One more is quoted by Ghalib himself in a letter: {155,3}; I cite another when discussing {219,1}. These verses are well-known from reliable manuscript sources, and it is almost impossible to imagine why Ghalib chose not to include them in any of the four published editions of his divan that he oversaw in his lifetime. For an example of some verses that Ghalib clearly wanted to have included but that late in his life remained unpublished, see {216,1}. Look at the forceful internal rhyme of paa paayaa , with its emphasis and sense of impatience. And what a phrase is dasht-e imkaa;N , 'desert of possibility'! Is it a 'desert' because it is full of redundant, useless, alreadyexplored possibilities? Or is it a 'desert' of possibility in the sense that there is no possibility there? Or is it a 'desert' because we already know, even before exploring them, that every in this world possible possibility is finite, trivial, worthless, unhelpful? (Just the kind of questions, in fact, that we might ask about a 'desertful' of roses.) When C. M. Naim, my teacher, started the Annual of Urdu Studies, he chose this verse as the sole adornment of the cover of every single issue. I think it was worthy of the honor. And now

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since I find he has included it in his brief commentary also, that should suffice to give it a bit of space here, as a small sample of the riches that, for whatever reasons, Ghalib didn't choose to share with us. Just for pleasure and nostalgia, here's what the covers looked like:

{4,9x} be-dimaa;G-e ;xajlat huu;N rashk-e imti;haa;N taa ke ek be-kasii tujh ko ((aalam-aashnaa paayaa 1) I am irritable/impatient/disaffected from/with shame; {whither / to what end} an envy/jealousy of/for testing? 2) a single/sole friendlessness/helplessness/forlornness-- I found you world{familiar/acquainted}!

Notes: be-dimaa;G : 'Ill-tempered, irritable, impatient, easily provoked'. (Platts p.202) taa kih : 'So that, in order that, to the end that; as long as, until, so long; -whither?'. (Platts p.303) be-kasii : 'Forlorn state, friendlessness, destitution'. (Platts p.203)

Gyan Chand: 'You' refers not to the 'friendlessness', but rather to the beloved. The state [((aalam] of friendlessness is upon me, because I found you to be 'worldfamiliar'-- that is, you mix with everyone, you consider everyone to be a lover of the same rank, you test everyone. How long will I envy/covet this test? I am ashamed that you are free and easy [harjaa))ii] to this extent, and this shame has made me temperamental and vexed/sullen. (67-68)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT TESTING: {4,4} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the third verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,1}. The first line of this verse is a tribute to the versatility of the i.zaafat construction. Here are some of the ways in which the first half can be read: =I am irritated by the shame I feel when I see such easy, widely available 'testing' =I am irritated by the shame I feel at your all-too-promiscuous behavior =I am irritated at the prospect of having to endure (any further) shame And the second half: =how long will I go on seeking to be tested? =why would I feel envy/jealousy of those who are being tested? =why would anyone feel any desire to be tested? Then the grammar of the second line is left a bit rough, which gives it an exclamatory feeling. A contrast is being made between ek be-kasii and the rest of the line, but what kind of contrast is it exactly? Here are some possibilities: =it's a great friendlessness, that you have so appallingly many friends =it's one great sense of helplessness, that you are so terribly available to a whole world of people =it's a great forlornness, that you are so appallingly sociable and un-forlorn In short, the mix-and-match possibilities are unusually rich, even by Ghalibian standards. But the general tone is certainly grouchy and cross; perhaps the lover is muttering under his breath. Certainly he'd greatly prefer that the beloved be extremely inaccessible-- to his as well as to others--

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rather than so readily accessible. Compare {112,3}, another meditation on this 'difficult' situation of 'easy' access to her. Note for meter fans: taa ke is a special spelling of taakih that's designed to permit the final syllable to be long, to accommodate the meter.

{4,10x} ;xaak-baazii-e ummiid kaar-xaanah-e :tiflii yaas ko do-((aalam se lab bah ;xandah vaa paayaa 1) the 'dust-game' of hope-- a workshop/business of childishness/childhood 2) [it/I] found despair [to be] open/cheerful, with a smiling/laughing lip, by means of the two worlds

Notes: kaar-;xaanah : 'A workshop, factory, manufactory; an arsenal; a dockyard; a laboratory; any place where public works are carried on; an office; a great work; a business, concern; way of action, procedure'. (Platts p.799) vaa honaa : 'To be or become open; to open; to be freed or liberated; to be relieved of sorrow, to become cheerful'. (Platts p.1171)

Gyan Chand: ;xaak-baazii is for children to play in the dust, or a game like chausar [nard] or chess.... These are pastimes of childhood, in which there's no stability. By contrast, he has seen Despair conversing, with a smile, with the dwellers in both words. This smile is really a smile of mockery. That is, in the world hope is unstable and despair well-grown. (68)

FWP: Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the fourth verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,1}. Hope is a childish game, like building castles in the sand or dust (not to speak of castles in the air). Thanks to the flexibility of the i.zaafat , it can be a game 'of' childishness in one of several senses: a game that's identical with childishness (or childhood); a game that results in childishness; or a game that pertains or belongs to childishness (or childhood). By contrast, despair has been found (by the speaker, presumably) to be 'cheerful' or 'free' or, literally, 'open'. The idea that despair is cheerful is a remarkable one in itself, but it's overshadowed by the spectacular wordplay. For despair is 'open' in a special sense: it is 'smiling' or 'laughing', in a mood associated both with good cheer and with 'open' lips or mouth. And indeed, it's displaying a smiling or laughing 'lip' or lips, and the smile is shaped through or with or by means of [se] the 'two worlds'. How can we not think of two lips? Two lips are needed for a smile or laugh, and Indo-Muslim culture certainly knows of two worlds (the present world and the world to come; the worldly world and the religious world). Since those two worlds are presented as a symmetrical pair, why should they not be seen, or behave, as 'lips'? Thus we have the strange, ominous idea that despair 'laughs/smiles' through 'two-world lips'. Despair is obviously vast and cosmically powerful, the very opposite of poor hope with its childish dust-castles. In fact it seems quite possible that despair is smiling or laughing at the futile but touching enterprise of hope. Is it laughing in a sympathetic, rueful, understanding way? Or is it laughing coldly and cynically, with the blackness of the void opening between its two 'lips'? I can't help but think of Chapter XI of the Bhagavad Gita, in which Krishna shows himself to Arjuna as kaalaanala , the fire of time-- with warriors rushing to enter his jaws, and some of them sticking, with their heads crushed, in the spaces between his teeth. The

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vision of despair with a smile-- perhaps even a friendly, 'open' smile-- on its 'two-world lips' is at least as frightening.

{4,11x} kyuu;N nah va;hshat-e ;Gaalib baaj-;xvaah-e taskii;N ho kushtah-e ta;Gaaful ko ;xa.sm-e ;xuu;N-bahaa paayaa 1) why wouldn't the wildness/madness of Ghalib be a {tax/toll}-receiver of peace/tranquility? 2) [they(?)] found the one slain by negligence/heedlessness [to be] an enemy of the 'blood-price'

Notes: va;hshat : 'Loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; -wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism; --timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror; --distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) taskii;N : 'Calming, stilling, tranquillizing, appeasing, soothing, allaying, assuaging; consolation, comfort, mitigation, rest, assurance, peace (of mind)'. (Platts p.323) baaj : 'Tribute, tax, toll, duty, impost, cess'. (Platts p.118) ta;Gaaful : 'Unmindfulness, heedlessness, forgetfulness, neglect, negligence, inattention, inadvertence, indifference, listlessness'. (Platts p.328)

Gyan Chand: A baaj-;xvaah is that individual who would receive taxes from zamindars or highway guards [raah-daar] or merchants of the bazaar, and would convey them into the royal treasury.... One who is dying from the beloved's negligence considers death to be the end of longing. Therefore he doesn't demand the 'blood-price' from the beloved. Then after dying, why wouldn't wildness/madness attain peace? Or again, there can be this related meaning, that Ghalib saw that the one dying from the beloved's negligence was an enemy of the 'blood-price'. Which would mean that to die from negligence would be some greatly pleasing thing. Thus his wildness/madness has attained peace: if we too would be compelled to die through negligence, then it will be no loss. (68)

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the fifth and last verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,1}. The 'blood-price' was a payment traditionally exacted from a murder (or the murderer's family or clan), to satisfy the claim of the victim's family or clan, and remove the right or duty of killing the murderer to avenge the victim's death. For other examples of 'blood-price' verses, see {21,9}. Obviously, the beloved's guilt for 'murder by negligence' is a special case. The one who has been slain that way apparently still has opinions, and is able to make them known, for he has been found to be an 'enemy of the blood-price'. Thus this verse is one of the group in which the dead lover still somehow speaks from beyond the grave; for more examples, see {57,1}. Why is he an 'enemy of the blood-price'? As so often, we're left to decide for ourselves. Perhaps because he's grateful to the beloved for putting him out of his misery, and thus doesn't want to see her punished? Perhaps because he doesn't think 'negligence' really constitutes murder? Or perhaps because he doesn't want his requital in money, but in something else more desirable? Perhaps he'd rather take it out in trade, in the form of peace, tranquility, a promise of serene, soothing vibrations from the

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beloved? This idea is the one that connects to, and retrospectively enables us to understand, the first line. For the dead lover's claim for 'peace waves' rather than a 'blood-price' gives not (the poetic persona) 'Ghalib' himself, but Ghalib's 'madness', an idea. Why shouldn't he become the middleman, the tax-collector, and receive these waves of tranquility himself? After collecting this tax or toll, he would naturally keep a small share for himself, and then pass it on to the designated recipient. He would thus have an excuse to approach the beloved, and even to get his own cut of the beloved's peace waves. Alternatively, we could say that Ghalib himself was the murdered lover who was, in his madness, demanding the 'peace waves' in lieu of 'blood-price', and actually seeking to collect them himself.

{4,12x} fikr-e naalah me;N goyaa ;halqah huu;N z sar taa paa ((u.zv ((u.zv juu;N zanjiir yak-dil-e .sadaa paayaa 1) In the thought/anxiety of lamentation, I am, {speaking / 'so to speak'}, a circle/link from head to foot 2) every limb, like a chain/fetter, I found [to be] {unanimous / 'singlehearted'} of voice/sound

Notes: z is short for az , to accommodate the meter. ((u.zv : 'A limb, member, joint, organ (of the body)'. (Platts p.762) .sadaa : 'Echo; sound, noise; voice, tone, cry, call'. (Platts p.743)

Gyan Chand: To be yak-dil is to be agreed. All the links of a chain come together and make noise. All the limbs of my body too become 'single-hearted' and make a voice/sound [aavaaz]. As if [goyaa] I am, in the thought/anxiety of lamentation, from my head to my feet a link of a chain. (69)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY BONDAGE: {1,5} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the seventh verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,2}. This is consummately a verse of wordplay. There are body parts: 'head to foot', 'limb', 'limb', 'heart'; the final paayaa also contains another 'foot' [paa]. There's also the expressive interplay of 'thought', 'lamentation' (which involves both thought and speaking), 'speaking', and 'voice'. On the subtleties of goyaa , see {5,1}. The speaker is 'bent out of shape' (sorry, sorry) by melancholy; he is contorted, 'from head to foot' into a 'circle' or 'link'. In addition, each limb is like a link (of a chain). Thus his limbs clank and clash together, making a sound of lamentation. They are all unanimous in making the sound, and/or they all make exactly the same sound. Is it a 'voice', as if they were expressing a human lament, or is it just a 'sound', like a groan? The verse leaves it up to us to decide.

{4,13x} shab na:zaarah-parvar thaa ;xvaab me;N ;xiraam us kaa .sub;h maujah-e gul ko naqsh-e boriyaa paayaa 1a) at night, her gait/walk was, in a dream, a protector/cherisher of sight 1b) at night, her gait/walk was, in a dream, protected/cherished by sight 2a) at dawn, I found the wave of the rose [to be] the image/picture/print of a straw-mat

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2b) at dawn, I found the image/picture/print of the straw-mat [to be] a wave of the rose

Notes: na:zaarah : 'Sight, view, look, show; inspection; --amorous glance, ogling'. (Platts p.1142) parvar : 'Nourisher, cherisher, supporter, protector, patron; nourished, cherished, reared, brought up, educated'. (Platts p.256) naqsh : 'Painting; colouring; drawing; designing, &c.; --delineation; -embroidery; --a painting, a picture; portrait; drawing; a print; a carving, an engraving; a map, or plan (com. naqshah ); a design; --an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Plats p.1145) boriyaa : 'A mat made of palm leaves'. (Platts p.175)

Gyan Chand: At night I saw in a dream the sight of her spirit-protecting gait. At dawn, I rose and looked at the wave of flowers in the flower-bed. By comparison, it looked so pallid/colorless [phiikii], as if it would be the image of a palm-mat. Asi and Sandelvi have written that at dawn we found the image of our palmmat to be a wave of roses-- although in the verse this has not been said. Sandelvi has also raised one more matter: that at night in a dream whatever wave of roses there was, when the eyes opened there was nothing but an image of my palm-mat. But the true meaning is the one that I have noted at the beginning. (69)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY DREAMS: {3,3} NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the eighth verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,2}. In the first line, the ambiguity between the active and passive senses of parvar opens two possible readings: in my dream, her gait was either a 'protector of' sight (in that it kept the sight happy and esthetically satisfied and attuned to beauty even in dreams) (1a), or 'protected by' sight (in that the sight refused to let go of the vision of her gait, and continued to savor it in dreams too) (1b). As usual, both readings set us up elegantly for the second line. The second line is a piquant example of what I call 'transitivity'. 'I found A [to be] B' is, in principle, a special case of 'A is B', which in Urdu can equally well be read as 'B is A'. The question in this case is what, if any, difference the ko makes. Gyan Chand maintains that the postposition restricts us to 'I found A [to be] B', with no transitivity; but he notes with some irritation that two other commentators disagree, and offer the reading 'I found B [to be] A'. To me it seems that Gyan Chand's reading (2a) is the first one that occurs, but I'm inclined to accept the other one also as a secondary possibility (2b). I'll think about this further, and consult with others. Like a true mushairah verse, this one withholds its punchy effect until the last possible moment, and then gives us the plebeian, humble, flat, motionless little 'palm-mat'. The contrast between it and the graceful, swaying 'wave of the rose' as it ripples in the breeze (and thus recalls, even if by contrast, the beloved's gait) could hardly be clearer-- and yet the two are also related, even if only as opposites. Here are some of the possibilities: =when I awoke I found the 'wave of the rose' to be so inferior to my dream of her gait, that it seemed to be a humble flat little 'palm-mat' by comparison (2a)

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=when I awoke I found that my vision of her gait that was like the 'wave of the rose' had been nothing but an evanescent dream, and what I really had before my eyes was just the humble 'palm-mat' on which I'd been sleeping (2a) =when I awoke I found myself still under the spell of the vision of her gait, so that through its influence the humble 'palm-mat' on which I'd been sleeping seemed to me to be a 'wave of the rose' (2b) Still more possibilities arise if we read naqsh as 'stamp' or 'impression' or 'print'. Then, thanks to the power of the i.zaafat , the naqsh-e boriyaa can be an impression flattened into the palm-mat. By the body of the sleeper? Perhaps the dream of her rose-wave gait is so real that it might be almost that she, or it, tramples me into the ground, leaving an impression on my palmmat. By her dream-gait itself? Perhaps her rose-wave dream-gait has left a wonderfully real trace (or, alas, only a trace) on the palm-mat beside the sleeper's charpai. For more verses about the straw mat, see {26,5}.

{4,14x} jis qadar jigar ;xuu;N ho kuuchah-daadan-e gul hai za;xm-e te;G-e qaatil ko ;turfah dil-kushaa paayaa 1) to the extent to which the liver would be blood, it is a road-giver of/to the rose 2) I found the wound of the murderer's/murderous sword [to be] wondrously {exhilarating / 'heart-opening'}

Notes: :turfah : 'Novel, rare, strange, extraordinary, wonderful; --a pleasing rarity; a novelty, a strange thing, a wonder'. (Platts p.752) dil-kushaa : 'Heart-expanding, blissful, delightful, charming, exhilarating'. (Platts p.523)

Gyan Chand: In a verse Ghalib has said: {209,4}. The literal meaning of dil-kushaa is 'heart-opening', and in the idiom, 'making the heart happy'. For Ghalib, however wide/'opened' the wound would be, the heart is that much happy. In the verse under discussion the murderer's sword has made a wound in the liver. For Ghalib, for the liver to be blood is to assemble the ground for the blooming of flowers. The similitude of blood is with the color of the rose; thus to Ghalib the wound of the sword is very heart-pleasing. (69-70)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH JIGAR: {2,1} SWORD: {1,3} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the ninth verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,2}. The liver may be converted into blood by the lover's own suffering, as in the idiom 'to torment oneself, distress oneself' [jigar kaa ;xuu;N piinaa] . Here, however, the liver is apparently slashed open by a sword, and that too is a proper part of the lover's passion: it 'opens a road' of 'rose'. The rose of course is blood-red, so that the flowing of fresh blood may seem to create something like a channel or 'road' for 'rosiness' or 'the rose'. And the rose is also of course a well-established image of the beloved, so that the flow of liver-blood may facilitate her access to the lover's inmost depths. The sword that makes this slash may, thanks to the powers of the i.zaafat , be a 'sword of the murderer' (who is presumably the beloved herself); or it may

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be a 'sword which is a murderer'-- a weapon that is 'murderous' and deadly in its killing power, and/or a semi-personified one that actually desires the lover's death the way a real murderer would. But above all, this is a mushairah-verse. The first line is so broad in its possibilities that we can't really tell from it where the verse is going. Then in the second line, no real interpretation is possible until the last possible moment, when we get that excellent rhyme-word dil-kushaa , with its witty complexities: =it establishes the metaphorical 'exhilaration' or 'happiness' felt by the lover when the sword-stroke opens such a desirable rose-road inside him =it establishes the physical effects of the sword-stroke, which literally (and not just metaphorically) 'opens' the liver; on this see {209,4} =it introduces the 'heart' [dil], which is the more restless, high-maintenance companion of the liver. But why would what seems to be a wound in the liver, also be imagined as 'heart-opening'? Ghalib himself has given the perfect reason: for the answer, and much discussion, see {30,2}.

{4,15x} hai nagii;N kii paa-daarii naam-e .saa;hib-e ;xaanah ham se tere kuuche ne naqsh-e mudda((aa paayaa 1a) the name/honor/renown of the lord/possessor of the house is [from] the establishedness of the {signet/sealing}-ring 1b) the establishedness of the {signet/sealing}-ring is [from] the name/honor/renown of the lord/possessor of the house 2) through us, your street found the claimed/desired stamp/mark/impression

Notes: nagii;N : 'A precious stone; --a precious stone set in a ring; --a ring, (esp.) a signet-ring; --what fits or sits well'. (Platts p.1152) paa-daarii is here used for paa))edaarii , 'Durability, permanence'. (Platts p.222) naam : 'Name, appellation, designation, title; --good name, repute, reputation, character, fame, honour, renown'. (Platts p.1117) naqsh : 'A print; a carving, an engraving; a map, or plan (com. naqshah ); a design; --an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Plats p.1145) mudda((aa : 'Asserted as a claim, claimed, sued for; alleged; pretended; meant; --what is claimed, or alleged, or pretended, or meant; desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift'. (Platts p.1015)

Gyan Chand: nagii;N is the stone of a ring, on which a name is habitually inscribed, and which is used for the purpose of a seal.... The esteem given to a signet-ring is derived from the esteem of the owner of the seal. We constantly lie fallen in your street, through which we've become the 'lord of the house' of that street. Apart from us, nobody else was even present in that street. In this way your street, from our residence, obtained its goal, and people began to call the street by our name. (70)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}. This is the tenth verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,2}. The 'establishedness'-- not just durability, but also acceptedness, respectedness, venerability, validity, esteem-- of a signet-ring or seal depends on the name of the owner of the 'house' or estate that includes the ring (1b). And, reading the line in reverse as we equally well can and should:

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the 'name' and honor and prestige of the owner of the 'house' or estate that includes the signet-ring depends on the 'establishedness' (in all the above senses) of the signet-ring or seal itself (1a). In short, (1b) says the signet-ring won't be respected unless its owner is; and (1a) says the owner won't be respected unless his/her signet-ring is. The grammar itself might suggest that the order of these two above readings might be reversed, but I want to show the more relevant of them first. In any casey, both these highly abstract pieces of general information are bestowed on us by the first line. Needless to say, they give us not a clue as to where the verse is going. The second line, as so often, starts afresh in grammar and vocabulary, so that we're forced to figure out for ourselves how to put the two together. I don't think Gyan Chand's reading is very plausible. Here are two basic ways in which the relationship could be configured: (1a): We used to lie prostrate and flat in your street, like a piece of paper stamped with the impression of your seal or signet-ring; this visible 'seal of approval' established your claim to ownership of the whole street (including us) (1b): Because of your established ownership of the whole street, we were able to constantly remain there like a specially marked token or signet-ring; people recognized us as yours, and publicly acknowledged your rights of ownership by accepting our presence A further layer of complexity comes from the many possible readings of naqsh-e mudda((aa . A naqsh can be not only a stamp or seal-impression (the sense that most strongly connects with the first line), but also a picture or image or shape of many kinds (which would leave the sense of 'stamp' as a form of wordplay). But even more to the point, who is it who has 'claimed' or 'alleged' or 'desired' that particular image or appearance? We tend to take it as the beloved, but it could equally be the street itself, wishing to establish or confirm its own prestige. Or it could even be the speaker himself, wanting to make sure that everything about the street contributed to the beloved's further glory. For another example of such complex uses, see {4,1}. For a beautifully apposite verse, compare {140,6} with its equally abstract first line.

{4,16x} ne asad jafaa-saa))il ne sitam junuu;N-maa))il tujh ko jis qadar ;Dhuu;N;Dhaa ulfat-aazmaa paayaa 1) neither is Asad cruelty-asking, nor is [your] tyranny madness-inclined 2) to whatever extent I sought you, I found you {intimacy/affection}-testing

Notes: ulfat : 'Familiarity, intimacy; attachment, affection, friendship'. (Platts p.76)

Gyan Chand: Neither is Asad (that is, the lover) a seeker after cruelty, nor is the tyranny of the beloved inclined toward the madness of the lover. However much I searched for you and scrutinized you, it appeared that you were testing my affection; for this reason you remain very far from me. (70)

FWP: LOSING/FINDING {4,6} MADNESS: {14,3} TESTING: {4,4} Raza p. 222. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib took verses from two separate early (1821) ham-:tar;h ghazals and combined them in his published divan. From one ghazal he took {4,1}, and from the other he took the rest, {4,2-7}.

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This is the eleventh and last verse in the ghazal of which the first verse is {4,2}. Why does the lover keep on seeking her out, at all costs, when the only result is more cruelty on her part? Why, when he keeps on humbly seeking her out, does she so constantly and viciously persecute him? Is he masochistic? Is she sadistic? Are they both nuts? No, no, the first line assures us. Asad's behavior isn't 'cruelty-asking': he's not crazy, he's not looking for trouble. Nor is 'tyranny'-- her essential nature, her personified self-- 'madness-inclined': she doesn't tend to be crazy herself, and she's not attracted by madness in others. So perhaps there's method in their madness? There's only one conclusion, one classic rationale. It's the lover's last, desperate resort: 'it's really a compliment in disguise-- she's really testing me!' Testing opens at least a tiny sliver of possibility that the lover might someday be accepted. Whereas the worst thing of all would be-- to be ignored. (For proof, see {119,1}.) For a genuinely brilliant exploration of the lover's rationale of 'testing', compare {4,4}. Note for meter fans: The twofold use of ne to replace nah is of course done to accommodate the meter, and to provide long syllables where these are required.

Ghazal 5

6 verses (out of 10); rhyming elements: aa jal gayaa composed 1816; Arshi #26 {5,1}* dil miraa soz-e nihaa;N se be-mu;haabaa jal gayaa aatish-e ;xaamosh ke maanind goyaa jal gayaa 1) my heart burned unceremoniously with hidden flame 2) {speaking / 'so to speak'} like {'silent fire' / glowing coals}, it burned

Notes: aatish-e ;xaamosh , literally 'silent fire', refers to glowing coals hidden in ashes. goyaa : ' 'Saying, speaking; --conversible; talkative, loquacious; eloquent; -a speaker; a singer; --adv. As you (or as one) would say, as it were, as though, so to speak; thus, in this manner'. (Platts p.928)

Ghalib: [1863: Illustrating the best verses of Urdu, the ones with that indefinable 'something else', he names among them Momin's verse, as given by Hali below.] ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 2, p. 615

Hali: In the same way, when he heard this verse of Momin Khan's: tum mire pas hote ho goyaa jab ko))ii duusraa nahii;N hotaa [you are with me {speaking / so to speak} when no other is there] then he praised it greatly and said, 'If only Momin Khan had taken my whole divan, and had given me only this one verse!' This verse too he has copied out in a number of his letters. (83)

Nazm: That is, it burned quietly, in such a way that no one knew of it. (5)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: aatish-e ;xaamosh is a fire that burns invisibly/hiddenly and from which flame doesn't arise. To use it in the second line in juxtaposition to soz-e nihaa;N is the extreme limit of rhetoric [balaa;Gat]. Among the special features of Mirza Sahib's style is that without intention and 'search' [talaash] verbal and wordplay-based forms appear that are counted among the verbal devices [.san((at-e alfaa:z]. (14)

Bekhud Mohani: My heart has burnt to ashes in the suppressed fire of love. And it burned in the manner of suppressed fire, that is, it burned me to ashes in such a way that until the fire was was burnt out and extinguished I didn't even know it. (9)

FWP: Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of ten verses (Raza p. 129, Raza p. 130), from which he chose the six verses (Hamid p. 4) included in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The happy evocation of 'silent fire' is at the heart of this verse. How does 'silent fire' burn? Remorselessly, no doubt, and in a very hidden way. The smoldering of hot coals is the nearest analogy to how my heart burned. In an elegant paradox, the fire was both silent [;xaamosh] and 'speaking' [goyaa]. The other half of the pleasure is the use that Ghalib has made of goyaa , which means both 'speaking' and-- by extension, as in the English 'so to speak'-- 'as if'. (See above how Platts struggles to pin down this latter sense.) For other such double-meaning uses of goyaa , see {4,12x}; {39,3}; {66,4}; {91,10}; {101,8}; {111,9}; {111,13}; {147,2}; {157,2}; {231,4}. (There are also ordinary uses of goyaa , where only 'so to speak' is intended; do a search for the word and you'll find some.) For a discussion of the value of goyaa , see {111,13}, Nazm's comment and Faruqi's response. Here he has juxtaposed goyaa with ke maanind , 'like; in the style of'. The effect is to place the analogy at two removes: my heart burned 'as if' 'in the style of' silent fire. Perhaps my heart in fact burned so uniquely that nothing was very comparable to it after all. I once really worked at translating this ghazal: version 1 (1985); version 2 (1991). My failure with this one was part of what taught me about his fundamental untranslatability, and the need of a commentary instead.

{5,2}* dil me;N ;zauq-e va.sl-o-yaad-e yaar tak baaqii nahii;N aag is ghar me;N lagii aisii kih jo thaa jal gayaa 1) in the heart not even taste/relish for union and memory of the beloved remain 2) fire so took hold in this house that whatever was, burned

Notes: Nazm: That is, the fire of jealousy/envy was such that it caused the heart to forget the beloved, and having seen her meeting with the Other, the taste for union waned. By house he means heart; and by fire, envy of the Rival. (5)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The rule [qaa))idah] is that when hopelessness passes beyond a limit, then hope/expectation always vanishes, of its own volition. As if the onslaught of despair made me lose heart to such an extent that now no longing for your coming remains-- neither hope, nor desire is left. (14)

Baqir: [Quoting the commentator Suha [suhaa] :] It points toward that stage of passion, when hope and despair, union and separation, memory of the

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beloved-- in short, the feeling of every emotion-- no longer remains; and that's the stage of astonishment and forgetfulness of the world. (p. 17)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH 'UNION' verses: {5,2}; {15,9}; {20,1}; {68,3}; {85,1}; {97,7}; {116,9}; {125,2}; {132,7}; {148,10}; {169,2}; {188,1}; {208,11} This verse belongs to a group that I am going to call 'mushairah' verses, for their ideal suitable to the kind of oral performance style characteristic of mushairahs. The first line is shocking: how can such an inconceivable state of affairs exist in the heart of any lover with even the smallest self-respect? We wait impatiently for an explanation. Of course, we are made to wait as long as conveniently possible, during many expressions of admiration and appreciation, and maybe a repetition, before we're allowed to hear. Then even when we hear the second verse, until we reach the final 'punch'word (since ghazal verses are too short to have punch-lines) thaa , which is also the rhyme-word and thus the last available element of the line, we still can't really tell what's going on. Then all at once we get it: everything that was there, burned! While it's a tribute to the depth of the lover's passion that the longing for union and the memory of the beloved should be buried irremovably deep in his heart, it's equally a tribute to the fieriness of his passion that his heart should be so fiercely flame-destroyed that even those deepest things would be reduced to ashes. In short, it's a case of 'the irresistible force meets the immovable object'. The longing for union, and the memory of the beloved, are the deepest things in the heart-- how can they possibly burn away? Yet the fire of passion is so unassuageably ferocious-- how can it not destroy absolutely everything in its path? And how witty of the poet to have thus pitted them against each other so cleverly! A mushairah-verse like this gives up all its pleasure at once, in a single burst, and then the listener is ready to move on to the next verse.

{5,3}* mai;N ((adam se bhii pare huu;N varnah ;Gaafil baar-haa merii aah-e aatishii;N se baal-e ((anqaa jal gayaa 1a) I am beyond even nonexistence-- otherwise, heedlessly, more than once 1b) I am beyond even nonexistence-- otherwise, oh heedless one, more than once 2a) from my fiery sighs the wing of the Anqa burned 2b) from my fiery sighs the wing of the Anqa would have burned

Notes: ;Gaafil : 'Unmindful, forgetful, neglectful, negligent, heedless, inadvertent, inattentive, remiss, thoughtless, careless; indolent; imprudent; senseless, unconscious;-- negligently, thoughtlessly, inadvertently, unconsciously, &c.'. (Platts p.768)

Ghalib: See his use of ((adam se bhii pare in the letter quoted in {234,9}.

Nazm: Anqa is the name of a nonexistent bird. And when he became nonexistent, he too was in nonexistence, and the fiery sighs and the wing of the Anqa could come together in the same field. For this reason the wing of the Anqa burned from his sighs. But the poet's saying 'I am outside even nonexistence'-- the result of this is that I neither exist nor do not exist, and I transcend opposites. Perhaps it's about just such verses that people in Delhi always used to say, 'Ghalib constantly composes meaningless verses', and in reply to that the poet recited this verse: {175,6}. The word pare is now rejected [matruuk]; in Lucknow, since the time of Nasikh it has not been in the colloquial language. (5)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I've emerged even somewhat beyond nonbeing; that is, I've attained oblivion in God [fanaa fi))l-ullaah]. No doubt, when I was passing through that stage, then more than once, from my fiery sighs, fire spread to the wing of the Anqa. The meaning is that in the beginning of my education in oblivion, I destroyed the reputation of the Anqa, who is considered one of the greatest proofs of being nonexistent. Here ;Gaafil refers to those people who cannot understand human progress. (15)

Shadan: The truth is that I have an inadequate understanding of this verse. And not to speak of my worthless self-- other worthy commentators too, according to my imperfect mind, have not been able to understand it. (108)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE verses == {3,10x}; {5,3}; {6,5}; {11,4x}; {24,7} GRANDIOSITY verses == {4,8x}; {5,3}; {5,4}; {6,5}; {10,1}; {11,4x}; {12,5x}; {15,16x} Well, it's an obscure verse all right. But it's not as if Ghalib hasn't warned us of his inclinations. It seems that the Anqa lives in the realm of nonexistence [((adam]. I used to be there with him, and in those days I often burnt his wing with my fiery sighs (2a). Or, alternatively, I am simply beyond that realm, which is fortunate for the Anqa because if I had been there, I would often have burnt his wing with my sighs (2b). Not surprisingly, Ghalib's other Anqa verses tend to be equally difficult and complex. The phrase-introducer varnah is not only used to contrast past with present situations (as in 2a), but also signals possible contrafactual situations (as in 2b). 'Otherwise' is the best available translation, but it's not as flexible. ;Gaafil can be an adverb describing the heedless, careless way in which I burnt (or would have burnt) the Anqa's wings. Or it can be an epithet: someone might be addressed as a 'heedless' or 'careless' or 'negligent' one. If so, that person is perhaps being warned: 'Take care-- someone who could burn the Anqa could do something dire to you too!' You, like the Anqa, are perhaps safe from the consequences of your own rash negligence only because I'm so far 'beyond even Nonbeing' that I might not (bother to) do anything dire to you. In other words, this verse need not be read pompously and abstractly. It could just as easily be a kind of teasing one, playfully threatening a companion (the beloved?) with implausibly grandiose-- and also conveniently self-negating-- dangers.

{5,4} ((ar.z kiije jauhar-e andeshah kii garmii kahaa;N kuchh ;xayaal aayaa thaa va;hshat kaa kih .sa;hraa jal gayaa 1a) how can the heat/fervor of the temper of thought/anxiety be conveyed/expressed? 1b) where can the heat/fervor of the temper of thought/anxiety be conveyed/displayed? 1c) as if the heat/fervor of the temper of thought/anxiety can be conveyed/expressed! 2) just a thought of wildness had come-- when the desert burned

Notes: ((ar.z : from an Arabic root meaning 'to show the breadth'. 'Presenting or representing'; also, 'breadth, width' (Platts p.760). kiije is an archaic form of the passive; GRAMMAR.

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jauhar : 'Absolute or essential property;... accomplishment, art; excellence...;-- the diversified wavy marks, streaks, or grain of a welltempered sword' (Platts p.399). andeshah : 'Thought, consideration, meditation, reflection; solicitude, anxiety, concern...; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; apprehension, dread, fear'. (Platts p.91) garmii : 'Heat, warmth; ... fervour, fervency, ardour; activity ... fieriness, vehemence; passion, rage, anger, excitement; attachment, warm affection; sexual passion, lust'. (Platts p.905) va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place;--loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; ...wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; ...distraction, madness' (Platts p.1183) .sa;hraa : 'A desert, waste, wilderness; a jungle, forest; a plain' (Platts p.743) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: That is, how is it possible for me to manifest the heat of my temperament-- I just had a little thought of wandering in the desert, when the desert caught fire. And this exaggeration is contrary to custom-- that there should be such heat in the temperament that anything that is thought of would burn up. People consider ((ar.z to be a word for the .zil((a of jauhar , although in an affinity with jauhar , ((ar.z has 'movingness' [ta;hriik], not 'stillness' [sukuun]. (6)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, where might I go to utter the heat of my turbulent themes? I had thought that I could leave the city and utter it in the jungle. The moment a thought of madness occurred, fire burst out in the jungle. Mirza Sahib's goal in this utterance is: seeing the numerousness of those without understanding, it's as if my inner self wants to write melting verse, but cannot do so, and cannot see the fullest possible extent of the high-flyingnesses of its thought. That is, I hesitate to express accomplishment before those without understanding. (15)

Bekhud Mohani: It is quite impossible that I would be able to express the heat of my temper of thought. Because I had hardly formed the thought of renouncing the world, when the heart-attraction of the world began to look contemptible. That is, renunciation of the world is no large matter; it's done in the time it takes to form the thought in the heart. (10)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; KAHAN DESERT: {3,1} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} JAUHAR verses: {5,4}; {6,13x}; {16,4}; {16,6x}; {17,4}; {29,2}; {34,2,} a reference in Ghalib's own commentary; {56,2}; {57,5}; {73,1}; {113,6}; {120,6}* The pattern of mutual echoes and affinities among the four words defined above is simply astonishingly rich. {How / where / as if!} can be {spread out / presented} the {heat / fervor / anger / lust} of the {essence / accomplishment/ well-temperedness} of {reflection / thought / anxiety}!

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At the merest thought of {madness / wildness / desert}, the {desert / wilderness} became {burned / moved / anguished / envious / passionate / enraged} A word like 'convey', which similarly evokes both heat and thought, is a small reminder of the complex, uncapturable wordplay-- and meaning-play-of the original. Really, you can mix and match until the verse is about either rationality and thought, or irrationality and emotion, or anything in between. And what sort of 'thought' was it that came to the speaker? Merely kuchh ;xayaal , just a bit of a thought. But it could have been: 1) a first step toward yielding to madness in my own mind; 2) a fearful thought of the danger that madness might overtake me; 3) a desire to express the heat of andeshah somewhere-- say, in the wilderness; 4) a concern about the fate of the wilderness, if anyone ever unleashed the power of andeshah in it. Any or all of these are possible, and so many others besides. This verse is a 'meaning machine' if there ever was one, though it is based partly on complex multivalent individual words, and not just on cleverness with the grammar. Compare {57,5}, which also uses both ((ar.z and jauhar . And there's {141,6}, which also complains of the limited space available to va;hshat in merely the whole world.

{5,5} dil nahii;N tujh ko dikhaataa varnah daa;Go;N kii bahaar us chiraa;Gaa;N kaa karuu;N kyaa kaar-farmaa jal gayaa 1) there is no heart, otherwise I would have shown you a flourishing/springtime of wounds 2a) the operator of that lamp-display-- what can I do?-- burned 2b) what can I do with that lamp-display? --the operator burned

Notes: chiraa;Gaa;N : 'Lamps; lights; a display of lamps, a general illumination'. (Platts p.428) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: He has made the heart an operator, and wounds a chiraa;Gaan . The word chiraa;Gaan ought to be understood as the plural of chiraa;G . (6)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He addresses the beloved when he speaks. (15)

Bekhud Mohani: The verdure of my wounds was worth seeing. But alas, the heart that was the arranger of this lamp-display has itself not remained. That is, before the heart was extinguished, longings remained in it-- my state of burning was worth seeing. (11)

FWP: The wounds themselves become cold, dead, scarred over, without constant fresh blood from the flaming, glowing heart-- which has now burned itself out entirely. The lover shrugs his shoulders, unable to offer the fine spectacle he once could have provided: he's like a carnival owner whose showmanager has suddenly quit. The two readings of the second line, both so colloquial and so appropriate, are a great source of enjoyment. Compare the similar chiraa;Gaa;N in: {10,4} (where it is a sarv-e chiraa;Gaa;n or 'fireworks-tree'); {12,5x}; {15,4}; {18,6x} (where it seems more like fireworks); {49,8}; and {81,3}.

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A 'verdure', literally a 'springtime' [bahaar], of wounds creates a vigorous image of vitality, energy, newness, fresh and copiously flowing red blood, etc. But spring has now finished springing, it's over-- the energy was such that the heart, the source of it all, has been consumed in its own fires. Do we read it as is or us, 'this' or 'that' chiraa;Gaa;N ? Arshi, whose text I have taken as normative, doesn't say. Hamid says 'this'. Faruqi says (July 2000) 'that'. To me, 'that' works better, since it shows the detachment the speaker feels from his own burnt-out amusement-park display. But 'this' could be plausible as well, for a sense of immediacy. And besides the literal meaning of jal gayaa , just look, in the definition above, at the wide array of metaphorical and emotional reactions that might also explain the heart's-- the 'operator's'-- inability or unwillingness to provide the anticipated spectacle.

{5,6}* mai;N huu;N aur afsurdagii kii aarzuu ;Gaalib kih dil dekh kar :tarz-e tapaak-e ahl-e dunyaa jal gayaa 1a) I am and the longing for coldness/sadness [is], Ghalib, for the heart 1b) it's come down to me and the longing for coldness/sadness, Ghalib, for the heart 2) having seen the style of warmth/fervor of the people of the world, burned

Notes: afsurdagii : 'Frozenness; frigidity, coldness; numbness; dejection, melancholy, lowness or depression of spirits.' (Platts, p. 62) tapaak : 'Warmth, ardour, fervour, zeal; the anguish of love; solicitude of friendship; love, affection, friendship; apparent cordiality; --affliction, distress, uneasiness, disquietude; consternation; palpitation'. (Platts p.309) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: By 'style of warmth' he means outer warmth, inner hypocrisy. And there are the affinities of afsurdagii and jalnaa , 'to burn'. (6)

Bekhud Mohani: Now I am, and the longing is to live separately from the people of the world. Because seeing their outward love and inward enmity, the heart has grown cold. If we read it with the emphasis on 'I', then the interpretation will be that an individual like me, who was a slave of love-- now this is the shape he's in. (11)

Naiyar Masud: The verse is clear, but only to the extent that the poet has become disgusted with 'the style of warmth of the people of the world', which is entirely hypocrisy. But this is a commonplace theme that has been trampled on by many feet. The real mood [kaifiyat] of the verse is in its first line, to the meaning of which the commentators have given much less attention.... The notable thing is that the first line is a reaction to a reaction. The reaction to the style of warmth of the people of the world is that my heart burned. The reaction to the burning of the heart is that now I long for coldness [afsurdagii]. ....But this longing for coldness doesn't look as if it's being fulfilled.... Even the burning of his heart doesn't let him remain in coldness. He is very much inflamed, and being very much inflamed is the opposite of coldness.... Doesn't this situation keep getting more and more convoluted? (104-08)

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FWP: SETS == I AND Nazm could have added tapaak , 'warmth', to his list of affinities. The evocative versatility of afsurdagii , meaning both coldness and sadness, gives rise to the complexities of wordplay outlined by Naiyar Masud. This is also a melancholy, bitter, powerful verse of 'mood'. Ghalib relies on the idiomatic 'I (am), and' [mai;N huu;N aur]. The effect of the expression is usually either something like 'imagine-- me, and X!'; or else, grimly, 'it's come down to me, and X'. There is some powerful, often unexpected, usually sad or grim, sometimes entirely deplorable connection between me and X that is being remarked on with such intensity that its exact nature doesn't even have to be spelled out. Once in a while, as in {97,8}, the juxtaposition can be miraculously wonderful instead of terrible, but this is much rarer. For another comparative heat-study of the hearts of the lover versus the worldlings, see {138,4}. Within the divan, the closest verse for comparison is surely {230,3}. But take a look also at a verse that Ghalib composed but didn't publish: {5,9x}.

{5,7x} ;xaan-maan-e ((aashiqaa;N duukaan-e aatish-baaz hai shu((lah-ruu jab ho ga))e garm-e tamashaa jal gayaa 1) the house-and-household of lovers is the shop of a fireworks-maker 2) when the flame-faced one became hot/eager for a spectacle, it burned

Notes: khaan-maan : 'House and home, household furniture, everything belonging to the house; household, family'. (Platts p.486)

Gyan Chand: In the shop of a fireworks-maker, if a spark would be touched, then everything will explode at once. The state of the property and wealth of lovers too is just like this. The beautiful ones cast a glance in their direction-and everything burned. It's not as if it would burn by itself! Having fallen into the snare of beautiful ones, the lover himself will become a destroyed house and household. (110)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY TAMASHA: {8,1} Raza p. 129; Raza p. 130. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib composed a ghazal of ten verses, and published in his divan the first five verses, and the last one. This is the eighth verse of that ghazal. It's preeminently a verse of wordplay, with an invigorating way of 'reactivating' petrified metaphors. To call the beloved a 'flame-faced one' is unsurprising, and to speak of her as being 'hot' or enthusiastic for something is also absolutely commonplace. But then to turn her into a lighted match, and the lover's world into a fireworks-shop, is something enjoyable! Did the lover's fireworks-shop make itself available on purpose to be set on fire by the beloved, in order to humor her desire for a spectacle? Or was the great explosion an accident-- the beloved just came for a tour of the shop, but then things got out of control? Either way, the result must certainly have entertained her. Another such attempt at entertainment, though a much less successful one, is reported in {5,5}. Also, what wonderful alif and nuun effects in the first line! It's truly irresistible to recite. Note for meter fans: duukaan is a variant spelling of dukaan ; it accommodates the meter.

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{5,8x} taa kujaa afsos-e garmiihaa-e .su;hbat ay ;xayaal dil bah soz-e aatish-e daa;G-e tamannaa jal gayaa 1) to what extent regret/grief for the enthusiasms/'hotnesses' of companship/intercourse, oh Thought! 2) the heart, with the burning/inflammation of the fire of the wound of longing, burned

Notes: soz : 'Burning; heat, inflammation; ardour, passion; affection; heart-burning, vexation'. (Platts p.698) .su;hbat : 'Companionship, society, company; an assembly, meeting, association; a fair; discourse, conversation, intercourse; carnal intercourse, coition, cohabitation'. (Platts p.743) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Gyan Chand: Oh imagination, how long will you keep remembering the liveliness of gatherings of the past, and feeling regret? The fire of the wound of unfulfilled longings has burnt up the heart. (110)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; KAHAN Raza p. 129; Raza p. 130. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib composed a ghazal of ten verses, and published in his divan the first five verses, and the last one. This is the ninth verse of that ghazal. The inshaa))iyah first line, with its interrogatory and exclamatory force, opens up a brilliant series of possible connections to the second line. And taa kujaa -- the Persian equivalent of kahaa;N tak -- is the key to its versatile possibilities. Here are some: =oh Thought, how powerful is the regret over past gatherings-- it caused the heart to burn up with longing! =oh Thought, how powerful is even the memory of those 'hotnesses' of intimacy-- it caused the heart to catch fire and burn up with longing! =oh Thought, how long will you keep tormenting yourself with regret-filled memories? Look-- now you've caused the heart to burn up! =oh Thought, how valuable are those old memories anyway? All they do is fill the heart with vexation [soz] and cause it to 'burn' [jalnaa] with frustration, sorrow and rage. =oh Thought, you won't be able to keep tormenting yourself with passionate memories any more, because the heart that felt them has now burned up And why the address to 'Thought'? Is Thought a sympathetic bystander, watching the drama of high passion unfold but helpless to prevent it? Or is the speaker reproaching Thought for fostering, or even creating, the deadly 'regret/grief' that has burned out the heart? Or perhaps after the heart and the passions have burnt up, Thought will be all that's left.

{5,9x} hai asad be-gaanah-e afsurdagii ay be-kasii dil 'z andaaz-e tapaak-e ahl-e dunyaa jal gayaa 1) Asad is a stranger to coldness/dejection, oh Friendlessness/forlornness 2) [his] heart, from the style of the warmth/fervor of the people of the world, burned

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Notes: be-gaanah : 'Strange, foreign, another, not related, not domestic, not an acquaintance or friend, alien, unknown'. (Platts p.210) afsurdagii : 'Frozenness; frigidity, coldness; numbness; dejection, melancholy, lowness or depression of spirits'. (Platts p.62) be-kasii : 'Forlorn state, friendlessness, destitution'. (Platts p.203) tapaak : 'Warmth, ardour, fervour, zeal; the anguish of love; solicitude of friendship; love, affection, friendship; apparent cordiality; --affliction, distress, uneasiness, disquietude; consternation; palpitation'. (Platts p.309) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Gyan Chand: Oh Friendlessness, Asad is now not influenced by dejection. He has seen the warmth and ebullience of the people of the world, and having seen its artificialness and triviality his heart has burned. Now he has arrived beyond the feeling of dejection. (110)

FWP: Raza p. 129; Raza p. 130. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib composed a ghazal of ten verses, and published in his divan the first five verses, and the last one. This verse, though it appears in Gyan Chand p. 110, doesn't appear in the Raza version of the ghazal, or in Arshi. In response to a query, S. R. Faruqi says (Feb. 2008): 'It's in the Hamidiya mss., as printed in 1921. Arshi has cited this very mss. as his source, and still omits this verse from his second edition (though it's on p. 20 of his first edition). It's a mystery that I can't explain.... Anyhow, the verse is vintage Ghalib, without doubt.' Here is an elegant example of wordplay that is also conspicuously meaningplay. Asad is a 'stranger' to 'coldness', he says to a personified 'Friendlessness'. And why so? Because his heart saw the 'style of warmth' of the people of the world, and 'burned'. The meanings of 'warmth' [tapaak] include 'friendship', 'apparent cordiality', and more negative emotions as well. Moreover, the emphasis on the 'style' [andaaz] of this warmth alerts us: it may be merely a quote-unquote 'warmth' that is really some other emotion ('uneasiness', 'disquietude'), or even just 'coldness' in disguise. Then, the possibilities of 'burned' include not only the literal (being consumed by fire), but also a tremendous range of metaphorical, emotional ones: ''to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. Here are two obvious possible readings: =Asad can no longer be made dejected by the false show of 'warmth' offered by worldly people, because his heart has burned up with indignation at such hypocrisy, and left him isolated but immune. =Asad can no longer be made dejected by the coldness shown to him as a 'stranger' or 'friendless' one by worldly people, because his heart has burned up with anguish, and left him immune. It's possible to imagine other kinds of tapaak ('affliction', 'distress', etc.) shown by the people of the world, that might have aroused in Asad other kinds of jalnaa ('to be touched, moved, or affected with pity'). But on the whole, such readings feel contrived. The overtones of the particular phrase 'people of the world' [ahl-e dunyaa] seem to be, in the ghazal world, entirely negative.

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Compare this verse to its more fortunate cousin, {5,6}-- the one that made it into the published divan. Note for meter fans: z is short for the Persian az , 'from'. Often such a change is made to accommodate the mater. But here it would be possible to write az , and then use what I call word-grafting to read azandaaz , and it would still scan. I don't know why the az has been shortened in this case.

Ghazal 6

6 verses (out of 6); rhyming elements: aa;N niklaa composed 1821; Arshi #6 {6,1}* shauq har rang raqiib-e sar-o-saamaa;N niklaa qais ta.sviir ke parde me;N bhii ((uryaa;N niklaa 1) ardor in every mode/color turned out to be an enemy/Rival of proper possession 2) Qais, even in the veil of a picture, turned out to be naked

Notes: rang : 'Colour, tint, hue, complexion; ...appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method'. (Platts p.601) sar-o-saamaa;N : 'Apparatus, necessaries, requisites, effects, goods and chattels'. (Platts p.649) pardah : 'A curtain, screen, cover, veil...; secrecy, privacy, modesty; seclusion, concealment; ...pretext, pretences'. (Platts p.246)

Ghalib: [1865:] raqiib has the meaning of 'opponent'. That is to say, ardor is the enemy of proper possession. The proof is that Qais, who in life wandered around naked, remained naked even within the veil of a picture. The pleasure of it is that Majnun is always pictured with his body naked, wherever he is pictured. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 837 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 281-82.

Nazm: That is, even when Majnun's picture is made, it's always made naked. Even in this condition, passion is the enemy of proper possession.... Realizing the affinity of rang with ta.sviir , he said har rang [rather than other metrically equivalent words]. But to abandon an idiom for the sake of affinity is not good. The meaning of 'rival' [raqiib] has been made to be 'enemy'. (6)

Bekhud Mohani: [Nazm is wrong to object to har rang .] Where, because of a word with affinity, the verse would begin to resemble a garden, it is not suitable [munaasib] to to reject it. Where because of affinity the meaning in the verse would not become flawed, but rather it would become an ornament to the verse, to reject it is distorted. In this place, only that individual can accept the phrase har rang who is not only a poet, but also a person of literary sensibility [adiib]. And if shauq har rang is read with an i.zaafat [after shauq], then its meaning will be 'no matter how much any shauq would become an enemy of proper possession'. (11)

FWP: SETS == A,B CLOTHING/NAKEDNESS: {3,5} VEIL verses: {6,1}; {6,11x}; {13,1}; {14,6}; {16,7x}; {41,5}; {49,9}; {56,5};[{71,1}]; {97,9}; {98,8}; {98,9}; {111,3}; {115,3}; {115,7}; {124,4}; {130,4}; {139,7}; {141,3}; {149,4}; {152,5}; {153,6}; {158,2};

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{158,7}; {164,14}; {169,3}; {189,5}; {191,6}; {198,2}*; {199,4}; {202,1}; {207,3}; {210,4}; {226,2}; {227,2}; {228,7} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of six verses (Hamid p. 5), and chose to include them all in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The phrase sar-o-saamaa;N also has overtones of 'dignity, self-possession'; thus I translate it 'proper possession'. As a madman Qais is out of his head [sar], as a naked wanderer in the desert he nas renounced all possible forms of 'equipment' [saamaa;N]. And of course the verse is full of semantic affinities: color and picture, veil and nakedness. The versatility of rang is particularly appropriate: its literal meaning of 'color' goes well with the idea of a painting, while its numerous related and more abstract meanings give the verse a wider range of applicability. Nazm's objection, based as it is on an absurdly restricted notion of the meaning of rang , is unpersuasive. For further discussion of the possibilities of rang -- in the context of a very similar objection by Nazm-see {119,2}. Every time Ghalib uses the word 'naked' [((uryaa;N], it appears in just the same position as it does in this verse: as the rhyme-word. That way its dramatic impact and slight shock value are maximized, especially in mushairah-verses. Compare its other occurrences: {6,7x}; {6,11x}; {17,5}; {111,3}; {226,2}. The noun form 'nakedness' [((uryaanii] is often used similarly, as in {64,1} and {202,1}. This is the second of the three 'meaningless verses' that Ghalib explained in a letter in 1865. In the first one, {1,1}, the people in a picture [ta.sviir] were imagined as dressed in paper robes as a complaint against injustice; here, a picture is imagined as a veil or screen between human nakedness, rawness, wildness, and the 'proper possession' of dignity and self-control. In both cases, the picture apparently fails to achieve its object: God continues to show 'mischievousness', and Qais continues to be seen in the wild nakedness of his passion. As is the case so often in Ghalib's ghazals, this is a verse in which each line makes an independent statement, and the reader is obliged to figure out how the two are to be connected. Is the first line the main point, and the second a mere example? Or is the verse really about Qais, with the first line just a bit of extra reflection on his plight? Or do both lines refer, through different imagery, to the same situation?

{6,2} za;xm ne daad nah dii tangii-e dil kii yaa rab tiir bhii siinah-e bismil se par-afshaa;N niklaa 1) the wound did not do justice to the narrowness of the heart, oh Lord 2) even the arrow emerged from the wounded breast, wing-fluttering

Notes: daad denaa : 'To do justice (to), to appreciate, to give due praise (to)'. (Platts p.499)

Ghalib: [1865:] I have invented ['drawn out of my temperament'] this new idea [yih ek baat mai;N ne apnii :tabii((at se na))ii nikaalii hai], as in this verse: {209,4}. That is to say, the wound of an arrow is constricted, because there is a single hole, and the wound of a sword is wide, because it opens up a sort of niche. za;xm ne daad nah dii tangii-e dil kii , that is to say, 'it did not put an end to the narrowness'. par-afshaa;N , that is to say, 'restless', and this word is suitable [munaasib] for an arrow. The result is that the arrow didn't at all do justice to the narrowness of the heart-- it itself took alarm at the constriction of the place and emerged with wings fluttering and head bewildered.

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==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 837-38 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, p. 283

Nazm: That is, not even the wound in the heart could cope with the narrowness of the heart, and it too complained about the narrowness of the heart: that very arrow by which the wound was made was so constrained by my narrowness of heart that it emerged writhing. In the arrow's writhing it flies more; for this reason 'wing-fluttering', which is a verbal device for a bird, has affinity with an arrow. (6)

Faruqi: Reflect on 'narrowness of the heart'. This may mean that even before a wound was made, the heart was narrow, and it was hoped that the wound of passion would put an end to the narrowness of the heart. But within the heart the narrowness was so intense that not even the arrow of love could be effective. The narrowness of the heart was such that the arrow wasn't finding a way out; it somehow swept its wings and emerged fluttering, the way a bird emerges from some narrow place. Accordingly, the interpretation turns out to be that the speaker's heart... was so narrow and grief-stricken that not even the wound of passion could ease it. In this way 'narrowness of the heart' is a metaphor, and has also been used in its dictionary meaning. This is Mir and Ghalib's special style. In the light of this interpretation this verse is a picture of Ghalib's fundamental hopelessness and sense of loss, for even the wound of passion, which is said to be the fruit of one's whole life-- even that is in reality vain, ineffective, and insubstantial. (1989: 31) [2006: 37-38]

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY ARCHERY verses == {6,2}; {6,9x}; {16,8x}; {20,4} This is the third of the three 'meaningless verses' that Ghalib explained in a letter in 1865. The grief-stricken heart is colloquially said in Urdu to change its shape and become 'narrow' or 'tight' [tang]. (In English, by contrast, it changes its location: it 'sinks' and becomes 'down'.) The lover's heart is so constricted that even the (beloved's?) arrow can't easily get through-- the arrow is on the verge of being trapped there, and finally struggles out in panic, with its wings fluttering and flapping awkwardly. The arrow would normally be powerful and force its way through, tearing the heart open; but here the lover's grief is so overwhelming that not even the arrow (which brings more grief) can really 'open it out' and destroy it. Its constriction is the sign of a deathlike grief, but also confers a kind of obsessive focus that renders it immune to external threats. For an arrow to have 'wings' is delightfully appropriate, since it has 'feathers' made of actual bird feathers, and these help to enable and guide its flight just as a bird's wings do. Ghalib is fond of unlikely wing-flutterers: in addition to the arrow here, we have a candle in {75,5}; polish-lines in a mirror in {113,6}; the lover in {166,4}; and a wave of blood in {176,6}.

{6,3}* buu-e gul naalah-e dil duud-e chiraa;G-e ma;hfil jo tirii bazm se niklaa so pareshaa;N niklaa 1) scent of the rose, lament of the heart, smoke of the lamp of the gathering 2) whoever emerged from your gathering, emerged in disarray

Notes: pareshaa;N : 'Dispersed, scattered; disordered, confused; dishevelled, tossed (as hair); amazed, distracted, perplexed, bewildered, deranged; troubled, distressed, wretched; ruined'. (Platts p.259)

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Nazm: That is, to emerge from your gathering is itself a cause for disarray. (7)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is incomparable. It is founded on 'elegance in assigning a cause'. (12)

Naim: Three items are listed in the first line as evidence in support of the general statement made in the second line. The three items have reference to three important senses, of small, hearing, and sight, respectively. The world pareshaa;N expresses a similarity of experience in all three. The fragrance of the flowers rises and gets scattered with the breeze. The msoke from the lamp burning in the midst of the joyous gathering rises twisting and turning, a picture of anguish. The lament rises from the poet's heart, a similar expression of anguish. Question: In the case of the fragrance of the smoke one can say that natural phenomena have been given poetic reasons. They were present--in the most natural way--in the beloved's ma;hfil [gathering] and 'naturally' showed despair at having to leave the company. But why the heart's lament? If the poet was present in the beloved's bazm , why did he cry out in anguish? These questions can be answered, perhaps, in the following ways. 1.) The poet remained in anguish even in the presence of the beloved because his rivals were also present there in that bazm and they received all the favours. 2.) The poet was not physically present in that bazm. But his heart was there. (Didn't he lose his heart to his beloved?) He cries out in the anguish of separation. This cry rises out from his heart and leaves the beloved's bazm to dissipate in the same way as the lamp's smoke. 3.) The poet is not in the bazm . His heart (the token and symbol of his love) has been made to stay away from the beloved. He was close to her at one time but now he has been forced out of the bazm . The cry rising from his heart is pareshaa;N just as is anything else that has been made to leave the beloved's bazm. (1970, 19-20)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH GATHERINGS verses == {6,3}; {12,5x}; {14,1}; {15,6}; {81,2} As so often, the first line leaves us with a puzzle, and we must wait for resolution in the second line. What do the three phrases have in common, where is the verse going? In the oral performance conditions of the mushairah, the audience is forced to hear the first line at least twice, and to wait eagerly and curiously for the resolution provided in the second line. Then when the second line comes, in this case it does the job with flair. The second line is elegantly grounded in the multiple meanings of pareshaa;N , an adjective with enough range to aptly describe in its literal sense both scent and smoke diffusing in complexly tangled patterns in the air, and in a metaphorically extended sense, silent laments troubling and agitating the heart. Moreover, this key word pareshaa;N is the rhyme-word, so that it's withheld as long as it possibly can be-- another strategy that's far more effective in the authoritarian time-boundness of oral presentation. Then when you do hear it, the verse delivers its whole punch at once: there's nothing more for you to get on a second reading, or a third. All these qualities make for a brilliant example of what I call a 'mushairah verse'.

{6,4} dil-e ;hasrat-zadah thaa maa))idah-e la;z;zat-e dard kaam yaaro;N kaa bah qadr-e lab-o-dandaa;N niklaa

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1) the longing-stricken heart was a banquet-table of the relish of pain 2) the friends' work/desire/'throat' emerged [into accomplishment] to the extent of their lips and teeth

Notes: la;z;zat : 'Pleasure, delight, enjoyment; sweetness, deliciousness; taste, flavour, relish, savour; --an aphrodisiac; an amorous philter'. (Platts p.955). kaam : '(Hindi) Action, act, deed, work, doing, handiwork, performance; work, labour, duty, task, job; business, occupation, employment, office, function; operation, undertaking, transaction, affair, matter, thing, concern, interest'. (Platts p.804) kaam : '(Persian) Desire, wish; design, intention; --the palate'. (Platts p.804)

Nazm: That is, however much worth was in each one, to that extent he obtained from me the pleasure of pain; otherwise, on my side there was no lack. The word 'work' [kaam] has a relationship of .zil((a with 'lips and teeth' [because of its Persian meaning of 'throat']. (7)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my longing-stricken heart was a dining-cloth of the pleasure of pain, on which were set out various types and kinds of food. According to their capability and relish, the friends received portions from my diningcloth. Here there was no shortage. The meaning is that people receive benefit from me according to their individual capability. (17)

Bekhud Mohani: The point is that my verses were an album of despair and longing and pain. However much ability each person had, that was how much pleasure he received. (12)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE FOOD verses: {6,4}; {17,7}; {19,7}; {26,4}; {39,4}; {50,1}; {56,6}; {67,3}; {114,1}(?); {118,2}; {167,7} Faruqi maintains (July 2000) that this is not one of Ghalib's better verses. For a much finer treatment of this theme, he suggests that we consider one of Mir's ({454,3}): bhuu;Nte hai;N dil ik jaanib sikte hai;N jigar yak suu hai majlis-e mushtaaqaa;N dukkaan kabaabii kii [To one side, they roast a heart; elsewhere, they grill a liver The gathering of the ardent ones is a kabab-seller's shop] He has a point. Mir's verse has a playfulness and vigor that this one conspicuously lacks. (I just encountered another such highly literal verse of Mir's, which includes naan-o-namak as well: {1384,1} in the new edition.) Somehow this verse seems uneasily poised between humor and morbid overphysicalness. Are we really supposed to imagine the heart as a banquet being literally eaten by the friends, who are using their lips and teeth to the best of their ability, and politely wiping the blood from their fingers with a dainty napkin? Without that specificity of image, the verse has little to recommend it; with that specificity, it becomes, so to speak, unappetizing. This is a verse of what I will call 'grotesquerie'; for further discussion, see {39,3}. For a more detailed discussion of the very suitable double meaning of kaam as both 'work' and 'desire' see {22,6}. But in this verse, Nazm is surely right to insist on 'throat' as well, since the interaction of all three meanings is an indispensable part of the pleasure.

{6,5} thii nau-aamoz-e fanaa himmat-e dushvaar-pasand sa;xt mushkil hai kih yih kaam bhii aasaa;N niklaa

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1a) difficulty-loving Courage was a {novice / new arrival} in Oblivion 1b) the {novice / new arrival} in Oblivion was of a difficulty-loving courage 2) it's a severe difficulty that this task too turned out to be easy

Notes: Nazm: My courage considers it a pleasure to be enmeshed in fear and danger. This work is a sign sent by Oblivion; that is, we knew life and the world to be a very difficult task. But alas-- that too turned out to be easy! (7)

Hasrat: The meaning is that my difficulty-loving courage needs some rank higher than oblivion, because oblivion proved to be an easy stage for it. (7)

Bekhud Mohani: He says, my courage and my enthusiasm have become difficulty-loving to such an extent that education in oblivion ought to be considered a commonplace task for them.... At one other place too Mirza Sahib has expressed this theme: there he says {61,3}. (17)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY DIFFICULT/EASY verses: {6,5}; {8,2}; {17,1}; {111,15}; {112,3}; {136,3} EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} There are some manuscript variations in this verse. For the first word of the verse Hamid adopts a reading of ay ; Nazm and others adopt hai . As always, I follow Arshi's reading, which in this case is thii . The commentators emphasize the implication that Courage wanted something even beyond Oblivion to aspire to, or a task even more difficult, just to have a proper challenge. Did Courage find the task easy because Courage is so able and dauntless, or because Oblivion really is an easy thing to achieve? This latter possibility points to the exclusivity angle, which emerges clearly in {60,3}-- 'what honor or prestige can passion obtain, where cruelty is widely available?' Perhaps what difficulty-loving Courage really wanted was a chance specifically to do something so difficult that nobody else could achieve it. In that case, what a let-down to find that Oblivion is within the capacity of every Tom, Dick, and Harry! It's almost enough to make Courage give up on Oblivion entirely. This is the kind of in-your-face difficult verse that people think of when they think of Ghalib at his most irritating. It's gnomic, cryptic, undecipherable in a really radical way. The proper question to ask is always, does it sufficiently reward us for our struggles with it? This one I don't find very inspiring. Would anybody ever have memorized or lovingly recited it, or lingered over it and savored it for long periods? Since Ghalib has so many verses that conspicuously do receive such tributes, verses like this one end up, in my judgment, in the second rank.

{6,6}* dil me;N phir girye ne ik shor u;Thaayaa ;Gaalib aah jo qa:trah nah niklaa thaa so :tuufaa;N niklaa 1a) in the heart weeping again/then raised a single/certain/unique tumult, Ghalib 1b) in the heart weeping again/then raised a single/certain/unique tumult, overcoming [me]

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2a) ah, that drop that hadn't exited-- it turned out to be a typhoon 2b) ah, that drop that hadn't exited! --thus a typhoon exited Notes: ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113)

Nazm: That is, the weeping over which my self-control proved a conqueror [;Gaalib], I took to be even less than a drop. Now it has become a typhoon and become a conqueror [;Gaalib] over me. (7)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The word phir alludes to the meaning that in weeping such a great noise and tumult arose-- like the sound of the noise and tumult of water which is created in turbulent rivers or oceans. He says, the first time, when I had controlled that turmoil to such an extent that I didn't permit even a single drop to emerge from the eyes-- it's a pity that now it has emerged as a river and assumed the form of a typhoon. The gist of the verse is that gradually passion gathered the equipment for manifesting itself. (17)

Bekhud Mohani: Again I am weeping uncontrollably. And my heart is entering into a strange state. The drop that had not emerged, because of my control-- now the turmoil of weeping has made it into a typhoon. Or: what we had considered to be not even a drop, is now showing the tumult and confusion of a typhoon. (12-13)

FWP: SETS == EK DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} The word shor as a noun means tumult or clamor; as an adjective, salty or brackish (see {4,7}), so that an affinity is created. With the salt water of a single tear, and the wind of a single sigh [aah], the lover can't help but generate a typhoon. That aah at the beginning of the second line is perfectly positioned-- it not only is the word for a sigh, but it itself is a sigh, and with colloquial perfection introduces an entirely sigh-worthy predicament. This theme of the (deadly) power of the unexpressed is a very Ghalibian one. It's the one drop that didn't emerge (in the form of tears), not the many more that did, which is destined to become the seed of future tempests. For a related example, see {44,2}, in which the lover warns the beloved of the consequences if he is not permitted to express his laments. But of course, that drop could be an undescribed one (since ek can be read merely as 'a, an'); or it could be a 'single, sole' one; or it could be a 'certain' one (of some particular kind); or it could be a 'unique, singular' one (like no other); or it could be a 'preeminent, excellent' one. How we read the ek -- of which ik is of course a metrically shortened version-- will play a large part in our interpretation of the whole verse. And as so often, Ghalib leaves us to decide the question for ourselves. Also connected to it is the theme of the drop and the ocean as microcosm and macrocosm. For examples and discussion, see {21,8}.

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Ghazal 7 7 verses (out of 7); rhyming elements: ard thaa composed after 1821; Arshi #33

{7,1} dhamkii me;N mar gayaa jo nah baab-e nabard thaa ((ishq-e nabard-peshah :talabgaar-e mard thaa 1) he who was not an encyclopedia/gate of battle died in the [initial] threatening 2) Passion, a professional at battle, was a seeker of men/heroes

Notes: dhamki : 'Threatening, threat, menace, reprimand, snubbing'. (Platts p.546) baab : 'Door, gate; chapter, section, division (of a book), head, heading; subject, affair, business, topic, matter'. (Platts p.117)

Nazm: That person who was not a hero of the battlefield of passion died even during a threat. (7)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The allusion is to Farhad.... I did not, as did Farhad, die of the threat of passion; rather, my whole life long I kept confronting the difficulties of passion in a manly way. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: He has established passion as a hero of the battlefield. And he says that whichever person couldn't endure to confront passion died at the sight of passion, and in the [initial] threatening. To take the field and confront passion is a task for those with heart. (13)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Hamid p. 6), and chose to include them all in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Only the most seasoned and practiced warrior-heroes have the honor of grappling directly with Passion itself; the combat is so terrifying that lesser mortals die in the preliminaries, from the mere exchange of threats. I think Ghalib was intrigued by the interplay between mard and nabard . Otherwise, I can't see what else is going on here. Another meditation on nabard : {167,8}. For more examples of baab , see {15,7} and {15,13}. 'Encyclopedia' is not an ideal translation for baab , nor is 'gate', but it's hard to think of anything better. It's such a versatile word, and metrically so ideal in the present situation.

{7,2}* thaa zindagii me;N marg kaa kha;Tkaa lagaa hu))aa u;Rne se peshtar bhii miraa rang zard thaa 1) in life, the knocking/apprehension of death had gripped [my color / me] 2) even/also before taking flight, my color was pallid/wan

Notes: kha;Tkaa : 'Knock, rap, rattling sound or noise, clatter; sound of footsteps; ...a pricking or rankling (in the mind); ...misgiving, suspicion, doubt, suspense; perturbation, anxiety, care, concern; apprehension, fear, dread'. (Platts p.871) rang u;Rnaa : 'To lose colour, to fade; to change colour, become pale (from emotion, or fear, &c.), to be afraid'. (Platts p.601)

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rang : 'Colour, colouring matter, pigment, paint, dye; colour, tint, hue, complexion; beauty, bloom; expression, countenance, appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method; kind, sort; state, condition'. (Platts p.601)

Nazm: That is, when my color had not yet fled, even then it was pale. Otherwise, at the time of death everyone's color flees and he becomes pale and mortal pallor overspreads his face. (7)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pleasure of this reference only the Sufis can enjoy, who are familiar with the secret of 'dying before death'. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: I lived a life that was like death, I didn't know what they meant by the pleasure of life. (13)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY LIFE/DEATH verses: {3,5}; {7,2}; {20,2}; {21,1}; {51,1}; {66,10}; {95,6}; {115,5}; {119,9}; {140,1}; {161,9}; {164,8}; {214,9}; {219,8} This verse seems rather one-dimensional, compared to so many of his others. (I don't really see why Faruqi has highlighted it.) But there's a pleasure in the cleverly idiomatic use of color [rang]. First the color becomes pallid [zard], literally 'yellow', then it takes flight [u;Rnaa] entirely. In English, we can say 'his color fled' (the past tense of 'to flee') when we mean that his face became pale; we could also say 'his color took flight' (the past tense of 'to take flight'). A bird flies, a running-away person flees: in both cases we can call this action 'to take flight'. In Urdu, it's simply 'his color flew' (the way a bird flies), but it's used idiomatically to express fear (see the definition above), so that the color can also be imagined not just to fly in a general way, but to fly away, or flee. Thus even in English we can almost (though not exactly) capture Ghalib's own wordplay. The word kha;Taknaa , with its double meaning of 'knocking' (as of a knock at the door), and 'apprehension', makes the whole thing work. We have two scenes set for us. In the first (and amusingly concrete) one, right in the midst of its busy life Color hears a literal knocking, and realizes Death is at the door. So Color first turns pale, and then flees, as anybody might in this situation. In the second, more abstract one, Color simply goes around leading its life in such a state of anxiety and apprehension of death that it turns pale and then blindly takes flight, simply from dread. So Color is an active agent, with tactics and strategies. And yet of course the paling of the face and loss of color are exactly the signs of approaching death. So on the simplest reading, the verse might be saying merely, 'I turned pale and my face lost color when I was near death'. But isn't the personification of Color far more lively and poetically effective? There's also the question (unresolved, as usual)-- is Color acting on my behalf, or is Color a separate entity that makes its own decisions?

{7,3} taaliif-e nus;xah'haa-e vafaa kar rahaa thaa mai;N majmuu((ah-e ;xayaal abhii fard fard thaa 1) I was compiling the manuscripts/prescriptions/recipes of faithfulness 2a) the collection of thoughts was still/now in bits and pieces 2b) the sum/aggregate of my thought was still/now fragmentary

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Notes: taaliif : 'Uniting, connecting, bringing together; ...collecting, compiling'. (Platts p.306) nus;xah : 'A copy or model (whence anything is taken), an exemplar, a prototype; a manuscript-copy, a copy, an edition; a copy-book, writing-book; --a recipe, prescription (of medicine, or of ingredients for any composition'. (Platts p.1137) majmuu((ah : 'The collective mass (of), the whole (of), the aggregate (of); the sum (of); a crowd, an assembly; a collection; meeting; a compendium; a body (of laws); a magazine; a miscellany; --a form (in printing)'. (Platts p.1003) fard : 'Single, sole, only, one (and no more); singular; odd; unique, unequalled, incomparable; --s.f. A single person, an individual; a single thing or article; a unit; an odd number; (in Gram.) the singular number; a half, one of a pair or couple; a hemistich, a verse; couplet (being the half of a four-line stanza); a single sheet or strip (of paper); a piece, fragment; the outer fold (of a quilt, &c.); a draft (of an account); a register, record, statement, accountsheet; a list, roll, catalogue'. (Platts p.778)

Nazm: That is, I had already attained the rank of author in the art of passion, and as yet even my intelligence and enthusiasm had not been collected and were still in bits and pieces, unedited; that is, it was the time of inexperience. (7-8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I was establishing the special features and nature of every single medicine from among the medicines for faithfulness, and that was a time when my thought was examining every single excellence of faithfulness separately. Then I began to be tyrannized over, and my prescriptions for faithfulness remained incomplete and partial. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: As yet the book of my thoughts hadn't even been compiled-- that is, the thoughts had not been brought together. I had not even become properly conscious that I was composing books of faithfulness. That is, the Eternal Destiny-assigner had bestowed on me faithfulness from all eternity. (13)

FWP: SETS == A,B WRITING verses: {1,1}; {7,3}*; {9,8x}; {10,12}; {14,9}; {18,2}; {24,8}; {27,2}; {34,1}; {36,10}; {43,5}; {46,4}; {61,3}; {61,5}; {97,4}; {110,3}; {114,7}; {118,3}; {125,8}; {136,2}; {143,1}; {143,6}; {159,4}; {160,4}; {167,6}; {169,13}; {176,2}; {176,4}; {177,8}; {180,3}; {184,1}; {190,2}; {191,4}; {192,5}; {202,4}; {205,3}; {209,6}; {219,5}: {225,1}; {233,11}; {234,13} Look at the powerful and fruitful opposition between the collecting and uniting activity in the first line, and the dispersedness of thoughts in the second line. Does the dispersedness of my thoughts make my collecting activity even more impressive (as Nazm and most other commentators would say), or does it serve to demonstrate the immaturity and folly of my project (as in the perfectly defensible 2b)? And if the task is foolish, exactly why is it so? Needless to say, a variety of possible reasons can be adduced, depending on one's interpretive choices about the first line. And even beyond those first-line choices, this is an 'A,B' verse: how are we to put the two lines together? As so often, Ghalib forces (or allows) us to do the decision-making work ourselves, with no guidance from him. Here are some enjoyable possibilities: =I was compiling manuscripts of faithfulness, because I was still young and foolish and didn't know any better

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=since I was young and naive and needed advice, I was compiling manuscripts of faithfulness to help me understand the world =I was compiling manuscripts of faithfulness-- and I was only at the chaotic beginning of that huge work =I was compiling manuscripts of faithfulness, but I couldn't seem to make any headway-- no matter what I did, they remained chaotic =the collections of thoughts on faithfulness were all jumbled up, so I was organizing and compiling them Moreover, the grammatical ambiguities of the i.zaafat are in full flower in the first line: are the manuscripts (etc.) about faithfulness, or do they belong to faithfulness, or are they constituent parts of faithfulness? And even if we follow Bekhud Dihlavi, are they 'prescriptions' for enhancing one's faithfulness, or for curing one of faithfulness? (Faruqi proposes (July 2000) that nus;xah should mean 'manuscript', since faithfulness is not a disease with a prescription. I'm not sure I agree.) And even if not 'manuscripts' or 'prescriptions', what was being compiled could also be 'recipes' or 'outlines' of some other kind. The wordplay about writing in this verse is also spectacular, including as it does every single significant word in the verse: 'compiling', 'manuscripts', 'collection', 'thought', 'fragmentary'; see the definitions above for details. Faiz, who famously called his first divan naqsh-e faryaadii (thus inserting an i.zaafat into {1,1}), called his second divan nus;xah'haa-e vafaa ; this phrase is also used as the title of his collected verse [kulliyaat].

{7,4}* dil taa jigar kih saa;hil-e daryaa-e ;xuu;N hai ab us rahguzar me;N jalvah-e gul aage gard thaa 1) from heart to liver, which is now the shore of a sea of blood 2a) in that roadway, the glory/appearance of the rose was once the dust 2b) in that passage, the glory/appearance of the rose was once worthless/trivial

Notes: jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) gard honaa : 'To be or become dust: --to be worthless or good-for-nothing; to be as dust, to be easily removed or overcome, to be practicable or easy'. (Platts p.903)

Nazm: That is, from heart to liver there's now a river of blood; formerly, on that very road there was such flourishing that the glory/appearance of the rose became dust when compared to it. That is, once upon a time I too had a flourishing and colorful heart. (8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that we too used to have, in the time of happiness and carefreeness, a joyous heart and a colorful temperament; constantly those springtimes remain before our eyes, compared to which the glory/appearance of the rose is dust. But such a revolution of the times has taken place that now from the heart to the liver is the shore of a sea of blood, and nothing else. (18-19)

Bekhud Mohani: Now, from the heart to the liver dust is flying-- that is, there's not even a trace of blood left. At one time, nothing but turbulent blood could be seen, which created such a flourishing in the heart that compared to it even the glory/appearance of the rose was dust. (13-14)

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FWP: JALVAH verses: {6,8x}; {7,4}; {15,4}; {15,6}; {16,8x}; {17,4}; {24,3}; {24,6}; {47,1}; {48,9}; {49,8}; {49,12}; {53,2}; {58,4}; {68,3}; {68,4}; {71,8}; {75,5}; {80,7}; {87,7}; {101,9}; {113,6}; {114,3}; {114,5}; {124,6}; {149,2}; {164,7}; {170,5}; {171,3}; {191,6}; {192,2} JIGAR: {2,1} Bekhud Mohani puts the sea of blood in the past, so that now only its driedout shore remains; the heavy flow of blood from liver to heart once provided resources for the radiant flourishing of love. (For more on the liver see {30,2}.) The difficulty is that the 'shore of a sea of blood' seems to make both ocean and sea equally present. Most commentators go with Nazm, making the sea of blood a present sign of the breakdown of both liver and heart, which have melted away into blood. This view requires a previous state in which the liver-heart highway once had as its dust 'the glory/appearance of the rose'. Because the lover saw the beloved's beauty in every grain of dust? Because the lover disdained the mere garden rose and considered it worthless (as in 2b), by comparison to the beloved's beaury? How impossible it is to detect any tone in this matter-of-fact reportage! Is the lover sorry, or glad, or indifferent, about the change? The tone shifts with the reading, and vice versa. Ghalib is very partial to 'dust' vs. 'glory/appearance' oppositions. For more examples, see {6,8x}; {68,4}; {87,7}; {114,3}; {114,5}. (I also want to put {61,7} alongside these, as further material for thought.)

{7,5}* jaatii hai ko))ii kashmakash andoh-e ((ishq kii dil bhii agar gayaa to vuhii dil kaa dard thaa 1) as if the tug-of-war of the sorrow/anxiety/trouble of passion ever at all goes! 2a) if even/also the heart went, then there was that very same pain in the heart 2b) if even/also the heart went, then that itself was a pain in the heart

Notes: kashmakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro'. (Platts p.835)

Nazm: That is, it's not possible in any way for the sorrow of passion to become less. If the heart departed, even then grief of the heart would remain. (8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, after passion arises, then it's not possible in any way that a man should be able to find salvation from it. That is, as long as the heart was in the body, so long did the sorrow of passion take on different moods and different aspects. When the heart was departing, the pain and grief of the heart's going remained in the body just the same. The meaning is that there was no way to save the life-- neither in the heart's presence, nor after its going. (19)

Bekhud Mohani: The pain of the grief of passion is not something that erases other griefs. We used to consider that after losing the heart, our spirit would be free of conflicts. But even now there's just the same pain, because the heart's going is itself a pain with no cure. (14)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION Of course, 'losing your heart' is just as painful as keeping it. Especially, no doubt, when the process involves a prolonged tug-of-war in which the heart

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constantly seeks to pull away and join the beloved. Does such pain ever depart? Of course not! More examples of this emphatic, negative use of ko))ii : {119,9}, {148,7}. The pivotal word in the second line is vuhii , which anchors the two distinct ways in which the grammar of the second line can be arranged. Either vuhii is an adjective modifying dard (2a), or it is a noun referring to the heart's going (2b). (For an example of an equally pivotal yihii, see {20,1}.) If we adopt (2a), then the result is a vision of something like the phantom pain in an amputated limb. Even if the heart goes, it still aches. If we adopt (2b), then even if the heart goes, its going is itself painful to the heart (or to the place in my chest where it still metaphorically is). The result is a kind of tug-of-war between keeping and losing, a process of seeking to root out grief while finding it ever more subtle and ineradicable. The same paradox of losing and finding the heart is expressed in several verses of {4}.

{7,6} a;hbaab chaarah-saazii-e va;hshat nah kar sake zindaa;N me;N bhii ;xayaal biyaabaa;N-navard thaa 1) the companions were not able to perform a cure of wildness/solitariness/desolateness 2) even in a cell, Thought was a desert-wanderer

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; --wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; ...distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I was confined in a cell, but my thought was in the desert. Imprisonment brought no remedy for madness. (8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The rule is that they imprison the insane man in a madhouse in order to cure his madness. Mirza Sahib says, friends and acquaintances couldn't at all cure my madness. In order to keep me away from wildness and madness, they had imprisoned me. But even in a prison-house, my thought remained a desertwanderer-- just the way I myself, before being imprisoned, used to wander around in a state of madness in the wilderness. (19)

Arshi: Compare {92,1}. (220)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} The lover's solicitous friends have become concerned about his increasingly erratic behavior. Finally they've found it necessary, for his own sake, to have him imprisoned-- so he won't be a danger to himself or others, no doubt. They visit him in his madman's cell; they try to restore his sanity, but always fail. Even the presence of companions can't relieve his solitude. Even the confinement of his body can't stop his thought from going off wandering in the desert. The multifarious meanings of va;hshat, all of them appropriate here, are at the heart of the verse. In some ways, a cell is indeed like a desert. Companions don't really exist, they are shadows or irrelevant distractions. The mind can roam freely in a cell, uncontrolled by the imperatives and pressures of the outside world-- just the way the body can roam freely in a desert. The man of such 'wildness' may or may not be a madman; his friends might think so, but there's nothing in the verse to compel that reading. All we know is that he's obsessively given to 'desert-wandering', but that may be a sign of

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his 'wildness' in the sense of 'solitariness' or 'sadness' or 'desolateness', rather than of actual madness. And then-- in this verse, who's speaking? It ought surely to be the lover. If so, the lover appears to be a detached observer-- someone who sounds both well-informed and quite sane. Does the lover's 'madness' exist only in the eye of the beholders? In our Lit Hum class this past semester we read the book of Job, and this verse makes me think of the relationship of Job and his 'comforters'.

{7,7}* yih laash-e be-kafan asad-e ;xastah-jaa;N kii hai ;haq ma;Gfarat kare ((ajab aazaad mard thaa 1) this corpse without a shroud is that of heartbroken/heartsick Asad 2) may God have mercy on him-- he was a strangely/rarely free/emancipated man!

Notes: ;xastah-jaa;N : 'Heart-broken; sick at heart'. (Platts p.490) ((ajab : 'Wonderful, marvelous, astonishing, amazing, miraculous, strange, extraordinary, rare; droll'. (Platts p.758) aazaad : 'Free, unfettered, unrestrained, uncontrolled; liberated, discharged, set free, ransomed, emancipated; free born; free from care, at ease, lighthearted; --s.m. A freeman; freedman; a faqiir or Mohammadan devotee who shaves his beard and eye-lashes and vows chastity, but considers himself exempt from all the ceremonial observances of religion; a free-thinker'. (Platts p.45)

Nazm: That is, he was a strangely free one-- for his corpse too is without a shroud. (8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, while the broken-down Asad remained alive, he remained in a state of freedom. He was absolutely free of confinements and relationships. After death, it is being said, his body was without a shroud, for it too is free of grave and shroud. 'May God have mercy'-- this sentence of prayer has produced an extraordinary pleasure. (19)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, the meaningful words are yih , be-kafan , and ;xastah-jaa;N . yih implies that a picture of the bier without a shroud comes before the hearer.... be-kafan brings the condition of freedom before the eyes: he was such a free one that even his corpse is without a shroud.... ;xastah-jaa;N begins to create a picture of his condition, which is peculiar to those free ones. The late Janab Zauq too has expressed this theme. But the difference between these two [verses] will not remain hidden from people of insight: kahte hai;N aaj ;zauq jahaa;N se gu;zar gayaa kyaa ;xuub aadmii thaa ;xudaa ma;Gfarat kare [they say today Zauq passed from the world what a fine man he was! may the Lord have mercy on him] (14)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE In this verse, ((ajab is treated as an adverb. With its heavily-emphasized range of meaning: it runs from the admiring, through the surprised, to the patronizing. All of which work well with the image of a man so 'strangely free' that even his corpse is without a shroud. Does the speaker feel admiration, amazement, pity, or all three? Is he perhaps even identifying a body-- does he perhaps recognize with a shock the emaciated corpse of

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someone he used to know well? Or is he the only mourner, keeping watch over the body, and casually explaining the situation to a passer-by? The speaker exclaims 'may God have mercy on him!' in absolutely the conventional way. But for what exactly, other than because he's dead? Should God forgive him for his free-thinking, emancipated ways? Should God generously compensate him for his extreme poverty and brokenheartedness? Or does he need God's mercy at all? Might he even have been, in his nothing-left-to-lose state, 'free from care, at ease'?

Ghazal 8 3 7); verses (out of rhyming elements: il pasand aayaa composed 1816; Arshi #3

{8,1} shumaar-e sub;hah mar;Guub-e but-e mushkil-pasand aayaa tamaashaa-e bah yak-kaf burdan-e .sad dil pasand aayaa 1) the counting of the prayer-beads was enjoyable to the difficulty-loving idol 2) the spectacle of the holding of a hundred hearts in one hand pleased her

Notes: Nazm: Her taking a hundred lovers' hearts in one hand at one time pleases her. Then, the poet has also made of those hundred hearts a set of prayer-beads, and he says it's as if she finds the counting of the prayer beads very pleasing. (8)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This entire ghazal is from that period when the color of Persianness [faarsiyat] was prevailing [;Gaalib] over Mirza Sahib. Except for the refrain, whole lines are in Persian. So much so that the first line of the opening-verse too contains a Persian aspect in the refrain. That is, among the people of Iran mar;Guub aamad is idiomatic [mu;haavarah]. But with regard to the meaning, this is such an untouched theme that up to today no poet's thought has touched it. (19-20)

Bekhud Mohani: Because in prayer-beads there are one hundred beads, in the act of reciting prayers with them, the act of holding a hundred hearts in one hand occurs. Because a difficult feat has taken place, the activity pleases the difficultyloving beloved. (15)

Arshi: Compare {136,4}. (255)

FWP: IDOL verses: {8,1}; {14,2}; {22,3}; {24,7}; {57,4}; {59,5}; {62,5}; {67,3}; {70,1}; {81,2}; {91,10}; {99,7}; {120,8}; {121,7}; {125,4}; {133,1}; {136,6}; {154,3}; {163,1}; {184,1}; {186,4}; {190,4}; {200,1}; {204,6}; {208,6}; {231,6}; {233,8} ISLAMIC: {10,2} TAMASHA verses: {5,7x}; {8,1}*; {10,4}; {10,7}; {12,4x}; {22,9}; {24,2}; {26,2}; {48,9}; {49,9}; {51,4}*; {53,3}; {66,8}; {68,3}; {96,2}, sair ; {96,4}; {96,6}; {113,2}; {117,1}; {123,9}; {181,1}; {184,2}; {190,2}; {206,1}; {208,1}; {213,2}; {214,7}; {217,3}; {224,1}; {227,1}; {229,1} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses. He chose to include the first three (Hamid p. 7) in his published divan, and to omit the last four (Raza p.113). More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices.

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Compare the prayer-beads in {10,2}, which gives another slant on them; there are more in {60,8} as well. Are the prayer-beads that she holds in her hand equated with lovers' hearts (as her mind wanders during her prayers), or are the lovers' hearts that she holds in her hand equated with prayer-beads (as they are lined up and idly fingered for their mnemonic value)? Naturally, there's no way to tell. The word tamaashaa is one of Ghalib's fundamental concepts. As Faruqi points out in {51,4}, it has both a this-worldly meaning (the spectacle of the world's beauty, variety, change, inexhaustibility) and a mystical meaning ('a scene of mystical knowledge that is visible only to the eye of the heart, and that can be seen only by closing or rejecting the eye of the senses'). Here, the first, worldly sense of tamaashaa is dominant, but the second can't be ruled out either, since after all it's 'prayer-beads' that the demanding, intransigent 'idol' is counting. Note for meter fans: Does the first line represent a case of 'contrived rhyme'? Not exactly, but still, since mushkil-pasand is treated as a single adjective, there's an unusual relationship that blurs the normal barrier between rhyme and refrain.

{8,2} bah fai.z-e be-dilii naumiidii-e jaaved aasaa;N hai kushaayish ko hamaaraa ((uqdah-e mushkil pasand aayaa 1) thanks to heart-lessness, eternal hopelessness is easy 2) 'Opening' found our difficult knot pleasing

Notes: kushaayish : 'Opening, loosening, solving, breaking (a fast); expansion, enlargement; ...clearness, serenity, cheerfulness'. (Platts p.836) be-dilii : 'Heartlessness [i.e., being disheartened], dejection; dissatisfaction, discontent'. (Platts p.202).

Nazm: That is, thanks to the distaste and disaffection that I feel toward the world, it's easy for me to endure the shock of hopelessness and despair.... Now it [=our difficult knot] will never be opened, because Opening is pleased that it should remain knotted-- pleased because we don't care, and why wouldn't such indifference be pleasing to Opening? (9)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here be-dilii also is used to mean naa-umiidii . Mirza Sahib says, only thanks to hopelessness has perpetual failure become easy.... In the second line the meaning has been expressed that our difficult knot has become pleasing to Opening. The rule is that when something suits someone's temperament, and pleases him, then he tries to keep it established, and as much as possible busies himself in protecting it. When Opening became pleased by our difficult knot, why would he allow it to open? (20)

Bekhud Mohani: The result is that the mood [kaifiyat] of peace that we had obtained thanks to hopelessness, then came to an end. And Opening, in its attempt to solve our difficult knot, gathered material for more difficulties. (15)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5} The awkward hyphen in 'heart-lessness' is there to block the usual English meaning of cruelty and coldness. This state of bedilii is a Sufistic one of literally having no heart, because one has lost it, given it away, dissolved it into blood, or the like. For other 'knot' verses, see {48,3} and {214,4}.

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To personify 'Opening' must be pretty close to the height of abstraction; Ghalib is fond of such madly metaphysical personifications. This verse also reminds me of the extremely abstract {157,5}. The question is not how hard we have to work to 'get' the verse, but whether what we then 'get' is sufficiently rewarding. This verse always irritates me a bit because the game doesn't seem worth the candle. And how are the two lines related to each other? The usual Persian/Urdu image, parallel to the English metaphor of 'unravelling' a 'knotty' problem, is that one 'loosens the knot' of the problem with the 'fingernails of thought'. Here, the heart is gone entirely, so there is no 'knot' to open at all: the pain of perpetual hopelessness is no great problem if there is no one around to experience it. 'Opening' was pleased by our 'difficult knot'-- perhaps it was intrigued because no 'opening' was even required, since the knot opened itself by vanishing? Or perhaps, as Bekhud Mohani maintains, Opening's efforts to free the knot only renewed our torments and deprived us of our former, hardwon peace of hopelessness.

{8,3} havaa-e sair-e gul aa))iinah-e be-mihrii-e qaatil kih andaaz-e bah ;xuu;N-;Galtiidan-e bismil pasand aayaa 1a) the desire/lust to stroll among roses-- a mirror of the mercilessness of the murderer 1b) the breeze of the stroll among roses-- a mirror of the mercilessness of the murderer 2) for the style of the bloody tumbling/wallowing of the slaughtered/wounded was pleasing [to her]

Notes: havaa : 'Air, wind, gentle gale; ...affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p.1239) ;Galtiidan : 'To tumble, wallow, roll'. (Steingass, p.892)

Nazm: That is, her desire to stroll among the roses is a mirror of her cruelty, and the proof of her pursuit of violence is that the roses have the style of the bloody writhing of the wounded. (9)

Bekhud Mohani: Here, havaa means 'ardor'. Mirza Sahib says that the murder has an ardor for looking at flowers, and this ardor is a mirror of her tyranny. That is, when our murderer goes into the garden for a stroll, she doesn't go in order to feel the cool breezes and look at the colorful flowers. Rather, she only goes to see those flowers that have fallen from the branches and lie on the ground, and change their position with the gusts of wind. She considers the spectacle of those flowers to be a dance of the wounded, and from seeing them she receives joy and delight. (21)

Baqir: The garden provides her with a fine occasion for watching the spectacle of red red flowers, fallen from the branches, that are picked up by the wind [havaa] and blown around this way and that, and that offer her the vision of wounded ones writhing in blood. (37)

Faruqi: It's not enough to count only the flowers or other parts of the garden among those wounded by the beloved. When the beloved goes out for a stroll in the garden, then on the road too people see her; and when people see her, then they are wounded; and when they are wounded, then they writhe in dust and blood. Thus although the beloved expresses a desire for a stroll among the roses, this is only an excuse for going outside: 'if I go outside, then people

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will be wounded by my glory/appearance and writhe in the dust, and bathe in blood; and this sight will be interesting and worth seeing'. (2006: 37-38)

FWP: MIRROR verses: {6,8x}; {6,13x}; {8,3}; {9,8x}; {10,5}; {12,4x}; {15,17x}; {16,2}*, a glass mirror; {16,6x}, glass and metal clash; {16,7x}; {17,4}; {22,3}; {29,2}, with a list of 'parrot and mirror' verses; {34,2}*, with Ghalib's commentary; {40,1}; {41,4}; {42,5}; {47,1}; {48,10}; {56,2}; {60,10}; {63,1}; {64,2}; {68,3}; {73,1}; {96,4}; {98,9}; {113,6}; {115,4}; {116,8}; {122,2}; {125,5}; {128,1}; {141,3}; {170,5}; {172,1}; {173,5}; {187,1}; {190,4}; {190,9}; {192,3} aabgiinah ; {206,2}; {208,6}; {213,1}; {217,3}; {228,2}; {228,5}; {228,9}; {229,1}; {230,2}; {230,4}; {230,8} The duality of havaa , as both desire and air/breeze, is the life of the verse. For similar uses of this versatile word, see {16,3} and {164,6}. If it is the beloved who desires to stroll among the roses, as in (1a), it is because either (1) the wind-tossed roses remind her of her wounded, bloody, writhing lovers; or (2) her wounded, bloody, writhing lovers remind her of wind-tossed roses (so that her 'stroll' is perhaps metaphorical only, and thus her desire for it quite properly a 'mirror' of her cruelty). For another verse that compares her wounded lovers to roses, see {136,4}. In the case of (1b), it is the breeze of her stroll through the garden that mirrors the murderousness of her heart, because the breeze generated by her passing tosses the roses and knocks the petals off the overblown ones, giving her pleasure. This verse marks the first occurrence in the published divan of the mirror, one of Ghalib's favorite images. Some of Ghalib's 'mirror' verses are among his most obscure, baroque, abstract ones. The present verse is relatively simple, as 'mirror' verses go. (Sometimes a mirror is just a mirror.)

{8,4x}* ravaaniihaa-e mauj-e ;xuun-e bismil se ;Tapaktaa hai kih lu:tf-e be-ta;haashaa-raftan-e qaatil pasand aayaa 1) from the flowingnesses of the wave of the blood of the slaughtered one there drips 2) [the fact] that the grace/piquancy of the headlong going/departure of the murderer pleased [it/him]

Notes: ravaanii : 'Going, proceeding; course; running; currency; flowing, flow, flux; effusion; fluency'. (Platts p.603) lu:tf : 'Delicacy; refinement; elegance, grace, beauty; the beauty or best (of a thing); taste; pleasantness; gratification, pleasure, enjoyment; --piquancy, point, wit; --courtesy, kindness, benignity, grace, favour, graciousness, generosity, benevolence, gentleness, amenity'. (Platts p.957) be-ta;haashaa : 'Inconsiderate, without distinction; rash, reckless; rashly, recklessly, headlong'. (Platts p.202) raftan : 'To go, going, going away, departing; dying'. (Platts p.595)

Gyan Chand: ;Tapaktaa hai means 'is apparent'. The blood of the slaughtered one is flowing swiftly, making waves. Meanwhile the murderer, having murdered him, had run headlong away. It seems that the the murderer's style of fleeing has pleased the blood of the wounded one, and it too is running in the same manner. (64)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE

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Raza p. 113. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, and chose to include the first three in his published divan. This verse is the fifth of the original seven. This is a verse in which the dead lover (or at least the 'wave' of his blood) continues to 'speak', or at least to think and communicate; for more such examples, see {57,1}. And the use of 'flowingnesses' makes it one of Ghalib's verses in which abstractions are unexpectedly pluralized; for others, see {1,2}. The imagery of flowing and moving is conspicuous: 'flowingnesses', 'wave', 'drips', 'going', 'came' [aayaa]. But the linchpin of the verse is surely 'drips'. As Gyan Chand observes, 'drips' seems here to describe a revealing of information to the observer. (In fact the grammar of the verse is so tightly structured that there's no other way to put it together.) For more examples of such 'dripping', see {17,2}. The murdered lover's blood moves in a wave, with such 'flowingness' that information drips from it. The 'flowingness' itself is also a literary term for one of the virtues of a good ghazal verse. And it echoes or evokes the style in which the beloved murderer ran headlong away after her bloody deed. Did she run with such 'grace', and was there a kind of 'piquancy' or 'gratification' in seeing her run? And does the 'flowingness' of the blood express its admiration by actually seeking to follow the fleeing beloved, or does it just quietly ripple to itself in appreciation? Though I can see the skill of its wordplay, this verse is right on the edge (or perhaps over the edge) of what I call 'grotesquerie'. Do we really have to imagine, all too graphically, a wave of blood flowing out so fast and powerfully and expressively from the murdered lover that it's actually a form of post-death communication? And if we don't imagine it literally, then what's left of the verse?

Ghazal 9 7 verses (out of 9); rhyming elements: ii nah hu))aa composed 1821; Arshi #7

{9,1}* dahr me;N naqsh-e vafaa vaj'h-e tasallii nah hu))aa hai yih vuh laf:z kih sharmindah-e ma((nii nah hu))aa 1) the image of 'faithfulness' in the world did not become a cause for comfort 2) this is the word that did not have to be ashamed before Meaning

Notes: naqsh : 'A painting, a picture; portrait; drawing; a print; a carving, an engraving...an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Platts p.1145) tasallii : 'Consolation, comfort, solace; assurance; contentment, satisfaction'. (Platts p.324) sharmindah : 'Ashamed, abashed, shamefaced, bashful, modest, blushing'. (Platts p.726)

Nazm: That is, when lovers in the world are faithful, it means that they want comfort. When they are faithful and don't receive comfort, then the word 'faithfulness' is left meaningless and vain. The conclusion is that lovers' faithfulness is a meaningless thing. (9)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that when in the world people, through faithfulness, stamp the mark [naqsh] of faithfulness on someone's heart, it's as if they waste their time in a useless task. (21)

Bekhud Mohani: In the world, no peace could be gained from the word 'faithfulness'. This is the word which has never placed itself under obligation to meaning; that is, this is a meaningless word. (16).

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION INDEPENDENCE verses: {3,10x}; {9,1}; {9,5}; {9,9x}; {12,4x}*; {18,4}; {24,5}; {26,1}*; {39,4}; {44,1}; {64,5}; {77,7}; {92,4}; {99,6}; {115,7}; {119,5}; {119,7}; {119,8}; {130,1}; {130,3}*; {148,5}*; {149,2}; {154,2}; {159,6}; {182,1}; {189,2}; {190,2}*; {198,1} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses (Raza p. 223), from which he chose six verses (Hamid p. 8) for inclusion in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Not only is there no faithfulness, there's not even any real meaning for the concept. The word 'faithfulness' itself is not beholden to meaning-- it does not blush with the embarrassment of indebtedness when it meets Meaning on the street. For a similar use of minnat-kash , see {9,5}. The literal meaning of sharmindah , 'shame-affected', works here to a fine double purpose. One the one hand, to avoid the shame of debt sounds like a virtue. (But why do all the other words have meanings, and this is the single one that does not?) And of course, by being devoid of meaning the so-called word/quality of 'faithfulness' is shameless-- in fact, entirely lost to shame. The equation between being 'beholden' and being 'ashamed' is very deeply Ghalibian. In others of what I call his 'independence verses', he both extends and strengthens this notion. He also applies it clearly to human life, as a strong philosophical, or esthetic, or even moral, imperative. I was surprised to notice how many such 'independence verses' there are, and how firm and consistent is their advice. For example, in {9,5}, your never speaking kindly to me means that my ear is not 'indebted' to good news. In {18,4}, Beauty is disgracefully 'pledged' to henna. In {39,4}, the lover rejoices in his freedom from minnat to digestive fluid (yes, really). By contrast, {44,1} depicts Ghalib's poetry as available for free-- except for the weight of (indebtedness to) his kindness that the buyer must bear. More abstractly, {64,5} makes it clear that the path to one's ardently desired 'own truth/reality' requires confiding oneself to oblivion. In {92,4} the lover is glad that his lament does not 'abase itself' before 'Effect'-which is to say, it has no effect. In {130,3} a door is described as 'bent over' under the weight of minnat to the worker who made it, and the lover is enjoined not to accept favors from anyone. And in {130,3} the edict is laid down in so many words that one should accept only what comes 'from one's own existence', since one's own heedlessness is to be preferred to awareness borrowed from others. This counsel of self-reliance at all costs, and non-beholdenness at all costs, is in a class by itself as an explicit didactic principle that leaps out at the reader from Ghalib's poetry. In the whole of the divan, no other such principle appears, as far as I can see. And I certainly didn't go looking to find any such principles, including this one! I don't think any serious reader of Ghalib could fail to notice it.

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{9,2} sabzah-e ;xa:t se tiraa kaakul-e sar-kash nah dabaa yih zumurrud bhii ;hariif-e dam-e af((ii nah hu))aa 1) by the greenery of the down your high-headed ringlet was not tamed 2) even this emerald did not become equal to the breath of the serpent

Notes: Nazm: It's well known that faced with an emerald, a snake goes blind. But what kind of emerald is the greenery of the down on you cheek, that it has no effect on the serpent of the ringlet? That is, even after the emergence of the down, there was no change in the alluringness of the curls. (9)

FWP: THE BELOVED IS A MALE ADOLESCENT: This is one of the relatively few verses in which the beloved is clearly imagined as male-- as a boy just reaching puberty. The full set of such verses: {6,13x}; {9,2}; {9,8x}; {53,1}; {73,1}; {85,3}; {168,2}; {173,7}; {192,5}. This is a verse entirely based on wordplay. Your curly lock of hair is twisting, arrogant ('high-headed'), and dangerous like a snake. Your newlydowny cheek is like 'greenery' and its greenness should blind the snake as an emerald traditionally does. But your serpentine curls are too potent and deadly for even such an emerald to be able to confront them.

{9,3}* mai;N ne chaahaa thaa kih andoh-e vafaa se chhuu;Tuu;N vuh sitamgar mire marne pah bhii raa.zii nah hu))aa 1) I wanted to escape the sorrow of faithfulness 2a) that tyrant didn't consent even to my dying 2b) that tyrant wasn't appeased even by my dying

Notes: Nazm: That is, when I wanted to die and escape being pursued by grief, out of fear of disgrace and disrepute she didn't approve even of this. (9)

Bekhud Dihlavi: She considers, 'His death will be a cause of disgrace to me. In addition, my practice of tyranny will be altered. The greatest reason of all to forbid it is, where will I get another such faithful person?' The beauties of word and meaning in this verse have no end. (22)

Bekhud Mohani: I wanted to die, and be saved from the grief of faithfulness. But the beloved is so tyrannical that even after my dying she was not appeased-- for, 'Whom will I torment now?' (17)

FWP: The obvious chief point, and main pleasure, of the verse is the elegant double meaning in line (2). The grammar has been carefully contrived so that with immediate plausibility and colloquialness both (2a) and (2b) present themselves at once to the reader. The mind must go back and forth between them. These two readings set up two different relationships between the lines: if we adopt (2a), then the two lines contain his proposal and her reaction to the proposal. If we adopt (2b), then the two lines are spoken after the speaker's death (a kind of speech not at all uncommon in the ghazal), and explain his motivation for dying, and also report her reaction to his dying. Both readings yield piquant and appropriate glimpses of the 'tyrant' beloved. The proof that both readings are plausible is that the commentators see both: Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi rely on (2a), while Bekhud Mohani relies on (2b).

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Yet none of them, and none of the other commentators either among the many I've read, point out the cleverness, elegance, and enjoyableness of the creation of two such equally appropriate, equally meaningful readings-- or even the fact that there are two readings. Why they don't is one of the great Mysteries of Life.

{9,4} dil guzar-gaah-e ;xayaal-e mai-o-saa;Gar hii sahii gar nafas jaadah-e sar-manzil-e taqvii nah hu))aa 1) let the heart be a roadway of the thought of wine and wineglass at least 2) if the breath didn't become a path to the destination of piety

Notes: sahii : 'emphat. part. Yea, verily, indeed, true enough, forsooth; just so; very well, so be it, let it be; just'. (Platts p.707) jaadah : 'Way, road, pathway, highway; the right road; manner, practise'. (Platts p.370)

Nazm: The poet means that if you haven't attained piety, then have rakishness at least. (9-10)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the heart wants to lead a pious life. But when the taste for sin doesn't let it remain pure, then why not let yourself go and sin freely? In any situation, one should do what is in one's power; what kind of wisdom is it to pass one's days like one devoid of senses? (17)

Chishti: The goal of piety is that a man should remain happy at all times. Since I attain this mood from the thought of wine-drinking, if my temperament is not inclined toward piety then what's the harm? (265)

Faruqi: Compare {51,4}. (62)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} SAHI EXPRESSIONS: The colloquial expression hii sahii has a vigor and fluency that's hard to capture in translation; for discussion of this form, and examples, see {148,1}. Examples of its negated form nah sahii ('so what if not', or 'if not indeed'): {36,9}; {114,4}; {148,7}, the whole of {175}, and {228,9}. Ghalib himself adds to sahii to the list: {148,10}. There is also sahii alone, which has a more simply concessive sense ('so be it'; 'no doubt'; 'indeed', 'even so'), without such an emotional charge; examples include {19,5}; {66,8}; {98,8}; {115,4}; {115,8}; {157,6}; {205,6}; {209,3}; {215,2}; {216,1}; {231,8}. If the breath is not to be an austere, linear Sufi path to a pious destination, then the heart should be a passage, a highway full of back-and-forth traffic, for thoughts of wine and wineglass. There's a kind of metaphysical defiance: if we can't get what we want in the piety line, then let's turn our attention to a more promising domain. After all, as he points out in {22,2}, he's the kind of person who would turn back from the door of the Ka'bah itself if it didn't happen to be open. Faruqi also rightly singles out {51,4} as a parallel. In a characteristic bit of ghazal inversion, the first line is the 'then' clause, the second line the 'if' clause, so that the meaning is rendered opaque until the very end. The parallelism of the two lines is part of the thought-provokingness too. If the breath is not a path, then let the heart be a roadway. One is thus led to ask how the 'destination of piety' is parallel to the 'thought of wine and wineglass'. Could they be as similar and closely linked (and substitutable) as breath and heart, path and roadway?

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The word jaadah , 'path', seems to be part of Ghalib's regular tool-kit of highly abstract imagery. This is the first example we've seen, but there are a number of others. They include: {10,12}; {18,2}; {33,1}; {92,2}; {92,3}; {123,11}.

{9,5} huu;N tire va((dah nah karne me;N bhii raa.zii kih kabhii gosh minnat-kash-e gulbaa;Ng-e tasallii nah hu))aa 1) even in your not making a promise/vow, I'm content/agreeable, for not ever 2) was my ear obligated/indebted to the auspicious-sound of comfort

Notes: gulbaa;Ng : 'The note of the nightingale; warbling; --sound; --fame, rumour; --glad tidings; --a loud shout'. (Platts p.911) minnat-kash : 'Under obligation, obliged' (Platts p.1071).

Nazm: That is, if you had made a promise of union, then in that case I would have been happy, because it was exactly my desire; and since you did not make a promise, I'm happy even with that, because I'm saved from obligation-- and from an obligation that I never could have repaid. (10)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} There are two ways of reading (2). First, as Nazm and the other commentators do. Second, as a less defiant and more resigned statement: even if you don't promise I'm content, I accept it, because after all I'm used to it-- never have I heard a single word of encouragement from you anyway. Being under no 'obligation' to comfort (because of never having received any) is my normal state. The use here of minnat-kash , literally 'pleading, entreating', is similar to that of sharmindah in {9,1}. In both cases, the poet plays with conventional metaphors for 'being under obligation, being indebted' in a way that also invokes their original, literal meanings.

{9,6}* kis se ma;hruumii-e qismat kii shikaayat kiije ham ne chaahaa thaa kih mar jaa))e;N so vuh bhii nah hu))aa 1a) to whom can complaint be made about the deprivedness of [our] destiny? 1b) to whom can complaint be made about [our] being deprived of destiny? 2) we wanted to die-- and even that didn't happen

Notes: kiije is an archaic form of the passive; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: That is, I made my last wish-- that death should come. And I remained deprived even of that. (10)

Bekhud Mohani: The inquirers ask what it means for a man to want to die and not be able to die. 1) The Qur'an gives an answer to this... that is, death will come neither before the preordained time, nor after it. 2) He couldn't die because of the thought that the beloved and all the world would taunt him for being cowardly and thus giving up his life. 3) Out of fear of disgracing the beloved, he couldn't die. 4) Often it can be seen in stories of love, that in the state of separation the lover has taken poison, or in the state of union with the beloved poison has

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been given to him, and his absorption in passion didn't allow his spirit to accept the effect of the poison. (18)

FWP: To ask who can receive and rectify a complaint is a standard rhetorical question. But in this verse it's become re-literalized: if even death is not available, to whom in fact can we complain? God, the only ruler of death and fate, is obviously not listening. Thus we either have a radically deprived type of destiny, or are so deprived that we have no destiny at all. Faruqi considers these merits minor, and says this is not a good verse (July 2000). I have to agree that I'm not able to mount a very spirited defense of it.

{9,7} mar gayaa .sadmah-e yak-junbish-e lab se ;Gaalib naatavaanii se ;hariif-e dam-e ((iis;aa nah hu))aa 1) I died from the shock of one movement of the lip, Ghalib 2) from weakness, I did not become a {equal to / a withstander of} the breath of Jesus

Notes: Nazm: In this verse, the subtle point of meaning is that the poet considers the movement of Jesus's lip to override the effect of the voice of Jesus. He says, I died from the shock of the very first movement, and was not equal to the breath of Jesus; that is, I had no encounter with the breath of Jesus, and because of my weakness I had no chance to hear the voice of Jesus. (10)

Bekhud Mohani: By 'breath of Jesus' here... the voice of the beloved is intended. (18)

Faruqi: [Concerning the problem of the rhyme-word,] Arabic words ending in alif-e maq.suurah have been pronounced in Persian not only that way, but also with yaa-e ma((ruuf . Ghalib has here imitated the Persian usage. Thus in this ghazal the rhymes will be read as taqvii and ((iisii . (2006: 41)

FWP: SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} Compare {78,5}, which also plays with the paradox of killing and/or curing. In Islamic tradition, the characteristic miracle of Jesus is to breathe on the dying or dead and thus restore them to life. Doesn't the failure of this miracle give the lover a perverse form of pride? He is so extravagantly weak, he has carried his passion so far, that he is more weak than Jesus's life-restorative power is strong. As usual, from the first line we can't tell what's going on. Could the beloved be about to say something to him, something exceptionally cruel or kind? Could she even be about to kiss him? Could he himself be about to say something, and struggling to move his lips? Even after we see the second line, we still can't say whether 'Jesus' is meant to be a literal, explicitly religious reference or (as Bekhud Mohani maintains) a metaphor for the beloved. Note for fans of metrical technicalities: This verse has been criticized for its 'audacity' with the rhyme-word. The criticism is understandable: basically, it doesn't rhyme. In the word is;aa , the chho;Tii ye at the end is really only a bearer of a dagger alif . The name is thus pronounced as though it ended with alif , not ii . To use it as a rhyme-word in this ghazal is really a remarkable liberty to take; but as Faruqi points out, it's based on earlier Persian usage. As Nomanul Haq pointed out in a meter workshop at Penn (October 2005), everybody takes liberties in the opposite direction, using rhyme-words of varying spellings if they have (more or less) the same sound. This verse is a seemingly unique example in which syllables of completely different sound

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have been harmonized only by archaic Persian usage and (apparent, not real!) spelling.

{9,8x} nah hu))ii ham se raqam ;hairat-e ;xa:t:t-e ru;x-e yaar .saf;hah-e aa))inah jaulaa;N-gah-e :tuu:tii nah hu))aa 1) the reckoning/writing of the amazement of the down/writing on the cheek of the beloved did not become [done] through us 2) the page of the mirror did not become the movement-place of a parrot

Notes: raqm [or raqam]: 'Mark, sign, price-mark; writing, hand-writing, character; notation of numerals (chiefly taken from the initials of the terms for the Arabic numbers); one character in the notation above described; --arithmetic; figure, number; entry, item; amount, sum, total; --a fractional share of an undivided estate; --rate of assessment; --manner, kind, method, sort; article (of goods)'. (Platts p.596) ;xa:t:t : 'A line, a streak, or stripe, a mark; lineament; --writing, character, handwriting chirography; a letter, epistle; --down on the face, incipient beard, &c.; beard; moustaches'. (Platts p.490)

Gyan Chand: In this verse are a number of affinities. They versify the mirror as 'amazed', and upon seeing the down on the beloved's face we became stricken with amazement. They call the down 'green'; thus its reflection in the mirror seems like a parrot. In addition to this, when they teach a parrot to speak, then they sit it down before a mirror. From behind the mirror a man speaks, and the parrot, seeing its own reflection, considers that the parrot in the mirror is speaking. For this reason it too begins to speak. It's obvious that at the time of speaking, it must also be moving a bit. In this way the mirror becomes the 'movement-place of the parrot'. By the 'movement-place of the parrot is meant the place where the parrot speaks. He says, having seen the beautiful down on the beloved's cheeks, the state of amazement that overcame us-- on a page of paper we would not be able to explain it. Our page was the kind of mirror in which no parrot moved or spoke. (72-73)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; WORD MIRROR: {8,3} WRITING: {7,3} Raza p. 223. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses, and chose to include in his published divan the first verse, and the final six. This verse is the second of the original nine verses. This is a verse in which the beloved is imagined as an adolescent boy; for others, see {9,2}. The combination of parrots and mirrors seems to bring out the maximally abstract side of Ghalib's temperament. The present verse is what I call a verse of 'word-exploration', for at the center of it is ;xa:t:t , which means 'writing', 'down on the cheek', or any 'line, mark'. In the sense of 'writing', it has an affinity with 'reckoning/writing' and with 'page'. Its sense of 'down on the cheek' is the primary meaning used in the verse. And in the sense of 'line, mark', it can't help evoking-- since the verse contains a 'mirror'-- the countless small 'polish-marks' [jauhar] that necessarily appear over time on any metal mirror. (On this jauhar see {5,4}.) The prose paraphrase of this verse would seem to be, 'we didn't/couldn't record our amazement at the line of down on the beloved's cheek; the inert page didn't become activated by containing our writing-- it remained an inert mirror, stupefied by amazement, that didn't display the movements of a

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parrot who was speaking in front of it.' Mirrors frequently display their own 'amazement' at the beauty displayed in them by exactly this inertness and stupefaction; see for example {63,1}. Gyan Chand gives a helpful explanation of the mirror-based training process that is used for parrots, and that seems to underlie the imagery of the second line. For other parrot-and-mirror verses, see {29,2}. This verse is aggravating: it gives you the feeling that if you can just put the imagery together a bit more subtly, and manipulate all those words and ideas more cleverly, something fascinating and deep will emerge. But as far as I can tell, nothing that's worth the effort ever does emerge. We're left with the thought 'we were unable to describe/record the amazing beauty of the down on the beloved's cheek', plus a lot of cleverly interrelated wordplay. This is something worth having, of course; it's just not Ghalib at his smashing, irresistible best. Note for meter fans: This meter can alternatively begin with a short syllable instead of a long one. That's the case here, so there's no need to take the initial nah as the variant ne (as for example in {169,2}).

{9,9x} vus((at-e ra;hmat-e ;haq dekh kih ba;xshaa jaave mujh-saa kaafir kih jo mamnuun-e ma((aa.sii nah hu))aa 1) look at the amplitude of the mercy of God-- that there would be bestowed 2) an infidel like me, who didn't become obligated/indebted to/for sins

Notes: vus((at : 'Latitude; amplitude; spaciousness; capacity; space, extent; space covered, area; dimensions; bulk; --convenience, ease; opportunity, leisure'. (Platts p.1192) jaave is a variant form of jaa))e ; GRAMMAR. mamnuun : 'Who has received a favour, favoured, obliged; grateful, thankful'. (Platts p.1068) ma((aa.sii : 'Acts of disobedience, sins, crimes'. (Platts p.1046)

Gyan Chand: In the second line the idea has been reversed. It must somehow be made straight. The meaning of 'obligated to sins' apparently seems to be 'indebted to sins'; that is, to accept sins, to embark on sinning. But here there's no scope for such an interpretation. Sin was able to do me the kindness of not making me its prey. But I didn't wish to accept this kindness from it, and I myself made myself available as its practice-slate. The Lord's mercy is so ample that he has bestowed a sinful infidel like me. (73)

Faruqi: This also means that he was so inconsiderate that he committed no sins, and denied God this opportunity to exercise his benignness. (Marginal note, handwritten in English, 1980)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} ISLAMIC: {10,2} Raza p. 223. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses, and chose to include in his published divan the first verse, and the final six. This verse is the third of the original nine verses. The speaker presents himself as an apparently unique, or at least extraordinary, kind of 'infidel'. But what kind exactly? The flexibility of the i.zaafat , and the usual Ghalibian ambiguities, permit his distinctive 'infidelity' to take various possible forms: =he didn't become 'obligated to sins', because he didn't take any advantage of them-- that is, he didn't commit any sins

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=he didn't become 'obligated to sins', because he didn't accept their offer to refrain from persecuting him; thus he became their prey, and sinned (Gyan Chand's reading) =he didn't become 'obligated [to God] through sins', because he didn't commit any sins; thus he perversely denied God a chance to receive the obligatory penitence and then to show him mercy (Faruqi's reading) There's thus an element of paradox in his behavior: an 'infidel' is normally expected to sin; an 'infidel' who stubbornly refuses to succumb to sin is-what? Not a Muslim exactly, because in this case the speaker specifically identifies himself as an 'infidel', one who has been created as such by the remarkable breadth of God's imagination and power. Is he perhaps a strange, hybrid, virtuous infidel? Or maybe a truly perverse infidel? In any case, the speaker's emphasis on radical independence, on rejecting all outside influence, is one of the few strongly discernible, consistent strands in Ghalib's poetic self-presentation; for many examples, see {9,1}. For another perspective on sinfulness, compare {38,6}.

{10,1}* sataayishgar hai zaahid is qadar jis baa;G-e ri.zvaa;N kaa vuh ik guldastah hai ham be-;xvudo;N ke :taaq-e nisyaa;N kaa 1) that Garden of Rizvan of which the Ascetic is a praiser to {this / such an} extent-2) it is a single/particular/unique bouquet in the niche of forgetfulness of us self-less ones

Notes: ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) :taaq : 'An arched building; an arch; a cupola, vault; a recess (in a wall), a niche; a shelf; a projecting part, a cornice, a ledge, &c.; a window; a balcony; --adj. & s.m. Single, sole; uneven, odd (opp. to juft ); singular, rare, unique, unmatched, unequalled, unrivalled'. (Platts p.750)

Hali: To compare heaven to a bouquet in the niche of forgetfulness of the self-less ones is a an entirely novel simile which has never been seen anywhere. (139)

Nazm: To 'put something in a niche', or put it 'at the top of the niche', is an idiom for forgetting about it, and to put it 'in the niche of forgetfulness' is even more of an exaggeration. And here the word 'bouquet' has produced this beauty: that people put bouquets in niches for decoration. And the second point is that the Garden has been interpreted as a bouquet in a lowly place; this too is not devoid of beauty. But this beauty is associated with style and rarity [badii((]; there is no excellence of meaning. (10)

Faruqi: In this verse the beauty of style and rarity themselves are of no common order. To demean paradise with such a suitable word as 'bouquet', and then to do it in such a way that it is lower than the low and to make that very thing a cause of adornment (they arrange bouquets in niches) is no laughing matter. This is a high order of innate wit.... Then look at the use of 'selflessness' with 'niche of forgetfulness'-- it creates a novel form of wordplay upon wordplay. When we've forgotten ourselves, why wouldn't we forget a commonplace bouquet like Paradise?.... It should also be kept in mind that 'niche of forgetfulness' is a metaphor; by using it in its dictionary meaning Ghalib has created a reversed metaphor. This too is a special trait of Mir and Ghalib's. (1989: 32-33) [2006: 42-43]

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FWP: SETS == EK GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of twelve verses (Hamid p. 9), and he chose to include all of them in his published divan. This verse is so lovely, so witty, and so complexly enjoyable! It belongs to a set that I call 'snide remarks about Paradise'; for more examples, see {35,9}. But the verse is careful to emphasize that the snide remarks apply to that particular Garden of Rizvan which the Ascetic praises- and thus not necessarily to any other. For perhaps the one he's praising is not the real one! It might be only a petty floral vision framed in his own limited and conventional imagination. The relative clause structure makes this possibility quite real, and of course wonderfully piquant and enjoyable. By turning the immortal Garden of Rizvan into a mere bouquet, we self-less ones also destroy its immortality and condemn it to start withering almost at once. Moreover, if this one is one single [ik] bouquet, we probably have others as well, of equal or greater glory. And all of them, of course, have been tossed aside casually because in our self-less state we know far more beautiful realities. Yet apart from this obvious reading of ik , consider all the others in the definition above! The verse might not mean to dismiss the bouquet so casually, but to describe it: a 'certain' one, or a 'unique, singular' one, or a 'preeminent, excellent' one. Any of these readings, needless to say, would give a different, and differently piquant, slant to the verse. The semantic affinity between ek and :taaq (see the definition above) is also remarkable, and doubly enjoyable since the primary meaning of :taaq is so entirely unrelated. On the 'niche of forgetfulness', compare {111,2}.

{10,2} bayaa;N kyaa kiijiye bedaad-e kaavish'haa-e mizhgaa;N kaa kih har ik qa:trah-e ;xuu;N daanah hai tasbii;h-e marjaa;N kaa 1a) how can one describe the injustice/iniquity of the diggings of the eyelashes?! 1b) why should one [even] mention the injustice/iniquity of the diggings of the eyelashes? 2) for every single drop of blood is a bead of a set of coral prayer-beads

Notes: Nazm: That is, the needles of the eyelashes made such movements that every single drop of blood in my body became a bead in a set of prayer-beads of coral. That is, a hole was made in every single drop of blood. (10)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the movement of the beloved's eyelashes has turned every drop of blood into a tear; these, when strung together on a thread, have taken on the form of prayer-beads of coral. The theme of the verse is not devoid of rareness. (23)

Josh: The point is worthy of attention that this intense kind of cruelty has provided equipment for our pain and for a stipend [by selling the costly prayerbeads?]. (61)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; KYA ISLAMIC verses [using specifically Islamic religious terminology]: {3,14x}; {8,1}; {9,9x}; {10,2}; {14,10}; {24,3}

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Perhaps I use these prayer-beads when reciting her praises, or perhaps she herself enjoys playing with them; for more examples of their use, see {8,1}. To read the first line as an exclamation (1a) makes the injustice indescribably great, the pain of those piercing eyelashes inexpressibly keen. But thanks to the colloquial multivalence of kyaa , reading the line as a straightforward question (1b) makes the injustice something to be dismissed, something not even to be mentioned-- for the victims of that injustice, the blood-drops, are in no position to complain. They've not only greatly increased in value and durability by turning into precious coral, but have themselves become praisers and means of praise. And if the victims don't complain, where's the injustice? As a special display of virtuosity, this verse also provides the ghazal with a second opening-verse.

{10,3} nah aa))ii si:tvat-e qaatil bhii maana(( mere naalo;N ko liyaa daa;Nto;N me;N jo tinkaa hu))aa reshah nayastaa;N kaa 1) not even the grandeur of the murderer became a forbidder to my laments 2) the straw that I took in my teeth became a vein of a reed-thicket

Notes: reshah : 'Fibre; filament; nerve; vein (of a leaf)'. (Platts p.612)

Nazm: The custom is that when someone is oppressed by someone's grandeur and overbearingness, he takes up a piece of grass or straw and holds it between his teeth, so that the person will take him for an obedient and conquered one and no longer seek to kill him. The poet says that not even the grandeur and overbearingness of the murderer caused my laments to cease. The straw that I took in my teeth as an expression of submission became a vein of a reedthicket, and it's obvious that the flute grows in a reed-thicket, and the and the flute is a master of lament; in short, that straw became the root of lamentation [naalah-kashii kii ja;R]. (10-11)

Bekhud Mohani: If we take 'murderer' to mean 'cruel ruler', then the interpretation will be that that tyrant's decrees had no weight at all in my eyes. When that tyrannyenjoyer tormented me and then in a terrifying manner forbade me to complain, and I prudently wanted to express my submissiveness, then my heart didn't agree, and whatever came to my lips, it expressed at the risk of my life, and the terrifyingness didn't work at all. ('People of heart' say whatever they want to say before dying, even under the shadow of the executioner's sword.) From the word bhii , more breadth has been created in the interpretation of the verse. That is, nothing else could forbid me at all; and not even the grandeur could forbid me. (20)

Arshi: Compare {226,1}. (182, 268)

FWP: MUSIC verses: {10,3}; {13,1}; {15,10}; {18,7x}; {21,8} Lots of long aa sounds, a very flowing verse-- appropriately to the theme. There's an elegant ambiguity inreshah , which can be either alive, like a nerve, or merely passively organic, like a fiber. Thus 'vein' seemed the best single English translation. So the image evoked in line (2) is either just a straw-turned-flute clutched in the lover's teeth, or something actually sentient in its own right, a living extension of the quivering nerves of the reedthicket. Do we then link music directly, organically, to pain? Or to the suppression and sublimation of pain? Nazm's phrase 'the root of lamentation' also captures something of this quality.

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For an even more potent imagining of the power of a suppressed naalah , see {44,2}. For other 'straw in the teeth' examples, see {155,3} and {226,1}. Note for meter fans: Here we have nayastaa;N , scanned - = = ; in {18,7x} we have naisitaa;N , scanned = - = . Meanwhile the spelling remains unchanged. For many more such conveniently permitted fluctuations, see the Glossary of the Practical Handbook of Urdu Meter.

{10,4} dikhaa))uu;Ngaa tamaashaa dii agar fur.sat zamaane ne miraa har daa;G-e dil ik tu;xm hai sarv-e chiraa;Gaa;N kaa 1) I will show a spectacle, if the age/world/heavens would give me leisure 2) my every wound/scar in the heart is a single/unique/excellent seed of a 'fireworks-tree'

Notes: The perfect dii is idiomatically used for the subjunctive; GRAMMAR. zamaanah : 'Time, period, duration; season; a long time; an age; (in Gram.) tense; --the world; the heavens; fortune, destiny'. (Platts p.617) ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113)

Nazm: That is, from every single wound/scar a fire-filled lament will issue, for which a 'fireworks-tree' has been used as a simile. (11)

Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii says:] It's a very good verse. The subtlety is that my love increases daily. 'If the age gives me leisure' is an expression of despair. (33)

Shadan: A 'fireworks-tree' is a kind of fireworks that resembles a cypress tree; when the trunk is lit, the branches sway and glow like lamps. And when the fuel is exhausted, it goes out with a sound like a crack. (118).

FWP: SETS == EK TAMASHA: {8,1} If I ever have the leisure (which I perhaps never will), I will show you a tamaashaa , a 'spectacle'-- perhaps even one with both worldly and mystical dimensions. Alas-- I am so beset by griefs and cares that I scarcely have even the breathing space it would take to light a fireworks-tree and watch it burn. And yet the burning wounds/scars in my heart could generate many such fireworks-trees. Every one of these wounds is ik tu;xm -- a single seed? Only a seed? A certain seed (particularly identified)? A unique seed? A preeminent seed? As so often, it's up to us to decide. Whatever kind of 'seed' it may be, it's as efficacious as the tiny acorn that contains within itself the essence of a mighty oak. In fact my wounds/scars can even dazzle like the sun itself, as in {62,8}. And the chiraa;Gaa;N can be treated like a carnival display, as can be seen, with other examples, in {5,5}. Note for grammar fans: In the first line, the perfect form of denaa is used where we would expect the subjunctive. This is a common idiomatic pattern; for more examples, see 'Perfect for subjunctive' on the GRAMMAR page.

{10,5}* kiyaa aa))iinah-;xaane kaa vuh naqshah tere jalve ne kare jo partav-e ;xvurshiid ((aalam shabnamistaa;N kaa

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1) your glory/appearance made of the mirror-chamber that aspect 2) that a ray of the sun would make of a field of dew

Notes: naqshah : 'A delineation; a portrait; a picture; --a design; a plan; a model, pattern, an exemplar;--a map, chart'. (Platts p.1145) jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) ((aalam : 'The world, the universe; ...state, condition, case, circumstances; a state of beauty; a beautiful sight or scene'. (Platts p.757)

Nazm: That is, the way dew cannot endure before the sun, the mirror cannot endure your glory. (11)

Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii says:] From a ray of the sun, every drop of dew glitters. In the same way, the mirror-chamber shone from your glory. (34)

Faruqi: There are only two points toward which attention has not been directed. One is verbal: that is, the wordplay between naqshah and ((aalam ; and the second pertains to meaning: that is, that every drop of dew reflects the sun, and in that way itself becomes the sun. The glory of the beloved was reflected in this way in every mirror, so that in unity the aspect of variety began to show itself. (1989: 34) [2006: 44-45]

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} SUN verses: {3,14x}; {10,5}; {24,3} The sun striking a field full of dewdrops makes every single drop sparkle; the dazzle of your glory would light up a roomful of mirrors. Then instantly the sun vaporizes the dewdrops into mere moisture; your radiance would cause the mirrors themselves to melt with shame at their own inability to capture and display such beauty. The word for 'dew', shabnam , literally means 'night-moisture'. A concise evocation of exactly the two conditions always banished by the the sun. One more evocation of a 'mirror-chamber': {217,3}.

{10,6}* mirii ta((miir me;N mu.zmir hai ik .suurat ;xaraabii kii hayuul;aa barq-e ;xirman kaa hai ;xuun-e garm dihqaa;N kaa 1) in my construction is concealed/conceived a single/unique/preeminent aspect of ruin 2a) the essence of the lightning of the harvest is the hot blood of the farmer 2b) the hot blood of the farmer is the essence of the lightning of the harvest

Notes: mu.zmir : 'Concealed; --conceived (in the mind), imagined; understood'. (Platts p.1043) ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) .suurat : 'Form, fashion, figure, shape, semblance, guise; appearance, aspect; face, countenance; prospect, probability; sign, indication; external state (of a thing); state, condition (of a thing), case, predicament, circumstance; effigy, image, statue, picture, portrait; plan, sketch; mental image, idea; --species; specific character, essence; --means; mode, manner, way'. (Platts p.747) ;xaraabii : 'Ruin, destruction, desolation; badness, corruption, depravity; noxiousness, ill, evil, mischief, perdition; misery, trouble, affliction; difficulty, perplexity'. (Platts p.488)

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hayuulaa : 'Matter; first principle (of everything material); --first sketch (of a picture &c.); appearance.' (Platts1246)

Nazm: That is, I'm the farmer whose enthusiasm itself works like lightning on his own harvest-- that is, it burns the harvest. (11)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that my body is mortal. That is, my existence is proof of my mortality.... The second line should be thought of as a commentary on the first line. (24)

Baqir: [The commentator sa((iid says:] The farmer's hot blood is the cause of ruin. The growing of the harvest in fact is the essence of lightning-- that is, destiny itself is the cause of its oblivion. Because if the harvest had not grown, then lightning would not have fallen. (34)

Josh: To the extent that the laborer's blood becomes warm during hard work, that very heat becomes the essence of the lightning that falls on the harvest. (62)

Naim: The phrase mirii ta((miir me;N , 'my construction,' is ambiguous. It can mean both 'formation of me' and 'formation by me.'... The phrase barq-e ;xirman : 'the lightning that destroys the crop.' Also, perhaps, the lightning or the source of burning hidden within the crops themselves. The blood of the farmer (hot from the labour in the fields) contains an inkling of the heat of the lightning that will eventually strike the heaped-up crops in the field and destroy the fruits of the farmer's labour. The general statement in the first line is supplied a proof in the second line. No moral judgement, however, is being made in this couplet. It is only a straightforward statement of a fact as seen by the poet. Compare the above with {120,7}, which also contains a reference to this anticipation of lightning striking gathered crops. (1970,15-16)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EK; TRANSITIVITY LIGHTNING verses: {10,6}; {12,1}; {15,1}; {36,5}, bijlii ; {60,11}; {81,1}; {87,5}; {108,3}; {120,7}; {126,5}, bijlii ; {148,6}; {149,2}; {152,1}; {155,1}; {163,3}, .saa((iqah ; {214,7} In 'my construction' is 'concealed' or 'conceived', ik (a 'single', or 'only', or 'particular', or 'certain', or 'unique, singular', or even 'excellent, preeminent') .suurat -- an aspect, or shape, or form, or mode, or image (see the full definition above), of a specially predestined destruction Thus the hot blood of the farmer is somehow the source or essence of the lightning that strikes the harvest. Just look how the second line sets forth, with no evidence except our intuitive grasp, a vivid, intellectually alluring, somehow convincing proposition. Moreover, as Naim points out, 'my construction' [mirii ta((miir] can mean both 'the construction of me' and 'the construction done by me', so new possibilities are opened up in this way also. (For discussion of this, see {41,6}.) With the first reading, the reference would be to the farmer's own hot blood; with the second reading, it would be to the fate of the harvest. Other examples of Ghalib's complex uses of ta((miir : {114,6}; {135,1}. What is the relationship of the two lines? Are they parallel and mutually explanatory? Is the second a proof of the first, or a mere example used to illustrate it? And in the second line, what I call 'transitivity' also operates: is the line really talking about the lightning of the harvest, as in (2a), or about the hot blood of the farmer, as in (2b)? Ghalib has carefully arranged the

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verse in such a way that we have to decide for ourselves. Compare the similar view and equally complex ambiguities of {202,4}. For other perspectives on the intimate relationship between lightning, harvest, and human desire, see {12,1}, {87,5}, {120,7}; and in {155,1}, Ghalib himself explains what 'the poet' means by the 'lightning of the harvest'.

{10,7} ugaa hai ghar me;N har suu sabzah viiraanii tamaashaa kar madaar ab khodne par ghaas ke hai mere darbaa;N kaa 1) greenery has sprouted everywhere in the house-- {look at / make a spectacle of} the desolation! 2) now the ground/foundation of my Doorkeeper rests on digging up grass

Notes: madaar : 'Place of turning or returning; axis; pivot; centre; --a place within which anything revolves, an orbit; a circumference; --a place where anyone stops or stands, station, seat; that on which anything stands or rests, or depends; ground (of), basis.' (Platts pp.1013-4)

Nazm: 'Greenery' refers to 'strange greenery' [sabzah-e begaanah]. Because greenery that springs up inappropriately is called 'alien greenery', and for greenery to spring up in a house at all is inappropriate. Thus the author's intention is that the desolation has reached such a pitch that 'strange greenery' has sprouted in my house, and it is the Doorkeeper's task to keep strangers out of the house. (11)

Baqir: If the poor man didn't uproot grass, then what else would he do? Because of the desolation, nobody at all comes to the house. He has to think of his employment. This kind of [weedy] grass is called 'strange greenery' [sabzahe begaanah]. It's as if the Doorkeeper, considering it a stranger, goes around ejecting it. (35)

Josh: There's no poetic quality [shi((riyat] in this theme. Also, there's no connection between desolation and a Doorkeeper. (62)

FWP: HOME: {14,9} TAMASHA: {8,1} The house is now in an advanced state of desolation. The Doorkeeper has nothing to do now, since no guests come, and no valuables are left in the house. Nor does the homeowner have any money left to pay him. Fortunately, he can make a living cutting and selling the tall wild grasses, enjoyably called 'strange greenery', as fodder. A nice affinity between madaar as 'ground', and grass-digging, seems to be a chief pleasure of this verse. Nazm points to the idiom about 'strange greenery' as well. For another very apt verse about greenery in the house, see {156,1}. Also, the general tone of relish in the first line is amusing. If your house is full of lush grasses, providing a whole new living for your doorkeeper, what kind of desolation is that? It's a kind of desolation in which you can take a perverse pride, and about which you can say, 'Enjoy the spectacle!' [tamaashaa kar]. After all, at least one guest is apparently there, being shown around with a flourish, so the 'desolation' is not exactly total. The word tamaashaa can also have a mystical sense that would be very appropriate here; for more on this, see {8,1}.

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{10,8} ;xamoshii me;N nihaa;N ;xuu;N-gashtah laakho;N aarzuu))e;N hai;N chiraa;G-e murdah huu;N mai;N be-zabaa;N gor-e ;Gariibaa;N kaa 1) hidden in silence, (re)turned to blood, are all the hundreds of thousands of longings 2a) I am the {burnt-out / dead} lamp, tongueless, of the tomb of {strangers /poor men} 2b) I am the {burnt-out / dead} lamp of the tomb of tongueless/voiceless {strangers / poor men}

Notes: gashtah : 'Returned; turned; inverted, reversed; converted; perverted; changed; --become; formed'. (Platts p.910) ;Gariib : 'A stranger, foreigner, an alien; --a poor man; a meek or humble person'. (Platts p.770)

Nazm: They call a silent man 'tongueless', and they use the simile of a 'tongue' for the flame of a lamp. So the extinguished lamp is compared to a tongueless man. (11)

Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii says:] The theme has been expressed in words extremely full of longing. (35)

Josh: This image is exactly appropriate and extremely full of rhetorical effect [balaa;Gat]. (62)

FWP: SETS == MIDPOINTS In the second line, the crucial adjective 'tongueless' is positioned right between the two clauses, so that it can elegantly go either with the burnt-out lamp that has no tongue of flame (2a), or else with a tomb where voiceless 'poor men' who have no power to speak out and be heard (or 'strangers' who may not even know the local 'tongue' at all), are buried (2b). Lighting a lamp on someone's tomb is an act of piety and remembrance. So the tomb where the lamp itself has been allowed to burn out and thus is 'dead', feels doubly full of pathos. The verse is also full of sonorous long vowels, making for fine sound effects and great flowingness. It's the kind of verse that a traditional audience could enjoy immediately; if Ghalib had written nothing but verses like this, he would never have become the controversial figure he did become.

{10,9}* hanuuz ik partav-e naqsh-e ;xayaal-e yaar baaqii hai dil-e afsurdah goyaa ;hujrah hai yuusuf ke zindaa;N kaa 1) still/now a single/unique/excellent ray of the picture/print of the thought of the beloved is left 2) the chilled/sad heart is, so to speak, a chamber of the prison of Joseph

Notes: hanuuz : 'Yet; still; further; just now, at present; hitherto, to this very time'. (Platts p.1239) ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) partav : 'Light, ray, beam, sunbeam, moonbeam, splendour; reflection; enlightenment'. (Platts p.242)

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naqsh : 'Painting; colouring; drawing; designing, &c.; --delineation; -embroidery; --a painting, a picture; portrait; drawing; a print; a carving, an engraving; a map, or plan (com naqsha); a design; --an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Platts p.1145) afsurdah : 'Frozen, frigid, benumbed; withered, faded; dispirited, dejected, low-spirited, melancholy'. (Platts p.62) tang : 'Contracted, straitened, confined, strait, narrow, tight; wanting, scarce, scanty, stinted, barren; distressed, poor, badly off; distracted, troubled, vexed; dejected, sad, sick (at heart)'. (Platts p.340)

Nazm: The word hanuuz implies that even when a thought is forgotten, some ray of it remains, and even in that ray is so much light that the heart is like the cell of Joseph. In this verse the word afsurdah has made manifest the heart's being a cell, and the same word also creates a reason for the forgetting of the beloved-- that is, when the heart became afsurdah, then how could the thought of the beloved exist? And narrowness [tangii] is a necessary property of afsurdagii -- this is the reason he called it a cell, because 'cell' is the name of a narrow chamber. (11-12)

Bekhud Mohani: He didn't say 'a ray of the beloved'. He didn't say 'a ray of the thought of the beloved'. He said 'a ray of the shape of the thought of the beloved'. That is, the ray of an obliterated image. From this it's clear what a state that heart must have been in at the time when the radiance of the beloved was in it. (23)

FWP: SETS == EK; HANUZ Nazm's point is that tangii , 'narrowness', the quality of a prison cell, at once evokes its metaphorical extension into 'narrowness' of heart-- distractedness, sorrow, vexation, and general distress (see the definition of tang above). The afsurdah heart is melancholy (in feeling) the way a prison cell is chilly in temperature; and the way a prison cell is narrow (in shape), the heart is straitened and oppressed (in feeling). Both prison cell and heart are dark and empty: Joseph has left the cell, the beloved has left the heart. But both are dimly lit by a lingering ray: the cell by the last flicker of Joseph's beauty, the heart by the doubly distanced (as Bekhud Mohani quite rightly points out) 'picture of the thought' of the beloved. Or else the image can be of Joseph in his prison cell: he is never quite alone, for even at his lowest ebb, the thought of the divine Beloved never leaves him. Similarly, the sad heart has a single little flicker of light and hope-- or maybe it's a big flicker, or some particular or unique flicker (see the definition of ek above). And it has it hanuuz -- which itself can mean either 'now' (this is a low point, but things may well improve) or 'still' (this is part of a steady downward movement, with no turnaround in view). For another abstractly-distanced 'thought of the beloved', see {205,5}.

{10,10} ba;Gal me;N ;Gair kii aaj aap sote hai;N kahii;N varnah sabab kyaa ;xvaab me;N aa kar tabassumhaa-e pinhaa;N kaa 1) by the side of the Other you now sleep somewhere-- otherwise 2) what [would be / is] the cause-- [your] having come into [my] sleep/dream-- of hidden smiles?

Notes: aaj : 'To-day, this day; this time, now'. (Platts p.22)

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Nazm: The author's meaning seems to be that since you are secretly laughing by the Rival's side, I see that laughter in a dream. And seeing the style of that laughter, I've understood that such laughter takes place only at the time of union. Otherwise, when has it ever been my fortune to have you come into my dream, with a hidden smile? (12)

Bekhud Mohani: Passion and jealousy have a blouse-skirt [=inseparable] relationship. He has seen the beloved smiling in a dream. Suspicion says that she must be sleeping today by the Rival's side; otherwise, why the smile? When I have been in her company, I've only ever seen her brow wrinkled in an angry frown. (23)

Josh: The intensity of the theme is worthy of praise, but the nakedness of the theme makes this intensity ineffective. (63)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} This verse makes elegant use of the two possible meanings of varnah , which marks the clause transition but really belongs with the second line. It can be used contrafactually. 'If you were not sleeping with him, would you come into my sleep/dream-- ;xvaab can have both meanings-- at all? And if you did come, would you smile? And if you did smile, would it be this hidden, secret smile? I know what you are doing, and I also know how you are taking pains to make me aware of it!' This reading uses deduction from the contrafactual to reach and proclaim a new, even triumphant (though also wretched) knowledge; the lover speaks in a tone of sarcastic reproach. But varnah can also be used with an indicative effect. 'You might be sleeping with the Other; but if not, then what in fact is the meaning of your hidden smiles? Are you up to some new, and even worse, devilry that I haven't figured out yet? I'll have to be very cautious and alert for clues.' For more on the 'hidden smile', see {130,4}.

{10,11} nahii;N ma((luum kis kis kaa lahuu paanii hu))aa hogaa qiyaamat hai sirishk-aaluudah honaa terii mizhgaa;N kaa 1) no telling which ones' blood will have turned to water-2) it's a Doomsday/disaster-- your eyelashes' becoming tear-wetted

Notes: qiyaamat : 'The resurrection, the last day; --confusion, commotion, tumult, uproar, extraordinary to-do; anything extraordinary; a scene of trouble or distress; a great calamity; excess; --adj. & adv. Wonderful; excessive, very great; heavy, grievous, oppressive; --wonderfully; excessively, extremely, very'. (Platts p.796)

Nazm: That is, who has the strength to see your eyes full of tears? And he has also suggested that since the beloved's eyelashes always prick the lovers' hearts and livers, and her tears are those very tears that were produced in the lover's heart and wanted to come to the eyelashes. That is, the tears on your eyelashes did not come from your heart, but rather are those that were produced in the lovers' hearts and livers. (12)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, which innocent ones must you have killed? Your eyelashes becoming wet with tears is in no way less than Doomsday. (25)

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Arshi: Compare {193,2}. (291)

FWP: DOOMSDAY verses: {10,11}; {11,4x}; {16,10x}; {18,1}, Judgment Day; {25,8}, Judgment Day; {35,2}; {38,4}; {51,1}; {61,7}; {66,4}; {96,3}; {100,6}; {104,1}; {107,1}; {119,6}; {119,10}; {124,2}; {157,6}; {158,8}; {164,6}; {166,1}; {166,5}; {190,8}; {194,4}; {202,6}; {205,5}; {205,8}; {206,4}; {222,1]; {231,4} There is of course a strong affinity between water and tears. Lovers shed tears of blood anyway, and for 'blood to turn to water' conveys almost the same panic, dread, and helplessness in Urdu that it does in English. The lovers' bloody tears now become water, since their blood has turned to water. Where did those tears on the beloved's eyelashes (and not, be it noted, in her eyes) come from? (Of course, they could also come, even more dangerously, from her own eyes, as in {193,2}.) Do we read the first line as a result of the second (the lovers become distraught when they see the beloved's tears), or the second line as a result of the first (the beloved has reduced more poor victims to a liquid pulp, as we know from seeing their tears on her cruel eyelashes)? In either case, it's a major disaster, a Doomsday, the wrath of God.

{10,12}* na:zar me;N hai hamaarii jaadah-e raah-e fanaa ;Gaalib kih yih shiiraazah hai ((aalam ke ajzaa-e pareshaa;N kaa 1) in our sight/gaze is the path of the road of oblivion, Ghalib 2) for this is the stitched-binding of the scattered parts/signatures of the world

Notes: shiiraazah : 'The stitching of the back of a book'. (Platts p.740) juz [plural ajzaa]: 'Part, portion; particle; component part, ingredient; part or section of a book (consisting of eight leaves)'. (Platts p.381) pareshaaa;N : 'Dispersed, scattered; disordered, confused; dishevelled, tossed (as hair); amazed, distracted, perplexed, bewildered, deranged; troubled, distressed, wretched; ruined'. (Platts p.259)

Nazm: That is, the thread of oblivion with which all the pages of the world are sewn together-- I have not forgotten it. That is, oblivion is always before my eyes. (12)

Baqir: The meaning is that all the things in the world, no matter how incommensurate and opposed they may be, become one in oblivion. It's as if all the pages of the world were sewn on the thread of oblivion. (38)

Josh: Between 'path' and 'road', one word is unnecessary. Nothing else but a 'path' is called a 'road'. (63)

Arshi: Compare {18,2}. (183)

FWP: GAZE verses: {3,12x}; {6,13x}; {10,12}; {15,3}; {16,6x}; {16,8x}; {17,4}; {17,5}; {21,4}; {21,9}; {24,2} ROAD verses: {10,12}; {11,3x} WRITING: {7,3} In bookbinding, the shiiraazah is the string that penetrates all the signatures ( ajzaa , sing. juz ) and stitches them together. The pages of the world are

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pareshaa;N both literally and in all the extended meanings. For more examples of the use of shiiraazah see {18,2}, {18,5}, and {190,2}. See also the literal 'thread of the glance' [taar-e na:zar] in {171,1} and {190,2}. Then there's also the very literal use of the 'thread of a breath' in {173,9}. In Ghalib's lexicon, the word jaadah seems always to signal a high order of abstraction; for more examples, see {9,4}. The whole phrase jaadah-e raahe fanaa recurs in {92,3}. We can read 'in our sight/gaze' in two ways. First, we can take it to mean most conventionally 'in our view'-- that is, in the view before us, that our eyes now see: what we see before us is the path of the road of oblivion. Second, and far more excitingly, we can take it as literally locative-- the path of the road of oblivion is actually located 'in' our gaze. Our gaze itself is linear: its trajectory constitutes the (doubly long and linear, string-like) 'path of the road' leading to oblivion. Our long straight gaze becomes the bindingstring that collects all the disparate sights it sees, and orders and unites them with the sure knowledge of their common destiny, the Sufistic fate of oblivion. Is this not a verse to die for? Serene, calm, unflinching. Provocative and evocative. In some sense it feels endless.

Ghazal 11 2 verses (out of 7); rhyming elements: am meraa composed 1821; Arshi #10

{11,1} nah hogaa yak-biyaabaa;N maa;Ndagii se ;zauq kam meraa ;habaab-e maujah-e raftaar hai naqsh-e qadam meraa 1) from a desertful of fatigue my relish will not be less 2a) my footprint is a bubble of a wave of movement 2b) a bubble of a wave of movement is my footprint

Notes: Nazm: The way the wave's relish for movement never lessens, in the same way my relish for movement won't lessen-- whether there be one desertful of fatigue, or a hundred desertsful of fatigue, it's all the same. (12)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, no matter how tired I might become, my ardor for desert-wandering will not be lessened. The way a wave of water swells with the intention of rolling onward, in the same way my footstep has an ardor for moving forward. (26)

Bekhud Mohani: The way a bubble moves along with the wave, and until it is destroyed doesn't pause for breath, in the same way my relish can't be lessened by the length of the road and the weariness of travel. (24)

Arshi: Compare {157,5}. (166)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; TRANSITIVITY DESERT: {3,1} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Raza p. 224); he chose to include only the first two of these verses (Hamid p. 10) in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the same 'desertful,' yak-biyaabaa;N , that appears in the title of 'A Desertful of Roses', though actually the title comes from {147,3}. Other examples: a 'cityful of longing' in {16,2}; both a 'footstepful of madness' and

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a 'two-world-ful desert' in {18,2} (though of course these can be variously translated). For other yak- examples with meanings including wholeness, completeness, and/or suddenness, see {3,11x}; {11,5x}; {12,5x}; {12,6x}; {69,2}; {71,7}; {81,3} (including Faruqi's citation of a parallel verse by Mir); {192,5}; {212,2}; {217,4}. Constructions like this are idiomatic in Persian, though not in Urdu. Apart from the specific wordplay in each context, the general effect of the yak- constructions is to evoke great intensity, scope, and comprehensiveness. Here the desert is not only invoked as a measuring-rod, but also imagined, both genuinely and paradoxically, as an ocean. Waves move in the blowing sand as they do in the sea. My footprint on the sand has the shape of a bubble (2a), and also the nature of a bubble: it travels ceaselessly along with a large 'wave of movement'. Or perhaps my fatigue eventually renders my travel ethereal: after my body collapses, my relish for travel remains, and my spirit moves along with the waves of drifting sand, so that their bubbles are my footprints (2b). Who speaks in this verse? Presumably it is the lover, but in the verse itself his only defining quality is his unwearying relish for travel, and the endlessness of his quest. Or is it a quest? Might it not be the movement itself that intoxicates him? This is one of those 'do-it-yourself' verses-- the context and content of the journey are left to our own imagination. The simplicity and punch of the imagery, the powerful visual scene they create, work wonderfully here; Arshi proposes a comparison with {157,5}, a verse in which an equal degree of abstraction seems to produce a much less exciting result. I'd prefer to compare it with the marvelous {190,1}, another verse about strange footsteps and deserts.

{11,2}* mu;habbat thii chaman se lekin ab yih be-dimaa;Gii hai kih mauj-e buu-e gul se naak me;N aataa hai dam meraa 1) I loved the garden-- but now, this [degree of] irritation exists 2a) that the breath comes into my nose with a wave of rose-scent 2b) that by a wave of rose-scent, I am disgusted/harassed

Notes: be-dimaa;Gii : 'Bad-temper, irritability, impatience'. (Platts p.202) dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance... ; --the organ of smell'. (Platts p.526) naak me;N dam aanaa : 'To be greatly worried or harassed'. (Platts p.1116)

Nazm: Since the scent of a rose comes into the nose when a breath is drawn, it's not inappropriate to say that with the scent of a rose the breath comes into the nose. And 'for the breath to come into the nose' means to be bezaar [displeased, vexed, disgusted]. Here, the second sense is intended, and he has made an iihaam toward the first sense. (13)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is, formerly I loved the garden. Now such hatred has been born in me that the rose-scent, which formerly used to evoke joy and happiness-now 'my breath is in my nose' from it. From the revolving of the times, love has taken on the form of hatred. (26)

Bekhud Mohani: I had an ardor for strolling in the garden, but now, enduring so many difficulties and remaining so unsuccessful, my heart has become so disaffected from the garden that the scent of the flowers has begun to make my mind disturbed and my breath choked. (24)

Arshi: Compare {27,4}. (166)

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FWP: SETS == IDIOMS The idiomatic use of yih conveys a sense of emphasis (GRAMMAR). Perhaps I am irritated because of the failure of love, perhaps because of its limits even when most successful. Does the garden now vex me by its seductiveness (when I want to lead a life of undistracted austerity), or by its sheer physicality (when I want to move into the realm of spirit)? In either case, Nazm has pinpointed the chief source of enjoyment in the verse: its irresistibly clever exploitation of the idiom naak me;N dam aanaa (see the definition above) in both a literal and a colloquial sense. Literally, I'm so obsessively irritated at even the thought of the garden that I feel as though I'm compelled to breathe in rose-scent every time I inhale; idiomatically, a wave of rose-scent (normally a wonderful pleasure) harasses and upsets me. In addition, a secondary meaning of the word dimaa;G , which normally means 'brain, head, mind,' is of course 'nose'. This adds a further fillip to the wordplay involving naak . For other examples of such 'mind/nose' wordplay see {21,7}; {27,4}; {53,8}.

{11,3x} rah-e ;xvaabiidah thii gardan-kash-e yak-dars-e aagaahii zamii;N ko sailii-e ustaad hai naqsh-e qadam meraa 1) the sleepy/drowsy road was {insolent / 'neck-lifting'} from a single lesson of awareness 2) to the ground, my footstep is the slap of an Ustad

Notes: gardan-kash : 'Proud, haughty, vain; insolent, refractory, rebellious, disobedient; stubborn, obstinate'. (Platts p.903) dars : 'Reading, learning to read; a lecture; a lesson, exercise'. (Platts p.512)

Gyan Chand: For the road, the message of awareness is that people's footsteps would fall on it, and it would be aware of them. That empty road on which no one used to travel, and which used to rebel against acquaintance with footsteps-- I went on it. My footsteps fell on it like the slap of an Ustad, and it became aware of human footsteps. It's possible that 'sleepy road' might be a metaphor for the tradition of poetry. By footstep may be meant his path of poetry. In this aspect, the ground would be the 'ground' of poetry. [Or:] A long road prided itself on being acquainted with many people's footsteps. My footstep acted on the ground of the road like the slap of an Ustad, and broke its pride. My swiftness or 'heat' of movement told it that until it was acquainted with this gait, it had no cause for pride. (84)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the third verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. The road, like a lazy student, is drowsy or heedless; and with the attainment of 'a single lesson of awareness', it becomes vain and insolent as well. But the speaker is at hand to chastise it and 'put it in its place': his footsteps fall with a series of firm thumps that act on the 'ground' like punitive slaps from an Ustad (who may be teaching poetry, or some other art). But what is that 'single lesson of awareness' of which the road becomes so prematurely and annoyingly proud? Perhaps it is road's the acquaintance with one (new?) person, presumably the speaker-- this sudden new attention makes the untraveled, long-neglected road feel uppity and put on airs. But the cure is 'the hair of the dog'-- now those new footsteps fall firmly and

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regularly, like an Ustad's disciplinary slaps. If the road 'pulls its neck' up, these regular footsteps will, as is only proper, slap it right down again. The road must thus realize that 'a little learning is a dangerous thing'. Its first heady awareness, its new acquaintance with footsteps, must be gradually converted into systematic training, into the disciplined sequence of regular footsteps and virtuous self-control. Just so must the Ustad, with disciplinary slaps and other techniques, instruct pupils in the 'lessons' of poetic composition. Since we're left to figure out for ourselves the relationship between the two lines, we might alternatively decide to read them separately, as contrastive: the road learns a basic thing, and then gets uppity. Perhaps an effect of its arrogant behavior is that it doesn't learn anything more, because the speaker ceases to walk on it. By contrast, the ground is much better disciplined than the road, for it receives many 'slaps' from the feet of the Ustad. Perhaps this extra disciplinary attention results from the fact that the speaker prefers the ground to the road. It's possible to think of quite a number of ghazal-world reasons for such a preference on his part.

{11,4x} suraa;G-aaluudah-e ((ar.z-e do-((aalam shor-e ma;hshar huu;N par-afshaa;N hai ;Gubaar-aa;Nsuu-e .sa;hraa-e ((adam meraa 1) I am a Doomsday-{turmoil/bitterness}, {trace/mark}-{polluted/stained} by the earth/land of the two worlds 2) my {dust/mist}-tears of the desert of Nonexistence are wing-fluttering

Notes: aaluudah : 'Defiled, polluted, sullied, soiled, stained, spoiled; smeared, immersed, covered; loaded (with), overwhelmed'. (Platts p.78) shor : 'Cry, noise, outcry, exclamation, din, clamour, uproar, tumult, disturbance... ; --salt, brackish... ; very bitter; --unlucky'. (Platts p.736) ma;hshar : 'A place of assembly or congregation ;--(for yaum ul-ma;hshar ), the day of the place of congregation, the day of judgment'. (Platts p.1008) ;Gubaar : 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storm; vapour, fog, mist, mistiness; impurity, foulness'. (Platts p.769)

Gyan Chand: My nature has kicked up a Doomsday-turmoil in both worlds. I am manifesting that clamor everywhere. Since it is very boundless, I am going onward and onward in search of a place to manifest it. I can't find a trace of anything that would encompass it. Now my dust has emerged in another direction, even beyond Nonbeing. And there to I've kicked up a Doomsdayturmoil. Since the footstep-trace has become lost, I wander sometimes this way, sometimes that way, manifesting my Doomsday-equippedness of temperament. (85)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} DOOMSDAY: {10,11} EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the fourth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. Gyan Chand seems to take suraa;G-aaluudah to mean that the trace has been obscured or lost, so that I don't know where I'm going. I'm not sure how he actually puts the whole verse together. I'm not sure of my own reading either, but it's the best I can come up with. On my reading, the whole verse describes the appalling combination of liminality and inclusiveness claimed by the speaker. Although he lives in the

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present world, he embodies in his own person the dire turmoil/bitterness of Doomsday, which will signal the end of the world as we know it; and although he lives in the human world, he is marked by stains and dirt from the lands of both of the two worlds. Thus his state is full of almost incomprehensible paradoxes: instead of being wet, his tears are dry, being made of 'dust' (or perhaps 'vapor' or 'mist'); instead of being derived from water, these tears are derived from a desert; instead of being part of the present world, these tears are derived from the desert of 'Nonexistence'. Moreover, instead of behaving like dust or mist or other inanimate clouds of particles, these tears show the speaker's agitation by being 'wing-fluttering' like birds. This isn't impossible: in {113,6} Ghalib makes the polish-lines on a metal mirror flutter their wings, and in {176,6} the wing-flutterer is a wave of blood. In short, the speaker's nature has the impossibly amalgamated qualities appropriate to somebody who would call himself the 'turmoil of Doomsday'. He claims everything; he's like a distant, crazed cousin of Walt Whitman. Such cosmic grandiosity is nothing new for him: just take a look at {62,8}.

{11,5x} havaa-e .sub;h yak-((aalam garebaa;N-chaakii-e gul hai dahaan-e za;xm paida kar agar khaataa hai ;Gam meraa 1a) the breeze/desire/affection of the dawn is the {entire / 'one-world'} ripping of the collar of/by the rose 1b) the breeze/desire/affection of the dawn is {entirely / 'one-world'} the ripping of the collar of/by the rose 2) create the mouth of a wound, if you experience/'eat' {my grief / grief over me}

Notes: havaa : 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth; --air, wind, gentle gale; ... --affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p. 1239)

Gyan Chand: At dawn, people go to take the air. But they don't know the reality of the dawn breeze. At dawn, how many flowers tear open their collars! As if the coming of dawn is an expression for the collar-tearing of flowers. The collar is torn only in some anxiety or distress. In this way the dawn breeze is a scene of pain and distress, of which the breeze-enjoyers are not aware. The literal meaning of 'sympathizer' [;Gam-;xvaar] is 'grief-eater'. The poet says to his sympathizer, if you want to 'eat' my grief, then create in your body the mouth of a wound, and eat it with that. The poet has taken 'to eat' in its dictionary meaning, and created for it the necessity of a mouth. By 'eating' grief through the mouth of a wound the point is that if you want to understand my grief, then you yourself will have to become extremely sorrowful and a temperament-sharer. The relationship between the two lines is that from somebody's outward situation, his interior state cannot be guessed. Seeing the dawn, who can understand that it's a sign of grief? By seeing me from the outside, my inner sorrow cannot be guessed. (85-86)

FWP: SETS == MIDPOINTS CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the sixth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal.

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For discussion of yak-((aalam and related constructions, see {11,1}. The positioning of this enigmatic little phrase is also cleverly ambiguous: it can be read as adjectival for the ripping of the rose's collar (1a), or as adverbial (1b). As Gyan Chand observes, a major question in this is the relationship of the two aphoristic-looking lines. The word havaa is surely crucial here. It of course names the 'breeze' that blows on the rose and, deliberately or without any special intention, opens it out (and then bears away its dying petals), so that it itself causes the rose's collar to be torn. On the general significance of the tearing of the collar, see {17,9}; in the rose's case, the opening of its flower is always a prelude to its death. But havaa also means 'affection, favor, love', and even 'lust' as well. On this reading, what the dawn wants is for the rose's collar to be torn. Perhaps it wants the rose to tear open its own collar, as a mad lover should; though of course in the ghazal world the rose is usually the beloved, not the lover. Perhaps it wants the rose to display its beauty more visibly to the world. Or perhaps it wants to rip open the rose's collar itself, in a 'lustful' way. No matter how we read the nature of the havaa , the result is clear: the attentions of the dawn aim at the 'tearing of the collar' of the rose, and thus the death of the rose. The second line seems to envision a sympathizer, a 'grief-eater'. For a literal use of this term, see {2,1}. This person is urged by the speaker to take some appropriate action, if he 'eats my grief'. But what exactly is it to 'eat my grief'? On the ambiguity of meraa ;Gam as either 'my grief' or 'your grief over me', see {41,6}. Here the grammar leaves it completely open whether the sympathizer feels or shares the lover's own grief, or feels a different grief born of sympathetic concern for the lover. And ultimately it doesn't matter: we know what the outcome should or must be. If you 'eat my grief', says the lover, then go ahead, punch a hole in me-'create the mouth of a wound'! There are many reasons for the lover to want a wound (or another wound): most conspicuously, the only way for the lover to talk to the beloved may be through the 'mouth' of a wound, as in {214,1}. But in what tone is the lover speaking? Is he begging for a nearer approach to death, for the kind of succor he most needs (a real friend should provide him with a wound)? Is he demanding a proof of some professed sympathizer's concern? Is he cynically anticipating what the outcome of such 'sympathy' usually is, and urging the 'sympathizer' to get on with it? Is he fending off an intrusive sightseer with a sneering remark? Is he suggesting that the 'sympathizer' will have better access to his grief (including perhaps even a chance to 'eat' it more lavishly) if the sympathizer will carve out a new, more accessible wound-mouth? (On this grotesque view see {6,4}.) Thus we see the connection: just the way the dawn is unaffected while its breeze/affection/favor/desire dooms the rose, so the sympathizer, suffering no ill effects himself, is instructed to make another wound for the lover. The wordplay of 'mouth' and 'eat' is especially piquant (though a bit on the grotesque side) and sharp. Of course, it's conceivable that, as Gyan Chand suggests, the sympathizer is being instructed to make such a wound in himself, not in the lover. But then, haven't we lost all significant connection with the first line? We'd be reduced to the 'outer vs. inner' dichotomy proposed by Gyan Chand, which isn't exactly compelling.

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Ghazal 12 2 verses (out of 7); rhyming elements: il kaa composed 1816; Arshi #16

{12,1}* saraapaa rahn-e ((ishq-o-naa-guziir-e ulfat-e hastii ((ibaadat barq kii kartaa huu;N aur afsos ;haa.sil kaa 1) {entirely/head-to-foot} pledged/mortgaged to passio-- and helpless with the intimacy/affection of life 2a) I worship lightning-- and grieve for the [burnt-up] harvest 2b) I worship lightning-- and regret the result

Notes: rahn : 'Pledging, pawning; a thing deposited as a pledge, a pledge, a pawn; a mortgage, a sum lent on mortgage'. (Platts p.610) naa-guziir : 'Remediless, helpless; irremediable, unavoidable'. (Platts p.910) ;haa.sil : 'Product, produce, outcome, what is cleared, what remains (of anything), result, issue, ultimate consequence'. (Platts p.473)

Nazm: In this verse he has given for passion the simile of lightning, and for existence the simile of the harvest. He says, I am pledged to passion, and also my life is dear to me. My duality is as if some fire-worshiper would worship lightning, and also regret the burning of the harvest. In the first line the verb, 'am' [huu;N], is omitted.

Bekhud Mohani: The loftiness of my nature has inclined me toward passion, which claims to provide the oblivion of existence. But love of life too is a part of human nature. My case is that of someone who would consider lightning to be an object of worship, and would also wring his hands at the burning of the harvest. That is, my nature permits me neither to renounce passion, nor to renounce the love of life. Alas, that the Maker made me a union of opposites, and thus placed me in such a difficulty! (24-25)

Shadan: And this is the form that I want [to clarify the second line]: ta((luq barq se ho aur ho afsos ;haa.sil kaa /a relationship with lightning would exist, and regret for the harvest would exist/. I haven't been able to understand the word 'worship' [((ibaadat]. (125)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Raza p. 120); he chose to include only the fifth and sixth of these verses (Hamid p. 10) in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The second line illustrates my condition as described in the first. Passion is lightning, the normal human joys are a harvest in the fields. I can't let go of either one. The structure of the second line gives rise to both concrete (2a) and abstract (2b) readings, from the two senses of ;haa.sil . For another verse about the intimate relationship between lightning, harvest, and human desire, see {10,6}. And in {155,1}, Ghalib himself explains the 'lightning of the harvest'. For another, more complex, exploration of the vocabulary of 'pledging', see {228,10}.

{12,2}

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bah qadr-e :zarf hai saaqii ;xumaar-e tishnah-kaamii bhii jo tuu daryaa-e mai hai to mai;N ;xamyaazah huu;N saa;hil kaa 1) according to capacity, Cupbearer, is the intoxication/hangover of thirst too 2) if/since you are a sea of wine, then I am the stretch/yawn of the shore

Notes: :zarf : 'Ingenuity, skill, cleverness; beauty, excellence;...capacity, capability'. (Platts p.755) ;xumaar : 'Intoxication; the effects of intoxication, pain and headache, &c. occasioned by drinking'. (Platts p.493) ;xamyaazah : 'Stretching; yawning, gaping'. (Platts p.494)

Nazm: The thirst of the shore is well-known, and its twisting and twisting back create the aspect of stretching. And stretching is a symbol of intoxication. The meaning is that however great your zeal may be in serving wine, my zeal in drinking is equally great. (13)

Bekhud Mohani: The Cupbearer can be God Most High.... Compare {60,11}. (25)

Baqir: If you are a sea of wine, then I am the shore of that sea of wine, and the characteristic of a shore is that despite the nearness the generosity of the sea, it's never filled. Rather, by its crookedness it stretches, for its intoxication is waning and it needs more wine. (40)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Bekhud rightly points to {60,11} for its mystical implications, but both verses also emphasize the importance of :zarf as 'capacity' in a broad sense, as a measure of what a man can hold or bear. The 'intoxication of thirst' suggests that even without (enough) wine-- and it seems that there can never be enough-- the man of :zarf knows the intoxication of his own thirst, his own passion and desire. The colloquially complex word ;xamyaazah is wonderfully evocative here-the speaker has now only drunk up whatever the Cupbearer has poured out, but is now feeling blase, sated, ready for some new thrill. Will he crave another whole bout of drinking, beyond what even the Cupbearer can provide, or will he turn away in some other direction? See for example how Nazm uses ;xamyaazah lenaa in his commentary on {169,7}. See {18,1} for another linking of ;xumaar , ;xamyaazah , the saaqii , and a sea of wine. More ;xamyaazah examples: {16,9x}; {67,3}.

{12,3x} 'z-bas ;xuu;N-gashtah-e rashk-e vafaa thaa vahm bismil kaa churaayaa za;xm'haa-e dil ne paanii te;G-e qaatil kaa 1) {although / to such an extent / since} the illusion/suspicion of the wounded one was turned-to-blood by the envy/jealousy of faithfulness 2) the wounds of the heart stole/absorbed the 'water' of the murderer's/murderous sword

Notes: gashtah : 'Returned; turned; inverted, reversed; converted; perverted; changed; --become; formed'. (Platts p.910) vahm : 'Thinking, imagining, conceiving (esp. a false idea); --opinion, conjecture; imagination, idea, fancy; --suspicion, doubt; scruple, caution; distrust, anxiety, apprehension, fear'. (Platts p.1205) churaanaa : 'To steal, filch, pilfer, rob; to plagiarize; to misappropriate; to suck in or up, to absorb'. (Platts p.428)

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paanii : 'Water... ; water or lustre (of a gem, &c.); lustre, sparkle, polish, brightness, beauty; spirit, mettle, blood, breed; character, reputation, honour; chastity, modesty, delicacy, sense of shame'. (Platts p.221)

Gyan Chand: When water comes near a wound, then the wound absorbs the water, from which pus develops.... In Persian, the meaning of aab is 'water' and 'blade' both. Ghalib has taken both meanings in Urdu as well. In the wounded/slaughtered one's faithfulness to the beloved there was so much excess that because of jealousy/envy he couldn't endure that any other person would be martyred in order to give proof of faithfulness. Thus the wound absorbed into itself the 'water' of the murderer's sword. From which it resulted that the wound became even more infected, from which the extremity of faithfulness became manifest; and this as well resulted, that at least apparently/outwardly, after the stealing of the 'water' of the sword, the sword became blunt, and didn't remain fit for murdering anyone else. The gist is that because of faithfulness and jealousy/envy, the wounded/slaughtered one took the blade of the sword inside himself. (95-96)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH SWORD: {1,3} Raza p. 120. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the fifth and sixth in his published divan. This is the first verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. As Gyan Chand points out, the idea that a sword has 'water' goes back to the Persian aab , with meanings that include luster, brilliance, and welltemperedness. But most of the same meanings have come to inhere in paanii too, at least by extension (see the definition above). This verse assumes that since a sword has 'water', that water can be taken away from it-- and it reports to us an incident in which such an appropriation occurred. Without the wordplay of paanii and churaanaa , the verse would be nowhere. But what exactly does it signify that the wounds of the heart 'stole' or 'absorbed' [churaanaa] the 'water' of the murderer's sword (or the murderous sword)? If it was an act of theft, it would seem to show hostility, or at least possessiveness: the sword thus loses its 'temperedness' or 'virtue', and can't pierce (anyone else) so sharply in the future. If it was an act of absorption, it might show acceptance or even submission, as Gyan Chand points out. The image is so abstract and unusual that there isn't a codified, 'pre-poeticized' way to interpret it. And as usual, Ghalib has cleverly set up the several possibilities of 'z-bas , in order to multiply our interpretive choices. We have at least several basic alternatives: 'although the wounded one was envious/jealous and suspicious, nevertheless the wounds stole/absorbed the water of the murderer's sword'. Or: 'the wounded one was so envious/jealous and suspicious that the wounds stole/absorbed the water of the murderer's sword'. Or: 'since the wounded one was envious/jealous and suspicious, the wounds stole/absorbed the water of the murderer's sword'.

{12,4x} nigaah-e chashm-e ;haasid vaam le ay ;zauq-e ;xvud-biinii tamaashaa))ii huu;N va;hdat-;xaanah-e aa))iinah-e dil kaa 1) let the gaze of the {envier's/envious} eye incur a debt/loan, oh relish of/for self-regardingness! 2) I am a spectator of the {oneness/solitariness}-chamber of the mirror of the heart

Notes: va;hdat : 'The being single, or alone, or solitary; --unity, oneness; -solitariness'. (Platts p.1183)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Gyan Chand: The eye of an envious person has two special qualities. The first is that it is very narrow. The second is that besides itself it doesn't want even to see anybody else. I have an ardor for self-regardingness, but not this limited kind of self-regardingness-- rather, I have to be a spectator of the onenesschamber of my own heart. For this, if the envious person's eye would be borrowed, then on the one hand it would become certain that instead of wandering outside this way and that way, it will remain fixed in the direction of my own essence. The second [advantage] is that because of its narrowness, in the heart it will be able to see only one thing; it won't become disturbed by multiplicity, or cast only one glance on each single point. Thus in the heart there will be power to see the glory/appearance of oneness alone! (96)

FWP: EYES {3,1} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} MIRROR: {8,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} Raza p. 120. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the fifth and sixth in his published divan. This is the second verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. Gyan Chand's idea that the verse is urging the borrowing of 'the envier's eye' is not very plausible. The intent of the verse is just the opposite: it's one of the set of Ghalib's verses that condemn all forms of borrowing or dependence, and urge the use of one's own resources, even if inferior, at all costs. For a list of such verses, see {9,1}. The speaker admonishes his own 'relish of (or 'for') self-regardingness', and urges it to let somebody else's gaze-- the gaze of the envier's (or envious) eye-- be the one to incur debt. The debt would be from 'borrowing' an external object of sight, something beautiful or desirable of which one might be envious or jealous. The speaker reminds the 'relish of/for self-regardingness' that he himself is not that kind of an envious or covetous or borrowing person at all. On the contrary: he's a spectator of the 'oneness/solitariness'-chamber of the heart. He looks always inward, never outward. Perhaps he sees 'Oneness' like that of God. Perhaps he just sees his own aloneness. But whatever he sees, it's all his, and his own self-regardingness is never jeopardized by even the smallest hint of 'indebtedness' to any other visual spectacle. For other verses about 'self-regardingness', see {22,2}.

{12,5x} sharar-fur.sat nigah saamaan-e yak-((aalam chiraa;Gaa;N hai bah qadr-e rang yaa;N gardish me;N hai paimaanah ma;hfil kaa 1) the spark-durationed glance is the equipment of a whole-world lamp-show 2) 'according' to the 'color', here, the flagon of the gathering is in circulation

Notes: qadr : 'Greatness, dignity, honour, rank, power; importance, consequence; worth, merit; estimation, appreciation, account; value, price; --measure; degree; quantity; magnitude; bulk, size; portion, part; --whatever is fixed or ordained of God, divine providence, fate, destiny'. (Platts p.788) rang : 'Colour, colouring matter, pigment, paint, dye; colour, tint, hue, complexion; beauty, bloom; expression, countenance, appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method; kind, sort; state, condition; ... --a place of public amusement or for dramatic exhibition,

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theatre, stage; dancing; singing; acting; sport, entertainment, amusement, merriment, pleasure, enjoyment'. (Platts p.601)

Gyan Chand: Man's life is as brief as a spark, and he intends to make the whole world a lamp-show! This isn't possible. To whatever extent the color/festivity of the gathering exists, to that extent the flagon of wine is making the rounds in the gathering. That is, the amount of brilliance that a man's here-today-gonetomorrow life can acquire in the world-- according to that is the extent of his joy. Since this brilliance is very brief, joy too is brief. If 'color' be taken to mean wine, the meaning will be that however much wine there is, that much is the circulation of the flagon. From the first line it seems that man's life is as brief as a spark, and his property of enjoyment is as narrow as a spark-- which can't become a lamp-show in the whole world. Thus if wine, color/festivity, or equipment of enjoyment are very scanty, then the period of joy too will accordingly be brief. (96-97)

FWP: GATHERINGS: {6,3} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} WINE: {49,1} Raza p. 120. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the fifth and sixth in his published divan. This is the third verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. For discussion, and examples, of idiomatic expressions like yak-((aalam , see {11,1}. For more examples of a chiraa;Gaa;N , see {5,5}. Here's just one more example of the brilliance of this great poet, who can say so many different things to different minds. Gyan Chand reads the verse with immediate, unquestioning pessimism: since it's impossible for a brief glance, no longer in duration than a spark, to give rise to a worldwide lamp-show, then it follows that man's life is sadly brief, he can't achieve much enjoyment in his little wine-house, etc. etc. And that's a possible interpretation. But it's achieved only by reading the first line as sarcastic, as meaning the opposite of what it says. Because what the line actually asserts is the power and impact of that sparkdurationed glance: that glance is the equipment of a 'whole-world lampshow'. It's like a spark in a room full of fireworks; its effect is extraordinarily disproportionate to its tiny size and brief life. As is so often the case with Ghalib, we then have to decide for ourselves what the connection is between the two lines. In the case of this verse, taking the two lines as two metaphorical descriptions of the same situation works much better than any other way to read them; in fact it's almost the only really defensible way, but I don't want to get sidetracked into arguing this case at length, because I doubt if anybody would disagree. And on this reading, there are two key words in the second line: qadr , which I've translated as 'according' but which actually has immense possibilities including 'dignity' and 'fate' (see the definition above), and then 'color' [rang], with its almost inexhaustible range of meanings. With regard to the 'greatness', 'honor', 'importance', 'magnitude', or 'fate', of its 'color', 'aspect', 'style', 'character', or 'enjoyment', is the circulation of the wine-flagon in the gathering, 'here' (in this world). Thus there's a clear warrant for saying that just as the brief but fiery little glance has a cosmic explosive power, so the greatness, importance, dignity, fate of its 'color' or mood, is what governs the gathering of human sociability, intoxication, and enjoyment. Life may be momentary 'here' in this world, but that's not what's most significant about it. The spark-glance that lights the 'whole-world lamp-show' is momentary too; but that fact, far from being the end of its story, is scarcely the beginning. Similarly, it's qadr

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and rang , not duration, that govern human beings' intoxication, and their shared joy in the world.

{12,6x} saraasar taa;xtaan ko shash-jahat yak-((ar.sah jaulaa;N thaa hu))aa vaamaa;Ndagii se rah-ravaa;N kii farq manzil kaa 1) there was entirely, for haste/pursuit/assault, a whole-{time/space} moving-around in the six directions 2) from the {travelers' / road-goers'} fatigue, there occurred a difference of stage/destination

Notes: taa;xtan : 'To hasten, walk fast, run; to rush upon, to assault; to pursue, hunt, chase; to urge, force, put to the gallop; to twist, spin; to bend, render curved or convex; ... to contend, dispute, or wager; to bore; to spread, diffuse, pour out, pour in'. (Steingass p. 273) ((ar.sah : 'Court, open area (of a house, --the 'play-ground' of children), an area; a plain; a chess-board; a space (of place or time), period, time, duration, term; an interval, a while; delay'. (Platts p.760_ jaulaa;N : 'Wandering up and down, wandering about; moving or springing from side to side (as combatants or competitors in an amphitheatre or place of exercise); moving round (as a horse in a manege), coursing'. (Platts p.398) vaamaa;Ndagii : 'The remaining or lagging behind (esp. from fatigue); -openness; exposure'. (Platts p.1177) manzil : 'A place for alighting, a place for the accommodation of travellers, a caravansary, an inn, a hotel; a house, lodging, dwelling, mansion, habitation, station; a mansion of the moon; story or floor (of a house); deck (of a ship); --a day's journey; --a stage (in travelling, or in the divine life); -place of destination, goal; boundary, end, limit'. (Platts p.1076)

Gyan Chand: At one time, for running, the whole creation was a single field-- it was no more than a single halting-place. But the travelers became fatigued, and used to stop at various places. From this there came to be a difference of stages/destinations; otherwise, our courage was such that we would leap over the whole world in a single bound. (97)

FWP: Raza p. 120. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the fifth and sixth in his published divan. This is the fourth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. For discussion, and examples, of idiomatic expressions like yak-((ar.sah , see {11,1}. I'm not quite able to pin down the grammar in the first line, but what an excellent scene of confused motion it presents! Everybody was running around all over the place, in every one of the six directions (the four, plus up and down). People were wandering, or hurrying, or pursuing, or even assaulting; nobody was doing anything else; this behavior occupied a whole 'interval' of time and/or space [((ar.sah]. We have no idea what they were up to, but they were pursuing their projects vigorously. But that was then, and this is now. Gradually people grew tired, and in their fatigue they paused here and there, and ended up settling down. Wherever they settled down, they ended up deciding, or persuading themselves, that they were in fact in a very acceptable or even ideal place, and thus were under no obligation to wear themselves out, in vain, by continuing to travel. Thus there occurred a 'difference' in their (theoretical and practical) 'travelstages' and 'destinations'. The present verse puts the matter in such a delicately neutral way that its application is very broad. To fill in some of the

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implications that Ghalib surely had in mind, compare the strikingly similar unpublished verse {93,3x}.

{12,7x} mujhe raah-e su;xan me;N ;xauf-e gum-raahii nahii;N ;Gaalib ((a.saa-e ;xi.zr-e .sa;hraa-e su;xan hai ;xaamah bedil kaa 1) in the road/path of poetry/speech, I have no fear of losing the road, Ghalib 2a) the staff of a Khizr of the desert of poetry/speech is the pen of {Bedil / a heart-less one} 2b) the pen of {Bedil / a heart-less one} is the staff of a Khizr of the desert of poetry/speech

Notes: ((a.saa : 'Staff, stick, rod, club, mace, sceptre'. (Platts p.761)

Gyan Chand: Travelers go along behind the staff of the guide. In the journey of poetry, I have no fear of losing the road, because Mirza Bedil's pen is guiding me. That is, I am imitating [taqliid karnaa] his style. (97)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; REPETITION; TRANSITIVITY DESERT: {3,1} LOSING/FINDING {4,6} Raza p. 120. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the fifth and sixth in his published divan. This is the seventh verse of the original seven-verse ghazal. This closing-verse pays a compliment to the great Indo-Persian poet Mirza 'Abd ul-Qadir 'Bedil', whose convoluted, Persianized, i.zaafat -laden style Ghalib greatly admired. (Bedil has been called 'Ghalib's Ghalib'.) Bedil's pen is equated with Khizr's staff-- they are, it seems, guides on the road of poetry. But it's also possible that Ghalib is imagining himself as Bedil's heir; on this reading, Ghalib wouldn't fear getting lost, because he himself now had the 'pen of Bedil' that would act as Khizr's staff, so that he himself was now a kind of Khizr of the 'desert of poetry'. Alternatively, if we take bedil as a word, the pen of 'a heart-less one'-- of a lover who had lost or given away his heart, not of course with the English sense of 'heartless'-- might be the key to right guidance in the 'road of poetry'. And Ghalib didn't in any case show much respect to Khizr: consider the patronizing view of {159,6}, or the denunciation in {234,3}.

Ghazal 13 7 verses (out of 7) ; rhyming elements: aaz kaa composed after 1821; Arshi #34

{13,1}* ma;hram nahii;N hai tuu hii navaahaa-e raaz kaa yaa;N varnah jo ;hijaab hai pardah hai saaz kaa 1) only/emphatically you are not intimate with voices/sounds of the secret/mystery 2) otherwise, that which here is a veil/curtain, is the veil/secret/tone of an instrument/concord

Notes: navaa : 'Voice, sound; modulation; song; air; --a certain musical tone or mood; riches, opulence, wealth, plenty; subsistence; --prosperity; goodness or splendour of circumstances; --a splendid situation; --a happy life'. (Platts p.1157)

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pardah : 'A curtain, screen, cover, veil ... secret, mystery, reticence, reserve; screen, shelter, pretext, pretence; a musical tone or mode; a note of the gamut; the frets of a guitar, &c'. (Platts p.246) saaz : 'Ornament; concord, harmony; a musical instrument'. (Platts p.265)

Hali: That is to say, you alone are unfamiliar with the melodies of the mystery; otherwise, in the world, that which outwardly looks like a veil is also speaking, is resonating like the string of an instrument, and is expressing divine secrets. (139)

Nazm: That is, the thing that you consider a veil of the world of divine reality [;haqiiqat], it is the string of a rabab [rabaab], from which melodies of the mystery of divine reality arise. But it's you who cannot experience the pleasure of its rhythm and tone. (13)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you yourself are not acquainted with the melodies of the mystery. Otherwise, in the world what looks outwardly like a veil is speaking and resonating like the string of an instrument and is expressing the divine mysteries. He has written a peerless verse. (27)

FWP: SETS == HI; WORDPLAY MUSIC: {10,3} VEIL: {6,1} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Hamid p. 11); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is a famous and widely known verse. It comes in handy as a (relatively) polite putdown when people fail to understand things. Bekhud Mohani uses it that way, for example, in {1,1}. The remarkable wordplay involving pardah is the heart of the verse. It's a perfect illustration of what Faruqi means when he says that wordplay is meaning-play as well. In its meaning of 'string of an instrument', it goes with 'voices' or 'sounds' [navaahaa]. As Vasmi Abidi points out, 'eardrum' is kaan kaa pardah, so that one could imagine the eardrum itself as a vibrating membrane like the head of a drum. And thanks to its cleverly exploited doubleness of meaning, pardah as 'veil' or 'mystery' or 'secret' also participates in a play of affinity involving ma;hram (an 'intimate' before whom a woman does not keep pardah ), raaz ('secret' or 'mystery'), and ;hijaab ('veil'). Why is the intimate tuu used for 'you'? Presumably the poet is talking to himself, expounding to himself from a position of maximum closeness the mysteries of Sufism? Or could it be that to talk to someone intimately about his lack of intimate access creates a layer of paradox as well? (And practically speaking, as Vasmi Abidi also points out, the kaa ending for the opening-verse line can be generated only by tuu; accommodating tum would mean recasting the whole line.) The verse is also a textbook case of the very valuable ambiguity of hii . It can be exclusive (only you are ignorant, everybody else knows), or merely emphatic (it's you who are ignorant, it's not the fault of the harmony-filled world around you). For another evocation of (super?)natural mysteriousness in the world around us 'here,' see (45,1}. For a very different use of pardah-e saaz , see {71,1}.

{13,2}* rang-e shikastah .sub;h-e bahaar-e na:zaarah hai yih vaqt hai shuguftan-e gulhaa-e naaz kaa

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1) a defeated/sickly color is the morning of the springtime of sight 2) this is the time of the blooming of the roses of coquetry

Notes: shikastah : 'Broken; defeated, routed; carried away (by inundation, as riverbanks, &c.); reduced to straits; bankrupt; sick; wounded; weak; infirm'. (Platts p.730)

Nazm: That is, the sight of her is the spring season, and my color fleeing at the sight of her is the dawn of the morning of spring. And daybreak is the time of the blooming of flowers. In short...the fleeing of my color is that morning in which the roses of coquetry will bloom. (13)

Hasrat: The morning after the night of union, the beloved's 'defeated color is the morning of the springtime of sight'. That is, her charm is worth seeing, because the roses of coquetry have begun to bloom-- that is, this is the particular time for her to be enthusiastic in her coquetry. (13)

Faruqi: [Both interpretations above have problems of sequence: surely the lover sees the beloved and her coquetry before his color flees and love begins, rather than after. And why is the morning after union, rather than the night of union itself, the time for coquetry?] If we take the 'defeated color' as referring to the fleeing of color from the beloved's face, then all problems are solved. The beloved's color is defeated because she herself has fallen in love with someone. Becoming herself enmeshed in the sufferings of passion means that now she will come outside to meet her lover, or will give up her pardah . In this way for her lover it will be the morning of the springtime of sight; that is, he will be able to see her. And since now her heart itself is sympathetic, she will cause roses of coquetry to bloom for her lovers, that is, she will show them her airs and graces very well. The beloved's herself becoming a lover, and having a 'defeated color' like this, Ghalib has used elsewhere as well: see {153,8}-and this ghazal too was composed in the same period as the verse under discussion. (1989: 36-37) [2006:46-47]

FWP: Look at how well the many meanings of shikastah suit the condition of the previously arrogant beloved who has now herself become a lover. The 'defeated' [shikastah] color is pale/white, like that of the dawn light. But the dawn is that of a new day of coquetry, full of redder roses than before. There's also the sound-echo of na:zaarah and naaz . Faruqi is right to point out {153,8} as an excellent verse for comparison. THE BELOVED FALLS IN LOVE: This is one of the handful of verses in which the tables are turned and the beloved is imagined as herself becoming a lover, with all the painful consequences. Here's the list: {13,2}; {40,1}; {105,1}; {131,2}; {153,8}; {203,5} (?). Still, this isn't one of those, like {10,12}, that are memorable forever. Behind the clever, suitably multivalent wordplay there's not the same depth of mystery and meaning.

{13,3} tuu aur suu-e ;Gair na:zar'haa-e tez tez mai;N aur dukh tirii mizhah'haa-e daraaz kaa 1) you, and sharp sharp looks in the direction of the Other 2a) I, and sorrow over your long eyelashes 2b) I, and pain from your long eyelashes

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Notes: Nazm: In this verse haa))e is either for a plural marker and an i.zaafat, or for an expression of regret. Both are correct. (13)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here, long eyelashes refers to eyelashes that penetrate into the heart and fix themselves there.... The meaning is that the glances of favor and attraction that you cast on the Other, arouse envy and jealousy in me. (27)

Bekhud Mohani: You look at him with desirous, restless, shameless glances. And here when I come, the curtains of your long long eyelashes have fallen. That is, now that your gaze has been lowered, it's not inclined to rise. (28)

FWP: SETS == YOU AND I Is the lover sorry that sharp looks from her long lashes are wasted on a (shallow, or even stony) heart other than his own, as in (2a)? Or does he somehow feel the pain directly, because he is so attuned to her that even sharp looks directed elsewhere pierce his heart, as in (2b)? Or both, of course, since they're not mutually exclusive. The careful phrasing of the second line keeps open both possibilities. Nazm is surely wrong to propose that the haa))e could be an expression of regret. It seems very clearly to be a Persianized inanimate-object plural marker. There's no finite verb in the verse, just the emphatic parallelism of the 'you, and' versus 'I, and' structure. We have to supply the logic of the relationship(s) of the two lines for ourselves. Ghalib loves to do this sort of thing; he can get brilliant effects with it. Its starkness often gives it a moody, brooding, 'poetic' quality, as in this verse. This is the first of a number of verses in which the lover juxtaposes his own situation with that of the beloved. Sometimes the result is to highlight his misery, but at other times it's more thoughtful-- the result is simply to emphasize the difference between their conditions or natures. In this style there are also verses in which the juxtaposition is of 'here' [yaa;N] with me, verses 'there' [vaa;N] with her.

{13,4} .sarfah hai .zab:t-e aah me;N meraa vagarnah mai;N :tu((mah huu;N ek hii nafas-e jaa;N-gudaaz kaa 1) expenditure/profit is in the restraint of sighs, otherwise I 2) am food of/for only/emphatically one soul-melting breath

Notes: .sarfah : 'Expending, expense, expenditure; economy; utility, profit; addition, surplus, excess, redundance, profusion'. (Platts p.744) .zab:t : 'Keeping, taking care of, guarding, defending, watching over, ruling, governing; regulation, government, direction, discipline; restraint, control, check'. (Platts p.748)

Nazm: In this verse he means to express his weakness and debility, and the intensity and sharpness of his sighs; that is, if I don't restrain myself then with one single sigh I would dissolve and vanish. (14)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am controlling my sighs; I consider that this is to my advantage, otherwise with one single soul-melting breath my feeble body would melt away and become a morsel for the fire of passion. That is, the way a candle melts and flows away, my sigh is enough to consign me to oblivion. (27)

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Bekhud Mohani: I don't want to deceive the world. The reason I restrain my sighs is not fortitude. Rather, if I would sigh, then my burning sigh would finish off my feeble life. Mirza has, in a veiled way, shown the extremity of his weakness and of the soul-burningness of his sighs, although outwardly this purpose is not evident. (28)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH The point of this verse eluded me. Most of the commentators just paraphrase it in prose, which doesn't much help. The wordplay of .sarfah and .zab:t in the first line is there, of course, but is that all? Surely there ought to be some wordplay or connection between the two lines, but I couldn't find it. So I asked S. R. Faruqi for his analysis (March 2003), and here it is: FARUQI: Well, there is connection. Connection is not the problem, the problem is that there isn't much in the verse to raise it above the level of a rather plain theme of the sigh that destroys the sigher, by virtue of (a) the sigh being soul-searing; and (b) the sigher being physically weak and emaciated. Ghalib tries a bit of trickery here to explain why he is not sighing away his life, for that's what a lover does. So he says: I am not sighing, because I am so weak that if I let my breath out, I won't have the strength to bring it back. The piquancy of the verse lies in the double meaning of .sarfah , as 'expense', and also 'saving'. The primary sense here is saving, but since it is also expense, it reinforces (in an ironical way) the sense of expense that is implied in :tu((mah , which means food or a mouthful of food-- hence, a mode of expense. When you eat something, you spend it; or, when you eat something, you first spend money to get it. Thus the .sarfah which is the aim of the whole exercise, becomes expenditure anyway. This helps, of course, but I still don't really see much in the verse. I don't think it's up to his usual standard.

{13,5}* hai;N baskih josh-e baadah se shiishe uchhal rahe har goshah-e bisaa:t hai sar shiishah-baaz kaa 1a) the glasses are leaping to such an extent from the turbulence of wine 1b) although the glasses are leaping from the turbulence of wine 2) every corner of the carpet is a glass-player's head

Notes: baskih : 'although'; [also short for:] az bas kih : 'To such an extent that;--inasmuch as, whereas'. (Platts p.154)

Nazm: A glass-player is a man who, while doing his act, sways his hands and head. And by bisaa:t is meant a carpet with wine-glasses arranged in its corners.

Bekhud Dihlavi: A 'glass-player' is a kind of juggler who, while doing his act, juggles glasses or bottles and puts them on his head and shoulder. As he dances, he moves them onto every part of his body. He [Ghalib] says that from the coming of the spring season, so much turbulence has been generated in the wine that wherever in the corners of the carpet full glasses of wine have been put, they are leaping in their places the way a glass leaps on the head and shoulder of a juggler when he sets it in motion, and then it settles down in the same place. (28)

Bekhud Mohani: In the gathering of the rakish ones [rind], bottles of wine are arranged, and they are filled with such lively and powerful wine that the glasses are constantly leaping around, and the rakish ones, in the fervor of their

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intoxication, perceive every corner of the carpet to be dancing like the head of a glass-player. (28)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH WINE: {49,1} The two meanings of baskih-- as itself, and as a shortened form of az bas kih-- both work here to create an alternation of possibilities (almost like a juggling act) in the first line. The first reading (1a) emphasizes the turbulent motion of the glasses, which is like that of glasses being juggled. It appears that they are waving and swaying as though they themselves are intoxicated. By contrast, (1b) asserts the power of the glass-player to keep them in control. Although they're moving and swaying back and forth in almost an alarming way, a real professional knows how to allow for such movement. We know they're not going to fall-- it's just part of the skillful act that the 'glass-player' is performing for us. If the glasses are metaphorically drunkards, the carpet is metaphorically a 'glass-player'. And of course, this vision of the room as swinging and swaying would come very naturally to someone who was intoxicated.

{13,6} kaavish kaa dil kare hai taqaa.zaa kih hai hanuuz naa;xun pah qar.z is girah-e niim-baaz kaa 1a) the heart makes a claim for scratching/inquiry, for there is now/still 1b) the heart makes a claim for scratching/inquiry, [saying], There is now/still 2) a debt on the fingernails concerning this half-open knot

Notes: kaavish : 'Digging; excavation; --investigation, inquiry, research, meditation; intentness'. (Platts p.808) kare hai is an archaic form of kartaa hai ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: That is, my heart, which through 'narrowness' [tangii] and 'captivity' [giraftagii] has turned into a knot, makes a claim on the fingernails of grief for scratching, the way someone would demand payment of a debt. And from the word 'half-open' it's clear that the scratching of grief took place previously, but was incomplete. (14)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the beloved's knot-belted robe has been half-opened by us; it wasn't able to be opened completely. In this guilt our heart is making a claim on us for scratching, and the nails owe the debt to the knot-belted robe. It's better that we scratch away our heart with this fingernail that was not able completely to open the belted robe. What worse revenge can be taken upon it for this failure? (28)

Bekhud Mohani: 1) The heart makes a claim on the fingernails of contriving or the hand of kindness [to finish opening the knot and ease its grief]. 2) Some heart-captured one says to the fingernails of grief [to please scratch the knot away and thus finish him off]. 3) My heart is such a seeker of pain [that it never gets enough and always demands more]. (28-29)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ; KIH The ambiguities of kih have been exploited here. It can mean 'since, because' (cf. kyuu;Nkih ), or it can introduce a direct quote. Thus the rest of the verse

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becomes either the reason (apparently endorsed by the poet) for the heart's claim, or the exact words, unvalidated, that the heart speaks. Further ambiguities arise about whether the knot is to be fully loosened by the Fingernails of Contriving [naa;xun-e tadbiir], a well-known Persianized figure of speech for solving a problem, or is to be scratched away entirely and thus mercifully obliterated by the Fingernails of Grief. The word kaavish can conveniently go either way. Even more ambiguities arise from hanuuz : is the claim only 'now' a debt, based on the fact that half the kaavish has been done and the fingernails ought for that reason alone, like good workmen, to finish the job; or is it 'still' a debt, like a mortgage not as yet fully paid? Perhaps ultimately the heart doesn't care which way the problem is resolved, perhaps in its desperation it will make every claim at the same time.

{13,7}* taaraaj-e kaavish-e ;Gam-e hijraa;N hu))aa asad siinah kih thaa dafiinah guharhaa-e raaz kaa 1) it was plundered by the digging/investigation of the grief of separation, Asad 2) the breast that was a buried treasure of pearls of mystery

Notes: kaavish : 'Digging; excavation; --investigation, inquiry, research, meditation; intentness'. (Platts p.808)

Nazm: Alas, Asad, that grief dug up that buried treasure of mystery and looted it; the result is that grief disgraced him. (14)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The digging of the grief of separation, oh Asad, conquered the heart and looted it and destroyed it. Whatever treasuries of the secrets of passion or secrets of mystical knowledge were hidden in the breast, they have all been exposed. (28)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, the troubles of the grief of separation have looted that heart that was a treasury of the secrets of mystical knowledge. (29)

FWP: As in {13,6}, the possibilities of kaavish are wittily exploited. An ordinary looter, seeking wealth, digs up pearls; an investigator, seeking knowledge, uncovers mysteries. The depths of the lover's heart contained both at once. And now they've all been ravaged and looted. But what exactly was the nature of this looting? It was the digging/investigation 'of' the grief 'of' separation [kaavish-e ;Gam-e hijraa;N]; even if we take the second i.zaafat straightforwardly, the first one can still go at least two ways. Was it digging done 'by' the grief of separation, or investigation 'of' the grief of separation? In the first (active) reading, it was the grief itself that did the digging, boring down steadily into the breast and destroying everything it touched. In the second (passive, metaphorical) reading, it was the 'investigation' of grief, the analytical 'digging', that did the damage. Doctors tried to diagnose the grief, friends tried to explore it, the lover himself tried to plumb its depths. All this obsessive inquiry, all this analytical dissection, ended up wrecking the pearls of mystery in the lover's breast. For a similarly multivalent case, see {1,2}, where the digging, the kaav-kaav, can also be taken either actively or passively. For a less complex use of kaavish, see {15,8}. Then in {178,5} we find the wonderfully vivid kurednaa .

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Ghazal 14 10 verses (out of 10); rhyming elements: ar khulaa composed 1852; Arshi #45

{14,1} bazm-e shaahinshaah me;N ash((aar kaa daftar khulaa rakhyo yaa rab yih dar-e ganjiinah-e gauhar khulaa 1) in the King's gathering a register/office of verses opened 2) keep, oh Lord, this door of a treasury of pearls opened

Notes: daftar : 'A roll, scroll, list; an index; a bundle of papers or written documents tied together in a cloth; a record, register, journal, book, volume, accountbook ... archives; a record-office; an office, counting-house, place of business:'. (Platts p.519) rakhyo is a variant form of rakho ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: In this verse is the suggestion that if the king's gathering is a treasure of pearls, then only because my office of verses has opened there. And this prayer...means keep it flourishing and keep its generosity flowing. (14)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In the Exalted [Red] Fort on various occasions mushairahs often used to be held. They were especially common in the later days of the time of the Shadow of God, Bahadur Shah. In this connection, he says that in the Shahinshah's poetic gathering the sequence of mushairahs has started again. (28-29)

Bekhud Mohani: If we keep in mind the fact that in Bahadur Shah's time the kingship was declining, it occurs to us that Mirza was seeing the signs that the kingship would be erased; for this reason, in those days, the King's being inclined toward poetry and his holding mushairahs in the Exalted Fort [=Red Fort] must have seemed very much worthy of respect. And this prayer must have come from the heart, because he saw all these things as vanishing with the kingship. (29)

FWP: SETS == POETRY GATHERINGS: {6,3} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of ten verses (Hamid p. 12); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The 'treasury of pearls' could be Ghalib's own poetic imagination, producing new gems for the King's gathering. It could also be the rewards the king offers to poets. Or it could be the valuable verses contained in the King's 'registry' or 'office'. The use of 'this door' works well no matter with any reading.

{14,2} shab hu))ii phir anjum-e ra;xshindah kaa man:zar khulaa is takalluf se kih goyaa but-kade kaa dar khulaa 1) night came, again/then the scene/view of shining stars opened 2) with such ceremony that, so to speak, the door of an idol-temple opened

Notes: Nazm: He's only shown a comparison for the stars coming out. This verse is not a ghazal one; rather, it's from the introductory part [tashbiib] of an ode.

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Probably other verses were with it, which were removed when the selection was made [of verses for the published diivaan]. (14)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this [second] opening-verse he has again [as in {14,1}] repeated the same theme [of praise for the king's mushairah] in different words. (29)

Bekhud Mohani: There's reason to suppose that this verse would not be from a ghazal. Because looking at the glittering stars, Mirza has remembered an idoltemple, he has not remembered paradise. The passion that idol-worshipers have for idols is apparent, and the worship of beauty is a practice of those with the temperament of lovers. And this theme seems best suited to the ghazal alone. But indeed it's also possible that this verse might have been composed in the introductory part [tashbiib] of some romantic ode. (30)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} RELIGIONS: {60,2} It's true that Ghalib has an ode in this same rhyme-scheme, though a different meter (Hamid pp. 198-200). But Nazm's flat assertion of 'nonghazalness' is not warranted by anything in the nature of the genre. He makes a similar complaint about {74,1}. The apparent reference in the verse is to the widespread use of lamps in Hindu temples, and the ceremonial opening of doors to permit a formal viewing of the image. Note that the comparison is a favorable one, based on radiance, beauty, and a lofty elegance. Ghalib makes a much more amusing and rakish use of the stars' coming out, in {111,3}.

{14,3} garchih huu;N diivaanah par kyuu;N dost kaa khaa))uu;N fareb aastii;N me;N dashnah pinhaa;N haath me;N nashtar khulaa 1) although I am mad, why would I fall for the friend's trick? 2) in the sleeve a dagger hidden, in the hand a lancet opened/revealed

Notes: A 'lancet' was an instrument used for blood-letting, a common medical practice of the day; among other benefits, it was thought to relieve pressure on the brain.

Nazm: That is, the world's friendship is such that the outer and the inner are not the same. 'In the hand a lancet revealed' is to express sympathy; that is, he shows a purpose of curing, and in his sleeve a dagger is concealed. That is, he intends to slit his throat. (14)

Bekhud Mohani: 'Although I am mad' can be said in a number of cases. That is, hidden in it is the thought of a madman who realizes his situation, after the height of madness has abated. Then, the meaning of the word 'friend' is also worth noticing; that is, even in that situation he holds the beloved dear. [The sympathetic beloved approaches him with a lancet, to bleed him, but he mistakes her radiant wrist for the gleam of a dagger and misjudges her in his madness.] (31)

Naiyar Masud: 1) When the knife is hidden inside the sleeve, how did the madman know if it?.... 2) When someone loses his mind and senses and goes mad, the desire to kill him vanishes of its own accord.... 3) It's not so hard to kill a madman, that the drama of lancet in hand and dagger in sleeve would be necessary. [Whereas Bekhud Mohani avoids these questions, but only through a

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fanciful and improbable drama in which the beloved's wrist is made to resemble a dagger, etc.] The madman/lover prides himself on his madness/passion.... The madman thinks the lancet is not a cure, but a diminishing of his madness of passion, as if it were the instrument of death to him.... The apparent lancet in the friend's hand is not really a lancet, but rather it is a dagger hidden in the sleeve (hidden in the sleeve because its power is not apparent; outwardly it's a means for a cure but to me, it's a means of death). 'A dagger hidden in the sleeve' and 'a lancet open in the hand' are not two separate things, but rather the open lancet itself with regard to its inward effect is a dagger in the sleeve. (115-16)

FWP: MADNESS verses: {4,11x}; {4,16x}; {6,7x}; {6,14x}; {14,3}; {15,12}; {16,6x}; {17,3}; {18,2}; {19,5}; {23,1}; {57,6}; {64,1}; {68,5}; {85,3}; {91,9}; {112,1}; {112,5}; {113,5}; {113,8}; {119,8}; {120,6}; {139,12}; {141,6}; {148,1}; {165,1}; {165,3}; {167,6}; {171,2}; {176,4}; {190,3}; {190,5}; {192,1}; {206,1}; {206,4}; {214,2}; {214,8}; {214,10}; {214,11}; {215,5}; {221,3}; {223,2}; {230,6} This one is another great verse of Ghalibian ambiguity, like the dream-based {3,3}. I am mad, therefore what I say could be merely a sign of madness-- or maybe not, since I'm sane enough to know I'm mad; or else I could be madly making unfounded accusations that in fact happen to be true. In any case, the 'friend' (who may or may not be the beloved) could be either a real wellwisher of mine, who wishes to bleed me and thus ease the pressure on my brain, or a false 'friend' who is actually trying to kill me, or (as Naiyar Masud argues) both at once, since loss of my madness/passion is a form of death. If {3,3} is a dream verse, this one is an archetypal nightmare verse. And of course, since it's in inshaa))iyah mode, the question of the first line may be a real one-- perhaps there are good reasons that I would, or could, or should fall for the trick, and I'm merely seeking to ascertain what they are. For another verse that enjoyably plays with the (false? true?) cunning of madness, compare {215,5}. For another, more abstract use of nashtar and the concept of bleeding, see {166,2}. In addition to all its other marvels, Ithis verse always strikes me as cheerful and somehow ruefully funny. I imagine the madman in his cell, muttering to himself, spinning elaborate conspiracy theories, proud of his profound insights. Yet also half-apologetically knowing that he's mad. Yet after all, paranoids have enemies too...

{14,4}* go nah samjhuu;N us kii baate;N go nah paa))uu;N us kaa bhed par yih kyaa kam hai kih mujh se vuh parii-paikar khulaa 1) although I might not understand her conversation, although I might not find out her secret/betrayal/device 2a) but is this a small/lesser thing-- that that Fairy-faced one opened up to me? 2b) but this is no small/lesser thing-- that that Fairy-faced one opened up to me!

Notes: bhed : 'Breaking, separation, disunion, difference, disagreement, interruption, disturbance; betrayal; breach, rupture, fracture; fissure, chasm, cleft; separation, difference, distinction, peculiarity; discrimination, discernment; kind, sort, species, variety; device; secrecy, secret, mystery.' (Platts p.199)

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Nazm: In this verse, 'to open up' means 'to converse freely and informally'. (14)

Bekhud Mohani: The states of the lover and the beloved are as different as earth and sky. (32)

Naiyar Masud: Now if the beloved is speaking such words to the lover as the poor wretch can't even understand, and for this reason the beloved's secret/device is not clear to him, then why would he falsely think that she had opened up to him?.... The lover does not have trouble understanding what she is saying to him. Rather, he doesn't understand why she is conversing with him. Because up till now, the beloved has never been kind to the lover, so the lover is not familiar with her coquetry, and is ignorant of the real motive of any deed of hers.... Both 'to me' and 'that fairy-faced one' can be emphasized equally, or either one of them, in different tones of voice, and various latent interpretations can be brought out. (117-20)

FWP: SETS == KYA SPEAKING verses: {14,4}; {14,7}; {19,2}; {19,3}: {21,13}; {24,7} The perfectly chosen, elegantly multivalent word bhed sets us up for the question in (2a). The lover thinks it is a rhetorical question, but we know that unfortunately it's not. It's all too possible that the beloved's bhed is something cruel or exploitative toward the lover, and her show of 'opening up' to him is some kind of a preparatory trick. Or else, as in (2b), the defensive lover is protesting too much. He is struggling to justify the beloved's behavior at all costs. And of course, what does it mean to say that the beloved 'opened up' to you, if you didn't understand a single thing the beloved said, or what meaning might lie behind it? Among the other flexibilities of kyaa , in the second line, kyaa kam hai can be read as a general, idiomatic, rhetorical question ('is it a small thing? --of course it's not!'). For another such use, see {120,2}. Alternatively, however, it can apply specifically to the first line: it would have been a 'big thing' for me to understand her conversation and know her secrets; but her opening up to me-- is that a lesser thing? (Of course it's not, it's just as good, or almost as good.)

{14,5}* hai ;xayaal-e ;husn me;N ;husn-e ((amal kaa saa ;xayaal ;xuld kaa ik dar hai merii gor ke andar khulaa 1a) in the thought of beauty, is a {pertaining-to-beauty-of-action}-ish thought 1b) in the thought of beauty, is the thought of something like beauty of action 2) a single/certain/unique/excellent door of heaven, inside my grave, {has opened / has become revealed}

Notes: ;xayaal : 'Thought, opinion, surmise, suspicion, conception, idea, notion, fancy, imagination, conceit. whim, chimera; consideration; regard, deference; apprehension; care, concern; --an imaginary form, apparition, vision, spectre, phantom, shadow, delusion'. (Platts p.497)

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ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113)

Nazm: From the thought of beauty, that is, from the image of the beloved's face, a door to heaven shows itself in the grave. Because her face is colorful like a garden; so it's if the image of beauty and the beauty of actions have one single fruit. (14-15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The perfect vision of the True [divine] Beloved has done the work of worship for me. (30)

Bekhud Mohani: The face of the beloved in itself is heaven. (32)

Arshi: Compare {87,7}. (228)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EK Even if a thought of beauty translates into a 'thought' of doing good deeds (or more literally, and even more abstractly, 'a pertaining-to-goodness-of-deedsish thought'), does such a thought actually get you into heaven? A careful look at the wording of the verse suggests that the 'door' that has opened leads only to a highly metaphorical 'heaven' in the mind-- a heaven that has the same relation to the religious one as 'a pertaining-to-beauty-of-action-ish thought' has to actual virtuous deeds. And 'thought' [;xayaal] itself is nothing if not uncertain and untrustworthy, with meanings that include fancies, apparitions, and delusions (see the definition above). The use of saa to convert 'pertaining-to-beauty-of-action' into 'pertaining-to-beauty-of-action-ish' also seems to point to further layers of meaning-- but without enabling us to discern what they might be. But of course, this is only 'one' door, and there may well be others. Or it might not be exactly 'one' door, but a 'single' door, or a 'sole' door, or a 'certain' door, or a 'unique' door, or even a 'preeminent, excellent' door (see the definition above). And it might be an imagined, imaginary door, a door created by 'thought'-- so that the speaker in the grave can't actually go through it. As usual, it's left to us to decide. Still more fundamentally, we can't tell what the relationship between the two lines might be. Do they both describe the same situation? Do they describe two different situations, that are compared and/or contrasted? Does the first line make a claim, and the second line provide evidence in favor of it? Does the second line report an event, and the first line provide an explanation of it? And so on-- we can ask, but the only answers we get are those we decide for ourselves. The fact that andar , 'inside', contains with in it dar , the very 'door' that appears 'inside' the grave, is an enjoyable touch of wordplay. This verse belongs to the set in which the dead lover speaks from beyond (or in this case, within) the grave; for other such verses, see {57,1}. Note for grammar fans: The two parts of khulaa hai are not only reversed in sequence but also separated by unusually many other words. It's pushing the limit, but don't let it confuse you: just move the hai to the end of the line, and then the structure becomes quite clear.

{14,6}* mu;Nh nah khulne par vuh ((aalam hai kih dekhaa hii nahii;N zulf se ba;Rh kar naqaab us sho;x ke mu;Nh par khulaa 1) on the face not being revealed, there's that state that no one has ever seen--

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2a) even beyond her curls, the veil was loosed over that mischievous one's face 2b) even better than curls, the veil adorned that mischievous one's face

Notes: khulnaa : 'To open, come open or undone; to open, expand... to be untied or unfastened... to stand out well or conspicuously, to appear to advantage (with or on, par)'. (Platts p.879)

Nazm: In this verse khulnaa means 'to adorn'-- look at what beauty appears in the verse from causing meaning to be present in the refrain! (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the phrase 'that's never been seen' is something only Mirza Sahib could have devised. (30)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, it is the word sho;x [mischievous one] on which the foundation is laid. (32)

FWP: CURLS: {14,6}; {19,6}; {214,2} VEIL: {6,1} See what a fine example of a great poet's powers-- each commentator admires a different feature of the verse, and all of them rightly. The vuh in the first line is used idiomatically, for strong emphasis. I love Ghalib's usual trick of using an expression both literally and metaphorically, as in kih dekhaa hii nahii;N . Of course, if she hides her face behind a veil, her face is something that hasn't been seen; and her beauty too is something unparallelled, and thus has never before been seen. Moreover, the 'that state that no one has ever seen' may also be the extraordinary state that the lover gets into, once his imagination has been fully charged up by such piquant non-revelation. Likewise in the case of khulnaa, with its three meanings of 'being revealed', 'opening, loosening', and 'appearing well, adorning,' all of which are made to suit perfectly to the circumstances of her use of her veil. And of course, her being a sho;x is what makes her cleverly adjust her veil to maximum effect in the first place. Want to know what this particular beloved did next? See {14,7}. It is obviously the same clever, mischievous, temperamental beloved in both verses.

{14,7}* dar pah rahne ko kahaa aur kah ke kaisaa phir gayaa jitne ((ar.se me;N miraa lip;Taa hu))aa bistar khulaa 1a) she said to remain at the door-- and having said it, how she went back [inside]! 1b) she said to remain at the door-- and having said it, how she went back [on her word]! 2) in as much of a time-interval as my rolled-up bedding opened

Notes: Nazm: There's only the mention of a piece of mischief of the beloved's, and these are always the best themes of the ghazal. (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The verse is straightforward and clear. A picture of the beloved's perversity, mischievousness of temperament, and especially suspiciousness, has been drawn in simple words and shown to us. (30)

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Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the goal is to express the beloved's impudence and his own ill fortune and stupefaction. All these things are expressed in just one word, 'how'. (33)

FWP: SPEAKING: {14,4} Think how quickly and eagerly I would have unrolled my bedding-- how could she 'go back' (physically or verbally or both) that quickly? I am left in rueful amazement. (But not, of course, ultimately surprised at all.) Another charmer of a verse-- this is obviously the same beloved who was cleverly loosening her veil in {14,6}. For more on her fickleness, see {46,1}. There are also the amusing implications-- the fact that the lover seems to be carrying his rolled-up bedding with him, just hoping to be granted this rare permission. And what is the permission? To do something very uncomfortable and menial-- to remain humbly outside the door, on guard or in attendance, night and day, with no conveniences whatsoever. That doesn't sound like much of a favor-- yet how much the lover craves it, and how quickly it's withdrawn!

{14,8} kyuu;N a;Ndherii hai shab-e ;Gam hai balaa))o;N kaa nuzuul aaj udhar hii ko rahegaa diidah-e a;xtar khulaa 1) why is the night of grief dark? there is the descent of disasters! 2) today the eye of the stars will remain opened only/especially in that direction

Notes: Nazm: In the first line is a question and answer; that is, the reason for the darkness of the night of grief is that even more disasters are coming down from the heights of the heavens, and in order to see the spectacle of their descent, the stars have turned their gaze from this direction to that. That is, they're coming down in such numbers that it's worth seeing, like a fair. (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, in the night of separation disasters are descending on me from the sky, and the eyes of the stars are spectators of them. For this reason the stars have turned their faces toward the sky. If the light of the stars were present, and I were able to see those disasters discending from the sky, then perhaps I would be able to make some plan to protect myself. (30)

Bekhud Mohani: The stars too are watching the spectacle, and today the stars' faces won't be turned toward the earth. Disasters come from the influence of the stars; thus today the stars are giving orders to the disasters, and the stars' gaze is fixed on their behavior and movement. Tonight the world can't be illumined. Those elders who have read 'in that direction' as 'in this direction', and taken 'the eye of the stars' to mean 'the eye of the stars of fate' have fallen into error. (33)

FWP: SETS == HI EYES {3,1} Bekhud Mohani is referring to the fact that udhar , 'that way', and idhar , 'this way', look just the same in Urdu script (unless small vowel markers are added, which they usually aren't). If we were to read the word as idhar , we'd have to read kyuu;N as a negative exclamation (What! Who says it's dark? It's not dark at all!). That kind of exclamatory use of kyuu;N wouldn't be at all improbable, and it makes wonderful use of the second line: tonight won't

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be dark, because there's a huge fall of disasters, and all the stars will have their eyes this way [idhar], riveted on us, watching in sympathetic horror. However, Arshi goes unambiguously for udhar , so I follow my usual policy of accepting his readings. The stars are apparently looking over 'that way', watching the earlier stages of the disasters in their long fall towards us. Only in the final stages would the disasters be near enough to us so that the stars' view would include us, and we'd notice a return of their usual gaze. And, of course, we might notice a huge group of falling balaa))e;N , brightly visible in the starlight. When I first read this verse my immediate reaction was to feel that the stars were averting their gaze from us, in hapless sympathy for our peril. They couldn't bear to watch, and were prudently turning their eyes elsewhere. That's still my favorite interpretation.

{14,9} kyaa rahuu;N ;Gurbat me;N ;xvush jab ho ;havaadi;s kaa yih ;haal naamah laataa hai va:tan se naamah-bar ak;sar khulaa 1) as if I would remain happy in a foreign land! --when the state of occurrences/misfortunes is such 2) the Messenger usually brings the letters from the homeland-- open

Notes: ;Gurbat : 'Travelling (to foreign countries), going abroad; emigration; -being far from (one's) home or native country; the state or condition of a stranger, or foreigner, or exile; wretchedness, misery; humility, lowliness'. (Platts p.770) ;havaadi;s : 'Accidents, occurrences; misfortunes, calamities'. (Platts p.482)

Nazm: The custom is that when they write news of a death in a letter, they send it off open. (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to escape from troubles in my homeland, I came abroad, but even in exile there is so much bad news that the letters the Messenger brings from home are usually open. That is, they contain news of the death of one or another dear one. In this difficulty, how can I live happily even here? (31)

Josh: The letter in which news of a death would be recorded-- the custom was to send it off open. (68)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH HOME verses: {6,14x}; {10,7}; {14,9} (vs. abroad); {15,10}; {17,2}; {18,3}; {25,2}; {35,8}; {83,1} (vs. abroad); {87,11} (vs. abroad); {91,9}; {101,3}; {101,10} (vs. abroad); {140,6}; {156,1} WRITING: {7,3} This is the kind of verse that I imagine as fitting in well in a mushairah situation, when the audience had already been delighted by the poet's creative uses of this particularly meaningful refrain. Here is one more unexpected, witty, perfect facet of khulaa . The verse doesn't have to do any more than this to be entirely satisfactory; after all, it's only two lines long, and will serve very well to break the mood of some of the heavier verses. As so often, he's fixed it so that you can't tell from the first line alone what is coming in the second. This of course is perfect for the oral poetics of mushairah performance. Even today, the mushairah poet flirts with the audience, repeating the first line once or twice, letting the suspense grow before providing the closure of the second line. To maximize its effect, the ideal mushairah verse withholds the 'punchy' word until as late as possible in the second line, preferably the very end, as in this case. A final trait of a

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'mushairah verse' is that what you hear is what you get: you 'get' it all at once in a rush, the first time through, and don't feel any need to brood about it or re-examine it at length. The secondary meaning of ;Gurbat as 'wretchedness' or 'lowliness' shows the association of travel abroad with the dangers of exile, friendlessness, alienation, loss of status. This rich double meaning makes the word useful for Ghalib's sometimes ironic purposes.

{14,10}* us kii ummat me;N huu;N mai;N mere rahe;N kyuu;N kaam band vaas:te jis shah ke ;Gaalib gunbad-e be-dar khulaa 1) I am in his community-- why would my plans remain closed/unfulfilled?-2) that King [the Prophet] for whom, Ghalib, the doorless dome opened

Notes: Nazm: That is, in the night of the Mi'raj [when the Prophet went up to paradise]. (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This closing-verse is a 'poem in praise of the Prophet' [na((tiyah]. How beautifully the event of the Mi'raj has been depicted, and in such a brief phrase! (31)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, I am of the community of that Prophet, for whom on the night of the Mi'raj the door of a doorless house like the sky was opened. Then how can my work, which is related to the earth, remain shut down? (33)

FWP: ISLAMIC: {10,2} A resonant closing-verse for a ghazal with a wide range and several superb verses in it. The wordplay of opening and closing works with a great sense of satisfactory finality and closure. The first line ends with 'closed', the second with 'opened'. But notice that the first line, being inshaa))iyah, in fact leaves us with a question. Indeed, why would his tasks remain 'closed' and blocked? Yet the form of the question clearly implies that they might. The response (from God?) to the question might be not a reassurance, but a reason why he could not attain what he wished. As Faruqi has pointed out to me, whatever may have been Ghalib's personal religious beliefs, in his poetry he often shows 'mischievousness' toward God, but is never other than respectful toward the Prophet and his family, especially Hazrat Ali (see for example {98,1}). The 'doorless dome' of the sky opened for the Prophet during his Mi'raj, or nighttime ascent to Paradise.

Ghazal 15 15 verses (out of 23); rhyming elements: aab thaa composed 1816; Arshi #9

{15,1} shab kih barq-e soz-e dil se zahrah-e abr aab thaa shu((lah-e javvaalah har ik ;halqah-e girdaab thaa 1) last night, when/since from the lightning of the burning of the heart the cloud's {fear was great / gall-bladder was water} 2) every single circle of the whirlpool was a blazing flame

Notes: zahrah : ' Gall-bladder; bile; --boldness, spirit, pluck'. (Platts p.619)

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zahrah aab honaa : ''The gall to turn to water,' to be much distressed or terrified, to be panic-stricken, to take fright'. (Platts p.619) girdaab : 'Whirlpool, abyss, gulf, vortex'. (Platts p.903)

Nazm: This was only the effect of the burning of my heart. (15)

Josh: This ghazal has been called 'continuous'. In every single verse events and scenes only of the night of separation have been depicted. (68) [Josh is speaking of verses 1-8 only; he takes 9-15 to be a separate ghazal.]

Chishti: The excellence of the verse is only in pushing exaggeration to the limit of its range. The poet has shown the perfection of inventiveness. First he has supposed the cloud to be a person. Then he has shown that he has a gallbladder. He has made the gall-bladder melt into water and run off, and in it he has shown the spectacle of a blazing flame. (290)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; KIH LIGHTNING: {10,6} Ghalib originally composed one ghazal of eleven verses, and another of twelve verses (Raza p. 124; Raza p. 125), from which he selected the fifteen verses (Hamid p. 13; Hamid p. 14) that he combined into a new ghazal and included in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Some editions of the divan divide this long ghazal into two separate ghazals: verses 1-8 as the first, and verses 9-15 as the second. (Verse 8 is not a closing-verse, but verse 9 is an opening-verse.) As always, I follow Hamid and Arshi, both of whom treat it as a single long ghazal. The verse features a form of enjoyable wordplay (the 'concretization' of an idiom, as the cloud's gall-bladder literally, rather than metaphorically, 'turns to water' with fear. It's also an exercise in hyperbole (the cloud, made of water, fears the fire of the lover's heart); and it offers the arresting vision of a whirlpool with a heart of flame. But without the enjoyable use made of idiom 'the gall to turn to water', the verse really wouldn't have much to offer.

{15,2} vaa;N karam ko ((u;zr-e baarish thaa ((inaa;N-giir-e ;xiraam girye se yaa;N punbah-e baalish kaf-e sailaab thaa 1) there, to Kindness the excuse of rain was a {restrainer / 'rein-puller'} of its pace/gait 2a) from weeping, here, the cotton of the pillow was the foam of the flood 2b) from weeping, here, the foam of the flood was the cotton of the pillow

Notes: ((inaa;N : 'A rein; bridle'. (Platts p.766) ;xiram : 'Pace, gait, walk, march; stately gait, graceful walk; strut'. (Platts p.488)

Nazm: That is, the rain prevented her from showing mercy, and I was in such a state from weeping and weeping that here, instead of a cotton pillow there was the foam of the flood. (15)

Baqir: [Sa'id says:] The cloudburst of my tears itself prevented her from moving along-- tears which were caused by her not coming. (51) [Asi says:] The foam of the flood was the cotton of the pillow, that is, the cotton pillow had floated away. (51)

Shadan: This verse begins a verse-set. (131)

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FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; HERE/THERE Despite Shadan's assertion, most editors and commentators don't treat {15,27} as a verse-set, but it's easy to see what Shadan means. Unlike the verses before and after them, these six are all structured around the contrast between vaa;N ('there', meaning in the beloved's world) in one line, and yaa;N ('here', meaning in the lover's world) in the other. The witty and appropriate parallels between these two worlds both disguise and reveal how radically incommensurable they are. I like the circularity of Sa'id's explanation: the beloved was prevented from coming by a rainstorm-- that is, by a small part of the flood of tears I wept when I learned she was not coming. Or perhaps it shouldn't be called circularity, but 'mutual causality'-- her behavior causes my behavior, and my behavior causes her behavior. Thus lover and beloved are intimately linked, even though they are (literally) poles apart. (After all, aren't the two poles intimately linked?) Sa'id's notion also amounts to a form of 'catch-22'. (The original 'catch-22', for those who don't remember the novel: you can only be excused from flying bombing missions if you're insane; but if you seek to get excused from flying bombing missions, you're sane.) The lover hopes to earn a visit because he weeps so much; but because he weeps so much, she has a 'flood' excuse not to visit him. The cotton of my pillow was white like sea-foam, and from my weeping it was also just as wet (2a). Or, as Asi says, the sea-foam was all the pillow I had, since my own pillow had long since floated away (2b). The difference between (2a) and (2b) depends on the direction in which we choose to read the metaphor. There's a similar situation in {11,1}, which also involves waves of water and a hard-pressed lover (though in that verse he's much more confident). Literally, the 'excuse of rain' was a 'bridle-puller' or 'rein-puller', a metaphor that clear brings to mind the 'reining in' of a horse. (Or the 'rain' was a 'reinpuller', with an accidental English homonym.) Then the use of 'gait, pace' [;xiraam] reinforces this image. But is the beloved really like a beautiful, eager, spirited horse, restrained only by someone else's hand tugging on its reins or bridle? Surely this image lets her off too easily; the word 'excuse' also suggests that she's actually not all that eager to visit the lover anyway.

{15,3} vaa;N ;xvud-aaraa))ii ko thaa motii paraune kaa ;xayaal yaa;N hujuum-e ashk me;N taar-e nigah naayaab thaa 1) there, Self-adornment had the thought of stringing pearls 2) here, in the crowd of tears, the thread of the glance/gaze was unfindable

Notes: Nazm: That is, on the thread of the glance so many tears had been threaded that that it itself became hidden and obscured, the way pearls hide the string. Look, the whole simile is found [in earlier poetry], but the freshness is in this, that he does not wish to give the simile. The poet mentions the similar elements, and then does not give the simile. (15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: There, for her self-adornment and decoration she was string pearls, and in that occupation her promise was also forgotten. Here, I was in such a state that while waiting I had wept and wept to the degree that the profusion of tears had obscured even the thread of vision. The point is that the beloved wanted no lack or shortful in outward beauty to remain; and the lover's ardor demanded that the time of union should come quickly. A picture of self-

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adornment and the restlessness of passion cannot be drawn in better words than these. (32)

Josh: There, her adornment and decoration never came to an end; and here, so many tears have been strung on the thread of the glance that because of the abundance of tears the thread of the glance itself can't be seen. For the wordplay of tear-shedding, in the first line mention has been made of stringing pearls by way of adornment; and by way of comparison, although the desired simile is not present, the pleasure of the simile has been created. (69)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE GAZE: {10,12} This verse reminds me of {10,12}, which also relies on the thread of the glance or gaze. In that case, the look provides a stitching-together of the scattered pages of our life by binding them into our clear-sighted progress toward fanaa, or oblivion (in God, if you're sufistically inclined). In this case, the enjoyableness comes from the parallel and yet utterly contrasting situations of lover and beloved. Nazm's point is a good one: we ourselves have to put together the relationship between the lines. But look at the wonderfully multiple, overlapping possibilities. The beloved thinks of stringing pearls because she's always one for self-adornment (in fact, she is 'Self-adornment'), and because she's so indifferent to her lover's plight. But she also thinks of it because the tears shed by her lover are available in such quantity and might as well be put to use (the tears are her pearls). She herself is able to string pearls at will; the lover is surrounded by tear-pearls but is so distraught that he can't even find the 'thread' of his glance (because his eyes are blurred with tears); she can do as she likes, and can make luxurious choices; he can do nothing but weep. This verse is part of a sort of quasi-'verse-set' that begins with {15,2}. It is also an example of that same 'mutual causality' so evident in {15,2}. Her indifference to me, her preoccupation with the details of self-adornment (possibly to show herself to others), cause me to weep; my lavishly available pearl-tears cause her to become more devoted to self-adornment and more interested in stringing pearls. As we know from {10,2}, her eyelashes pierce blood-drops to make a set of coral prayer-beads; no doubt the process of piercing and stringing tear-pearls would be similar, and equally effortless.

{15,4} jalvah-e gul ne kiyaa thaa vaa;N chiraa;Gaa;N aab-juu yaa;N ravaa;N mizhgaan-e chashm-e tar se ;xuun-e naab thaa 1) the glory/appearance of the rose, there, made the stream/rivulet into a lamp-display 2) here, from the eyelashes of wet eyes was flowing pure blood

Notes: chiraa;Gaan : 'Lamps; lights; a display of lamps, a general illumination'. (Platts p.428)

Nazm: That is, there, there were so many flower-beds, and they extended so far, that their reflection seemed to create a lamp-display. And here, tears of blood had flowed so far that the wet eyes were comparable to streams; and in answer to the branches of the rose, drops of blood on the eyelashes. (15-16)

Bekhud Dihlavi:

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There, so many flowers were blooming that from their reflection lamps seemed to be lit in the water of the water-channels. And here, tears of blood were flowing like a river from the eyes. (32)

Josh: He says, she had arranged flowers of many colors and looked at their reflection in the water of the water-channel, and was strolling among the lamp-display. And here, I was in such a state that tears of blood dripped from my eyelashes. He has given for roses the simile of lamps, and with the wordplay of their redness the mention of blood has come in. (69)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE JALVAH: {7,4} This verse is part of a sort of quasi-'verse-set' that begins with {15,2}. I don't think it's the best verse in the group, though. It lacks the self-reflexive 'mutual causality' that makes {15,2} and {15,3} so enjoyable. It has a straightforward simplicity of tone, lyrical meaning, good sound effects; it also is (as it should be, given the theme) full of 'flowingness.' For more on the 'lamp-display', see {5,5}. The stream in the garden reflected the radiance of the roses so brilliantly that it looked like a 'lamp-display'. But the lover too had his counterpart: the stream of his brilliantly roseate bloody tears.

{15,5} yaa;N sar-e pur-shor be-;xvaabii se thaa diivaar-juu vaa;N vuh farq-e naaz ma;hv-e baalish-e kam;xvaab thaa 1) here, the {tumult/bitterness}-filled head, out of sleeplessness, was in search of a wall 2) there, that summit of coquetry was absorbed in a velvet pillow

Notes: shor : 'Din, clamour, uproar, tumult, disturbance... very bitter; --unlucky'. (Platts p.736) farq : 'Separation, intervening space, interval; distance; division, partition; interruption; disperson; distinction, difference; ...the head; top, summit'. (Platts p.779)

Nazm: That is, because sleep didn't come, my head was searching for a wall, and I wanted to beat my head against it. (16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib prefers smashing his head against a wall and dying, compared to waking up in his condition of separation [farqat]. (32)

Josh: For 'the sleep of peace' [;xvaab-e raa;hat] he searched out a good rhyme as well, ;xvaab. For the expression of comparison, in every verse to juxtapose the equipment for grief and repose is also worthy of praise. Then, there's the pleasure that in this comparison the similes too are very appropriate. (69)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE; WORDPLAY This verse is another part of a sort of quasi-'verse-set' that begins with {15,2}. The wordplay with farq is cleverly left implicit: the word here refers to the beloved (or more literally perhaps to her head) as the 'summit' of coquetry, but its far more common meaning is the 'separation' that drives the lover toward suicide; this is a fine example of iihaam . In addition, the lover's be-;xvaabii or sleeplessness is juxtaposed to the beloved's pillow of kam;xvaab, velvet. As a fringe benefit (like the fringe on

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a velvet pillow, of course), the literal meaning of kam;xvaab is 'of little sleep,' which resonates with the 'sleeplessness' of the lover. It's the lover's head that's in search of a wall; he longs to smash his head against a wall and thus attain at least unconsciousness, if not death. And the literal 'summit of coquetry,' the beloved's own head, lies unconscious, deeply asleep, having sunk itself luxuriously into its velvet pillow. A verse of almost pure wordplay-- the kind that the whole past century of Urdu criticism has loved to hate. I don't think this one is as good as {15,2} and {15,3} (no mutual causality), but it has its own kind of quick mental pleasure to offer.

{15,6} yaa;N nafas kartaa thaa raushan sham((-e bazm-e be-;xvudii jalvah-e gul vaa;N bisaa:t-e .su;hbat-e a;hbaab thaa 1) here, the breath used to illumine the candle of the gathering of selflessness 2) the glory/appearance of the rose, there, was the carpet of the company of friends

Notes: nafas : Breath, respiration; --the voice or sound from the breast; --a moment, an instant'. (Platts p.1144)

Nazm: That is, in our gathering the candle of sighs was lit; and in the company there, there was a carpet of flowers. By 'friends' the beloved's friends are meant. (16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here, my hot sighs, like a candle, had become illumined. From my lips flames were emerging together with breath, and those flames kept augmenting my self-lessness of passion. (32)

Bekhud Mohani: Here, our breath was lighting the candle in the gathering of self-lessness; that is, here we were always on the verge of fainting. And there, there was a gathering of companions, and there were so many flowers that it was as if a carpet of flowers had been spread. (35)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE CANDLE: {39,1} GATHERINGS: {6,3} JALVAH: {7,4} This verse is another part of a sort of quasi-'verse-set' that begins with {15,2}. While the beloved has a party and companions, the lover, in his state of devoid-of-self-ness or self-transcendance, doesn't even have himself. But he still has a 'gathering' [bazm] of some kind, and in mystical or Sufistic terms it may be greatly superior to hers. The breath lighting the candle is in one sense a paradox, since breath normally extinguishes a candle. But for the sufistically inclined, fanaa or oblivion may be a truer 'illumination' than life in this transitory and unstable world. Since I am not only alone but even my 'self' is absent, an extinguished candle may in fact be the most appropriate light for my 'gathering'. Also, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, my sighs are hot from the flames in my heart, so they are fiery; a candle melts as it burns down, and so do I. In the beloved's world radiance and luxury are so exquisite that the rose itself is a mere carpet; in my world the redness and radiance come only from my own burning, so that through my breath I am my own candle.

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It's all in the past tense-- is it over? Have both lover and beloved now moved on? Note on nafas : People are often tripped up by the word nafas versus the word nafs . Casual students of the ghazal may be confused between the two, but meter-knowers realize instantly which is intended, since the different scansions ( - = versus = - ) tell us clearly and reliably. (It's just one of the countless rewards we get for our attention to meter.) The two words are spelled in the same way, but differ considerably in meaning: nafas is basically 'breath' with a few extended meanings (see the definition above) and somewell-developed metaphorical possibilities, including fieriness and spark-shedding. Some other interesting examples of nafas : {24,6}; {76,2}; {81,1}; {91,8}; {114,4}; {143,2}; {173,9}; {175,4}. By contrast, nafs often, in practice, has associations of lust and sensuality: it means 'Breath (of life), animal life; --soul; spirit, self, person; substance, essence, individual thing itself; a person, an individual; --mind, thought; will, pleasure, desire; --body; flesh; blood; --fact, truth, reality; --text (of a work); --concupiscence, carnal or inordinate desire, sensuality, lust, sexual passion; --sperm; --penis; --pride; grandeur, magnificence, pomp; --envy; vice, fault, blemish' (Platts p.1144). Ghalib doesn't use it anywhere in his Urdu divan.

{15,7} farsh se taa ((arsh vaa;N :tuufaa;N thaa mauj-e rang kaa yaa;N zamii;N se aasmaa;N tak so;xtan kaa baab thaa 1) from carpet to heavens, there, was a typhoon of a wave of color 2) here, from earth to sky, was a place/matter of burning

Notes: baab : 'Door, gate; chapter, section, division (of a book), head, heading; subject, affair, business, topic, matter'. (Platts p.117).

Nazm: That is, there vivid, colorful, luxurious enjoyments were taking place; and here, we were burning. With 'a matter of burning' the past, present, and future tenses are all intended. The subtlety is that the poet has concealed the extension of time that would be found in the conjugation of so;xtan . The second aspect that also emerges is that here, earth and heaven were capable of starting fires. (16) [See also his comment in the discussion of {194,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse he has changed the order. In the first line he has shown the situation of the beloved. He says, from the earth to the sky, there, a storm of waves of happiness had arisen (he has used for 'abundance' the word :tuufaan ). Here, from ground to sky was filled with fire to burn us; that is, longing, regret, envy of the Rival, a turmoil of love, restlessness of the heart- all these disasters were giving us trouble. The beauty with which, from opening-verse to closing-verse [of this verse-set?], he has presented the situations of himself and the beloved-- the pleasure of this, people of taste can enjoy. (33)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE SKY verses: {3,12x}; {15,7}; {15,15}; {15,16x} This verse marks the end of a sort of quasi-'verse-set' that begins with {15,2}. To leave the beloved in a typhoon of color-waves and the lover in a realm of unmoving, undifferentiated fire is not a bad end to this sequence of 'here-there' verses. The beloved's universe extends from a carpet to the celestial heavens; the lover has merely the plainer earth and sky.

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The beloved has brilliant, radiant surges of color that form a 'typhoon' of 'waves' of beauty like a flood. If she has water imagery, the lover has fire colors-- he lives in a realm of unwaving, unsurging, timeless burning. On the complexities of baab see {7,1}.

{15,8} naagahaa;N is rang se ;xuu;N-naabah ;Tapkaane lagaa dil kih ;zauq-e kaavish-e naa;xun se la;z;zat-yaab thaa 1) {suddenly / without warning} in such a color/style [it] began to drip pure blood-2a) the heart, which had obtained pleasure from the relish of/for the scratching of fingernails 2b) the heart, because it had obtained pleasure from the relish of/for the scratching of fingernails

Notes: rang : 'Colour, tint, hue, complexion; beauty, bloom; expression, countenance, appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method; kind, sort; state, condition'. (Platts p.601)

Nazm: The scratching of fingernails is a metaphor for the scratching of grief. (16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This is a verse of 'taking flight'. Whatever has been mentioned above, he has finished it. He says that suddenly in that way a longing arose in the heart to write another ghazal in the same ground. (33)

Bekhud Mohani: All of a sudden the heart, which was acquainted with the relish of pain and difficulty, began to drip blood; that is, the pain-filled heart began in this way to complain. (36)

FWP: SETS == KIH Bekhud Dihlavi considers the remaining verses of this ghazal {15,9-15}, to be a separate ghazal; see {15,1}. Had the heart found relish 'of' or from the scratching of fingernails (having been scratched was ultimately what caused it to bleed), or 'for' the scratching of fingernails (it began to bleed out of sheer relish or longing or a sort of masochistic fantasy)? The versatility of the i.zaafat is once again displayed to advantage. And was the heart in a general state of pleasure going back some time, such that it began to drip blood simply as a spontaneous expression of overflowing delight (2a)? Or was there a clear cause-and-effect relationship-the enjoyable relish of/for scratching was what caused the heart to drip blood? The versatile kih can go either way. To use rang , literally 'color,' to mean 'style, manner' is one of Ghalib's favorite bits of wordplay; just look at the range of interpretive possibilities it opens up. What is remarkable about the dripping of the blood-- color, beauty, manner, style? Any or all of them, of course-- and we're left to make the decision for ourselves.

{15,9} naalah-e dil me;N shab andaaz-e a;sar naayaab thaa thaa sipand-e bazm-e va.sl-e ;Gair go betaab thaa 1) in the lament of the heart, last night, the style of effect was unattainable 2) it was the 'wild rue' of the gathering of the union of the Other, although it was faint/powerless/restless/lusterless

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Notes: betaab : 'Faint, powerless; agitated, restless, uneasy, impatient...; devoid of splendour, lustreless'. (Platts p.202)

Nazm: That is, although the heart was restless, its restlessness was counterproductive. (16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Wild rue is a black seed that people burn; then they expose children to its smoke, to protect them from the evil eye. Mirza Sahib says that last night there was absolutely no effect of the lament of the heart. My friend was in the gathering of the Other. That lament that was extremely restless, and because of its restlessness came to the tongue time after time-- for the gathering of the Other it became a black seed. That is, it was saving the gathering of the Other from the evil eye. The ineffectiveness of a lament has been shown with an entirely untouched thought, in new words. (33)

Bekhud Mohani: In order to repel the evil eye, wild rue is used.... Last night, in our laments there wasn't even a trace of effect. And although the heart was restless, still its restlessness created no effect on the heart of the beloved or the Rival. Rather, in their enjoyment even more excess appeared. That is, from the effect of my laments, the beloved's heart ought to have melted, and there would have been interference with the Rival's enjoyment. But on the contrary-- both were delighted with my laments. (36)

FWP: SETS == WORD 'UNION': {5,2} This opening-verse appears, unusually, in the midst of the ghazal; or else, in the view of some, it introduces a new ghazal in the same pattern. I follow Hamid and Arshi in treating the whole thing as a single ghazal. My restless heart, dark with sorrow, smolders and smokes; but its suffering is not merely ineffective but actually counterproductive. The lover here finds himself, as he does so often, in the worst of all possible worlds. The chief thematic basis of the verse is the equation of the heart with the seeds of wild rue, in appearance (shrunken and blackened by grief), condition (burning and smoldering), and effect (contributing to the Other's wellbeing). Unfortunately the suitable literal meaning of 'rue' in English is just adventitious here and can't be used for anything. But the verse's chief charm is the excellently suitable adjective betaab . The lament was the 'wild rue' of the gathering, although it was 'faint' (and thus couldn't make a suitable impression); and although it was 'powerless' (and thus couldn't ward off the evil eye); and although it was 'agitated' (and thus not suited for an elegant gathering); and although it was lusterless (like burnt-out dark seeds). The verse thus offers a kind of meditation on the meanings of betaab , and becomes an example of what I call 'wordexploration'. Compare {153,5}, which also has to do with evening gatherings and the repelling of the evil eye.

{15,10} maqdam-e sailaab se dil kyaa nishaa:t-aahang hai ;xaanah-e ((aashiq magar saaz-e .sadaa-e aab thaa 1a) from the coming of the flood how joy-harmonied the heart is! 1b) as if from the coming of the flood, the heart is joy-harmonied! 1c) from the coming of the flood, is the heart joy-harmonied? 2a) the lover's house was perhaps the musical-instrument of the voice/echo of the water

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2b) the lover's house was nevertheless the musical-instrument of the voice/echo of the water

Notes: magar : 'If not, unless, except, save, save only, but; besides, however, moreover; --perhaps, perchance, peradventure, by chance, haply, probably, possibly; in case'. (Platts p.1061)

Azad: [Ghalib writes to his friend Alai'i:] My dear boy! I’m in great trouble. The walls of the ladies’ apartments have fallen. The toilet has collapsed. The roofs are dripping. Your auntie says, 'Alas, I’m going to be buried under it! Alas, I’m dead!' The sitting room is in worse shape than the ladies’ apartments. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m anxious about lack of comfort. The roof is a sieve. If the clouds rain for two hours, then the roof rains for four hours. If the owner wants to repair it, how can he do so? If the rain stops, then everything can be arranged. And then, during the repairs, how can I stay there? If you can, then while the rains last ask your brother to provide the house in which Mir Hasan used to stay for your auntie to live in, and the upper room with the courtyard beneath in the house where the late Ilahi Bakhsh Khan used to stay, for me. The rains will be over, the repairs will be made, then the 'sahib' and the 'mem' and the 'baba log' will come back to their former dwelling. Just as your father has been my benefactor through his sacrifices and generosity--let this one more kindness be added to it in my old age. (490) ==this translation: Pritchett and Faruqi, Ab-e hayat, p. 400 ==text of the original letter, written July 1862: Khaliq Anjum 1:398-99

Nazm: That is, from the coming of the flood, the lover's house became an instrument of the voice of the waters, hearing which the heart feels joy and delight. The word 'harmony' has an affinity with the word 'instrument'. In short, the lover feels pleasure at his own house-wrecked state. (16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By '[musical] instrument' is here meant the jal-tarang , which is played by putting water in seven china cups and using a small reed [to strike the edges]. (33)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse he has drawn a picture of the ardor for oblivion, and worship of difficulty, of the 'people of the heart' [ahl-e dil]. (36)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA; MAGAR HOME: {14,9} MUSIC: {10,3} I have given Azad's quoted passage from one of Ghalib's letters just to show how very much the life of the ghazal poet is not like the life of the loverpersona in the ghazal. Ghalib loves the undecideability effect, and often forces your mind into ricochet mode, as he does here. Two of his favorite tools for meaningcreation, kyaa and magar , are both here displayed to full advantage. If carefully deployed, kyaa can generate three meanings: (1) an exclamation of emphatic affirmation for which we have an English counterpart (How joyous!) (2) an exclamation of emphatic denial for which we have no English counterpart (What-- joyous?! the hell you say!), of which an extremely clear example can be seen in {36,10}; and (3) a yes-or-no interrogative (like 'n'est-ce pas?' in French). The yield is three distinct, unforced, legitimate interpretations of the first line. I've discussed all this in Nets of Awareness, Chapter 8, p. 107.

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Also very conveniently, magar means both 'perhaps' and 'but'. Thus two different logical relationships between the lines are effortlessly provided, and can be combined with the three possibilities of the first line in a variety of suitable ways; for more on such usages, see {35,7}. When the verse also contains words like 'heart' and 'house,' and 'water' and 'flood,' all of which are multiply conjoinable and opposable among themselves, the possibilities become astonishing. Let me try to chart a few of the basic ones out: (1a) and (2a): The flood plays the lover's house (body?) like an instrument, delighting the lover's heart with its siren song of the dissolution of normal life and its sufferings. (1a) and (2b): The heart is delighted to welcome the flood, even though it will lose the house (body?) that the flood had been using as an instrument to entertain it with. (1b) and (2a): The heart is sorrowful at the coming of the flood, perhaps because it will lose the house (body?) that the flood had been using to entertain it with. (1b) and (2b): The heart is sorrowful at the coming of the flood, even though it will be able to hear the music that the flood makes when it uses its house (body?) as an instrument. (1c) and (2a): Is the heart happy at the coming of the flood, or not? Perhaps its house (body?) was the flood's instrument, and it will be glad to hear more and louder music as the flood approaches? Or perhaps its house (body?) will be swept away, and it will be sad (or glad?) to hear no more music at all? (1c) and (2b): Is the heart happy at the coming of the flood, or not? No matter what attitude it adopts, it's clear that the house (body?) was the flood's instrument. And then, of course, for 'happy' substitude the more evocative 'joyharmonied', with its strong musical associations (not to say overtones), for further mystical nuances between heart and flood. And also, notice the clever tense shift between the verses, such that it's hard to tell when the flood played music on the house (always? as it approached? as it swept the house away? after it swept the house away?). We are given no guidance at all here. Obviously, how we interpret the sequence of events-playing music in relation to wrecking, losing, and/or drowning-- will multiply the range of reactions, and thus also the interpretations of the verse. Then of course, if you still have any interpretive energy left, the i.zaafat constructions in the second line provide further variability. ;xaanah-e ((aashiq can be read as either 'the lover's house' or 'the house that is the lover'. And the final sequence can be read as either (saaz-e .sadaa)-e aab , the 'voice-instrument of the water', or as saaz-e (.sadaa-e aab) , the 'instrument of the water-voice'. Further changes can of course be rung on these as well, and a variety of interpretive subtleties teased out of them. It makes your head spin, doesn't it? At least, it does mine. And that, I submit, is the real punch of the verse, the real reason people would say vaah vaah!' when they heard it. That is also, of course, why verses like this are entirely untranslatable. They are really little meaning-generators, and the blur of undecideability that surrounds the orbits of the meanings is a large part of their enjoyableness.

{15,11} naazish-e ayyaam-e ;xaakistar-nishiinii kyaa kahuu;N pahluu-e andeshah vaqf-e bistar-e sanjaab thaa 1) the pride of days of ash-sitting-- what can I say! 2a) the side/flank of Thought/anxiety was tranquility upon a bedding of ermine 2b) the expedient of Thought/anxiety was intent upon a bedding of ermine

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2c) the advantage of Thought/anxiety was the endowment of a bedding of ermine

Notes: pahluu : 'A side; flank, wing; a facet; --utility; profit, advantage; indirect or crooked expedient; dishonourable or fraudulent means'. (Platts p.289) andeshah : 'Thought, consideration, meditation, reflection; solicitude, anxiety, concern...; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; apprehension, dread, fear'. (Platts p.91) vaqf : 'Standing, stopping, staying, halting, waiting; pausing (over); being intent (upon), endeavouring fully to understand; --bequeathing for pious purposes; tranquility; firmness; constancy; permanency'. (Platts p.1197)

Nazm: That is, although I was sitting in the dust, because of my heart's pride at its own contentment, it was rolling around on a bedding of ermine. (16)

Bekhud Mohani: In the time of prosperity, he is looking back: those things even the thought of which gave pleasure-- now there is no such joy even in their attainment. Zauq: ;hir.s ke phailte hai;N paa))o;N baqadr-e vus((at tang hii rahte hai;N dunyaa me;N faraa;Gat-vaale [the legs of Greed spread according to the scope those at leisure remain straitened in the world]. (37)

Baqir: Because of shared color, wordplay has developed between the 'bedding of ermine' and the 'sitting in ashes'. (54)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; IZAFAT Structurally speaking, the verse is a tribute to the powers of the i.zaafat construction. To take one crucial example, what is an endowment 'of' a bedding [vaqf-e bistar]? Is it an endowment bestowed by a bedding? An endowment that consists of a bedding? An endowment that resembles, or is somehow otherwise related to, a bedding? In a verse so full of abstractions forcibly yoked together, we're not able to come to firm conclusions. Ashes and ermine-- how different are they, really? Both soft, both blackish greyish whitish, both capable in some sense of being slept on. By careful and subtle word choices, Ghalib has made possible a variety of readings of line two. Here are three of them, all of which can be appropriately associated with the pride-in-humility described in the first line: (2a) is at least initially physical, with a body lying in bedding. The body of Thought, apparently, which is in fact lying in ermine even while (or precisely because?) the physical body lies in ashes. (2b) is ambitious: while sitting in ashes, proud Thought is focused upon (and scheming about) riches to come. (2c) is religious: Thought has been endowed by religious bequest with the ability to see ashes as ermine, and ermine in ashes. In a few words the verse is thus able to set up a picture which might be that of ostentatious religious hypocrisy, coquettishly pluming itself on its austerities; or that of ambition, busily scheming about how to move from present rags to future riches; or that of a genuine religious sensibility, which finds luxury in simplicity. Or, of course-- especially if we think of the 'days' as those of youth-- something of all three together. Another verse that also somewhat oddly combines a vaqf and bedding: {194,1}. Compare also the piquant but maddening {18,7x}.

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{15,12}* kuchh nah kii apnii junuun-e naa-rasaa ne varnah yaa;N ;zarrah ;zarrah ruu-kash-e ;xvurshiid-e ((aalam-taab thaa 1) my incapable madness did nothing, otherwise here 2a) every sand-grain was a {rival / equal / imitator / mirror-cover} of the world-warming sun 2b) every sand-grain would have been a {rival / equal / imitator / mirrorcover} of the world-warming sun

Notes: naarasaa : 'Unworthy, unfit; incapable'. (Platts p.1110) ruu-kash : 'Having or presenting an exterior different from the interior; -anything whose exterior and interior differ; --cover of a mirror'. (Platts p.602)

Nazm: 'Incapable madness did nothing', that is, it kept me deprived of receipt of generosity and union with the beloved. Otherwise, every single grain of dust [would have] received so much light that it resembled the sun. (16-17)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse a moral lesson has been given, that if we can do nothing, then it's no fault of our nature and the natural world. The cause of our failure was the deficiency of our passion... [Or:] Every sand-grain, like the sun itself, is an expression of the divine light. If we aren't possessors of mystical knowledge, then why aren't we-apart from our lack of zeal? (37)

Baqir: [Asi says:] My madness displayed incapability, and could not arrive at the limit of madness. Otherwise, every grain of the realm of madness was [=would have been] the envy of the sun. (2) In the realm at which madness had already arrived, in that realm even every grain assumed the aspect of the sun. (55)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH MADNESS: {14,3} ZARRAH verses: {6,8x}; {6,10x}; {15,12}; {16,4}; {29,1}; {33,1}; {42,2}; {42,3}; {68,4}; {87,3}; {95,3}; {113,6}; {128,1}; {138,2}; {143,4}; {228,3}; {228,7} As Asi points out, the past-tense grammar of varnah permits either a past or a contrafactual reading of the second line. There are other such varnah examples, in which the meaning can be either indicative or contrafactual; this is another tool in Ghalib's tool-kit of what might be called meaningmultipliers. If we read it as a simple past as in (2a), then the emphasis falls on yaa;N , 'here,' meaning in the lover's vicinity or the lover's world. This world is already in the desired state of radiant sun-like madness, and the failure is in the inability either to extend the condition-- no doubt to vaa;N or 'there,' where the beloved is-- or else to somehow use the condition as a jumping-off point for the great leap to the beloved that the lover is always longing for. If we read it as contrafactual as in (2b), then the lover is accusing his unhelpful madness of failing entirely, of not achieving the kind of 'access'-the literal meaning of naa-rasaa is 'non-reaching'-- that he wanted from it. He wanted a madness so acute and brilliant that every grain of sand would have glistened and radiated heat and energy like the sun. Maybe then, seeing such a cosmic feat, the beloved would have paid attention.

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Or, alternatively, perhaps what the madness was supposed to do was not to create but to react to this astonishing world, in which every sand-grain resembled (or would have resembled) the sun. The word varnah is so flexible that it can permit a lot of ambiguity and shifting around. In a world of miracles and wonders, why do we live so tamely? Why can't we think of a response that's at all proportional to the dazzling sensory (and emotional) experience of it? The commentators take ruu-kash to mean something like 'rival' or 'equal', and that's clearly a sense that works very well. Platts, however, offers a definition that emphasizes the covering up of something inner with something else on the outside, like an imitation; and in particular, he says the term applies to the cover of a mirror.

{15,13} aaj kyuu;N parvaa nahii;N apne asiiro;N kii tujhe kal talak teraa bhii dil mihr-o-vafaa kaa baab thaa 1) today, why do you have no care about your captives? 2) until yesterday, even/also your heart was an encyclopedia/gate of kindness/favor and faithfulness

Notes: asiir : 'Bound, tied, made captive; --s.m. Prisoner, captive'. (Platts p.55) talak is an archaic form of tak ; GRAMMAR. mihr : 'Love, affection, friendship, kindness, favour; mercy, pity, sympathy, feeling; --prosperity'. (Platts p.1099) baab : 'Door, gate; chapter, section, division (of a book), head, heading; subject, affair, business, topic, matter' (Platts p.117).

Nazm: This [together with the next verse] is a verse-set. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what is this new thing today, that you have become careless about your prey? Up till yesterday, you had made your heart a door of faithfulness and love. (34)

Josh: asiiro;N are those chained by love. baab means 'book' or 'chapter'. The verse is entirely clear. (71)

FWP: SETS == BHI BONDAGE: {1,5} Arshi marks this verse as the beginning of a verse-set; it seems to include only this verse and {15,14}. This is the naive plaint of the newly-entrapped lover, who is astonished that the moment he succumbs to the beloved's charms and is duly chained up as part of her menagerie, all her show of 'kindness and faithfulness' vanishes. This makes it a fit precursor to {15,14}, which continues the argument and appeal. The emphasis on tiraa bhii dil is also enjoyable. The placing of the bhii makes it clear that somebody else's heart-- that of the hapless lover, of course-- continues to be an 'encyclopedia' or 'gateway' (or the other comprehensive meanings of baab ) of kindness and faithfulness. For more examples of baab , see {7,1}.

{15,14} yaad kar vuh din kih har ik ;halqah teraa daam kaa inti:zaar-e .said me;N ik diidah-e be-;xvaab thaa 1) recall that day, when every single circle of your net 2) in the wait/lookout for prey, was a single sleepless eye

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Notes: inti:zaar : 'Expecting, waiting (anxiously); looking out; expectation; expectancy'. (Platts p.87)

Nazm: These [two verses] are a verse-set, and 'circle of the net' has been used as a simile for 'sleepless eye'. The reason for the similitude is that the sleepless eye, like the circle of the net, remains open. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you remember those days too, when every circle of your net was an unsleeping eye, in waiting for prey. How eloquently the simile of the circle of a net for an unsleeping eye (which is open at all times because of its unsleepingness) has been established. (34)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, you wanted someone to die [of love] for you. I'm that very one who, before all the others, fell in love with you. Now why have your eyes been averted from me? (In every way he wants to make the beloved gracious. It's the common rule that when past events of love are recalled, then love is aroused afresh.) (38)

FWP: BONDAGE: {1,5} This is the second and concluding verse of the little verse-set that began with {15,13}. Images of the Hunter [.sayyaad] and his/her prey are common in the ghazal world. Each circle of the hunter's net is a round, open eye; and the activity the hunter is engaged in is, by no coincidence, inti:zaar with its root of na:zar , 'sight, vision, gaze' etc. The hunter is engaged in 'waiting' only by extension from the literal sense of 'looking out'. The wordplay seems commonplace and less than compelling, and the thought not exactly profound. Yet verses like this can have their place in an oral performance setting, and especially as part of the larger whole of a verse-set.

{15,15} mai;N ne rokaa raat ;Gaalib ko vagarnah dekhte us ke sail-e giryah me;N garduu;N kaf-e sailaab thaa 1) I stopped Ghalib last night, otherwise [you/we] would have seen 2a) in his torrent of weeping, the sky would have been foam of the flood 2b) in his torrent of weeping, the sky was foam of the flood

Notes: vagarnah is simply an archaic full form of varnah ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: That is, the flood of tears would have reached up to the sky. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, last night I prevented Ghalib from weeping-- otherwise, you would have seen the spectacle that his flood of tears would have reached to the sky and become a torrent of water. (34)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the sky would have swum in water the way foam does in a flood. The Ustad of the Age so decrees it. It's worth seeing, where he has put thaa. (38)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; VARNAH SKY {15,7} On the twofold grammar of varnah (of which vagarnah is an archaic full form) see {15,12}.

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The lover either did weep the sky into a mass of foam (clouds), or would have done so if he had not been stopped by a prudent bystander. This 'cosmos-destruction' theme involves sometimes weeping, and sometimes fire. Usually these cataclysms seem to occur only in the lover's own world, but in other verses, like this one, they appear to be evident and dangerous to ordinary human beings as well. Compare this verse with its less fortunate, unpublished cousin, {15,16x}.

{15,16x}* dekhte the ham bah chashm-e ;xvud vuh :tuufaan-e balaa aasmaan-e siflah jis me;N yak kaf-e sailaab thaa 1) we used to see, with our own eyes, that typhoon of calamity 2) in which the low/contemptible sky was a single froth/foam of the flood

Notes: siflah : 'Low, mean, ignoble, base, vile, sordid, contemptible'. (Platts p.662)

Gyan Chand: The sky is very extensive; thus it's responsible for calamities descending on the whole world. Our eyes have, weeping, caused such an ocean to flow that its typhoon was more extensive than the sky and more calamitous than the sky. In the typhoon of calamities of the eyes, the sky seemed to be only the foam of the flood; that is, our eyes had filled up a flood of calamities greater than the sky. (80)

FWP: EYES {3,1} GRANDIOSITY: {5,3} SKY {15,7} Raza p. 124; Raza p. 125. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed one ghazal of eleven verses, and another of twelve verses, from which he selected verses to include in a new ghazal in his published divan. This is the unpublished second verse of the second of the two original ghazals. There's an enjoyable sense of revision and reactivation that goes on with the second reading. The first time through, 'we used to see with our own eyes' is just as stylized an expression in Urdu as its English counterpart. It's not really about eyes per se, just about an assertion of direct, first-person, eyewitness (sorry, sorry!) observation. Only after hearing the second line do we realize that that 'with our own eyes' is a wonderfully operative phrase: our typhoon of tears and sighs may well be the origin of the cosmic flood that towers up furiously to the sky, and makes the sky look like a puny handful of grey foam by comparison. (For a similar activation of another such stylized phrase, see {62,5}.) There are also the implications of the past habitual dekhte the to consider. We used to see this awesome cosmic sea-storm, but apparently we don't expect to see it again. Why not? Because our eyes are now wept out and can't produce any more such storms? That's one possibility, but there might be another as well. For calamities, as Gyan Chand notes, traditionally originate in the sky. And now the sky has been (perhaps in reality, but at least rhetorically) minimized, turned into froth, and swept away in the wild currents of the flood. So perhaps there are no new calamities left? Or at least, surely there are none so dire-- none that can hold a candle to the ones 'we used to see'. Compare this verse with its more fortunate, published cousin, {15,15}.

{15,17x}* be-;xabar mat kah hame;N be-dard ;xvud-biinii se puuchh qulzum-e ;zauq-e na:zar me;N aa))inah paa-yaab thaa 1a) don't call us unaware/ignorant, cruel one-- ask self-regardingness! 1b) don't ignorantly/unwittingly call us cruel-- ask self-regardingness!

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2) in the ocean of the relish of/for sight, the mirror was {within its depth / fordable}

Notes: be-;xabar : 'Uninformed; without intelligence, senseless, ignorant, stupid; incautious, imprudent, careless, heedless; --unwittingly, unintentionally'. (Platts p.202) paa-yaab : 'Within (one's) depth, fordable'. (Platts p.213)

Gyan Chand: Whose is the 'relish of/for sight', the beloved's or the lover's? From both aspects, two meanings emerge: 1) Oh cruel one, don't call us unaware and self-ignoring! You, before the mirror, were so absorbed in self-regardingness that your relish for the sight was as fathomless as an ocean in which the mirror, having come within its depth, was passing. That is, you were immersed in mirror-regardingness. What did you know about my state? Thus you're not entitled to call us unaware. 2) Don't call us unaware! What do you know-- ask your own selfregardingness! You were looking at the mirror, and we were looking at you with such intensity and absorbedness that our relish of/for sight was like an ocean, in which the mirror, within its depth, was wandering around. The first meaning is better. From 'self-regardingness' it appears that the relish of/for sight is that of only/especially the beloved. (81)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS MIRROR: {8,3} Raza p. 124; Raza p. 125. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed one ghazal of eleven verses, and another of twelve verses, from which he selected verses to include in a new ghazal in his published divan. This is the unpublished fifth verse of the second of the two original ghazals. Well, Faruqi has given this one his highest ranking, but he hasn't commented on it. Perhaps I'll be able to get him to provide some thoughts. But when I look at it myself, I simply find too many possibilities, with no particular way to narrow them down. This means that the verse is among what I call the 'generators', verses that reject all attempts at closure-- not only can you not definitively choose among three or four readings (as is common in Ghalib's verses), but you often can't even confidently formulate a small number of readings to try to choose among. At least the literal grammar of the verse is fairly straightforwardly translatable, and I have translated it, word by word. You, dear reader, can see for yourself exactly where the difficulties lie. How many important entities are in the verse? There's the addressee (who receives the intimate tuu and is presumably the beloved), and the speaker, who seems to be the lover. But then is 'self-regardingness' a form of behavior-- and if so, is it the beloved's, or the lover's?-- or is it a personified abstract quality, an agent in its own right (since it can be 'asked' something)? And the same goes for the mirror-- is it 'within its depth', a description that makes it sound like a possibly independent agent, wading through the water; or is it 'fordable', which makes it sound like a mere shallow place amidst deeper water? And then, of course, we have the two possible readings of be-;xabar in the first line, and the i.zaafat of ;zauq-e na:zar (is it a relish 'of' sight, experienced during sight, or is it a relish 'for' sight, experienced as a longing to see?). And even more radically, we have the 'A,B' situation: how do we connect the two lines? There are so many possible ways to do so that I really find myself at a loss for how to start. This doesn't seem satisfactory. I think I must be missing something. I will give more thought to this verse.

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For other verses about 'self-regardingness', see {22,2}.

Ghazal 16 5 verses (out of 10); rhyming elements: aar thaa composed 1821; Arshi #15

{16,1}* ek ek qa:tre kaa mujhe denaa pa;Raa ;hisaab ;xuun-e jigar vadii((at-e mizhgaan-e yaar thaa 1) of every single drop, I was compelled to give an account 2) the blood of the liver was a trust from/for the eyelashes of the beloved

Notes: Hali: That is to say, blood keeps flowing from the eyes to such an extent, as if all the blood in the liver were a trust from the eyes of the beloved, and for this reason I will have to give an account of every drop of it-- the way one has to give an account of a trust. (139-40)

Nazm: ;hisaab denaa pa;Raa -- that is, I was forced to cause it to flow from the eyes, as if the blood of the liver were a trust from her. (17)

Josh: Thus the special trait of the beloved's eyelashes is that their arrows wounded the liver, and told it to yield up its trust. (71)

Arshi: Compare {113,3}. (221)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT JIGAR: {2,1} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of ten verses (Raza p. 227); he chose to include only verses three through seven (Hamid p. 15) in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Yes, but is the vadii((at or trust one given by the beloved's eyelashes, or one destined for the beloved's eyelashes? Either or both, of course. After all, we know from {10,2} what destiny the beloved's eyelashes have in mind for the lover's drops of blood. And we know from {26,7} that it's sometimes hard to tell who owes what to whom. But like a reliable trustee, the lover must account for every tiny bit of the estate that he is charged with administering. Every drop of the blood of the liver must be monitored and reported on individually, for we know the possessive beloved will insist on a detailed reckoning; for another such depiction see {113,3}. The creatively complex use of the i.zaafat construction is one of Ghalib's favorite devices. Another example occurs in the next verse, {16,2}; see also {18,5}; {33,2} (where the range of possibilities is explained more carefully); {38,5}, {39,3}, {49,10}, and others marked on the SETS page. The i.zaafat form is used equationally in {173,8}. Just for interest, consider also {56,2}, in which he uses four i.zaafat forms in a row and is criticized for it by the commentators. (In {77,2} he uses five i.zaafat forms in one line, but they aren't all in a row, so nobody complains.) And then there's {71,3}, in which two (optional) i.zaafat forms are exploited to the fullest, to make one of the most radically multivalent verses in the world. (If you want a grammatical analysis of the i.zaafat , see C. M. Naim's account.)

{16,2}* ab mai;N huu;N aur maatam-e yak-shahr-e aarzuu to;Raa jo tuu ne aa))inah tim;saal-daar thaa

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1) now I am, and mourning of/for a cityful of longing 2) the mirror that you broke-- it was image-possessing

Notes: tim;saal : 'Resemblance, likeness, picture, portrait, image, effigy'. (Platts p.336)

Nazm: The rule is that in a mirror only one image can be seen, but when you break it, in every single fragment the same whole image begins to appear. And here, seeing every single reflection, my heart bleeds for every single longing. The gist is that when the mirror that reflected the glory/appearance of the beloved broke, enough blood for 'a cityful of longing' was shed.... 'A cityful of longing' has the same kind of structure as 'a desertful of fatigue' [in {11,1}] or 'a stepful of madness' [in {18,2}]. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Your pride didn't consent to see your equal in the mirror. You broke the mirror, and its breaking destroyed all my longings [which had been revelling in the chance to behold your beauty]. As if an inhabited city had been destroyed by your breaking the mirror. (35)

Bekhud Mohani: Because of the crowd of longings, my heart was becoming an album of pictures. You broke it. Now I am, and my broken heart, and grief for the murdered longings. With the destruction of an album hundreds of thousands of longings are done for. Every longing was a picture, and the truth is that after the breaking of the heart, a person thirsts for longing and yearning. (38)

FWP: SETS == I AND; IZAFAT MIRROR: {8,3} Usually Ghalib's mirrors are metal, as we learn from Ghalib's own commentary in {34,2}. The one in this verse is of course made of glass; for more glass mirrors, in a mirror-chamber, that nevertheless have polishmarks, see {16,6x}. What may be another glass mirror (if aabginah is to be taken as mirror) appears in {192,3}. Another 'image-possessing' mirror appears in {228,9}. Compare also {230,8}, in which the sword of tyranny is an aa))iinah-e ta.sviir-numaa , a 'picture-showing mirror'-- is that a special kind of mirror? For a full list of 'mirror' verses see {8,3}. The commentators disagree about this verse-- which isn't surprising, since it's so abstract and enigmatic. Ghalib's 'mirror' verses are often very demanding. Am I mourning for the pictures, or for the mirror, or for the cityful of longing? And does it make sense to mourn for longing, anyway? Is it like mourning for the death of the heart? The 'you' is the intimate tuu . We feel that the beloved broke the mirror on purpose, though the verse doesn't say so. Most ghazal mirrors are made of polished metal, but this one must be made of glass. Or, metaphorically, the heart as a mirror is a trope that goes far back in Persian and Urdu poetry. What could be more natural than for the beloved to break the lover's heart, as Bekhud Mohani suggests? There's the nice doubleness of being unable to decide whether the mourning is 'for' a cityful of longing, or is done 'with' or 'by means of' a 'cityful of longing.' (For more on yak constructions of this kind, see {11,1}.) Needless to say, this makes a range of interpretations available. For a similar exploitation of the i.zaafat construction see {16,1}.

{16,3} galyo;N me;N merii na((sh ko khe;Nche phiro kih mai;N jaa;N-daadah-e havaa-e sar-e rahguzaar thaa

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1) wander with my bier through the lanes, for I 2a) was one who had given his life from desire for the roadside 2b) was one who had given his life to the air of the roadside

Notes: havaa : 'Air, wind, gentle gale; ...affection, favor, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: havaa means 'longing', and 'street' refers to the street of the beloved. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I gave up my life in the longing for the beloved's street. Now I ought to be rewarded for this unique outcome by having people wander through the streets carrying my bier. The subtlety and refinement of meaning has been created in this verse because the address of the beloved's street has not been given. [Sooner or later the bier will pass through the beloved's street, and the desire of the lover's heart will be fulfilled.] This supreme height of meaning occurs only in the poetry of Ghalib. (35)

Bekhud Mohani: I used to die [of longing] to stroll in the street of beautiful idols. So carry my corpse through the streets. Leaving the world, I would stroll one more time through those captivating places, because now I'm going to a place from which no one returns. (39)

FWP: Nazm wants to restrict the meaning of havaa to desire alone, but I don't see why. Others may seek the air of the garden, but the lover, a natural contrarian who never likes what normal people like, also devotedly seeks the air of the roadside, the urban landscape of passion, marginality, and desire. Madmen and lovers wander restlessly through the streets, and drunkards often collapse by the side of the road. The notion of aavaarah phirnaa , to wander like a vagabond, is deeply embedded in the ghazal world. Here the bier-carriers are told to take the bier and wander [phirnaa] with it, letting the lover enjoy the atmosphere [aab-o-havaa] of the streets for the last time. On havaa see also {8,3}. And, of course, one of those streets is the beloved's, so that the lover could well be said to give up his life for the air/desire of that street. Bekhud Dihlavi offers a clever idea-- that this is my way of getting my bier carried through the beloved's street, while discreetly (and jealously) not telling anyone which street it is. This is one of the 'dead lover speaks' verses; for others, see {57,1}.

{16,4}* mauj-e saraab-e dasht-e vafaa kaa nah puuchh ;haal har ;zarrah mi;sl-e jauhar-e te;G aab-daar thaa 1) don't ask about the state of the wave of the mirage of the desert of faithfulness 2) every sand-grain, like the temper of a sword, was {glittering / waterbearing}

Notes: jauhar : 'Absolute or essential property; skill, knowledge, accomplishment, art; excellence, worth, merit, virtue; ...the diversified wavy mar streaks, or grain of a well-tempered sword'. (Platts p.399) aabdaar : 'Polished, bright; of a good water (as gems); well-tempered (as steel, &c.); sharp (as a sword, &c.); pure, clean, white'. (Platts p.1)

Nazm: That is, the way the temper-lines of a sword are aab-daar , in the same way so were the sand-grains of the wave of the mirage. The result is that in the land of passion, swords rain down. (17)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The way a wave in a mirage gives the illusion of water and causes the death of the water-seeker, in the desert of faithfulness there can be no success except an imaginary hope. An example of this is given: the sand-grain of the desert of faithfulness is aab-daar like the temper of a sword. The point is that faithfulness, in the end, takes the lover's life. (36)

Naiyar Masud: At first glance, what claims our attention in this verse is the admirably contradictory use of the word aab-daar . In place of only 'sword', by means of 'temper of a sword' the effect of the simile aab-daar is augmented. And to the extent that the generality of 'every sand-grain' increases its intensity, to the same extent it also increases the meaningfulness of the simile (because the aspect of the temper of a sword, since it resembles small dots, is similar to sand-grains). aab-daar means 'glittering'. Sand-grains also glitter, and in a desert this glitter not only increases the feeling of heat and thirst, but also makes the effect of stoniness and unkindness and dryness more powerful. aab-daar [literally] means 'water-bearing'. This is the opposite of the first meaning, but the basis for the simile even now remains perfect and just as it was. If we take aab-daar to mean 'water-bearing', then the simile becomes that every sand-grain was ready to offer water-- but in the same way as the temper of a sword remains ready to offer water to its prey; that is, to take him down into the valley of death.... Such an extraordinary and remarkable simile, at which even a metaphor would gaze in stupefaction-- not to speak of other poets, even in Ghalib's poetry such things are rarely to be found. (120-121) When you draw near to an ordinary mirage, you realize that this too, like the rest of the desert, is a patch of ground; but when you draw near to the mirage of the desert of faithfulness, you realize that this patch of ground is distinct from the rest of the desert of faithfulness, because in this patch of ground every sand-grain is aab-daar like the temper of a sword. That is, unlike ordinary mirages, the mirage of the desert of faithfulness does not content itself with merely not satisfying your thirst; rather, it brings you additional troubles. (122) In the word 'was' the implication 'is not' is present.... From the above interpretation we have seen that in the mirage of the desert of faithfulness there's no water to be seen; something like a wave of sandgrains glittering like the temper of a sword is to be seen. (129) [If we remove the optional i.zaafat after saraab, we have a vocative: 'Oh Wave of the Mirage! Don't ask about the state of the desert of faithfulness', which yields further interpretive possibilities.] (131-132)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; WORDPLAY DESERT: {3,1} JAUHAR: {5,4} ZARRAH: {15,12} It's a fantastic verse-- harsh, eerie, ominous. It sticks in my mind like a thorn. Naiyar Masud's detailed explication is many pages long and well worth reading in full. I have very little to add to it. The key to the verse, as the commentators have pointed out, is the versatility of aab-daar , with its literal meaning of 'water-possessing'. The aab is also echoed in saraab , 'mirage'. The glitter of a sword or of water; the threat/promise of sword/water (and to the passionate lover a sword may be a promise too). The mirage as a real vision of a false hope; the 'desert of faithfulness' as a lonesome, deadly wasteland. Do mirages actually come in waves? Waves like those of sand-dunes, perhaps.

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The verse is resonantly full of long aa vowels in general-- emotionalsounding vowels, aren't they? like the aah of a sigh-- with the next largest group their short form a .

{16,5}* kam jaante the ham bhii ;Gam-e ((ishq ko par ab dekhaa to kam hu))e pah ;Gam-e rozgaar thaa 1a) we too considered the grief of passion [to be relatively] less/small, but now 1b) we too knew little of the grief of passion, but now 2a) when we looked, then on [its] becoming less, there was the grief of {livelihood / the whole world} 2b) when we looked, then on [its] becoming less, [it] was the grief of {livelihood / the whole world}

Notes: jaannaa : 'To know, apprehend, understand, comprehend; to ascertain; to become aware of; to perceive; to recognise; to suppose, believe, hold, deem, think, consider, fancy, conceive; to judge, esteem, account'. (Platts p.374) dekhnaa : 'To see, look, look at, behold, view, observe, perceive, suspect, mark, note, consider, look to, weigh well, examine, prove; try; to search, scan; ... to experience, suffer, endure, tolerate, bear the sight of'. (Platts p.557-58) rozgaar : 'Service, employ, situation, business; earning, livelihood; --the world; fortune; age, time, season'. (Platts p.605)

Nazm: That is, even when it became less, it turned out to be a very great deal. (17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Because of inexperience, like others I too thought that the grief of passion was small. But when I was trapped in that disaster, I became aware of the true state of affairs. That is, the grief of passion, even when it becomes less, turned out to be somewhat more than the whole world's grief. (36)

Bekhud Mohani: My eyes have opened. And now I see that the limit of the grief of passion is impossible to tell. If one should suppose it to be the least possible, then it is equal to all the griefs of the world. Grief has been divided into two parts: 1) the grief of passion; 2) the grief of the world. (40)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The verse rests on the wonderful punning on kam . As always, jaannaa can mean both 'to know [accurately]' and 'to consider [perhaps wrongly]'. For another example of this cleverly ambiguous use, see {101,5}. For a clear example in normal prose of jaannaa to refer to error, see {108,8}. Similarly, dekhaa can convey not the idea of a passive 'look,' but the sense that we 'saw for ourself' or 'experienced' or 'endured' how it was. In (2a), when the grief of passion lessens, we are able to notice the ;Gam-e rozgaar that it had previously overwhelmed and rendered imperceptible. In (2b), as it lessens, it itself turns into the ;Gam-e rozgaar -- which itself can be either the dreariness of the quotidien, earning a living, the death of a thousand cuts; or else the grief of the whole age. The obvious verse for comparison is {20,7}, where the same dual interpretation is possible: there is either a replacement of one grief by the other, or a conversion of one grief into the other.

{16,6x} kis kaa junuun-e diid tamannaa-shikaar thaa aa))iinah-;xaanah vaadii-e jauhar-;Gubaar thaa

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1) whose madness of/for sight was a prey/hunter of longing? 2a) the mirror-chamber was a valley of {polish-marks}-dust 2b) the valley of {polish-marks}-dust was a mirror-chamber

Notes: shikaar : 'Hunting, the chase; prey, game; plunder, booty, pillage, spoil; -perquisites'. (Platts p.729)

Gyan Chand: In a metal mirror, the polish-marks are usually in the form of spots and dots; thus they are likened to dust. The verse can have two meanings: 1) When a hunter dashes into some valley in search of prey, then in every direction dust will spread. The valley of the mirror is full of the dust of polish-marks. It seems that here someone has been hunting. The hunter is the beloved's madness for mirror-regarding, and it has made prey of the lover's longings. 2) In the tradition of Urdu poetry, in the state of madness one goes into the wilderness and makes a commotion ['kicks up dust', ;xaak u;Raanaa]. The mirror is mad to see the beloved, and this madness has finished off all the mirror's other longings. Because the mirror-chamber is full of dust, it's clear that here somebody's madness for sight has been in action! The first meaning is more probable, because in the second reading tamannaa shikaar is broken into fragments. (93)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY GAZE: {10,12} JAUHAR: {5,4} MADNESS: {14,3} MIRROR: {8,3} Raza p. 227. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the first verse of the ten-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses three through seven. Well, it seems that somebody or something has been hunting somebody or something else. One of these entities is junuun-e diid , either the madness 'of' sight (seeing something so intensely beautiful drives you crazy) or the madness 'for' sight (intense longing for a sight of something drives you crazy). This 'madness of sight' was either 'longing-hunting' (it was pursuing its prey, a 'longing' for something), or 'longing-hunted' ('longing' was pursuing it, to overpower it and make prey of it); the grammar of the compound tamannaa-shikaar can go either way. Whose 'madness of sight' is this, asks the first line. Needless to say, we haven't a clue; we can only turn to the second line in the hope of some clarification. As so often, the grammar and imagery start completely afresh. And there's obviously what I call 'transitivity' operating: we can read either 'A was B' (2a), or 'B was A' (2b). In this particular verse, because of the ambiguity of 'polishmarks-dust', these are actually quite different choices. The first alternative (2a) locates the setting in a mirror-chamber, and then likens the polish-marks on the mirrors to the dust kicked up in a narrow valley by a vigorous hunter and a desperate prey. The second alternative (2b) locates the setting in a narrow valley full of dust churned up by a vigorous hunter and a desperate prey, and then likens this dust to the polish-marks on mirrors in a mirror-chamber. In either case, there's a down-to-earth problem in the imagery that apparently doesn't even register in the stylized world of the ghazal. For a 'mirrorchamber' is inset with small mirrors that are always made of glass; many examples survive in medieval (and later) palaces. But then, of course, there would be no 'polish-marks', for these are created only by the scouring and

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polishing of a metal mirror, to keep the verdigris off it. For more on glass vs. metal mirrors, see {16,2}. Apparently we first notice the scene depicted in the second line: either a mirror-chamber full of the 'clouds of dust' of polish-marked mirrors, or a narrow valley full of clouds of dust that suggests a mirror-chamber full of polish-marked mirrors. In either case, we conclude that a hunt has been in progress, and we wonder about the identity of the chief personage involved, the one who harbors the 'madness of sight'. Can we narrow the chase scene down any more than that? I don't think so, really. It's a profoundly interrogative, inshaa))iyah verse: asking the question it asks is really its chief task. After all, just this technique goes all the way back to {1,1}; the present verse is only a bit more obscure than that first one.

{16,7x} kis kaa ;xayaal aa))inah-e inti:zaar thaa har barg-e gul ke parde me;N dil be-qaraar thaa 1) {whose thought / the thought of whom} was a mirror of waiting? 2) in the veil/pardah of every rose-leaf, a heart was restless

Notes: pardah : 'A curtain, screen, cover, veil, anything which acts as a screen, a wall, hangings, tapestry; ... secrecy, privacy, modesty; seclusion, concealment; secret, mystery, reticence, reserve; screen, shelter, pretext, pretence'. (Platts p.246)

Gyan Chand: The petal/leaf of a flower is clear and pellucid like a mirror; for this reason, he has called it a mirror in which the reflection of waiting is clearly seen. A flower quivers with the breeze; for this reason, he has called its heart restless. He says that the flower seems to be a lover of some beautiful one. It is waiting for her to arrive in the garden. From looking at it, it is clearly apparent that it's standing there waiting for someone: every petal of the flower is a restless heart. The poet's opinion is that his beloved is very much more heart-attracting than a flower; thus the flower too writhes in its passion for her! (92-93)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} VEIL: {6,1} Raza p. 227. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the second verse of the ten-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses three through seven. There's a kind of 'elegance in assigning a cause' at the heart of this verse. We had always thought that rose-leaves trembled because the breeze blew on them, but we were wrong. In fact, the rose-leaves tremble because each one is a 'mirror of waiting'. Each one reflects the behavior of someone who is anxiously waiting: it trembles and quivers in nervous distress, as if unable to endure the prolongued suspense. Behind or within the modest 'veil' of every leaf is thus a 'restless heart'. But who is being waited for, and by whom? On the grammar of 'whose thought' vs. 'the thought of whom', see {41,6}. Either someone's own thoughts are a 'mirror of waiting' (and who might that someone be, whose thoughts are refracted through every single rose-leaf?), or the very thought of someone-- some beloved, of course-- is a 'mirror of waiting' that evokes the kind of anxiety and impatience that the quivering rose-leaves show. For structural parallels ( inshaa))iyah first line, similar second line), compare {210,4} and {228,7}.

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16,8x} juu;N ;Gunchah-o-gul aafat-e faal-e na:zar nah puuchh paikaa;N se tere jalvah-e za;xm aashkaar thaa 1) like the bud and the rose, the disaster of the omen of sight/gaze-- don't ask! 2) from your arrowhead, the glory/appearance of the wound was revealed/opened

Notes: aafat : 'Bane, pest, plague; any evil affection; evil, disaster, trouble, misfortune, calamity; wretchedness, misery, hardship, difficulty'. (Platts p.61) faal : 'An omen, augury, presage; --enchantment, spell'. (Platts p.775) aashkaar : 'Apparent, manifest, clear, plain, open, public, known, revealed'. (Platts p.57)

Gyan Chand: The 'omen of the gaze' is a method of divination, like the 'omen of the ear': the thing about which you want to have the omen, you keep in your heart, and go among others; and from the first words that fall on your ear, an omen is taken about your purpose. In the same way, the 'omen of the gaze' can be taken: having placed something in your heart, you go outside, and besides the ordinary surroundings, whatever would first come into view-- from that an omen is taken. The prose of the verse is: 'Don't ask about the disaster of the omen of the gaze. From your arrowhead, like the bud and rose, the glory/appearance of the wound was opened/revealed. When at dawn we went to take an 'omen of the gaze', then first of all your arrowhead came into view. In the arrowhead, the glory/appearance of the tobe-inflicted wound was clearly visible. The arrowhead was like the bud, and the shape of the wound like the rose. It's clear that the arrowhead will strike me, and a wound will occur. This 'omen of the gaze' turned out to be a great disaster! The bud and rose can also mean that just as I took an 'omen of the gaze' and first of all your arrowhead was visible, that wouldn't be content until it had made a wound, in the same way the bud and rose had taken an 'omen of the gaze'. Both of them saw the arrowhead. The result of which was that both of them were wounded. The glory/appearance in the arrowhead of the wound, is opened/revealed in the imagination of the beholder. As in a verse of Iqbal's: ;haadi;sah vuh jo abhii pardah-e aflaak me;N hai ((aks us kaa mire aa))iinah-e idraak me;N hai [the event that now/still is in the veil of the skies its reflection is in the mirror of my senses]

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY ARCHERY: {6,2 GAZE: {10,12} } JALVAH: {7,4} Raza p. 227. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the eighth verse of the ten-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses three through seven. The bud is a small tight compressed little object, more or less triangular when seen from the side; and in it is latent the whole of the wide, round, brilliantly red, fully opened rose. Not only might it appropriately appear as

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an 'omen of the gaze' to evoke the rose itself, but it also itself creates or gives birth to the rose. Exactly the same relationship obtains for the arrowhead and the wound. One additional pleasure is aashkaar , which means 'revealed' only because of its basic meaning of 'opened'. The arrowhead has not only 'revealed' the wound by divination, but has also literally 'opened', and thus created, the wound. And as always, jalvah means both 'appearance' and 'glory, radiance', so that the verse can take full advantage of both senses. When both the rose and the wound are so beautiful and (to the lover) desirable, why is their divination a 'disaster' or 'calamity'? Perhaps because the lover is taking refuge in the inexpressibility trope ('don't ask!'), and is thus using language his ordinary, limited listener can understand. But aafat may also be colloquially used here the way 'Doomsday' is sometimes used-to mean, by extension, anything amazing, compelling, extremely powerful. (For 'Doomsday' examples, see {10,11}.)

{16,9x} dekhii vafaa-e fur.sat-e ranj-o-nishaa:t-e dahr ;xamyaazah yak daraazii-e ((umr-e ;xumaar thaa 1) I/we saw the faithfulness of the leisure for the sorrow and joy of the age/time/world 2a) the stretch/yawn was a single {length of a lifetime of intoxication/hangover} 2b) the whole {length of a lifetime of intoxication/hangover} was a stretch/yawn

Notes: fur.sat : 'A time, opportunity, occasion; freedom (from), leisure; convenience; relief, recovery; respite, reprieve; rest, ease'. (Platts p.779) dahr : 'Time; a long period of time; an age; eternity; fortune, fate; chance, adverse fortune, misfortune, calamity, adversity; danger;--custom, habit, mode, manner; care, solicitude; the world'. (Platts p.541) ;xamyaazah : 'Stretching; yawning, gaping; --stretching by way of punishment, putting on the rack; punishment, retribution, reward, fruit'. (Platts p.494) ((umr : ' Life; life-time, period of life; age'. (Platts p.765) ;xumaar : 'Intoxication; the effects of intoxication, pain and headache, &c. occasioned by drinking'. (Platts p.493)

Gyan Chand: In the word ;xamyaazah there's an iihaam , because in connection with ;xumaar the attention goes to the meaning of 'yawn'. But here 'revenge' or 'retribution' is intended. We saw the leisure of sorrow and joy in the world. That leisure showed absolutely no faithfulness. That is, the leisure was very little. Having come into the world, for seeing sorrow and joy we were punished with a lifetime as long as the duration of a single ;xumaar . A ;xumaar is the painful condition of the wearing off of intoxication; thus it's not desirable. Even if we would get something in the world, there will still be the condition of ;xumaar . Ghalib's accomplishment is that he joined together sorrow and joy both, into the lifetime of a ;xumaar . In ;xumaar there's certainly sorrow, because the body is wracked with pain, and it's the decline of intoxication. Along with this, there's also a suspicion of joy, because ;xumaar is the result of the joy of wine, and in it too to some extent there remains intoxication. (94-95)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY WINE: {49,1}

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Raza p. 227. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the ninth verse of the ten-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses three through seven. Gyan Chand's reading of ;xamyaazah as 'retribution' doesn't seem appropriate at all, since there's no indication in the verse of any remotely punishable offense. On the contrary, in fact, the connection of ;xamyaazah and ;xumaar is a classic pairing that pertains entirely to intoxication; for discussion and examples, see {12,2}. After drinking, a ;xamyaazah is a sign of satisfaction: a stretch and a yawn of intoxicated repletion. And how long does it last? Because of the second line's structural transitivity, we learn either that the ;xamyaazah is the length of a 'single lifetime of intoxication/hangover' (2a), or that the 'whole lifetime of intoxication/hangover' is the length of a ;xamyaazah (2b). But since ;xumaar can mean both the desirable state of 'intoxication', and the all too painful one of a 'hangover', a number of possible readings inevitably arise: =the brief yawn of satisfaction itself, was equal in value to a whole lifetime of intoxication (because life is short) =the yawn (of satisfied intoxication) itself was equal in value to a whole lifetime of hangover (because we value pleasure even though it's always mixed with pain) =the whole length of a lifetime of intoxication was no longer than the brief yawn at its end (because life is short and its satisfactions are fleeting) =the whole length of a lifetime of hangover was no longer than a brief yawn (because life is so short that not even painful experiences are worth mentioning) As usual for Ghalib, all of these readings work enjoyably with the bittersweetness of the first line. For in it the sarcastic word 'faithfulness' suggests that the speaker feels betrayed by the treacherous brevity of life; but the generally resigned and philosophical tone suggests a detached awareness that life is to short to make it worthwhile even to brood or complain about its brevity.

{16,10x} .sub;h-e qiyaamat ek dum-e gurg thii asad jis dasht me;N vuh sho;x-e do-((aalam shikaar thaa 1) the dawn of Doomsday was a single wolf's tail, Asad 2) in the desert in which that {mischievous-one of the two worlds} was a hunter

Notes: Gyan Chand: 'Wolf's tail' is a Persian idiom for the crack of dawn. Whether you put an i.zaafat after sho;x or you don't, it makes no difference. In the dawn of Doomsday, there will be a great turmoil and commotion, a great wailing and lamentation. But the jungle in which our beloved, hunter of the two worlds, went to hunt-- there she made prey of so many animals, she created such a Doomsday, that compared to it the dawn of Doomsday was diminished: it was reduced to merely the crack of dawn, in which there's no turmoil and confusion, no mischief and confusion. (95)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} DOOMSDAY: {10,11} Raza p. 227. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the tenth and last verse of the tenverse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses three through seven. In an enjoyable feat of wordplay, the dawn of Doomsday becomes merely a single 'wolf's tail' (an idiom for the white line of the first dawn along the dark

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horizon) in the desert where the beloved hunts. The dawn of Doomsday is thus reduced merely to an ordinary 'crack of dawn'; and in addition, a 'wolf's tail' is just the kind of minor trophy that the beloved might expect to bear home from her hunt. The i.zaafat after sho;x is metrically optional; I reproduce it, following Raza. It also seems to be semantically optional. With it, we have a desert in which that uniquely and universally mischievous one, that 'two-worlds mischievous one' [sho;x-e do-((aalam], was a hunter; without it, we have a desert in which that mischievous one was a 'two-worlds hunter' [do-((alam-shikaar]. Either way, the extension of her power over the two worlds (this present world and the world to come) works excellently with the idea of her treating Doomsday as a mere wolf's tail.

Ghazal 17 9 verses (out of 9); rhyming elements: aa;N honaa composed 1821; Arshi #23

{17,1}* baskih dushvaar hai har kaam kaa aasaa;N honaa aadmii ko bhii muyassar nahii;N insaa;N honaa 1a) it's difficult to such an extent for every task to be easy 1b) although it's difficult for every task to be easy 2) even/also for a man, it's not attainable/attained/easy to become human/humane

Notes: baskih : 'although'; [also short for:] az bas kih : 'To such an extent that;--inasmuch as, whereas'. (Platts p.154) aadmii : 'A descendant of Adam; a human being; man; individual, person; adult; a sensible, or honest man'. (Platts p.33) muyassar : 'Rendered easy, facilitated; easy, feasible, practicable; favourable; --ready, prepared; --obtained, attained; attainable, obtainable, procurable: -- muyassar honaa or aanaa (- ko ), To be attained, or attainable (by); to come (to), to be within the reach (of)'. (Platts p.1105) insaan : 'Man, mankind, human being, mortal (= aadmii )'. (Platts p.92)

Hali: At first glance, this seems a commonplace idea; but if examined attentively, it is an entirely unprecedented thought. The claim is that in the world, even the easiest task is difficult. And the proof is that man, who by definition is human-- even for him to become human is difficult. This is not a logical proof; rather, it is a poetic proof, a proof better than which no poet can offer. (120)

Nazm: That is, to reach the rank of complete humanness [insaaniyat] is not simple. (17)

Bekhud Mohani: No task in the world is easy. Thus for a man to create human [insaanii] qualities and become a 'perfect human' [insaan-e kaamil] is not at all possible. Because a 'perfect human' is one in whom divine morality of a lofty order would be found. (40)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH; OPPOSITES DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5}

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Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses (Hamid p. 16); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The verse turns on the pivot of baskih , which can also be short for az-bas kih , and thus yields two distinct readings for the first line that stand in two quite different logical relationships to the second line. The 'to such an extent' reading is: 'it's remarkably difficult for seemingly easy tasks to be easy, [and the proof is that] man doesn't even manage to become human' (1a). The 'although' reading is: 'although it's difficult for every task to be easy,' [you'd think that it would be easy for man to become human, but surprisingly] 'it's not even easy for man to become human' (1b). Ghalib is fond of playing on the easy/difficult dichotomy. In this verse he also plays on the distinction between aadmii , a child of Adam who is probably conceived as simple but may (or may not) be good at heart, and insaan , a person in society who may be expected to behave according to a more sophisticated standard. These two complex words, both derived from Arabic, are sometimes used almost as synonyms (as Platt shows them to be), but Ghalib emphasizes their differences; although the nuances may be hard to pin down, it's clear that to be insaan is a superior achievement. Whose fault is it that aadmii doesn't manage to become insaan ? The excellently chosen verb muyassar honaa balances right on the edge (see the definition above), leaving it up to us to decide whether the task is not 'attainable' (in which case man can't be blamed if he doesn't achieve it), or whether it's not 'attained' (in which case the situation is left in doubt), or whether it's not 'easy' (in which case man can be blamed for not trying hard and achieving it).

{17,2}* giryah chaahe hai ;xaraabii mire kaashaane kii dar-o-diivaar se ;Tapke hai biyaabaa;N honaa 1) Weeping wants the ruin of my house 2) 'being a desert' drips from door and walls

Notes: chaahe hai is an archaic form of chaahtaa hai , and ;Tapke hai is an archaic form of ;Tapaktaa hai; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: The word 'to drip' has a great deal of affinity for a house, and with weeping as well. 'A word that is fresh is equal to a theme.' (18)

Bekhud Mohani: 'Drips'-- it's clear that the justice [daad] that Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has done to that word is worthy of praise [daad]. He says, 'A word that is fresh is equal to a theme'. (40)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, it's clear that now my house will fall down from the excess of the water of tears, and will become a desert. (36)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} HOME: {14,9} Compare {31,1}: 'even if we did not weep, our house would be desolate...' The words that Nazm cites without attribution, and that so delight Bekhud Mohani, are really those of Shah Jahan's poet laureate, Abu Talib 'Kalim' [abuu :taalib kaliim]. I've discussed this passage and the concept of 'theme' in the ghazal tradition in Nets of Awareness, Chapter 7, p. 103. Nazm quotes Kalim's words again in his commentary on {177,8}. The grammar of the second line has never ceased to astonish me. What is it that drips-- ;Tapke hai is just an archaic form of ;Tapaktaa hai -- from the

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doors and walls? Literally, it is 'to be a desert' [biyabaa;N honaa]. How can something as abstract as 'desertification' or 'desertness' do something as concrete (and unlikely) as dripping? It's one of those images like 'Brightness falls from the air'-- it doesn't really have a visual effect as much as an imaginative one, and a great sound when you say it. I think it has the quality of kaifiyat or 'mood', an elusive but real attribute of some ghazal verses that I've tried to describe in Nets of Awareness, Chapter 8, pp. 119-122. In {8,4x}, there seems to be a kind of information that drips. For a verse in which 'affirmation/proof oozes', see {101,8}. And in {190,10}, it's 'fire' itself that drips. How can one really clarify the second line? And yet it works, doesn't it? Another wonderful case in point is {91,9}.

{17,3} vaa))e diivaanagii-e shauq kih har dam mujh ko aap jaanaa udhar aur aap hii ;hairaa;N honaa 1) alas, the madness of passion! that at every moment/breath I 2) myself have to go that way, and uniquely/especially myself have to be astonished

Notes: Nazm: Every dam , that is, every time I take a breath, I run toward that Source of life and existence, and remain astonished at my lack of access. (18)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the madness of ardor-- that is, the excess of ardor-- has caused me to flee so far from myself that time after time I become ardent for the beauty of the True Beloved and pass outside my selfhood and, stupefied by lack of access, I think, 'Where am I and where is the sight of Him!' (36-37)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas for the madness of ardor, that I myself go toward the beloved and-seeing her style, her glory, her indifference, her radiance, her elegant surroundings, and my own coercion and helplessness-- I say in my heart, here who will listen to me, why have I even come here? (41)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HI; STRESS-SHIFTING MADNESS: {14,3} The first part of the first line is merely exclamatory, and its relationship to the rest of the verse is entirely unspecified. That requires us to search through the rest of the verse to discover the cause of the exclamation. The best way I've found to do this is to pretend that each word or phrase in turn is the crucial one, and see how that would alter the reading of the verse. (I've decided to call this 'stress-shifting'.) In present verse he's provided, as I've tried to show, a remarkable number of possible causes for the initial exclamation-- each of which could give rise to a different interpretation. See {161,2} for a similar example. Does the madness lie in my having to go in the first place? Or in my having to go, as opposed to someone else? Or in my being astonished at having to go, instead of expecting it? Or in my having to go in that direction, rather than some other? Or in my having to go with every breath (or at every moment), and not just sometimes? aap hii is another crux point. hii can often be merely an intensive-- 'I myself' am astonished at my behavior (though you'd think I of all people wouldn't be). Yet it can also be restrictive-- 'I alone' am astonished, nobody else is surprised in the least. (Everybody else expects such behavior from a madman like me; a proof of how mad I am is that I am surprised at it.)

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The madness of ardor sounds like something sought and chosen by the lover, but the use of a compulsion construction mujh ko ... jaanaa [hai] sounds like helplessness. Maybe this is just the nature of passion. Compare the similar, though less dire, helplessness in {46,4}.

{17,4} jalvah az-baskih taqaa.zaa-e nigah kartaa hai jauhar-e aa))inah bhii chaahe hai mizhgaa;N honaa 1) {since / to such an extent} glory/appearance makes a claim of a look/gaze 2) even/also the polish-mark on the mirror wants to be an eyelash

Notes: jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) nigaah : 'Look, glance, sight, view, regard; consideration; --look, aspect (of); --watching, observation, attention; --custody, care'. (Platts p.1150) chaahe hai is an archaic form of chaahtaa hai ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: That is, when the radiance/appearance of her beauty is saying, 'Look at me', then the mirror wants to become an eye, and the polish-mark wants to become an eyelash. The simile of eyeball for mirror is a famous theme, and here by 'mirror' an iron mirror is intended, which has polish-marks. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: Seeing the power of the radiance/appearance of the beloved to create an ardor for sight, even the polish-line on the mirror wants to become an eyelash. That is, if I cannot myself see like the eye of the mirror, then let me become a part of the seer. (41)

Chishti: This verse is an extremely fine example of theme-creation, but the pity is that loftiness of thought has killed off poetic-ness [shi((riyat]. (301)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH GAZE: {10,12} JALVAH: {7,4} JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} This is an example of theme-creation (as Chishti claims) only if we assume that no one has yoked the two words jauhar and mizhgaa;N together before. This sounds like a rash assumption to me, since as Nazm points out, the mirror as eyeball is quite established. Why is a polish-mark on a metal mirror like an eyelash? Because both are part of a set of many small fine lines; because the polish-mark results from the cleaning that keeps the mirror bright, while the eyelash protects the eye from dust and dirt. A mirror held up to the beloved's face seems to draw near in eagerness to 'see' her; an eye would seek to approach her face for the same close view.

{17,5}* ((ishrat-e qatl-gah-e ahl-e tamannaa mat puuchh ((iid-e na:z:zaarah hai shamshiir kaa ((uryaa;N honaa 1) the joy/sociability of the execution-ground of the people of longing-- don't ask! 2a) the 'Id of sight is the scimitar's being naked 2b) the scimitar's being naked is the 'Id of sight

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Notes: ((ishrat : 'Social or familiar intercourse, pleasant and familiar conversation, society; pleasure, enjoyment, mirth'. (Platts p.761) na:z:zaarah : 'Sight, view, look, show; inspection; --amorous glance, ogling'. (Platts p.1142)

Nazm: That is, on the execution-ground lovers find such joy that upon seeing the naked scimitar they consider that the crescent moon of 'Id has become visible. Because of the tightness of the meter, the word 'crescent moon' [hilaal] was not able to come in, and the meaning of the verse has remained incomplete. (18)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here seeing the scimitar has been said to be equal to seeing the crescent moon of 'Id, and this meaning emerges from the words of the verse without thought or reflection. (37)

Bekhud Mohani: What can I say of how happy the people of ardor are in the executionground! In short, for them, the sword's emerging from the scabbard is the emerging of the moon of 'Id. That is, for them, seeing the sword in the beloved's hands, to be murdered in the way of the Lord is the happiness of 'Id. (42)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; TRANSITIVITY GAZE: {10,12} This is one of the great well-known verses of the divan. On the joy of imminent execution, and the image of the sword, compare {1,3}. For a discussion of the uses-- and positioning-- of the word 'naked' [((uryaa;N], see {6,1}. Nazm's critique here is reminiscent of his famous attack on {1,1}. The naked scimitar is not the 'sight of 'Id,' but the ''Id of sight' or the ''Id of/for/to the sight'. As the commentators explain, the curved scimitar suggests the crescent moon that ends the fasting month of Ramzan and signals the beginning of the feast of 'Id. The scimitar is not only curved but also bright and shining like the moon of 'Id, and it appears suddenly after one has been looking for it eagerly and with impatience. Moreover, the meaning of ((ishrat includes not only joy, but also society or companionship-- which is itself very much a part of 'Id. (To my mind, Platts has the order of the two definitions backwards: for confirmation of this idea see {17,7}.) Thus the pleasure of the two possible readings of the second line, one of which takes as primary the idea of the crescent moon of 'Id (and identifies it with a naked scimitar), and the other of which takes as primary the naked scimitar (and identifies it with the crescent moon of 'Id). And of course, just as the 'Id moon signals the approach of a joyous feast and an end to fasting, the scimitar signals to the passionate lover/mystic the approach of joyous union in death with the beloved (and/or God), and the end of a life of deprivation, suffering, and longing. There is even a sexual overtone in the vision of the scimitar's 'nakedness'. Look at the secondary meaning of na:z:zaarah , 'amorous glance, ogling'. It's not for nothing that the death anniversary festival of a Sufi pir is called his ((urs , or wedding festival.

{17,6} le ga))e ;xaak me;N ham daa;G-e tamannaa-e nishaa:t tuu ho aur aap bah .sad-rang gulistaa;N honaa 1) we took away into the dust the wound of the longing for joy

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2a) you be! [imperative], and [your]self [are] to be a garden with a hundred colors 2b) you be! [imperative], and [we our]self [are] to be a garden with a hundred colors

Notes: aap : 'Self, himself, oneself, itself; he himself, you yourself, they themselves'. (Platts p.7)

Nazm: That is, I have taken my wound and departed; now you can flourish, and you're welcome to it; and this is the idiom. Replacing 'to flourish' [baa;G baa;G honaa, lit. 'to become gardens'] with 'to become a garden' [gulistaa;N honaa] is the writer's special usage. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, you have killed the people of desire by keeping them in a state of longing. Now, be the only observer of your own springtime.... bah .sad-rang gulistaa;N honaa should be considered a translation of [the Persian] .sad rang bahaar shiguftan [which means] 'an extremely flourishing spring'. [Or:] Well, you deprived me of the joy of union, but I'm not your ill-wisher. Even now I give you this blessing: may you ever flourish. (42)

Josh: A wound has been given the simile of a rose. Here, 'color' has the meaning of 'style'. But this too has come from the wordplay of wound and rose, and like rang-e gul this usage too is very captivating. He says, we have taken the wound of our longing for repose into the dust. Now you're welcome to remain and flourish in a hundred ways. (74)

FWP: SETS == YOU AND I The commentators all agree on (2a), but surely (2b) is another fine reading. The literal meaning of aap is 'self,' and it can be used like ;xvud, as a shorter form of apne aap . On the reading of (2b), our departure will only be a change of state. We took the wound of longing 'into the dust' or dirt, and literally it might be said that we will be 'pushing up daisies'. Or, more elegantly, we will become a lavish garden-- but why exactly? Just to please you? To show you that our passion continues beyond the grave? To shame you, by reminding you that you have killed such a lover? Or simply to make sure that you remember us? The mood is (designedly of course) impossible to pin down. For a verse that follows the lines of this second reading, see one of his all-time tour-de-force masterpieces, {111,1}. Even if the reading is that you will be the garden, as in (2a), what does it mean for you to be a garden and for us to become part of the dust that it springs from? Is our death from the wound of longing, the source of your brilliance and glory? Will you be more radiant and flourishing after (and because of) our death than you ever were before? Will the red blood of our wound help to color your garden?

{17,7}* ((ishrat-e paarah-e dil za;xm-e tamannaa khaanaa la;z;zat-e resh-e jigar ;Garq-e namakdaa;N honaa 1) the enjoyment of the piece of the heart-- to eat/receive the wound of longing 2) the relish of the fragment of the liver-- to be plunged into the salt-dish

Notes: Nazm: In both lines the verb 'is' is omitted. (18)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is 'two-part,' and in a two-part verse there is usually an omitted verb. To balance the weight of both lines with this excellence is a task fit only for masters of the art like Mirza [Ghalib]. (37)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the greatest good fortune of the faithful ones is in failure. (43)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM FOOD: {6,4} JIGAR: {2,1} I see this is a wry, amused reflection on the lover's state: even though he laments and complains, he revels in suffering. Or rather, it's almost as if because he laments and complains that his enjoyment of suffering is complete. Suffering maintains his intense private emotional world and saves him from the mere commonplace ;Gam-e rozgaar that is the only alternative to the ;Gam-e ((ishq of {20,7}. The verbal charm of the verse is of course its wordplay about eating and food. To me, the first line has a semi-serious ring because paarah-e dil can simply refer to the heart's wounded, broken state, while khaanaa , 'to eat,' is also the proper verb to use for receiving a wound-- and the 'wound of longing' is a sufficiently abstract concept to sound like a ghazal truism. But the second verse is over the top, and concretizes these lofty abstractions into actual bits of food that sound like hors d'oeuvres. The bits of the liver-- and liver, unlike heart, is commonly eaten, though the word for the food kind is different-- joyously fling themselves into the salt-dish, which both aggravates their ecstatic suffering, and prepares them to be a choice morsel-perhaps like a small kabob. In this verse the poet is surely writing tongue-incheek (sorry, sorry, I couldn't help it). Apparently the countless heart-wounds also enjoy a good dip in the salt-dish, as we learn in {233,5}.

{17,8}* kii mire qatl ke ba((d us ne jafaa se taubah haa))e us zuud-pashemaa;N kaa pashemaa;N honaa 1) after my murder, she swore off cruelty/tyranny 2) alas-- the repentance of that quick-repenter!

Notes: Nazm: That is, the moment she saw the blood, she felt mercy: 'What have I done?'. There was neither any delay in becoming angry, nor any delay in repenting. And it's possible that he might have called her a 'quick-repenter' as a taunt or insult-- that is, when the deed has been irrevocably done, to feel mercy then, is that to repent quickly? (18)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pleasure of the words 'that quick-repenter' can't be described. This is a special mood of ecstasy, it can't be written down. Only people with taste can experience something of its pleasure. (38)

Bekhud Mohani: Two aspects emerge from 'alas': 1) I love her coquettish temperament. 2) I can't bear to think of her repentance. (43)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; REPETITION What a study in the extraordinary power of inshaa))iyah speech! This is another very famous, much-loved verse.

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Is her repentance being exclaimed at because it is so quick (it occurs as soon as she has killed him), or so slow (it occurs only after she has killed him)? As Nazm points out, there's no way to tell: it's both at once. For more on the fickleness of the beloved, see {46,1}. Is the 'alas!' ironic or straightforwardly melancholy? Is the exclamation rueful, amused, regretful, bitter, detached? And is the exclamation evoked by the murder itself, the repentance, the quickness, or the general nature of 'that quick-repenter'? The un-analyzability of this verse (since we have only a few bits of information and a vague, un-pin-down-able exclamation about them) causes Bekhud Dihlavi to consider it a verse of mood. I agree-- the pleasure of it is the intricate texture of all those kinds of haa))e available at once, and flickering in and out of the reader's mind. Doesn't it make you want to recite it, and to linger expressively on the haa))e ?

{17,9} ;haif us chaar girah kap;Re kii qismat ;Gaalib jis kii qismat me;N ho ((aashiq kaa garebaa;N honaa 1) woe upon the dividing/destiny of that four measures of cloth, Ghalib 2) in the destiny/dividing of which it would be, to be a lover's collar

Notes: qismat : 'Division, distribution, partition (of a thing);... a portion, share lot; fortune, fate, destiny; divine decree'. (Platts p.791)

Azad: [Ghalib had served a prison term for holding illegal gambling parties in his house.] The day he was leaving there [=prison], and it was time for him to change his clothes, he tore up the kurta he had been wearing there and threw it down and recited this verse: {17,9}. (506) ==English translation: Pritchett and Faruqi, p. 415.

Nazm: That is, if there's separation, then he himself tears it; and if there's union, then at the hands of the beloved's mischievousness it will be torn to shreds. (18)

Hasrat Mohani: This verse is extremely fine, but the repetition of qismat in both lines has created a somewhat unpleasing effect. (18)

Bekhud Mohani: This word [qismat] cannot be changed. When things are such, then why complain of unpleasingness? Repetition of a word is not in every case a cause of unpleasingness. (43)

Mihr: [On Azad's anecdote:] First, it's unhistorical, and second, even if he had been wearing prison clothes, then he wouldn't have been permitted to tear them up! (75)

Hamid: If it is read in a correct way, then there is not a defect in this repetition, but a pleasure. (16)

Naiyar Masud: For the lover's collar to become torn in union, and that too at the beloved's hands, is a very strange idea.... When the poet said 'a lover's collar', the vision of being torn became associated with it.... For some reason or other the use of the word qismat in both lines of this verse is necessary; otherwise, not to speak of Ghalib-- even a poet of the second or third rank could easily have removed this word from one or the other line.... One qismat is connected with the past, one with the future. (134-39)

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An ordinary bit of cloth comes from nonexistence into existence, passes through the stages of being cut out and shaped and ornamented, and reaches the state of perfection and attains its identity (to be a collar). And then it again passes through the states and then loses its identity, and returns to being an ordinary bit of cloth.... In reality, is it four measures of cloth, or a symbol that offers us signs of the states of nonexistence, presence, perfection, decay, nonexistence? (140-41)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; REPETITION; WORD CHAK-E GAREBAN verses: {3,7x}; {6,7x}; {11,5x}; {17,9}; {34,2}; {57,6}; {61,8}; {64,1}; {87,1}; {111,11}*; {112,1}; {113,5}; {120,4}; {173,9}; {178,4}; {189,4}; {192,1}; {214,5}; [{221,2}]; {226,3}; {233,3} Being cut out, stitched up, and later ripped apart into a rag might seem to be the destiny of many kinds of fabric (and, metaphorically, of all of us)-- so why the emphasis on the evil destiny of the lover's collar in particular? No doubt because its life-span is destined to be so abnormally short, and its ripping-apart so elaborate and painful. The lover tears it because he's in deep grief, and rending one's garments is a classic sign of grief; and also because in his madness he feels suffocated, and wants to remove all constrictions so that he can breathe; and also just because he's mad, and madmen often do tear off their clothes, in a classic symptom of their condition. The English word 'collar' is not an ideal translation: what's really meant is the kind of long, narrow, slit-shaped neck-opening that a kurta has. This shape of opening is especially, invitingly, tearable: grabbing the two sides and giving a strong pull would make a long, dramatic rip that would start at the bottom of the opening and run all the way down the chest. It's also important to think of this kind of long, narrow neck-opening because of other 'tearing of the collar' verses that make significant use of the shape, comparing it for example to the first bright 'crack of dawn' that lies like a white line along the dark horizon. This is another inshaa))iyah verse; like the preceding {17,8}, this one too rests on an exclamation of lament or regret; from there on, of course, they take greatly different routes. When we read this verse long ago in class, C. M. Naim pointed to Ghalib's use of a secondary meaning of qismat , the cutting out of fabric before it is sewn into a garment, as a deliberately-intended source of pleasure in the verse. Nazm agrees about the secondary meaning, but takes the qismat of fabric to mean its being ripped or torn apart, as is the generally accepted destiny of the lover's collar during his bouts of madness or despair. I would consider this a verse based not on repetition but almost on an iihaam , in its strict sense: the use of a word with two meanings, and the reader is first led to think of the more common one, but the poet really intends the more obscure one. Reading the first line, everybody would think of the more common meaning, 'destiny'. But reading the second line, in which the sense of 'destiny' is more heavily reinforced, we would at once go back and re-examine and re-imagine the use of the same word in the first line. For even in the work of a mediocre ghazal poet, there's simply no room for such blatant padding as to use the same word twice for no reason; and as Naiyar Masud observes, in the work of a master the possibility can be ruled out immediately. To reconsider qismat and remember its literal meaning of dividing, making into pieces, sharing out (the obvious source of its metaphorical meaning of portion or 'destiny'), is the natural next step; we can hardly help but think also of the related taqsiim , which has come to mean, among other things, 'Partition'. At this point we become involved in what I've tentatively called 'wordexploration': we're examining the full range of meanings of a single word, from the most literal to the most metaphorical. How is the cutting out of

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fabric, and/or the ripping apart of fabric, like the cutting out and ripping apart of our destiny? Naiyar Masud waxes existential about the four measures of cloth and the four stages of life. We could of course keep on pointing out other similarities, one of the chief of which is our human helplessness and inability to escape either from the pain of creative change (as of fabric being cut out to make a collar) or from the irreversible suffering of destruction (as of a collar being ripped apart and destroyed). Azad's completely apocryphal anecdote (no doubt a back-formation from the verse itself and the fact of Ghalib's imprisonment) purports to show Ghalib's wit. Actually, since Azad dislikes Ghalib, the anecdote permits him to remind us of the poet's humiliation and disgrace. Mihr's literal-minded response tickled my fancy. For another such Azadian anecdote, see {90,3}. For a verse in which Ghalib makes witty use of the idea of repetition [takraar], see {53,11}. For a verse in which the commentators praise him for repetition (with variation in meaning) see {59,5}. For another case of repetition (one that may or may not involve padding), see the discussion of {111,13}. Can we also possibly see padding in {164,6}? Consider {234,7} as well, though I think we can save the verse from the accusation.

Ghazal 18 5 verses (out of 7); rhyming elements: aazah thaa composed 1821; Arshi #12

{18,1} shab ;xumaar-e shauq-e saaqii rast;xez-andaazah thaa taa mu;hii:t-e baadah .suurat-;xaanah-e ;xamyaazah thaa 1) last night the intoxication/hangover of the ardor of/for the Cupbearer was in the style of Judgment Day 2) up to the wine-circumference there was a picture-house of a yawn/stretch/gape

Notes: rast;xez : 'The resurrection, the day of judgment'; rast : 'Growing, growth'; rast -o-;xez : 'Springing up'. (Platts p.592) mu;hii:t : 'Surrounding, encompassing, enclosing, encircling, circumambient; ....periphery, circumference (of a circle); the ocean'. (Platts p.1011) ;xamyaazah : 'Stretching; yawning, gaping ;....punishment, retribution, reward, fruit'. (Platts p.494)

Nazm: That is, last night my ardor had stirred up a Doomsday; and because of the displeasure and distaste in the ardor, he has used the simile of 'intoxication'. He says, from here to the sea of wine had become a picture-house of my yawn. That is, in intoxication I gave vent to such huge yawns that their length reached to the ocean of wine. The author's gist is that in yawning, the way he stretched out his hands and feet was as if he were searching for wine. (18-19)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The way on the Day of Judgment the dead will rise from their graves, in the same way everything, wherever it had been placed, began to rise up.... The rule is that wine-drinkers, as their intoxication abates, yawn and stretch. In stretching, their hands rise up and come together, and this is the aspect of Judgment Day. The meaning of the verse is that while waiting for the Cupbearer, the wine in the flagons too, like me, began to stretch. He has used

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the image of a stretch for the wine becoming agitated, which is an inferior example of Mirza Sahib's 'high-flyingness.' (38)

Bekhud Mohani: Let people of insight consider the extent to which Mirza had expertise in the selection of words. mu;hii:t-e baadah is that line on the flagon up to which the wine is poured. (44)

Faruqi: The meaning of shauq-e saaqii can be not only 'waiting for the Cupbearer', but also 'the Cupbearer's relish and ardor'. Now the meaning will be not while waiting for the Cupbearer, but rather in the decline of the Cupbearer's relish and ardor, there was a Day of Judgment condition of fatigue and distaste.... Another point is that Bekhud Dihlavi has suggested the affinity of yawning and the Day of Judgment, but between the foaming of the wine-- that is, its getting stirred up and splashing and rising up, for which the meaningful word rast;xez has been used-- and the Day of Judgment there is also a subtle affinity. That is, for wine to become stirred up is for it to rise and ascend. 'To rise' [u;Thnaa] is used for the Day of Judgment also. And on the Day of Judgment people too rise, and come out of their graves. [Nazm] Tabataba'i has taken mu;hii:t-e baadah to mean not 'line on the wine-flagon', but 'ocean of wine'. This meaning too is possible, and Ghalib's own verse is a proof: {12,2}. (1989: 38-39) [2006: 48-49]

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT DOOMSDAY: {10,11} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Raza p. 225; Raza p. 226), from which he chose five (Hamid p. 17) for publication in his divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Faruqi is right to emphasize {12,2}, which plays with many of the same elements (and also provides discussion and examples of the idiomatic terms ;xumaar and ;xamyaazah . Thanks to the clever ambiguity of the i.zaafat , we don't even know whose ardor of/for the cupbearer was so intense-- the wine-drinkers', the Cupbearer's, and/or the wine's. In this verse the wordplay is so elaborate and so contrived that I can hardly pick out the basic analogies on which it rests. Obviously the commentators too are somewhat at sea (sorry, all this wordplay gets to me). A glass of wine, full up to a certain level, might be a rounded, wide-open mouth; an ocean of wine might also be a rounded, wide-open mouth; but what is meant here seems to be an extended bout of stretching, with a series of yawns, like someone getting up from a table after many hours of nowlessening intoxication. Bringing in taa , 'up to,' suggests that the state of ;xamyaazah , which extends right up to the edge of the ocean of wine, is the twisting, stretching shape of the shoreline. This is made explicit in {12,2}. The drinkers' relationship to the ocean of wine is like that of the shore to the sea: they press close to it, they never leave it, they contain it within bounds, they devote themselves to it with a constant and fixed attention. If we don't rely on this pairing of images (shore/sea), then why should taa be present? Thus the drinkers' rising or standing, in order to yawn and stretch-- and to evoke the 'rising up' of Judgment Day-- appears to be secondary. And why do we also need a 'picture-house' [.suurat-;xaanah]-- how does that fit in? The imagery seems to take us in too many directions at once, without being satisfactorily integrated.

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{18,2} yak qadam va;hshat se dars-e daftar-e imkaa;N khulaa jaadah ajzaa-e do-((aalam-dasht kaa shiiraazah thaa 1a) with/through one footstep of wildness/madness the lesson of the chapter of possibilities opened up 1a) with/through one footstep of wildness/madness the lesson of the chapter of possibilities fell apart 2a) the path [that the madman had left behind] was the binding-thread of the pieces of the two-world desert 2b) the path [of madness itself] was the binding-thread of the pieces of the two-world desert

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; ...wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; ...distraction, madness' (Platts p.1183)

Nazm: That is, when possibilities in their beginning made a little bit of wildness/madness and otherness, then the world of possibilities became present. And one footstep of that wildness, wherever it fell, was like a binding-thread of the pages of two hundred deserts. Because when a foot is lifted in wildness/madness, it will be lifted only to move toward the desert. And in the eyes of the knower of mystic knowledge, the whole world is an empty possibility. In the construction 'two-world-desert' the author has made the measurement of the extent of the desert the whole world, the way he has made the measurement of fatigue a 'desert' [in {11,1}] and the measurement of hesitation a 'knee' [in {212,2}] and the measurement of longing a 'city' [in {16,2}]. (19)

Bekhud Mohani: In the state of wildness/madness I had taken the very first footstep. When the truth of the chapter of possibilities was revealed, then it was as if it was the binding-thread of the pieces of the path of the world. That is, the way in a binding-thread all the pages become strung together, in the same way the pieces of the two worlds were threaded in the path of the desert of wildness/madness. In this verse 'wildness/madness' means renunciation of the world, which is necessary for True Passion [((ishq-e ;haqiiqii] and mystical knowledge of the Lord. (44)

Josh: The interpretation is that spirits experience a kind of wildness/madness and emerge into the world of possibilities-- that is, the world of existence-- and this state of affairs persists. Every one has set his face toward the road of this wildness/madness, and in this way this scattered world of spirits, on the road toward the wildness/desert of possibilities, in the aspect of a group, looks like a binding-thread. (75)

Arshi: Compare {10,12}. (167)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS DESERT: {3,1} MADNESS: {14,3} WRITING: {7,3} Madness or wildness left the beaten track and broke free, setting off into the desert-- and with one single first step the 'lesson of the chapter of possibilities' opened. There's a great play on khulaa -- the lesson 'opened' the way a book opens, of course. But as we learn from the second line, it might also have 'opened' the way the signatures of a book fall apart when the

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binding-thread is cut. And is the 'path' the one the mad lover has left, or the path of madness itself that he has now embarked on? I've tried to show in my translation the two possibilities for each line. Their combinations thus yield four interpretations something like these: (1a) and (2a)-- When the lover set out into madness, a new lesson about possibilities was revealed to him, for his wild departure cut the bindingthread that artificially held the two-world desert together. (1a) and (2b)-- When the lover set out into madness, the path of madness on which he had embarked taught him a new kind of coherence, for this new path proved to be the binding-thread of the two-world desert. (1b) and (2a)-- When the lover set out into madness, the lesson of possibilities fell apart into incoherence, for the path of sanity he had left had been the binding-thread that held the two-world desert together. (1b) and (2b)-- when the lover set out into madness, the lesson of possibilities fell apart into incoherence; this was inevitable, since the path of madness itself was now the only binding-thread that could hold the twoworld desert together. And of course, there is the classic wordplay of va;hshat as both wildness and wilderness, loneliness and ferocity. No translator could possibly capture all that in English. There is also the piquant counterpoise of yak qadam va;hshat in the first line with do-((aalam dasht in the second. And what is a 'two-world desert,' anyway? A desert that contains the two worlds? That is the two worlds? That is the size of the two worlds? This measurement-rod possibility evokes the discussion of a similar construction in {11,1}. And it suggests that the first line could also contain a 'footstepful of madness' (a measurement of extreme smallness) if we read yak-qadam va;hshat as belonging to this family as well. The word shiiraazah works very well here; see the brilliant {10,12} for further discussion and examples. And the word jaadah , here as elsewhere, seems to be part of his regular tool kit of abstract imagery; for more examples, see {9,4}. Consider also {5,4}, in which va;hshat in the mind destroys the desert itself. The present verse also resonates with {4,8x}, which also features a single footstep and, strikingly, a 'desert of possibilities'. Ghalib must be one of the world's most cerebral-chauvinist poets-- he is always (ruefully) celebrating the powers of the mind. This verse is one of my own favorites. It's wildly abstract, but not at all incoherent; there are various paths through it, but it doesn't at all degenerate into a morass.

{18,3} maana((-e va;hshat-;xaraamiihaa-e lail;aa kaun hai ;xaanah-e majnuun-e .sa;hraa-gard be-darvaazah thaa 1) who is a forbidder of the {madness/wildness}-roamings of Laila? 2) the house of Majnun the desert-wanderer was door-less

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; ...wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; ...distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183)

Nazm: That is, Majnun's house is the desert, and the desert is a house with no door. So why does Laila not run wild/mad and come away to him? Who prevents her? (19)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse is the verbal device of question-and-answer. In the first line the question is, after all, who forbids Laila's desert-wandering? That is, why

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doesn't Laila come out in madness toward Majnun in the desert of Najd? Then it gives the answer itself: Yes, now I understand. Hazrat Majnun was mad, after all. When did he ever stay in one place? Now he is here like a will-o-the-wisp, now like a whirlwind there. If the poor thing came, then where would she come? and if she searched for him, then where would she search? (45)

Naiyar Masud: In the light of the first interpretation of the question [as a rhetorical question], we learn that madness is not inducing action, and it can be confidently concluded that Laila does not have the kind of madness of passion that Majnun does. In the interpretation as a negative question, we learn that there is no forbidder, and that it can be confidently concluded that Laila too will set her face toward the desert. (148)

FWP: DESERT: {3,1} HOME: {14,9} Who is the forbidder, after all? Majnun, who makes himself impossible to find? Laila herself, who doesn't seek her lover even though no door bars her way? Nobody, so that the question is rhetorical and she's not forbidden at all? Or is it a mystery of destiny, so that she's somehow forbidden but not by any forbidder? Does the doorlessness of Majnun's house show that there's no barrier, or does it constitute a barrier in itself? Does Majnun have a house at all-- is the desert itself his house? (For another such un-pin-downable house, see {127,2}.) One further, even stranger view of the verse occurs to me. Mystically speaking, Majnun and Laila are sometimes said to be one; despite their physical separation, their identification with each other and obsessive concentration on each other was so intense that they almost became each other. On this view, the two lines fit together elegantly: both describe the situation of va;hshat-;xaraamii lived in by Laila/Majnun, as they wander in the wildness/wilderness of passion. This verse is both transparently simple, and ultimately opaque. It makes masterful use of one of Ghalib's favorite devices, inshaa))iyah language that asks unanswered-- and often unanswerable-- questions. Like so many of his verses, it gives us no guidance about how exactly to connect the two grammatically and semantically separate lines. There's also the sound of the second line, with its rhythm, long vowels, and flowingness. To me it has that quality of mystery and mood that marks unforgettable lines. It's rich with meanings-- but there are too many of them, it opens too many imaginative doors, so that it remains finally impossible to pin down. Which of course is one of the reasons that it lingers in the memory. For another haunting, resonant verse about Majnun's 'house' in the wilderness, see {140,6}.

{18,4}* puuchh mat rusvaa))ii-e andaaz-e isti;Gnaa-e ;husn dast marhuun-e ;hinaa ru;xsaar rahn-e ;Gaazah thaa 1) don't ask about the disgrace of the style of independence of beauty! 2) the hand was pledged to henna, the cheek was a pledge to rouge

Notes: isti;Gnaa : 'Ability to dispense with, independence (in point of fortune), opulence; content'. (Platts p.49) marhuun : 'Deposited as a pledge, pledged, pawned, mortgaged'. (Platts p.1027)

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rahn : 'Pledging, pawning; a thing deposited as a pledge, a pledge, a pawn; a mortgage, a sum lent on mortgage'. (Platts p.610)

Nazm: That is, despite its pride, beauty is so needy that the hand is stretched out [beseechingly] to henna and the cheek to rouge. (19)

Bekhud Mohani: How can I describe how much disgrace there was for the claims of beauty to non-indebtedness!.... That is, beautiful ones claim that their beauty is divinely given, we have no need for adornment. But we've always seen then making henna designs on their hands, and we've seen the color of rouge glimmering on their cheeks. (45)

Josh: Beauty's independence and non-neediness is established. But in this verse he has proved it to be needy, and expressed the disgrace of its independence. He says, aloof Beauty's independence has become disgraced, for its hands remained in need of henna and its cheeks have been found absorbed in the ardor for the rubbing-on of rouge. (75)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Beauty pretends to be independently wealthy, but it's all a false front. In fact, it's all based on borrowed finery, facades, pawnshops, mortgages. The beloved who claims to owe her beauty to no one and nothing, is really a highly indebted fraud making false claims. How disillusioning, how pathetic! This is the general reading of the commentators. But where exactly does the 'disgrace' come in? Because people have now found out? That might be why the second line is in the past tense, as though retailing gossip about once-hidden misdeeds that have now come to light. At a deeper level, though, Ghalib always urges a radical autonomy: don't be indebted to others, even to medicine when you're sick {26,1}. Rather, you should let everything, no matter what, emerge from your own being {148,5}. Even if people don't know, the disgrace is in the hypocrisy itself, the inauthenticity itself. But there's another dimension that comes to mind. Think of {12,1}, with its great introductory phrase in which the lover describes himself as saraapaa rahn-e ((ishq , 'from head to foot pledged to passion'. In this case, passion is no cheap debt and nothing trivial, but is the supreme goal to which the lover sacrifices his life. This makes us consider whether the beloved's hand might be 'pledged to henna' in this sense, and her cheek 'a pledge to rouge.' Her allegiance to perfect beauty would then be as ultimate as the lover's allegiance to passion. Her 'disgrace' would then be comparable to his-- and perhaps just as morally defensible, and even admirable. Why shouldn't her commitment to being adorable be as powerful and totalizing as his commitment to adoring her? The worldly, the 'people of the world,' the ahl-e dunyaa , may consider this a disgrace, but what do they know? Perhaps it's better to obey the first line's injunction, 'don't ask'-- perhaps there's a mystery of passion behind it all.

{18,5}* naalah-e dil ne diye auraaq-e la;xt-e dil bah baad yaadgaar-e naalah ik diivaan-e be-shiiraazah thaa 1) the lament of the heart gave the pages of the fragments of the heart to the wind 2) the memorial/keepsake of the lament was a single/unique/preeminent divan without a binding-thread

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Notes: varaq [sing. of auraaq]: 'Leaf (of a tree, or of a book, or of silver or gold, &c.)...; a slice'. (Platts p.1188) yaadgaar : Anything given as a memorial; a valuable present (to a mistress or friend); a token, a souvenir, a keepsake; --a monument, memorial; anything memorable, or worthy of remembrance'. (Platts p.1247) ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113)

Nazm: He has given the pieces of the heart the simile of pages, then given the pages the simile of a bound divan. And the poet has supposed the lament to be something that has destroyed its own memorial. (19)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pieces of my heart, that is, my lofty themes, which issued uncontrollably from my tongue in the form of laments of the heart.... Now, when I collected my thoughts and looked, the memorial of the lament was a single unbound divan. The reference is to this Urdu divan. (39)

Bekhud Mohani: bah baad daadan is 'to cause to fly in the air'; in Urdu, barbaad karnaa ; it's an idiom [in Persian]. Then, the reason why Mirza has said it is clear. That is, among 'pages', 'divan', 'binding-thread', and 'to give to the wind' there is a word-based and meaning-based relationship. (45-46)

FWP: SETS == EK; IZAFAT; POETRY The 'lament of the heart' seems to be a frustrated poet-- gathering its pages only to disperse them, collecting them only to fling them to the wind. The word pareshaa;N , although it doesn't appear in the verse, hovers somewhere in the landscape; see for example {6,3}. For discussion of shiiraazah see {10,12}. What does it mean to throw-- literally, 'give'-- the pages to the wind? On the face of it, to despair of one's creative powers, to reject one's collected work. But in this case, the result was not chaos, loss, and blowing bits of paper; the second line is very clear about that. The yaadgaar , 'memorial' or 'memoir', did not cease to exist. Far from it: it remained 'a single divan without a binding-thread'. A paradox, even a miracle. How can a divan hold together in at least some way, so that it can be 'one' or a 'single' collection of poetry, if it doesn't have a binding-thread? Perhaps the wind will be its symbolic binding-thread-perhaps to be unbound is its truest form of unity and self-expression. (Consider some of the meanings of {18,2}, earlier in this ghazal.) Perhaps a 'collection' of laments of the heart can only be its real self when it's scattered, when it refuses the conventional closure of the binding-thread and insists on the overpowering, anarchic force of its grief. Also, the pages that are given to the wind are the pages 'of' the fragments of the heart. Does this mean pages that are about the fragments of the heart, or that are by the fragments of the heart, or that are the fragments of the heart (since after all varaq can also mean 'slice')? The same questions arise in the case of the memorial 'of' the lament; we can't tell exactly what relationship exists between the two nouns. Is is a monument that commemorates the lament, to keep its memory green in the future? Or is it a keepsake retained by the lament itself, for its own nostalgic recollection? On the poetically useful multivalence of the i.zaafat see {16,1}.

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{18,6x} huu;N chiraa;Gaan-e havas juu;N kaa;Ga;z-e aatish-zadah daa;G garm-e koshish-e iijaad-e daa;G-e taazah thaa 1) I am a lamp-display of desire/lust, like {burnt / fire-stricken} paper 2) the wound was hot/eager in the attempt to invent a fresh wound

Notes: havas : 'Desire, lust, concupiscence, inordinate appetite; --ambition; -curiosity'. (Platts p1241)

Gyan Chand: On a paper that has caught fire, here and there sparks glimmer. I too, at the hands of desire/lust, am burning from head to foot. If desire/lust or yearning is not fulfilled, then it leaves a burning, a writhing, a wound. These wounds are hot and illuminated like a lamp. After one unfulfilled longing a second one is born, and that becomes a longing and leaves behind a wound. In this way, through the abundance of sounds, a lamp-display keeps developing. (90)

FWP: Raza p. 225; Raza p. 226. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the fourth verse of the seven-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses one through three and six through seven. We're apparently meant to think of the way a piece of paper can be struck by flying embers, so that roundish burning holes open up wherever the embers land; the holes themselves have red, smoldering edges, and constantly widen themselves until the whole paper either crumples into ash or bursts into flame. In the same way, each glowing, red-bordered, expanding wound of desire seems to be 'hot' or enthusiastic with a fervent eagerness to spread its influence around: it restlessly seeks to create or 'invent' new, 'fresh' wounds of desire. I'm like this kind of 'burnt paper' full of smoldering holes-- thus I'm also like a 'lamp-display', offering many individual points of fiery efflorescence. For more on chiraa;Gaa;N , see {5,5}. But of course the grammar gives us three entities-- the 'lamp-display', the 'burnt paper', and the 'wound'-- and forces us, as so often, to figure out for ourselves how exactly to connect them. What is a metaphor for what? Are we juxtaposing three separate situations, or two (or merely one) with metaphorical elaboration? The choice is ours to make. To say that 'the wound was hot/eager in the attempt to invent a fresh wound' ialso feels like an insight into the nature of lust. The constant pursuit of novelty, the effort to invent and 'discover' ever-newer, ever more irresistible objects of simple, direct, uncomplicated desire, is surely what lies at the very heart of lust. What 'heats up' the wound of lust is not really the thought of the beloved, but the project of inventing more such wounds of lust. Such lust can be as suddenly destructive and utterly transitory as the fate that overtakes a burnt piece of paper-- but also as brilliantly beautiful as a light-show.

{18,7x} be-navaa))ii tar .sadaa-e na;Gmah-e shuhrat asad boriya yak naisitaa;N-((aalam bula;Nd darvaazah thaa 1a) poverty/voicelessness is the fresh/new echo/sound of the melody/voice of publicity/fame, Asad 1b) the fresh/new echo/sound of the melody/voice of publicity/fame is poverty/voicelessness, Asad

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2a) a straw-mat was a whole {reed-thicket}-kingdom lofty/loud gate 2b) a whole {reed-thicket}-kingdom lofty/loud gate was a straw mat

Notes: navaa : 'Voice, sound; modulation; song; air; --a certain musical tone or mood; riches, opulence, wealth, plenty; subsistence; --prosperity; goodness or splendour of circumstances;--a splendid situation; --a happy life'. (Platts p.1157) be-navaa : 'Without provisions or furniture; without prosperity or splendour in condition; indigent, destitute; ... -- be-navaa))ii , s.f. Indigence, destitution, beggary; mendicancy'. (Platts p.204) tar : 'New, fresh; green; young, tender, soft; juicy, moist, damp, wet, wet through, saturated (with moisture, or grease, &c.); refreshed, revived, gladdened'. (Platts p.314) .sadaa : 'Echo; sound, noise; voice, tone, cry, call'. (Platts p.743) na;Gmah : 'A soft, sweet voice; --a musical sound or tone; --melody; song; modulation; trill, shake'. (Platts p.1144) shuhrat : 'Divulging, publishing; publicity, notableness, notoriety, celebrity, reputation, renown, fame, rumour, report'. (Platts p.738) ((aalam : 'The world, the universe; men, people, creatures; regions; kingdom (in comp., e.g. 'vegetable-kingdom'); --age, period, time, season; state, condition, case, circumstances; a state of beauty; a beautiful sight or scene'. (Platts p.757) buland : 'High, lofty, tall; elevated, exalted, sublime; loud'. (Platts p.165)

Gyan Chand: The meaning of be-navaa))ii is lack of possessions; that is, poverty. The meaning of navaa is also 'voice'. Thus, according to [the Indo-Persian dictionary] bahaar-e ((ajam , the word be-navaa))ii means not only 'poverty' but also 'voicelessness'. In this verse, 'poverty' is intended. 'Voicelessness' is only by way of an iihaam , yak naisitaa;N ((aalam : This is a very suitable device for manifesting the rank of Ghalib. From a flute [nai] a voice emerges, and it's made of bamboo, so that the reed-thicket became a treasury of voices. In order to show the power of buland-aavaazii he has said yak naisitaa;N ((aalam ; that is, a jungle full of bamboos. A straw-mat is made of twigs of bamboo; thus because it has a distant relationship with a flute, he has declared it too to be a sign of bulandaavaazii . Besides this, the straw mat is also a sign of poverty, and usually a straw mat has no other capacity. Now he says that however much noise/commotion of somebody's fame there would be, in reality there's poverty to just that extent-- not only of worldly goods, but rather with regard to human qualities too. The proof is the straw mat, that makes a great deal of noise but is absolutely mute/speechless. The truth is that if the straw mat would be lifted up, then there's plenty of rustling/crackling. He's declared the sound to be the proof of fame. (90-91)

FWP: SETS == WORD; TRANSITIVITY MUSIC: {10,3} Raza p. 225; Raza p. 226. S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the fourth verse of the seven-verse ghazal that Ghalib originally composed; in his published divan he included only verses one through three and six through seven. Don't we just have to love a poet who can mess with our minds like this? The verse is a densely interwoven texture of wordplay, yet it still does seem to be saying something-- or rather several somewhat confusing somethings, but the intriguing specificity of that little straw mat keeps goading us onward to try to nail it down a bit.

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At the heart of the verse is an exploration of the doubleness of be-navaa))ii . Officially it means 'poverty, destitution'; indeed, that's the only meaning that Platts recognizes. But as Gyan Chand points out, it's impossible not to read it also as 'voicelessness', the state of not having navaa , a word with a first meaning of 'voice, sound' (see the definitions above); and there's some precedent too, at least in Indo-Persian, for reading it that way. (And of course, 'voicelessness' can be just as good an image of poverty and helplessness as 'alienness' or 'isolatedness' [;Gariibii].) Building on the two senses of be-navaa))ii , the verse proceeds to explore the dichotomies of poverty/obscurity versus loftiness/fame on the one hand, and voice/sound versus voicelessness/silence on the other. Because what I call the 'transitivity' effect (if A=B, then B=A) has been set up in both lines, we can't even be sure whether whether the real subject in the first line is benavaa))ii (1a) or .sadaa (1b); or similarly whether in the second line it's boriyaa (2a) or darvaazah (2b). If we look for example at (2a), then the single straw mat is 'a whole reedthicket-kingdom lofty gate'. 'Lofty Gate' [bula;Nd darvaazah] was a common title for the main gate of a fortress; and the fortress seems to belong or pertain somehow to a reed-thicket 'kingdom' (see the definition above of ((aalam as a compounder). So the apparently humble, plebeian straw mat, lying flat to the ground, symbolic of nothing but poverty and simplicity, is equated with a major symbol of large-scale pomp and circumstance. Even the compounded, imposing-looking grammar of 'reed-thicket kingdom' followed by 'lofty gate' doesn't bother to connect itself in any lucid way-- is it a 'lofty the way a reed-thicket-kingdom is lofty' gate, or is it a lofty 'gate of a reed-thicket-kingdom'? It's easy to think 'sufism' here, or to think 'paradox'. But the great and lofty gate belongs to not just any kingdom-- it's specifically that of a 'reed-thicket' kingdom. Is that something lofty (because the reeds convey musical sounds, and thus expressive prowess)? Or is it something rustic or peasanty (because a kingdom consisting of a reed-thicket doesn't sound all that impressive)? If we reverse the order, it doesn't really help with the problem. We simply can't tell whether the line aims to set up a maximally powerful contrast (extreme humility versus royal pomp), or to offer a piquant mediating presence somewhere in between (a 'kingdom' or even 'world' that is also a modest reed-thicket). Similarly, there's a way to read (1a) that sounds almost like a fashionista's aphorism ('Pink is the navy blue of India', 'Navy blue is the new black', etc.). It's easy to imagine 'Silence is the new sound of publicity', or 'Poverty is the new guise of celebrity', as joining the queue of such dicta. Perhaps the line is working toward this kind of aphorism. But still, there's an uncertainty in the center. For the word .sadaa has a first meaning of 'echo', which could readily have, like the 'reed-thicket kingdom' in the second line, a mediating sense between 'voicelessness' and a 'melody'. In short, the more I struggle with this verse, the less I'm sure where it's really trying to go. Is it exalting poverty/voicelessness and a straw mat, or is it deprecating fame and a lofty gate? (Or is it really doing something else, something more subtle?) And the word tar particular bothers me; in a verse full of social rank imagery and above all of voices, why do we need the overtones of 'fresh, moist, juicy'? I can't see how it fits in. (Serves me right, you might say, for fishing verses out of Ghalib's wastebasket.) At least it's always a pleasure to follow such complexly interleaved imagery, and to realize how cleverly Ghalib forces us to do such tough mental work. It's so alluring, it's a siren song, it feels as though any moment there might be a spectacular breakthrough from darkness into the light of Ghalib's uniquely brilliant 'lamp-display'.

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Compare {15,11}, another verse that juxtaposes poverty and wealth in a piquant but maddening way. Note for meter fans: Here we have naisitaa;N , scanned = - = . In {10,3} we have nayastaa;N , scanned - = = . Meanwhile the spelling remains unchanged. For many more such conveniently permitted fluctuations, see the Glossary of the Practical Handbook of Urdu Meter.

Ghazal 19 7 verses (out of 7); rhyming elements: aave;Nge kyaa composed after 1821; Arshi #35

{19,1}* dost ;Gam-;xvaarii me;N merii sa((ii farmaave;Nge kyaa za;xm ke bharne talak naa;xun nah ba;Rh jaave;Nge kyaa 1a) what help, in {my affliction / sympathy with me}, will friends attempt to bestow? 1b) will friends attempt to bestow help, in {my affliction / sympathy with me}? 1c) as if friends will attempt to bestow help, in {my affliction / sympathy with me}! 2a) by the time the wound fills up, won't the fingernails grow? 2b) as if, by the time the wound fills up, the fingernails won't grow!

Notes: ;Gam-;xvaarii : 'Affliction, sorrow; --sympathy, commiseration, condolence, comfort; real or true friendship'. (Platts p.772) talak is an archaic form of tak ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: In the first line kyaa is for contempt, and in the second line, for a negative question. That is, what's the good of cutting my nails-- won't they grow again? (19)

Bekhud Dihlavi: How excellently he has presented the meaning that my friends, in sympathy- what more can they do than having my nails cut? In the state of madness, I keep scratching the wound and don't let it heal. After the nails are cut, it's hoped that the wound will quickly heal. In opposition to my friends, I'm thinking, by the time the wound heals, my cut nails too will grow, and all their efforts will become useless in a single moment, because I will again deepen the wound. (40)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab Zauq too has composed [kahaa] this theme very well: ;zikr kuchh chaak-e jigar siine kaa sun sun apne kar ke mai;N .zab:t ha;Nsii dekhuu;N huu;N naa;xun apne [hearing some mention of sewing the rip in my liver controlling my laughter, I look at my nails]. (46)

FWP: SETS == KYA Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Hamid p. 18), and he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The aave;Nge ending is an archaic form of the modern Urdu aa))e;Nge ; some divans update the spelling, but I follow Arshi in retaining the original; GRAMMAR.

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The use with sa((ii of farmaanaa , 'to command', rather than karnaa , 'to do', suggests respect and formality: the friends would 'be pleased to do' an attempt or, more literally, would 'command the doing of' an attempt. 'Bestow' doesn't quite capture it, but it's the best I could come up with. Of course, the use of the language of respect also opens the clear possibility of a sarcastic or ironic reading as well. In this whole ghazal, because of the refrain, the emphasis on inshaa))iyah speech is unusually pronounced. The real pleasure of it is the multivalent readings not only offered but even enforced, since both lines can be read in different tones, with different emotions, to greatly different rhetorical effect. When the possibilities of (1) are multiplied by those of (2), a veritable tree of readings fans out from the original lines. For discussion of the multivalence of kyaa and its role in meaning-creation, see {15,10}. The result is a kind of encyclopedia of the lover's relationship with his friends. He wants to know whether they will help at all, he wants to know how they will help, he scorns the usefulness of their help; he finds it obvious that their help is in vain, he is indignant at the futility of their efforts. To add to the complexity, ;Gam-;xvaarii , literally 'grief-eating', is both the suffering that the grief-stricken person himself undergoes, and the compassion that his sympathetic friends feel when they share his pain. The work done here by merii is that of 'my', and also that of 'with me'; for more on this see {41,6}. The verse also works by implication, leaving a great deal unstated. We have to know, or deduce, the connection between the fingernails, the cutting of the fingernails by the helpful friends, the healing of the wound, and the use of the regrown fingernails to reopen the wound. We have to already know, or deduce, the lover's radical intransigence, without which the verse would make no sense at all.

{19,2} be-niyaazii ;had se guzrii bandah-parvar kab talak ham kahe;Nge ;haal-e dil aur aap farmaave;Nge kyaa 1) indifference/independence passed beyond the limit-- Protector of Servants, for how long 2a) we will say/tell the state of our heart and you will say/command, 'What [did you say]?' 2b) we will say/tell the state of our heart, and you will say/command-- 'What [do you mean by that-- how dare you]!' 2c) we will say/tell the state of our heart, and you will say/command-- what!! 2d) we will say/tell the state of our heart-- and what will you say/command?

Notes: be-niyaazii : 'Freedom from want, ability to dispense (with), independence'. (Platts p.204) talak is an archaic form of tak ; GRAMMAR.

Nazm: He says, your inattention has passed beyond all limits: you ignore my state and don't listen to me, and constantly say negligently, What did you say? In this verse kyaa is in a narrative mode, the way the author has later said: {21,2}. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: From the second aspect of the word kyaa a meaning of sarcasm emerges: that is, whatever you said, it's a lie! (40)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse he's shown the limit of the lover's restlessness and the beloved's indifference. When the hearer doesn't listen to the speaker's words, it very much displeases the speaker.

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Note: If anybody else besides the beloved would be the addressee, then the verse can also be read in a tone of challenge. (47)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KYA SPEAKING: {14,4} In the second line, another remarkable example of the versatility of kyaa. The lover makes his plaint to the beloved, who is (with either irony or naive hope) addressed as 'Protector of Servants,' a title fit for saints or virtuous kings. And what does she reply? Either a 'What?' of total negligence (2a), since she hasn't been listening, or a 'What!' of indignation at his presumptuousness (2b). Or else something so outrageous that the lover himself exclaims in disbelief at it (2c), as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests. Or else the lover simply wonders what she will in fact finally say (2d).

{19,3} ;ha.zrat-e naa.si;h gar aa))e;N diidah-o-dil farsh-e raah ko))ii mujh ko yih to samjhaa do kih samjhaave;Nge kyaa 1) if his Lordship the Advisor would come, [my] eyes and heart [will be spread as] a carpet in [his] path 2) let somebody then explain this to me-- how/what will he explain/persuade?

Notes: samjhaanaa : 'To cause to know, or understand, or comprehend; to give to understand, to inform, to explain (to), to describe, to account for; to give or render (an account); to impress (on the mind of), to remind; to convince, satisfy; to undeceive; to apologize; to instruct, to advise, to reason with, to remonstrate or expostulate with, to admonish, to warn; to correct, punish, chastise'. (Platts p.675)

Nazm: The excellence of it is that he has expressed it in such a way that it becomes a picture of madness. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In one line he has made clear the honor and respect paid to his Lordship the Advisor... and in the second line he has conveyed so much contempt for his understanding: What can he explain to me? Who is he anyway? (40-41)

Bekhud Mohani: I will never in any way be ready to renounce passion. So then, what will he explain to me? He'll come, and beat his head [against a wall], and go away again. (47)

FWP: SETS == KYA; REPETITION SPEAKING: {14,4} What a wonderful verb is samjhaanaa , with the full range of meanings set forth by Platts. It can be used for almost any form of hortatory or persuasive rhetorical performance, from the rational to the emotional, from the reproachful to the apologetic. Is the lover asking an insane question, as Nazm supposes-- since everybody knows what the Advisor will have to say to the mad lover? Or is it a sarcastic question, as Bekhud Dihlavi believes-- since the wretched Advisor's efforts are known to be futile even before they are made? Or is it a sincere question, as Bekhud Mohani implies-- since undoubtedly the Advisor will face great difficulties? And of course, why is 'somebody' enjoined to explain beforehand what the Advisor will then come and explain? Again, is it madness, sarcasm, or straightforward inquiry? Similarly, when the lover speaks of the Advisor as his Lordshop and promises, through a stylized phrase of reverent salutation,

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an elaborately humble welcome-- is that madness, sarcasm, or courteous respect? One more verse, one more set of inshaa))iyah-generated questions.

{19,4}* aaj vaa;N te;G-o-kafan baa;Ndhe hu))e jaataa huu;N mai;N ((u;zr mere qatl karne me;N vuh ab laave;Nge kyaa 1) today, having put/tied on sword and shroud, I go there 2a) what excuse to avoid murdering me will she find now? 2b) now, will she find an excuse to avoid murdering me? 2c) there's no way she'll find an excuse to avoid murdering me, now!

Notes: Nazm: That is, if she doesn't have a sword, then I'll give her one. (20)

Bekhud Mohani: It was a custom of the Arabs, that when someone was resolved to die, he wrapped a shroud around his head; then no one stopped him from dying. Today I go there having put on sword and shroud. Now she won't make any excuse to avoid murdering me. Or: let me see what excuse emerges now. (47)

Josh: There can be two excuses for not killing someone. One, the fear of death; from my wrapping a shroud around my hear it's clear that even that fear has been vanishing. Second, that no sword is present; that too I've brought with me. Now she'll have no scope for making excuses. With what solicitude he has expressed the approach of death! (76)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; KYA SWORD: {1,3} Another exercise in kyaa , and a particularly elegant one. It is elegant because all three of the semantic possibilities of the kyaa are perfectly colloquial and perfectly relevant. It does not leave you with a sense of outof-control possibilities too numerous to mention and too vague and shifting to pin down. It leaves you with a sense of clarity and humor-- clarity about three perfectly strong and fine alternative meanings for the second line, each of which connects to the first line in a natural, unforced, instantly intelligible and amusing way. The lover's clever contrivance, which he reports with pride and triumph, is after all a device for ensuring his own immediate death. (Compare {209,8}.) Yet somehow this verse, to me at least, isn't the smallest bit morbid or grandiose. Instead, his naive pride (though perhaps not too naive, depending on how we read the second line) is irresistible. Don't we find ourselves rooting for him? (Rooting for him to successfully get himself killed?) Or at least, we're glad to see him have his small moments of glee while he can. For another example of his failure, see {24,4}. On kyaa and meaning-creation, see {15,10} for discussion.

{19,5} gar kiyaa naa.si;h ne ham ko qaid achchhaa yuu;N sahii yih junuun-e ((ishq ke andaaz chhu;T jaave;Nge kyaa 1) if the Advisor did/would imprison us, all right, so be it 2a) will these styles of the madness of passion be let go? 2b) as though these styles of the madness of passion will be let go!

Notes: andaaz : 'Elegance, grace; mode, manner, style, fashion, pattern; carriage, bearing, gait'. (Platts p.90)

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Nazm: kyaa is to be taken as marking a negative question, and the combining of qaid honaa [to be imprisoned] and chhuu;T jaanaa [to be released] is not without pleasure. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The fine point in this verse is that he has said that the Advisor puts him in prison. Although the Advisor doesn't put anyone in prison. He constantly advises the renunciation of passion. His repeated persuasions, and forcibly seating people beside him, Mirza Sahib has made into imprisonment. (41)

Bekhud Mohani: If the Advisor puts us in prison, then, well, so be it. But the madness of passion is not something that can be erased. That is, the relationship of passion is with the heart; bodily imprisonment can have no effect on it. (4748)

FWP: SETS == KYA BONDAGE: {1,5} MADNESS: {14,3} Nazm is right to emphasize the enjoyable wordplay between 'to be imprisoned' and 'to be released, to be let go.' The Advisor's putting me in prison doesn't mean much, because I will never 'release' my grip on the manners, styles-- and airs and graces-- of madness. In fact, I plume myself on my madness, I flaunt it the way a beautiful beloved flaunts her beauty. My being imprisoned does not discourage me, but merely provides one more proof of how radically effective are my 'styles' of madness. In prison, I will be at leisure to clutch my madness to my bosom and cherish it as it deserves. For more on sahii , see {9,4}.

{19,6} ;xaanah-zaad-e zulf hai;N zanjiir se bhaage;Nge kyuu;N hai;N giraftaar-e vafaa zindaa;N se ghabraave;Nge kyaa 1) we are a {hereditary / house-born} slave of curls, why will we flee from chains? 2a) we are a captive of faithfulness; will we fear a prison cell? 2b) we are a captive of faithfulness-- as if we will fear a prison cell!

Notes: Nazm: The word 'we' is omitted. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The verse is a two-part one; both lines have been arranged as equals. (41)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, captives of faithfulness and prisoners of curls neither fear a prison cell nor flee from chains, because in passion, these things are constant occurrences. (48)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; KYA; PARALLELISM BONDAGE: {1,5} CURLS: {14,6} Nazm complains that the subject, 'we' (or conceivably 'they' or 'you', though these make little sense in context) has been left out, making it an 'omitted' word. He is the only commentator to make such objections frequently. This complaint of excessive compression is related to his famous attack on {1,1}, though it appears here in a much milder form of course. I can't see the problem in this case, since the verse is plausible only if said by a 'we', so

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there's no ambiguity. (The essential voice in the ghazal world is that of the lover.) Even if there were ambiguity, why would it be more culpable than the many deliberately created ambiguities of grammar and structure with which Ghalib's verses abound? This verse follows nicely from {19,5} right before it. If I'm a hereditary (literally, 'house-born') slave of curls, why would I flee from chains? I would not, of course, for several possible reasons: (1) the chains resemble curls, and thus remind me of the beloved, so that I welcome them; and (2) the beloved's curls confine me much more tightly and cruelly than any chains, so I won't even notice the chains. For another example of curls/chain imagery, see {36,4}. Similarly, I who am a captive of faithfulness would never fear a prison cell, because (1) the cell reminds me of the familiar bondage of faithfulness in which I have lived so long, so I can't fear it; and (2) the bondage of faithfulness is much more narrow and strait than any cell, so I won't even notice one more layer of confinement. In short, chains and cells are like my present state of passion, but are also laughably feeble and trivial compared to it. And I either ask rhetorically why I would flee from them, or deny indignantly that I would. Just the usual inshaa))iyah language, and multivalent meaning-creation. And as usual, how well it works.

{19,7}* hai ab is ma((muure me;N qa;h:t-e ;Gam-e ulfat asad ham ne yih maanaa kih dillii me;N rahe;N khaave;Nge kyaa 1) there is now in this town a famine of the grief of love, Asad 2) we agreed that we would remain in Delhi-- what will we eat?

Notes: ma((muurah : 'An inhabited, or a well-peopled place; --a cultivated spot, or a well-cultivated, or delightful, spot'. (Platts p.1050)

Nazm: We have learned to experience the relish of 'eating' grief, and that is not available here; that is, in this city there are no beloveds for whom passion would be felt. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, our food is the grief of love. And the grief of love falls to one's lot when a person falls in love with someone. In Delhi, there's a famine of the grief of love. That is, here there are now no such beloveds whom one could love. (41)

Josh: Since to 'eat' grief is an idiom of the language, this rhyme is a gift bestowed by this idiom of the language. The interpretation is that the city which has become a stranger to love-- how would we who have given our hearts manage to live in it, how would we survive? (77)

FWP: SETS == KYA; WORD FOOD: {6,4} The verse hinges of course on ;Gam khaanaa , to experience-- literally, to 'eat'-- grief. If there's no grief to eat, then there's a 'famine' of grief. The verse thus sets up what I think of as a 'word-exploration' of the concept of 'eating grief'. There's an implicit contrast between the city and the desert, the usual haunt of wild lovers and madmen. Hunger in the desert is almost de rigeur (think of the skeletal Majnun); in the desert there's a famine of food to eat, while in this well-peopled, pleasant city (see the definition above) there's a famine of grief to 'eat'. The first part of the second line [ham ne yih maanaa] suggests

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that the speaker has been (reluctantly?) persuaded to remain in Delhi, half against his will, and thus feels entitled to raise practical objections. For having a steady diet of grief to eat is obviously as important to the lover as having a steady diet of food to eat would be to anybody else. Thus we're led to ask ourselves whether the big city and the desert are more similar (both lack the wherewithal for 'eating') or more different (a famine of grief amidst a crowd, or a famine of food in solitude). It's rare for Ghalib to mention anything as specific, as 'real', as a city in the world, and that too the one he actually lives in. Of course, he doesn't go so far as to give us any genuine information about it-- it becomes a ghazal city, distinguished only by its temporary ('now') grief-famine. The fact that even something as minimal as a place name stands out so vividly shows how deep in the realm of stylization and abstraction the ghazal itself lives.

Ghazal 20 11 verses (out of 11); rhyming elements: aar hotaa composed after 1847; Arshi #43

{20,1}* yih nah thii hamaarii qismat kih vi.saal-e yaar hotaa agar aur jiite rahte yihii inti:zaar hotaa 1) this was not our destiny/fate, that union with the beloved would take place 2a) if we had kept on living longer, there would have been this very same waiting 2b) if we had kept on living longer, this itself would have been waiting

Notes: Nazm: That is, it was better to die. (20)

Bekhud Dihlavi: It would have been this same waiting which has continued till now. The waiting continued because the lover's heart never despairs of union with the beloved. (42)

Bekhud Mohani: This is not a verse, but an arrow quenched in the poison of vain longing. (48)

Baqir: Since waiting is more painful than death, it's good that we died, and were thus saved from the pain of waiting for union with the beloved. (71)

FWP: 'UNION': {5,2} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of eleven verses (Hamid p. 19), and he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This late ghazal is one of his most famous classics, sung by a variety of singers, with several verses that people often memorize. Along with {111}, it's one of the two of his ghazals that are most commonly translated; thus it comes equipped with a special anthology of translations. The first line is a plain statement, with no clues about emotional tone. It is being said by someone (the lover, of course) looking back over his whole life and summing it up in a succinct, flat, illusion-free sentence: there was one thing I wanted, and it was not in my destiny to get it. The second line then turns (grammatically) contrafactual, making it clear that the lover will not go on living in any case; that fact arouses no emotion and is just not the issue here. Rather, he's just taking a single look behind him, and finding a few words to wrap up what his time in the world has been like.

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To me, although definitely not to the commentators, the delight of this verse is the yihii -- literally, 'this', but with an emphatic or restrictive emphasis-that we find perfectly positioned at the beginning of the last half of the second line. The meter is one with a foot-pattern ABAB and a quasi-caesura, so that the internal half-line break is especially prominent. As with 'this' in English, yihii can be either an adjective or a demonstrative pronoun. (For a similar example involving vuhii , see {7,5}.) If we take it as an adjective, as in (2a), it modifies 'waiting' and identifies waiting as the sole content of my life. Although I recognize that it wasn't my destiny to obtain union with the beloved, that wouldn't have stopped me from keeping on waiting and longing for it; I've waited all my life, and if I had lived longer I would have kept on waiting. With a shrug of my shoulders I recognize the hopelessness of it all; it's just as well that I'm packing it in and moving on now. If we take it as a demonstrative pronoun, as in (2b), it is the subject for which 'waiting' is the predicate nominative. Not only would life have been devoted to waiting, filled with waiting, life itself-- and especially living longer-- would itself have have been waiting. How stark and revelatory a statement, and how offhandedly thrown away with a shrug. This, our first occurrence of the word vi.saal (related to the more common va.sl, as in {5,2}), is a good time to make clear my own view about a point sometimes subject to dispute. I think that those who try to sanitize the ghazal into fleshless mystical purity are the counterparts of those who insist on reading the Biblical 'Song of Solomon' as referring only to the love of Christ for the Church, or some similar abstract relationship. To me it seems obvious that the ghazal is (among other things) love poetry in the erotic sense. The words usually translated as 'union' do indeed evoke a vision of lovemaking, of an actual sexual encounter, even though often an imagined one. But of course, as is clear from this verse, the very last thing the ghazal is interested in is any kind of cheap sex. Far from it-- it's interested in sex so expensive and valuable that it costs you your whole life, and more. And since it's so utterly worth it, you don't even mind. Even the longing, hope, vision of it is enough to sustain you for your whole life, and would sustain you longer if you were destined to live on. An example of what seems pretty clearly to be physical union: {97,7}.

{20,2}* tire va((de par jiye ham to yih jaan jhuu;T jaanaa kih ;xvushii se mar nah jaate agar i((tibaar hotaa 1a) if we lived on your promise, then know this-- we knew [it to be] false 1b) if we lived on your promise, then this, {dearest / life}, we knew to be false 1c) we lived on your promise-- know [reading tuu] this: we knew [it to be] false 2) for would we not have died of happiness, if we had had trust/confidence [in it]?

Notes: va((dah : 'A promise; vow; --an agreement, a bargain; an assignation, appointment'. (Platts p.1196) i((tibaar : 'Confidence, trust, reliance, faith, belief; respect, esteem, repute; credit, authority, credibility; weight, importance; regard, respect, view, consideration, reference'. (Platts p.60)

Nazm: That is, when we said, We have escaped dying only because of hearing the promise of union, you knew it was false. The second interpretation is that, having heard your promise, if we kept on living, the reason was that we considered it a false promise. (20)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: When you reproach us for hearing a promise of union and not dying, this is right. But the reason we kept on living was that we considered your promise false. (42)

Bekhud Mohanii: We didn't die of happiness at your promise of union. The reason for this was exactly that we didn't trust your promise. The beloved has said, what kind of a lover are you-- that we promised union, and you didn't die of happiness? This verse is the answer. (48)

FWP: LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} VOWS verses: {6,12x}; {20,2}; {20,3}; {21,12} Another classic verse full of wordplay and sound-play, with a carefully contrived nest of confusions in the second half of the first line. Is it to or tuu -- since to , 'then', can also be read as tuu , the intimate 'you' (1c)? And to what does yih refer? And is jaan the intimate imperative of jaannaa , 'to know (1a)? Or is it a feminine noun meaning 'life', and metaphorically 'dearest', as an epithet for a loved one (2b)? It could also conceivably be short for jaan kar , 'having known', though this doesn't seem to work well any of the readings of with the rest of the line. I think reading (1a) is the best, followed by (1b) and (1c) in that order; but none of them can be ruled out. The general logic is clear enough, though of course paradoxical. And the direct, intimate address to the beloved makes it feel like a (rare) moment of oneupsmanship in what is always a radically unequal relationship. After all, the basis for even this small moment of triumph is the question of whether the lover lives because of the beloved's promise (of union), or dies because of it. These seem, as usual, to be the only two choices. Yet the perversely triumphant riposte in the second line adds a note of humor and self-mockery that makes the verse a delight. Aha! says the lover, I've got you! You think you have all the power, but I've scored a small triumph of both logic and insight. The very fact that I've gone on living shows that I never did trust your promise! So now that it's proven false, you can't claim that you ever fooled me-- I know you too well. And yet I did somehow live on it-- otherwise why and how am I alive at all? The same paradoxical effect, that one both lives and dies through the beloved, is expressed in {219,8} as well.

{20,3} tirii naazukii se jaanaa kih ba;Ndhaa thaa ((ahd bodaa kabhii tuu nah to;R saktaa agar ustuvaar hotaa 1) from your delicacy I knew that the vow/promise had been made/bound weak/loose 2) you could never have broken it, if it had been strong/firm

Notes: ((ahd ba;Ndhnaa : for a vow to be made, or literally 'bound'. (Cf. Platts p.767) bodaa : 'Weak, feeble; soft, faint-hearted, low-spirited, timid; low, mean, trifling, trivial, worthless'. (Platts p.174) ustuvaar : 'Strong, powerful; stable, firm; even, level, equal; straight'. (Platts p.50)

Nazm: The subject of 'knew' [jaanaa], ham ne , is omitted; and naazukii means nazaakat . (20)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: Your delicacy [nazaakat] forbids promise-breaking. With such delicacy, when you broke the promise, then we realized that the promise had been loosely tied. If it had been strongly tied, then you couldn't have broken it. How excellently he has reproached the beloved for promise-breaking, and comforted his heart. (42)

Bekhud Mohani: Since you're delicate, your vow too was delicate. This fact we knew because if the vow had been strong, then you could hardly have broken it. In connection with the beloved's promise-breaking, he has shown her delicacy through a beautiful aspect. (49)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY VOWS: {20,2} This verse continues to tease the beloved as a notorious promise-breaker, a theme carried over from {20,2}. Its appeal is based on the sudden reactivation of the literal meaning of a petrified expression, 'to make-literally, to bind, to tie-- an oath'. Thus to 'break'-- to;Rnaa -- the oath can be imagined as a physical act, like ripping open a knotted cord. This the beloved is too naazuk , too delicate or frail, to accomplish, so she must have 'bound' the oath loosely in the first place. We have enough comparable English idioms-- we are 'bound' by oaths (especially 'binding' ones), and we too 'break' vows-- so that the wordplay is not at all remote. THE BELOVED SEEMS NOT TO BE GOD: This verse has, to my mind, one more claim to fame. It provides a refutation to critics who allege that, in principle, any verse of classical ghazal can be addressed just as well to a Divine beloved as to a human one, and should be so interpreted. This verse would be extremely hard to read as addressed to God. God might be as cruel, fickle, capricious, disdainful, etc. as any human beloved; we might even consider God just as likely to be a promise-breaker. But can we really tease God for being so 'delicate' and weak that He could only break a promise that had not been firmly 'tied' in the first place? It does seem a bit devoid of theological tact. Some other examples of verses that it's hard to imagine as addressed to a divine beloved: {31,3}; {32,1}; {34,8}; {83,2}; {97,7}; {115,8}. (There are also verses that apparently can only be addressed to God, not to a human beloved: see {20,10} for examples.) This verse plays with the literal and metaphorical possibilities of ba;Ndhnaa -- for a similar trick with khaanaa , see {89,3}.

{20,4}* ko))ii mere dil se puuchhe tire tiir-e niim-kash ko yih ;xalish kahaa;N se hotii jo jigar ke paar hotaa 1) let someone ask my heart about your half-drawn arrow 2) where would this pricking/anxiety have come from, if it had gone through the liver?

Notes: ;xalish : 'Pricking, pain; care, solicitude, anxiety; apprehension, suspicion, misgiving; --putting a stop to, interruption'. (Platts p.492)

Nazm: In the face of the excellence of the theme, nobody thinks about [certain small metrical quibbles]. A 'half-drawn arrow' is one from a bow that at the time of release was not fully pulled tight, and for this reason it wasn't able to go through. (21)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib removes her embarrassment [at her careless archery] with these words.... The convention is that an arrow that remains in the wound, compared to one that goes through, causes more pain to the wounded one, and the beloved's purpose in attacking the lover with an arrow or a sword is to increase his suffering. (42)

Bekhud Mohani: The point is that if the arrow of your coquetry (which had glanced aside) had been released with full force, then the heart would have been finished off in a moment, and I would not have become acquainted with the relish of the tension and pricking of passion. (49)

FWP: ARCHERY: {6,2} JIGAR: {2,1} A 'half-drawn arrow' is meant to be taken as one shot from a half-tightened bowstring, so that it has less force. If anybody wants to know about your amateur archery, it is my heart that should bear witness to it. My heart, having experienced it, knows it better than anybody. Far from piercing completely through the liver and putting me out of my misery (if misery is what it is), your arrow has fallen doubly short: it has simply lodged itself rather than passing through-- and not even in the liver, but merely in the much more dispensable heart. For more on the liver and its crucial role in ghazal physiology, see {30,2}. But is my heart sorry about it, or glad? As is the case so often, the inshaa))iyah rhetoric of both lines (the first a sort of subjunctive imperative, the second an interrogative) makes the tone impossible to pin down. Is my heart oppressed at the extra, unnecessary suffering, when better archery would have produced a swift, clean kill (straight through heart and liver both) and put an end to the heart's suffering right away? Or is my heart delighted at the frisson, the ;xalish , produced by the vibrating of the deeplylodged arrow, and happy to have extra time to experience this sensation before the inevitable end? The verse works beautifully, with full impact, in whichever tone it is read. Compare this verse with the simple and lovely {30,2}. And in its technical aspect, compare it to the proficiency of the murderous beloved in {200,2}.

{20,5} yih kahaa;N kii dostii hai kih bane hai;N dost naa.si;h ko))ii chaarah-saaz hotaa ko))ii ;Gamgusaar hotaa 1a) what kind of friendship is this, that friends have become Advisors?! 1b) what kind of friendship is this, that the Advisor has become a friend?! 2a) if someone had been a helper, if someone had been a sympathizer! 2b) if there had been some helper, if there had been some sympathizer!

Notes: Nazm: The complaint about the friends is, why have they resolved on giving advice? (21)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Every friend has become an Advisor and exhorts me to renounce passion. If the claim of friendship had been observed, they would have treated the pain of my passion and thought of ways to restore the damage of grief. (42)

Josh: What can be said about the pleasure of the speech! The countenance of the style is worth seeing. He says that the friends have become Advisors. (78)

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FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; TRANSITIVITY I especially enjoy Josh's remarks, because they're as rhetorical as the original verse, and they also point up the degree to which the commentators award a monopoly to (1a), the more grammatically straightforward meaning, and completely exclude the equally possible (1b). But with only one meaning, where's the punch in this verse? In support of (1b) can be offered the carefully contrived second line, which is equally applicable to either (1a) or (1b), and is ruefully amusing in either case. Whether my friends become Advisors, or the Advisor becomes my friend, I'm equally out of luck. They are all well-meaning no doubt, but they can't or won't give me what I want. They are all trying to discourage my passion on prudential grounds, but I reject those out of hand. I don't want someone to exhort and advise me out of my passion, I want someone to help me endure it, and to sympathize with me. My friends, who should do this, have taken alarm at my condition and have shifted to the Advisor's side; and/or the Advisor (who is given the plural verb out of respect) is offering me a well-meant but false 'friendship' that doesn't fool me for a minute. And, of course, 'what kind of friendship is this?' might be more than a rhetorical question, but an actual exploratory one. In which case we could wonder whether one phrase of the second line applies to the friends, and the other to the Advisor, so that two kinds of friendship are envisioned? Or are both phrases applicable to both, since their behavior is equally remote from actual friendship? Ghalib's inshaa))iyah discourse somehow never will hold still long enough to be nailed down.

{20,6}* rag-e sang se ;Tapaktaa vuh lahuu kih phir nah thamtaa jise ;Gam samajh rahe ho yih agar sharaar hotaa 1) from the rock-vein would drip that blood which would never then/again stop 2) if this which you are considering 'grief' were a spark

Notes: Nazm: The way grief is hidden in the heart, if in that way this madness had turned into sparks and become hidden in stone, then blood would have dripped from it too. The conclusion is that the effect of grief is that it turns heart and liver into blood. Even a liver of stone too would turn into blood. (21)

Bekhud Dihlavi: If what you consider to be grief were a spark, then from rock-veins too blood would flow in such a way that it would never again be able to stop. But it is not a spark; rather, it is a substance even more inflammatory than a spark, that only a human being can endure. Rock has no strength to bear such grief. (43)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is in answer to somebody who has said, 'No heart is devoid of grief; in a rock it is not a spark, but grief'. Mirza Sahib says, 'How can you say that! If a spark were grief, then [line 1]. (50)

FWP: This is a tough one, but some of the time I think it can be put together reasonably well. However, sometimes I lose my grip and rebel against the overlapping complexities; at such times I'm inclined to think that Ghalib just outsmarted himself on this one. When you strike a human, a drop of blood appears; when you strike a rock, a spark shoots out. Thus sparks are a reaction to pain and injury in rocks, the

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way blood-drops are in humans. Human blood flows in veins; similarly, sparks must flow in the 'veins' of rocks. (It's convenient for the translator that the same basic metaphor is used in English too.) These are the background equations (blood drops = sparks; human veins = rock veins) that make the verse comprehensible. You (the familiar tum -- you, my friend) consider what I feel to be merely 'grief'. But what I feel is so much beyond mere ordinary 'grief' that there's no comparison. Why, if my 'grief' were a spark, then instead of a mere spark or two emerging when the rock is struck, an unstoppable drip would begin! So far, so good. And yet-- there's 'that blood,' vuh lahuu . The vuh adds colloquial force and emphasis (GRAMMAR). But what blood is it exactly? Is it fire and flames, as would be appropriate to the 'sparks' image? Is it human blood, as suggested by the 'dripping' [;Tapaknaa] and the starting point of human 'grief'? And why do we start not with human blood, but with human grief-or rather, some kind of superhuman 'grief' that demands its own category? There seems to be a real tangle of metaphors here, and I'm not sure it works itself out into coherence. Nazm, who usually makes this kind of complaint, seems to have no trouble with the present verse. But my doubts persist. Blood, grief, sparks-- it's a vivid, unusual, powerful verse, with striking imagery, and the reader gets the general idea. So in that sense it works. But can its internal logic really be made coherent? Shamsur Rahman Faruqi has given his views (Oct. 1998) on this problem: FARUQI: You are quite okay as far as you go. You need to take just one more step: IF my heart were a stone, it would have sparks buried inside it, the way pain is buried in the real, flesh-and-blood heart. If my heart were stone, then the sparks buried in it would represent pain. And then the sparks, instead of flying out when the stone was struck, would cause so much pain to the stone just by being there, that the stone would bleed like a haemophiliac. I'm not really sure this solves my problem. You too, dear reader, will have to put in some work on this one. Another sparks and stone verse that has similar problems: {220,1}. I also find the same general kinds of difficulties in {226,5}.

{20,7} ;Gam agarchih jaa;N-gusil hai pah kahaa;N bache;N kih dil hai ;Gam-e ((ishq agar nah hotaa ;Gam-e rozgaar hotaa 1) although grief is life-destroying, how would we escape, since/while there is a heart? 2a) if there were not the grief of passion, there would be the grief of {livelihood / the whole world} 2a) if it were not the grief of passion, it would be the grief of {livelihood / the whole world}

Notes: rozgaar : 'Service, employ, situation, business; earning, livelihood; --the world; fortune; age, time, season'. (Platts p.605)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, the presence of grief is necessary and indispensable to the heart. (43)

Bekhud Mohani: If there were not the grief of passion, there would be grief of the world (grief of the glory and luxury of the world). Be grateful that the grief of passion was bestowed on you. (50)

Baqir: In any case, the grief of passion is a piece of luck. Because if it didn't exist, then we'd be absorbed in a whole world-full of griefs; now there's only the single grief of passion. (73)

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Arshi: Compare {16,5}. (187)

FWP: SETS == KIH; REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Some editions reverse two words: instead of kahaa;N bache;N they have bache;N kahaa;N (as in fact Hamid does). As always, I follow Arshi. The internal rhyme at the quasi-caesura in the first line, and the repetition of hotaa in the same position in the second line, makes the verse feel very fluent and full of flowingness. As Arshi rightly points out, {16,5} is a key verse for comparison. As in that verse, the question arises here too: is there a conversion (2a), or a replacement (2b), of griefs? Does one single grief haunt us to the grave and destroy our life, and merely change its shape under different conditions? Or do we have sufficient leeway to actually eliminate one grief and replace it with another? (Or maybe this replacement process happens involuntarily?) Would there ever be a time when we no longer have a heart, and are thus free of both kinds of grief? The clever use of kih , which can suggest 'while' as well as 'because', does seem to open that possibility. And then, is the grief of passion being opposed to the grief of dailiness, of earning a livelihood, or to the grief of the whole world, the whole age? Either, of course, or both. There are so many kinds of grief, and so many interconnections among them-- various transmutations are possible, but none will ease the deadliness of grief, or its inescapability for anyone who has a heart. Ghalib also uses ;Gamhaa-e rozgaar in a letter: {189,8}.

{20,8}* kahuu;N kis se mai;N kih kyaa hai shab-e ;Gam burii balaa hai mujhe kyaa buraa thaa marnaa agar ek baar hotaa 1) to whom might I say what/how it is-- the night of grief is a bad disaster! 2) what harm/bad to me was dying, if it took place one time?

Notes: Hali: One time when the month of Ramzan had just passed, he went to the Fort. The King asked, 'Mirza, how many days of fasting did you keep?' He petitioned, 'My Lord and Guide, I did not keep one'. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: During the night of grief I am compelled to die thousands of times. I endure the suffering of death, and then I don't die. How excellently he has shown that the night of grief surpasses death! (43)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the rhetorical effect [balaa;Gat] of 'to whom can I say what it is' is enchanting.... This verse is peerless. (50-51)

Josh: In every verse of this ghazal there is purity of style, easiness, an unattainably simple style/air, and informality of language. And despite all these [colloquial] excellences, a special type of meaning-creation and inventiveness of style are things worthy of praise. (78-79)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; INEXPRESSIBILITY One of the torments of the 'night of grief' is that I'm so alone-- so there's nobody at hand whom I can tell about it. I only know that it's 'bad news'-burii balaa has that kind of colloquial energy.

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The first line is particularly flowing, with its internal rhyme and long vowels, and phrases that closely match the metrical feet. And there is the wordplay of burii and buraa -- the night of grief is such a 'bad' disaster that by comparison I would not have found dying one time 'bad' at all. But what exactly is so bad about the night of grief? Too much death, or too little? Is death the essence of the night of grief, or is it (vainly) sought as a final refuge from it? The grammar of the second line gives us two choices about dying: agar ek baar hotaa literally means, 'if [it] took place one time,' in the contrafactual. But does that mean that instead of taking place one time, dying took place many times, or that (despite my longing for it) it never took place at all? Both readings are equally plausible, and both yield witty and appropriate interpretations when joined to the first line. And of course, in the lived suffering of the night of grief, both effects at once are involved, even if paradoxically. When did a little paradox ever get in the way of Ghalib's spectacular effects? On the contrary-- paradox is the name of the game. For a similar but even more strikingly paradoxical invocation of the (not) coming of death, see {161,9}. Hali's witty little anecdote makes use of exactly the same ambiguity: what does 'I did not keep one' imply?

{20,9} hu))e mar ke ham jo rusvaa hu))e kyuu;N nah ;Garq-e daryaa nah kabhii janaazah u;Thtaa nah kahii;N mazaar hotaa 1) when/since/if/who having died, we became notorious/disgraced-- why were we not drowned/immersed in the sea? 2) neither would a funeral procession ever been formed, nor would there anywhere be a tomb

Notes: jo : 'Who, which, that, what'. (Platts p.393) jo : 'When (= jab )'. (Platts p.393) jo : 'If, if that, that; in that, inasmuch, since'. (Platts p.393) rusvaa : 'Dishonoured, disgraced, infamous, ignominious; humiliated; open, notorious; accused; one held up to public view, as an example to deter'. (Steingass, p. 576) ;Garq : 'Drowned, immersed, sunk, overwhelmed; absorbed, engrossed, deep (in)'. (Platts p.770)

Nazm: That is, the forming of a funeral procession and the making of a tomb have disgraced us; it would have been better if we had drowned. (21)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, after death, we remained the very essence of a suspicious character. If we had drowned in the sea, then neither would a funeral procession have formed for us, nor would the memorial of a tomb have remained.

Bekhud Mohani: Not to speak of a single beloved-- the whole world learned that I couldn't endure the difficulties of passion. (51)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; JO; PARALLELISM The verse has a four-part structure. Each line contains two parallel phrases that end in an internal rhyme and correspond exactly to the metrical quasicaesura. This gives it unusual energy and a kind of exclamatory force. It's also a showcase for the multivalences of the protean little jo . These are so conspicuous that Platts is careful to give it three separate definitions (see above). Try reading the first line with each of the four possibilities recommended in the translation; each is different in its own way, and each

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one works in the line, and also with the second line. Ghalib was lucky in the subtleties of the grammatical tools available to him. Some examples of jo used in a sense other than that of the relative pronoun: {25,5}, as 'if'. Traditionally, Muslims especially fear death at sea, because if the body is lost one cannot have the proper funeral rites, nor can one lie in a suitable grave waiting for qiyaamat , the day when the dead are summoned to rise up for divine judgment. But for the lover, of course, all this is reversed. The lover's death was an occasion of disgrace to him, such that he wishes it all undone-- no funeral procession to generate fresh gossip, no tomb to remind people of his notoriety and shame. Why was he disgraced? Because, as Bekhud Mohani says, he was shown up by death to be an inferior lover with limited powers of endurance? Because rumor reported the name of the beloved for love of whom he died, so that the beloved was angered by the publicity? Because he didn't have the beloved's permission to die, so that he was disgraced in her eyes by his disobedience, as in the similar situation in {9,3}? As usual, the answer could well be-- all of the above. There's also the real pleasure of the wordplay: to be rusvaa is to be revealed, singled out, 'held up to public view'; only by obvious extension does the meaning of 'disgraced' develop. More examples of double meanings that include this literal sense: {95,4}; {126,3}; {130,4}; {139,7}; {148,3}; {149,5}. And to be ;Garq is not just to be drowned, but to be immersed, submerged, hidden. These two words in their modern standard Urdu usage have no special relationship, but in their root meanings they are each other's radical opposites. This is a verse in which the dead lover somehow, from beyond the grave, still speaks; for others, see {57,1}.

{20,10} use kaun dekh saktaa kih yagaanah hai vuh yaktaa jo duu))ii kii buu bhii hotii to kahii;N do chaar hotaa 1) who would have been able to see him? for that Oneness is unique 2a) if there were even a whiff of twoness [in Him], we would have met [Him] somewhere 2b) if there were even a whiff of twoness, then somehow [He] would be two or four

Notes: do chaar honaa : 'To meet, to have an interview'. (Platts p.529)

Nazm: do chaar honaa means to become visible. (21)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib has given a proof of the oneness of the True Beloved from his not being meet-able [do-chaar]. That is, if he were not a oneness, and there were even the smallest glimpse of twoness, then certainly he would have been visible somewhere. (43)

Bekhud Mohani: This theme is in the Noble Qur'an, in the verse that says... 'If in the sky and earth there were more Gods in addition to God, there would certainly be turmoil'. (51)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This is one verse in which I find the commentators truly irritating. Not one of them even mentions the chief piquancy of the verse: its wonderful number-play. yagaanah and yaktaa both have the root of ek in its variant form yak; just as 'oneness' and 'unique' in English have the same Latin root and related meanings. Similarly, in the second line duu))ii as 'twoness' actually shares the root of our 'duality'. Then the crowning touch is of course do chaar honaa , literally 'to be two-four', but colloquially, to meet, to come

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face to face with. For another example of such brilliant number-play, in a similar context, see {196,3}. There are so many untranslatable verses in Ghalib, but this is one of the toughest cases, because there are such numerous (so to speak) puns, and they are simply not capturable, since they require the unifying punch of do chaar honaa to become fully operative. Other conspicuous untranslatables, among many: {15,10}; {21,1}. And just look at the great sound effects! The internal rhyme in the first line between saktaa and yaktaa , right at the (quasi-)caesura break; with hotii and hotaa in the same positions in the second line. The verse's effect of simplicity and colloquialness is enhanced by its swingy use of the four halflines as semantic units that correspond perfectly to metrical ones. All the words are so simple, too, so Indic (almost all, anyway), and so conversational. Yet the theology is impeccable, and also witty. What more could anyone ask? THE BELOVED SEEMS TO BE GOD: This verse is, in one respect, a mirror image of {20,3} and the other verses discussed there. While those verses cannot appropriately be addressed to God, this one cannot appropriately be addressed to any human beloved, but can only make sense if it's addressed to God. Some other examples of such verses: {32,1}; {100,3}; {110,3-6} (some verses of which have also been said to be addressed to the Prophet); {162,4}; {196,3}. Note for meter fans: duu))ii is here scanned as - = ; but not, as we might guess, because the abstract-noun suffix is treated as separate from the root word itself. Rather, it's because duu))ii is like the much more common ko))ii : both very helpfully (to the poet, at least) have a scansion of 'x x' (two flexible syllables).

{20,11} yih masaa))il-e ta.savvuf yih tiraa bayaan ;Gaalib tujhe ham valii samajhte jo nah baadah-;xvaar hotaa 1a) these problems of mysticism! this discourse/exposition of yours, Ghalib! 1b) these problems of mysticism-- this [is] your discourse/exposition, Ghalib! 2) we would consider you a saint-- if you weren't a wine-drinker

Notes: bayaan : 'Declaration, assertion, affirmation; explanation, exposition, description, relation, disclosure, unfolding... perspicuity, clearness'. (Platts p.205)

Hali: I have heard that at the time when Mirza recited this ghazal to the King, then the King said, 'My friend, even then we would not have considered you one'. Mirza said, 'Your Excellency considers me one even now, but you’ve made this remark so I wouldn’t become proud of my saintliness'. (140) ==another trans: Russell and Islam, pp. 101-02

Nazm: It is not necessary to comment on this closing-verse; it is clear. But here this point should definitely be understood, that compared to information [;xabar], there is more pleasure in non-informative speech [inshaa]. If the first line had been like this: 'Ghalib, from your lips emerge secrets of mysticism', then this verse would have been a ;xabariyah utterance. The author's mischievousness of temperament left behind the aspect of information, and presented this theme in the guise of astonishment, and now this verse is an entirely inshaa))iyah utterance. (21)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Both these things are among Mirza Sahib's specialties: one, style of speech, and the other, a mood of mysticism. (44)

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Bekhud Mohani: Mirza created a special pleasure by replacing ;xabar with inshaa [as a speech-mode]. (51)

Josh: Mirza's wine-drinking is no hidden matter; thus this closing-verse is based on the reality of his situation. (79)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; HUMOR WINE: {49,1} This is a truly beloved and extremely famous verse; it was one of those often quoted to me by ordinary people in Delhi and Lahore when they heard that I was studying Ghalib. It was always recited with relish, with a smile at least, and often with laughter. The two readings of the first line are equally plausible: are the two clauses parallel (1a), or does the second describe the first (1b)? We can't tell, because the whole utterance is not logically structured, but is inshaa))iyah , as Nazm points out. As he also observes, the exclamatory quality is a great part of its charm. Another part of its charm is the patronizing tone of the second line, spoken as it is apparently either a group of representative audience members, or by a single patron-like person (male or female) using the first person plural pronoun ham . Complimenting Ghalib on either his mystical tendencies, or his mystical tendencies and his poetic abilities both, the knowledgeable observer finds his work almost enough to make him plausible as a saint. But of course, the observer remarks in a candid and superior tone, Ghalib's being a wine-drinker (not necessarily a drunkard) prevents any such illusion from developing. The use of the intimate tuu for 'you' increases the effect of condescension. And of course it amuses us readers, since we know how long Ghalib's poetry will live, and how little the observer's strictures will matter over time. Since the closing-verse must contain the poet's pen-name, it is commonly self-referential or self-addressing. Sometimes, as in this case, it seems rather to represent words spoken to the poet by others. But rarely does this common device appear to such advantage, so subtly humorous on several levels as it does in this verse. The observer condescends to the poet, while we condescend to the observer, and both processes amuse and delight us. And who's to say the poet is not condescending to us as well? Mr. Mat Ansari suggests that I should also note here, for comparison, a neat verse from one of Ghalib's odes (Hamid p. 199, Arshi p. 157): dekhiyo ;Gaalib se gar uljhaa ko))ii hai valii poshiidah aur kaafir khulaa [watch out, if anybody tangles with Ghalib! the saint is hidden and the infidel, revealed].

Ghazal 21 13 verses (out of 13); rhyming elements: aa kyaa composed after 1826; Arshi #38

{21,1}* havas ko hai nishaa:t-e kaar kyaa kyaa nah ho marnaa to jiine kaa mazaa kyaa 1a) what various joys of action Desire has! 1b) what various joys of action does Desire have? 1c) as if Desire has various joys of action! 2a) if we did not have to die, then is there relish in life? 2b) if we did not have to die, then what relish is there in life?

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2c) if we did not have to die, then what relish there is in life! 2d) if we did not have to die, then-- as if there's any relish in life!

Notes: havas : 'Desire, lust, concupiscence, inordinate appetite; -- ambition; -curiosity'. (Platts p.1241) mazaa is normally spelled mazah , but has been changed to accord with the rhyme.

Hali: This seems to be a new thought; and not merely a thought, but rather a fact [faik;T], because whatever activity there is in the world, it is only thanks to the belief that there is very little time to stay here. (121)

Nazm: The lustful Rival has obtained his desire-- that is, the joy of action and the pleasure of union with the beautiful one. Now what relish is there in my life?... A second aspect is also that in the world human beings find no release from lust and desire. If it were not necessary to die, then there would be no relish in this kind of a life. That is, the fruit of life is death. (21-22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here 'joy' means 'longing'. He says, the longing to do work has arisen in hearts only because the time for staying in the world is short. (42)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; KYA LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of thirteen verses (Hamid p. 20); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This ghazal is in a 'short meter'; multivalent exclamations and other such phrases are especially convenient when the poet has such a relatively tight space to work in. (Enjambement is the exception rather than the rule in the ghazal.) Another 'short meter' example: {51}. This verse-- like many of the verses in this ghazal-- is an example of extreme inshaa))iyah techniques. This is the kind of verse that's radically untranslatable; see {20,10} for further discussion. Above all, this verse, like many of the verses in this ghazal, relies on the astonishing, unparallelled (in English and probably most other languages as well) flexibility of kyaa ; for more on this, see {15,10}. It should be noted, however, that kyaa is not some cheap-thrills device that always generates wildly proliferating meanings all over the place. On the contrary: Ghalib uses it with complete control: for a counterexample in which kyaa stays in the background and behaves like a lamb, generating exactly one meaning, see {22,4}. As usual, the commentators concentrate on sorting out their favorite one (or at the most two) of the numerous possible interpretations. Yet each of the two lines unquestionably gives us three meanings to work with (an enthusiastically affirmative exclamation, a scornfully negative exclamation, and a genuine question), and thus a (theoretical) total of nine when multiplied together, though of course they don't all work equally well. In this case, line two can even be read in four ways, since there can be a yesor-no question as well. Let me just illustrate the implicit arrangements of the grammar on which these readings are based: (2a) is based on kyaa , jiine kaa mazaa hai ? ; (2b) is based on jiine kaa mazaa kyaa hai ? ; (2c) is based on jiine kaa mazaa kyaa ! ; and (2c) is based on jiine kaa mazaa-- kyaa ! . The hai can of course always be omitted in a 'copulative construction' but remains implicitly present. There's also the 'A,B' question of the relationship of the two lines to each other. Is the verse a reflection on the nature and scope of desire, with an

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illustration or 'proof' drawn from the knowledge of death? Or is it a reflection on life and death, with an illustration or 'proof' drawn from the nature and scope of desire? I won't take the space here to diagram out all these permutations, or to repeat my spiel about 'meaning generators' (see {15,10} for more). But I do want to point out one possibility that no commentator has, as far as I am aware, even considered: that maybe the only thing that makes life pleasant is not the sad certainty of losing it before too long, but the joyous certainty of getting out of it before too long. I've discussed a very similar verse by Mir-- with three interpretations, based on kyaa, and concerning the pleasurableness(?) of life- in Nets of Awareness, Chapter 8, p. 107. Basing the verse on a word like havas , rather than ;zauq or shauq or one of the other usual suspects, is also a good tactic, because the range of havas specifically includes lust and desire of low-class sorts, rather than merely the high-flown lover's repertoire. The person with havas doesn't necessarily want to sacrifice himself in some tortuous or rarefied way for his beloved, or for passion itself, as the lover does. The person with havas , the buu))l-havas , probably wants whatever he wants and he wants it now. Such a person is really all of us, of course. So we are all fed into the guts of this little 'meaning generator', and forced into realizations that, though varied, are mostly painful. But in {21,5} we revisit the nature of havas , and it's quite possible for it to acquire a surprising dignity. For a clearer example of a positively valued usage, see {112,6}.

{21,2} tajaahul-peshagii se mudda((aa kyaa kahaa;N tak ay saraapaa-naaz kyaa kyaa 1a) what is the purpose of a show of ignorance/indifference? 1b) does a show of ignorance/indifference have any purpose? 1c) what a purpose a show of ignorance/indifference has! 1c) as if a show of ignorance/indifference had any point! 2a) {how long / to what extent}, oh entirely coquettish one, [this] 'What? What?' 2b) {how long / to what extent}, oh entirely coquettish one, what-all [kinds of behavior]?!

Notes: tajaahul : 'Feigning ignorance; pretended ignorance (of), connivance; apathy, indifference'. (Platts p.311)

Nazm: That is, having heard of my condition, how long will you go on putting me off by saying 'What? What?' After all, what is your purpose in this show of ignorance? (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when you look, you make use of a show of ignorance/indifference. After all, what's your inner intention? That is, at everything you say 'What?'- you don't listen to or understand anything. (44)

Bekhud Mohani: If your purpose in this show of ignorance is that I would become irritated and wash my hands of my passion for you, then you should be disabused of that error. (52)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KYA A flirtatious verse; it uses the same kinds of kyaa multivalence as in {21,1}, but deploys them in a more limited setting. The kyaa kyaa may be a direct quotation from the beloved, as the commentators maintain, and in that case it perfectly captures her (show of?) disdain and indifference.

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But it might also be a general characterization of the beloved's negligent, indifferent behavior, her self-'presentation' [peshagii] and other mischievous airs and graces, since after all her coquetry is 'head-to-foot' [saraapaa]. I couldn't resist using the excellent Arkansan 'what-all', since it so well captures the range of kyaa kyaa .

{21,3} navaazish'haa-e be-jaa dekhtaa huu;N shikaayat'haa-e rangii;N kaa gilaa kyaa 1) I see misplaced favors/blandishments-2a) what reproach is there for colorful complaints? 2b) is there any reproach for colorful complaints? 2c) what a reproach there is for colorful complaints! 2d) as if there were a reproach for colorful complaints!

Notes: navaazish : 'Caressing, soothing; caress, blandishment; -- kindness; politeness, courtesy; favour, patronage'. (Platts p.1158) gilaa is a variant of gilah , used for the sake of the rhyme. gilah : 'Complaint; lamentation; reproach, blame; accusation; remonstrance'. (Platts p.914)

Nazm: When you show inappropriate favor to the Rival, then why do you take my complaints amiss, and why do you object to them? (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, I see your inappropriate flirtations with the Rival. And when I complain to you about this in love-filled words, then you begin to make a counter-complaint against me. What kind of behavior is this?-- come on, explain it! (44)

Bekhud Mohani: In this situation, if I complain in an amusing manner to you-- for example, behind the screen of anecdotes [la:tiifah go))ii] or witticisms [ba;zlah sanjii]-- then why do you reproach me for it?... [Another interpretation:] Why would I reproach you for your amusing complaints? I consider them kindnesses, and kindnesses beyond the deserts of a worthless one like me. (52-53)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA; SUBJECT? Another fine kaleidoscope of possibilities (see {21,1} on kyaa ). Whose are the misplaced favors that I see, and to whom are they shown, and why are they misplaced? The poet is careful not to give us any hint. They could be the beloved's, and if so they could be shown toward the Rival, or to the (unworthy) lover himself, as Bekhud Mohani suggests. Or they could be those of the lover, who unhappily notes that he is exerting himself in vain to placate the beloved. And then, of course, whose are the colorful complaints, and are they identical to the misplaced favors (since being complained to/about by the beloved can be a flirtatious pleasure in itself), or are they a response to them? And is there or isn't there a reproach being made about the colorful complaints? And if there is a reproach being made, then who is making it, and is it a rightful one? Turn the kaleidoscope a little bit, and give it another small shake, and you get any number of verses for the price of one. No wonder Ghalib never bothered to expand his published divan-- he knew that it was already so concentrated that it would seem inexhaustible.

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{21,4} nigaah-e be-mu;haabaa chaahtaa huu;N ta;Gaafulhaa-e tamkii;N-aazmaa kyaa 1) I want an unceremonious/uninhibited glance-2) what [are these] dignity-testing negligences!

Notes: mu;haabaa : 'Partiality (for); lenient or gentle treatment, kind behaviour; respect, regard, friendship, affection; --caution, care'. (Platts p.1006) be-mu;haabaa : 'Without respect, unceremonious'. (Platts p.204) ta;Gaaful : 'Unmindfulness, heedlessness, forgetfulness, neglect, negligence, inattention, inadvertence, indifference, listlessness'. (Platts p.328)

Nazm: In order to see into my heart, and test my self-control, what is this manner of averting your eyes? (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Meet my eyes. I won't be able to endure your gaze, and will collapse. Why do you test my endurance and steadfastness by averting your eyes? I am not one to become fearful and agitated. (44-45)

Bekhud Mohani: I want you to always look at me with shameless glances. This endurancetesting negligence doesn't please me. Meet me without a veil. (53)

FWP: SETS == KYA GAZE: {10,12} An unceremonious, direct, uninhibited glance, one devoid of politeness and formality, one that might even express hostility or anger-- of course that's what the lover wants. It will restore him to life. And/or it will kill him, as in {78,5} (and for that matter, as later in this ghazal, in {21,9}). The lover demands an unceremonious glance in words and grammar so plain, straightforward and 'unceremonious' that the effect is amusingly redoubled. Instead, he gets 'dignity-testing' [tamkii;N-aazmaa] shows of negligence and avoidance, as the beloved refuses to vouchsafe him a look. Why are her avoidances 'dignity-testing'? 1) because she is doing it sadistically, to torment him, as a cat plays with a mouse? 2) because she is doing it deliberately, according to an actual plan, to see how he reacts? 3) because he can hardly refrain from humiliating himself by begging for a glance, since it will restore him to life? 4) because he is impatiently awaiting the swift, remorseless fatality of a single full look, and he knows he is worthy of a clean death, as in a bullfight? Only four possibilities? By Ghalib's standards, that's a pretty simple verse. Of course, you could always put them together in different combinations, to make more. What I enjoy about it is the ambiguity of both be-mu;haabaa (which leaves open the possibility of cruelty as well as enjoyment) and tamkii;N-aazmaa (which leaves open the question of how the dignity is being tested, and whether deliberately or inadvertently).

{21,5}* furo;G-e shu((lah-e ;xas yak nafas hai havas ko paas-e naamuus-e vafaa kyaa 1) the radiance/glory of a flame in straw is a single breath--

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2a) as if Desire had any respect for the honor of faithfulness! 2b) what respect Desire has for the honor of faithfulness! 2c) what respect does Desire have for the honor of faithfulness? 2d) does Desire have any respect for the honor of faithfulness?

Notes: furo;G : 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780) paas : 'Watching, guarding, taking care (of), observing; observance, consideration, attention (to), regard, respect'. (Platts p.217) naamuus : 'Reputation, fame, renown; esteem, honor, grace, dignity; -disgrace, reproach, shame'. (Platts p.1118)

Nazm: In this verse is a taunt directed at the Rival: that he does not feel passion, he feels lust. His love is insubstantial, like a fire in dried grass. As if he would have any respect for honor and faithfulness! (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He has used for defective passion the simile of a fire in dried grass. Such an unheard-of thought is typical of Mirza's poetry. (45)

Bekhud Mohani: Where is the respect that lustfulness has for the honor of faithfulness? Because flame in dried grass is the guest of only a moment. That is, it's useless to hope for faithfulness from the lecherous. Because faithfulness is the portion of the lover. (53)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA FLAME/STRAW: {21,5}; {25,6}; {64,5}; {73,1}; {87,11}; {113,7}; {155,3}; {190,10} All the commentators that I've read confine themselves to (2a). But in fact, the quick extinction of Desire might not be simply equatable with the crude satisfaction of lust that Nazm and the others envision. The fire-in-straw image is, after all, offered only as a measure of duration, not necessarily of anything else. The beloved's unbearable beauty might have the power to subdue even Desire. When a fire in straw burns itself out, literally in the space of a single breath, it's dead. By personifying Desire as an entity who has the capacity to show (or not show) 'respect', Ghalib has endowed it with a moral sensibility. Perhaps it has committed an instantaneous suicide? Why might it have done so? 1) out of an unselfish fear of lingering in the lover's heart, and thus compromising the honor of faithfulness? (If the lover had any havas , in short, its quick self-consumption would leave him with only vafaa , which is just as it should be.) 2) out of shame, since it can't bear its failure to measure up to the standards of faithfulness? (This emotion is to its credit, of course.) 3) out of its own form of faithfulness? --since in one single breath it has totally and instantly consumed itself, and what more passion can even the most faithful lover show than this? In fact, self-obliteration in a single breath is even more than the faithful lover normally achieves-- the lover usually has to obtain at least one direct all-consuming glance from the beloved first, which may take quite a while (as in {78,5}), and in the process he may complain a lot (as in {21,4}). By contrast, Desire sacrifices itself in a breath, before it even has time to complain. In short, as in (2b), Desire's behavior may indeed show what a great deal of respect Desire has for faithfulness. And of course, given the mutual exclusiveness of (2a) and (2b), the genuine questions of (2c) and (2d) can always be asked-- when we come right down

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to it, how much respect does Desire have for faithfulness? We might ask with considerable earnestness, and really want to know. But as usual Ghalib has so arranged it that we can't ever be sure. (For more on kyaa see {21,1}.)

{21,6} nafas mauj-e mu;hii:t-e be-;xvudii hai ta;Gaafulhaa-e saaqii kaa gilaa kyaa 1) the breath is a wave of a sea of self-lessness 2a) what complaint is there of the negligences of the Cupbearer? 2b) is there a complaint of the negligences of the Cupbearer? 2c) as if there's a complaint of the negligences of the Cupbearer! 2d) what a complaint there is of the negligences of the Cupbearer!

Notes: mu;hii:t : 'Surrounding, encompassing, enclosing, encircling, circumambient; containing, embracing, comprehending; knowing, well acquainted (with); -that which (or he who) surrounds, or contains, &c.; periphery, circumference (of a circle); the ocean; --one who comprehends or knows'. (Platts p.1010) gilah is spelled gilaa to harmonize with the rhyme.

Nazm: The one who sees his [=the Cupbearer's] face and enters a state of selflessness-- if the Cupbearer doesn't give him wine, then why should there be any complaint? (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Another meaning of this verse also arises, that we are intoxicated in a [mystical] state. Why should we fret over worldly existence or nonexistence? (45)

Bekhud Mohani: Our heart is in such a state that a self-lessness constantly affects us. Now who would complain of the beloved's negligence? We am not there within ourself.... We are intoxicated with ardor for, or with the mere thought of, the Cupbearer. What need do we have of wine? (53)

FWP: SETS == KYA This is another verse on the lines of {21,3}, with the same grammar in the second line and even the same rhyme-word. The various interpretive possibilities of kyaa are used to form a kind of penumbra around the plain (?) statement in the first line; see {21,1} for more on this. I have hyphenated 'self-lessness' to break the grip of 'selflessness' in the usual English sense of 'great unselfishness'. Rather, be-;xvudii means selfobliviousness, the state of being, literally, without a self. What kind of complaint is there against the Cupbearer for 'negligences'? asks (2a). Or is there any complaint at all? asks (2b). None at all! (2c) indignantly asserts. Why not? =Perhaps because it's not necessary for the Cupbearer to do his job, since the lover is already utterly intoxicated with mystical awareness and is far beyond the point of caring about wine. =Perhaps because the Cupbearer has already done his job, as Nazm says: the sight of his beauty, or even the thought of it (as Bekhud Mohani suggests), has already intoxicated the lover more than sufficiently. =Perhaps because the 'breath' is not available for speech at all, since it's absorbed in the sea of self-lessness, so no complaint can be uttered in any case. Or, alternatively-- yes there is a complaint, as (2d) maintains. Perhaps the Cupbearer's negligences have caused the drinker to lapse into mystical indifference, and have thus dampened the liveliness of the party. Or perhaps

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the drinker is in such a wonderful state that a bit more wine would finish him off-- would push him into supreme intoxication, such that he could become the 'sea of self-lessness' itself and not just a wave; and/or kill him entirely, so that he would never need to return to the second-rate 'wine-house' of this world at all. (Remember {21,4}.) Another pleasure of the verse is in the extraordinary image of the first line-the breath as a wave in a sea of self-lessness. It sounds both soothing and revelatory, almost like mystical death in the high Sufi mode. It also reminds me of {11,1}.

{21,7}* dimaa;G-e ((i:tr-e pairaahan nahii;N hai ;Gam-e aavaaragiihaa-e .sabaa kyaa 1) [I] have no mind/taste/nose for the perfume of the garment 2a) what grief is there, over the wanderingnesses of the breeze? 2b) is there any grief over the wanderingnesses of the breeze? 2c) what grief there is, over the wanderingnesses of the breeze! 2d) as if there were any grief over the wanderingnesses of the breeze!

Notes: dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance; intoxication; high spirits (produced by stimulants, esp. by drinking bhang, &c.; --the organ of smell'. (Platts p.526)

Nazm: If the breeze were not a wanderer and disturber, then the scents of all the flowers would collect in one place. But the poet says that he has no mind/heart for the scent of a garment. What does he care about the wandering disposition of the breeze? He who feels no desire for the world, why would he grieve over the faithlessness of the world? (22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I don't care for the scent of the beloved's garment, on which Others have put perfume. If the breeze comes from the Rival's street, bearing the scent of perfume on a garment, then what's it to me? The word 'wandering' tells us that the breeze has come from the Rival's street. (45)

Bekhud Mohani: It's possible that he might have said this to some critical friend, or to the Rival, or to the beloved herself. We ought not to consider that the lover has renounced passion. Such words emerge from a person's tongue at times when complaint reaches a limit, and apparently no hope remains. (54)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IDIOMS; KYA As usual in this ghazal, the second line with its refrain of kyaa opens up a multitude of possible relationships with the first line (see {21,1} for more on this). 2a) I {am in no mood / have no 'nose'} for the perfume of the (wanton, inaccessible beloved's) garment. So what is this grief that I feel over the fickle behavior of the breeze, when it blows the perfume indiscriminately all around, to the Rivals and everybody else as well as to me; or when it blows the perfume away from me entirely? 2b) Do I actually feel any grief over the fickle behavior of the breeze? I am not sure; I examine my own heart and ask myself the question. 2c) What grief I feel over the fickle behavior of the breeze-- it blows the perfume all over, to everyone else as well as to me; or it blows the perfume away from me entirely! Therefore, I {am in no mood / have no 'nose'} for the perfume of the garment.

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2d) I {am in no mood / have no 'nose'} for the perfume of the garment-- as if I cared whether the wind blows the perfume toward me, or away from me, or to the Rivals, or all over the place! Another pleasure in this verse is the enjoyable use of the multivalent word dimaa;G . Its range of normal meanings centers on 'mind, intellect', but idiomatically to say mujhe dimaa;G nahii;N is somewhat like saying 'I have no taste for, I'm not in the mood for'. And then of course, the most perfect meaning here is the secondary meaning of 'the organ of smell'. This makes the verse almost-- but not quite-- an example of iihaam , a form of wordplay in which the poet uses a word with two meanings, and you at first think he intends the more common meaning, but then you realize he intends the more obscure one; he thus misdirects you and then forces you to retrace your mental steps. It's one more way of getting extreme mileage out of a single word and line in a highly compressed two-line poem. In this case the poet intends both meanings, but the process the reader goes through to recognize the extremely evocative meaning of 'sense of smell' is the same one-misdirection and return. Another verse with clever wordplay on dimaa;G : {3,8x}. 'Wanderingnesses' seems a bit hyperbolic, but perhaps it's meant to emphasize how extremely fickle the breeze is. For other examples of such pluralized abstractions, see {1,2}.

{21,8} dil-e har qa:trah hai saaz-e an-al-ba;hr ham us ke hai;N hamaaraa puuchhnaa kyaa 1) the heart of every drop is the harmony/melody of 'I am the sea' 2a) we are its/His; why even ask about us? 2b) we are its/His; about us-- what's there to ask?

Notes: saaz : 'Arms, accoutrements; apparatus; instrument, implement; harness; furniture; ornament; concord, harmony; a musical instrument'. (Platts p.625)

Nazm: That is, every drop claims unity with the sea. In the same way, we too claim oneness with our source. (23) [See also his comments when discussing {174,8}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the drop is a weak part of the sea, yet from its heart the voice emerges, 'I am the sea', and it goes and mingles with the sea. Then why bother to inquire about us? We have a claim to identity with our origin. That is, compared to a drop, we have the body of a man. From head to foot we are a great part of His identity. (45)

Bekhud Mohani: From the instrument of every drop the tune of 'I am the sea' is emerging. That is, since every created thing is calling itself the creator, then consider that our rank too is the same. That is, we are the same thing that our Creator is. (54)

FWP: SETS == A,B; DIALOGUE; IDIOMS; KYA DROP/OCEAN verses: {6,6}; {21,8}; {22,5}, {22,8}, {42,3}; {48,1}; {49,11}; {98,7}; {100,4}; {174,8} MUSIC: {10,3} This verse evokes the famous saying of the mystically-intoxicated sufi Mansur al-Hallaj, an al-;haq , 'I am God', for which he was executed. The pleasure is in the second line, which literally means something like a shrug of the shoulders and 'About us-- what's to ask?' This colloquial easiness is a pleasure in itself.

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But of course, we aren't sure what the relationship is between the first line and the second. Is the second line part of the melody that 'is' the heart of every drop of water? If so, every drop simply vibrates to a rather long tune, but one that fits together casually and pleasantly. Alternatively, the second line could be the poet's reflection on the first line. Just as every water-drop vibrates to the melody 'I am the sea,' thus refusing any individual identity or any further concern over its own nature or fate, so we (we the individual speaker? we humans?) are His (or, less probably but possibly, 'its'-- the sea's) and there's no point in our fussing over our wearisome little egos. Ghalib was partial to drop/ocean imagery. See also {6,6}, in which the drop is linked not to the ocean but to the emergence of a typhoon [:tuufaan]. And {78,2} too goes off in a direction of its own.

{21,9} mu;haabaa kyaa hai mai;N .zaamin idhar dekh shahiidaan-e nigah kaa ;xuu;N-bahaa kyaa 1) what concern/caution is there? I am responsible-- look this way! 2a) for martyrs of a gaze, is there a blood-price? 2b) for martyrs of a gaze, what is the blood-price? 2c) for martyrs of a gaze, as if there's a blood-price! 2d) for martyrs of a gaze, what a blood-price there is!

Notes: mu;haabaa : 'Partiality (for); lenient or gentle treatment, kind behaviour; respect, regard, friendship, affection; --caution, care'. (Platts p.1006) ;xuu;N-bahaa : 'The price of blood, blood-money, a fine for bloodshedding: -- ;xuu;N bahaanaa , To shed blood:

Nazm: 'Look this way' has two meanings. One, that he says this in a context of reproach; the other is, 'Come on, look in my direction'. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: It is contrary to custom for a blood-price to be taken for martyrs of a glance. So why are you afraid? Cast off fear and look toward me; if I die, I take responsibility for it, no questions will be asked of you. The excellence and supremacy with which Mirza Sahib has presented this theme is manifest. (46)

Bekhud Mohani: The phrase 'Look this way' is the life of the verse. (54)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA GAZE: {10,12} We assume in this verse that the beloved's glance is deadly and would be fatal to the lover. The beloved may be concerned, either humanely or coquettishly or (more probably) prudentially, to avoid this outcome. The lover reassures her: she shouldn't fear being made to pay a 'blood-price' to the victim's family to atone for the murder. The lover takes all the responsibility on himself, absolving her of guilt, and only urges her to look in his direction. To crown his argument he says, or exclaims-- line two, in one (or two, or three, or four) of its possible readings. (See {21,1} for more on this kyaa multivalence.) Any of the four readings might serve to advance his argument, and the inshaa))iyah form opens up a variety of tones in which the question might be posed or the exclamation made: 2a) Is there a blood-price at all? No, as it happens there is not, and we both know it. (This is based on ;xuu;N-bahaa hai, kyaa ? )

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2b) What is the blood-price, by the way? I don't know, but surely nothing much. I will find out. And in any case I've already bound myself to pay it. (This is based on ;xuu;N-bahaa kyaa hai? ) 2c) As if there's a blood-price! That would be absurd-- certainly that is not a valid reason for you to hesitate! (This is based on ;xuu;N-bahaa-- kyaa! ) 2d) What a blood-price there is! By my pledge (in line 1) I am bound to pay the blood-price for my own death! What a strange and paradoxical situation-but surely one that yields insight into the mystic's urgent longing for escape at all costs from this finite world. (This is based on ;xuu;N-bahaa kyaa! ) This verse develops to a more extreme point the implications of {21,4}; it even includes the same important word mu;haabaa . See also {64,6}, which takes another approach toward the blood-guilt incurred by the murderously charming beloved. Other 'blood-price' verses: {4,11x}, {209,8}.

{21,10}* sun ay ;Gaaratgar-e jins-e vafaa sun shikast-e qiimat-e dil kii .sadaa kyaa 1) listen, oh plunderer of the merchandise of faithfulness, listen-2a) what is the echo/sound of the breaking of the value/worth of a heart? 2b) is there an echo/sound of the breaking of the value/worth of a heart? 2c) as if there's an echo/sound of the breaking of the value/worth of a heart! 2d) what an echo/sound of the breaking of the value/worth of a heart there is!

Notes: jins : 'Goods, merchandise, commodities, wares; moveables, articles, things'. (Platts p.391)

Nazm: That is, since you say you know nothing about the breaking of a heart-- does the breaking of a heart ever make any sound, that you would hear it? The author has described the breaking of a heart as 'the breaking of the value of a heart', and thus has mentioned words with affinity, 'looter' and 'merchandise'. Another aspect of this construction turns out to be that if the sound of the breaking of a heart pleases you, go on breaking it and listening. What importance does this diversion have, and does the breaking of a heart have, that you should hesitate? (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: My heart was considered valuable, because in it was the 'merchandise' of faithfulness. You broke open the heart and looted it, so now listen to me.... The sound of the breaking of a heart is a lament, which you fear and do not want to hear. Don't be afraid, you didn't break a heart; rather, you broke the value of a heart [which happens silently]. (46)

Shadan: I don't have the ability to understand Ghalib's poetry, and look at my rashness, that I've sat down to write a commentary! There's no doubt an affinity of sounds, but I'm unable to understand the use of the word 'value'. Only the breaking of the heart ought to be mentioned. In this way the line would become clear of itself.... but this isn't Ghalib's style. (149)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA COMMERCE: {3,3} Is the beloved being exhorted to listen to the lover's words, or to listen for the sound? Or is the beloved already listening for the sound, and being taunted by the lover for listening for something inaudible? Or we could decide that the first sun was a demand for attention, and the second an injunction to listen. To listen for a sound that was extraordinary (what a sound!) or inaudible (what-- a sound!). Or perhaps somehow both?

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In the second line, as usual in this ghazal, we have the multiple possibilities opened up by kyaa . In this case, all four are available; see {21,1} for more on this. This verse also offers, as Shadan plaintively points out, an odd use of qiimat . What is the sound of the breaking of the value of a heart, as opposed to the heart itself? (There is actually one manuscript, as Hamid notes, that substitutes for qiimat-e dil the more comprehensible shiishah-e dil, 'wineglass of the heart.') But the insertion of qiimat does have the effect of disrupting the commonplace metaphor of the 'breaking' of a heart, as something that might be compared to the breaking of glass or china, and thus might readily (though not necessarily of course) have a sound. Let's put it this way: if the breaking of a heart does have a sound, we can easily imagine why, and we know what kind of sound it might be-- glassy of course, and faint, and full of the terrible, irrevocable tinkling of tiny shards as they clash and fall against each other. By contrast, the sound(?) of the breaking of the value of a heart is so far gone in abstraction as to be opaque to the imagination. This pushes us much farther away from the physical world, and makes far more piquant and thought-provoking both the injunction 'Listen!' in the first line, and the multivalent interpretations possible in the second line. This trick of setting up, and then disrupting, a metaphor is one that he performs elsewhere as well-- in {93,1} to a perhaps less confusing degree; very markedly in {116,9}; and more generally (not exactly with a metaphor, but with a rhetorical expectation) in {24,7}.

{21,11} kiyaa kis ne jigar-daarii kaa da((v;aa shakeb-e ;xaatir-e ((aashiq bhalaa kyaa 1) who made a claim of {fortitude / liver-possession}?! 2a) as if a lover has any dignity of temperament! 2b) what the hell is a lover's dignity of temperament? 2c) what the hell-- does a lover have any dignity of temperament?

Notes: bhalaa : 'Good, excellent, virtuous, righteous; honest, respectable; behevolent, kind; healthy, well, sound; fortunate, prosperous; strange, wonderful, admirable; comical, droll; --adv. & intj. Well, very good; how fortunate! forsooth, in sooth, of a truth; strange'. (Platts p.190).

Nazm: That is, I absolutely don't make the claim that I can have any peace without you. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the tyranny or negligence or troubles of separation that seek to make me writhe with restlessness-- when did I ever make before you a claim of liver-possession, that is, of courage and strength? (46)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse is a picture of an incident. [The lover is persuading the angry beloved that he never made any arrogant claims of fortitude.] (55)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; KYA JIGAR: {2,1} The verse centers on bhalaa kyaa . I've given the full meaning from Platts, to show its range. The literal meaning of bhalaa is something like 'good', often with overtones of almost simplicity or naivete. But colloquially, bhalaa becomes an interjection that vigorously rejects, or expresses lively irritation or vexation about, whatever is being said. (This is what Platts is trying to get at in the second part of the definition, though it doesn't emerge very clearly.)

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Here are some other such uses: {114,4}, {153,1}. By contrast, here are some straightforward uses: {26,6}, {162,9}, {177,6}. Using 'what the hell!' conveys the indignant colloquial energy better than any other expression I could think of. But the reference to 'hell' makes the English phrase sound more radical or sacrilegious, to a religious or conservative ear, than bhalaa does in Urdu, so please don't read anything into the word 'hell'. The wonderfully amusing part of this inshaa))iyah verse is its tone of indignation. It is turning what would normally be a reproach-- the charge that the lover has no fortitude or dignity-- into an accusation. What! Who made such a stupid claim as that of having fortitude? Certainly I never did! The very idea! What the hell-- as if lovers have any dignity of temperament! There is a twofold indignation, in fact: to be suspected of claiming to have dignity or fortitude is an insult, since no true lover would be rash or foolish enough to make such a claim. And it seems from the second line that it's equally insulting for a lover to be suspected of having dignity or fortitude. After all, it's a lover's proper duty to be wild, transgressive, bound for death and destruction-- what an insult to be described in terms appropriate to the Advisor! The lover's indignation is a delight to behold.

{21,12} yih qaatil va((dah-e .sabr-aazmaa kyuu;N yih kaafir fitnah-e :taaqat-rubaa kyaa 1a) murderer, why this fortitude-testing promise?! 1b) why this murderous fortitude-testing promise?! 2a) infidel, what is this strength-stealing mischief/torment?! 2b) what is this infidel strength-stealing mischief/torment?!

Notes: va((dah : 'A promise; vow; --an agreement, a bargain; an assignation, appointment'. (Platts p.1196) kaafir : 'Infidel, impious; ungrateful; --one denying God, an infidel, an impious wretch; ... (met.) a mistress, sweetheart'. (Platts p.801) fitnah : 'Trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment, plague'. (Platts p.776)

Nazm: He has interpreted this fortitude-testing vow in the second line as strengthstealing mischief. The style of construction used in this verse is the author's special mode [;xaa.s rang], and in it he is unique. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is, why is a fortitude-testing vow made to me? And this theme of the first line is rearranged in different words in the second line. The construction of the words is worthy of praise. (46)

Hasrat: We can also take qaatil to be an attribute of the 'fortitude-testing vow'. (23)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; KYA; PARALLELISM INFIDEL verses: {20,11}; {21,12}; {25,3}; {31,2}: {34,8}; {59,5}; {97,1}; {104,2}; {110,4}; {136,2}; {154,3}; {200,2} VOWS: {20,2} In this verse the two inshaa))iyah lines are parallel, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, both semantically and grammatically. The multivalence and pleasure of the verse are generated by the careful placement of qaatil and kaafir, such that they can be read either as vocatives addressed to the beloved, or as adjectives describing the behavior she's been indulging in. Ultimately, of course, it comes to all too much the same thing. She's a 'murderer' because of her cruelty, and an 'infidel' because of her generally impious behavior (see {34,8}).

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Both these epithets, but especially the epithet kaafir , can also be teasing and intimately affectionate, like caressingly calling a loved one 'you wretch!' in English. In many of the other 'infidel' examples listed above, this colloquial use will be more readily apparent than it is here; see for example {25,3}, which has nothing to do with untrustworthiness or promises, and everything to do with appropriately beloved-like temperamentalness. And in the present verse, what sort of 'promise' or 'vow' is it that provokes such a vigorous reaction? We might tend to think of a negative one: 'I swear I won't speak to you until/unless...' or something of the sort. But in an even more piquant way, it's probably a positive one: 'I'll meet you in the garden next Tuesday', or something of the sort. That's where the 'fortitude-testing' and 'strength-stealing' qualities come in. Does he believe her? Dare he believe her? Is there even the smallest possibility that she'll keep her word? Can he even endure the deadly suspense long enough to find out? And if he actually believed her, that would be the most fatal of all: see {20,2}. There's also the 'A,B' question: do the two inshaa))iyah lines, with their exclamatory (rhetorical?) questions, refer to the same situation, or are they two separate reproaches, one specific (about a promise or vow), and one general (about 'mischief, torment')? As usual, Ghalib leaves it up to us to decide for ourselves. Since the two lines have such tight connection already through their extremely parallel structure, to read them as semantically independent wouldn't at all weaken the verse.

{21,13} balaa-e jaa;N hai ;Gaalib us kii har baat ((ibaarat kyaa ishaarat kyaa adaa kyaa 1) it's a mortal disaster, Ghalib-- her every word/speech/circumstance 2a) whether speech/expression, or gestures, or style/grace 2b) what speech/expression! what gestures! what style/grace! 2c) what is the speech/expression? what are the gestures? what is the style/grace? 2d) is it the speech/expression? is it the gestures? is it the style/grace?

Notes: baat : 'Speech, language, word, saying, conversation, talk, gossip, report, discourse, news, tale, story, account; thing, affair, matter, business, concern, fact, case, circumstance, occurrence, object, particular, article, proposal, aim, cause, question, subject'. (Platts p.117) ((ibaarat : 'Speech; a word, an expression, a phrase; a passage (in a book or writing); an explanation, interpretation; a word, or an expression, or a phrase for, or denoting (such a thing); diction; style, mode of expression; the construction or structure of sentence, composition; a trope or figure'. (Platts p.758) ishaarat : 'Sign, signal; beck, nod, wink, nudge, gesticulation; pointing to, indication, trace, mark; allusion, hint, clue; insinuation, inuendo; loveglances, ogling; dumb-show'. (Platts p.55) adaa : 'Grace, beauty; elegance; graceful manner on carriage; charm, fascination; blandishment; amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'. (Platts p.31)

Nazm: In this verse kyaa is a particle of connection. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is: Oh Ghalib! every single baat of hers is deadly, whether it be expression, or gestures, or style. (46)

Bekhud Mohani: Her speech, her gestures, her glance-- in short, everything is a mortal disaster; that is, it is heart-stealing. (56)

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FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA; REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} SPEAKING: {14,4} What a matchless way to end a ghazal like this one. The verse exclaims that the beloved's every baat is a life-threatening disaster, one likely to put an end to the lover completely. The word baat is one of the most common and flexible in the language; the set of 'word/speech/idea' is about as close as I could come to its central meaning. In this closing-verse, Ghalib extracts extra ambivalence from the kyaa supply that he's been using throughout (see {21,1} for more on this). In the second line, however, he additionally invokes the idiomatic usage kyaa yih ho kyaa vuh ho , 'whether it be this, or whether it be that' (2a). And he adorns the second line with no fewer than three kyaa phrases, all exclaiming at, or questioning, or enumerating, aspects of the beloved's presence. As so often, we can't tell what the relationship is between the two lines. Do the three wide-ranging qualities praised in the second line constitute separate attributes in their own right, or are they presented chiefly as examples of 'her every baat ', as in (2a)? In addition to its other virtues, the second line also develops beautiful sound effects: an absolutely perfect rhythmic flow in which the semantic units exactly follow the metrical feet, with the end of each foot corresponding to an occurrence of kyaa . For the meter is: - = = = / - = = = / - = = . Even if you don't know or care much about Urdu meter, you can surely feel and admire the effect.

Ghazal 22 9 verses (out of 9); rhyming elements: aa nah hu))aa composed 1854; Arshi #48

{22,1} dar-;xvur-e qahr-o-;Ga.zab jab ko))ii ham-saa nah hu))aa phir ;Gala:t kyaa hai kih ham-saa ko))ii paidaa nah hu))aa 1) when no one became/appeared as suitable for wrath and torment as we 2a) then how is it a mistake [to think] that no one like us was born? 2b) then how is it a mistake that no one like us was born? 2c) then what a mistake it is, that no one like us was born! 2d) then it isn't at all a mistake that no one like us was born!

Notes: dar-;xvur : 'Suitable, proper, fit, becoming'. (Platts p.511) ;Gala:t : 'Mistake, error; --adj. Wrong, erroneous, incorrect, inaccurate; untrue, false'. (Platts p.772)

Nazm: That is, then how is our statement incorrect, that no one like us was born, and no one became so disaster-stricken as we did. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that you don't show tyranny and oppression to the Other. I alone have become singled out for wrath and torment. Then if I say that no lover of yours like me has been born, how is it a lie? Why don't you accept my statement? (47)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, even we are peerless in something. (56)

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Chishti: This verse bears witness to Ghalib's inventiveness, through which he has proved himself peerless. In the second line he has made a claim; in the first line he has given a proof of it. (222)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KIH; KYA Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of nine verses (Hamid p. 21); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This is the kind of verse we see many of in {21}, in which the first line appears straightforward and the second contains the indefinitely expanding kyaa; for discussion of the multivalence of kyaa see {21,1}. Here an additional possibility has been added by the semantics of the situation: perhaps the mistake referred to could be that of thinking or claiming his own uniqueness (2a), not the uniqueness itself. The idea of being dar-;xur , 'suitable, proper, fit', for qahr-o-;Ga.zab , 'wrath and torment', also has a piquant doubleness to it. Am I suitable because in my deep unworthiness I deserve such suffering more than anybody else? Or am I suitable because I as a uniquely tenacious lover can endure such suffering, while no one else can? Consider the possibilities: 2a) then how is it a mistake [to think]: that no one like us was born? (After all, we are undoubtedly unique, though in a certain morbid way, and we can claim that as a distinction.) 2b) then how is it a mistake that no one like us was born? (Why should we consider our uniqueness a mistake? It seems to be a correct decision by God. Why should He impose such a cruel fate on anybody else?) 2c) then what a mistake it is, that no one like us was born! (If we alone are tenacious and hardy enough to endure the terrible suffering of passion and the wrath of the beloved, doesn't that mean that before us and after us, no such tough-minded lover has appeared or will appear? What a mistake on God's part, not to supply the world with such true and enduring lovers in every generation!) 2d) then it isn't at all a mistake that no one like us was born! (Since our suffering and/or unworthiness were so great, it was quite proper that nobody else should be put through the same ordeal. It wasn't a mistake, but a deliberate, right choice by God.) The tone of rueful pride appropriate to every one of these meanings makes it a marvel of a verse-- both funny and grim.

{22,2}* bandagii me;N bhii vuh aazaadah-o-;xvud-bii;N hai;N kih ham ul;Te phir aa))e dar-e ka((bah agar vaa nah hu))aa 1) even/also in servitude we are so free and self-regarding that we 2) turned and came back if the door of the Ka'bah did not open

Notes: Azad: In 1842 the English government decided to reorganize the affairs of Delhi College. Thomason Sahib, who for a number of years had been Lieutenant Governor of the Northwestern Province, was Secretary at that time. He came to Delhi to interview the teachers. And just as there was a teacher of Arabic at one hundred rupees a month, he wished for there to be such a teacher of Persian also. People told him the names of some accomplished ones. Mirza's name too was among these. Mirza Sahib came, as he had been invited to do. Announcement was made to the Sahib. Mirza Sahib came out of his palanquin, and stayed there waiting for the Secretary Sahib to come, according to long custom, and receive him. When neither the one went in,

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nor the other came out, and quite some time passed, then the Secretary Sahib asked his doorkeeper about it. That man came out again and asked, 'Why don’t you come in?' Mirza Sahib said, 'The Sahib has not come out to receive me. How can I go in?' The doorkeeper again went and reported. The Sahib came outside and said, 'When you come to the governor’s court in your capacity as a nobleman, then you will receive the customary honor. But at the present time you have come for employment. You are not entitled to this honor.' Mirza Sahib said, 'I consider government service a reason for additional honor, not something in which I would lose my ancestral honor also!' The Sahib said, 'I am bound by regulations.' Mirza Sahib took his leave and came away. (487-88) ==this trans.: Pritchett and Faruqi, p. 397 ==Hali's version, which he attributes to Azad: pp. 28-29 ==trans. of Hali's version: Russell and Islam, pp. 62-63

Nazm: That is, then why would we accept ill-treatment from anyone else? (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: ;xvud-bii;N [normally means] 'to consider another less than oneself', but here Mirza Sahib has used it for 'self-respect' [;xvud-daarii]. The meaning of the verse is that even in worship of God, I so bear myself that if I don't find the door of the Ka'bah open, then I consider it contrary to my dignity to knock on it and cause it to be opened, so I turn around and come back. The truth is that Mirza Sahib, in his life, was a lofty example of self-respect. (47)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {68,3}. (151)

Baqir: This is what they call supreme excellence of expression, that behind the screen of his self-regard and freedom, an aspect of the greatness of the Ka'bah has also emerged: that it is a court of which the door is never closed. (82)

Naim: A declaration of man's dignity and of the desire to preserve the integrity of his self in the face of the bondage put upon him by his Creator. One may speculate that the bondage forced him into making the pilgrimate to the Ka'bah, but his self-respect and his independence of mind restrained him from knocking on the closed door and begging admittance, for that would have been beneath his dignity. A similar attitude is expressed by Ghalib in another couplet [not present in the muravvaj diivaan], but in a manner that may appear at first as a reverse statement [from a ghazal in an ode, 1852, Raza p.308]: ham pukaare;N aur khule yuu;N kaun jaa))e yaar kaa darvaazah paa))e;N gar khulaa "We should call and then the door should be opened. / Why should I go in on finding the beloved's door left open inadvertently?" Beside the fact that in the first verse the door is of the House of God while in the second that of the beloved's house, we should also bear in mind the poignant truth (within the Urdu poetic tradition) that if the beloved's door is left open it is for the sake of the poet's rival, and that it is extremely unlikely for that door to open at the call of the poet-lover. (1970, 17-18)

FWP: BONDAGE: {1,5} Azad's anecdote above seemed so appropriate to the mood of this verse that I couldn't resist including it. For a change, this is a rather simple and straightforward verse. The key to its impact is the lover's self-contradictory status: he doesn't deny being in a state

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of servitude, in fact he emphasizes it-- bandagii me;N bhii , 'even in bondage' or 'in bondage too'. Yet he also emphasizes his being aazaadah , 'free', and ;xvud-bii;N , literally 'self-regarding', to a degree that certainly makes him a very dubious 'servant'. If God doesn't meet him halfway and offer an opened door, he simply turns around and goes back; he's not one to beg and plead, or hang about humbly and try to slip in later. In short, he announces that he has treated God exactly as he treated Mr. Thomason during the famous Delhi College employment interview. The vuh is here an emphatic colloquial expression, more like aisaa . Baqir points out that the door of the Ka'bah is in fact never closed, and that the verse serves to remind us of this. Baqir's point may be well-taken, and a pious reader might even come away with such an impression. But the grammar of the verse clearly emphasizes a change of state, 'did not become open' [vaa nah hu))aa], rather than a steady-state 'was not [in a state of being] open' [vaa nah thaa]. In other words, the speaker seems to demand that the door should become open especially for him, just at the point when he arrives. Ghalib rarely endorses any kind of conventional piety; {161,4} brings it all down to a question of :tabii((at , of 'temperament'. Other verses about 'self-regardingness': {6,13x}; {12,4x}; {15,17x}; {208,6}.

{22,3}* sab ko maqbuul hai da((v;aa tirii yaktaa))ii kaa ruubaruu ko))ii but-e aa))inah-siimaa nah hu))aa 1) all accept the claim of your uniqueness 2a) no one, [oh] idol with a mirror-{face/forehead/aspect}, became face-toface [with you] 2b) no idol with a mirror-{face/forehead/aspect} became face-to-face [with them/you]

Notes: siimaa : 'Face; forehead; countenance, aspect; resemblance, similitude'. (Platts p.712)

Nazm: That is, no one confronted [them/you]. (23)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, no one could become your equal. The proof is contained within the claim. (47)

Bekhud Mohani: (1) No beloved with a mirror-face has confronted you. From this we learn that your claim of uniqueness is accepted by everybody. (2) You are that Uniqueness for whose image (picture and reflection) no mirror is available. (3) No face has emerged in whose mirror-like surface your reflection alone could be seen-- and in that way it could have been said that you had a peer. (56-57)

Faruqi: The real point is that in the second line there should be [the vocative marker] ay [before 'idol'].... This verse should be read in the light of Ghalib's verse {20,10}. The claim of uniqueness is proved because the beloved has a mirror-face. Whoever is before him sees only his own appearance in the beloved's face. No one can see the beloved himself. The secret of his uniqueness is that no one at all can come face to face with him.... This verse of Zauq's explicates this aspect of the theme, that the lover's face is reflected in the mirror-faced beloved's face. Zauq has taken the aspect of astonishment, and Ghalib that of uniqueness: hai;N aa))ine me;N .suurat-e ta.sviir-e aa))inah aa))iinah-ruu ke saamne ;hairaaniyo;N me;N ham

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[in the mirror are aspects/likenesses of the image of the mirror before the Mirror-faced One, we are among the astonished]. (1989: 40-41) [2006: 50-51]

FWP: SETS == MIDPOINTS IDOL: {8,1} MIRROR: {8,3} Theologically speaking, Faruqi is surely right to refer to {20,10}, and in general his preference for (2a) over (2b) makes sense to me, though I wouldn't rule (2b) out entirely, since a verse like this is obviously not designed to be entirely clear or straightforward. The only other reference in the divan to an 'idol with a mirror-forehead' occurs in {208,6}, and in that case too the interpretation seems very possibly to go along the lines Faruqi suggests. The verse is also full of sonorous long vowels, especially aa and ii . The yaktaa))ii in the first line and aa))inah-siimaa in the second line strongly echo each other; aa))iinah is shortened to aa))inah for metrical reasons. And there's the wordplay of siimaa and ruubaruu . But it's a truly strange verse, isn't it? An obscure, mysterious, potent image, that of the 'idol with a mirror-face' (or 'mirror-forehead'). Beautiful, ominous, solipsistic, hypnotically powerful-- what kind of 'idol' or beloved would earn such an epithet? I even sense a little overtone of doubt in the first line-- 'all accept' your uniqueness, but does the 'all' include the speaker? It's almost the kind of thing one says before making a counterargument or offering a challenge. Does the second line suggest that such a face-to-face confrontation just contingently hasn't happened-- that is, it hasn't happened yet? Compare the similar absence of a face-to-face encounter in {32,1}.

{22,4} kam nahii;N naazish-e ham-naamii-e chashm-e ;xuubaa;N tiraa biimaar buraa kyaa hai gar achchhaa nah hu))aa 1) the pride of sharing a name with the eyes of beautiful ones is not little/less 2) your sick one-- how is it ill/bad, if he didn't become well/good?!

Notes: Nazm: That is, if I remained sick, the eye of the beloved is 'that of a sick person'; is this sharing of a name a small thing? (24)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved's eye is called 'that of a sick person' because a sick person, due to weakness, rarely rises, and shy eyes too don't know how to rise toward a stranger. (58)

Baqir: [Asi says:] In this verse is the extremity of longing. The love endures his worst state, since it has the same name as something of the beloved's; or rather, he prides himself on it. (83)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; MUSHAIRAH; OPPOSITES EYES {3,1} GOOD/BAD verses: {22,4}; {26,1}; {86,1}; {120,1}; {136,7}; {157,3}; {177,6}*; {191,5}; {198,3}; {208,14}; {229,7}; {232,9} As Bekhud Mohani explains, the beloved has chashm-e biimaar , literally 'eyes of a sick person'-- eyes that are lowered, languid, unresponsive. The first line sets up the wordplay, but is incomprehensible in itself, since the beloved's eyes have many other epithets as well. The fact that the line is full of ostentatiously Persian words and i.zaafat forms also leads the listener to

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expect something elaborate, complex, ornate in the second line. In the oral performance conditions of the mushairah, the first line would be lingered over, repeated a time or two. The listeners' curiosity would be aroused, and they would be waiting with genuine eagerness for the second line. Then when we are finally allowed to hear the second line, we get-- three different things all together, all at once. First, we get a solution to the incomprehensibility of the first line: we learn that the poet has been teasing us with punning references to chashm-e biimaar . Second, we enjoy the effect of an utter contrast in vocabulary and structure: except for biimaar -itself a well-known and commonly used word-- the second line consists entirely of simple Indic words and basic Indic grammar. And third, we get a piquant wordplay based on 'bad' and 'good'. I've tried to suggest it in English with 'ill' and 'well'. The parallel is not perfect, but it does give the general idea: what's the harm (literally, how is it bad) if he didn't get well (literally, if he didn't get good)? Just as Ghalib has a set of verses that play on easy versus difficult (see {6,5} on this), he has a set that play on good versus bad: see {26,1} for a very apposite example, also involving illness versus health. For another verse that also plays on chashm-e biimaar , without actually using the phrase, see {200,1}. In short, this would have been a lovely mushairah verse. The first line sets up some puzzles and expectations, but it goes nowhere on its own. Then the eagerly-awaited second line gives us three complex verbal pleasures, all bursting out at once from nine little words. But they're not really available until the last possible moment: until we hear achchhaa , we can't fully put the whole verse together. This withholding of the punch-word is another highly effective pleasure that mushairah verses specialize in providing.

{22,5}* siine kaa daa;G hai vuh naalah kih lab tak nah gayaa ;xaak kaa rizq hai vuh qa:trah kih daryaa nah hu))aa 1) a scar in the breast, is that lament that didn't go as far as the lip 2) food for dust, is that drop that didn't become the sea

Notes: Nazm: That is, the way a drop that is absorbed into the dust creates a scar in the dust, in the same way a lament, when it is suppressed, creates a scar in the breast. (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: It became a scar on my breast-- that is, it sullied the tumult of my passion. He presents an illustration of this: the drop that lacks the capacity to become the sea, is absorbed in the dust and remains there. (47-48)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, for anything not to rise to the level of perfection, and not to come into its true use, is a cause for disgrace. (57)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM DROP/OCEAN verses: {21,8} In this verse the interpretive possibilities are guided by the obvious formal and semantic similarity between the two lines. Nazm points out the parallel meanings: the unuttered lament creates a scar as it sinks into the heart and dies; the isolated drop creates a pit or scar as it sinks into the dust and dies. This is the minimum, irreducible parallelism that is built into the structure of the verse. But the question is always how much further we should take the parallelism, and to what effect? Do we consider that both lines refer metaphorically to the same situation, or might they refer to two different situations being

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separately reported? Is it different to become a 'wound', or to become 'food'-and if so, how? Both the Bekhuds consider it a reproach to the lament that it is unuttered-- it is condemned for its imperfection, marked as a failure, just as is the drop that does not praiseworthy state, that one must always think twice. Consider {21,8}: in it the heart of every drop 'is' the words 'I am the sea'. So even if such a drop vanished in the dust, would that be any more than a contingent, temporary detour on its way (back) to its true essence? Perhaps indeed it would evaporate in the sun, and rain right down again into the sea. Even more to the point become the ocean. Yet in the ghazal world, failure is so often an honorable and even, consider {100,4}, in which the lover says: I too know, as Mansur knew, that every 'drop' of myself is in truth a 'sea'. But I have no desire to imitate the tunuk-:zarfii , the 'small-capacitied-ness', of Mansur. Thus, presumably, while Mansur went through the streets proclaiming an al-;haq , 'I am God!', I will not imitate his lack of selfcontrol. I will maintain a praiseworthy silence, thus showing my superior dignity and capacity for containment. Is there not some echo or overtone of this thought in the present verse too? After all, it is desirable and praiseworthy for the lover to have wounds and scars in his breast. If he endures the pain in silence, suppressing the laments that would have indiscreetly revealed his passion (and his tunuk-:zarfii as well), is this not to his credit? Are we to think, then, the same about the drop, by analogy? Or are we to think that the two lines are parallel only up to a point, and that we are also to realize the differences between the conditions they depict? As so often, this choice is ours alone to make. You see the complexity. The lover's state is contradictory, paradoxical, etc. It can be praiseworthy for him to suppress his laments, and also praiseworthy for him to feel a degree of passion, and of indifference to everything else, that makes it impossible to suppress his laments. The same, of course, may be true of the drop-- it is praiseworthy for it to reach the sea, but perhaps it is also praiseworthy for it to submit carelessly to a death in the dust, knowing its own real nature and destiny to be independent of such mortal accidents. In this case, however, it's less clear, and the drop may also be a thoughtprovoking counterexample.

{22,6}* naam kaa mere hai jo dukh kih kisii ko nah milaa kaam me;N mere hai jo fitnah kih bar-paa nah hu))aa 1a) [assigned] to my name is that sorrow that no one [else] received 1b) [assigned] to my name is that sorrow that no one received 2a) in my work/desire is that affliction/conflict that did not [ever before] arise 2b) in my work/desire is that affliction/conflict that did not arise

Notes: kaam : '(Hindi) Action, act, deed, work, doing, handiwork, performance; work, labour, duty, task, job; business, occupation, employment, office, function; operation, undertaking, transaction, affair, matter, thing, concern, interest'. (Platts p.804) kaam : '(Persian) Desire, wish; design, intention; --the palate'. (Platts p.804) fitnah : 'Trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment... --temptation, seduction; --discord, conflict, cabal, faction, civil war, sedition, revolt, mutiny; perfidy; sin, crime'. (Platts p.776)

Nazm: It's clear. (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi That affliction of Doomsday which has never [before] arisen is absorbed in working on me-- that is, it is collecting troubles and difficulties for me. (48)

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Bekhud Mohani: In my work/tasks such disturbances and obstacles arise that the people of the world aren't even acquainted with them. (58)

Josh: In this verse too [as in the previous one], the juxtaposition of words and the manner of parallelism is worthy of praise. (83)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; PARALLELISM No doubt Josh says 'too' because the previous verse, {22,5}, is also a study in parallelism. The formal and semantic similarities between the two lines invite the reader to compare and/or contrast individual elements, and also the lines as wholes. Nazm's airy dismissal to the contrary, on close inspection this turns out to be a subtly multivalent verse. For are the negations are designed to leave a loophole for me (no one else; never arose before), or to apply to my case as well (no one at all; never arose at all)? A common-sense reading suggests the first interpretation; a strict attention to grammar suggests the second. Certainly neither can be ruled out. Let me elaborate on them a bit. (1a): Specially assigned to my name is that unique kind of sorrow that no one else received; this suggests that God (or fate, or destiny) takes particular care about me, and carefully assigns me the worst kind of sorrow, one that is not assigned to anybody else. (1b): Casually assigned to my name is that random batch of leftover, surplus, unwanted sorrow that no one received; this suggests that God disdainfully treats me as a kind of dumping ground, and offloads onto me all the leftover dregs of sorrow and woe that hadn't been used for others. The second line offers the same two possibilities, and other complexities as well. (2a): In my work/desire is that unique kind of affliction that did not ever previously arise; thus my work/desire is more tumultuous, powerful, disruptive than anyone else's has ever been before. (2b): In my work/desire is that affliction that did not arise at all; thus my work/desire is characterized by-- what? a phantom affliction, a failed turmoil that doesn't really manage to exist? a special 'nonbeing' kind of affliction, that only latently or imperceptibly manifests its power? (Consider {5,3} in this regard.) The implications are not too clear, but the statement itself in the verse is emphatic and unambiguous: my kind of affliction is that kind that didn't arise. KAAM: In addition, one must reckon with the complexities of kaam , which can mean 'work, activity' or 'desire'. For the word kaam (m.) descends both through the Indic side and through the Persian. (See the definitions above.) There's also a Sanskrit source that is close in meaning to the Persian. And a secondary Persian meaning is 'palate' or 'throat' (for an example see {6,4}). The word kaam is so important that together its various meanings occupy almost a whole page of Platts. (Platts pp.804-05) Other examples that take poetic advantage of this useful double sense of kaam : {6,4}; {27,5}; {59,3}; {115,9}; {180,7}, {232,8}. In the present verse, both the main meanings are of course appropriate: if we take kaam as 'desire', then my kind of desire is either the wildest, most turmoil-producing kind imaginable, a kind heretofore unseen; or else a strange, unheard-of kind that doesn't create turmoil. Why doesn't it? Because of its hopelessness and my weakness? because of my self-control (see {22,5} for more on this)? Because of its special 'nonbeing' status, as discussed above? And if we take kaam as 'work, activity', then we have the same choices, along with others. When I try to work in the world, to achieve my purposes, either I create the most unprecedented affliction-- or no affliction at all. Then there are the interpretations of the Bekhuds. Bekhud Dihlavi takes mere

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kaam me;N to mean not 'in the work I am doing' but 'in the work being done on me'-- by some outside agency, in this case the Affliction of Doomsday. Bekhud Mohani offers a similar reading: in my work such affliction arises-not from the work itself, but in opposition to the work, by some (unspecified) outside force or fate that is engaged in thwarting it. What an enjoyable, imaginative range of choices! I wonder whether Nazm would agree that all these possibilities in fact exist, or whether he would insist on ignoring most of the meanings and considering whichever ones he favored to be 'clear'.

{22,7} har bun-e muu se dam-e ;zikr nah ;Tapke ;xuu;N-naab ;hamzah kaa qi.s.sah hu))aa ((ishq kaa charchaa nah hu))aa 1) [if] at the moment/breath of mentioning, from every hair-root there wouldn't drip pure blood 2) [then] the romance/story of Hamzah occurred, a recitation/discourse of passion did not occur

Notes: charchaa : 'Repetition, recitation, careful perusal, consideration, deliberation, reflection; investigation, inquiry; discussion, argument; attention (to business), engagedness; prevalence; talking over past events, mentioning, incidental mention, discourse, popular talk, report, rumour, gossip; --practising, applying, cultivating'. (Platts p.429)

Nazm: That is, it's not possible that pure blood wouldn't drip. In this verse is the negative [rhetorical] question [istifihaam-e inkaarii]: can it at all be possible that pure blood would not drip? (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The way someone tells the romance [daastaan] of Amir Hamzah, and the listeners go on listening with pleasure-- the mention of passion is not ineffective in that way. Blood flows from every hair on its narrator's body. (48)

Bekhud Mohani: It is impossible that passion would be mentioned and blood would not begin to flow from the eye of every hair. The story [qi.s.sah] of passion is not the romance [daastaan] of Amir Hamzah, such that neither teller or listener would writhe [in torment]. (57)

FWP: Hamzah's adventures center on what is usually referred to in Persian and Urdu as razm-o-bazm . razm is easy to translate: it means battles and warfare. For bazm we have no exact English synonym: it means something like gracious courtly life, evening parties, elegant social gatherings, courteous behavior with women. This verse seems to tell us that storytelling is fun, passion is not fun. If you enjoy even hearing about it, it's a story, not the Real Thing. You'll know the real thing when you hear it, because blood will be dripping from every pore. Of whose body? The narrator's? Yours? Both? And why will the blood drip? Sympathy at such suffering? Horror at the beloved's cruelty? Vicarious passion? These are real questions, but compared to the usual depth and range of Ghalibian unanswered questions, they're small ones. To me, the interest of this verse lies in the suggestion that it is actually offering a litmus test. How can you tell a story of real passion from the Hamzah romance (or a generalized story of the 'Hamzah romance' kind)? From this verse it seems that in principle you almost can't. You can only tell pragmatically, experientially-- and not exactly after the fact, but certainly no sooner than during the fact. (Notice the verb tenses-- subjunctive in the first

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line, as befits a proposed test, and perfect in the second, as befits a retrospective judgment of a completed action.) This suggests that passion too is a story of razm-o-bazm , with many of the same elements that appear in romances like that of Hamzah. Except that in this case the lover's passion is real, and packs such a punch that the teller and hearer too somehow share in the bloodshed. It's not the excellence of the storyteller that makes the difference-- the blood flows dam-e ;zikr , at the very moment of telling, with the very breath of mentioning. There is some kind of mystical participation here, it seems. It is not the visible iceberg that cuts you to pieces, but the much larger underwater part-- the part you can't see. The following verse, {22,8}, continues the same line of thought, and thus is helpful in suggesting interpretations for this one.

{22,8}* qa:tre me;N dijlah dikhaa))ii nah de aur juzv me;N kul khel la;Rko;N kaa hu))aa diidah-e biinaa nah hu))aa 1) [if] the Tigris isn't visible in a drop; and in a part, the whole 2) [then] a boys'/children's game occurred, a seeing eye did not occur

Notes: Nazm: That is, the gaze of the [mystical] knower is no game. This verse too [i.e., like {22,7}] should be read in the style of a negative [rhetorical] question. (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The excellence with which Mirza Sahib has presented this eloquent [balii;G] theme in these two lines-- it's beyond the power of description. (48)

Bekhud Mohani: Dijlah: a river in Baghdad; imaginatively, they call every river Dijlah. (58)

Josh: This verse's style of expression harmonizes with that of the previous one. (84)

FWP: DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} As the commentators note, this verse is a continuation or development of the thought of {22,7}, and repeats many of its formal features as well. But what is the connection between a boys' game and a seeing eye? And what is the connection of either or both with the Tigris and the part/whole imagery? Knowing Ghalib, there certainly ought to be one. For example, if there had been in Ghalib's day a boys' game called dijlah , and especially if it resembled hide-and-seek, then we would be on to something. We would have the 'objective correlative' needed to connect the two lines tightly. No doubt a drop is round like an eye, but that's not enough to be truly satisfying. He could, for example, have said 'It's a mirage, not a seeing eye', or something like that, and then the connection of 'mirage' with water would have made for a fine affinity. To me it seems that this verse is inferior to the previous one, {22,7}. The enjoyable degree of connection between 'the romance of Hamzah' and 'an account of passion' is not evident between 'boys' game' and 'seeing eye' (or drop and ocean, or part and whole). When I showed the above to Faruqi, he said (March 2003), FARUQI: Children's games are make-believe; they pretend that something is there, and in fact very nearly believe that it is there, even if it is not there. Like a child riding a stick, and pretending, even believing for a moment, that she is riding a horse. Or like children playing ghar ghar, meaning: playing at being families, with children of their own, and having parties, and visiting

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with other families, 'decorating' their 'homes', having phone calls, and so forth. (This game is still very popular, partly because it is so free-wheeling and has no rules.) So an eye that cannot see a whole riverfull in a drop is not a real eye; it is a make-believe eye, such as children's games are. Then, khel la;Rko;N kaa is like children playing with dolls, whose eyes, ears, and nose etc. are not real but which look like the real thing and the children treat them as if they were real. larko;N here means 'children, immature persons'. Then, khel la;Rko;N kaa also means something of no import, of no real worth. The eye is shaped like a tear-drop. The eye is also very often descibed as a boat, or a river. The line recalls these similarities and standard images which reinforce the connection. These discussions can go on forever. Now you, dear reader, can make up your own mind.

{22,9}* thii ;xabar garm kih ;Gaalib ke u;Re;Nge purze dekhne ham bhii gaye the pah tamaashaa nah hu))aa 1) there was a hot rumor/report that Ghalib would be torn to pieces 2) we too went to see, but the/a show/spectacle did not take place

Notes: Nazm: It's an expression of his disgrace and alienation, that people consider him a spectacle. (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib, as is his habit, has shown mischievousness in this closing-verse too. He has presented a commonplace theme in a novel aspect and in new words. The meaning is only this much: that the beloved had appointed a day to test Ghalib's love. [To the regret of the assembled spectators] in the test of passion and faithfulness, without being tested he was successful. (48)

Bekhud Mohani: The people of the world consider the disgrace and destruction of others to be a spectacle. And if somebody somehow escapes, then instead of happiness they feel regret.... One commentator describes the meaning of this verse like this: We too went to see the spectacle, but the beloved's negligence was displayed. She had promised the murder, and the lover himself, careless of his life, went there. But here too the beloved broke her promise, and went back on [her pledge of] taking his life. (58)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE TAMASHA: {8,1} The two Bekhuds seem to take the verse as a straightforward depiction of an episode between lover and beloved. But then they differ with each other on its nature, with Bekhud Dihlavi seeing it as a triumph for the lover, and Bekhud Mohani as another in a string of failures and betrayals. So it couldn't be that straightforward after all. To me it's reminiscent of {22,6}, in which it's not clear whether the lover's fate is to be at the center of an unprecedented turmoil of sorrow and affliction-- or at the center of nothing at all. Here too, there's a hot rumor that Ghalib is to be-- what? torn apart? beaten up? abused and humiliated? Literally, that his 'fragments will fly'. What or who will cause this? Will it be physically painful, or even fatal, or merely socially humiliating? Needless to say, no answers are forthcoming.

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Then all that we learn in the second line is that the speaker, an eager spectator, went to see, but tamaashaa nah hu))aa . (On the double worldlymystical possibilities of tamaashaa , see {8,1}.) Since there are no articles in Urdu, this can mean that either 'the spectacle' or 'a spectacle' didn't take place. Which of course leaves plenty of further questions. Did the whole thing (worldly or mystical) not happen-- Ghalib's fragments were not made to fly? Or did it happen, but in some anticlimactic way not worth seeing, so that there was none of the big 'spectacle' the disappointed gawker had been hoping for? Or was there simply nothing at all in public view, no event whatsoever for the gawkers to observe? Ghalib could have been torn to pieces in private, or silently, or invisibly. After all, isn't that what happens to the lover all the time anyway?

Ghazal 23 1 verse (out of 7); rhyming elements: aar apnaa composed 1816; Arshi #32

{23,1} asad ham vuh junuu;N-jaulaa;N gadaa-e be-sar-o-paa hai;N kih hai sar-panjah-e mizhgaan-e aahuu pusht-;xaar apnaa 1) Asad, we are such a madness-moving {helpless / head-and-foot-less} beggar 2) that the comb/'head-claws' of the deer's eyelashes is our back-scratcher

Notes: jaulaan : 'Wandering up and down, wandering about; moving or springing from side to side... moving round... coursing;... Fetters, irons'. (Platts p.398)

Nazm: The juxtaposition of asad [literally, 'lion'] and deer is apparent. Through being 'madly-moving' he has implied that the deer remains behind me and with its 'back-scratcher' rubs against me from behind. The word gadaa ['beggar'; also, 'pillow, back-cushion'] is for its affinity with 'back-scratcher'. By saying 'limbless' [literally, 'without head and foot'] he means that I have not even a back-scratcher; if I have any at all, it is the deer's eyelashes. The grounds for similitude between 'comb' and 'eyelashes' and 'back-scratcher' are apparent; that is, all three have something like the same form. First he has used 'comb' as a simile for 'eyelashes', then 'back-scratcher' as a simile for 'comb'. (24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Oh Asad, we are a limbless beggar, and our display of madness and wildness is famous even in remote places, for we have achieved supremacy even over Majnun. (It is said that a deer always used to come to Majnun, and Majnun used to use its eyes as a simile for the eyes of Laila.) Mirza Sahib displays his own state of madness as more perfect than Majnun's. And he says that the comb of the deer's eyelashes is his back-scratcher. That is, in the state of madness/wildness I leave behind even a wild creature like the deer; even he cannot outdo me. (49)

Bekhud Mohani: All these words-- madness, moving, beggar, helpless [be-sar-o-paa , lit. 'without head and foot'], comb [sar-panjah , lit. 'head-claws'] of the deer's eyelashes, back-scratcher-- have an affinity among themselves. (58)

Josh: This verse too should be considered a gorakh-dhandaa ['a labyrinth or maze....any complicated or puzzling plaything, or machine, &c'. (Platts p.924)].... How can one get hold of these elaboratenesses? (84)

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Mihr: One excellence of this is that in the state of madness, while wandering in the desert he is moving so fast that even the deer, which is famous for bounding along, remains behind him. For this reason its eyelashes act as a backscratcher. (99)

Chishti: In this verse there is neither attractiveness nor movingness, neither poeticness nor meaningfulness; he's only put together an enchanted realm [:tilism] of words....the theme of the verse has become 'the story of Hamzah' [as in {22,7}]. (326)

Faruqi: This verse is founded on wordplay....and in this verse Ghalib's beloved technique of paradox, too, shows itself with full effect. ....The paradox is that on the one hand he shows such swiftness in 'madnessmoving' that he's emerged ahead even of the deer, and on the other hand such destitution that he doesn't even have 'head and foot'. It's clear that when he has no head and foot, then how can he run? The other aspect of the paradox is that when head and foot are not present, then he doesn't exist. And when he doesn't exist, then that deer too is imaginary, whose eyelashes he uses as a back-scratcher. Then, there's the further pleasure in sar-panjah that when he has no sar [head], the sar-panjah [lit. 'head-claws'] of the deer's eyelashes is present. The affinity of sar-panjah with 'back'-scratcher is also worthy of notice. Consider some other affinities .... jaulaa;N also means 'chain', so we can suppose madness to be a chain as well, in which we are bound and are being dragged around. In this verse affinity arises among several words by virtue of .zil((a , a figure involving words that have a mutual connection among themselves, but in which that connection gives no evidence about the meaning of the utterance.... For example, asad [lion] and panjah [claws] have the connection of .zila(( . (1989: 42-43) [2006: 52-53]

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY MADNESS: {14,3} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Raza p. 117), from which he chose one (Hamid p. 21) for publication in his divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. The poet chose to present this as an individual verse [fard], not part of a ghazal (as it originally was). The first line is an in-your-face paradox: 'I am such a (here vuh is a vigorously colloquial replacement for something like aisaa ) madly swift-moving, helpless-- literally, 'headless and footless'-beggar'. The oral poetics of mushairah presentation then provide a delay, and several repetitions of the first line. When (after suspense and curiosity have built up) the second line finally resolves the situation, even the knower of ghazal convention must stop and think a minute before both sides of the coin become properly unified. I am so madly fast a runner that I outrun even the deer, who races along behind me, breathing down my neck but unable to overtake me; thus I feel his eyelashes on my back. At the same time, I am so helpless, so hapless, so headless-andfootless a beggar that I am like the famous Majnun in the wilderness; the animals sympathize with me in my solitude and suffering. Since I am too weak to move, the deer comforts me by coming up to me and rubbing its nose on my body, and scratching my aching back with its eyelashes. The impossibility of both these conditions existing at once, and the flagrant delight of the assertion that they do, is part of the exuberance and metaphysical wit of the Ghalibian ghazal. It is also an accurate

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representation of the heights and depths of passion. To be a lover is to be both hyperactive and helpless, both omnipotent and undone. The verse 'proves' its point with a perfect claim that works both ways. It's also a perfectly brilliant mesh of interlocking wordplay. The commentators among them have done a very good job of bringing it out, so I won't bother repeating it all. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

Ghazal 24 8 verses (out of 8+6); rhyming elements: aa))ii kaa composed 1816; Arshi #11

{24,1} pa))e na;zr-e karam tu;hfah hai sharm-e naa-rasaa))ii kaa bah ;xuu;N-;Galtiidah-e .sad-rang da((v;aa paarsaa))ii kaa 1a) by way of an offering to/of generosity/kindness is the gift of the shame of/at failure/unworthiness 1b) the gift of the shame of/at failure/unworthiness is by way of an offering to/of generosity/kindness 2a) having writhed in blood in a hundred ways/colors is a/the claim of purity 2b) a/the claim of purity is, having writhed in blood in a hundred ways

Notes: na;zr : 'A vow; an offering, anything offered or dedicated; a gift or present (from an inferior to a superior)'. (Platts p.1128) karam : 'Generosity, liberality; nobleness, excellence; goodness, kindness, benignity; beneficence; bounty; grace, favour, clemency, courtesy, graciousness'. (Platts p.826) sharm : 'Shame, bashfulness, modesty'. (Platts p.725) naa-rasaa))ii : 'Unworthiness, unfitness, incapacity; want of reach or power; inability; failure; unskilfulness; --ill-breeding, unmannerliness'. (Platts p.1110) paarsaa))ii : 'Abstinence, temperateness, continence, chastity, purity, virtue, holiness'. (Platts p.217)

Nazm: That is, in order to give an offering to the generous one, my shame and humility go bearing the gift of that claim of abstinence, at the hands of whose hundred-strandedness they have already turned to blood. 'The gift of the shame of failure' is the subject of 'is', and the second line is entirely informative, about the reason and extreme extent of the giving of the gift 'by way of an offering of/to generosity'. (24-25)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Because of my sins, I could not obtain access to the Court of God. And despite my sins, God Most High has bestowed on me many kinds of grace and favor. Now, in return for those benefits, I present the gift of 'shame of failure'. That is, even despite my sins, with those vain longings for sins that have turned to blood in my heart, and are of hundreds of kinds-- with them I present the claim of purity as well. (49)

Bekhud Mohani: The gist is that to make attempts [at mystical achievement], and also to be ashamed in the state of failure-- those two things were within my power. Those things, I did. Now it's not impossible that the Lord, out of his mercy, would forgive my sins. (59)

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Baqir: [The commentator Suha says:] rang also means 'ardor'. Thus the dark deeds of debauchery may also be intended. (87)

Shadan: I'm convinced that I'm deficient in understanding the poetry of Ghalib. If I consider any verse too difficult for my understanding, I copy its meaning from Hasrat and Nazm. (153)

Chishti: This verse is an extremely fine example of Ghalib's difficulty-loving style. The matter is very commonplace, but he has expressed it in such a way that the hearer would be struck with astonishment. This is ;Gaalibiyat ['Ghalibness', or 'prevailing over']. (327)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT; TRANSITIVITY SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} Ghalib originally composed one ghazal of eight verses, and another of six verses (Raza p. 119), from which he selected the eight verses (Hamid p. 22) that he combined into a new ghazal and included in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. This one makes me sympathize with the hapless Shadan; I feel like lamenting too. Yet Shadan of all the commentators, once he gets going, is most inclined to rewrite Ghalib's verses in his own inimitable style. See {1,1} for a splendid example of what he himself calls 'applying a canvas patch to satin'. Above all, this verse takes great advantage of the multivalence of the i.zaafat construction; it also provides a fine example of how readily the kaa / ke / kii possessives can be made to show exactly the same flexibility. Just consider the following range of alternatives: = na;zr-e karam can be an offering 'to' graciousness (to God, etc.); or an offering 'of' graciousness (the speaker offers up his gracious behavior) = sharm-e naa-rasaa))ii can be the shame 'of' failure or unworthiness (an emotion the speaker feels about some kind of failure he has been guilty of); or a shame that itself consists of unworthiness or failure (a sense of unworthiness that is itself a source or a kind of shame) = sharm-e naa-rasaa))ii kaa tu;hfah can be the gift 'of' that shame (that particular kind of shame is given as a gift); or a gift given 'by' that shame (that shame is the giver of some gift) = paarsaa))ii kaa da((vaa can be a claim 'of' purity (someone is claiming to be pure); or it can be a claim made by Purity) = bah ;xuu;N-;Galtiidah-e .sad-rang can describe the state of the 'claim of purity' (the claim happens to be in a dire condition, writhing in colorful blood) (2a); or it can define the 'claim of purity' (the claim itself is constituted by being in a dire condition, writhing in colorful blood) (2b). If we take the second line as a copulative construction with an implicit 'is', then the two lines have a general parallelism, with the structure 'A is B'-which means, of course, that they could equally well be read 'B is A'. The gift of the 'shame of failure' is what I present by way of an offering to Generosity or Graciousness (God?)-- or, an offering born 'of' my own generosity, which reflects my own open-handedness. Since I couldn't succeed in some task, or since I generally feel unworthy, my 'shame of failure/unworthiness' is all I have to offer, and it indeed is a gift, because it shows the valuable rightness and humility of my attitude. (Compare {3,5}, which has an even greater emphasis on shame.) In a related(?) and/or parallel fashion, the claim of purity is 'in a state of having writhed in blood in a hundred ways/colors'. There could be the

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parallelism of having both lines refer to the same situation: my guilt, shame, and humility before God, which nevertheless results in a perverse sort of 'purity' or virtue. This virtue seems to derive from my intense awareness of my own sinfulness-- thus I not only feel the shame of failure, but literally 'writhe in blood', which sounds like an extreme form of squirming in embarrassment. The second line, apart from showing Ghalib's great love of paradox, reminds me of the second line {230,7}, dast-e tah-e sang aamadah paimaan-e vafaa hai -- a hand trapped under a stone is a proof of faithfulness. There's an element of helplessness and compulsion that is only superficially cynical; it's really part of the genuineness of the claim. Similarly here, the claim of purity is not severe and austere, but in a blood-drenched, writhing, struggling, flailing, wounded condition. In both cases, the humanness of the means to superhuman ends is what comes through. Of course, these are just some of the possible ways of assembling the permutations of readings; others could easily be added. This verse's paradoxical line of thought is continued in the next verse, {24,2}, in which the very same daav;aa paarsaa))ii kaa is proved by the 'seal' of a hundred glances.

{24,2} nah ho ;husn-e tamaashaa-dost rusvaa be-vafaa))ii kaa bah muhr-e .sad-na:zar ;saabit hai daav;aa paarsaa))ii kaa 1a) may spectacle-loving Beauty not be disgraced for faithlessness! 1b) would spectacle-loving Beauty not be disgraced for faithlessness? 1c) spectacle-loving Beauty would not be disgraced for faithlessness 2) with the seal of a hundred gazes the claim of purity/chastity is proved

Notes: paarsaa))ii : 'Abstinence, temperateness, continence, chastity, purity, virtue, holiness'. (Platts p.217)

Nazm: The poet taunts the wandering beloved-- why, who can call you faithless? If a hundred men's glances are on you, then it's as if there are a hundred seals affirming that you are pure. And the opposite interpretation of this taunt is that by being a lover of spectacles and gazing at the Others, where is the purity, and how can you escape from the disgrace and ill repute of treachery and faithlessness? (25)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By 'spectacle-loving Beauty' is meant that Beauty whose radiance/appearance can be seen in every grain of sand and every leaf, and the beholders think, Our friend is showing his glory in every place, every mood, every substance. And then he's not present anywhere. He doesn't establish himself anywhere. At the same time, the reproach of faithlessness cannot be lodged against him. The gazes of hundreds of beholders put, and have put, the stamp on this theme: that 'we were not able to obtain access even to his curtain'. That is, purity exists to this extent: that no glance has obtained access even as far as the curtain. So who can challenge the truth of the claim of purity? (49)

Naiyar Masud: In my opinion the verse's true interpretation is, to put it briefly, that spectacle-loving Beauty is pure, is not unfaithful, but can be disgraced. (152) [Since Beauty is spectacle-loving, it looks at others and, as a result, others look at Beauty.] Simply through being spectacle-loving, this glance of Beauty's will be innocent; that is, in that glance the claim of purity will be present, and this uncontaminated intention-free glance itself will put the seal of truthfulness

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on that claim. And this very glance will make even the one who falls in love with Beauty, a believer in Beauty's purity.... Because of Beauty's love of spectacle, this will happen to many. That is, the number of her lovers, and of testifiers to her purity, will grow very large. And every testifier among them will be convinced of Beauty's kindness to him. ....Now can there be any doubt that Beauty's unfaithfulness will become well known? And the reason for that disgrace will be that same intention-free glance that is the proof of her purity, but that makes others her lovers. (15859)

FWP: GAZE: {10,12} TAMASHA: {8,1} Formally speaking, this is a second, supererogatory opening-verse. In fact, it's the opening-verse of the other of the two ghazals from which Ghalib originally chose the verses that he combined into a new ghazal and published in his divan. Both opening-verses use the same rhyme-word. Obviously Ghalib had no objection to re-using rhyme words in the same ghazal; this is only a particularly clear example among a number of other such repetitions. And this verse also continues the paradoxical line of thought of the previous verse, {24,1}, in which the very same 'claim of purity'-- a daav;aa paarsaa)ii kaa -- is writhing in blood. The first line is inshaa))iyah and multivalent in Ghalib's usual style, in ways that we have seen so often: (1a) expresses a hope, (1b) asks a question, and (1c) makes a (contingent) statement. And of course, we can't interpret the first line until we've been made to wait (under mushairah performance conditions) for the second. In the typical Ghalibian manner, the second line turns out to evoke, and wryly or amusingly address, all three possible readings of the first line. Beauty loves show and spectacle-- loves showing itself, seeing everything, being at the center of the action. It thus seems to be at risk for accusations of faithlessness, fickleness, some kind of visual promiscuity. Beauty's defense against the charge is a document under seal, upon which many witnesses have stamped their marks, just as would be appropriate for a court proceeding. But in this case, instead of applying a round personal seal to the document, the witnesses have applied their round eyes, leaving marks of their gazes. Does this count as a defense, or a proof of guilt? The commentators have explored some of the ramifications and implications. Moreover, the 'spectacle' [tamaashaa] that Beauty loves can have mystical as well as this-worldly dimensions. For discussion of these implications, see {8,1}.

{24,3}* zakaat-e ;husn de ay jalvah-e biinish kih mihr-aasaa chiraa;G-e ;xaanah-e darvesh ho kaasah gadaa))ii kaa 1) give [religious] alms of beauty, oh glory/radiance of sight, so that like the sun 2a) a begging bowl may be the lamp of the Darvesh's house 2b) a lamp of the Darvesh's house may be the begging bowl

Notes: Nazm: The begging bowl is a metaphor for the heart. He says, Oh locus of the glory/manifestation of sight, illumine the begging-bowl of my heart with alms of mystical knowledge, so that it would become a lamp for this mendicant [faqiir] and would, like the sun, turn the dark night of ignorance into day. (25)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: It's addressed to the Divine Beloved. Mirza Sahib says, Give zakaat [alms] of beauty; that is, if even one-fortieth part of beauty would reach me in a whole year, then like the sun, the begging bowl would be illumined and would become the lamp of the Darvesh's house. (50)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, just as you have given zakaat of beauty to the sun and made it brimful of light, in the same way be generous to the eyes of the lover's ardor. (60)

FWP: SETS == MIDPOINTS; TRANSITIVITY ISLAMIC: {10,2} JALVAH: {7,4} SUN: {10,5} Is it a begging bowl, or a lamp, that is like the sun? Both are round (we're thinking of an oil lamp of course). If the begging bowl is like the sun as in (2a), then their common feature is that after you've given alms of your radiance to the bowl, it will glow with light like the sun and illumine my house like a lamp. If the lamp is like the sun as in (2b), then their common feature is they've both assumed the form of a begging bowl, pleading for alms of your radiant beauty-- the sun is a large bowl of your charitably-given radiance, and my lamp is a small one. Isn't that clever, and isn't that simple and also lovely? Oil lamp and begging bowl are made reversible, and 'like the sun' is positioned to go either way: it's placed at the end of the first line, so that its proper insertion into the grammar of the second line isn't clearly given. Urdu grammar is an exceptionally versatile tool, and here it's being wielded by a master. For another request (much less elegant, but very amusing) to the beloved for 'alms' of favor see {162,9}. And for a less benign look at the beloved's supernaturally fiery nature, see {178,2}.

{24,4} nah maaraa jaan kar be-jurm ;Gaafil terii gardan par rahaa maanind-e ;xuun-e be-gunah ;haq aashnaa))ii kaa 1) you didn't kill [me], knowing [me] guiltless-- heedless one, on your neck 2) remained, like the blood of the innocent, the right/claim of friendship

Notes: Hali: He says that you, considering him unoffending, did not kill that one who was eager to be murdered, so that you would not take the blood of the innocent on your neck. But now on your neck, instead of the blood of the innocent, the right of friendship will remain. (140)

Nazm: He blames her: the claim of friendship was that you should have killed me. You considered me innocent, and so turned aside from my murder. But you didn't know that the right of friendship is on your neck the way the blood of an innocent would have been. (25)

Bekhud Mohani: You didn't consider me to be one who longed for you, and kept me deprived of airs and graces. This was your error. I was ardent for coquetry; you didn't fulfill the claim of friendship, and this indictment has remained on you forever. (60)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS

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The idea that blood can be on one's 'neck' is as commonplace in Urdu as the counterpart idea in English that someone's blood can be on someone else's 'head'. Both idioms use blood as a metaphor for guilt, like the 'burden' of guilt that the sinner carries on his 'shoulders'. The same kind of guilt can result in one's owing a 'blood-price'; for discussion, see {21,9}. I think the center of the verse is the strange idea-- hardly a visual image, it's too abstract-- that the 'right/claim of friendship' is something that can be on someone's neck like blood, as though friendship had been slain and the beloved could be reproached for having the blood of 'the right of friendship' on her head (or neck, in Urdu). This does put the unfortunate beloved in a difficult position: her choice seems to be only between two kinds of bloodguilt. Presumably she is called 'heedless' because she didn't realize the problem: she thought, wrongly, that by refusing to kill an innocent person she would escape blood-guilt. I don't think there's a lot in it, really. For a better, more complex verse on the same general theme (the beloved's unwillingness to slay the lover), see {19,4}.

{24,5} tamannaa-e zabaa;N ma;hv-e sipaas-e be-zabaanii hai mi;Taa jis se taqaa.zaa shikvah-e be-dast-o-paa))ii kaa 1) the longing of/for the tongue is absorbed in the praise/thanks of/for tonguelessness 2) through which was erased the claim/demand of/for the complaint of {helplessness/'hand-and-footless-ness'}

Notes: sipaas : 'Praise, thanksgiving'. (Platts p.634) taqaa.zaa : 'Demanding or exacting payment (of a debt), dunning; pressing the settlement of a claim; demand, requisition, claim; exigence, urgency, importunity'. (Platts p.329)

Nazm: The poet mentions two matters of his heart: first, the longing for selfexpression, and second, the complaint of helplessness. The claim of the complaint was that it be mentioned. But when because of tonguelessness its claim was erased, it was as if this was a kindness on the part of tonguelessness. The longing for self-expression is absorbed in thanks for this kindness. The result is that my level of endurance is now so much elevated that I don't complain about my helplessness, and having seen this benefit of tonguelessness even the longing for self-expression has vanished from my heart. (25)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my longing is this too: that I would ask from you a tongue such that I would be able to use it in your court for expressing my situation. But before this plea or prayer, my tongue became absorbed in the praise of tonguelessness. That is, because I didn't receive that special tongue, there was the benefit that I wasn't able to present in your court the complaint of helplessness. And from that there was the benefit that in place of a tongue of complaint, the rank of acceptance and contentment was bestowed upon me. (50)

Bekhud Mohani: First the longing was that a speaking tongue would be bestowed upon me, so that I would be able to complain of my oppressions. But now, constantly remaining silent, I have become absorbed in thankfulness for that same longing for tonguelessness. Because its blessing was that the longing to complain of oppression did not remain.

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FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; IZAFAT INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} There are remarkable i.zaafat permutations lurking in this verse, generated by the rich possibilities of (semi-)personification. In the first line, it appears that the 'longing' itself, as an active entity, is 'absorbed in praise', so it's clearly at least semi-personified. And once we know that the verse is moving in that direction, where do the semi-personifications stop? Consider the following permutations: = tamanna-e zabaa;N might be the longing for a tongue (felt by someone unspecified); or it might be the longing of a tongue (felt by the tongue, for something unspecified) = sipaas-e be-zabaanii might be the praise of tonguelessness (expressed by someone unspecified); or it might be the praise/thanks expressed (or at least felt?) by tonguelessness itself (for something unspecified) = shikvah-e be-dast-o-paa))ii might be a complaint about limblessness (made by someone unspecified); or it might be the complaint made by limblessness itself (about something unspecified) = shikvah-e be-dast-o-paa))ii kaa taqaazah might be the claim/demand to make a complaint of limblessness (to someone unspecified); or it might be the claim/demand made by the complaint of limblessness itself (about something unspecified) All these possibilities are undeniably latent in the grammar, but I don't want to spend a lot of time drawing them out, because the grammar itself is so vague that the process quickly becomes uninteresting. (How much can we care about what abstract entity is making a 'claim of a complaint' about something else abstract?) Certainly with enough ingenuity some readings could be put together, but somehow the whole verse isn't enticing enough to make the project seem worthwhile. Nazm's reading is the one that would leap to mind at once; it's hard to believe it wasn't in the forefront of Ghalib's own mind. I would add to Nazm's explanation a tribute to the word/meaning play. To make 'tonguelessness' (or by extension, 'speechlessness') the cure for 'limblessness' (literally, 'hand-and-foot-lessness') is an morbidly ingenious and striking contrivance. The idea that the 'longing for a tongue' should be extremely grateful for being rescued (by tonguelessness) from expression (of a complaint) is another fascinatingly twisted idea. It's a kind of 'catch-22' situation: one wants to complain of one's deprivation, but that very deprivation is exactly what prevents one from complaining. What I see at the bottom of it is that same Ghalibian notion of radical independence, of refusing to be beholden to anyone for anything. To complain of one's limblessness would seem to express discontent with one's own resources, and perhaps even to beg for relief (from God?). Thanks to tonguelessness, the speaker is saved from such humiliating self-abasement.

{24,6} vuhii ik baat hai jo yaa;N nafas vaa;N nak'hat-e gul hai chaman kaa jalvah baa((i;s hai mirii rangii;N-navaa))ii kaa 1) it is that same single/unique/excellent thing that here is breath, there is the breath/scent of the rose 2) the glory/appearance of the garden is the cause/reason of my colorfulvoicedness

Notes: ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113)

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nafas : 'Breath, respiration; --the voice or sound from the breast; --a moment, an instant'. (Platts p.1144) nak'hat : 'Smell of the breath; odour, perfume'. (Steingass p.1423) baa((i;s : 'Occasion, cause, reason, motive, incentive; subject, author'. (Platts p.123) navaa : 'Voice, sound; modulation; song; air; --a certain musical tone or mood'. (Platts p.1157)

Nazm: The conclusion is that my breath is not less than the scent of the rose, for the cause of both is identical. (25)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, between my breath and the scent of the rose there's no difference. It's just the same thing-- that is, they both achieve the rank of identity. And The cause of this is the radiance of the garden, the spring season, and the enthusiasm of the rose. In the garden, the scent of the rose is created by the enthusiasm of the rose, and I, seeing the spring/flourishing of the garden, begin composing colorful-voiced ghazals. (50)

Bekhud Mohani: In the radiance of spring, color and scent in the flowers, and colorfulvoicedness in the wine-flagon, are born. The flower gives off scent, and the nightingale (poet) warbles. [Or:] By the power of the Lord, scent in the flower and poetic imagination in the heart of the poet appear. Professor Iqbal composes just such a one: yih chaa;Nd aasmaa;N kaa shaa((ir kaa dil hai goyaa jo chaa;Ndnii vahaa;N hai yaa;N dard kii kasak hai [this moon of the sky is as if it's the poet's heart what there is moonlight, is here the fever of pain]. (61)

Arshi: Compare {202,8}. (301)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EK; HERE/THERE; POETRY JALVAH: {7,4} On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6} (which happens also to use the jalvahe gul , though in very different circumstances). This verse provides an excellent illustration of the beauty of 'A,B' construction. The two lines are grammatically and semantically independent- and as so often, it's left for us to decide how to connect them. Do they both describe the same situation, through two different kinds of imagery? Is the real subject the breath/scent identification in the first line, with the second line only supplying a special case or illustration? Is the real subject the glory of the garden and my colorful-voicedness in the second line, with the first line supplying only an incidental gloss on the nature of their production? Or do the two lines describe two quite separate situations? (And in this case, are we to consider them comparable, or different, or complexly related-- and in what ways?) Undoubtedly, the verse evokes and plays on all the senses. The perfume of the rose, the radiant appearance of the garden, and my colorful-voicedness are all somehow connected, or at least analogized. The scent or 'smell of the breath' (see the definition above) of the rose, borne by the metaphorical 'breath' of the breeze, is equated with the poet's breath in line 1. And the sight of the garden's glory leads directly to sound: to the poet's voice and recitation, in line 2. The irresistible glory of spring blurs categories and causes an overflow and outflow of spirit, a diffusing of self into the world. The result is song-- or (what else?) poetry, as is made clearer in {202,8}, the verse that Arshi points out. In that verse the coming of spring is specifically linked with saudaa-e ;Gazal-;xvaanii , the madness of ghazal-recitation; but

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is it a joyous madness? The overtones in that verse are much more ambivalent. This sensual springtime verse that exults in the expressive 'colorfulvoicedness' of song follows immediately upon the abstract and paradoxical {24,5}, which was a praise of 'tonguelessness'. There could hardly be a clearer illustration of the autonomy of the individual verse and the ghazal's disdain for Aristotelian 'organic unity'.

{24,7} dahaan-e har but-e pai;Gaarah-juu zanjiir-e rusvaa))ii ((adam tak be-vafaa charchaa hai terii be-vafaa))ii kaa 1) the mouth of every slander-seeking idol [is] a chain-link of disgrace/notoriety 2) until nonexistence, faithless one, there is discussion/mention/gossip of your faithlessness

Notes: pai;Gaarah : 'Slander; railing, abuse'. (Steingass p.268) charchaa : 'Repetition, recitation, careful perusal, consideration, deliberation, reflection; investigation, inquiry; discussion, argument; attention (to business), engagedness; prevalence; talking over past events, mentioning, incidental mention, discourse, popular talk, report, rumour, gossip; --practising, applying, cultivating (science, &c.); adoring'. (Platts p.429)

Nazm: That is, every sarcastic mouth is a link in the chain of disgrace. In the first line, 'is' is omitted. And they call the mouths of beautiful ones 'nonexistent'. So when the mention of your faithlessness is in their mouths, it's as if it has arrived at 'nonexistence', and on the feet of your good name the chains of disgrace have been fastened. (26)

Hasrat: The device [tarkiiib] of the 'chain-link of disgrace' is extremely farfetched. (25)

Bekhud Mohani: Whether it be Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i or Janab Hasrat or Shaukat, they all make of the circles of the mouths of beautiful ones, a chain of disgrace. It doesn't even occur to any of them that usually sarcastic people, while making sarcastic remarks about someone, go on smiling. If the venerable commentators had turned their attention this way, then during a smile, the curl [shikan] of the lips presents the image of a chain. Mirza says 'the mouth of every idol'. He doesn't say 'the mouths of idols' [as in a linked chain]. So how can this meaning exist? (61)

FWP: EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3} IDOL: {8,1} SPEAKING: {14,4} Bekhud Mohani to the contrary, Nazm and the commentarial consensus surely provide a richer meaning. A mouth is round like a link in a chain; a mouth is also widely open and round to express surprise, (assumed) shock, or the relish of a scandal; or often simply in the course of emphatic conversation. After all, these are 'slander-seeking' idols. We are expecting the chain of their round, linked, scandal-bearing mouths to continue 'till Doomsday' [qiyaamat tak], or something of the sort; so that ((adam tak , 'till nonbeing', comes as a piquant pleasure, something that demands attention. Ghalib is playing with a conventional rhetorical trope: evoking it, and then thwarting or complicating it. For more on this trick of his see {21,10}.

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In the ghazal world, a small mouth is a sign of beauty; and hyperbole is a poetic flourish, a sign of free-wheeling ingenuity. The beloved accordingly has a mouth vanishingly small, a mouth that really almost doesn't exist at all. (For more on this striking fact, see {91,4}.) The implication seems to be that the beloved's ill-fame is passed along as gossip among various beloveds' tiny mouths until it pervades the whole realm of existence and even reaches beyond it into the realm of 'nonexistence'. And that's not a gradual process destined to occur over time, with a culmination at some future point: the 'is' brings it right into the present. Even as we speak, the lover tells his beloved, round little (virtually nonexistent) mouths are eagerly gossiping about her disgraceful faithlessness in all the worlds-- not only in the world of existence, but in the world of nonexistence as well.

{24,8} nah de naale ko itnaa :tuul ;Gaalib mu;xta.sar likh de kih ;hasrat-sanj huu;N ((ar.z-e sitamhaa-e judaa))ii kaa 1) don't give the lament/complaint so much length, Ghalib, write {an abstract / briefly} 2) that 'I am a longing-{measurer/examiner} of the breadth/petition of the tyrannies of separation'

Notes: mu;xta.sar : 'Abridged, curtailed, abbreviated, contracted; concise; small; --a compendium, abridgment, an epitome; an abstract; a digest; --adv. In short, briefly'. (Platts p.1011) sanj : 'Weigher, measurer; examiner (used as last member of compounds, e.g., na;Gmah-sanj or taraanah-sanj , s.m., A measurer of sounds, i.e. a musician; --su;xan-sanj , s.m. A weigher of words; an orator; a poet)'. (Platts p.681) ((ar.z : 'Presenting or representing; representation, petition, request, address; --(v.n. fr. 'to be broad'), s.m. Breadth, width; (in Geog.) latitude; --a military muster, a review'. (Platts p.760)

Nazm: [He has taken some liberties with the usage of -sanj , though they can be defended.] And it's not devoid of embellishment. (26)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Oh Ghalib, when you lengthen the letter by writing all kinds of laments and all types of complaints, what's the point? Write a shortish sentence, that I have in my heart a longing to express the tyrannies of separation and the suffering of being apart. (51)

Josh: sanj has an affinity with voice and melody. But now shikvah-sanj [complaint-reciting], ;hasrat-sanj , etc. too are more meaningful.... The theme of the verse is clear. (87)

Arshi: Compare {132,7}. (256)

FWP: SETS == POETRY WRITING: {7,3} The kih can definitely mark the second line as a quotation, literal or paraphrased, of what is written in response to the injunction in the first line. Or could it perhaps introduce a reason justifying the first line-- I tell myself to write pithily, not at length, because I am a ;hasrat-sanj etc. who knows how to weigh proportions? The commentators prefer the first alternative, and I agree that it's the primary and obvious one, since the second possibility would require us to shift between second person and first person for self-

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address in a way that would certainly feels a bit awkward. In fact, I can't think of another example in which Ghalib has made such a switch; so maybe the second sense of kih is just not operative here. Ghalib has done a lovely thing with sanj and ((ar.z , by exploiting the wide range of their meanings. The lover adjures himself to cut to the chase, to describe the essence of his situation. He is then summed up as either a a strange kind of surveyor (a 'longing-measurer' of 'breadths') or a strange kind of expert judge (a 'longing-examiner' of 'petitions'). In other words, even when the lover urges himself to make a brief, pithy [mu;xta.sar] abstract or statement of his situation, the result remains elusive. The lover wraps up his whole life within a single claim to a terrible kind of expertise: he's a professional assessor of suffering.

Ghazal 25

9 verses (out of 11); rhyming elements: aa;N ho jaa))egaa composed 1816; Arshi #24

{25,1} gar nah andoh-e shab-e furqat bayaa;N ho jaa))egaa be-takalluf daa;G-e mah muhr-e dahaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) if the grief/anxiety/trouble of the night of separation will not be expressed 2a) {unceremoniously / to speak candidly}, the scar on the moon will become a seal on the mouth 2b) {unceremoniously / to speak candidly}, the seal on the mouth will become a scar on the moon

Notes: be-takalluf : 'Without ceremony, unceremonious, frank'. (Platts p.201)

Nazm: That is, if the sadness of the night of separation would not be able to be expressed, then consider that it [i.e., what you saw] was not a scar on the moon, but rather a seal on my lips. (26)

Bekhud Dihlavi: If the grief and sorrow of the night of separation won't be expressed, and you won't listen attentively to it, then great harm will come about: the scar that is on the moon will become a seal on my mouth, that is, the way the whole world sees the scar on the moon, in the same way the state of my troubles in separation from you will be revealed to all. (51)

Bekhud Mohani: If I do not unburden my heart of the load of complaint and lament, but restrain myself, then there's no doubt that silence will attach itself to me forever. And this scar on the moon will serve as a seal on my lips. (62)

Chishti: Let it be clear that the scar on the moon and the seal on my mouth have no logical connection. Only the rareness of the simile is kept in view. (332-33)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of eleven verses (Raza p. 122; Raza p. 123), from which he chose nine (Hamid p. 23) for publication in his divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices. Both (2a) and (2b) are noticed by the commentators, but no commentator notices them both. Nazm considers that the seal on my lips might appear as a

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scar on the moon (2b), while the two Bekhuds consider that the scar on the moon would become a seal on my lips (2a). For a similar confusion between a 'hidden scar' [daa;G-e nihaa;N] and the sun, see {62,8}. Such linkages between the lover and the natural world-usually with preeminence given to the lover-- are a favorite of Ghalib's. After all, in {24,3} we saw that the sun itself perhaps shines only because it has begged alms of the beloved's radiant beauty. Silence is virtually impossible, expression is longed-for-- so that if silence is required and actually achieved, it can only be by a huge cataclysm of some kind. And of course, the night of separation is just when the scarred moon would be the lover's only companion. Another cataclysmic way to achieve silence would be to attain a state of tonguelessness, as in {24,5}. But failing that, having a scar on the moon to seal your lips, or having your lips sealed so forcefully that the seal is equivalent to a scar on the moon, would probably also do the job. On the double sense of be-takalluf , see {65,1}. Placed as it is, it can here adverbially describe how the action of the scar and seal would occur (abruptly, with no further ado). Or as a stylized introductory formula like 'to tell you the truth', it can describe the manner in which the speaker is expressing himself (candidly, freely, informally), and thus also create an enjoyable affinity with the claim of thwarted expression in the first line.

{25,2} zahrah gar aisaa hii shaam-e ;hijr me;N hotaa hai aab partav-e mahtaab sail-e ;xaan-maa;N ho jaa))egaa 1a) if during the evening of separation the gall-bladder [habitually] is only/emphatically such water/luster 1b) if during the evening of separation one is [habitually] terrified only/emphatically in such a way 2) [then] the ray of moonlight will become a flow/torrent in the household

Notes: zahrah : 'Gall-bladder; bile; --boldness, spirit, pluck: -- zahrah aab honaa , lit. 'The gall to turn to water,' to be much distressed or terrified, to be panicstricken, to take fright'. (Platts p.619) aab : 'Water; water or lustre (in gems); temper (of steel, &c.); edge or sharpness (of a sword, &c.); sparkle, lustre; splendour; elegance; dignity, honour, character, reputation'. (Platts p.1) sail : 'A flowing; a flow of water, a torrent, a current'. (Platts p.712) ;xaan-maa;N : 'House and home, household furniture, everything belonging to the house; household, family'. (Platts p.486)

Nazm: That is, the terror of the night of separation turns everyone's gall-bladder to water. So how would it be strange if the moonlight's gall-bladder too would turn to water, and it would become a flood for my house. (26)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if this rule has been established that the harshnesses of the evening of separation turn the gall-bladder into water, and cause it to weep tears of blood, then it's not strange that moonlight would become a flood of water and carry away the doors and walls of my house. (52)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse too [as in the previous one], he has not set foot on the common highway. He says, When my gall-bladder turns to water like this from the terror of the night of separation, then it looks to me as if moonlight will become a flood for the destruction of my house. (62)

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FWP: SETS == IDIOMS HOME: {14,9} The intriguing little phrase aisaa hii shouldn't be missed. The gall-bladder doesn't habitually turn to just any old water, but to 'only/emphatically such water'. (And the phrase isn't adverbial, or else it would be aise hii .) But what does the 'such' mean? As so often, Ghalib leaves us to figure it all out for ourselves. The only clue we get is-- the second line. It's clear that we're dealing with imagery that juxtaposes and intertwines light and water. Thus we notice the complexity of aab , which strongly evokes, among other things, 'luster, brilliance' (in English too we speak of a diamond 'of the first water'). What would it take to make a 'ray of moonlight' into a 'torrent in the household'? Well, one obvious starting point is that all this happens in the lover's chamber during the 'evening of separation', which is, as everybody in the ghazal world knows, extremely, opaquely, hopelessly dark. And the idea of small rays of light looking extra-brilliant as they come through the crevicework in the wall, or even of cotton-bits that look bright by contrast to the intense darkness that surrounds them, is one that Ghalib liked to play with. Of these three examples, {87,4}, {113,2}, and {113,4}, the latter even makes use of moonlight as part of its contrastive dark-light imagery. So if during these dire evenings the gall-bladder (or the bile that it produces) is of 'only/emphatically such water/luster', there's a double sense of panic and horror on the emotional side (from the idiomatic sense of zahrah aab honaa ), and extreme darkness (where 'such a luster' means such a total lack of luster, such grimly extreme blackness) on the physical. Thus the evening of separation makes the gall-bladder (or the bile that it produces) so morbidly dark that by sheer contrast, a single ray of moonlight looks as powerful and overwhelming as a torrent or flood. With a nice subtlety, even something that ought to be a source of comfort or hope-- a ray of moonlight filtering into the lover's radical darkness-- itself becomes a fresh cause for panic. Nazm compares the moon to a lover, so that its gall-bladder too turns to water during the horrors of the night of separation. Thus the moonlight streaming into the lover's darkened house will become a torrent of water/luster [aab]. The first line doesn't specify whose gall-bladder it is, so this reading too seems possible. Bekhud Mohani takes all this as a hallucinatory effect produced as the lover's own gall-bladder turns to water during the night of separation. The lover will be so distraught, disoriented, and paranoid that he will see an innocent ray of moonlight as the waters of a mighty torrent threatening his household. Either the lover experiences grim and pathologically total darkness; or the lover experiences terrifying hallucinations; or the moon behaves like a lover (with possibly dangerous results). In any case, there's no indication of any error or illusion or safe layer of metaphoricalness. The ray of moonlight 'will turn into, will become' [ho jaa))egaa] a flood in the house. During the night of separation, almost anything can do you in. But at the same time, do you ever really attain the luxurious finality of dying? Remember {20,8}.

{25,3} le to luu;N sote me;N us ke paa;Nv kaa bosah magar aisii baato;N se vuh kaafir bad-gumaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) I would take a kiss from/of her foot, in sleep, but 2) from such things that infidel will become distrustful/disaffected

Notes: bad-gumaa;N : 'Suspicious, mistrustful, disaffected, disloyal'. (Platts p.138)

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Nazm: That is, she would then not consider my love to be a pure love. (26)

Hasrat: One meaning of this verse can also be that if the beloved would come in a dream and I would kiss her foot, then she would become distrustful and cease to come even in a dream. (26-27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He has painted pictures of the turmoil of passion and the awesomeness of beauty in such clear and simple words that it is worthy of praise. (52)

FWP: SETS == MIDPOINTS INFIDEL: {21,12} As Hasrat points out, the verse doesn't make clear in whose sleep I might kiss her foot-- in her sleep, or in mine? The phrase sote me;N is cleverly positioned to be quite readable either way. If we take the former reading, that the beloved is asleep, then the lover seems to be in a position of utter submission-- the beloved is so disdainful of him, and so confident of his helplessness, that she is willing to go to sleep in his presence, undisturbed by any thought that he might take advantage of the situation. As in fact he will not, because he knows she will become badgumaa;N, distrustful or suspicious, if he does. Since she is asleep, though, how will she know? Maybe he would be unable to kiss her foot lightly enough not to wake her? Maybe her omniscience (and her deep though subliminal interest in dominating the lover) extends even to the realm of sleep? If we take the latter reading, that the lover is asleep, then we locate the whole scene in the lover's dream. He dreams of the beloved, but even in his dream he's afraid to kiss her foot, for fear of vexing her. Because she so dominates his imagination that he doesn't dare take liberties even with a dream-image of her? Because she's so mysteriously powerfully that her real self will know if he kisses her dream-self's foot? In the latter case, doesn't it imply a deep bond between beloved and lover despite everything, since she carefully monitors (and dominates) even his dreams? And of course, kissing someone's foot is itself a sign of complete humility and subservience-- yet not even that is permitted to the lover.

{25,4} dil ko ham .sarf-e vafaa samjhe the kyaa ma((luum thaa ya((nii yih pahle hii na;zr-e imti;haa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) we had thought the heart would be a use/expenditure of faithfulness-- {as if we knew / 'little did we know'}! 2) that is, at only/emphatically the first, this will become an offering/gift of/to the test/trial

Notes: .sarf : 'Turning; changing, converting; change, conversion; shifting or vicissitude (of fortune); passing, using, employing; use, employment; expending; expenditure'. (Platts p.744) na;zr : 'A vow; an offering, anything offered or dedicated; a gift or present (from an inferior to a superior); a fee paid to the State or to its representative ton succeeding to an office or to property'. (Platts p.1128) imti;haa;N : 'Trial, test, proof, experiment; examination; inquiry'. (Platts p.81)

Nazm: That is, even while he was being tested, it would be finished off; he didn't know this. (26)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, We had thought that we would expend the heart in doing tasks of faithfulness, and for our whole life it would keep us company in faithfulness. We didn't know that it would be offered up to the beloved's very first test. (52)

Josh: We thought that the heart would always keep us company in faithfulness. We didn't know that on the occasion of a test, in one single glance it would be finished off, and we would have to traverse the road of faith without any friend or companion. (88)

FWP: TESTING: {4,4} In Indo-Muslim court protocol, a na;zr is an offering presented to a ruler or superior at the time when you meet him (it's usually a 'him') and pay your respects. It's a way of expressing your submission and showing that you appreciate the honor of being presented to him, and that you and your resources are at his service. His proper response is to accept the na;zr , receive you graciously, and eventually present you in return with gifts more valuable than your na;zr , usually including a ;xil((at or robe of honor that includes (symbolically if not actually) garments that he himself has worn. Of course, the lover approaching the beloved has the worst of all worlds. His na;zr is his own heart, apparently ripped from him unexpectedly, since he had been planning to use it over time in the beloved's service. And the offering is made not even necessarily to the beloved herself, but to (or as part of) the imti;haa;N , the initial test or examination or ordeal that will establish his acceptability as a lover. No graciousness here, no robe of honor! After suffering through the test, he may be accepted as a lover-- but what will he have left to give? His one greatest offering is already gone forever. But of course, perhaps this instantaneous giving represents a triumph. Consider {27,6}, in which the lover is unable to refrain from handing over his heart at the beloved's very first flirtatious gesture. Perhaps his lot is really the fortunate state of the instantly-accepted mystical lover: perhaps the lover is like a Moth who doesn't waste time circling, but flies at once straight into the candle-flame. For after all, what is the tone of this verse? Rueful? Amused? Regretful? Amazed? Bewildered? The tone will make all the difference; and as so often, we're left to choose it for ourselves. And of course, we choose it afresh every time we recite the verse.

{25,5} sab ke dil me;N hai jagah terii jo tuu raa.zii hu))aa mujh pah goyaa ik zamaanah mihr-baa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) in everyone's heart is your place; if you become favorable 2) to me, so to speak, a single/certain/unique/excellent age/world will become gracious/propitious

Notes: hu))aa is the perfect, but is idiomatically used here as a subjunctive; GRAMMAR ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) zamaanah : 'Time, period, duration; season; a long time; an age ... ;--the world; the heavens; fortune, destiny'. (Platts p.617) mihr-baa;N : 'Loving, affectionate, friendly, kind, benevolent, beneficent, favouring, indulgent, gracious, propitious; compassionate, merciful; --s.m. A friend'. (Platts p.1099)

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Nazm: When you are in everyone's heart, then if you become favorable toward me, everyone's hearts will become favorable toward me. (26)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He's composed an extraordinarily eloquent [balii;G] verse. (52)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh beloved, all hold you dear. If you become pleased with me, then the whole world will become gracious to me. 'You' can only be taken to mean the Lord. (63)

FWP: SETS == EK On the use of jo for 'if', see {20,9}. On first reading it seems to be a normal sort of thing: everybody cherishes you and values you, so your image has a (metaphorical) place in everybody's heart, and if you are favorable to me, then everybody will imitate your behavior. But there's another, more literal, very strange and provocative reading. For in the second line it becomes clear that what is in everybody's heart is no ordinary passive image of you, but literally you yourself. For if you adopt a favorable attitude toward me, then instantaneously all the world/generation will do so. There doesn't seem to be any intermediary stage of observation and imitation. Or rather, it's 'as if' all the world/generation will do so-- goyaa means 'so to speak' or 'as if'. Does this represent some kind of qualification? Maybe it represents another possibility: because you dwell (chiefly? especially?) in people's hearts, you command their deep, essential feelings. So if you are favorable to me, that's all I need: it's 'as if' everybody was favorable, because who gives a damn about 'everybody' anyway, when only you are the underlying principle that animates all their hearts? Bekhud Mohani insists that this verse can only be addressed to God, but I don't see the need for that limitation. The lover's adoration for the beloved, and his sense of her omnipotence, are well up to the level expressed in this verse. Just consider {25,3}.

{25,6} gar nigaah-e garm farmaatii rahii ta((liim-e .zab:t shu((lah ;xas me;N jaise ;xuu;N rag me;N nihaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) if the hot/angry glance keeps commanding/doing the teaching/education of restraint/control 2a) like flame in straw, blood will become hidden in the vein 2b) like blood in the vein, flame will become hidden in straw

Notes: rahii is the perfect, but is idiomatically used here as a subjunctive; GRAMMAR .zab:t : 'Keeping, taking care of, guarding, defending, watching over, ruling, governing; regulation, government, direction, discipline; restraint, control, check'. (Platts p.748)

Nazm: That is, the glance of anger, which hints at me to restrain laments and sighs-from fear of it, it won't be strange if flame becomes hidden in straw like blood in a vein. (26)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if the beloved's disaster-arousing glance keeps on instructing me to hide my heart, then sighs and burning laments will become hidden in the

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frail body of the lover the way blood is hidden in a vein.... and the burning of the heart will dry up the blood, and life will come to an end. (63)

Chishti: This verse is a very fine example of exaggeration.... the effectiveness of the beloved's wrathful glance is such that even fire will hide itself in straw out of fear of it. (335)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; MIDPOINTS FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} The perfect positioning of jaise as what I call (for want of a better term) a 'midpoint' is the main pleasure of the verse. It is placed exactly between two suitable clauses, and might with complete ease be read as applying to either one. Nazm opts for (2b), followed by Chishti; Bekhud Mohani, for (2a). Two whole situations are being compared here: 'flame in straw' and 'blood in the vein': one of them will become hidden like the other. What does it mean that 'blood will become hidden in the vein like flame in straw' (2a)? After all, blood is in the veins all the time. Does it mean that the blood will be terrified and 'hide out' in the veins, refusing to flow (and thus causing death), and thus would be as destructive as flame in straw? Does it mean that the blood will refuse to leave the veins, so that the lover can't weep tears of blood, lacerate his breast, etc. (the way flame refuses to let go of straw)? Does it mean that blood in the vein will act like flame in straw and explode into self-destruction, so that it can't be 'hidden' at all? And what does it mean that 'flame will become hidden in straw like blood in the vein' (2b)? Normally, flame that enters straw for any reason will last only the space of a breath (as {21,5} reminds us). If the flame instantly burns itself out, destroying both itself and the straw, will that be a defiance of the 'lesson of restraint' (the way a lover's blood is unable not to emerge from his veins)? Or will the 'lesson of restraint' be so powerful that the flame will somehow hide itself in straw the way blood hides in veins, and not burn itself out? Or will the very act of burning itself out, and thus annihilating itself, be a form of extreme obedience to the 'lesson of restraint' (as the lover's restraint of his own hot blood probably kills him)? And of course, the beloved's 'hot' glance may well be what starts the flame in the first place, or at least encourages it. Even the first line is not as simple as it looks. If a 'hot' or 'angry' glance imparts a lesson of 'restraint,' does the garm quality of the glance enhance the force of the lesson, because it shows that the beloved is really determined? Or does it diminish the force of the lesson, because the beloved's own anger sets a bad example? Does her anger show that she herself has not learned the lesson, and thus tend to discredit her teaching? Does her 'heat' arouse emotion in the lover too, making 'restraint' less possible? Like so many others, this verse thus becomes a little 'meaning machine', generating multiple permutations and combinations of readings and leaving us unable to resolve them in any clear way.

{25,7} baa;G me;N mujh ko nah le jaa varnah mere ;haal par har gul-e tar ek chashm-e ;xuu;N-fishaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) don't take me into the garden; otherwise, at my condition 2) every moist rose will become a single blood-scattering eye

Notes: Nazm: That is, my state is such that whoever sees it weeps. (27)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the grief and sorrow of passion my condition has become so dire and pathetic that whoever sees me has tears begin flowing uncontrollably from his eyes. If you take me with you into the garden, then the fresh, moist roses will become blood-scattering eyes and shed tears of blood at my condition. The necessary result will be that instead of enjoying a pleasant stroll in the garden, you will experience displeasure. (53)

Bekhud Mohani: 'Garden' can also refer to a pleasure gathering; that is, if I go there, then laughing men will begin to weep. (63)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE EYES {3,1} The lover is apparently so weak that he can't walk unaided, so he has to have help in getting around. But despite (or because of?) his weakened condition he is sympathetic to others: he requests not to be taken into the garden, because the roses will shed tears of blood at his wretchedness. To imagine a fresh, moist, dewy rose as 'a single blood-scattering eye' has an obvious metaphorical grounding. The rose is round like an eye, the dewdrops resemble tears, the teardrops are blood-colored because they are on the red rose. But still-- a garden full of single eyes on stalks, each dripping with blood? It sounds like some dire discovery within a :tilism , in the dastan tradition; or Hatim's tree full of severed heads hanging off its branches. Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit. It isn't the most grotesque image Ghalib ever came up with. But still, if you're going to appreciate it, you have to be remarkably far from the real world, and so deep into ghazal convention that you don't actually form a mental image of round red eyeballs, on stems and dripping blood. I don't see much that's of real interest in this verse. It's the one-dimensional kind that other poets compose all the time, but Ghalib rarely does.

{25,8} vaa))e gar meraa tiraa in.saaf ma;hshar me;N nah ho ab talak to yih tavuqqu(( hai kih vaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) alas, if there wouldn't be justice between you and me on Judgment Day! 2) up till now, there is this expectation/hope: that it will be done there

Notes: tavaqqu(( : 'Expectation, hope; trust, reliance; wish, desire; request'. (Platts p.343)

Nazm: The verse is clear. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: If, God forbid, even on Judgment Day justice would not be done, then it will indeed be a Doomsday [qiyaamat] for me. (53)

Bekhud Mohani: If even on Judgment Day justice would not be done between me and you, then it's a cause for great (vain) longing, because I only got through my life in this world with the thought, all right, so not here-- justice will be done on Judgment Day! The point is that-- ah, what will I do? In this verse the oppression of the downtrodden and the longing for revenge and fear of failure and the rank of the oppressor-- he has portrayed them all. (64)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE DOOMSDAY: {10,11}

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The lover has given up all hope of even fair treatment (not to speak of kind or affectionate treatment) from the beloved during this lifetime. He's been living in expectation, waiting for justice to be meted out on Judgment Day. Oh, if it were not to be done then, what an intolerable disaster it would be! (For a rare example in which the beloved actually gets her comeuppance in this world, see {40,1}.) The pleasure of this verse is in its wildly skewed sense of proportion. Most people live in hope of favors from their lover in this world, or else they renounce them and find a new lover; this lover expects not even justice, yet remains obsessed with the beloved and lives in hope of Judgment Day. Most people fear Judgment Day, when their sins will be weighed in the balance; this lover looks forward to it, since it will provide a confrontation with the beloved and some hope of 'justice' at last. Most people worry about their own fate, both in this world and the next; this lover has only one fear-- that on Judgment Day there would be no 'justice' for him in his complaint against the cruel beloved. That would be a real disaster-- and apparently the only one he considers to be worth even mentioning, much less worrying about. We see the full desperation of his plight-- the radical unrequitedness of his love, his radical refusal to abandon it, his recasting of his whole life, from this world to eternity, in the mold of his passion. We see all this from a single inshaa))iyah exclamation.

{25,9} faa))idah kyaa soch aa;xir tuu bhii daanaa hai asad dostii naa-daa;N kii hai jii kaa ziyaa;N ho jaa))egaa 1) what gain is there? Think! after all, also/even you are wise, Asad 2) it's a fool's friendship; it will be a loss to your inner-self

Notes: daanaa : 'Wise, learned;-- a wise man, a sage'. (Platts p.503) naa-daa;N : 'Ignorant, unlearned; simple, silly; innocent'. (Platts p.1109)

Nazm: It's a proverb, 'A fool's friendship: loss to oneself' [naadaa;N kii dostii jii kaa ziyaa;N]. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pleasure created in this verse is that he wants to deceive his heart and thus turn aside from passion. And this matter is out of the lover's control, that he would renounce passion in fear for his life. (53)

Bekhud Mohani: 'A fool's friendship: loss to oneself' [naadaa;N kii dostii jii kaa ziyaa;N] is a famous proverb. (64)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; IZAFAT; OPPOSITES Here the phrase naadaa;N kii dostii is made to behave with exactly the kind of multivalence characteristic of i.zaafat constructions. The poet is reminded (by himself or by a companion) that as a wise [daanaa] person he ought not to cultivate 'a fool's friendship', and he'll suffer for it if he does. This is a bit of proverbial wisdom, as Nazm points out. Since dostii can refer to love as well as friendship, it's also part of the usual prudent advice that is always given to the lover by well-meaning friends. Thus the affinity of 'gain' in the first line and 'loss' in the second-- for a costbenefit analysis is being urged. The beloved is reckless, unreliable, mischievous, silly, and radically naadaa;N . Nobody with any brains would get involved with somebody like that! So you'd be foolish to cultivate such 'a fool's friendship'-- the friendship of such a fool.

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But of course, naadaa;N kii dostii can mean not only friendship 'with' a fool, but also the friendship 'of' a fool. A daanaa person ought not himself to act like a naadaa;N one, by cultivating such an unsuitable friendship: on this reading, both daanaa and naadaa;N are made to apply to the lover. And what a perfect double description it is. The lover in some sense knows better, but does that ever stop him? As we all know, it doesn't even give him pause.

Ghazal 26 10 verses (out of 10); rhyming elements: aa nah hu))aa composed 1854; Arshi #47

{26,1}* dard minnat-kash-e davaa nah hu))aa mai;N nah achchhaa hu))aa buraa nah hu))aa 1) pain did not become indebted to medicine 2) I didn't become well/good; [it] wasn't ill/bad

Notes: minnat : 'Kindness or service done (to); favour, obligation; --grace, courtesy; --entreaty, humble and earnest supplication; --grateful thanks, praise.' (Platts pp. 1070-71)

Ghalib: [1858:] I never kept my poetry with me. Navab Ziya ud-din Khan and Navab Husain Mirza used to collect it. What I composed, they wrote down. Now both their houses have been looted. Libraries worth thousands of rupees were destroyed. Now I long to see my own poetry. A few days ago a faqir, who has a good voice and is a fine singer too, found a ghazal of mine somewhere and got it written down. When he showed me that piece of paper, believe me, I felt like weeping. I send you the ghazal [{26}, verses 1, 2, 9, 5, 8, 4, 6], and as a reward for it I want an answer to this letter. (Arshi 192) ==text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 710-11 ==trans.: Russell and Islam p. 182 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar pp. 88-89

Nazm: This is not that 'good' that is the opposite of 'bad'; rather, 'to become good/well' means the abating of a disease. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: If I had become well, then the pain of my passion would have been forced to be under an obligation toward medicine, and I didn't want to be indebted to anybody. For this reason, it turned out well that I didn't get well [achchhaa hii hu))aa kih mai;N achchhaa nah hu))aa]. (53)

Arshi: Compare {92,4}, {130,3}. (192, 254)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES GOOD/BAD: {22,4} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of ten verses (Hamid p. 24); he chose to include all of them in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices.

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The 'good/bad' wordplay makes for a fine, paradoxical-sounding second line that forces us to think about it for a moment or two before figuring out how to put it together with the first. This verse is a particularly effective example of what might be called a genuine Ghalibian poetic notion-- namely, that it's shaming to take from others, to be indebted to them, and that this humiliating state is to be avoided as much as possible. Thus if I didn't get well, I console myself by reflecting that at least my pain did not become indebted, minnat-kash , to medicine: it was not obliged to beg and plead, to bow and scrape, to give humble thanks for gracious favors. AN ANECDOTE: In his youth, the famous Delhi Sufi pir Shaikh Nizam udDin Auliya (1244-1325) was a disciple of Shaikh Farid Ganj-i Shakkar of Pakpattan. He lived in Baba Farid's very humble establishment, which was run by the disciples themselves. Once while boiling a wild vegetable ('delah') that had been gathered from the jungle, he realized that there was no salt. He went to a grocer in the neighborhood and bought some salt on credit. When the dish was served, Shaikh Farid reached out to taste it, but then said, 'My hand has become heavier.... Perhaps there is something doubtful in it.' When he learned about the salt, he said, 'The darvesh prefer to die of starvation rather than incur any debt for the satisfaction of their desires. Debt and Resignation are poles apart and cannot subsist together.' Then he sent the dish away. [Source: Khaliq Ahmad Nizami, The Life and Times of Shaikh Nizam-u'd-din Auliya (Delhi: Idarah-i Adabyat-i Delli, 1991), p. 44.]

{26,2}* jam((a karte ho kyuu;N raqiibo;N ko ik tamaashaa hu))aa gilaa nah hu))aa 1) why do you gather together the Rivals? 2) a mere/single/certain/unique/preeminent spectacle took place, a complaint/reproach did not take place

Notes: ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preëminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) gilah is spelled gilaa to suit the rhyme. gilah : 'Complaint; lamentation; reproach, blame; accusation; remonstrance'. (Platts p.914)

Nazm: It's the custom that people gather four men in order to complain about somebody, so that they would do justice. But out of jealousy he doesn't like the Rivals to hear complaints about him from her lips and to put in their two cents. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of judgment, why do you collect the Rivals? The quarrel is between us and you; what's the benefit of their only turning the complaints and laments into a spectacle? We can't at all be pleased that the Rivals would hear complaints about us from your lips, and would agree with what you say. (53-54)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover has wanted to make a complaint. The beloved has said, 'All right, make your complaint before four men, let's see whether they say you are in the wrong, or I am'. Now he is afraid that if the Rivals are present, they will learn all his secrets. (64)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EK TAMASHA: {8,1}

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This one reminds me of {21,3}, in which there is also a question as to whether there is or is not a gilah , a 'reproach' or 'complaint'. Naturally the lover objects to the beloved's assembling of the Rivals. Why does she do it? We're left to figure out the reason for ourselves-- and in the process, to decide on the relationship between the two lines. And in addition, we have to decide the relationship of the two clauses of the second line. Here are some of the possibilities: =Some particular kind of 'spectacle' took place, but it didn't consist of any kind of 'complaint' on the lover's part; thus the beloved was wrong to assemble the Rivals as a kind of jury =Some kind of 'spectacle' took place, but it was harmless and even enjoyable, maybe even 'unique', and it didn't result in any kind of 'complaint' from any of the beholders; thus the beloved was wrong to assemble the Rivals as though to plan some kind of punishment =The beloved assembled so many Rivals that the crowd of them caused the occasion to turn into a 'spectacle', and it was impossible for any 'complaint' to take place In such a 'short meter', when even the smallest word counts heavily, the subtlety of ik is also cleverly arranged. It can be minimizing ('only'), or particularizing ('certain'), or enumerative ('single'), or emphatically adulatory ('unique, singular, preeminent, excellent'). And since we know nothing at all about the 'spectacle' except this ik , all the possibilities are fully in play. Moreover, a whole additional set of implications is generated if we remember that tamaashaa can have mystical as well as worldly meanings. For discussion of this possibility, see {8,1}.

{26,3}* ham kahaa;N qismat aazmaane jaa))e;N tuu hii jab ;xanjar-aazmaa nah hu))aa 1) where/how would we go to test our destiny/fate?! 2) when only/emphatically you did not become dagger-testing?

Notes: hii : 'Just, very, exactly, indeed, truly, only, alone, merely, solely, altogether, outright; --own; self'. (Platts p.1243)

Nazm: When you yourself did not slay me, then by whom will this longing be fulfilled? (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for us, where is there any other such place where we can go to fulfill our longing to be murdered, when you yourself hesitate to test your dagger? (54)

Bekhud Mohani: [The emphatic particle] hii has made the verse forceful, and from it the extent of the relationship can be known. (65)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HI; KAHAN That forcefully interrogative kahaa;N in the first line has two readings: the literal, guidebook question ('excuse me, can you tell me where I could go...?;) and the generalized negative rhetorical question ('how the hell can I go?!', 'why the hell would I go?!'). More provocative, though, is the invocation of aazmaanaa , to try or test, in both lines. I want to test my destiny, my qismat -- think of the weight put on qismat in {17,9}. The parallelism suggests that you too have a destiny, you too should be testing something. But in your case, of course, it's a dagger. You are the hunter as properly and naturally as I am the prey, and if you don't perform your role, how can I perform mine? Your negligence or

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indifference might even cool my passion, as in {230,6}. As Bekhud points out, the use of hii along with the intimate form tuu makes for a tone of unforced intimacy, like that of a private quarrel being overheard. Moreover, in such a 'short meter' that tuu hii looms so prominently over the second line that we're led to think of even more quite possible nuances of hii (see the definition above). As usual, we're left to choose among them without even the smallest guidance from the grammar of the verse itself.

{26,4} kitne shiirii;N hai;N tere lab kih raqiib gaaliyaa;N khaa ke be-mazaa nah hu))aa 1) how sweet are your lips-- that the Rival 2) having 'eaten'/received abuse, did not become {relish/pleasure}-less

Notes: The spelling of mazaa instead of mazah is for the sake of the rhyme. mazah : 'Taste, savour, smack, relish; delight, pleasure, enjoyment'. (Platts p.1029)

Nazm: The proof of the sweetness of the beloved's lip is that hearing bitter words from her, even the lustful Rival, who is deprived of the joy of passion, did not lack for relish. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: How well the praise of the beloved's sweet-lippedness is proved as part of the theme! He says, your lips are so sweet that even a lustful person like the Rival 'eats up' abuse without distaste. Although he was deprived of the relish of passion, not even the bitterness of disrepute displeased him. (54)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza taunts both the Rival and the beloved: You are very cultured, and he has a fine sense of honor! Neither are you ashamed to abuse him, nor is he ashamed to receive the abuse. [Or:] The lover very beautifully gives advice to the beloved: Your Honor, please don't use such treatment on me; otherwise, I will despair of life. The Rival is base, and listens to abuse. (65)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY FOOD: {6,4} It's a nice little net of wordplay, cleverly put together. Fortunately it's possible to suggest parallel idioms in English. In Urdu one normally 'eats' abuse (as in English one might 'swallow' it); this is the standard, leastmarked usage. 'Eating' abuse, normally distasteful (so to speak), in this case is not devoid of 'relish' because of the 'sweetness' of the beloved's lips. This kind of wordplay, based on a range of affinities, gives flavor to the ghazal world, and without it a verse may well appear bland or unsavory or halfbaked. (See how easy it is to do?) Just because it's so easy to do and so universally done, a poet like Ghalib would never fail to do something else as well. Both Nazm and Bekhud Mohani seek to answer the obvious question: why is it the Rival who has this experience, while the true lover speaks only as an observer? Their answers, however, are opposite. For Nazm, even the Rival has this experience of relish, despite his shallow and merely lustful nature; the implication is that the true lover would value the experience far more deeply. Does the lover get his own chance to be abused, or does the beloved's cruelty or indifference deny him even that opportunity? There's no way we can tell.

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For Bekhud Mohani, only the rival has this experience, and the lover finds this sort of thing disgusting (such that he accuses both beloved and Rival of vulgarity) or intolerable (such that if it happened to him, he'd die of shame). A close reader of Ghalib could marshal evidence from other verses for both interpretations. But what would be the point? Here-- as so often, but perhaps more emphatically than usual-- the undecideability is the key. Ghalib makes us ask ourselves questions, and denies us the wherewithal to answer them. He thus gives us some very spicy food for thought.

{26,5}* hai ;xabar garm un ke aane kii aaj hii ghar me;N boriyaa nah hu))aa 1) there is fresh/recent news of her/his/their coming-2) only/emphatically today, in the house a straw-mat did not appear/occur!

Notes: boriyaa : 'A mat made of palm leaves'. (Platts p.175)

Nazm: In this verse the intention is to express courteous hospitality and lack of possessions. And the feebleness of the theme is manifest. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: There's so much turmoil of the ardor for guest-reception, that when he hears the news of the coming of the beloved, spontaneously he wants to 'spread his eyes' [in welcome]. And such a state of possessionlessness, that today not even a straw mat remains in the house. (54)

Bekhud Mohani: The Lord has given me both griefs: the grief of passion and the grief of livelihood [;Gam-e rozgaar , see {20,7}]. Such a condition of poverty, such a state as a lover! This is not a verse, but an album of vain longing! [Or:] It wouldn't be strange if he would have said it jokingly, on the arrival of some intimate friend. [The intensive particle] hii is worthy of praise.] (65)

FWP: This amusing little verse is based on tone of voice. It performs a kind of parody of the concerns of an anxious host, eager to provide proper entertainment to an unexpected guest. 'Oh dear, just today of all days there's no X in the house!' We all know what our own X is: fresh fruit, homemade cookies, good cheese, decent wine, fancy tablecloth-- whatever is the proper mark of hospitality that normally would be available, but that requires maintenance and special care. So what is the lover's X? A palm-leaf mat. From this we learn that he has literally nothing else in his house, since such a mat is almost too basic to count as furniture at all; the idea of treating it as a special piece of guest entertainment is thus particularly ludicrous. His poverty doesn't surprise us, since if the lover was ever well-off, he is so no longer: he has ruined himself through his mad passion. Really he no longer cares to maintain a house at all. It sounds in fact as though he often borrows a straw mat from his neighbor, and happens not to have done so today-- otherwise, if he owns a straw mat, why wouldn't it be there today as well as other days? Could it be that he does own a straw mat, but today by ill-fortune has lent it to somebody else? Could it be that a friend sometimes comes by and drops off a straw mat? Could it even be that the sadistic beloved makes a point of planning a visit on the day when she knows he has no straw mat? Or could it be that he never has a straw mat at all, but is telling a rueful or face-saving lie? As we know in our hearts, the beloved almost certainly won't come anyway, so all this worry is for nothing. But isn't it a witty, amusing, enjoyable kind of worry to speculate about? Its patent absurdity, its parodic joie de vivre, counterbalances its ostensible content and saves it from any sense of self-

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pity. For if she ever by any chance does happen to come, she'll have her own agenda; the last thing she'll pay any attention to is the presence or absence of a straw mat. For more on the beloved's visits to the lover, see {106,2}. More verses about the straw mat: {4,13x}; {18,7x}.

{26,6}* kyaa vuh namruud kii ;xudaa))ii thii bandagii me;N miraa bhalaa nah hu))aa 1) was that the 'divinity of Namrud'? 2) in servitude/adoration/humility, my wellbeing did not occur

Notes: bandagii : 'Slavery, servitude; service; devotion, adoration, worship, praise; compliment, salutation; humility, lowliness'. (Platts p.169)

Hali: He says that in my servitude was 'the divinity of Namrud'-- it brought me only harm, and no benefit. Here bandagii does not mean worship, but servitude. To reject 'the divinity of Namrud' on the grounds of servitude is an absolutely new idea. (140)

Nazm: The 'that' alludes to the pride of beauty. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has shown an extraordinary mischievousness [sho;xii], that has never been seen anywhere. This verse and the verse after it [{26,7}] are both the 'high point of the ghazal'. (54)

Bekhud Mohani: (1) Compared to worshiping you, the [false] 'divinity' of Pharaoh [far((uun] was better, for if I didn't receive the next world, then so what? I would have received this world! Here in this wretched state, I got neither faith nor the world.... (2) To call his own servitude 'the divinity of Namrud' is an exemplary example of poetic mischievousness. That is, 'Oh Provider, was my servitude too like the divinity of Namrud? For its outcome was not good.' (3) When through pride of beauty the beloved paid no attention to my servitude, I realized it was 'the divinity of Namrud'. (66)

FWP: Namrud, the Biblical 'Nimrod', is said by some to be the king in the Qur'an who 'disputed with Abraham about his Lord, because God had granted him power' (2:258). In Islamic story traditions there are many anecdotes about his arrogance and false claims to divinity. The expression namruud kii ;xudaa))ii is proverbial. About whom is the lover speaking? If about a human beloved, then the lover is indignantly accusing one false god of being as bad as another false god. Naturally Namrud wouldn't have cared about my welfare, but I have served her, and she hasn't cared either! Or, as Bekhud Mohani puts it, a proper false god would at least have given me worldly rewards, but she hasn't given me even those! If he is speaking about a divine Beloved, then the same reproaches become both more poignant and more dangerous, since they verge on impiety. The implication is that he serves God for the sake of his own advantage, and that he reserves the right to reproach or criticize God if God's behavior is not to his liking. This is what Bekhud Dihlavi means by an 'extraordinary mischievousness that has never been seen anywhere'. But it has, of course, starting with {1,1} in which Ghalib is mischievous enough to accuse God himself of 'mischievousness'.

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{26,7}* jaan dii dii hu))ii usii kii thii ;haq to yuu;N hai kih ;haq adaa nah hu))aa 1a) [I] gave [my] life-- the given [life] was hers/his alone 1b) [He] gave [us] life-- the given [life] was His alone 2) the truth/right is like this: that the claim/right did not become fulfilled

Notes: ;haq : 'Justness, propriety, rightness, correctness, truth; reality, fact; --justice; rectitude; --equity; --right, title, privilege, claim, due, lot, portion, share, proprietorship; --duty, obligation'. (Platts p.479)

Nazm: The first ;haq means 'truth', and the second means 'responsibility'. (27)

Bekhud Dihlavi: [In {26,6} he identifies that verse and the present one as the two that are the 'high point of the ghazal'. (54) He says, we have done one task all our life: we have given our life. But then, after reflecting, we understood that that life was that one's gift. We gave that one's trust back to that same one. What is there to be proud of in this?.... This thought-- these words-- this construction--they are all beyond description! (55)

Bekhud Mohani: People consider it a great thing to give their life for the Lord's sake. But Mirza, leaving the common path, says that life was a thing given by the Lord alone. If I sacrificed it for Him, then what kind of a big thing was that? Why pride oneself on it? It's a cause for shame that he had given us a gift like life, and in proper return for that gift we were not able to perform any [sufficient] service (worship). (66-67)

Baqir: If we gave our life in the path of ;haq [truth], then what great thing did we do? Because the life was given by that very one; it was only ours as a trust. We gave it back-- what kindness or generosity is there in giving back a trust? Thus the truth is that we were not able to fulfill the duty of the claim-- that is, to give one's life is no big thing. On the contrary-- many other, additional duties are duties are incumbent upon mankind, which it is necessary to fulfill. (95)

Shadan: When we gave our life, it had been bestowed by that very one. What big task were we able to accomplish? If you want to know the truth, then we were not able to fulfill our responsibility. In place of the first ;haq, sach [=true] too is metrical [and so could better have been used]. (159)

Josh: He says, life was a trust from the Lord. He had given us this trust as a blessing, and confided it to us. To complain of this is meaningless. It was his thing, we turned it over to him. What did we give of our own? The truth is that we were not able even to fulfill our duty. (90)

Chishti: If after dying we gave back to him the life he had given, we didn't do any praiseworthy deed. Because there's no excellence in giving back a trust. Our duty was to have fulfilled the claim of this great kindness on his part-- that is, through the beauty of our deeds to have adorned the life he had given, and thus have given it back with some addition (338-39).

Mihr: I gave my life on the path of truth, but what virtue of mine is there in this? The life was not mine, the Lord had bestowed it on me. If I returned to him

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what he had bestowed on me, what great accomplishment was that? The truth is that what we owed to the Lord, what was our responsibility, that was not able to be fulfilled. If we had sacrificed something of our own in His path, then it would have been something else. In that case we could have said that we had accomplished our duty. Now, how can such a claim be a credit to us? The enjoyable thing is that the extreme limit of sacrifice for man is to sacrifice his life. Mirza does not declare even this to be a fulfillment of duty. Just think how lofty is the picture of sacrifice in the path of the Lord, and the level of fulfillment of duty! (110)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION; WORD SOUND EFFECTS verses: {4,3}; {20,7} (internal rhyme); {20,10} (internal rhyme); {21,13}; {26,7}; {31,3}; {34,1}; {41,6}; {42,4}; {47,2}; {48,5}; {54,3}; {58,7}; {58,9}; {59,4}; {64,3}; {82,1}; {85,4}; {86,7}; {89,3} (criticism); {90,5}; {91,3}; {91,7}; {91,10}; {92,3}; {96,1}; {96,3}; {97,13}; {99,3}*; {107,6}; {111,1}; {111,9}; {113,7}; {115,3} and {116,3} (internal rhyme); {116,7} (wind sound); {123,10} ( shahr and shi((r ); {127,1-3}; {151,4}; {158,4}; {166,1}; {173,10}; {178,5}; {181,2}; {184,1}*; {183,5} (semantic); {191,1}; {194,6}; {199,3}; {209,4}; {228,8} (homonyms); {203,2} I chose this verse for unusually full treatment because it presents in crystalclear for m some of the problems and deficiencies of the commentarial tradition. Even a person who didn't know Urdu would notice at once, on hearing this verse, that in the first line every word except one rhymes. This makes this line unique in Ghalib's divan. Perhaps one might not even care for the effect, but an effect it certainly is, and an extremely conspicuous show of virtuosity. Yet not one commentator even so much as recognizes that it exists. Instead, the commentators devote themselves, as usual, to producing a prose paraphrase of the 'meaning' of the verse. Most of them are indeed reading the first line in two different ways at once, whether or not they are aware of it: in their commentary the meanings I have called (1a) and (1b) are interwoven. The only reason they can read this line in two different ways is that Ghalib has carefully constructed the grammar so as to make the two readings both possible and inescapable (that is, there's no way to rule either of them out). Yet none of the commentators acknowledge this poetically significant fact, or help the reader to reconstruct the two different analyses of the grammar that generate the different meanings. If we move on to the second line, we find the commentators equally unhelpful. Even someone who didn't know Urdu could tell on hearing the line that ;haq was being emphasized, and attention was being called to it. Ghalib is clearly bouncing us around in its various meanings of 'truth' and 'justice' and so on, requiring us to reflect on the various senses of ;haq. Yet Nazm helps us only by high-handedly defining away the problem. The others ignore it, except for Shadan who actually rewrites the line, suggesting that sach could well have been used to avoid the confusion! Just as none of them acknowledge the astonishing amount of obviously deliberate rhyme in the first line, so none of them acknowledge the important and obviously deliberate wordplay with ;haq in the second line. That wordplay makes this a verse of 'word-exploration'; for more on this idea, see {15,9}. For another example of the ambiguous use of ;haq, see {64,1}. The result is, if you believe the commentators, a bland piece of religious piety. Poor Ghalib! How he would have hated such blindness to his carefully-wrought little devices of meaning-creation! Why are the commentators so singularly unhelpful? Nobody can give an authoritative

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answer. I have written a somewhat speculative paper about this; it is available here. In the meantime, let me briefly give my own comments on this verse. I think the first line as (1a) and (1b) is a delight, with the two meanings not contradicting each other, but somehow engaging in a kind of tug-of-war. Making the words rhyme seems like something that perhaps began to happen by accident-- since stripping out chunks of grammar to create ambiguity would easily produce a sequence of feminine endings agreeing with jaan-and that he then continued just because he could, out of the sheer delight of virtuosity, to surprise and amuse his audience by offering many pleasures at once. I would also propose another way of reading the second line: the ;haq, the 'claim' or 'right', that didn't get fulfilled could also have been the beloved/God's duty toward us. If I give my life (1a), and the beloved or God considers that it's hers/his already, I don't get any credit for my sacrifice. Is that fair, is that according to my claim or my right? The truth is, it's not. Similarly, if God gives me life (1b), and retains ownership of it the whole time, so that it's always usii kii, 'his alone'-- is that fair or just? The truth is, it's not. God has only pretended to give it, while actually it remains beyond my control. This complaint of the helplessness of humans in a world over which they have no power is vintage Ghalib: it is exactly the point of {1,1}.

{26,8}* za;xm gar dab gayaa lahuu nah thamaa kaam gar ruk gayaa ravaa nah hu))aa 1) if the wound was pressed/suppressed, the blood did not stop 2a) if the task halted/paused, it did not move on [reading ravaa nah] 2b) if the task halted/paused, it set out [reading ravaanah]

Notes: ravaa: 'Going; flowing; passing'. (Platts p.602) ravaanah: 'Going, &c.... departed; -- despatched, sent'. (Platts p.603)

Nazm: When the task was halted, it ought not to have resumed; from pressing, the blood would not flow. But my case is the opposite. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: With what simplicity he has expressed his state of ill fortune! What a large theme he has expressed in two lines! (55)

Bekhud Mohani: Although the wound is not now in such a wretched state as formerly, so what? Let it not be. It still gives blood, so what occasion is there for objection? Because although the pace of the work has become slow, nevertheless it does continue. The moral conclusion of this verse is that one ought not to leave any task half-done. And this too emerges: that a lover never under any circumstances wants to obliterate longing. (67)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; PARALLELISM It seems that both Nazm and Bekhud Mohani read ravaanah instead of ravaa nah. Although I dutifully follow Arshi and Hamid in 'officially' reading ravaa nah, I'd like to leave the door open a bit here. The only way one can tell the difference in reading is by space between the words, and the esthetic of nasta((liiq script in Ghalib's day went very much the other way, toward shaping the words in each line (and verse, and ghazal) into an artistically arranged whole pattern. (Ghalib himself certainly followed the same practice, as in this example.) So I think Ghalib would surely have expected his audience would have ravaanah in their minds as well-- since the two choices would have been

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almost indistinguishable both to the ear and (in the script of his day) to the eye. And of course the next verse, {26,9}, definitely uses ravaanah, so such tampering with the refrain was not something Ghalib would have hesitated to do. Besides, the ravaanah reading of (2b) works so well that I refuse to give it up. When did Ghalib ever fail to give us two meanings for the price of one, if he could possibly manage to do so? We have seen that Ghalib often creates verses in which the two lines are parallel in structure, and then gives us no indication of their logical relationship, thus leaving us to speculate. (On this parallelism see {22,5}.) This is another verse of that kind. Here, the first line presents something unexpected: if pressure is applied to a wound, the blood should stop flowing, but in this case it does not. If the wound was pressed, the blood did not stop flowing, but started up again. The second, equally flat if-then statement informs us that if an (unspecified) 'task' was halted, it did not continue (2a) or did continue (2b). There are two choices here: either the 'task' is the wound's bleeding, so that the two statements both report the same situation, one more abstractly; or it is something else, so that the two statements are independent. If the 'task' is the bleeding itself, then Arshi's official reading (2a) makes no sense, since the blood can't both continue to flow and cease to flow. But (2b) works well; this is Nazm's and Bekhud Mohani's reading. It is a kind of boast: a lover's proper task is to maintain bleeding wounds, and this lover is proud to fulfill it. (In {19,1} he makes it clear that he uses his fingernails to keep his wounds open, despite his friends' attempts to prevent him.) Thus even when under pressure (so to speak) the lover's wound soon restarts its bleeding, just as it should, and duly proves the lover's incorrigibility. If the 'task' is not the bleeding itself, then the horizon of possible relationships between the lines becomes much wider. If we adopt Arshi's official reading (2a), then the two lines depict a kind of worst-of-all-worlds scenario: if my wound is pressed, the blood resumes flowing when the pressure is released; but by contrast, if my 'task' is halted, it is stopped forever. Thus I can't get any work done in the world, I can only continue to suffer; such is my destiny. If we adopt (2b), then we have an unconquerable lover celebrating his unstoppability: if my wound is pressed, the blood resumes flowing when the pressure is released, and if my 'task' is halted, it starts up again. I am able to maintain my bleeding wounds, and also do other such 'tasks' in the world of passion, and no well-meaning friends can stop me.

{26,9} rahzanii hai kih dil-sitaanii hai le ke dil dil-sitaa;N ravaanah hu))aa 1) is it highway robbery, or is it heart-theft? 2) having taken the heart, the heart-thief set out [to depart]

Notes: Nazm: In ravaanah, ravaa is the rhyme and nah was part of the refrain.... In the terminology, they call such a rhyme a 'contrived rhyme'. In the metrical rulebooks, they note it as a defect. But now all the poets consider it a device of scansion [.sanaa))a((-e taq:tiih] and use it freely. The truth is that a 'contrived rhyme' makes a verse feeble. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the 'contrived rhyme' has made for even more enjoyment. (55)

Bekhud Mohani: The ancients had counted ['contrived rhyme'] among the defects. But later poets have declared it to be a virtue. And so they ought, because poets

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compose a 'contrived' at times when they are able to convey some good theme only through a 'contrived'....The truth is that any rhyme through which a verse becomes feeble should be abandoned. The rule of 'contrived' and 'genuine' [a.slii] is useless. (67)

Shadan: ['Contrived rhyme' is a defect] because the rhyme does not remain fixed, and the excellence of a rhyme is its remaining fixed. (160)

Josh: This ['contrived rhyme'] is entered among the defects, but in a ghazal it has been considered permissible to do it one time. In this verse, the rhyme is of this kind. (91)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; REPETITION This is an example of what I call a 'mushairah verse'-- a verse with exactly one punch, one that is immediately comprehensible and enjoyable and doesn't require further thought. For more on this see {14,9}. The 'contrived rhyme' that the commentators are busy debating (in an extremely rare show of lively technical discussion among themselves) is the chief charm of the verse. In the previous verse, {26,8}, the question arose of whether Ghalib had made such a 'contrived rhyme' as a secondary reading, and I argued that he had. But here, the 'contrived rhyme' is the first (and apparently only) reading, according to Arshi and everybody else. Thus the discussion. For another example of such 'contrived rhyme', see {35,1}. This may be irrelevant, but I can't help but notice that in this longish ghazal the only real example of 'contrived rhyme' comes exactly in the penultimate position-- right where, as Barbara Herrnstein Smith reminds us in Poetic Closure: a Study of How Poems End (Univ. of Chicago, 1968), metrical deviations often occur, since deviations in that position enhance the effect of 'closure' when the final verse returns to the established pattern. The first line asks indignantly whether this is 'heart-stealing' or 'highway robbery'; as is so often the case, we can't possibly tell what's going on until we hear the second line; this is of course a great structure for the oralperformance poetics of the mushairah. And even then, the 'punch' is delayed until the very end of the second line (as it is in {14,9} too), and in fact involves tampering with the end: turning ravaa nah into ravaanah in an amusing, tongue-in-cheek way that everybody knew was quasi-forbidden. The beloved steals my heart, as is quite right and proper-- but then she runs off with it, instead of staying to torment me properly? What is this? Hey wait, this is highway robbery!

{26,10} kuchh to pa;Rhye kih log kahte hai;N aaj ;Gaalib ;Gazal-saraa nah hu))aa 1) (please) recite something, for people say 2) today Ghalib did not become a ghazal-reciter

Notes: Nazm: After reading the whole ghazal, to then say, please recite something, perhaps means 'please recite something in the pattern'. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: It's said that the [Red] Fort mushairah had been fixed for some prince's house. Mirza Sahib had not written a ghazal in the pattern. When he was urged to the very limit, then he recited a ghazal that was outside the pattern [;Gair :tar;h]. He had previously composed a closing-verse on this theme. (55)

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Bekhud Mohani: That is, please recite something in the pattern. (68)

Josh: The story is that this ghazal had been recited in the mushairah of the Auspicious [Red] Fort. He hadn't recited a ghazal in the pattern. For this reason those present insisted on hearing this non-pattern ghazal. As appropriate to the occasion, he must have either composed the closing-verse previously, or composed it right then under pressure of circumstances, and inserted it into the ghazal and left out the previous closing-verse. The words 'please recite something' mean, 'please recite some poetry even outside the pattern'. (91)

FWP: SETS == POETRY The commentators speculate that the key to understanding this verse is to fit it into the structure of a traditional 'patterned mushairah.' Perhaps Ghalib has recited a ghazal that is not in the specified pattern for that mushairah. I feel it as more general. Since in principle the verses of a ghazal are not to be considered as a linear string, this verse can be read as part of the poet's reminding himself that it's his duty to compose and recite, that people expect it of him. Even if he's not in the mood, the pressure of public opinion should be obeyed-- a pressure that by implication falls chiefly on the most popular and admired poets, those whose performance everyone awaits. Perhaps we're meant to feel that the verses of this long ghazal should now be recognized as mere party favors, produced and flung out ('recite something, Ghalib!') to the audience as a gesture of courtesy. If this is modesty, it's certainly false modesty, because we know that Ghalib had an extremely high opinion of his own talents. Probably it's really something more like impatient arrogance-- even when I'm not trying, I can casually fling out verses like these. Either way, it makes for a fine rhetorical flourish.

Ghazal 27 8 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aa kaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 25; Arshi #014; Raza pp. 226-27

{27,1} gilah hai shauq ko dil me;N bhii tangii-e jaa kaa guhar me;N ma;hv hu))aa i.z:tiraab daryaa kaa 1) Ardor complains, even/also in the heart, of narrowness of place 2a) in a pearl became absorbed the restlessness of the sea 2b) [as if] in a pearl became absorbed the restlessness of the sea!

Notes: Nazm: That is, Ardor, having been contained within the heart, can't show its turmoil and turbulence because of the narrowness of the space, as if the sea became contained within a pearl, so that it had no more buffetings left. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib says in a tone of surprise, that Ardor complains of narrowness of space even in the heart! The word 'even' tells us that the heart is such a broad thing that both worlds are contained in it, and it still remains empty. Despite this breadth, Ardor complains of the narrowness of space. It seems that the breadth of Ardor too is not in any way less than the breadth of the heart.

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Now let's consider the proof [;subuut] of the narrowness of space. He says that the flow of the sea became absorbed in a pearl, that is, the sea became contained in a pot. But because of the compressedness, the motion of the waves came to a stop. He's used the simile of the pearl for the heart, and the sea for Ardor, which is an entirely new simile. The truth is that in this opening-verse he has confined the sea within a pot. Then, the pleasure is that no diminution has been allowed to occur in the trimness of construction, the proportionateness of words, the style of expression. Both lines seem to have been shaped in the same mold. (56)

Bekhud Mohani: In a very beautiful ornamentation, Mirza has juxtaposed the restlessness of Ardor and the restlessness of the sea. He says, what comparison is there between the restlessness of the sea and the restlessness of Ardor? The extent of the restlessness of the sea is merely such that a drop of water enters an oyster and assumes the form of a pearl. Its restlessness is a feature of its nature that has vanished-- although how much scope is there in a pearl? In comparison to it, look at the extent of the restlessness of Ardor-- such that even in a broad place like the heart it complains of narrowness of space. (70) Compare this verse with {29,4}. (74)

Arshi: Compare {62,6}. (205)

Faruqi: If the second line is taken as a negative rhetorical question, then the meaning at once becomes plain. Now the meaning will be that although the heart is broad, Ardor is broader. Thus Ardor complains of narrowness of space even in the heart. The illustration [tim;saal] of this is that water/luster [aab] is in a pearl, and water is in the sea too. But how could it ever be possible for the ocean's restlessness (that is, its waves) to be contained in a pearl! A pearl no doubt contains a thousand waters/lusters, but it is less than the water of the sea. The water/luster of the pearl is likened to stilled water. (45-46)

FWP: SETS == A,B Here is a marvelous verse, a classic 'A,B' example of that Ghalibian strategy of giving us two separate statements and leaving it up to us to decide their mutual relationship. Most recently we saw him doing something like this in {26,8}. Do both lines describe the same situation, the first literally and the second (2a) metaphorically? If so, the heart is (like?) a pearl, and Ardor is (like?) the sea. This would suggest that just as the heart can't succeed in containing Ardor, which complains of narrowness of space, similarly the pearl can't succeed in containing the sea, which is full of restlessness and thus presumably has a complaint too. The process of 'absorption,' ma;hv honaa , in short, doesn't work in either case, since Ardor and the sea are alike uncontainable. Or do the two lines describe different, contrasting situations, the first line one of unsuccessful 'absorption,' and the second line (2a) one of successful 'absorption'? This would suggest that while the sea is containable, Ardor is not. The sea is containable in a pearl, while Ardor is not containable 'even' in the heart. The 'even' implies that the heart must be a more powerful container and absorber than a pearl, and also hints that Ardor might be a wilder force than the sea. Faruqi also points to (2b), a way of reading the second line as a negative rhetorical question ('Could the restlessness of the sea ever become absorbed in a pearl?'); it could also be an exclamation of scorn ('As if the restlessness of the sea could ever become absorbed in a pearl!') In other words, we should hardly be surprised that Ardor complains-- it was a foregone

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conclusion that it would complain, since the very idea that it could be contained, even within the heart,' was so absurd. As absurd, in fact, as the idea that the restlessness of the sea could be absorbed within a pearl. The logical possibilities are all there, and all kept fully open. But in addition, how beautiful the lines are! Even in literal English they haven't lost all their power and mystery, and of course in Urdu they asound gorgeous. For an even more complex verse along similar lines, see {27,7}. For another meditation on 'narrowness of place', see {228,3}.

{27,2} yih jaantaa huu;N kih tuu aur paasu;x-e maktuub magar sitam-zadah huu;N ;zauq-e ;xaamah-farsaa kaa 1) I know-- you, and an answer to a letter! 2a) but I am oppressed by a relish/taste that wears away the pen 2b) but I am oppressed by a relish/taste for wearing away the pen

Notes: farsaa : 'Wearing, rubbing; obliterating, effacing; worn, obliterated, old (used as last member of compounds)'. (Platts p.778)

Nazm: That is, you, and to write an answer! It's impossible. It's like kahaa;N tuu aur kahaa;N paasu;x-e maktuub . The word kahaa;N is omitted. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I know, and have understood very well, that up to Doomsday you'll never answer any letter of mine. But what can I do? I am helpless. The relish for the scratching of the pen compels me; for this reason, again and again I am sending you letters. Despite the fact that I've already ceased to hope for an answer. (56)

Josh: I am writing these letters again and again because the relish of writing something or other with the pen has compelled me to. And this tyrannical relish of writing has destroyed me. Otherwise, the hope of an answer has already been completely crushed. (92)

FWP: WRITING: {7,3} The first line is perfectly, delightfully, ruefully, colloquial: 'I know, I know-to expect you to answer a letter!' The absurdity of such a hope is so patent that I don't even need to spell it out in detail. (And even if she does reply, as in {97,4}, the situation is not much better.) So what is it that keeps me writing? What kind of a morbid relish or taste do I have? The more obvious reading is, one so intense that it wears away my pen (or, that causes me to have a worn-away pen). My passion for you-- and note that the intimate tuu is used in the first line-- is such that it holds me in an irresistible grip and forces me into thoroughly irrational behavior. Or, the versatility of the i.zaafat construction being what it is, my morbid relish may be for wearing away the pen. Just as I have abraded my heart into nothingness, just as my nerves are long gone-- so should my pen too be worn away; there's a kind of elegant symmetry to it. I'm no longer thinking about you at all, I'm now fixated on the pen itself, and the sheer mechanics of wearing it away; as it gets more and more worn, I contemplate it with increased relish. After all, what is more evocative of the state of my heart, than a worn-out pen that has used itself up in writing ten thousand letters, all of them to you who will never answer a single one?

{27,3} ;hinaa-e paa-e ;xizaa;N hai bahaar agar hai yihii davaam kulfat-e ;xaa:tir hai ((aish dunyaa kaa

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1) spring is henna on the foot of autumn; if exactly this is so, 2a) always, the 'pleasure' of the world is inner pain 2b) the 'pleasure' of the world is the permanence of inner pain

Notes: Nazm: That is, even if it's spring, so what? It's the red color of henna; in a few days it will fade away-- and then only the foot of autumn will make itself felt. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if spring is so transitory and fleeting, then what is spring anyway? That is, the spring season is the henna on the foot of autumn, which will vanish very quickly; and it can be compared to enjoyment of the world. The period of enjoyment is extremely short, and inner pain remains established for a lifetime. (56)

Josh: He has used spring as a simile for enjoyment of the world, and fall for inner suffering. To call spring 'henna on the foot of autumn' is the limit of the flight of thought. What further meaning-creation can there be than this? (92)

FWP: Metrically speaking, an i.zaafat after davaam is permissible but not required. Arshi doesn't have an i.zaafat there, so I take his as the preferred reading (2a). But Hamid does, and I like that meaning too (2b). 'Spring is henna on the foot of autumn'-- as Josh says, what could be more complexly meaningful, and also more beautiful? Even in English its loveliness comes through. Henna is brightly colored, changing from a kind of greenish when first applied to hands and feet, to a vivid red-orange color when fully dry. Henna is usually applied in ornate, lacy designs that exult in their own delicacy and extravagance, and of course it is a supremely festive symbol used for celebrations, especially weddings. It is also all too temporary-- within a week it has begun to fade, within another week or so it is gone. Obviously, these qualities are those of spring as well. The henna is gorgeous but vulnerable, and as Nazm says, when it's gone 'only the foot of autumn will make itself felt'. The henna of spring is a brief, deceptive veneer of color and enjoyment. It's false advertising, inducing us to buy into a world full of bleakness and suffering-- an essentially autumnal world. There's no escape-the assertion in line one, if accepted ('if this is so'), directly implies line two.

{27,5} hanuuz ma;hramii-e ;husn ko tarastaa huu;N kare hai har bun-e muu kaam chashm-e biinaa kaa 1) now/still I long for intimacy with beauty 2a) every hair-root does the work of a seeing eye 2b) every hair-root has the desire/intention of a seeing eye

Notes: Nazm: That is, although I see with the root of my every hair, I still don't obtain intimacy with beauty; that is, I don't obtain access to the One [God]. And the reason he says that the root of every hair acts as a seeing eye is that since everything is a mirror of the manifestation of the Creator, and if this is true of nature, then every hair-root is part of nature. That is, every hair-root is showing wisdom and artifice, the way that one sees through an eye. (29)

Bekhud Dihlavi : He says, although my every hair-root has become an eye, and in every sandgrain I am seeing her glories, nevertheless I haven't been able to attain to the level of intimacy with beauty. (57)

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Bekhud Mohani: The simile of the hair-root for an eye is a subtle/pleasing one. I don't understand why some friends have said that the reason for calling a hair-root an eye is that everything is a mirror for the expression of God's power, so this is also true of the hair-root. Why shouldn't it just be said that the hairroot and the eye have a manifest similarity [of roundness]? (71)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ On the special, mystical power of the 'seeing eye' see {22,8}; coincidentally(?), {22,7} invokes 'every hair-root' in a related, though not identical, context. Nazm and Bekhud Mohani suggest two foundations for the verse, and since they're not at all inconsistent we can enjoy them both. The word kaam with its meanings both of 'work, action' and 'desire, intention' is also surely a key to the verse. (For moreon such dual uses of kaam see {22,6}.) Does every hair-root do the work of an eye-- that is, see-or only have the desire to possess, or even become, an eye? It's the difference between a successful performance, and a longing for performance. And since hanuuz can mean both 'now' and 'still, yet'-- for more on this see {3,4}-- it would be possible to construct various logical relationships. Here is one prominent one: Since I have lots of hair-roots doing the work of seeing eyes, now I long for intimacy with beauty (because I can take full advantage of it). Or, alternatively: I still long for intimacy with beauty (despite all my failures to attain it)-- my every hair-root longs to be a seeing eye.

{27,4} ;Gam-e firaaq me;N takliif-e sair-e gul nah do mujhe dimaa;G nahii;N ;xandah'haa-e be-jaa kaa 1) in the grief of separation, don't trouble me to take a stroll in the garden 2) I have no heart/mind/nose for inappropriate smiles

Notes: Hali: He has called the smile of the rose an inappropriate smile since it does not smile at some thought, or because it is surprised, so it's as if its smile is out of place. (140-41)

Nazm: That is, I can't stand to look at the smile of the rose. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: When one is grieved or sorrowful, inappropriate smiles are generally displeasing to one's temperament. There's no question about the verse's excellence. (57)

Bekhud Mohani: He has not called the smile of the rose inappropriate because it is devoid of understanding. Rather, he has said this because when we are in this state, then what occasion is there for laughter? (71)

Arshi: Compare {11,2}. (166)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER verses: {10,10}; {27,4}; {33,3}; {43,4}; {53,9}; {77,3}; {77,7}; {80,1}; {113,5}; {123,6}; {130,4}; {149,1}; {166,1}; {171,3}; {203,1}; {212} (all verses) In the ghazal world the tightly closed bud, 'narrow' like an oppressed heart, smiles or laughs as it opens into a rose, since its widening petals look like a

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mouth smiling in enjoyment. And of course, its smiles betoken its imminent death, which also works very well for poetic purposes. Arshi is right to draw our attention to {11,2}-- like this verse, it plays on the multiple meanings of dimaa;G, which usually means 'heart/mind' but has a sort of tertiary meaning of 'nose' or 'sense of smell'. Obviously, all those meanings work well together. The rose's 'smile' coincides with its diffusion of perfume, as well as its brilliant color and imminent death. Any or all of these might distress the morbidly sensitive lover; as usual, Ghalib leaves all possibilities open. Why are the rose's smiles 'inappropriate' or 'out of place'-- be-jaa, literally 'without place'? Hali says it is because the rose smiles at random, for no good cause. The two Bekhuds say it is because the lover is in no mood for joviality and cheer. Both reasons make sense, but I think the latter is closer to the heart of the matter. This is a great verse for expressing the lover's irritable mood. Can't you just hear the cranky tone in which he rebuffs the well-meaning friend who is trying to cheer him up?

{27,6} dil us ko pahle hii naaz-o-adaa se de bai;The hame;N dimaa;G kahaa;N ;husn ke taqaa.zaa kaa 1) from the very first airs and graces, we gave over our heart to her 2) how could we have a mind/heart for the claim of beauty?

Notes: Nazm: That is, airs and graces are a claim that demands the heart. I didn't even let the occasion for the claim arise. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To say that airs and graces are seeking out the heart and making a claim is a new kind of invention. The meaning is that on her side the airs and graces had as yet not even begun; even before them I offered up my heart. The second pleasure of thought in this verse is that I became a lover merely of beauty, which was in a state of simplicity. Not even airs and graces, which are considered the adornment of beauty, were necessary to overpower me. (57)

Bekhud Mohani : The beloved's showing airs and graces is as if to make a claim of the heart. We are a lover of beauty, and a perfect beholder of beauty wherever it is visible. We offered our heart. We couldn't wait for the claim. (71)

FWP: There's a nice doubleness in hame;N dimaa;G kahaa;N, 'how would we have the mind/heart for.' Do we surrender our heart so quickly because the airs and graces of beauty are so overpowering, and our mind can't stand up to them or resist their claim for even a moment? This seems to be the dominant commentarial view. Or do we surrender our heart so quickly because we find 'airs and graces' and other explicit signs of the 'claim' of beauty distasteful, and we want to avoid being subjected to them? Perhaps we feel that flirtatiousness or coquetry on the beloved's part is somehow beneath her dignity-- she should command or ignore, but not flirt. Perhaps Beauty should just 'be', and not lower itself to make any overt 'claim'. Thus we have no 'mind' to put up with this; we will do anything necessary to spare her, and ourselves, the humiliating parade of 'airs and graces'.

{27,7} nah kah kih giryah bah miqdaar-e ;hasrat-e dil hai mirii nigaah me;N hai jam((-o-;xarch daryaa kaa 1) don't say that weeping is proportional to the longing of the heart 2) in my glance is the collecting/inflow and expenditure/outflow of the sea

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Notes: Nazm: That is, I myself know very well how extensive is the gathering together of the sea, that is, the longing of the heart. And how extensive its outflow, that is, tears. In short, longing is something huge, its nature can't be estimated from weeping. (29)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, compared to the extent that I've shed tears, in my heart the longing to weep is very much greater. In comparison to the longing, so far I haven't wept at all. (57)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {58,6}. (128) Compare {62,6}. (142)

Chishti: Here this device is extremely captivating, because it has two meanings: (1) I understand the inflow and outflow of the sea; (2) a treasury of tears is in my glance. And who does not know that tears are in the glance itself? (343)

FWP: This verse is reminiscent of the opening-verse in this ghazal, {27,1}. Except that it goes further. 'Don't say that A is B to the C of D' can be read as negating several different statements. And even more cleverly and subtly, each one can be suitably read with the second line. For example: Negating A: Don't say that it's weeping that is proportional to the longing of the heart! On the contrary-- only my glance itself is proportional to it. My glance, full of passion and unshed tears, is as expansive and turbulent as the sea. Negating B: Don't say that weeping is proportional to the longing of the heart! On the contrary-- the amount of weeping is much less than the amount of longing. Because of physical limitations I am only able to weep a certain amount, but the tears I haven't (yet) managed to shed are so numerous that they're like the ebb and surge of the whole sea as they hover in my eyes and await their opportunity to fall. Negating C of D: Don't say that weeping is proportional to the longing of the heart! On the contrary-- by comparison to the heart's longing, weeping is nothing at all. Why, my whole supply of tears, including the unshed ones hovering in my glance, is a mere trifle-- it's proportional only to the amount of water in the sea! And nobody could think such a puny amount of tearwater as that could possibly be proportional to the heart's longing. This process could be continued into realms of hairsplitting subtlety, or modified in small ways, but these examples suffice to give the main idea. Where both statements are highly abstract and full of abstraction-prone nouns (weeping, longing, heart, inflow, outflow, sea), and where almost no indication is given of how to put them all together, the resulting possibilities can only be multivalent and (in the hands of a great poet) fascinating. Are the shed tears like the unshed tears in the glance, or unlike them? Is comparison with the sea to be taken as a compliment, or an insult? As he does so often, Ghalib turns your mind on and doesn't give you any indication how to turn it off. Compare {229,5}, in which the whole sea crams itself into the space of a wet eye.

{27,8} falak ko dekh ke kartaa huu;N us ko yaad asad jafaa me;N us kii hai andaaz kaar-farmaa kaa 1) having looked at heaven/sky/fate, I remember her/Him, Asad 2) in anger she/He has the manner of a ruler/commander

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falak : 'The celestial sphere, the vault of heaven, the firmament; heaven; sky; sphere; fortune, fate'. (Platts p.783) kaar-farmaa : 'An ermperor; a minister; a commander; a superintendent; anyone vested with power'. (Platts p.799)

Hali: That is to say, when I have looked at the sky, the Lord comes to mind, because the oppression that falls from the sky is due to His command. (141)

Nazm: That is, when does the sky have this talent for behaving like an idol? There's some Beloved behind the curtain of the mirror's backing. (28)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The verse is very clear, and the thought very pure. (58)

Baqir: [According to Asi aasii :] When I, in a state of oppression, look at the sky, then my beloved comes to mind. Because the cruelty of the heavens looks to me like a glimpse of my beloved's commandingness. From this the result emerges that the beloved alone is the origin of tyranny and cruelty, and she alone has given the heavens the order for cruelty. (99)

FWP: Hali provides the obvious pious reading; Asi, as quoted by Baqir, the worldly-love one. Naturally, both are possible. The first line sets up the ambiguity-- the obvious pious suggestion of looking up at the heavens, from whence descend disasters [balaa))e;N], and reflecting on the power of God. The second line is such a truism when applied to God-- namely, that when God gets angry he can do powerful (bad) things-- that it's hard to avoid moving behind it, to the obvious alternative reading in which the thought is of the human beloved. The really striking thing is the omission of bhii , 'even' or 'also', from the second line. If that word were there, one could read, in anger she too has commanding power; thus her power would be seen in the light of God's and as an echo of God's. But Ghalib's refusal to put in the bhii means that only one powerful ruler is thought of in both lines: if the verse is about God, then it is a cliched commonplace; if it is about the beloved, then she entirely displaces God from the lover's horizon. When I look at the heavens, the proper domain of God alone, I don't think of God at all, it's she whom I think of-- for she has masterful power when she's angry. God, in short, is nowhere, since not even looking at the heavens serves to evoke him, and the very quality he is famous for-- being powerful and dangerous when angered-- is blithely transferred to the beloved. Her status as an idol has rarely been so unselfconsciously confirmed. For another meditation on the sky, the beloved, and memory, see {136,1}. There are also intriguing similarities with {200,3}.

Ghazal 28 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: ar hu))aa composed 1816; Hamid p. 25; Arshi #025; Raza p. 122

{28,1} qa:trah-e mai baskih ;hairat se nafas-parvar hu))aa ;xa:t:t-e jaam-e mai saraasar rishtah-e gauhar hu))aa 1) the drop of wine became, out of amazement, so breath-holding/lifepreserving 2) the line on the wineglass became entirely a string of pearls

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Notes: Ghalib: [1864:] In this closing verse the thought is subtle [daqiiq], but--'to dig up a mountain, and bring forth a straw'-- that is, the pleasure is not so great. The drop is helpless when it falls. Its duration is the span of the blink of an eye. Amazement prevents movement. The drop of wine, through an excess of amazement, has forgotten to drip. When rows of drops are lined up together without moving-- then the line in the wineglass has taken on the aspect of a string of pearls. (Arshi p.175) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1513.

Nazm: Captivatedness, devotion, distress, and self-control are among the necessities of amazement/stupefaction. And when these qualities were created by amazement in every single drop, then the lines in the flagon and glass became strings of pearls. This is intended only to express the rare power of amazement, but that this amazement was created by seeing the Cupbearer's beauty-- this theme remained confined to the author's mind. (29)

Hasrat: When the glass of wine touched the beloved's lip, then the drops of wine were petrified by amazement and became pearls, and the line in the wineglass became like a string of pearls. (29)

Bekhud Mohani: I don't agree with any of these meanings, and the reason for my disagreement is that the author has ascribed to the drop of wine the act of holding its breath.... Here the meaning of ;hairat se is 'in an amazement-producing manner'. And then, if the drop of wine has become a pearl, and the line in the wineglass a string of pearls, what's the connection with holding its breath? After all, why did the author use the word 'amazement' in this verse? The task of the drop of wine is to make one unconscious, to create a special mood [kaif]. That its task would be to make one amazed-- this is beyond the understanding of the wretched Bekhud. (73)

Baqir: [According to Asi aasii :] The task of a drop of wine is to make one amazed, and that amazement is breath-holding and life-preserving. His/its lifeprotectingness made the line in the wineglass into a string of pearls. The intention is only the praise of wine. (100)

Josh: This verse remains at the level of carelessness/negligence. The reason is that the theme has no result/outcome. (93)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH WINE: {49,1} Nazm's claim echoes his famous complaint about the meaningless of {1,1}. Here, he faults Ghalib for having in mind an underlying theme-- namely, that the cause of the wine-drops' amazement was the Cupbearer's beauty-- but failing to make it explicit. In Ghalib's own interpretation of the verse, however, no such theme is mentioned. Ghalib claims to consider the verse a minor, overwrought one, and he mentions only the theme of the wine-drops' freezing in amazement. Other commentators too are unusually dissatisfied with this verse, and have trouble finding a meaning that suits them. Apparently most of them have not seen Ghalib's own explanation in his letter. I don't have anything to add to what Ghalib has said. It does seem to be a minor verse: it rests on some physical similarities (wine-drops are like pearls) and behavioral analogies (amazement causes people to freeze in place; amazement causes wine-drops not to pour). But as Josh rightly points out, the verse doesn't seem to go anywhere, doesn't do anything with its material.

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In an essay, Faruqi uses this verse as a classic example of the difference between 'delicacy of thought', which the verse displays in a high degree, and 'meaning-creation', which it entirely lacks.

{28,2} i((tibaar-e ((ishq kii ;xaanah-;xaraabii dekhnaa ;Gair ne kii aah lekin vuh ;xafaa mujh par hu))aa 1a) look at the home-wreckingness of the confidence of passion! 1b) look at the home-wreckedness of the confidence of passion! 2) the Other sighed, but she became angry at me

Notes: i((tibaar : 'Confidence, trust, reliance, faith, belief; respect, esteem, repute; credit, authority, credibility; weight, importance'. (Platts p.60)

Nazm: That is, my passion, which has become established through a sigh-- that very thing is the cause of my home-wreckedness. (29)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The beloved has become convinced of my passion-- and her confidence has become so firm that if even the Other absent-mindedly ever happens to sigh and lament, then she, out of fear of ill-repute and disgrace, becomes angry at me. About the Other, she's not even suspicious. (58)

Bekhud Mohani: Just look at my ill fortune. The beloved's becoming convinced of my passion, became the reason for my destruction. When the Rival sighed, she grew angry at me; that is, even after gaining her confidence, instead of the goal of my heart being fulfilled, I am faced with rebukes. (73)

FWP: Does i((tibaar-e ((ishq refer to the confidence the beloved has in my passion, or the confidence I myself have in passion? Does ;xaanah-;xaraabii refer to an active home-wreckingness performed by an agent, or a passive homewreckedness endured by a recipient of action? For example: 1a) Look at how ruinous it is that she has confidence in my passion! She feels free to pour out all her wrath on me, even when the Other has deserved it. The compliment she pays me is a home-wrecking one. 1b) Look at the ruined, wrecked state of my confidence in the power of passion! I trusted her unconditionally, and submitted to her unconditionally. My reward was that she poured out all her wrath on me, even though it was the Other who provoked it. Now I realize her tyranny and injustice. But of course, the perverse compliment, the cruelty, are part of the whole 'passion play', and the lover would never give them up. So his complaints must be read as rueful. See for example {38,1}, in which the lover reproaches the beloved for offering cruelties to others (who don't want them and can't endure them) and not to him (who does and can). Another example of the versatility of ;xaanah-;xaraabii : {6,14x}.

Ghazal 29 4 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: il baa;Ndhaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 26; Arshi #008; Raza p. 223

{29,1} jab bah taqriib-e safar yaar ne ma;hmil baa;Ndhaa tapish-e shauq ne har ;zarre pah ik dil baa;Ndhaa

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1) when in preparation for travel the beloved {arranged / 'bound on'} a litter 2) the heat of ardor bound one heart to every sand-grain

Notes: ma;hmil : 'That by which anything is supported, that in (or on) which anything is borne;... a camel litter or dorser (in which women travel)'. (Platts p.1010)

Nazm: In the burning of the sand-grains and the heat of the heart, the cause for similitude is clear. (29)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of travel, when the beloved placed a litter on a camel and bound it on, the heat of our ardor bound to every sand-grain a heart that remained in the company of the beloved until the end of the journey. (58)

Bekhud Mohani: In the road the dust constantly flies around, and the sand-grains move convulsively. But the lover, since he himself is extremely anxious about the beloved's departure, considers that the sand-grains are restless with ardor for the beloved.... At another place he has said: {228,7}. (74)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH ZARRAH: {15,12} This is the kind of verse that I've called a 'mushairah verse'; for more on this see {14,9}. The first line is opaque without the second; the second defers gratification till the very end, and then delivers one good big punch. After you've enjoyed that, you're delighted and ready to go on to the next verse; you don't keep on thinking and thinking about it. Here, as is usually the case with such verses, the pleasure is in unexpected wordplay. The whole occasion is 'hot', of course, as Nazm points out, but that's just the foundation. It's the comparison between the prosaic act of 'binding on' a litter to a camel's back for travel, and the absurd extravagance of 'binding on' a heart to every sand-grain in the vicinity, that can't help but be amusing. There is a Persian idiom, dil bastan ba-chiize , 'to bind one's heart upon a thing' (Steingass p. 531), which Ghalib might be literally translating. This verse also performs the clever negative feat of avoiding in both lines something that the audience would certainly be expecting: the literary sense of baa;Ndhnaa as 'to compose (a verse)'; for more on this sense, see the next verse, {29,2}. Out of the four verses in this ghazal, only this opening-verse-the only one that must use the refrain twice-- wittily and perversely refuses this almost irresistibly compelling sense of the term.

{29,2} ahl-e biinish ne bah ;hairat-kadah-e sho;xii-e naaz jauhar-e aa))inah ko :tuu:tii-e bismil baa;Ndhaa 1) the people of sight, in the amazement-chamber of the mischievousness of coquetry 2) versified/'bound' the polish-marks on the mirror as a wounded parrot

Notes: jauhar : 'The diversified wavy marks, streaks, or grain of a well-tempered sword'. (Platts p.399) baa;Ndhnaa : 'To bind, tie, fix, fasten; ...to bind together, join together...to compose (verses)'. (Platts p.127)

Nazm: People use for the greenness of a garden, of a beard [sabzah-e ;xa:t], of verdigris, and of a tempered sword [jauhar], the simile of a parrot. And the greenness of the polish-marks of an iron mirror is not established in every

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way. For this reason he's used for it the simile of a wounded parrot: because there seems to be movement in it, and the simile of the movement of the moving one, in which the reason for the similitude would be itself be movement, is extremely subtle and rare. In short, in his iron mirror the greenness of the polish-marks, which is shown in various aspects, is a wounded parrot. The mischievousness of coquetry that has wounded it is the kind of simile for agitation and restlessness of heart that is in the previous verse [{29,1}] as well. (30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that the brightness of the polish-marks on an iron mirror (which seem to be moving in different ways and directions) is a wounded parrot, which has been wounded by the knife of the mischievousness of coquetry. (59)

Bekhud Mohani: The greenness of the polish-marks on an iron mirror doesn't stay [visibly] steady from every direction. For this reason they have given it the simile of a wounded parrot.... And there can also be this interpretation, that her coquetry, and her beauty, are such that if someone with a heart like iron sees her, first he will be struck with amazement, then like the polish-marks on the mirror he will keep writhing forever. (74)

Shadan: Janab Hasrat says that in this verse there is a delicate suggestion that the mischievousness of the beloved's coquetry changed amazement into restlessness. All the same, I don't understand this. But my understanding and not understanding are on a par. (163)

FWP: SETS == POETRY JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} Well, here is Ghalib being, surely self-consciously, 'Ghalibian'. Parrots and mirrors tend to bring out the best (or worst?) in him. In the ghazal world, parrots are often associated with mirrors, apparently because mirrors were used to teach parrots to talk; an account of the process is given by Gyan Chand in {9,8x}. And perhaps also because talking parrots 'mirror' the behavior of talking humans? More parrot-and-mirror verses: {9,8x}; {29,2}; {60,10}; {128,1}; {173,5}. The commentators are at their best here, and have done an indispensable job of helping us out. I certainly can't improve on their meaning in this case. This might be described as a highly ornate version of a 'mushairah verse' (see {14,9}). It has the same basic structure (first line opaque till you hear the second, 'punch' coming only at the end of the second and instantly over). But of course, it's extremely esoteric: you have to know a lot about ghazal conventions to get it, and when you have gotten it (more or less), apart from a display of technical skill there's not that much 'there' there. The verb baa;Ndhnaa , literally 'to bind', has a related sense of 'to incorporate into a line of poetry', Since the refrain is baa;Ndhaa , this whole ghazal is full of chances to declare that things were 'set in a verse as' other things. The audience must in fact have been surprised and amused that the opening-verse did not make use of this opportunity; now this verse does; the next verse does not; and then the closing-verse does. Could Ghalib have arranged them on purpose to create this effect? Maybe, but there are really too few verses to make the pattern significant. For another verse of this kind in this ghazal, see {29,4}; for another whole ghazal of this kind, see {108}, with refrain baa;Ndhte hai;N .

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{29,3} yaas-o-ummiid ne yak ((arbadah-maidaa;N maa;Ngaa ((ajz-e himmat ne :tilism-e dil-e saa))il baa;Ndhaa 1) Despair and Hope demanded a single battlefield 2) Weakness of Courage arranged/fixed/versified the {enchantment / magic world} of the questioning heart

Notes: saa))il: 'Asking;--asker, ...questioner; applicant, suitor, petitioner; beggar'. (Platts p.631) :tilism: 'A talisman; enchantment, magic; a mystery; mystical devices or characters; an image (or other object) upon which such devices or characters are engraved or inscribed (contrived for the purpose of preserving from enchantment, or from a variety of evils, &c.)'. (Platts p.753)

Nazm: That is, weakness of courage has made a magic world in which the battle between Despair and Hope is heating up.... The conclusion is that the one who lacks courage remains enmeshed in hope and despair. (30)

Hasrat: He has declared the questioning heart to be a magic world and a battlefield of Hope and Despair. The founder of this magic world is lack of courage, because this usually consists of a constant flow of questions. (30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Weakness of Courage 'bound' an enchanted world-- that is, made an enchanted world, in which Despair and Hope are fighting each other. Despair wants to conquer, Hope wants to be the victor. The meaning of the verse is that the person who doesn't have courage becomes a questioner and remains absorbed in Hope and Terror. That is, after asking a question, as long as he gets something, or the enchantment of hope is not broken by a flat refusal, the struggle between Hope and Despair constantly continues. (59)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES; POETRY Here is one of Ghalib's favorite patterns: one abstract statement in each line, with no indication of their mutual relationship. Is the second line a response to the 'demand' in the first, or are all the actions to be seen as independent behavior by three separate entities? The concept of a :tilism or enchanted world offers possibilities that surely Ghalib loved, since it's clear that he was very fond of such romance literature in both Persian and Urdu. The most important Urdu romance in the genre is the daastaan-e amiir ;hamzah, to which Ghalib refers in {22,7}; I've written a book about it, and have put part of the introduction to that book online. The narrative pleasure of a :tilism is that nothing is what it appears to be, and things can change their shapes from moment to moment. Within a :tilism, you don't get anywhere by straightforward behavior, such as by fighting demons with ordinary weapons. You can get things done in a :tilism only by gaining some special knowledge from a wise elder or an inscribed tablet. Once you have blundered into, or deliberately entered, a :tilism, you cannot escape. The only escape comes from the 'breaking' of the :tilism, which destroys it entirely, and which can be accomplished only by a single predestined hero. Doesn't all this perfectly evoke the states of uncertainty and perplexity, the labyrinthine twistings and turnings, that are experienced within the dil-e saa))il, the 'questioning heart'? Perhaps 'Weakness of Courage' has created this :tilism deliberately, to prevent or defuse the deadly war between Hope and Despair. Instead of facing off vigorously on a 'single battlefield', the two will find themselves wandering in an incomprehensible, uncontrollable

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mystery. Or perhaps 'Weakness of Courage' spontaneously creates for itself this :tilism, as readily as Hope and Despair demand their own proper battlefield environment. (Compare the behavior of ((ajz-e ;hau.slah in {33,2}.) What a lovely verse this is-- a magical mystery tour of human psychology in two small lines, like an enchanted world. Or perhaps 'Weakness of Courage' simply wants to substitute poetry for combat; for more on the literary sense of baa;Ndhnaa, see {29,2}.

{29,4} nah ba;Ndhe tishnagii-e shauq ke ma.zmuu;N ;Gaalib garchih dil khol ke daryaa ko bhii saa;hil baa;Ndhaa 1) the themes of the thirst of ardor did not become versified/'bound', Ghalib 2) although [we] {unrestrainedly / with open heart} versified/'bound' even the sea as a shore

Notes: Nazm: The thirst of the shore is well-known-- if he committed such an exaggeration as to drink up the whole sea, then the sea itself dried up and became a shore. And even then, the theme of the thirst of relish was not expressed. And to do some task 'with open heart' they call 'to use exaggeration in the task' [kaam me;N mubaali;Gah karnaa]. (30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The themes of the relish of poetry, oh Ghalib, could not be versified/'bound' the way we wanted to versify them, although we unrestrainedly versified the sea as a shore. All the poets have constantly called the shore thirsty. Although it keeps the sea in its embrace, nevertheless it looks dry-lipped. To do some task 'with open heart' they call 'to use exaggeration in the task'. (5960)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse Mirza has shown the extreme of relish; just as in the following verse is the limit of the restlessness of ardor: {27,1}. (75)

FWP: SETS == POETRY There's a textual problem with this verse. Hamid and all the commentator I've used above think (and not without some manuscript support) that it's tishnagii-e ;zauq in the first line, 'the thirst of taste/relish'. Arshi, however, comes down on the side of tishnagii-e shauq, 'the thirst of ardor'. As always, I follow Arshi; in this case, I also like the meaning better his way. But if you look at other divans and commentators, you might notice that many favor ;zauq. This closing-verse is explicitly built around the process of poetic composition-- and doesn't it make a great ending for the ghazal? The poetic themes-- and ma.zmuun is one of the most basic technical terms in the ghazal world-- of the thirst of ardor didn't get 'bound' or 'set' (the intransitive ba;Ndhnaa) into verse, even though we bound/set the sea itself as a shore. The sea is 'thirsty' because countless rivers constantly run into it, yet it is never satiated or overflowing, and is always agitated as though it wanted more. Although we pulled out all the stops and called the paradigmatically thirsty sea a 'shore' by comparison, even this extravagant, limit-case hyperbole did not succeed in properly conveying the thirst of ardor. The idiomatic dil khol ke implies that something is done freely or unrestrainedly, but its literal meaning is 'having opened the heart'-- an elegant evocation of our source of insight into the thirst of ardor. Think of {27,1}, which records a similar example of (in)commensurability: the restlessness of the sea may fit into a pearl, but Ardor complains of lack of space 'even in the heart'. For more on the literary sense of baa;Ndhnaa, see {29,2}.

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Ghazal 30 3 verses; meter G10; rhyming elements: aa thaa composed after 1847; Hamid p. 26; Arshi #039; Raza p. 291

{30,1} mai;N aur bazm-e mai se yuu;N tishnah-kaam aa))uu;N gar mai;N ne kii thii taubah saaqii ko kyaa hu))aa thaa 1) I, and to come away like this, thirsty-throated, from the wine-party! 2) if I did swear off [it], what had happened to the Cupbearer?

Notes: Hali: That is, why didn't he make me drink by force? (141)

Nazm: That is, it's an occasion for astonishment, that-- I, and not to get wine? If I didn't drink by myself, then it was the Cupbearer's right/duty [;haq] to make me drink. (30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Granted that I had sworn off it, and because of my oath had not asked for wine from the Cupbearer-- still, what came over the Cupbearer, that he didn't give me wine without being asked, and didn't force me to drink? The words in which Mirza Sahib has expressed this theme-- only real knowers of the language [ahl-e zabaa;N] can somewhat appreciate their pleasure. (60)

Chishti: In Eastern [mashriqii] poetry, the Cupbearer is a destroyer of piety; that is, his very task is to overcome people's renunciations and forcibly cause any refuser to drink. Thus Dagh says, inkaar-e mai-kashii ne mujhe kyaa mazaa diyaa siine pah cha;Rh ke us ne ;xam-e mai pilaa diyaa [what pleasure the refusal of wine gave me! [he] climbed on my chest and made me drink a jar of wine]. (346)

FWP: SETS == I AND WINE: {49,1} What a disgrace, and how completely unacceptable! Not only was I not myself last night, but the Cupbearer was obviously not himself either. After all, we know from {12,2} that the Cupbearer is a 'sea of wine', and that I the true drinker am 'the stretch of the shore', and that thirst [tishnah-kaamii] is felt according to the drinker's 'capacity' [:zarf], so that it becomes a measure of his worth. How could both the Cupbearer and I have acted so contrary to our best selves, as to permit me to leave the wine-party with my thirst still unslaked? No doubt I might have briefly been deluded enough to swear off wine, but if I forgot my proper role, was that any excuse for the Cupbearer to forget his? Really a most embarrassing occasion, so that I feel both self-reproach and a sense of grievance against the Cupbearer's negligence. He has been negligent on other occasions, as in {21,6}, but usually his performance is superb, as in {18,1}. Something must be done to make sure such a terrible faux pas will never recur. (For more on the idiomatic expression 'I and' see {5,6}.) This small ghazal has no opening-verse; unusually but not uniquely, it begins just with an ordinary verse.

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{30,2} hai ek tiir jis me;N dono;N chhide pa;Re hai;N vuh din ga))e kih apnaa dil se jigar judaa thaa 1) there is one arrow, in which both have been split open 2) those days have gone, when my liver was separate from my heart

Notes: Nazm: That is, those days are gone when the heart was in its place, and the liver was in its place. (30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib has versified/'tied' this theme in one more opening verse: {158,1}. In that verse too, the arrow means the arrow of the glance. (60)

Bekhud Mohani: Now the heart too is prey to the beloved's arrow of coquetry, and the liver too; that is, love has already had its full effect. (76)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} In classic mushairah performance style, the first line is tantalizingly uninterpretable until we hear the second. And the second is so plain and lowkey, with such a words-of-one-syllable quality, that it can hardly help but be moving, in the style of that other brilliantly and poignantly simple verse, {4,6}. We've only seen a few jigar , 'liver', examples before, and most of those were in passing, or went by pretty quickly while we concentrated on the heart. So let this verse be the one where we pause and consider that bane of translators, the 'liver'. It is impossible to make it sound other than absurd and/or edible in English, and yet it is a mainstay of the ghazal poetic repertoire. In ghazal physiology, the liver is the organ that makes fresh blood; thus it's an emblem of fortitude, steadfastness, endurance over time. The heart, by contrast is always consuming blood: bleeding constantly, pumping blood to the eyes so the lover can weep tears of blood, and then tearing itself into fragments as a sign of its proper lover-like self-destruction. For the heart to be done for is an initial state of passion, since more blood can be sent for from the liver. But when the liver is finished, the game is up. There's some clever wordplay (of a kind that markedly evokes the present verse) about the two organs in {4,14x}. The contrast between them is lightly alluded to in {20,4}, when the lover realizes that if the arrow had not lodged in the heart but gone through the liver, he'd be done for. And consider the archetypal {35,6}, in which the lover gets annoyed with his heart (precisely for its lack of stamina) and thinks fondly of his liver. In {85,5}, he recognizes that both of them are done for, and his blood-weeping days are over. In the present verse, the lover is so wrecked, his liver is so implicated in constantly supplying blood to his ravaged heart, that the two are almost part of a single seamless import/export complex for blood. (Or, metaphorically, the lover is so close to exhaustion and death that his liver is indistinguishable from his heart and both are equally vulnerable.) Both heart and liver have been split open with a single arrow. But is the lover sorry, self-pitying, lamenting? Not a bit of it. He's making a flat report, and maybe with only partly concealed pride. He has followed his chosen path nearly to the end, and he has exactly the right wounds to prove it. (He's like a duellist with a scar down his whole face, who is proud to carry around physical proof that at the crucial moment he didn't flinch.)

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Translators usually just try to substitute 'heart' for liver, which is defensible in a general way. But in verses like this present one (and {20,4}, and {35,7}), a necessary contrast is drawn between heart and liver, so that strategy can't work. Which is just one of the many reasons, of course, that making literary translations of Ghalib is a losing game from the start.

{30,3} darmaa;Ndagii me;N ;Gaalib kuchh ban pa;Re to jaanuu;N jab rishtah be-girah thaa naa;xun girah-kushaa thaa 1) in exhaustion, Ghalib, I don't see how anything can be done 2) when the thread was knot-free, the fingernail was knot-opening

Notes: Hali: In the second line, he has presented this theme: when difficulties had not surrounded me, at that time I had strength to endure their occurrence. (129)

Nazm: He has used 'knot' as a metaphor for difficulty, and 'fingernail' for a solution. (30)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, it's a situation of oppression, and I'm enveloped in difficulties. Now if the fingernail of contrivance would be knot-opening, then that would be another matter. It is apparent that formerly, the nail had the strength for opening knots. In this verse the moral lesson has been given, that as long as a person doesn't suffer, he prides himself on his contrivance. But wisdom and contrivance are praiseworthy only when in a time of difficulty they don't miss their aim, and are able to salvage the situation somehow. (76)

FWP: Are the knots genuine difficulties, or are they in the mind of the lover? On the first reading, we see him weary and defeated after the usual (and some unusual) struggles with life in general. He reflects on the irony of at all: once he was good at puzzle-solving, at getting things done, at knot-unravelling-and things were so easy then that there hardly were any knots to unravel. Now, when life is closing in on him and things are much tougher, his skills and abilities are also reduced (by time? age? sickness? the ravages of passion?), leaving him unable to cope. Isn't that just the occasion for a wry observation like this? Or, of course, it might reflect only the way the world looks to an exhausted, worn-out person. When you're absolutely exhausted, nothing looks feasible, everything defeats you, you can't even imagine how you might once have coped with your life. You know there was a time (but will it ever come again?) when life flowed smoothly and coherently, with almost no knots, and you also had capable fingers for unravelling any little tangles that did develop. But in a state of true exhaustion, you hardly believe all that was ever real. Smooth strings, clever fingers--it sounds like a distant fairy tale. The simple, unforced colloquialness of kuchh ban pa;Re to jaanuu;N is almost impossible to translate; I've just tried to choose the nearest English phrase I can find. For more and knottier knots, see {8,2}.

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Ghazal 31 3 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa;N hotaa composed after 1847; Hamid p. 27; Arshi #040; Raza p. 291

{31,1} ghar hamaaraa jo nah rote bhii to viiraa;N hotaa ba;hr gar ba;hr nah hotaa to bayaabaa;N hotaa 1) our house, even if [we] did not weep, would be desolate 2) if a sea were not a sea, then it would be a desert

Notes: biyaabaa;N: '(be + aab + aan), s.m. Desert, wilderness'. (Platts p.204)

Nazm: That is, because of weeping the house is becoming a sea; if we did not weep, then it would be a desert. (31)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In short, ill fortune never under any circumstances refrains from manifesting itself. (61)

Bekhud Mohani: If I had not stayed at home and wept, then madness would have taken me into the desert, and in that home I would have spent my time sifting the dust. It's necessary for the drying up of tears to mean becoming a desert; otherwise there wouldn't be any reference to the sea. (76)

Arshi: Compare {118,4}, {120,7}, {234,6}. (184)

Faruqi: Thus in the whole verse two pictures emerge. One is the overruling command of inescapable fate-- that is, the chain of destiny-- which is made of water. And the second is the picture of some such oppressed one or madman who is imprisoned by the desolation he has brought on himself. But the outcome of the verse is not hopelessness or sorrow or regret, but rather there's a sort of pride in it, a contentment and joy at his condition.... Ghalib got a lot from Mir, especially this tone: the talk is of destruction, but the style is one of cheerfulness or dignity. (48-49)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM Compare {17,2}, in which weeping and desertification are linked in an equally evocative way. Once again the famous Ghalibian pattern: two abstract statements, one in each line, with no logical link supplied. In this case the degree of parallelism is considerable as well. Let's consider some possibilities. 1) These might be two independent statements about similar conditions in very different places. How interesting-- our house has certain perverse tendencies involving water and desolation, and the sea has similar ones. 2) Or the second statement might be a kind of explanatory analogy, helping us interpret the first. Just as the sea is so inherently desolate that if it were

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not a wet desolation it would be a dry one, the same is the case with our house. 3) Or the second statement might be meant to be directly mapped onto the first. Our house is a sea, because of the turbulence, volume, and saltiness of our tears, and it has the same irresistible tendency toward desolation that the sea does, such that if it were not a sea it would be a desert. One reason this verse feels so flowing is that the rhythm of the phrases seems to correspond well with the rhythm of the metrical feet. Also, notice that, in a wonderful example of affinity, the word bayaabaa;N , meaning 'desert', is derived from the literal be + aab , 'without water'. Here is a verse all about the wild powers of water-- and the only place where 'water' itself appears is in a word that denies its presence. The same line of thought, about the irremediable perversity of the house, continues in the next verse, {31,2}.

{31,2} tangii-e dil kaa gilah kyaa yih vuh kaafir dil hai kih agar tang nah hotaa to pareshaa;N hotaa 1a) about the narrowness/distress of the heart, as if there could be a complaint! this is such an infidel heart 1b) about the narrowness/distress of the heart, what a complaint there is! this is such an infidel heart 2) that if it were not narrow/distressed, then it would be scattered/anxious

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse too, he presents with another device and in other words the theme of the opening-verse [{31,1}] above. (61)

Bekhud Mohani: (1) We are so unfortunate that if the heart were happy, then it would be so happy that the excess of happiness would make it anxious (the heart would be torn apart). (2) If the heart remains sad, then what cause for complaint? It is such an enemy of peace that if it were satisfied, then it would be anxious at the absence of anxiety and difficulty. (76)

Chishti: tangii has two meanings: 1) sorrowful; 2) it's the opposite of pareshaanii, that is, it's the state of being contracted. pareshaanii has two meanings: 1) sorrowful; 2) it's the opposite of tangii, that is, it's the state of being spread out. There's an iihaam between the two words, and in this is the pleasure of the verse. (348)

FWP: SETS == KYA INFIDEL: {21,12} As Bekhud Dihlavi points out, this verse has much in common with the previous one, {31,1}. In both verses, the lover's heart/house domain is depicted as irremediably perverse and turbulent. But this verse is somewhat less multivalent, since its two lines are logically connected in a clear and specific way. Instead, its great source of pleasure is its wordplay, which Chishti points out. If the heart were not narrow/distressed, it would be scattered/anxious. The two abstract nouns tangii and pareshaanii have literal meanings that are if not exactly opposite, then something in that vicinity; and also metaphorical meanings that are very similar. This well-exploited juxtaposition gives an excellent gauge for the perversity of the heart. Chishti calls this device an iihaam, and I think in the strict sense he's wrong (since both meanings are

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desired, so there's no misdirection); but in the more general sense, it is certainly a sophisticated form of punning. Also notice the effortless multivalence generated in just a part of the first line by the inshaa))iyah powers of kyaa. As if there could be a complaint! (1a)-- that is, complaining is useless, for if the infidel heart changed its ways, it would just flip them over into something equally vexatious. Or: what a complaint there is! (1b)-- that is, what deep cause for complaint the infidel heart constantly gives, and how innately aggravating it is. The colloquial, easy rhythm, just a natural good-natured scolding or lament, is perfect. The rueful, affectionate tone of yih vuh kaafir dil hai is tolerant, resigned, almost proud of such absolute perversity.

{31,3} ba((d-e yak ((umr-e vara(( baar to detaa baare kaash ri.zvaa;N hii dar-e yaar kaa darbaa;N hotaa 1) after a lifetime of abstinence, he would have granted admission at last 2) if only Rizvan alone/himself were the Doorkeeper of the beloved's door!

Notes: vara(( : 'Timidity, cowardice;--apprehensiveness of doing wrong; abstinence from anything doubtful;--the fear of God;--temperance, continence, chastity'. (Platts p.1188)

Bekhud Dihlavi: If only the doorkeeper were Rizvan (who is the doorkeeper of Paradise), it could have been hoped that after a lifetime of worship he would not have prevented me [from entering]. (61)

Bekhud Mohani: The point is that entry into Paradise is possible, but access to the beloved's house is impossible. (77)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The verse relishes its wordplay: baar and baare; dar and darbaa;N. Look at the sound effects too: by my count, of the 22 long and short vowels in the words of the verse, 15 are either aa or a, while only 7 are everything else combined. Unusually, this ghazal ends not with a formal closing-verse, but with just this ordinary one. The first line makes little sense in isolation, so that, under conditions of mushairah performance, we would have to wait for the second before we could grasp the meaning. And then we find the amusing, subtle powers of inshaa))iyah speech-- exclamatory in this case-- once again displayed to great advantage. To say that the beloved's Doorkeeper is as forbidding as Rizvan, the guardian of Paradise, might seem an obvious simile. But here the imagery is so thoroughly reversed that it doesn't even need to be said that the beloved's Doorkeeper is even stricter than Rizvan. Instead, the lover merely exclaims, oh if only it were just Rizvan at her door-- after a lifetime of submission, he would let me in! The unselfconscious exclamation, and that understated, casual little hii, work wonders: they convey both the informational, or ;xabariyah, point, and the lover's reaction to it. The lover is so cavalierly dismissive of Rizvan that he isn't even aware of being dismissive of him: his whole mind is fixed on the far harsher, far more unjust Doorkeeper who actually confronts him. For after all, he doesn't want to get into Paradise, he wants to get into the beloved's house. And having said that, we at once realize that there's a real difference between the two. The beloved commands a Paradise more heavenly than the official one. God is more fair-minded and approachable than the beloved, and Rizvan more mellow and compassionate than her Doorkeeper. This strikes me as another verse that it would be very difficult to read as addressed to a divine rather than human beloved; for more on this, see {20,3}.

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Ghazal 32 3 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa hotaa composed after 1847; Hamid p. 27; Arshi #044; Raza p. 293

{32,1} nah thaa kuchh to ;xudaa thaa kuchh nah hotaa to ;xudaa hotaa ;Duboyaa mujh ko hone ne nah hotaa mai;N to kyaa hotaa 1a) when there was nothing, then God was; if nothing existed, then God would exist 1b) when I was nothing, then God existed; if I were nothing, then God would exist 1c) when I was nothing, then I was God; if I were nothing, then I would be God 2a) 'being' drowned me; if I were not I, then what would I be? 2b) 'being' drowned me; if I did not exist, then what would I be? 2c) 'being' drowned me; if I were not I, then what would exist? 2d) 'being' drowned me; if I did not exist, then what would exist? 2e) 'being' drowned me; if I were not I, then so what? 2f) 'being' drowned me; if I did not exist, then so what?

Notes: Hali: In an entirely new manner he has given non-existence priority over existence, and through a strange expectation he has expressed a longing for complete nonexistence. The meaning of the first line is apparent. In the second line, apparently the thought is expressed, If I did not exist, then what harm would it be? But the speaker's intent is, If I did not exist, it would be worth seeing what thing I would be-- which means, I would be God. Because in the first line it has already been said, If I were nothing, then I would be God. (121)

Nazm: He says that this Source, which is insubstantial, cannot become a substance. It is not manifest to the extent that the effects of power and contrivance and wisdom are manifest, perceptible, revealed. And for this reason we make distinctions between the ignorer and the ignored, the active and the passive. The author has composed this verse according to the the Sufistic view: that is, When I was nothing, I was God, and having become something, I became alienated from my origin, and to become separate from that benevolent origin turned out to be bad for me. (31)

Bekhud Dihlavi: With what excellence he's given nonexistence priority over existence-- it's beyond praise. He says that when the world had not been born, then there was only the Lord himself. If this world of possibilities had not been engendered, then too there would have been only the Lord himself. Thus my existence, as it manifested itself, established me as a separate body, and that other body, having taken shape, ruined me. If I had not been born, and did not exist, then just think, what would I have been! That is, I would have been God. (61-62)

Bekhud Mohani: The poet has put in this verse such a capacious word as 'drowned'-- the commentary on which could fill volume upon volume.... He inquires from the hearers in a questioning tone, so that they themselves would say just what he is saying about himself. (77)

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Chishti: nah hotaa mai;N to kyaa hotaa has two meanings: 1) if I did not exist, then there'd be no loss, no harm; 2) if I did not exist, then I'd be God. (349)

Faruqi: This verse can be placed among the most famous verses of Urdu.... In the whole verse only one word derived from Persian (;xudaa) has been used, and that too such a commonly used word that the thought of its being Persian doesn't even arise. [In addition to the usual interpretations] the verse also gestures toward the compulsions of life.... His existence or nonexistence has perhaps made no difference in the order of things, but man is forced to endure his coming into existence, and life, and death. [Another reading is,] if I had not come into existence, then what harm would that have done? (5051)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; REPETITION As Faruqi says, this is one of the most famous verses in Urdu, and honestly awe-inspiring in its tangle of complexities of meaning. Hindi/Urdu students can understand it after one year of study; yet it will repay any amount of thought. Can there be another example of so many meanings attained with so little effort? As Faruqi also observes, the vocabulary is simple and plain in the extreme. This is another verse that can't be addressed to a human; for more on this see {20,10}. In case the bizarre multiplicity of meanings makes your head spin, there are several key operations that generate them in such profusion. Needless to say, the power of inshaa))iyah speech and the multivalence of kyaa are on display; for more on all this see {21,1}. Another point to remember is that the subject in Urdu can always be omitted if it's clearly understood, as it is in this case. So if you do or don't add in an implied subject, you generate twofold meanings for almost every phrase. And since the lover, God, and the abstract kuchh are all masculine singular, all these meanings work: jab [ mai;N ] kuchh nah thaa to [ =tab ] [ mai;N ] ;xudaa thaa agar [ mai;N ] kuchh nah hotaa to [ mai;N ] ;xudaa hotaa hone ne mujh ko ;Duboyaa; agar mai;N [ mai;N ] nah hotaa to [ mai;N ] kyaa hotaa See what I mean? There are six places at which mai;N may or may not be conjecturally inserted, with radical effects on the meaning. The only other special information you need is the knowledge that to kyaa hotaa colloquially means something like 'then so what?' or 'then who cares?' (It works so well that he promptly uses it again in {32,3}.) Is this not a two-line complete portable library of possible existential speculations? That's why I consider it a 'meaning machine' or 'meaning generator'-- because of its radical undecideability. For other examples of such wildly proliferating 'generator' verses, see {21,1}, {202,4}, {214,10}, and the brilliantly simple {230,7}.

{32,2}

hu))aa jab ;Gam se yuu;N be-;his to ;Gam kyaa sar ke ka;Tne kaa nah hotaa gar judaa tan se to zaanuu par dharaa hotaa 1) when it became senseless like this with grief, then {what's the harm / what grief} if the head is cut off? 2) if it were not separated from the body, then it would rest on the knees

Notes: Nazm: Resting the head on the knees in grief is well known; the meaning is clear-these words are spoken after the head has been cut off. (31)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the word 'senseless' has created, along with a proof of the claim, an extraordinary pleasure. He says, when from an excess of grief our head became so senseless that it was necessary to constantly rest it on the knees, then there's no point in grieving over the cutting off of such a head. That is, an excess of grief had made the head useless before it was cut off. The loss of a useless thing is no cause for regret. (62)

Bekhud Mohani: Although 'like this' doesn't tell us about any special aspect of 'senseless', in this summary a volume of detail is hidden. (77)

FWP: Nazm is right of course, the contrafactual in the first part of line two shows that the head has already been cut off at the time these reflective words are spoken. This is not exactly unusual in the ghazal; we saw it as one possible reading as early as {9,3}. Here, however, it's the only possible reading. The lover is so detached now that he sounds quite clinical: in the whole verse he never once claims ownership of the head. Bekhud Mohani points to yuu;N, and doesn't it indeed add to the clinical effect? He sounds like a doctor who has tested the reflexes, found the head rubbery and useless, and quite properly performed an amputation. For more examples of the dead-loverspeaks situation, see {57,1}. ;Gam kyaa is both literally and colloquially appropriate. Since my head has been numbed into senselessness by intense grief, 'what grief' or pain will it feel if it is cut off? And since it's now quite numb and useless, 'what's the harm' if it's cut off? Equally elegant, and perfectly suited to both meanings, is the idea that the head would be zaanuu par dharaa. Since my head has been benumbed and rendered senseless by grief, naturally it rests on my knees in the classic pose of abandoned sorrow. And since my head is so numb and senseless, it is too floppy to keep itself upright, and would inevitably collapse onto my knees.

{32,3} hu))ii muddat kih ;Gaalib mar gayaa par yaad aataa hai vuh har ik baat par kahnaa kih yuu;N hotaa to kyaa hotaa 1) it's been quite a while since Ghalib died, but [I] remember 2a) his saying about every single thing, If it were so, then so what? 2b) his saying about every single thing, If it were so, then what [a state it] would be! 2c) his saying about every single thing, If it were so, then what would be/happen?

Notes: Nazm: kyaa is for contempt. That is, about every deed, whether it be a cause of luxury and ease, or of grief and trouble, he used to say, So what?, and used to express contempt for it and consider it trifling. (31)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, he was so all-knowing that when any problem was presented before him, he definitely always give advice about it. (77)

Baqir: [The commentator Sa'id sa((iid says:] About everything he used to express longing: that is, if it were so, then what pleasure there would be! (106)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KYA

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This is another of his 'meaning machine' verses of course, and just the kind on which the commentators prove so unhelpful, since each is content to see only one part of the elephant. Many of the same effects are present in {32,1}, including use of the same multivalent phrase to kyaa hotaa. Both verses are spoken after the lover's death, which adds to the punch of the 'so what'-- it expresses despair, futility, an indifference to life that has now found its only possible culmination. But this verse is spoken by an anonymous sympathetic friend, a character frequently evoked in the closing-verse because of the helpful presence of the pen-name. It seems that this one expression, yuu;N hotaa to kyaa hotaa is all the lover used to say, no matter what the circumstances, and is all the friend remembers him by. If you can choose only one phrase to be remembered by, what a great choice! It can express inquiry (2c), or longing (2b), and/or despair (2a). How better to end a ghazal that begins with the astonishing {32,1}?

Ghazal 33 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;G kaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 28; Arshi #022; Raza p. 117

{33,1} yak ;zarrah-e zamii;N nahii;N bekaar baa;G kaa yaa;N jaadah bhii fatiilah hai laale ke daa;G kaa 1) not a single grain of the earth of the garden is useless 2) here even the path is the wick/bandage of the tulip's flame/wound

Notes: laalah : 'A tulip; (in India, also) the red poppy'. (Platts p.947) daa;G : 'A mark burnt in, a brand, cautery;...scar, cicatrix; wound, sore; grief, sorrow; misfortune, calamity'. (Platts p.501)

Nazm: If we take daa;G to mean 'wound', then fatiilah is that rolled-up bandage that they put in a wound, and if we take it to mean [a burning] 'lamp', then fatiilah [as 'wick'] is the cause of its radiance. In the first case, the lush growth of greenery has caused the path to grow so thin that it's become like the vein of the tulip. And the 'wound' is the special feature of the tulip because it would prove the claim of excess against the numerousness of the colorful roses and the intensity of the greenness of the greenery. And in the second case, it means that the path has the same affinity with a tulip that a wick does with a flame. (31-32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that this time spring has come to the garden so riotously that not a grain of earth has remained useless: the garden paths have become covered with greenery, and it's as if they have become ointment-covered rolled-up bandages for the tulip's wound. (62)

Bekhud Mohani: Even the path, which separates the gardens, has doubled the beauty of the tulips. As if it were a wick, through which the lamp of the tulips was lit. [Also,] in this verse is the theme of the insubstantiality of the world.... The path is illumining the fact that the world of luxury and joy has no stability; rather, the fruit of seeking worldly enjoyment is a wound-- and that too a wound like the tulip's, which remains forever. (78)

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FWP: ZARRAH: {15,12} Nazm explains the wordplay of daa;G and fatiilah. You might think that in a gorgeous, voluptuous garden the path through it would be 'useless' in contributing to the visual effects. But far from it. By convention the laalah has a 'wound' in its heart, indicated by its dark, scorched-looking center; thus its heart resembles that of the lover, which is flaming with passion and finally burns itself out (and which also melts into bright red blood the color of the flowers). Other verses that invokes the tulip's 'wound' or 'scar': {155,1} and {230,1}. The long, narrow path can then serve as a certain kind of rolled-up bandage used for deep wounds and called metaphorically a 'wick'. And, of course, since the tulip's wound is a flaming one contained inside a deep cup, it resembles an oil lamp, and the path can act as a a 'wick' for it. Thus in one sense, the fatiilah as a wick makes possible the flame of the tulip; in another sense, the fatiilah as a bandage soothes the fiery wound of the tulip. It thus plays two contradictory roles at once, both of them crucial. The path that we thought was a neutral, useless interruption of the garden, useful only for permitting human access, turns out to be complexly integral to the whole life and beauty of the garden itself. And the path itself, the particular word jaadah, seems to be a part of Ghalib's regular tool kit of highly abstract images; for other examples, see {9,4}. The word yaa;N, 'here', may mean 'in the garden', thus suggesting what an unusually comples microcosm the garden really is. Or it may mean 'in this world', thus suggesting that the world is full of signs that have meaning for the mystically perceptive (consider {13,1}). What is here a single grain of dirt, ;zarrah, is normally conceived of by Ghalib as a sand-grain, and in that role too it is is full of mystical possibilities (see {16,4}). We don't get to know any of this until the second line, of course. The first is a general statement; the second provides an instance or proof of it.

{33,2} be-mai kise hai :taaqat-e aashob-e aagahii khe;Nchaa hai ((ajz-e ;hau.slah ne ;xa:t ayaa;G kaa 1) without wine, who has the strength for the tumult/terror of awareness? 2) weakness of enthusiasm/spirit has drawn the line on the cup

Notes: aashob: 'Tumult, clamour; storm, tempest; terror; misfortune'. (Platts p.58)

Nazm: That is, courage avoids enduring the tumult of awareness. That avoidance has drawn a line on the cup of awareness and intelligence; that is, it has cut them out from the page of regard. The result is that it has caused intelligence to become absorbed in drinking the cup. In the Cup of Jamshid there were lines; for this reason, poets to this day consider lines necessary in every cup, and they've composed quite a number of similes and themes about the Lines [;xa:t] of Jamshid. (33)

Hasrat: He has declared awareness to be a tumult/terror, for the endurance of which wine-drinking is necessary. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, without the wine of the Divine love, nobody has the strength to endure the tumult/terror of awareness. ayaa;G means glass, and here it refers to the glass on which lines are drawn in order to measure the wine, which in English they call 'minim measure' [minim mejur] or 'ounce measure' [o;Ns mejur]. The meaning is that because of weakness of enthusiasm/spirit, we make lines on the glass of wine, and thus measure the wine before drinking

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it. And day by day we keep increasing the amount of wine. The strength to endure the tumult/terror of awareness, in proportion to the lines on the cup, gradually develops. That is, day by day our mastery and practice of repetition [of God's names] and absorption [in God] keep increasing. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: Without the wine of mystic knowledge, it is impossible to escape the turmoil/terror and mischief of worldly knowledge. But the calamity is that we don't find within ourselves the strength to drink enough wine (mystic knowledge) to escape this. (78)

Mihr: Compare {131,5}. (128)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT WINE: {49,1} The commentators agree, and Hasrat puts it most succinctly, that wine is necessary to help us face the aashob-e aagahii. But what is that exactly? Given the versatility of the i.zaafat, it could mean the tumult/terror that is received by awareness (as in 'the devastation of the city'), or that is created by awareness (as in 'the devastation of the bomb blast'), or that is awareness ('the devastation of mental illness'). Yet each of these three readings would lead in a different interpretive direction. Also, the first line could be read as implying either that without wine we would have awareness but it would be unbearable (since we wouldn't have the strength to endure it), or that without wine we would have no awareness (since we wouldn't have the strength to experience it). The tight-lipped, stoic verse cited by Mihr could apply to any or all of such interpretations. The piquant question is why 'weakness of enthusiasm/spirit' draws a line on the glass. You'd think, based on what the commentators say, that the more wine the better, whether it's real wine or the wine of mystic intoxication. Bekhud Dihlavi's explanation sounds farfetched to me. My own theory is that since wine gives us strength for the 'turmoil/terrof of awareness', perhaps more wine gives us more strength, so we can endure more awareness. It's only our lack of courage that makes us limit our ordeal by drinking less wine and enduring less awareness. Eliot pointed out, after all, that 'humankind cannot bear very much reality'. Compare the behavior of 'Weakness of Courage' in {29,3}.

{33,3} bulbul ke kaar-o-baar pah hai;N ;xandah'haa-e gul kahte hai;N jis ko ((ishq ;xalal hai dimaa;G kaa 1) at the doings of the Nightingale are the smiles of the rose 2) what they call passion is a defect of the mind

Notes: Nazm: That is, considering the nightingale to be insane, the roses laugh at him.... The author has removed the word ;haal-e zaar [sorrowful state] and replaced it with kaar -o-baar because kaar means 'sowing' and baar means 'fruit', and these have an affinity with 'rose'. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The unaffectedness of the second line is worthy of praise and commendation. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: In the poet's heart, because of constant failures or lack of access for passion, [are grim thoughts]. In such a state he has gone into the garden. Here he's seen the blooming flowers. In his mood, he considers that the roses are laughing at the Nightingale's crazed behavior. (78)

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Arshi: Compare {80,1}. (214)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} Arshi is right to point out {80,1}; as he does only one other time in the whole divan, Ghalib recycles a complete line. The first line of the present verse is the second line of {80,1}, word for word. The rose, the beloved of the garden, smiles at the doings of the nightingale, who is well-established in the ghazal world as her passionate lover. Why does she smile? Does she find him ludicrous and smile mockingly? Does she feel pity for his plight? Does she ruefully acknowledge her own brief lifespan, since her full-bloom 'smiling' is a sign that her petals will soon fall? And more to the point, who is the speaker of the second line? Is it a transcription of what is going through the rose's mind, as she smiles? Is it a general statement, of which the proof is the first line? (Lovers are crazy, and the proof is that even the rose laughs at her lover the nightingale.) Could the lover himself be noticing the rose smiling at the nightingale, and then making his own reflection on the condition of passion? As so often with Ghalib, we are left with two flat statements and forced to make our own judgments about the connections between them. The succinct, colloquial, no-nonsense sound of the second line is indeed, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, a pleasure in itself. But I also like the flowing, slightly enigmatic structure of the first line. It is out of prose order, of course, which would be ;xandah'haa-e gul bulbul ke kaar-o-baar pah hai;N, so it calls extra attention to the words moved forward in the sentence; the line might be translated as 'It's at the doings of the nightingale that the rose smiles.' Which puts a new slant on the whole thing. Would the rose not smile at all, if not for the naively romantic carryings-on of the nightingale? Is it to the passionate madness of the nightingale that we owe the glories of spring?

{33,4} taazah nahii;N hai nashshah-e fikr-e su;xan mujhe tiryaakii-e qadiim huu;N duud-e chiraa;G kaa 1) it's not new to me, the intoxication of thinking of poetry 2) I'm a longtime opium-addict of the smoke of the lamp

Notes: Nazm: Smoke means the thinking, and the lamp is a metaphor for radiant speech. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that just as an opium user takes in the [specially prepared] opium [chan;Duu] by means of [lighting it with] a lamp and inhaling the smoke through a hollow reed in the style of a hookah, in the same way I use the smoke of the lamp to attain the intoxication of thinking about poetry. The convention is that thinking about poetry, or work on poetry, is usually done at night. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that night after night, all night long, I keep lighting the lamp, and spend the time in thinking about poetry. The madness of poetry didn't come over me just today. (79)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Bekhud explains it well. And the phrase tiryaakii-e qadiim is so expressive and elegant that it seems to carry the full weight of the verse. The fikr-e

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su;xan could be thinking about poetry in a general serious way, or of course composing it. Fire is part of the essence of poetry, and the smoke of the oil lamp is the ultimate intoxicant.

{33,5} sau baar band-e ((ishq se aazaad ham hu))e par kyaa kare;N kih dil hii ((aduu hai faraa;G kaa 1) a hundred times we became free from the bonds of passion 2) but what can [we] do? for the heart itself is an enemy of rest

Notes: Nazm: That is, when we are free, the heart again gets itself captured. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has made emotions wear the garb of an allegory [tam;siil]. Here by passion is meant love of the world, and by the bonds of passion is meant entrapment in that love.... That is, while living in the world a man can never be without involvement and care. (63-64)

Bekhud Mohani: Our heart itself doesn't like to be at rest. Here we escaped from the prison of passion, and there it entrapped us again. That is, we are compelled by our temperament. This wretched temperament won't listen. (79)

FWP: This one reminds me of the famous {233}, muddat hu))ii hai, 'it's been a while', in which the lover looks back nostalgically on old passions and prepares to plunge into the cauldron once again. This view is unusual, since normally the lover depicts himself as utterly trapped, unable to escape from his passion, like someone with his 'hand under a stone' {230,7}. Here, the lover depicts himself as free-- and yet not free. In fact he's really kind of a 'lifer'. After all, if you're such a recidivist that you've voluntarily returned to prison 'a hundred times', how voluntary is your choice? If your heart itself refuses to be at peace outside the 'bonds of passion', how real is your chance to escape? In this seemingly simple verse, with no obvious pyrotechnics, Ghalib nevertheless makes us wonder about the nature of 'freedom'.

{33,6} be-;xuun-e dil hai chashm me;N mauj-e nigah ;Gubaar yih mai-kadah ;xaraab hai mai ke suraa;G kaa 1) without heart's blood, the wave of the glance is dust in the eye 2) this wine-house is ruined for [want of] a trace of wine

Notes: ;xaraabaat: 'Ruins, desolate places; --A tavern; --a brothel (such being usually kept in ruins)'. (Platts p.488) ;Gubaar: 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storn; vapour, fog, mist, mistiness; impurity, foulness; (met.) vexation, soreness, ill-feeling; rancour, spite; affliction, grief; perplexity'. (Platts p.769)

Nazm: The eye is the wine-house and wine, the blood of the heart. And if the blood of the heart is not in the eye, the wave of the glance has become dust, as if a wine-house is becoming ruined and dust-covered in the search for wine. (32)

Hasrat: To use dust as a simile for the wave of a glance is very suitable, and the word ;xaraab for a wine-house too is not devoid of a [special] mood. (32)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, man's eye has been created so that it would always keep on shedding tears of blood. If heart's blood doesn't flow from the eye, then instead of a wave of a glance dust begins to fly around within the eye. That is, the eye's adornment and glory has bitten the dust. This wine-house-- that is, the human eye-- becomes ruined without wine. The affinity of the words-what an achievement! (64)

Bekhud Mohani: The gist of the meaning is that the glory of the eyes is to continue to shed blood through remembering the beloved. (79)

Baqir: [The use of] ;xaraab for a wine-house is very enjoyable. (109)

Shadan: The truth is that there is affinity of words no doubt, but by way of meaning, the word 'wave' is useless. And perhaps calling the glance 'dust' can be considered as comparing the scatteredness of the glance with the scatteredness of dust. (168)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The commentators point to the enjoyable wordplay, especially that of calling a wine-house ;xaraab or ruined, and thus invoking ;xaraabaat, a word for ruins that can mean wine-house as well. This verse recalls {7,4}, with its blood, dust, and a sea (full of waves of course). But I think in this case it's a little easier to put together its imagery. As usual, Ghalib leaves us to connect the two lines ourselves. But he gives us a little more of a hint than he often does: 'this' wine-house in the second line implies that the winehouse is something mentioned in the first line. And surely, of the available nouns (heart, blood, wave, glance, dust, eye) the most probable candidates are the heart and the eye; or the reference could conceivably be to the body itself, home to both heart and eye. Whether the wine-house is heart, eye, or body, the obvious sense is that without the blood of the heart it is ruined, a mere shadow of its former self. The sign of its ruin is that 'the wave of the glance is dust in the eye', Clearly ;Gubar has both the literal meaning of 'dust', which is appropriate since a formerly wet riverbed would turn to dust when it dried, and the metaphorical meaning of 'vexation, grief', which is appropriate since the drying up of the wellspring of passion would reduce former delights to mere aggravations. Speaking of the 'wave of the glance' is beautifully appropriate here-- the glance that was formerly a flowing wave of blood is now reduced to a blowing wave of dust.

{33,7} baa;G-e shuguftah teraa bisaa:t-e nishaa:t-e dil abr-e bahaar ;xum-kadah kis ke dimaa;G kaa 1) the garden in bloom-- your carpet/spread of joy of the heart 2) the spring raincloud-- the cask-house of whose mind?

Notes: bisaa:t : 'Anything that is spread out; surface, expanse, expansion; carpet; bedding; chess-cloth of chess-board, dice-board; --goods, wares, &c'. (Platts p.154) ;xum : 'A large vessel or jar; an alembic, a still'. (Platts p.493)

Nazm: In the first line 'is' is omitted. The meaning is that when sometimes the garden creates joy, then I reflect-- the spring raincloud, which has filled the glass brimful with the wine of color and scent, of whose mind is it the winehouse? (32)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what makes the bud of my temperament bloom is the springtime of your garden of beauty, and this garden is always in bloom and forever flourishing. The cause of my existence can't be the spring raincloud. This wine-house-- that is, the spring raincloud-- has been created in order to intoxicate and render unconscious no telling whom. The meaning is that ordinary wine-drinkers can take pleasure in spring, and their minds can find pleasure and rest in strolling through the blooming roses and the garden. In order to make me bloom, there is your beauty and the springtime of your beauty. (64)

Bekhud Mohani: A blooming garden is a source of enjoyment for you. Then, for whose mind is the wine-house of the spring raincloud a source of joy and intoxication? That is, everything in the world has been made for you. This verse has been composed for mankind: every adornment in the world has been made only for him. (79)

Mihr: The affinity of the words is manifest, and there will be scarcely any verse of Mirza Ghalib's that will be devoid of this affinity. Here, he has brought in 'wine-house' through its affinity with 'spring raincloud', and the affinity of 'mind' and 'intoxication' also needs no commentary. (130)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM SCRIPT EFFECTS verses: {9,7}, {33,7}, {56,5}; {61,3}; {94,1}* (on khilnaa and khulnaa ); {114,7}; {119,5}; {123,11}; {176,6}; {177,1}; {191,2}; {197,2}* Unusually, this ghazal has no closing-verse; it originally had one, but Ghalib chose to omit it from his published divan (see Raza p. 117). The word ;xum works excellently here, since it's usually used for huge casks of wine. The large dark thick shape of the raincloud is well suited to evoke such a cask, with its sense of bulk storage, and even of the secondary meaning of 'alembic' or 'still' for making wine. In whose mind would we find the cask-house in which such vessels were stored? The question is, who are the two entities being discussed? One of them is addressed, and in the most intimate way [teraa]. But it seems that this tuu is not the same person (?) as the one referred to in the second line. The speaker is well aware of the creative prowess of the 'you'-- the 'you' is the creator/essence of the garden in bloom; the joyous expansion of 'your' heart apparently 'is' the garden (though we have to supply the verb ourselves). But the speaker seems to feel that the spring raincloud that waters the garden has another source-- one that he doesn't know, and one that the 'you' may or may not know. This second creator might be a higher power: the garden needs the raincloud, but the raincloud doesn't need the garden. It seems obvious that we might identify the 'you' as the beloved, leaving the second, unknown, entity to be God. But what if we identify the 'you' as God? Then the verse becomes a remarkable meditation indeed. Look at the parallel structures of the two lines: both speak of an A that is B of C. In the first line, the garden is the carpet of somebody's joy of heart; in the second line, the raincloud is the wine-house of somebody's mind. What kinds of equation are intended here? Is there a pantheistic presence behind the universe, for whom the raincloud actually acts as a wine-house? Or is there a creator so protean that he uses the image of the raincloud for inspiration, so that it becomes source of intoxication and fertility for his mind? Think of the Urdu script-- bisaa:t and nishaa:t differ from each other only in the placement and number of their dots. Thus they not only rhyme, but have a strong visual echo as well; this can hardly have been accidental. The

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idiomatic expression baa;G baa;G honaa-- literally, 'to be garden upon garden'-- means 'to be overjoyed', and surely Ghalib meant this phrase to come into our minds as a sort of overtone of the first line. For another example of 'script-play', see {94,1} with its evocation of both khilnaa and khulnaa; and {94,2} with its play on ulfat and alif.; and {95,1} with sipaarii and supaarii.

Ghazal 33 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;G kaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 28; Arshi #022; Raza p. 117

{33,1} yak ;zarrah-e zamii;N nahii;N bekaar baa;G kaa yaa;N jaadah bhii fatiilah hai laale ke daa;G kaa 1) not a single grain of the earth of the garden is useless 2) here even the path is the wick/bandage of the tulip's flame/wound

Notes: laalah : 'A tulip; (in India, also) the red poppy'. (Platts p.947) daa;G : 'A mark burnt in, a brand, cautery;...scar, cicatrix; wound, sore; grief, sorrow; misfortune, calamity'. (Platts p.501)

Nazm: If we take daa;G to mean 'wound', then fatiilah is that rolled-up bandage that they put in a wound, and if we take it to mean [a burning] 'lamp', then fatiilah [as 'wick'] is the cause of its radiance. In the first case, the lush growth of greenery has caused the path to grow so thin that it's become like the vein of the tulip. And the 'wound' is the special feature of the tulip because it would prove the claim of excess against the numerousness of the colorful roses and the intensity of the greenness of the greenery. And in the second case, it means that the path has the same affinity with a tulip that a wick does with a flame. (31-32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that this time spring has come to the garden so riotously that not a grain of earth has remained useless: the garden paths have become covered with greenery, and it's as if they have become ointment-covered rolled-up bandages for the tulip's wound. (62)

Bekhud Mohani: Even the path, which separates the gardens, has doubled the beauty of the tulips. As if it were a wick, through which the lamp of the tulips was lit. [Also,] in this verse is the theme of the insubstantiality of the world.... The path is illumining the fact that the world of luxury and joy has no stability; rather, the fruit of seeking worldly enjoyment is a wound-- and that too a wound like the tulip's, which remains forever. (78)

FWP: ZARRAH: {15,12} Nazm explains the wordplay of daa;G and fatiilah. You might think that in a gorgeous, voluptuous garden the path through it would be 'useless' in contributing to the visual effects. But far from it. By convention the laalah has a 'wound' in its heart, indicated by its dark, scorched-looking center; thus its heart resembles that of the lover, which is flaming with passion and finally burns itself out (and which also melts into bright red blood the color of the flowers). Other verses that invokes the tulip's 'wound' or 'scar': {155,1} and {230,1}.

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The long, narrow path can then serve as a certain kind of rolled-up bandage used for deep wounds and called metaphorically a 'wick'. And, of course, since the tulip's wound is a flaming one contained inside a deep cup, it resembles an oil lamp, and the path can act as a a 'wick' for it. Thus in one sense, the fatiilah as a wick makes possible the flame of the tulip; in another sense, the fatiilah as a bandage soothes the fiery wound of the tulip. It thus plays two contradictory roles at once, both of them crucial. The path that we thought was a neutral, useless interruption of the garden, useful only for permitting human access, turns out to be complexly integral to the whole life and beauty of the garden itself. And the path itself, the particular word jaadah, seems to be a part of Ghalib's regular tool kit of highly abstract images; for other examples, see {9,4}. The word yaa;N, 'here', may mean 'in the garden', thus suggesting what an unusually comples microcosm the garden really is. Or it may mean 'in this world', thus suggesting that the world is full of signs that have meaning for the mystically perceptive (consider {13,1}). What is here a single grain of dirt, ;zarrah, is normally conceived of by Ghalib as a sand-grain, and in that role too it is is full of mystical possibilities (see {16,4}). We don't get to know any of this until the second line, of course. The first is a general statement; the second provides an instance or proof of it.

{33,2} be-mai kise hai :taaqat-e aashob-e aagahii khe;Nchaa hai ((ajz-e ;hau.slah ne ;xa:t ayaa;G kaa 1) without wine, who has the strength for the tumult/terror of awareness? 2) weakness of enthusiasm/spirit has drawn the line on the cup

Notes: aashob: 'Tumult, clamour; storm, tempest; terror; misfortune'. (Platts p.58)

Nazm: That is, courage avoids enduring the tumult of awareness. That avoidance has drawn a line on the cup of awareness and intelligence; that is, it has cut them out from the page of regard. The result is that it has caused intelligence to become absorbed in drinking the cup. In the Cup of Jamshid there were lines; for this reason, poets to this day consider lines necessary in every cup, and they've composed quite a number of similes and themes about the Lines [;xa:t] of Jamshid. (33)

Hasrat: He has declared awareness to be a tumult/terror, for the endurance of which wine-drinking is necessary. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, without the wine of the Divine love, nobody has the strength to endure the tumult/terror of awareness. ayaa;G means glass, and here it refers to the glass on which lines are drawn in order to measure the wine, which in English they call 'minim measure' [minim mejur] or 'ounce measure' [o;Ns mejur]. The meaning is that because of weakness of enthusiasm/spirit, we make lines on the glass of wine, and thus measure the wine before drinking it. And day by day we keep increasing the amount of wine. The strength to endure the tumult/terror of awareness, in proportion to the lines on the cup, gradually develops. That is, day by day our mastery and practice of repetition [of God's names] and absorption [in God] keep increasing. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: Without the wine of mystic knowledge, it is impossible to escape the turmoil/terror and mischief of worldly knowledge. But the calamity is that we don't find within ourselves the strength to drink enough wine (mystic knowledge) to escape this. (78)

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Mihr: Compare {131,5}. (128)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT WINE: {49,1} The commentators agree, and Hasrat puts it most succinctly, that wine is necessary to help us face the aashob-e aagahii. But what is that exactly? Given the versatility of the i.zaafat, it could mean the tumult/terror that is received by awareness (as in 'the devastation of the city'), or that is created by awareness (as in 'the devastation of the bomb blast'), or that is awareness ('the devastation of mental illness'). Yet each of these three readings would lead in a different interpretive direction. Also, the first line could be read as implying either that without wine we would have awareness but it would be unbearable (since we wouldn't have the strength to endure it), or that without wine we would have no awareness (since we wouldn't have the strength to experience it). The tight-lipped, stoic verse cited by Mihr could apply to any or all of such interpretations. The piquant question is why 'weakness of enthusiasm/spirit' draws a line on the glass. You'd think, based on what the commentators say, that the more wine the better, whether it's real wine or the wine of mystic intoxication. Bekhud Dihlavi's explanation sounds farfetched to me. My own theory is that since wine gives us strength for the 'turmoil/terrof of awareness', perhaps more wine gives us more strength, so we can endure more awareness. It's only our lack of courage that makes us limit our ordeal by drinking less wine and enduring less awareness. Eliot pointed out, after all, that 'humankind cannot bear very much reality'. Compare the behavior of 'Weakness of Courage' in {29,3}.

{33,3} bulbul ke kaar-o-baar pah hai;N ;xandah'haa-e gul kahte hai;N jis ko ((ishq ;xalal hai dimaa;G kaa 1) at the doings of the Nightingale are the smiles of the rose 2) what they call passion is a defect of the mind

Notes: Nazm: That is, considering the nightingale to be insane, the roses laugh at him.... The author has removed the word ;haal-e zaar [sorrowful state] and replaced it with kaar -o-baar because kaar means 'sowing' and baar means 'fruit', and these have an affinity with 'rose'. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The unaffectedness of the second line is worthy of praise and commendation. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: In the poet's heart, because of constant failures or lack of access for passion, [are grim thoughts]. In such a state he has gone into the garden. Here he's seen the blooming flowers. In his mood, he considers that the roses are laughing at the Nightingale's crazed behavior. (78)

Arshi: Compare {80,1}. (214)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} Arshi is right to point out {80,1}; as he does only one other time in the whole divan, Ghalib recycles a complete line. The first line of the present verse is the second line of {80,1}, word for word.

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The rose, the beloved of the garden, smiles at the doings of the nightingale, who is well-established in the ghazal world as her passionate lover. Why does she smile? Does she find him ludicrous and smile mockingly? Does she feel pity for his plight? Does she ruefully acknowledge her own brief lifespan, since her full-bloom 'smiling' is a sign that her petals will soon fall? And more to the point, who is the speaker of the second line? Is it a transcription of what is going through the rose's mind, as she smiles? Is it a general statement, of which the proof is the first line? (Lovers are crazy, and the proof is that even the rose laughs at her lover the nightingale.) Could the lover himself be noticing the rose smiling at the nightingale, and then making his own reflection on the condition of passion? As so often with Ghalib, we are left with two flat statements and forced to make our own judgments about the connections between them. The succinct, colloquial, no-nonsense sound of the second line is indeed, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, a pleasure in itself. But I also like the flowing, slightly enigmatic structure of the first line. It is out of prose order, of course, which would be ;xandah'haa-e gul bulbul ke kaar-o-baar pah hai;N, so it calls extra attention to the words moved forward in the sentence; the line might be translated as 'It's at the doings of the nightingale that the rose smiles.' Which puts a new slant on the whole thing. Would the rose not smile at all, if not for the naively romantic carryings-on of the nightingale? Is it to the passionate madness of the nightingale that we owe the glories of spring?

{33,4} taazah nahii;N hai nashshah-e fikr-e su;xan mujhe tiryaakii-e qadiim huu;N duud-e chiraa;G kaa 1) it's not new to me, the intoxication of thinking of poetry 2) I'm a longtime opium-addict of the smoke of the lamp

Notes: Nazm: Smoke means the thinking, and the lamp is a metaphor for radiant speech. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that just as an opium user takes in the [specially prepared] opium [chan;Duu] by means of [lighting it with] a lamp and inhaling the smoke through a hollow reed in the style of a hookah, in the same way I use the smoke of the lamp to attain the intoxication of thinking about poetry. The convention is that thinking about poetry, or work on poetry, is usually done at night. (63)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that night after night, all night long, I keep lighting the lamp, and spend the time in thinking about poetry. The madness of poetry didn't come over me just today. (79)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Bekhud explains it well. And the phrase tiryaakii-e qadiim is so expressive and elegant that it seems to carry the full weight of the verse. The fikr-e su;xan could be thinking about poetry in a general serious way, or of course composing it. Fire is part of the essence of poetry, and the smoke of the oil lamp is the ultimate intoxicant.

{33,5} sau baar band-e ((ishq se aazaad ham hu))e par kyaa kare;N kih dil hii ((aduu hai faraa;G kaa

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1) a hundred times we became free from the bonds of passion 2) but what can [we] do? for the heart itself is an enemy of rest

Notes: Nazm: That is, when we are free, the heart again gets itself captured. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has made emotions wear the garb of an allegory [tam;siil]. Here by passion is meant love of the world, and by the bonds of passion is meant entrapment in that love.... That is, while living in the world a man can never be without involvement and care. (63-64)

Bekhud Mohani: Our heart itself doesn't like to be at rest. Here we escaped from the prison of passion, and there it entrapped us again. That is, we are compelled by our temperament. This wretched temperament won't listen. (79)

FWP: This one reminds me of the famous {233}, muddat hu))ii hai, 'it's been a while', in which the lover looks back nostalgically on old passions and prepares to plunge into the cauldron once again. This view is unusual, since normally the lover depicts himself as utterly trapped, unable to escape from his passion, like someone with his 'hand under a stone' {230,7}. Here, the lover depicts himself as free-- and yet not free. In fact he's really kind of a 'lifer'. After all, if you're such a recidivist that you've voluntarily returned to prison 'a hundred times', how voluntary is your choice? If your heart itself refuses to be at peace outside the 'bonds of passion', how real is your chance to escape? In this seemingly simple verse, with no obvious pyrotechnics, Ghalib nevertheless makes us wonder about the nature of 'freedom'.

{33,6} be-;xuun-e dil hai chashm me;N mauj-e nigah ;Gubaar yih mai-kadah ;xaraab hai mai ke suraa;G kaa 1) without heart's blood, the wave of the glance is dust in the eye 2) this wine-house is ruined for [want of] a trace of wine

Notes: ;xaraabaat: 'Ruins, desolate places; --A tavern; --a brothel (such being usually kept in ruins)'. (Platts p.488) ;Gubaar: 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storn; vapour, fog, mist, mistiness; impurity, foulness; (met.) vexation, soreness, ill-feeling; rancour, spite; affliction, grief; perplexity'. (Platts p.769)

Nazm: The eye is the wine-house and wine, the blood of the heart. And if the blood of the heart is not in the eye, the wave of the glance has become dust, as if a wine-house is becoming ruined and dust-covered in the search for wine. (32)

Hasrat: To use dust as a simile for the wave of a glance is very suitable, and the word ;xaraab for a wine-house too is not devoid of a [special] mood. (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, man's eye has been created so that it would always keep on shedding tears of blood. If heart's blood doesn't flow from the eye, then instead of a wave of a glance dust begins to fly around within the eye. That is, the eye's adornment and glory has bitten the dust. This wine-house-- that is, the human eye-- becomes ruined without wine. The affinity of the words-what an achievement! (64)

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Bekhud Mohani: The gist of the meaning is that the glory of the eyes is to continue to shed blood through remembering the beloved. (79)

Baqir: [The use of] ;xaraab for a wine-house is very enjoyable. (109)

Shadan: The truth is that there is affinity of words no doubt, but by way of meaning, the word 'wave' is useless. And perhaps calling the glance 'dust' can be considered as comparing the scatteredness of the glance with the scatteredness of dust. (168)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The commentators point to the enjoyable wordplay, especially that of calling a wine-house ;xaraab or ruined, and thus invoking ;xaraabaat, a word for ruins that can mean wine-house as well. This verse recalls {7,4}, with its blood, dust, and a sea (full of waves of course). But I think in this case it's a little easier to put together its imagery. As usual, Ghalib leaves us to connect the two lines ourselves. But he gives us a little more of a hint than he often does: 'this' wine-house in the second line implies that the winehouse is something mentioned in the first line. And surely, of the available nouns (heart, blood, wave, glance, dust, eye) the most probable candidates are the heart and the eye; or the reference could conceivably be to the body itself, home to both heart and eye. Whether the wine-house is heart, eye, or body, the obvious sense is that without the blood of the heart it is ruined, a mere shadow of its former self. The sign of its ruin is that 'the wave of the glance is dust in the eye', Clearly ;Gubar has both the literal meaning of 'dust', which is appropriate since a formerly wet riverbed would turn to dust when it dried, and the metaphorical meaning of 'vexation, grief', which is appropriate since the drying up of the wellspring of passion would reduce former delights to mere aggravations. Speaking of the 'wave of the glance' is beautifully appropriate here-- the glance that was formerly a flowing wave of blood is now reduced to a blowing wave of dust.

{33,7} baa;G-e shuguftah teraa bisaa:t-e nishaa:t-e dil abr-e bahaar ;xum-kadah kis ke dimaa;G kaa 1) the garden in bloom-- your carpet/spread of joy of the heart 2) the spring raincloud-- the cask-house of whose mind?

Notes: bisaa:t : 'Anything that is spread out; surface, expanse, expansion; carpet; bedding; chess-cloth of chess-board, dice-board; --goods, wares, &c'. (Platts p.154) ;xum : 'A large vessel or jar; an alembic, a still'. (Platts p.493)

Nazm: In the first line 'is' is omitted. The meaning is that when sometimes the garden creates joy, then I reflect-- the spring raincloud, which has filled the glass brimful with the wine of color and scent, of whose mind is it the winehouse? (32)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what makes the bud of my temperament bloom is the springtime of your garden of beauty, and this garden is always in bloom and forever flourishing. The cause of my existence can't be the spring raincloud. This wine-house-- that is, the spring raincloud-- has been created in order to intoxicate and render unconscious no telling whom. The meaning is that ordinary wine-drinkers can take pleasure in spring, and their minds can find

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pleasure and rest in strolling through the blooming roses and the garden. In order to make me bloom, there is your beauty and the springtime of your beauty. (64)

Bekhud Mohani: A blooming garden is a source of enjoyment for you. Then, for whose mind is the wine-house of the spring raincloud a source of joy and intoxication? That is, everything in the world has been made for you. This verse has been composed for mankind: every adornment in the world has been made only for him. (79)

Mihr: The affinity of the words is manifest, and there will be scarcely any verse of Mirza Ghalib's that will be devoid of this affinity. Here, he has brought in 'wine-house' through its affinity with 'spring raincloud', and the affinity of 'mind' and 'intoxication' also needs no commentary. (130)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM SCRIPT EFFECTS verses: {9,7}, {33,7}, {56,5}; {61,3}; {94,1}* (on khilnaa and khulnaa ); {114,7}; {119,5}; {123,11}; {176,6}; {177,1}; {191,2}; {197,2}* Unusually, this ghazal has no closing-verse; it originally had one, but Ghalib chose to omit it from his published divan (see Raza p. 117). The word ;xum works excellently here, since it's usually used for huge casks of wine. The large dark thick shape of the raincloud is well suited to evoke such a cask, with its sense of bulk storage, and even of the secondary meaning of 'alembic' or 'still' for making wine. In whose mind would we find the cask-house in which such vessels were stored? The question is, who are the two entities being discussed? One of them is addressed, and in the most intimate way [teraa]. But it seems that this tuu is not the same person (?) as the one referred to in the second line. The speaker is well aware of the creative prowess of the 'you'-- the 'you' is the creator/essence of the garden in bloom; the joyous expansion of 'your' heart apparently 'is' the garden (though we have to supply the verb ourselves). But the speaker seems to feel that the spring raincloud that waters the garden has another source-- one that he doesn't know, and one that the 'you' may or may not know. This second creator might be a higher power: the garden needs the raincloud, but the raincloud doesn't need the garden. It seems obvious that we might identify the 'you' as the beloved, leaving the second, unknown, entity to be God. But what if we identify the 'you' as God? Then the verse becomes a remarkable meditation indeed. Look at the parallel structures of the two lines: both speak of an A that is B of C. In the first line, the garden is the carpet of somebody's joy of heart; in the second line, the raincloud is the wine-house of somebody's mind. What kinds of equation are intended here? Is there a pantheistic presence behind the universe, for whom the raincloud actually acts as a wine-house? Or is there a creator so protean that he uses the image of the raincloud for inspiration, so that it becomes source of intoxication and fertility for his mind? Think of the Urdu script-- bisaa:t and nishaa:t differ from each other only in the placement and number of their dots. Thus they not only rhyme, but have a strong visual echo as well; this can hardly have been accidental. The idiomatic expression baa;G baa;G honaa-- literally, 'to be garden upon garden'-- means 'to be overjoyed', and surely Ghalib meant this phrase to come into our minds as a sort of overtone of the first line. For another example of 'script-play', see {94,1} with its evocation of both khilnaa and khulnaa; and {94,2} with its play on ulfat and alif.; and {95,1} with sipaarii and supaarii.

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Ghazal 34 8 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa;N samjhaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 29; Arshi #13; Raza p. 226

{34,1} vuh mirii chiin-e jabii;N se ;Gam-e pinhaa;N samjhaa raaz-e maktuub bah berab:tii-e ((unvaa;N samjhaa 1) from the wrinkles on my brow she understood the hidden grief 2) the written secret/mystery, she understood from/with the disconnectedness of the title

Notes: Nazm: bah has come in to express the reason. And he has used the title of a document as a simile for the forehead, and the secret of the writing for hidden grief. (33)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The beloved understood my secret grief from the wrinkles on my forehead.... Then he has expressed the same theme in other words. The theme of the letter was revealed to her through the disconnectedness of the title. He has used the metaphor of the envelope of a letter for the wrinkles on the forehead, and the metaphor of the secret of the writing for hidden grief. (6465)

Bekhud Mohani: The way from the disarray of the title the theme of a letter can be learned, in the same way she saw the lines on my forehead and understood that these were the effects of thought and of the anxieties of passion. (79)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} WRITING: {7,3} This verse has an intriguing counterpart, {97,9}, in which the lover notices the beloved's frown-- right through her veil. Frowning makes visible sharper, more vertical lines in the forehead that seem to break up the otherwise smooth horizontal lines. Thus it creates an effect of disconnectedness, be-rab:tii. A lack of connection or rab:t is a serious literary fault. From this abrupt, jagged look 'that one'-- presumably the beloved-- understood the grief-deranged state of my heart, the way a connoisseur might surmise from a badly-put-together title that the contents of the written work too would be disconnected. In the process, Ghalib has also created an extra and strikingly apparent bit of disorder: he has juxtaposed bah, Persian for 'with,' and be, Persian for 'without': the beloved has understood the state of the heart, literally, 'with without-connectedness of title.' A perfect illustration of disarray, isn't it? And just to increase the alliteration, he's made sure that the word right before these two, maktuub, ends in the letter be which metrically counts as a short syllable by itself. So that when reciting the verse you end up saying -ba, bah, be- all in a row. (Then of course rab:tii immediately provides another conspicuous letter be.) Not bad for a show of controlled verbal disorder.

{34,2} yak alif besh nahii;N .saiqal-e aa))iinah hanuuz chaak kartaa huu;N mai;N jab se kih garebaa;N samjhaa 1) the polish of the mirror is not more than a single alif still/now

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2a) I have been tearing [the mirror] ever since I began to consider it a collar 2b) I have been tearing the collar ever since I understood [what a collar was]

Notes: Ghalib: [1868:] First it ought to be understood that 'mirror' is an expression for a metal [faulaad kaa] mirror; otherwise, where are the polish-lines [jauhar] in clear [jallii] mirrors, and who polishes them? When you polish anything made of metal, undoubtedly first a single line will appear; they call that the 'alif of polishing'. When you are aware of this introduction, now understand that thought [in the second line]. That is, from the beginning of the age of awareness there is the practice of madness. Up to the present, perfection in the art has not been attained. The whole mirror has not become clear. Thus if there's that same single line of polishing, well, there it is. The form of tearing is [a vertical line] like that of an alif, and tearing the collar is one of the effects of madness.' (Arshi p.127-28) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 797.

Nazm: That is, ever since I recognized a collar as a collar, I have been tearing it. That is to say, since I understood enough to know that worldly relationships make purity of the spirit impossible, I have renounced the world. But even so, the mirror of my heart didn't become clear. Thus outwardly there's a single alif drawn on the breast of free ones. But so what? for inner purity was not achieved at all. And the collar is a metaphor for worldly relationships, since they are both collars around the necks of mankind. An alif drawn on the breast is the style of free ones, and this theme is constantly used by the Persian poets. And 'not more than' [besh nahii;N] is an expression of contempt, but its Urdu grammar is not simple; it's a translation from Persian. (33)

Bekhud Dihlavi: My error has become clear to me, and now I've understood that my collar, which I had considered an iron-polishing tool...in reality is not an ironpolishing tool but just a collar. Now I consider it a useless thing, and I'm tearing it up and am sorry for my error. (65)

Bekhud Mohani: Free ones make it a practice to write the word 'God' on their breast. Their collar chokes them, and so do relations with the world.... In this verse Mirza wants to show that man's lifetime is not sufficient for mystical knowledge of the substances of the world and of creatures and of the Most High Court, and at the very same time he has also said that renunciation of relationships with the world is in vain. (80)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} Here is another example of a familiar pattern: two separate statements, one in each line, that we are left to connect as best we can without guidance from the verse itself. But in this rare case, we have help from Ghalib. Ghalib connects the two lines through the lover's systematic 'practice of madness'. He endorses the reading I've called (2a). The lover has been practicing a form of crazy, impossible hyper-madness: ever since he reached the age of understanding he has been tearing the iron mirror the way a 'normal' madman would tear his collar. By convention the madman's collar is that of a kurta, with a v-shaped neck, so a tear in it would travel vertically down the chest, like the single vertical line of the letter alif. Although he has been tearing and tearing it, it is still not properly torn: it shows only a single vertical tear, as though the tearing had just begun.

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Ghalib expects us to connect this line with the 'alif of polishing', and thus to link an ideally polished mirror, full of polish-lines, with the image of an ideally torn collar, of which very little would be left. That ideal, in short, has not yet been achieved. The commentators, however, seem to operate from the reading I've called (2a): the lover is tearing not the mirror but his collar, and his failure to get it torn to his satisfaction causes someone (the lover? an observer?) to compare its single vertical tear to the 'alif of polishing' on a mirror. The point is similar-- that the lover has not yet advanced far in his 'practice of madness'-but the two readings are still logically separate. Both are possible, and in fact I find (2b) the more appealing of the two. Without Ghalib's own commentary, (2a) would surely have looked extremely farfetched. In either case, this is a seriously mystical verse. It has no other readings except mystical ones, and its obscurities are dependent in part on Sufi imagery. For another mystical verse about letters-- in this case, laam and alif both-- see {61,4}. It's also fascinating to see how impatiently Ghalib brushes aside the idea that 'mirror' could possibly refer to the newfangled glass ones. The idea that actual current social practices could govern the interpretation of ghazal vocabulary moves him to ridicule. Glass mirrors have no polish-marks! And who polishes them? Because of the clear requirements of the imagery, anybody with half a brain should be able to see that it's a metal mirror! Once again, we see how the poetry creates its own world, and that world is under no obligation whatsoever to reflect the real world. (For more on his extensive set of 'mirror' verses see {8,3}.) To the 'natural poetry' critics Ghalib might reply that the ghazal world is realer than the real world; but he might not; he might just politely suggest that what they needed was a good ustad, since perhaps their poetic training was not all that it might be.

{34,3} shar;h-e asbaab-e giriftaarii-e ;xaa:tir mat puuchh is qadar tang hu))aa dil kih mai;N zindaa;N samjhaa 1) don't ask for a {commentary / 'opening out'} on the reasons for confinement of temperament 2) the heart became narrow/oppressed to such an extent that I considered [it] a prison-cell

Notes: shar;h: '(inf. n. of sh-r-;h, to uncover, lay open, &c.), s.f. An exposition, explanation, interpretation, a running commentary (on a work or text); annotation; description'. (Platts p.724)

Nazm: The dictionary meaning of 'commentary' is of 'opening'; the author has used this word because of its affinity with 'narrow'. And 'narrowness' of temperament and 'opening' of temperament have the same opposition. And when it comes to 'confinement of temperament', he has adopted the wordplay of a 'cell'. (33)

Bekhud Mohani: shar;h has the meaning of 'opening', so it has an affinity with 'confinement' and 'narrow' and 'cell'. Don't ask me for a detailed account of the reasons for the bondage of my heart-- that is to say, neither can I express it, nor can you listen to it. (80)

Chishti: There is an iihaam in shar;h-e asbaab. 1) the explication of the reasons for confinement of temperament (this is the intended meaning); 2) it's the name of a famous book on medicine [:tibb]. (356)

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FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY A multivalent excursion into wordplay. Asking for a commentary is of course just what one would do if in perplexity, so the old 'don't ask' inexpressibility trope is refreshed by a literal interpretation. As the commentators observe, the literal meaning of shar;h rests on the idea of 'opening out,' so that it interacts delightfully with the 'confinement' of temperament and the 'narrow' heart being taken for a prison cell.

{34,4} bad-gumaanii ne nah chaahaa use sar-garm-e ;xiraam ru;x pah har qa:trah ((araq diidah-e ;hairaa;N samjhaa 1) Suspiciousness did not want her to be eager/hot-headed for/from an excursion 2) it considered every drop of sweat on the face to be an astonished eye

Notes: Nazm: That is, my suspicions didn't approve of her being eager for an excursion, because if she sweats, then I consider every drop to be the Rival's astonished eye that has fallen on her face. (33)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is so refined and delicate, or the lover is so suspicious, that not to speak of anyone else seeing her, he doesn't even want drops of sweat to appear from the heat of her coquettish gait, and likens them to the astonished eyes of a spectator. (81)

Baqir: [The commentators Suha suhaa, Asi aasii, and Sa'id sa((iid say:] My beloved is so suspicious of me that she doesn't even like to be eager for an excursion, because she considers every drop of sweat to be my astonished eye. (112)

FWP: Whose suspiciousness, and whose eyes? If the suspiciousness is mine, I don't want her to show herself in public-- even the drops of sweat on her brow seem to me to be the eyes of the Rivals. If the suspiciousness is hers, she is so resentful of the longing gazes always fixed on her that she doesn't want to give her lovers any more of a show; even the drops of sweat on her brow seem to her to be their staring eyes. Or perhaps both lover and beloved are equally paranoid? But look how appropriate sar-garm is here. Its colloquial meaning of 'enthusiastic, eager' is what strikes you first. Only when you get to the second line and learn of the drops of sweat on her face do you look back and refresh your sense of the literal meaning, 'hot-headed'. Then you realize that sar-garm-e ;xiraam could equally well mean 'hot-headed from an excursion'. This is not quite an iihaam in the technical sense since both meanings are intended, but surely something closely akin. And doesn't it make for an amusing verse?

{34,5} ((ajz se apne yih jaanaa kih vuh bad-;xuu hogaa nab.z-e ;xas se tapish-e shu((lah-e sozaa;N samjhaa 1a) through my weakness [I] realized this: that she will be ill-tempered 1b) because of my weakness [I] believed this: that she will be ill-tempered 2) from the pulse of the straw [I] understood the heat of the burning flame

Notes: Nazm: He has envisioned weakness as straw, and ill-temper as flame, and used for straw the simile of a vein with a pulse.... This verse should be read in a tone of sarcasm and reproach. The poet blames himself: due to my weakness and

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incapacity, I considered that she must be ill-natured and bad-tempered. I should avoid this. As if the heat of the flame can be learned from the pulse of the straw! (33)

Bekhud Dihlavi: From my weakness and her ill-nature I understood that the way burning flame burns grass and straw, her wrath will be the cause of my destruction and murder. (66)

Bekhud Mohani: The effects of my burning in the fire of passion had already come into being. From my own abjectness I considered that the beloved must be an effigy of fire. (81)

Chishti: This verse is one of Ghalib's most difficult but extremely meaning-creating [ma((nii-aafirii;N] ones. The word 'weakness' is the key to it. It refers to being weak in the ability to make the beloved happy. (357)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM As so often, we must decide without help from the verse itself how to connect the two lines. Does line two merely provide a metaphorical illustration for line one, so that they describe the same situation? Or do the two lines operate independently, linked only as two examples of what the lover did? The verse shows a certain parallelism of structure (on this see {22,5}), though not the maximum possible amount. If line two simply elaborates on line one, then the complexities of line one are of great importance. One question that arises is whether my knowledge is accurate or not: is my weakness a reliable indicator that the beloved is illtempered (1a)? Or is it the cowardice and hesitation induced by my weakness that causes me to fearfully impute my own deficiencies to her bad temper (1b)? (The verb jannaa, although it's usually translated 'to know', is unlike 'to know' in that it can also be used for erroneous beliefs; see {34,8} for an example of this use.) Nazm's reading of (1b) causes him to read line two as an equally erroneous statement-- I am foolish enough to make a wild misjudgement, which is revealed as folly by the absurdity of the metaphorical parallel offered for it: 'As if the heat of the flame can be learned from the pulse of the straw!' But I would also like to emphasize the elegance of (1a). It implies that the beloved is at the core of my being: I am able to know about the beloved's temperament through my own physical state, just the way I'm able to know about my own heart through my physical state (since of course the beloved is in my heart, controls my heart, owns my heart, etc.) Why should such information necessarily be erroneous? (See {25,3} for another case in which the beloved seems deeply plugged in to the lover's psyche.) On the same grounds, perhaps the pulse of the straw as it quivers and begins to crackle is indeed an accurate measure of the heat of the flame, since the fire is at its heart. The grammar of hogaa makes it either a future, so that the beloved's behavior at some future is being forecast; or else a presumptive, so that the beloved's present behavior is being gauged at a distance. In folktales, some special token is left with one lover, that will change in some way if the other lover is in danger or has come to harm. On the presumptive reading, the lover's own physical state might be that kind of reporting device.

{34,6} safar-e ((ishq me;N kii .zu((f ne raa;hat-:talabii har qadam saa))e ko mai;N apne shabistaa;N samjhaa

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1) in the journey of passion, weakness sought rest 2) at every step I considered my shadow to be a bedchamber

Notes: Nazm: Where the night is spent, there is the bedchamber. That is, at every step, I saw my shadow and considered that night had come and the halting-place had been reached. (34)

Hasrat: If the metaphors are removed, the theme of this verse creates the suggestion that in the state of absence [of the beloved] and deprivation mankind makes friends with hopelessness and despair, and seeks comfort from them alone. (34)

Bekhud Dihlavi: When he becomes tired, the traveler always searches for shadow in which to rest. Since my journey was the journey of passion, here the shadow of tree or wall was not to be found. I considered my own shadow to be a bedchamber and wanted to rest. (66)

FWP: An ordinary journey offers shade trees and houses to provide shadows in which one may rest, and tents and caravansarais in which one may sleep. The journey of passion takes place in no ordinary desert-- the only sleepingplace available is a shadow, and the only shadow available is one's own. This verse reminds me of the astonishing {16,4}. But of course, all this is the vision experienced by .zu((f, 'weakness', who/which might not be a realiable reporter of reality. Perhaps the journey is only in the mind. Consider the even more abstract journey in {11,1}: the mood is the opposite, but it's equally impossible to be sure of the nature of the 'journey'.

{34,7} thaa gurezaa;N mizhah-e yaar se dil taa dam-e marg daf((-e paikaan-e qa.zaa us qadar aasaa;N samjhaa 1) the heart was fleeing from the beloved's eyelashes until the moment of death 2) it considered the averting of the arrowhead of fate/death easy to that/(this) extent

Notes: daf((a: 'Pushing, thrusting, beating off; preventing, averting, repelling; warding off'. (Platts p.519)

Nazm: The phrase 'until the moment of death' is meant to make it clear that in the end he couldn't escape. And the arrowhead for fate is a witty metaphor. (34)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, until the time of death my heart fled from the beloved's eyelashes, and always feared them. And foolishly I considered running to be warding off fate. It's surprising that I had considered the warding off of the arrowhead of fate to be so easy. (66)

Bekhud Mohani: He has called the beloved's eyelashes the arrow of fate, which never misses. Up to the moment of death my heart kept fleeing from the beloved's eyelashes. Look at its simplicity, that it considered escaping the arrow of fate to be so easy! That is, it was the heart's ignorance, that it didn't want to be prey to the beloved's eyelashes. Finally, it was killed. (81-82)

Josh: He has called the eyelashes arrows of fate, and this simile is wellestablished. Zauq has called them the feathers of the arrow of fate:

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nigah kyaa aur mizhah kyaa ham to dono;N ko balaa samjhe ise tiir-e qa.zaa us ko par-e tiir-e qa.zaa samjhe [what glance! and what eyelashes! we considered them both disasters this [we] considered the arrow of fate; that, the feather of the arrow of fate]. (100)

Faruqi: Between 'the arrowhead of fate' and 'the eyelashes of the beloved' there is a subtle affinity of meaning. Perhaps no one has pointed out the mischievousness and innate wit [vi;T] in this verse. The point is that up to the moment of death, the heart keeps fleeing from death. This is as if someone would be given the blessing, Live your lifespan! It's clear that when the moment of death came, then fate came. Before death, then of course death wasn't to come. At the moment of confronting the beloved's eyelashes, death came. Or, at the time when death was to come, then the beloved's eyelashes were confronted. The confrontation was to come when death was to come. Thus to keep fleeing, or not to flee, was the same thing. (52)

FWP: To me, us qadar-- which can also be read is qadar, though without much change in meaning as far as I can see-- is the key to the complexity of the verse. To consider something easy 'to that/this extent'-- what does that mean? How are we to gauge the 'extent'? Does the lover, like someone trying to elude an ordinary pursuer, naively think that fleeing from the eyelash-arrows will be a simple task that if carried out successfully will prolong his life? Or does the lover know that the pursuit is coterminous with his life, and that he is doomed to a lifelong and ultimately vain flight that will end only with his death? And don't forget that it's technically the lover's 'heart' that thinks and considers all this. The lover himself seems to comment ruefully and retrospectively on the 'extent' of his heart's belief. But is he rueful at how easy the heart foolishly thought the task would be, or at how the heart knew all along that the task would be hopelessly hard? Or is the lover rueful because in fact the task of escape is far harder than one can imagine, and to think to measure it by something as small as a mere lifetime's flight is a sign of the heart's hopeless naivete? The phrase 'to that/this extent' can accommodate all these possibilities, of course, as well as leaving room for ambivalence and various kinds of middle ground. Look at what great complexities Ghalib can create, even while using strictly ;xabariyah, or informative, discourse. This man can make inshaa))iyah effects out of anything.

{34,8} dil diyaa jaan ke kyuu;N us ko vafaadaar asad ;Gala:tii kii kih jo kaafir ko musalmaa;N samjhaa 1) why did you give your heart, thinking her faithful, Asad? 2) you made an error, in that you considered an infidel a Muslim

Notes: Nazm: Believing a faithless one to be faithful, you gave your heart; that is, you made an error: you considered an infidel a Muslim. The allusive .zil((a of dil-o-jaan ['heart and soul'] has also been articulated in this. (34)

Bekhud Mohani: One point in this is that one who has no faith is not a Muslim. (82)

Baqir: n kaafir there is an iihaam. He says, Oh Asad, why did you consider that faithless one to be faithful, and give your heart?.... To consider her faithful is just the same kind of error as to consider an infidel to be a Muslim. (113)

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FWP: INFIDEL: {21,12} The two main points I want to make have both been made by the commentators. Nazm points out the subliminal evocation of the phrase, dilo-jaan, 'heart and soul/life', at the beginning of the first line. And Baqir explains the 'misdirection' involved in kaafir. We expect that it will be an affectionate, teasing epithet for the beloved. Only at the end of the line, when we see it contrasted with musalmaa;N, do we realize it's meant literally. Except, of course, that it still is an epithet for the beloved, both metaphorically and really, and the distinguishing mark of a musalmaa;N is the faithfulness that she so clearly doesn't show, so the two meanings can't entirely be disentangled. This is another verse that would be hard to interpret as applying to a divine beloved; for more on this see {20,3}.

Ghazal 35 10 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: ar yaad aayaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 30; Arshi #027; Raza p. 228

{35,1} phir mujhe diidah-e tar yaad aayaa dil jigar tishnah-e faryaad aayaa 1) again/then wet eyes came to mind 2) heart and liver became thirsty for lament

Notes: Nazm: In the second line aayaa is used with the meaning of hu))aa; it's a Persian idiom, and the idiom is not used this way in Urdu. (34)

Hasrat: The meaning is that the memory of wet eyes again made the heart long to lament. (34)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart is preparing to lament. At this time my tear-shedding comes to my mind. That is, formerly when I used to be preparing to lament, then wet eyes always used to keep that afflicted one [the heart] company. But all the blood flowed out. Now in the wet eyes dust is flying. How could the eyes keep it company? The point is that now we are in no state for shedding tears and extinguishing the flaring fire of the heart. (82)

Baqir: Some people take 'wet eyes' to refer to the beloved's wet eyes. (114)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} As usual, so much can be done (and in fact must be done) to figure out the relationship of these two extremely simple lines. Hasrat and Baqir take the first line to be the cause, and the second line the result: I remembered wet eyes, therefore I felt like weeping. Bekhud Mohani takes the second line to be the cause, and the first to be the result: I felt like weeping, therefore I remembered the old days when I actually had tears to weep with. Or, of course, both lines could be parallel, and would just describe my habitual melancholy.

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'Wet eyes' are also ambiguous. Mine? The beloved's? A sign of grief, and thus grief-evoking? A sign of proper lamentation, and thus nostalgiaevoking? Linking 'heart' and 'liver' adds to the undecideability, since these two are also often depicted in opposition to each other; see {30,2} for more on this. Now the two are working in tandem-- but successfully, generating tears? Or unsuccessfully, vainly lamenting their loss of the power to generate tears? (For what it's worth, this ghazal seems to be the world's champion liverobsessed one: in addition to the present verse, see {35,4} and {35,6}.) This whole ghazal is a great triumph of that ghazal quality called mood. It's in a 'short meter' (chho;Tii bahr), and has in yaad aayaa, 'came to mind', an unusually long and evocative refrain. What ghazal could be easier to memorize, or more tempting to recite? Small wonder that it's been a favorite with singers. Those with a technical bent of mind might want to notice that this verse has the same kind of 'contrived rhyme' that {26,9} does (see that verse for discussion). Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

{35,2} dam liyaa thaa nah qiyaamat ne hanuuz phir tiraa vaqt-e safar yaad aayaa 1) Doomsday had not yet/still taken a breath 2) again/then the time of your journey came to mind

Notes: Hali: The terrible mood of the time of taking leave of the friend had passed, and the memory of her departure that keeps returning to awareness from time to time, he has envisioned as Doomsday taking a breath. Few such eloquent [baali;G] verses have been seen in the Urdu language. The state that in reality occurs on such occasions, he has depicted in two lines; this theme couldn't be depicted better in any poetic style. (129)

Nazm: To take a breath-- that is, to pause and be at rest. And Doomsday is a metaphor for restlessness and agitation. That is, restless in the heart had not been able to be at peace, when again your leave-taking and departure came to mind. (34)

Bekhud Mohani: The turmoil and commotion of Doomsday had not even abated, when the time of your departure came to my mind, and my restlessness gave rise to a new Doomsday. (82)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ QIYAMAT: {10,11} Another lovely example of how poetically effective it is to refuse to specify the relationship between the two lines. Is 'Doomsday' to be equated with 'the time of your journey', or are these two independent events? Hali chooses the first reading, and Bekhud Mohani chooses the second. Both are of course entirely plausible, but the second reading has an extra delight, in its tone of impatience: Doomsday is just an interruption in my compulsive reliving of the time of your departure-- and best of all, not even a major interruption, just a small bother. It occupies about one moment of my attention, it barely has time to take a breath, before I've impatiently brushed it aside and am back to my obsessive remembering of the real Doomsday of your departure. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

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{35,3} saadagiihaa-e tamannaa ya((nii phir vuh nairang-e na:zar yaad aayaa 1) simplicities of longing-- that is 2) again/then that marvel/enchantment of sight came to mind

Notes: Nazm: In the first line dekho is omitted. He says, look at my simplicity of longing. That is, the thing that is impossible and will not happen-- through my simplicity and foolishness that is what I long for. (34)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that those things that the glance of the beloved said through hints and suggestions, the lover in his simplicity considered as a means to accomplishing his longing-- or rather, he came to believe perfectly in his success. But the result was nothing at all. It became clear that it was a trick of the beloved's glances, but there was a kind of pleasure in them; thus they come to mind again. (67)

Bekhud Mohani: The simplicity of my longing is worth seeing-- again it is remembering that same enchanting beloved whose glances have the power of magic and who is never slow to change. That is, despite my knowing the beloved's changeableness, still my heart longs for her-- in that aspect, nairang-na:zar is without an i.zaafat. (83)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN Once again we see the power of inshaa))iyah speech. The first line is simply an exclamation, and the ya((nii, 'that is', only purports to explain it. Just consider the possibilities: 1) Because of the simplicities of longing, that marvel of sight then came to mind. (Line 1 is the cause of line 2. In the lover's heart, longing directly begets memory.) 2) Because that marvel of sight again came to mind, there were simplicities of longing. (Line 2 is the cause of line 1. In the lover's heart, every passing memory gives rise to deep longing.) 3) There were simplicities of longing, and that marvel of sight again came to mind. (Lines 1 and 2 are parallel descriptions of the lover's condition; his life is one in which longing and memory are inextricably merged.) 4) What simplicities of longing!-- That is, again that marvel of sight came to mind. (Line 1 is a wry, retrospective exclamation at the folly of the mood depicted in line 2. The lover marvels at his own naivete and helplessness.) The ambiguities of sadaagii are similar to those of 'simplicity' in English. Is it a neutral or complimentary term, with connotations of sincerity and straightforwardness? Or is it somewhat patronizing, so that it suggests naivete and gullibility? What exactly is the speaker longing for? A real beloved? A magic spell? An enchantment formerly created by the beloved? And of course, Ghalib has pluralized it in a way as unobvious and heavily marked in Urdu as 'simplicities' would be in English. No doubt the pluralization complicates the meaning, but how exactly? Doesn't such complication seem to undermine the simplicity of 'simplicity'? As usual, we are left to decide for ourselves. For a similiar but even more awkward pluralization see 'tough-lifednesses' in {1,2}. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

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35,4} ((u;zr-e vaamaa;Ndagii ay ;hasrat-e dil naalah kartaa thaa jigar yaad aayaa 1) an excuse of fatigue, oh longing of the heart! 2) I used to lament-- the liver came to mind

Notes: Nazm: The gist is, oh longing of the heart, accept my excuse of fatigue. I wanted to lament, but I thought about the liver-- may it not split apart! For this reason, I didn't lament. In the first line, qabuul kar ['accept'] is omitted. And this kind of omissions are in Persian, and in Urdu grammar they are not proper. Beauty results from omission in a verse, but only where the omission is idiomatic. (34-35)

Bekhud Mohani: From such omissions [as Nazm mentions], the mischievousness of the poetry increases, and trimness of construction brings forth a new form. Especially if he addresses something lifeless like a living thing, of which this verse is an example. (83)

Josh: The heart is so amazed that it wants to complain and lament with tumult and commotion. But I present to it the excuse of my weakness and inability. The reason is that because of the effect of lamentation, the liver has split apart, and its life is over. Now I am remembering it. (101)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS JIGAR: {2,1} What a study in complexity! Like {35,3}, this one consists of an exclamatory first line, related in some manner unspecified to a second line-- which in this case contains two elements with a relationship that is itself unclear. Here are some possible readings: 1a) I make an excuse of fatigue to you, oh Longing of the heart. (Forgive me!) 1b) You make an excuse of fatigue to me, oh Longing of the heart? (For shame!) 1c) An excuse of fatigue? Oh, the longing of the heart! (How can this be borne?) 2a) When I lamented, the liver came to mind. (Cause and effect.) 2b) I lamented, and the liver came to mind. (Two parallel events.) 2c) I lamented because the liver came to mind. (Effect and cause.) Although the exact permutations may appear unduly complex, the general problem is clear enough. The liver and the heart play crucially different roles in ghazal physiology: the liver is the source of fresh blood. As blood streams from the countless wounds in the suffering heart, and is channeled up to the eyes to drip out in tears of blood, fresh blood becomes an urgent necessity. Yet as the lover's passion progresses, not only does the heart turn to blood, but the liver itself is gradually worn away. Now the lover laments (or tries to lament) because he cannot lament properly-- fatigue has weakened the heart, and the liver is only a fond memory. What is left? The longing of the heart, which seems to outlive the heart itself; and the lament, which seems to outlive the means of its expression. For more on the liver see {30,2}.

{35,5} zindagii yuu;N hii guzar hii jaatii kyuu;N tiraa raahguzar yaad aayaa

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1) life would have passed somehow or other 2) why did your road come to mind?

Notes: Nazm: He says, from your road coming to mind, my life has passed away. And this proved to be a good thing, because I was disaffected with life. But from its coming to mind such sorrow and suffering resulted, that-- if only they hadn't come to mind! Life would have passed somehow or other, after all. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The excellence that he has created in this verse is that he has taken the work of fate and destiny to be the cause of his foolishness, and expresses regret at it. In Mirza Sahib's time, raahguzar used to be spoken and written as masculine. But now, as it happens, the people of Delhi treat it as feminine. (68)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, when there's no expectation of union, nor of a sight, then it's useless for your street to come to mind. Now there remains life-- that passes away in any case. (83)

FWP: The familiar pattern appears once again: the two lines offer us two utterances, with no indication of how to connect them. In this case, the first is unusually vague-- what does it imply if one says 'Life would have passed {somehow / somehow or other / anyhow / in any case}'? The colloquial yuu;N hii is notoriously hard to translate in any case, and Ghalib has given us a carefully unhelpful context in which to place it. 'Why did your road come to mind?' is either a serious question (doomed, if so, to remain unanswered) or a rhetorical one full of rueful exasperation, like 'Why did I go to that party?!' And to what situation is the verse reacting? Neither line makes it at all clear what has evoked all this emotional reaction. Nazm produces a complex reading-between-the-lines interpretation. On his view, the lover is speaking after his death, and reflecting on it. He says that the memory of your road-- the road you left by, of course-- has killed me, and a good thing too, because it got my wretched life over with in the quickest and most efficient manner. But all the same, what suffering the memory caused! I endured such pain that I almost wish I hadn't had the memory at all, and had just lived out my life somehow or other-- thus the first line. Reflecting on his life after he's dead is nothing uncommon for the lover; for a less ambiguous example see {20,1}. But of course, as the Bekhuds both assume, the same words of rueful reflection can be spoken by the lover while he's alive: why do I suffer from recurrent bouts of memory of you? Without them, I could have lived a much less painful life-- it would have passed somehow or other, without my caring much about it (since you had left), but without all this useless suffering. This is such a moody, evocative, lovely verse. Even the effort to figure out its implications seems to take place in a twilit realm of nostalgia and fatalism. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

{35,6} aah vuh jur))at-e faryaad kahaa;N dil se tang aa ke jigar yaad aayaa 1) ah, where is that courage of/for lamentation! 2) having become annoyed with the heart, the liver came to mind

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Notes: Nazm: That is, that liver that long ago turned to blood comes to mind, upon seeing the heart's lack of strength and courage. (35)

Hasrat: The liver came to mind, because it had more strength for lamenting than did the heart. But alas, that now even the liver has no strength for lamenting. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the courage I used to show in lamenting, during the days when the liver was with me-- now that the liver has been worn away, that courage is there no longer. The heart hesitates in lamenting due to fear, and the cause is fear of the beloved's disgrace. If the liver were in the breast, it would never have shown this kind of indecisiveness. Whether the lament had any effect or not, it would certainly have lamented. (68-69)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} Here is another verse that plays, even more explicitly than does {35,1}, on the distinction between heart and liver. For more on the role of these two organs in the ghazal world, see {30,2}. The first line is a rhetorical question, preceded by a sigh. The sigh, aah, is perfect; it's the real charm of the verse. It forms an ideal preface: not only is the sigh an example of onomatopoeia (that it, it sounds like what it means), but it also reveals exactly the problem the verse is about. If all you can do is sigh, you really don't have much energy for lamenting, or much heart for making your complaint. So of course, as Hasrat points out, when you are irritated by the weakness of the heart, your thoughts naturally turn to the liver. Here the liver 'came to mind' or 'was remembered'-- phrases that can apply either to something available, or to a nostalgic memory of something departed. But even if the liver is still around, it's obviously not in good shape, or else the exclamation in the first line would make no sense.

{35,7} phir tire kuuche ko jaataa hai ;xayaal dil-e gum-gashtah magar yaad aayaa 1) again/then thought goes to your street 2) but/perhaps the lost heart came to mind

Notes: Nazm: That is, only in your street is there the likelihood of the heart's becoming lost, so that thought would seek for it there. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In presenting this theme, Mirza has paid such regard to the courtesies [aadaab] of passion that he does not blame the friend for stealing the heart; rather, he expresses the idea of the heart's being lost in her street. A second subtlety of meaning in this verse is that what makes him restless is the memory of the beloved. But to protect the secret of passion, the excuse is made of the lost heart's coming to mind. (69)

Bekhud Mohani: Perhaps the lost heart has again come to mind. For nowadays the thought goes toward your street. That is, the lost heart will probably be there. (84)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR

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The wonderful pivot of this seemingly simple little verse is magar, which means both 'perhaps' and 'but'. If we take it as 'perhaps,' then line 2 supplies a tentative explanation for line 1: perhaps the reason thought goes to your street at that time-- 'then' [phir]-- is that it remembered the heart that had been presumably lost there. This is the version the commentators prefer. If we take it as 'but', then line 2 supplies a cautionary deterrent: thought constantly sets off for your street, but then it remembers the lost heart. Does it begin the journey again and again [phir], and lose heart (so to speak) and stop again and again? Now that the heart is already lost, what is there to offer? What is the point of going there? That thought may well give a lover pause.

{35,8} ko))ii viiraanii-sii viiraanii hai dasht ko dekh ke ghar yaad aayaa 1a) [now that] is a wilderness-type wilderness! 1b) is [this] a wilderness-type wilderness?! 1c) is there any wilderness-type wilderness [at all]? 2) having seen the desert, my house came to mind

Notes: Hali: In this verse the meaning that is at once present is that the desert in which we are is so desolate that having seen it, home comes to mind. That is, fear is felt. But after a bit of attentive thought, this meaning emerges: that we used to consider that nowhere would there be a desolation like that of our house, but the desert too is desolate to such an extent that having seen it, the desolation of home comes to mind. (130)

Nazm: Here he used exaggeration in the desolation of the desert because an extreme was necessary in the desolation of home. That is, in the desert he saw such desolation that 'my house was just like this'. The simile is that of reflection. Maulvi Altaf Husain Sahib Hali, the author's pupil, has here objected to a simile, and he has taken the meaning that when having seen the desert, there began to be fear, then home came to mind: 'let's flee from here!' And this meaning too is not outside the idiomatic. (35)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart said, come on, let's go home, let's abandon a stroll like this [through a desolate, frightful wilderness]. But this theme seems devoid of pleasure [be-lu:tf] in the ghazal. (84)

Shadan: According to the intonation, ko))ii can be for disdain and generality both. (173)

Naim: Literally the first line can be translated: Is this wilderness like some wilderness? A rhetorical question that implies complete negation of the statement underlying the question, i.e., the wilderness is not at all what the poet considers to be wilderness. viiraanii is an abstract noun and means 'the feeling of being a wilderness'; desolation, the state of being in ruins, of being uninhabited. dasht -- wilderness; brushland (not lush jungles and forests, but barren or scrubby land). Also, usually in Urdu, dasht is used either in opposition to the word dar (lit., door; inhabited area; habitation), or in a close compound with it: dasht-o-dar, lit., wilderness and inhabited area; everywhere; the whole world. It should be pointed out that grammatically speaking there is no mention of the poet in the entire couplet. There is no 'I.' Only three nouns are used:

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viiraanii, dasht, ghar. The juxtaposition in the first line consists of a repetition of the first noun, viiraanii; the latter two nouns are juxtaposed in the second line. If the first line is considered to be evoked by the desolation of the house in which the poet lives and whose ruination he has brought about himself through his crying and through his neglect under the influence of his passion, then the total meaning will be something like this: How desolate is my home! Wilderness reminds me of it. (It is not unlike wilderness in desolation.) But if we consider the first line to have been evoked from a sight of the dasht, then the total meaning can be something like this: Some wilderness, indeed! I remember my home at the sight of the dasht, for my home was far more desolate. (1970, 21-22)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; REPETITION HOME: {14,9} What a ravishing first line, and how inviting it is to recite-- full of long vowels, especially ii, so that it's rhythmic and sonorous, repetitive in a way that's suggestive rather than tedious. It demands to be recited over and over, in a hypnotic variety of intonations, doesn't it? It's full of mood, and about as inshaa))iyah as a line can be. That being said, we have if anything more than the usual number of choices about exactly what it means. Its idiomatic flair doesn't help with the semantics. The second line at least gives us two clear entities, the desert and the home, and assures that the former reminds us of the latter. But is the first line spoken in admiration (this/that really is a wilderness!), or scorn (you call this/that a wilderness?), and does it apply to the physical desert, or the home? It might be that neither desert nor home is sufficient wilderness to suit the lover, so that he asks whether there's any real wilderness anywhere at all (1c). And strictly speaking, it's not the case that the desert 'reminds' us of home. Rather, when we see the desert, we remember home. Possibly this is because they are similar, but possibly it's because they're utterly different. When we see the desert, we remember home: =because both of them are so extremely desolate =because both of them are insufficiently desolate =because the desert is more desolate than home (thus making us happy with the change) =because the desert is less desolate than home (thus making us nostalgic for home) The verse is so protean, and so vigorously colloquial, that it can work perfectly well in all these senses. Really, don't you love the way Ghalib is able to pull things like this off, and even make them look simple and easy? For another such ambiguously structured verse, see {203,3}.

{35,9} kyaa hii ri.zvaa;N se la;Raa))ii hogii ghar tiraa ;xuld me;N gar yaad aayaa 1) what a fight there'll be with Rizvan! 2) if in Paradise your house would come to mind

Notes: Nazm: That is, he will give preference to paradise, and I to your house. Or else that I will want to come out of paradise and he will stop me. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has used his customary mischievousness, through which two meanings have been created for the verse. One is that when in paradise I remember your house and mention it to Rizvan, Rizvan will prefer

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paradise to your house. What the hell [bhalaa]-- how could I accept that? There will certainly be a fight between us: he will give me the lie, I will give him the lie, until it goes so far that a fight takes place. The second subtle meaning that emerges is that when in paradise I remember your house, then I will want to run away from paradise; Rizvan will stop me, and we'll have a fine wrestling match. (68)

Josh: Two things in this verse are very praiseworthy. One is that the poet has complete confidence about going to paradise. The second is that in paradise he has no hope of seeing the radiance and flourishingness of the beloved's house. (102)

Arshi: Compare {101,9}. (176)

FWP: What a remarkable thing-- a verse transparently easy to explain and interpret! Besides its charm, playfulness, and ease, this would be a good mushairah verse for another reason as well: because you can't tell from the first line where the second will go. In Paradise, your house might or might not come to mind. After all, your house is so much more desirable than paradise that only at its best might paradise manage to evoke a memory of it. But obviously the lover is quite prepared for the occasion to arise. He imagines himself standing in the same relationship to the beloved's house as Rizvan does to the garden of paradise, and having as much reason to defend it as Rizvan has to defend paradise. What else would they do but fight? The relish is in the lively colloquialness of the first line; there is also the enjoyable wordplay of ghar and gar (short for agar) in the second line. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985). SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: This is one of a number of verses that make snide remarks about Paradise. It's the direction of comparison that makes for the wit. Instead of the earthly, human derivative being seen as borrowing or reflecting a tiny fraction of the excellence of the superior heavenly paradigm, it's all the other way around. More examples: {10,1}; {35,9}; {100,6}; {101,9}; {107,1}; {111,7}; {118,2}; {124,6}; {154,2}; {170,2}; {174,10}; {178,7}; {219,3}; {231,3}.

{35,10} mai;N ne majnuu;N pah la;Rakpan me;N asad sang u;Thaayaa thaa kih sar yaad aayaa 1) against Majnun, in boyhood/childishness, Asad, 2) I had picked up a stone-- when {my head came to mind / I recollected myself}

Notes: la;Rakpan : 'The condition of being a child, the state of childhood; boyhood, childhood'. (Platts p.956)

Nazm: That is, then they would have struck my very own head. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the time of my boyhood, imitating the boys, I had picked up a stone against Majnun. But at once I recollected myself. That is, the thought occurred, in my head too this same kind of madness of passion is accumulated. That is, my temperament from childhood onward was that of a lover. (69)

Bekhud Mohani: In childhood, I had picked up a stone against Majnun. But my power of empathy was so strong that I felt pain, and I reflected that such a person is

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worthy of compassion. If someone would treat me that way, I would feel pain. (84)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS What an elegant verse of wordplay! The idiom sar yaad aanaa means to get hold of oneself, to gain control of oneself; but of course its literal meaning is 'for the head to be remembered'. In the ghazal world, boys mock and taunt madmen, and follow them around throwing stones at them. Majnun is the consummate mad lover. Who more than he would receive a shower of stones? Even from the future lover who speaks in this verse, he barely escapes at the last minute, when the boy recovers either his maturity or his prudence ( la;Rakpan can mean a state of 'childishness' as well) at the last minute. Needless to say (at least, I hope it's needless), this is not an 'autobiographical' verse about the early years of the poet Ghalib himself, but a glimpse of the archetypal childhood of the archetypal lover whose first-person voice is the subjectivity of the ghazal world. Other verses about such stone-throwing: {77,1}; {92,5}; {130,2}; {138,3}; {165,3}.

Ghazal 36 11 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: iir bhii thaa composed after 1847; Hamid p. 31; Arshi #041 Raza pp. 291-92

{36,1} hu))ii taa;xiir to kuchh baa((i;s-e taa;xiir bhii thaa aap aate the magar ko))ii ((anaa;N-giir bhii thaa 1) if delay occurred, then there was also some cause for delay 2) she herself was on the way, but/perhaps someone/something was also holding back the reins

Notes: Nazm: That is, the Rival had stopped her. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you came as you had promised, but you came late. There must certainly have been some reason for this delay. Perhaps the reason might be that the Other stopped you from coming here. (69-70)

Bekhud Mohani: Cause of rhetorical effect [balaa;Gat]: at the time of saying 'someone/something' [ko))ii] there's an extraordinary expression, an extraordinary manner, in which are the moods of supplication, jealousy, compulsion, boiling anger, etc. In place of ko))ii, ;Gair [Other] could have been inserted in the verse. But according to the requirements of jealousy and hatred [which do not want even to name the Other], it was rejected. (85)

Shadan: ko))ii refers to adornment and decoration, or to the Rival.... It's a verse that has fallen below the level of Ghalib's style and his lofty thinking. (174)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR This is one of those verses in which tone, nuance, and subliminality are everything. The first line offers us an if-then clause: if there was delay, then

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there was some cause for it too. Anything to make excuses for the beloved! The lover is desperate to persuade himself that she did indeed want to come, but circumstances beyond her control held her back. What are the grounds for this view? None that we can see, for the second line simply intensifies the plea of extenuating circumstances by elaborating the point. The second line also nicely plays on the double meaning of magar as both 'but' and 'perhaps'. (For more on this convenient duality see {35,7}.) It emphasizes the degree to which the lover's defense of the beloved is speculative, tentative, based not on any information but on desperate hope. The lover would actually rather believe that someone else held her back-even some other lover (as the commentators emphasize)-- than entertain the idea that she herself simply capriciously or indifferently decided not to come. Yet we in the audience know the beloved pretty well and we, reading between the lines, are aware that this latter possibility is much the most likely. The lover speaks of 'delay' in the first line, but by the second line it seems quite possible that she will not come at all, and that he is simply performing a 'spin' exercise-- on himself, since anything is better than having to face indifference from the beloved. (Consider for example {148,2}.)

{36,2} tum se be-jaa hai mujhe apnii tabaahii kaa gilah us me;N kuchh shaa))ibah-e ;xuubii-e taqdiir bhii thaa 1) it seems to me inappropriate to complain to you of my destruction 2) in that, there was some suspicion of the excellence of fortune too

Notes: Nazm: By way of disparagement, he has called the badness of fortune 'excellence of fortune'. (35)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By way of sarcasm, wretchedness of fortune has been called 'excellence of fortune'. He says, it is inappropriate for me to complain to you about my destruction; there was certainly something or other of my own ill-fortune involved in it. Because of great love for the beloved, he hesitates to blame her. (70)

Bekhud Mohani: For such a thing to happen is my good fortune. That is, destruction was in my fate, it would have happened anyway. So it was good that it happened at your hands alone. (85)

Josh: In accordance with the etiquette-rules [aadaab] of passion and love, he has assigned the blame to fate, and considered it inappropriate to complain to the beloved. (103)

Arshi: Compare {167,5}, {180,2}. (185, 297, 335)

FWP: Compare the tone of this verse with that of the previous one, {36,1}. Both of them are charitable and even exculpatory toward the beloved. But where does the inappropriateness lie? Is it inappropriate-- literally, 'out of place'-- for me to complain to you (when I should be blaming my own fortune)? Is it inappropriate for me to complain to you (and better for others to remonstrate on my behalf)? Is it inappropriate for me to complain to you (when I should be grateful instead)? Is it inappropriate for me to complain to you of my destruction (when I should refer to my fate by some more auspicious name)? All these possibilities are carefully kept open by the first line.

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And, as usual, the second line interacts cleverly with any or all of them. The commentators recognize some of the possibilities: is 'excellence of fortune' meant to be heavily sarcastic? If so, it works beautifully with kuch shaa))ibah, 'some suspicion, just a touch'. Isn't that just how one would say it, laying on the sarcasm to make a point? 'Oh no, it wasn't your fault-- there was just a bit of my own famous good luck involved too.' But of course the words might not be sarcastic at all. After all, as Bekhud Mohani points out, destruction at the hands of the beloved is an entirely appropriate, desirable, inevitable consummation of the lover's whole life (cf. the moth and the candle-flame). And of course, the second line forces us to ask what us me;N, 'in that', refers to. Is it the destruction, or the complaint? If it is the destruction, it's of course either sarcastic or sincere. And if it's the complaint, then the 'excellence of fortune' surely refers to the chance it gave the lover to speak with the beloved. And the 'suspicion' of it would be the touch of joy beneath the suffering, the clever chance to exploit the situation for his own ends. Doesn't this verse make you want to say it out loud, and give a heavy sarcastic emphasis to the second line? Everybody's life is all too full of situations in which it would be entirely 'appropriate'.

{36,3} tuu mujhe bhuul gayaa ho to pataa batlaa duu;N kabhii fitraak me;N tere ko))ii na;xchiir bhii thaa 1) [if] you might have forgotten me, then should I tell you the address? 2) at one time in your saddle-straps there was some prey/victim too

Notes: Nazm: I am that very one [i.e., the prey]. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am the same prey who had at one time been tied to your horse's saddle straps, and whom you considered to be unworthy, so that you loosened the straps and threw him away. Perhaps you've forgotten me. But to this very day I still consider myself your prey alone. (70)

Bekhud Mohani: The poet has expressed his meaning in strangely heart-attracting words.... That is, I was such a lover of yours, whom you used to treat affectionately, and respect for whose love was in your heart. (Beauty of expression sacrifices itself for this style of expression.) (35-36)

FWP: What a note of pathos the lover seems to strike here! And yet, as you study the verse further, the matter-of-factness shows itself underneath. The first line is wonderfully colloquial, it might be said by anyone-- anyone politely preparing to refresh a casual acquaintance's memory of a long-ago social encounter. It is courteous, after all, to act as though the person might have forgotten you, in order to emphasize your own modesty and your listener's greater importance. But once you provide your address, you expect a friendly or at least properly polite reception. So what does the lover provide by way of address? Not a current place of residence or business affiliation. Not even a past one. Only a tentative reminder that there was once 'some' prey tied to your saddle. Only implication says that he himself was the prey. And the further suggestion is of course that he has nothing else to mention about himself-- no home, no work, no identity, nothing current to tell you who he is. He has only that identity of having been once strapped to your saddle. Which means that, in an important sense, he's there still. Could it be that you just haven't bothered to notice your hunting-bag lately? This extremely subtle, courteous, low-key,

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indirect verse, with its rich depths of suggestion, conveys between its two short simple lines the lover's whole plight.

{36,4} qaid me;N hai tire va;hshii ko vuhii zulf kii yaad haa;N kuchh ik ranj-e giraa;N-baarii-e zanjiir bhii thaa 1) in prison your madman has the very same memory of curls 2) indeed yes, there was also a small feeling of pain at the heaviness of the chain

Notes: Nazm: In comparison to the memory of the curl, he has mentioned the imprisonment in chains as very light, so that the memory of the curl can be shown to weigh more heavily. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, your madman has still not forgotten your curl, by which he had previously been imprisoned. Although along with it, he also had a light thought of the heaviness of the chains also. Through this mention, he wanted to show that the imprisonment in chains is less in harshness than the imprisonment of the curl. (70)

Bekhud Mohani: One ought to consider it as if someone is narrating some event, and after saying something he falls silent. Then spontaneously, or when someone asks him, he reflects and says, yes, there was one more matter. In this verse 'yes' and 'also' create an image of pausing in mid-sentence and reflecting before giving a reply. (86)

Mihr: The affinity of prison, madman, curl, and chains needs no commentary. (140)

FWP: Of course the curly tresses [zulf] and the round iron shackles in which the prisoner is chained have their shape in common, and their binding power. The lover may even describe himself as a 'hereditary slave of curls', so that he wouldn't flee from chains (see {19,6}). The structure of the second line, starting with the concessive haa;N ('indeed,' 'to be sure'), conveys the clear impression of a minor afterthought. The main point having been made, the speaker adds a small supplementary point he had previously overlooked. As the commentators observe, the effect of this structure is to emphasize the 'heavy' importance of the curls, and the 'light' weight of the chains by comparison. But if we look closely at the verse, another question arises: are the curls and the chains necessarily two different things? In the ghazal world madmen are chained up, of course, so the lover might really be in physical confinement as the commentators believe. But he might also be speaking of his metaphorical confinement by the beloved's curls. Might he not also be referring to his lifelong emotional captivity as a form of imprisonment? In that case, it is the memory of the curls that confines him. And he exults in cherishing 'that very same' memory-- although he does feel, once in a while, that the curl-memory chain, far from being weightless as a feather as we would expect, weighs just a tiny bit heavily. Though he certainly doesn't complain. If he could identify himself in {36,3} as a forgotten prey dangling from the beloved hunter's saddle, why can't he also see himself as enduring life imprisonment in the chains of her curls?

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{36,5} bijlii ik ko;Nd ga))ii aa;Nkho;N ke aage to kyaa baat karte kih mai;N lab-tishnah-e taqriir bhii thaa 1) if a single lightning-bolt flashed before the eyes, then so what 2) If only he/she had conversed! --for I was thirsty-lipped for speech too

Notes: Hali: Here he has expressed the idea that if the beloved showed her face for a single moment, then what comfort can that be? (128)

Nazm: That is, if she gave one glimpse of herself and then went away, then so what? She should have conversed with me, for I was longing for that as well. (36)

Bekhud Mohani: In the first line the word 'lightning' came in. Thus the poet's mind moved toward 'thirsty-lipped'. That is, only lightning flashed, rain didn't fall. That is, I saw the face, but didn't hear any words. Lightning flashing is a sign of rain coming down. (87)

Josh: In Urdu poetry [na:zm], this kind of implications, which would be in a complete utterance and a complete sentence, are very few. (104)

Chishti: If we give it more attention and thought, then we realize that in this verse Ghalib has imagined himself to be a stand-in for Hazrat Moses. He says to the Lord (by way of mischievousness), only seeing one glimpse of You cannot satisfy me. I was longing to speak with you. The foundation of this verse is that in truth, a bolt of lightning flashed before Hazrat Moses's eyes, and he fell unconscious. (364)

Mihr: Khvajah Hali has also said that a specialty of Ghalib's is that he has used in his poetry in Rekhtah, no less than in his poetry in Persian, metaphor and implication and illustration [tam;siil], which are the life of literature and the faith of poetry. Poets composing in Rekhtah have paid small attention to this. Metaphors have undoubtedly been used as part of the idioms of Urdu, but with no particular purpose. Rather, metaphors have dripped constantly from their pen with no purpose, in their ardor for idiomaticness. Ghalib used the kind of implications that assume the form of a whole utterance and a whole sentence. In Urdu poetry such examples are very few. One such shining example is this verse. (140-41)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} God revealed himself to Hazrat Musa on Mount Tur, in the form of dazzling light. Here, with his usual 'mischievousness' (sho;xii), Ghalib expresses dissatisfaction: a mere lightning bolt, whether it be of God's presence or the beloved's radiant beauty, is hardly sufficient! For comparisons, see {60,11} and {149,2}. The desire for speech would come naturally to the lover-- and the wordplay of being 'thirsty-lipped' for speech melds water and speech into something life-sustaining. Bekhud Mohani nicely points out that lightning without rain amounts merely to frustration and sterility.

{36,6} yuusuf us ko kahuu;N aur kuchh nah kahe ;xair hu))ii gar biga;R bai;The to mai;N laa))iq-e ta((ziir bhii thaa

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1) if I call her Yusuf and she says nothing-- that turned out well 2) if she gets angry, then I was worthy of punishment too

Notes: Nazm: That is, if she gets angry at the idea that I have made her into a slave, then it's proper. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I called her Yusuf (that is, made her into a slave); it was very fortunate that, hearing this praise from me, she fell silent. If she had become angry, then I deserved punishment for calling her Yusuf. (71)

Bekhud Mohani: Or this, that she is somewhat more beautiful than Yusuf, and to call her 'Yusuf' is to denigrate her. The subtle implication is also in the verse that the beloved might be angry because he has considered someone else (even if it's Yusuf) to be her equal. (87)

Josh: I called her Yusuf (that is, Zulaikha bought Yusuf from the bazaar as a slave), and she didn't take it amiss; I consider it my good fortune. (104)

Chishti: With regard to the principles of style and theme-creation, this verse is of a very high level. How captivatingly he has proved the beloved to be of even greater beauty than Hazrat Yusuf! (364)

FWP: The commentators all say reasonable things about this one. But to me, the pleasure of it is a kind of rueful, comic show of tongue-in-cheek hypersubmissiveness. To call the beloved 'Yusuf' is mainly to evoke his proverbial beauty (which is even more emphasized in the Qur'an than is that of his counterpart Joseph in the Old Testament). So if I compliment the beloved extravagantly and she doesn't take it amiss, then-- whew, I lucked out! But if she takes my compliment amiss, then-- I'm wrong, it's all my fault, I deserve to be punished! Such abjection and self-abasement is, in a sense, what the lover takes it as his duty to feel. But to formulate it with such wit and verve, in a way that inwardly smiles at it and implicitly invites us to share the joke? That kind of verve is no part of the ideal lover's monomania: it's the wit and mischievousness, the sho;xii, that is one of Ghalib's special trademarks.

{36,7} dekh kar ;Gair ko ho kyuu;N nah kalejaa ;Than;Daa naalah kartaa thaa vale :taalib-e taa;siir bhii thaa 1) having seen the Other, why wouldn't [I] be satisfied? 2a) [I] used to lament, but [I] was a seeker of effect too 2b) [he] used to lament, but [he] was a seeker of effect too

Notes: Nazm: That is, seeing the Other in a bad condition, etc. And in the second line 'I' is omitted. And vale ['but'] is a Persian idiom; in Urdu it is now rejected. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, seeing the Other, why wouldn't I be satisfied? Because I used to lament, and also sought for effect from my laments. That is, my laments had no apparent effect on me. Now, seeing the Other in a bad state, I've understood that this was that effect of my lament alone. (71)

Bekhud Mohani: The Rival used to lament. But at the same time he also longed for effect in his laments. From this I realize that the Rival is as yet deprived of the

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pleasure of passion. Otherwise, for a [true] lover, is the pleasure of lamentation a small one? (87)

Baqir: The meaning is that he too, like me, failed to achieve his goal. If he had not been seeking an effect, then his success would have been proved-- which would have caused me pain. (118)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; SUBJECT? This verse, like so many, gives us an independent utterance in each line, and leaves us to decide how they are connected. The first line, another of his countless examples of inshaa))iyah speech, asks why, seeing the Other and the state that he's in, I shouldn't be satisfied. (Literally, of course, it asks why the liver [kalejaa] shouldn't be cool, but since no poetic use is made of the idiom I don't see that it's important to translate it literally.) And of course, it has the additional virtue of piquing our curiosity, and of being uninterpretable, under mushairah conditions, until we have waited for the second line. The second line not only has to be hooked up to the first, but requires much internal work as well. The verbs are masculine singular, but no subject is indicated: do they apply to me, or to the Other? Not only do we have to ask who lamented, but also who sought the effect, and what effect was sought, and whether or not it was attained. Just consider some of the possibilities: I used to lament, but I sought for effect-- in vain; and now I am delighted to see the Other in the same futile position. I used to lament, but I sought for effect-- and have now finally found it, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests, since my laments have produced this misery for the Other. He used to lament, but he sought for effect-- in vain; I am delighted to see his sufferings. He used to lament, but he sought for effect-- thus showing, as Bekhur Mohani suggests, that he is a less experienced and/or less sincere lover than I am, a deficiency that I am glad to notice. Needless to say, none of these possibilities can be ruled out. The final one is my favorite, since it marshalls a sophisticated array of feelings and ideas about the nature of passion. It's also the one that makes the most logically powerful use of the 'but' between the phrases. As with so many others, the verse should be considered a little 'meaning generator' to which no single interpretation (much less translation) can ever be assigned.

{36,8} peshe me;N ((aib nahii;N rakhye nah farhaad ko naam ham hii aashuftah-saro;N me;N vuh javaa;N miir bhii thaa 1) [one's/his] profession is no defect, don't give Farhad a [bad] name 2a) among us {disordered/distracted}-headed ones, he was a young champion too 2b) among us {disordered/distracted}-headed ones, was that young champion too

Notes: aashuftah: 'Distracted, disturbed, distressed; disordered; uneasy, wretched, miserable; enamoured, deeply in love'. (Platts p.57)

Nazm: In place of ham hii... now hamii;N is the idiom. And this speech has departed from its original/true form. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a profession is no defect-- why do you give Farhad a bad name? That is, Farhad too has lived as a passionate lover. We too are a passionate

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lover, and Mir too was a passionate lover. If the harsh constraints of passion compelled him to take up mountain-digging [koh-kanii], then what's wrong with that? One lover cuts through a mountain, another infatuated one endures [lit. 'cuts through'] days of difficulty, another madman 'cuts through' nights of separation. (71)

Bekhud Mohani: javaa;N miir = dying at a youthful age. If Farhad was a stone-cutter, then it's no harm. A profession does not remove a person's inborn gentility. Farhad was one of us crazed lovers, one who in his youth played a mortal game with his life. (87)

FWP: It's impossible to tell whether the defense being made in the first line is general or specific: is it no defect for one to have a profession, even if it is a humble one; or is it no defect to be, specifically, a stonecutter? I think that Ghalib means for us to think first of the more general meaning and then, after we have heard the second line, to remind ourselves of the specific one as well. As for the second line, the two interpretations given above are both possible readings, and differ only in nuance. I'm not sure how significant they are in understanding the verse. I think that Bekhud Dihlavi misreads when he finds a reference to the poet Mir, and that Bekhud Mohani incorrectly explains javaa;N miir. The commentators are, I believe, looking for meaning in the wrong places. The real punch of the verse, I would argue, lies in aashuftah-sar, one whose head is disordered, distracted, wretched. 'We disordered-headed ones', and we alone-- emphasized by the carefully-placed hii-- constitute the real group of which Farhad was a part. Even the real 'professional' group, perhaps, since the path of passion is construed in the ghazal world as a special vocation that is also a one-way route to death. When Farhad heard the (false) news of his beloved Shirin's death, he used his stone-cutting axe to split his own skull. Thus he vindicated his profession, and also demonstrated his kinship with the rest of us 'disorderedheaded' ones. For what kind of head could be more disordered, distracted, wretched, than one that has been split in two by an axe? Isn't that the direction in which all we lovers are heading? For a less favorable interpretation of Farhad's axemanship, see {3,6}.

{36,9} ham the marne ko kha;Re paas nah aayaa nah sahii aa;xir us sho;x ke tarkash me;N ko))ii tiir bhii thaa 1) we were standing ready to die-- if she didn't come near, then so be it! 2a) after all, in that mischievous one's quiver there was an arrow too 2b) after all, in that mischievous one's quiver was there even an arrow?

Notes: Hali: The late Hakim Razi ud-Din Khan was an extremely close friend of Mirza's. He didn't care for mangoes. One day he was seated in the verandah of Mirza's house, and Mirza was there as well. A donkey-driver passed through the lane with his donkey. Some mango-skins were lying there; the donkey took a sniff, then left them. The Hakim Sahib said, 'Look-- a mango is such that even a donkey [gadhaa bhii] doesn't eat it!' Mirza said, 'Without a doubt, a donkey doesn't eat it.' (70)

Nazm: That is, if she didn't come near, then she should at least have shot an arrow from afar! (36)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we had come and stood before her to sacrifice our life. If she considered it contrary to her dignity to come near us, then at least she should have shot an arrow from afar! The meaning is that she should definitely have made even a worthless lover like us the prey of her airs and graces. (71)

Josh: If this indifference to life-sacrificers is not mischievousness, then what is it? (105)

FWP: SETS == BHI This one plays perfectly on the two meanings of bhii, 'too' and 'even'. Ghalib was keenly aware of the importance of small but powerful particles like bhii, as Hali's anecdote above amusingly demonstrates. On the first reading (2a), if she didn't come near us, that was all right because after all she had an arrow 'too' in her quiver and thus could shoot us from afar. But because she is mischievous, she might or might not actually loose the arrow on her helpless prey. This is the meaning the commentators adopt. On the second reading (2b), we have no illusions about the radical nature of her mischievousness-- did she 'even' bring an arrow in her quiver, or was that too much of a bother? This reading rests on a yes-or-no question with the introductory kyaa colloquially omitted; see the next verse, {36,10}, for an irrefutable example of the same usage.) This one is a classic, and it's also a classic case in which the commentators disappoint. It seems so clear that the charm of the verse is drawn from the two possibilities opened up by bhii. Surely without seeing both in alternation, and both at once, the verse can't be enjoyed as Ghalib meant it to be. But the commentators almost never point out this kind of fundamental, obvious multivalence. It's amazing to see again and again this huge blind spot in the commentarial tradition. Even though I think I can find some reasons for it, it still seems extraordinary. For more on nah sahii , see {9,4}.

{36,10} pak;Re jaate hai;N farishto;N ke likhe par naa;haq aadmii ko))ii hamaaraa dam-e ta;hriir bhii thaa 1) we are seized on the Angels' written [accounts] unjustly 2) was any man of ours even there at the moment of writing?

Notes: Hali: That is to say, in order to prove our guilt, someone's testimony is certainly necessary; merely the Angels' writing is not enough. (141)

Nazm: After 'ours', it's culpable to put in 'too' [bhii] as well. But it's a necessity of the verse [for the refrain], so he has put it in at the end. In this verse he has sought merely for wit [:zaraafat] and anecdotalness [la:tiifah go))ii]. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They are Angels, what feeling do they have for human longings? Whatever thing they wish, they have recorded among the sins. At the time of writing, according to the custom of the world, our man-- that is, some representative of ours-- should have been there. (71)

Bekhud Mohani: By Angels are meant those two writers who record men's good and bad deeds. This verse is an example of poetic mischievousness, and has been composed only for amusement. (88)

Chishti:

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With regard to mischievousness and wit, he has composed a peerless verse. This is one of those verses such that to explain it is to shed the blood of its meaning. (366)

FWP: WRITING: {7,3} In Islamic tradition, these two terrifying Angels are named Munkir [munkir] and Nakir [nakiir], and sit invisibly on people's shoulders recording their good and bad deeds; then they interrogate them in the grave, and produce an account to be presented on Judgment Day. The enjoyableness of the verse lies in the matter-of-fact, confident application of human legal procedure to divine justice. Everybody knows that a mere written statement by one party is insufficient for conviction. Proper form requires that we the accused be permitted to have 'our man' present during the proceedings-- normally, our advocate or representative. But in this case the stress falls not only on 'our' but also on 'man'. Not only was our advocate absent, but there wasn't even anyone of our own kind, an aadmii or 'child of Adam' present-- and what can Angels understand of human guilt, and who knows whether they're trustworthy or not? The triumphant tone of the second line is especially amusing-- it conveys the sense that we have found a huge hole in the prosecution's case, and are firmly driving a truck through it. This tone arises from the structure of the line, a rhetorical question of the yes-or-no kind with the introductory kyaa colloquially omitted.

{36,11} re;xte ke tumhii;N ustaad nahii;N ho ;Gaalib kahte hai;N agle zamaane me;N ko))ii miir bhii thaa 1) you are not the only Ustad of Rekhtah, Ghalib 2) they say that in an earlier age there was some Mir/master as well

Notes: miir: 'Chief, leader, master, head'. (Platts p.1105)

Hali: I have heard from Mirza [Ghalib] himself that Mir Taqi, who was Mirza's compatriot [from Agra], having heard his boyhood verses, had said, 'If this boy finds some accomplished Ustad, and he puts him on the right path, then he will become a peerless poet. And if not, he'll start babbling nonsense.' (109)

Nazm: The meaning is manifest. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They call the composition of poetry in Urdu 'Rekhtah'. He says, in Urdu poetry, oh Ghalib, you're not the only Ustad. They say-- that is, it's wellknown-- that in a previous age there was some poet Mir as well. With what excellence he has established his own equality with Mir in the art of poetry. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: Ghalib, in Urdu poetry you are not the only Ustad. Rather, among the ancients Mir too was an Ustad. That is, in Urdu poetry there have been only two Ustads. (88)

Shadan: Rekhtah: the Urdu language. The dictionary meaning is cement for a building. The way a house is built from lime, gravel, bricks, stones, brickdust, etc., in the same way the Urdu language has developed from the mingling of Sanskrit, Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and various Prakrits. For this reason they call the Urdu language 'Rekhtah'. (177)

Josh: The old name of Urdu was 'Rekhtah'. The closing-verse is boastful. But he's made fine use of the name of Mir to adorn it. In the style of the first line, he's

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created an effect of self-deprecation-- that is, you are not the only Ustad of that language, there are others as well. All the renowned ones have always agreed on the excellence of Mir Taqi. Thus his name has been used, so that there would remain no scope for rejection. (105)

Faruqi: About Rekhtah: (1) Rekhta is two things at the same time. (a) A macaronic verse where the linguistic features of Persian are grafted on to Hindi templates; (b) amacaronic verse where the linguistic features of Hindi are grafted on to Persian templates. (Please note that when I say 'Hindi', I mean 'Urdu'; 'Urdu' as a language name did not become known, far less current, until the very end of the 18th century, though the terms Rekhtha and Hindi cintinued to be used for the same language until the last quarter of the 19th century.) In the above sense, Rekhtah is a formal genre. It had a short life, almost entirely in Northern India, up to about early 18th century. (2) Over time, the language in which the above kind of poems were written came to be called Rekhtah. In the mean time, Hindi became popular in and around Delhi as a literary language and Hindi began also to be called Rekhtah. In course of time, the term Rekhth began to be preferred, though not overwhelmingly, as the name for the written language, while the spoken language was more often called Hindi. The term Rekhtah began to be used for ' poem written in Rekhta', apparently as a throwback to the earlier practice. The term Rekhta, to denote a text written in the language called Rekhtah/ Hindi/ Hindvi, continued to be used until about the end of the 18th century. However, there are two other ways the term Rekhtah has been used, though not in Urdu: (a) In Gujarati, there was a genre called 'Rekhta' until about the end of the 19th century. It was a kind of folky song, but I don't know more about it. (b) There was a genre called 'Lavani Rekhta' in which I have found poems in the North Indian folk drama (especially the 'Nautanki') of the late 19th century. While 'lavani' is a well-known metre in modern Hindi prosody, based on the Sanskrit 'pingala', there is no metre called Rekhtah in Urdu or Modern Hindi. The poems that I have seen with the heading 'Lavani Rekhta' do not present any special metrical or linguistic features. Perhaps the term meant 'a poem in the Rekhta mode and the lavani metre.' I haven't found anyone attaching any importance to the term. (--answer to an inquirer's question, by email, June 2005)

FWP: SETS == POETRY This is one of the very few verses in the divan that are explicitly about Urdu poetry and its history. In a typically complex way, Ghalib pays tribute to Mir, the only other Ustad he depicts as worthy of comparison to himself. Implicitly but clearly, he relegates all other Urdu poets to forgettability. And even toward Mir, his compliment is understated, to put it politely. Actually, it's more like backhanded. He locates Mir in the vaguest possible limbo: 'they say' (but of course it's hard to tell about these rumors) that 'in an earlier age' (when dinosaurs roamed the earth) there was 'some' Mir (at least, that was said to be his name). And of course 'Mir' is not only a pen-name, but also a word (miir), so the reference might even be construed as applying to any great predecessor. Actually, Mir's lifespan (1722-1810) overlapped just a bit with Ghalib's (1797-1869), and Mir's poetry was unquestionably a valuable source of ideas and techniques for him. (However, Hali's anecdote above, in which Mir is said to have commented on Ghalib's very early poetry, is almost certainly apocryphal.) And we could of course interpret the understated second line as

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ironic-- a tribute to Mir's radical well-knownness and immense prestige. ('They say that long ago there was somebody named Shakespeare...')

Ghazal 37 2 verses; meter G12; rhyming elements: urdagaa;N kaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 31; Arshi #017; Raza pp. 123-24

{37,1} lab-e ;xushk dar-tishnagii murdagaa;N kaa ziyaarat-kadah huu;N dil-aazurdagaa;N kaa 1) the dry lip of those dead of thirst-2) [I] am the pilgrimage place of those with sorrowful hearts

Notes: Nazm: In the first line, '[I] am' is omitted. And thirst is a metaphor for intensity of longing and ardor. (36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am the dry lip of those who have passed away from this world in a state of longing and ardor, without having attained success. For this reason I've become a pilgrimage place for those with broken hearts and suffering temperaments. By 'those of sorrowful heart' is meant the group of passionate lovers, who usually remain absorbed in the state of deprivation. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: In short, my deprivation has reached the limit of perfection. (88)

Josh: The simile that's been given in the first line-- what purity of language can be greater than this? (105)

FWP: This verse and the other in this mini-ghazal would seem to form a sort of verse-set, though they are never identified as such in the tradition. After all, their mood, their theme, their grammatical structure, could hardly be any more similar than they are. But then, it's perhaps pointless to single out two verses in a two-verse ghazal as being specially connected, when there are no other verses to contrast them with. (The ghazal originally had six verses, of which Ghalib chose to include only the first two in his divan.) About the first line Nazm makes his familiar complaint, that something is 'omitted'. He's the only commentator who regularly makes such complaints, and to me they usually seem somewhat niggling and over-pedantic. Certainly the reading based on an implied 'I am' is an obvious one, and the one that all the commentators seem to adopt. If we adopt it, the advantage of omitting the 'I am' can easily be seen: it keeps the first line opaque (under mushairah performance conditions) until the second line has been presented to elucidate it. Only with the aid of the huu;N in the second line can we put together such a meaning for the first. But inserting a firm 'I am' is not the only way to go. Compare this verse with the next one, {37,2}. That too begins with a kind of free-floating image in the first line, which should surely apply somehow to the second line. But how exactly? In what sense am I a dry lip, and why? And not only that, but it can't be easy to be the dry lip of a large number of people. Why would a dry lip be (or be equated to) a pilgrimage place? The exact relationships here are murky, and I maintain that it's not only not necessary, but not even helpful, to try to elucidate them precisely.

333

Surely, in this verse and the next one both, the powerful image in the first line works best if it is not too tightly pinned into the grammar. Let it hover over the whole line. Let it remain slightly unmoored and floating. This is a marvelous ghazal of mood, and the atmosphere created by its vagueness and mystery increases the potency of the verse.

{37,2} hamah naa-umiidii hamah bad-gumaanii mai;N dil huu;N fareb-e vafaa-;xvurdagaa;N kaa 1) entirely hopelessness, entirely distrust/suspicion-2) I am the heart of those taken in by the illusion/deceit of faith

Notes: Nazm: The first line is entirely Persian, because in Urdu hamah ['entirely'] is not used in this way. (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from head to food I've become a picture of hopelessness and distrust. Because I am the heart of those people who have already been deceived by the illusion of the faithfulness of ardor; that is, those lovers who believed the beloved to be faithful and endured various kinds of harm from her, and finally, after experiencing failure, knew hopelessness. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is in the 'verbal device of two languages' [;san((at ul-lisaanain]. The first line is in Persian, the second in Urdu. (88)

Josh: In order to prove this theme, how praiseworthy was his search for a simile, and how suitable to the situation. The entire concordance between the illustration and the thing illustrated-- that is Mirza's special ability. The power of expression of the first line, too, is a special thing in this verse. (105-06)

FWP: SETS == A,B This verse is so similar to its precedessor, {37,1}, that I treat them as a kind of unlabeled verse-sequence. Like its predecessor, this one has a freefloating depiction of a mood as its first line-- one that is only interpretable in retrospect, after using the second line as a kind of substratum to learn what is being described. Even then, how precisely do we really learn? Does the first line describe the speaker, the heart, or the deceived ones? And in what sense can one describe oneself as the heart of a number of other people, anyway? This is nothing if not a verse of mood. And as such it really works, doesn't it? When it is put together with its predecessor, the effect is melancholy, bleak, and also mysterious.

Ghazal 38 7 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: ar nah hu))aa thaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 32; Arshi #028; Raza pp. 228-29

{38,1} tuu dost kisii kaa bhii sitamgar nah hu))aa thaa auro;N pah hai vuh :zulm kih mujh par nah hu))aa thaa 1) you had not become, tyrant, anyone's friend 2) that cruelty is [used] on others-- which had not been [used] on me

334

Notes: Nazm: In the first line, 'tyrant' is a vocative. (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the apparent meaning is that to this day you have not become the friend of anyone at all, and your oppression was not used on me alone; rather, you used more cruelty toward others than toward me. But to some extent a deeper meaning of this verse is that the tyranny you never used on me at all, you are now using on others. Here 'others' is a special indication of the Rival. That is, by using more cruelty toward the Rival than toward me, you lit such a fire of envy in my heart that oppression and cruelty are nothing at all by comparison. This manner of yours has shown that with regard to me, your renunciation of oppression and cruelty betokens enmity. (72-73)

Bekhud Mohani: We had understood that you don't love us, therefore you use cruelty. But seeing even more cruelty than this against the Rivals, we realized that you are no one's friend.... You didn't use as much cruelty toward us, as now you are using toward others-- and I can't bear to see this. (89)

FWP: What a lovely, witty verse! You, oh cruel beloved, turned out not to be anyone's friend. You showed a special kind of cruelty ('that cruelty') to others which you did not show to me. In this way, you were able to kill two birds with one stone. First, you made the others wretched, since they are low-grade, commonplace, lustful types who haven't got the stamina and devotion of a real, classic lover. The word for others is merely aur, a bland, neutral word that seems to emphasize their unimpressiveness. They don't even rate being identified as the Other or the Rival, their usual epithets. And second, you made me wretched at the same time, since I was forced to watch them receive that cruelty-- which, as Bekhud Dihlavi explains, made me suffer terribly with jealousy. To see them given a higher place than mine in your attention was far crueler than ordinary cruelty. In addition, unlike them, I could actually have relished your cruelty, and made use of it in my capacity as a true lover. The true lover interprets all attention from the beloved as a mark of favor, and cruelty is infinitely preferable to neglect. The beloved's casual pity, disdain, or indifference is more exquisitely painful than any amount of overt torment. Very simple vocabulary, and the swaying effect of the long-long-short-shortlong-long meter-- the result is a rhythmic swing that gives the verse a feeling of energy and briskness. The lover is undaunted, he reproaches the beloved with vigorous determination. She may be cruel, but she hasn't silenced or cowed him. After all, being cruel is almost her job, as a beloved. (However, it's not her job to be cruel to all and sundry; on this see {60,3}.) It's unbearably cruel of her to deny the lover her cruelty, as becomes clear in {60,6}. See for example {148,2}, in which the lover asks for anything, including enmity, rather than a loss of connection. And in this verse the lover has not lost connection with the beloved-- he addresses her with the intimate tuu, and doesn't hesitate to call her a tyrant. Indeed, it's quite possible that she knows all about the psychology of the situation, and that her refusal to show cruelty to the lover was in fact a deliberate, supreme piece of cruelty to him. What more could the lover want? No wonder he sounds so energetic and brisk.

335

{38,2} chho;Raa mah-e na;xshab kii :tara;h dast-e qa.zaa ne ;xvurshiid hanuuz us ke baraabar nah hu))aa thaa 1) the hand of destiny dropped/released [it] like the Moon of Nakhshab 2) the sun had {still not / not yet} become equal to that one

Notes: na;xshab: 'Name of a city in Turkestan, famous for the appearance of the moon which the impostor Muqanna(( caused to ascend from a pit in the neighbourhood (called chaah-e na;xshab) during the space of two months'. (Platts p.1126) hanuuz: 'Yet; still; further; just now, at present; hitherto, to this very time; -not yet'. (Platts p.1239)

Hali: He has compared the sun to the beauty of the beloved, and declared it to be a deficient creation; for it he has given the simile of the moon of Nakhshab. (127)

Nazm: That is, the sun itself remained deficient, the way it's well known that the Moon of Nakhshab made by ibn Muqanna' remained deficient. (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The 'moon of Nakhshab' is that artificial moon which Hakim Ibn-e 'Ata, known as Ibn Muqanna', caused to rise from the Pit of Nakhshab. This moon had been prepared by means of [magic] prescriptions [davaa]. Its light could not spread for a long distance, and compared to the real moon it was established to be a deficient creation. For two months it kept emerging from the Pit of Nakhshab; afterwards it fell into pieces. He says, considering it deficient and useless like the 'moon of Nakhshab', the hand of creation dropped it, although the sun had still not become equal in perfection to the face of the beloved. (73)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ Here is an elegant exploitation of a single anecdote from Islamic story tradition. For poetic purposes, all we need to know is that the Moon of Nakhshab was artificially made, was an inferior copy of a superior original, and was destined to fall apart after a short lifespan. One pivot on which the verse turns is the word hanuuz, meaning both 'still' and 'yet, now'. For more on the creative use of hanuuz, see {3,4}. In addition, there is the versatile chho;Rnaa, with its range of meanings including both 'to release' and 'to abandon'. So consider two obvious readings of the verse: First: The hand of destiny released it [to shine as well as it could], like the Moon of Nakhshab, [although] the sun had not yet become equal to that one [and thus needed more work]. Second: The hand of destiny dropped it [in vexation], like the [short-lived] Moon of Nakhshab, [because] the sun had still not [after its best efforts] become equal to that one As hardly needs to be said, 'that one' is the beloved, and the clever multivalence of the compliment hardly needs to be elaborated. The beloved's beauty is the original, the sun is the copy; the beloved's beauty is inimitable, and the hand of destiny itself can't duplicate it; the beloved's beauty is lasting and real, the sun is contrived and transitory by comparison.

{38,3}

336

taufiiq bah andaazah-e himmat hai azal se aa;Nkho;N me;N hai vuh qa:trah jo gauhar nah hu))aa thaa 1) grace/favor has been according to courage, from eternity 2) in the eyes is that drop that did not become a pearl

Notes: taufiq : 'Making events to conspire happily (Divine Providence); divine guidance, grace, or favour; the completion of one's wishes; prosperity; -ability, power, means, resources'. (Platts p.343)

Hali: It is an absolutely new and untouched and subtle thought. And he has expressed it with extreme clarity and excellence. If anybody doesn't understand it, the fault lies with that person's own mind. The claim is that to the extent that someone has a lofty courage, his help from the Unseen is proportional. And the proof is that the teardrop, which has found place in the eyes-- if its courage, when it was in the sea, had contented itself with becoming a pearl, then manifestly this rank (that is, of finding place in the eyes) would not have been attained. (121)

Nazm: That is, even if a teardrop becomes a pearl, how would it obtain such honor, as if its place is in the eyes. The courage of the pearl-drop was less than that of the teardrop. For this reason, it can reach as far as the ears [in earrings], not as far as the eyes. (37)

Josh: 'To find a place in the eyes' is an idiom; it means to be very dear. How excellently tears have been given preference over pearls! (106)

FWP: A lovely second line, isn't it? For a drop of water in the sea to become a pearl is quite hard enough-- {78,2} offers a vivid depiction of just how hard. (In the world of the ghazal, pearls are formed from drops of rain-water, not grains of sand.) And on this reading, for a drop not to become a pearl -- jo gauhar nah hu))aa thaa is phrased in an entirely negative way-- seems to be much higher and more difficult. This is Hali's reading, and other commentators agree, and it's certainly a defensible one. But as usual with Ghalib, it's not the only one. We can construct from Ghalib's own poetry an alternative line of thought in which expression is more valuable than latency; see for example {22,5}, in which the lament that does not reach the lip, and the drop that does not become the sea, seem to be in a state of lesser fulfillment (at least according to the main commentarial reading of the verse). Thus tears in the eyes might well be less fortunate than tears that have been shed and have turned to pearls. For an explicit metaphorical linking of the lover's tears with pearls, see {15,3}, in which the beloved contemplates the stringing of pearls, while (and also because?) the lover's tears are so numerous that the 'thread' of his glance is obscured. Why shouldn't the beloved string the lover's tear-pearls, just as she strings his drops of blood, pierced by her eyelashes, into coral prayer-beads in {10,2}? Wouldn't that be a destiny superior to their remaining unshed? And we know that pearls can be valuable in far more than a mere jewel-like way: the desolate lover's breast is described in {13,7} as a ruined treasure-house, stripped of all its former 'pearls of mystery'. In short, as so often, we not only can have it both ways, we must have it both ways; we have no choice about choosing. Ghalib forces us to decide for ourselves which is to be taken as a recipient of favor: the unshed tear in the eye, or the tear that becomes a (literal) pearl, or the (shed) tear-pearl.

337

{38,4} jab tak kih nah dekhaa thaa qad-e yaar kaa ((aalam mai;N mu((taqid-e fitnah-e ma;hshar nah hu))aa thaa 1) as long as I had not seen the state/situation of the height of the beloved 2) I had not become a believer in the affliction/mischief of Judgment Day

Notes: Nazm: He has used Doomsday [qiyaamat] as a simile for stature [qaamat]. He says, having seen the stature of the beloved, I became a believer in the mischief of Judgment Day. (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The beloved's stature always receives the simile of the affliction of Doomsday or the cypress and poplar in the garden. He says, as long as I had not seen with my own eyes the style of the beloved's stature, and the spectacle of her gait which is like Judgment Day, I was not in my heart convinced of the affliction of Doomsday. (73)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as I hadn't seen the mischief of the beloved's stature, I didn't believe in the mischief of Doomsday. That is, the mischief of stature is a great mischief, so that it begins to enter the mind that indeed, the mischief of Doomsday too has reality, and it will be such as this. Very enjoyably he has used the mischief of Doomsday as a simile for the mischief of Judgment Day. (90)

Arshi: Compare {96,3}. (176)

FWP: QIYAMAT: {10,11} THE BELOVED IS TALL: The beloved's lofty, graceful height is a wellknown fact of the ghazal world. It is an important part of her beauty and her regal, imposing presence. Her height is played upon in a number of other verses as well as this one. Examples include {96,3}; {106,4}; {169,4}. Judgment Day is a time for the 'rising up' of the dead. Nazm points to the wordplay that seems to be the real underpinning of this comparison: qaamat for stature, qiyaamat for Doomsday. Arshi cites {96,3}, which uses exactly this wordplay. Yet the present verse refuses to use either of the relevant key words: the beloved's height is her qad, and instead of Doomsday we have ma;hshar, which I'm translating 'Judgment Day' in order to keep the two separate. Which is fine of course, but what is the verse doing? What is the 'hook' of this verse, the feature that would induce an audience at a mushairah to call out 'vaah vaah!'? I'm hard put to figure it out. The commentators don't shed much light, because they can easily find a prose-paraphrasable meaning, and that's all they usually want anyway. Bekhud Dihlavi's interpretation is typical. But how to go beyond it? Are we just to consider this one of Ghalib's very few uninteresting, flat, one-dimensional verses? To get a measure of how hohum this verse feels, just compare it to the lively complexities of {96,3}.

{38,5} mai;N saadah-dil aazurdagii-e yaar se ;xvush huu;N ya((nii sabaq-e shauq mukarrar nah hu))aa thaa 1) I, simple-hearted, am happy with the beloved's disdain 2) that is, the lesson of ardor had not been repeated

338

Notes: Ghalib: [1864:] {38,5}-- My Lord and Guide, don't be angry all the time. I've heard this [about your anger], and I didn't like it. So much so that I 'can't endure anger'. (Arshi p.177) ==text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 2, p. 660 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 157

Nazm: With that renewal of ardor that resulted from disdain, why would a repetition of the lesson be necessary? (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: 'Simple-hearted' or 'a clean slate' is what they call an ignorant man. He says, because of my simple-heartedness, I've considered the beloved's distaste too to be a cause of delight and enjoyment. And in my heart I'm happy that the pleasure I obtained from one lesson of ardor will be available for enjoyment again. That is, when I have a reconciliation with the beloved, then I will again repeat the lesson of ardor, and those things that pleased me one time will again, that is for a second time, give relish. He doesn't even know that now a reconciliation won't be possible. (74)

Baqir: Just consider my simple-heartedness: I am happy that the beloved has become vexed. Because in that situation I have more occasion to repeat the lesson of ardor. The meaning is that if she were not vexed, then I would not have more occasion for the expression of ardor. The pleasure that there is in complaints and laments of love and passion, people with hearts know very well. Thus on this occasion the poet too is happy. (122)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT Here is a vintage example of a 'meaning generator' verse; for more on this concept see {32,1}. There are so many things we don't know that the permutations of how we arrange them will generate an indefinitely large supply of interpretations for the verse. In the first line I the lover am described as both 'simple-hearted' and 'happy' with the beloved's disdain. Here, the ambiguity is the relationship between these two traits. Just as in English, 'simple-hearted' can be used for someone foolishly naive and gullible, or for someone straightforward, guileless, sincere. Am I naively living in a fool's paradise? Or am I properly happy, as a true and honest lover may well be? Only the context can help us sort out the implications-- and of course, the context depends largely on our own interpretive choices. To begin the second line with ya((nii, 'that is', almost feels like his teasing us. It pretends to introduce an explanation, but of course what it introduces is a further set of multivalences. First of all, what is the 'lesson of ardor'? The ambiguities of the i.zaafat construction permit a number of possibilities (for further discussion, see {16,1}). Here, it could be a lesson given by ardor, a lesson given to ardor, a lesson pertaining to ardor, or a lesson that is identical with ardor. Obviously, the interpretive choices we make here will branch off into quite different readings of the verse. And then, what is the relationship between the beloved's disdain, my happiness, and the non-repetition of the 'lesson of ardor'? Am I happy because it was not repeated, since perhaps it was painful? (And was it not repeated because it was not needed? or because the beloved disdained to repeat it? or by happenstance?) Or am I happy (since I'm a 'simple-hearted' type) despite the fact that it was not repeated? Or, to take another tack, has the 'lesson of ardor' merely not been repeated yet, so that I can expect it to be repeated in the future? If so, is my expectation well-grounded or foolish?

339

You see the difficulties. The commentators have no trouble with this verse, it seems-- each of them just takes the vast tool-kit of possibilities, assembles his own preferred interpretation, and blithely announces it to the world as 'the meaning'. I don't even see any point in doing this. I would need several pages to map out the whole tree of possible meanings. In a situation this dire, it surely makes more sense to recognize that Ghalib has deliberately created a hall of mirrors and trapped us in it. If you wanted to get fancy, you could say he's demonstrating what the life of passion is like-- inescapable, ultimately incomprehensible, painful, yet fascinating and not devoid of pleasure. Like a :tilism, in fact (see {29,3}).

{38,6} daryaa-e ma((aa.sii tunuk-aabii se hu))aa ;xushk meraa sar-e daaman bhii abhii tar nah hu))aa thaa 1) the sea of sins, from lack of water, became dry 2) even/also the hem of my garment had not yet/now become wet

Notes: Azad: One day the late Ustad [Zauq] and I were discussing Mirza Sahib's style of 'delicate thought' and Persian constructions, and people's various temperaments. I said, 'If some verse manages to come out without convolutions, it's as devastating as Doomsday!' He said, 'Very good!' Then he said, 'Even his better verses, people fail to appreciate. I will recite some of his verses to you'. He recited a number of individual verses. One is still in my memory: {38,6}. There is no doubt that through the power of his name [since 'Asad' means lion], he was a lion of the thickets of themes and meanings. Two things have a special connection with his style. The first is that 'meaning-creation' and 'delicate thought' were his special pursuit. The second is that because he had more practice in Persian, and a long connection with it, he used to put a number of words into constructions in ways in which they are not spoken. But those verses that turned out clear and lucid are beyond compare. (Ab-e Hayat, pp. 405-06) ==Urdu text (Lahore 1906 ed.): pp. 494-96

Hali: He says that in committing sins our enthusiasm is so capacious that although the sea of sinfulness has dried up, still not even the edge of our garment has become wet. In the anthology [ta;zkirah] Ab-e Hayat it is written that Zauq was extremely fond of this verse, and used to say that Mirza did not know his own good verses. This is the same kind of thing that Maulana Azurdah said, when he had heard an excellent verse of Mirza's and wished to praise it: 'What accomplishment Mirza has shown in this verse! This is a verse in my own style.' In short, even when one contemporary is praising another contemporary, he will definitely put in something or other that will either necessarily imply that poet's faults, or cause his own praise to emerge even more highly. (141-42)

Nazm: Idiomatically, they call a sinner a 'wet-hemmed one' [tar-daaman]. The meaning is that the hem of my garment soaked up the entire sea of sinfulness, so that it dried out, and even so not even the edge of my garmenthem was thoroughly wetted. That is, however many sins there were, I committed them all; even with that, I had not had my fill. (37)

Josh: This verse of Mir Dard's too achieves the same excellence, in connection with the same wordplay [ri((aayat-e laf:zii]:

340

tar-damanii pah shai;x hamaarii nah jaa))iyo daaman nicho;R de;N to farishte va.zuu kare;N [Shaikh, don't make too much of our sinfulness/wet-skirtedness if we wring out our garment-hem, then the Angels will perform ablutions]. (107)

Arshi: Compare {117,2}. (176, 243)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS This one couldn't be any more different in style from its complex predecessor {38,6}. The sequence might almost have been set up to illustrate Azad's point (expressed through words attributed to Zauq) in the anecdote above. The Persian/Urdu pair of expressions paak-daamanii and tar-daamanii , literally 'pure-hemmedness' and 'wet-hemmedness', are used in the ghazal for virtue/purity versus sinfulness/pollution. The lover represents his sinfulness as so extreme that his garment-hem soaked up the whole of the 'ocean of sinfulness' and still was hardly even damp. What a paradox of sho;xii , 'mischievousness', and how the audience must have relished it! The great sinner is also completely pure, since his garment-hem remains unstained. And he remains actively eager for more chances to sin. (Of course, all the mystical possibilities of transgressiveness are fully activated here.) The second line also includes some clever rhymes-- sar / tar surrounding bhii / abhii -- that add to the sense of flowingness. As Arshi points out, {117,2} is a good companion piece for this one. This one is the more perfectly realized, the more elegantly put together, while {117,2} attempts to capture a more complex thought. For another perspective on sinfulness, compare {9,9x}.

{38,7} jaarii thii asad daa;G-e jigar se mirii ta;h.siil aatish-kadah jaagiir-e samandar nah hu))aa thaa 1) my writ/acquisition ran, Asad, from the wound/scar of the liver 2) the fire-place had not become the estate of the Salamander

Notes: ta;h.siil : 'Getting, acquiring; collecting; gain, acquisition, profit, attainment; learning; collection (particularly of revenues or rents); the revenue jurisdiction of a ta;h.siil-daar'. (Platts p.312) jaagiir : 'Land and villages given by government as a reward for services or as a fee, a rent-free grant, a free-hold, a pension'. (Platts p.371)

Nazm: In this construction he has used the Salamander for his dominion, and the fireplace for the wound. And he has given priority to the wound: from it authority issues. That is, because of it, those sighs and laments that ceaselessly emerge, they are my jurisdiction, so it's as if the wound in the heart is my estate, when the Salamander did not obtain this benefit from the fireplace. (37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The Salamander is spoken of as a creature like the mongoose, but it is somewhat smaller than the mongoose. It is born in fire. Mirza Sahib says, through the wound in my liver I've held dominion, since a time when in the fireplace the Salamander hadn't even been born. That is, when the Salamander didn't even exist. (74)

Bekhud Mohani:

341

I was acquiring courage from the wound/scar in my liver at a time when the Salamander had not even been born, and the fireplace was collecting the wherewithal for burning from the wound in my liver. That is, the wound in my liver gave rise to fire, fireplace, and Salamander. (91)

Mihr: The Salamander is an animal the size of a large rat, about which in Persian and Urdu literature the story is famous that it is born in fire and lives there, the way fish and other water creatures live in water, and if [they] take [it] out of the fire then it dies. Some declare it to be a winged creature, and its other name is 'fire-eater bird'....As yet, no such animal or bird has been found. (148)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {1,1}; {38,7}; {57,2}; {61,5}; {81,5}; {88,1}; {137,1}; {164,9-13}; {228,4} JIGAR: {2,1} The Salamander in the ghazal tradition is a mythical creature who dwells in fire; he may not even be a lizard at all. If we draw parallels between the lines, then I am like the Salamander, and the wound/scar of my liver is like the fire-place. This works elegantly, because my heart and liver are always fiery and hot, burning with passion; no normal person could even endure such heat, but I the true lover, like the Salamander in fire, can live in no other environment. To mention the liver instead of the heart works well, because the liver is associated with endurance, and the verse emphasizes the long continuation of my fiery state. (For more on the liver, see {30,2}.) Yet another cleverness in the wordplay adds a touch of humor to the verse. I have a ta;h.siil , while the Salamander has a jaagiir . That makes me a ta;h.siil-daar and him a jaagiir-daar. Anybody who knows anything about British Indian history will recognize these two colonial administrative categories. The former officer is more of a revenue collector, the latter more of a landlord, but there could be considerable overlap. Certainly Ghalib's audience would have known both categories very well. Is it better to have revenue-collecting rights based on a liver-wound, or residential rights in a fire-place? My rights also antedate those of the Salamander. Since the Salamander has been living in fire for centuries, my claim must go very far back indeed; I am speaking as the archetypal passionate lover, and gloating over my ancient patent of nobility. I and my liver-wound go back farther than anyone can remember. Was there ever a time when I was not a lover-- when I didn't suffer, and didn't glory in the suffering?

Ghazal 39 4 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: uus thaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 33; Arshi #031; Raza pp. 125-26

{39,1} shab kih vuh majlis-furoz-e ;xilvat-e naamuus thaa rishvat-e har sham((a ;xaar-e kisvat-e faanuus thaa 1) last night when she illumined the gathering of seclusion of honor 2) the wick of every candle was a thorn in the clothing of the lantern

Notes: Nazm: In short, before her the candle kept growing restless, as if there were a thorn in its clothing. (37-38)

342

Hasrat: The meaning is that in the beloved's modest seclusion, where no one was admitted, even the candle had come to be in an extraordinary state of infatuation. (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: 'To have a thorn in one's robe' is a Persian idiom. Mirza Sahib has put it into an Urdu verse. A lantern-frame is usually made out of iron wires over which they put a light fabric. The meaning of the verse is that last night, in the privacy of the gathering of shame and modesty, the beloved was illuminating the assembly. Before her the candle was melting with shame, and the candlewick had become the thorn in the candle's robe. (74)

Bekhud Mohani: The lantern wanted to somehow remove the candle from its embrace, and place the beloved in its heart. (91)

Shadan: 'Seclusion' and 'gathering' are two different things. There's no telling why he described 'seclusion' as 'illumining the gathering'. Perhaps he considered beauty and its requisites to be the members of the gathering. (180)

Faruqi: The light of the candle shines out from the lantern, and makes the lantern reddish. From the heat of the candle, the lantern becomes hot and dry. Redness and heat and dryness are signs of restlessness. The lantern in which redness and heat are violently glowing, is in this state because of the candlewick. Thus, it's been proved that the candle-wick is prickling like a thorn in the robe of the lantern. And since the lantern is the robe of the candle, we have learned that the candle 'has a thorn in its robe' (that is, is restless).... If we reflect, then the word naamuus is not so useless, either. In the Selected Among Dictionaries [munta;xab ul-lu;Gaat] one of its meanings is given as 'possessor of a secret'. In the beloved's seclusion only those people come who in one or another sense are her confidants. Another aspect is that women who live in seclusion are also called naamuus, and this meaning is not so unsuitable either. (54-55)

FWP: CANDLE verses: {15,6}; {39,1}; {41,2}; {57,3}; {73,2}; {75}; {78,7}; {81,1}; {87,5}; {102,3}; {111,6}; {137,2}; {158,5}; {166,3}; {169,1}; {169,12}; {175,4}; {184,3}; {190,7}; {214,12} Faruqi does much to elucidate this verse; among other contributions, he grounds its imagery securely in actual physical qualities, which is always a great help. Shadan's plaintive remarks highlight another aspect of the enjoyableness of the verse: the contrast between the 'gathering' and the 'seclusion'. Wherever the beloved appears, everything around her is compelled to adoration, even the lanterns and candles, so that even when in 'seclusion' she is always surrounded by a 'gathering' of ardent admirers. Moreover, she herself always 'illumines' this gathering, and does such a brilliant job of it that naturally the candle and lantern are ashamed at being outshone. Thus there are several excellent (literal and metaphorical) reasons for every lantern to 'have a thorn in its robe'.

{39,2} mashhad-e ((aashiq se koso;N tak jo ugtii hai ;hinaa kis qadar yaa rab halaak-e ;hasrat-e paabuus thaa 1) from the tomb of the lover, for miles, the way henna grows up-2) to what an extent, oh Lord, there was killing by the [vain] longing for foot-kissing!

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Notes: Nazm: That is, henna grows up from his dust, so that in this way he might reach the foot of the beloved. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib says, in the lover's place of martyrdom, for miles henna trees grow up. This is the effect of the blood that was shed at the time of the killing. And the growth of henna is telling us to what extent the martyr longed to kiss her feet. In life, he didn't have access to the beloved's feet, but after becoming dust, now he's manifested himself in the guise of henna and shown the longing to kiss her feet. If the beloved puts henna on her feet, then this longing will be fulfilled. (75)

Bekhud Mohani: In every direction around the lover's place of execution a grove of henna has sprung up. Seeing this, the poet reflects that the lover had such a longing to kiss the beloved's feet that when in life this desire was not fulfilled, then after death henna has grown up around his tomb, so that perhaps with this excuse he would obtain access to the feet of the beloved. (91)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH In the first line the word chosen for 'tomb', mashhad, comes from the same root as shahiid and shahaadat, reminding us of the lover's status as a 'martyr' to his passion. The second line suggests that what really finished him off was a desperate, never-satisfied longing to kiss the beloved's feet. That longing was so intense that it has persisted into the grave, so that henna grows up for miles around his tomb. If there's enough henna, the possibility exists that it might be harvested and made into the special long-lasting red dye that is used to make complex ornamental patterns on the soles of the beloved's dainty feet. In this indirect and tortuous way, the lover might hope to attain something of his desire. This verse is a gem of implication. The first line simply reports an astonishing fact about the vegetation surrounding the lover's tomb. It's a relative clause, and the second line becomes inshaa))iyah-- an abstract exclamation about the murderous effects of the longing for foot-kissing. It's up to us to put them together and extrapolate the little narrative that lurks between their lines. Of course, we can't do this, under mushairah conditions, until we hear the second line, so we have time to relish the strange vision of the lover's tomb encircled by miles of henna plants.

{39,3} ;haa.sil-e ulfat nah dekhaa juz shikast-e aarzuu dil bah dil paivastah goyaa yak lab-e afsuus thaa 1) [no one] ever saw any fruit of love, except destruction of/by longing 2) heart connected to heart-- {'so to speak' / speaking} there was a single lip of regret

Notes: Nazm: One heart of the lover's, and one of the beloved's, both come together and become a lip of regret. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we've never seen any result of passion and love except that finally longing and desire have been killed [lit., had their blood shed]. Even if the hearts of lover and beloved do meet, then that too as if, at the end, they're wringing their hands. (75)

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Bekhud Mohani: We've never seen any result of love, except that longings have been murdered. The hearts of two lovers are likened to a lip of regret. That is, we've seen both lover and beloved, through their love, become only regretful and sorrowful. Where their hearts have met, they took on the aspect of a lip of regret. (92)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE What a bleak verse! The one before, {39,2}, is about the endlessness of longing, and its persistence even beyond the grave. This one is about the futility of longing-- lovers can never approach each other as closely as they long to do. No matter how much humans love each other, they can't really merge with each other or even protect each other; their solitude is inescapable. Of course, the bleakness is relieved by a bit of austere but powerful wordplay. Perfectly placed in the conspicuous center of the second line, goyaa means both 'as if' and, literally in Persian, 'speaking; speaker.' (In fact the former meaning, 'as if,' is derived from the latter, through a turn of phrase like 'so to speak' or 'as you might say.') For more on goyaa , see {5,1}. In this case the usual 'as if' meaning dominates, but 'speaking' is also full of overtones for the rest of the line, with its 'lip of regret.' (In modern Urdu the word is pronounced afsos, but here only the older, Persianized afsuus can fit into the rhyme.) To a modern reader, the idea of two hearts squashed together as though they were 'lips of regret' may seem off-putting and grotesque. But the image provides a sort of 'objective correlative' for a certain kind of mood, and as far as I can judge, traditionally educated native speakers would not have shared our literal-mindedness or reacted with any kind of distaste. After all, in the ghazal world hearts, like livers and everything else, have all-- and only-- the qualities they need for poetic purposes. (For another wonderfully grotesque example that envisions the beloved's nostrils as barrels of a shotgun, see Nets of Awareness Chapter 7, p. 95). Other possible candidates for the category of grotesquerie include: {6,4}, in which the lover's friends devour his heart; the next verse in this ghazal; perhaps {8,3}, in which the 'bloody wallowing of the wounded' delights the beloved; {39,4}, which is about passion and digestive fluid; just possibly {57,4}, in which the beloved gouges the lover's heart with her bloody fingernails; {60,9}, about how welcome a thorny road is to the lover's blistered feet; {62,6}, in which the lover wishes he had a number of extra blood-scattering eyes. But, I would argue, not {62,8}, in which the lover has many hidden scars, each so dazzling that beholders mistake it for the sun. And we should also consider {69,1}, with its blister-footed pearl-scattering cloud; and {72,2} with its masochistic liver issuing streams of blood that flow down to the roots of every thorn it meets. For comparison, here's a thorn-and-foot one that's not at all grotesque: {73,2}. (The same claim might be made by {177,4}.) Then there's the multivalence of shikast-e aarzuu, the destruction 'of' longing, with the usual set of i.zaafat ambiguities (for more on this see {16,1}). Is it the destruction wrought BY unfulfilled longing on hope and optimism, or the destruction wrought ON longing by painful experience? Does longing destroy us, or does life destroy longing? As usual, the answer can be either (or of course both). But not, alas, neither.

{39,4} kyaa kahuu;N biimaarii-e ;Gam kii faraa;Gat kaa bayaa;N jo kih khaayaa ;xuun-e dil be-minnat-e kaimuus thaa

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1) what can I say-- the description of the relief of the disease of sorrow! 2) whatever I ate was the heart's blood, without indebtedness to chyme

Notes: ;xuun-e jigar piinaa or khaanaa : 'To suppress (one's) feelings, to restrain (one's) emotions, or anger, or grief, &c. -- to consume (one's own) lifeblood; to vex or worry (oneself) to death --to work (oneself) to death'. (Platts p.497) kaimuus: 'The chyme'. (Platts p.890) Chyme: 'The semi-fluid pulpy acid matter into which food is converted in the stomach'. (Shorter OED, vol. 1, p. 335)

Nazm: Whatever I ate, it was without chyme, and it became the blood of the liver, that is, our grief. I ate only the blood of the liver, and 'to eat the blood of the liver' is said on occasions of enduring grief and suffering. (38)

Hasrat: Ghalib speaks of the relief of the illness of grief, that when drinking the heart's blood, he had no bother wrestling with chyme and such things, and just went on eating the blood of the liver. (40)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib says, how can I sufficiently praise the relief of freedom from the illness of grief? Whatever I ate was without chyme, it became the blood of the liver. The meaning is that in the illness of grief, I always dined on the heart's blood. And 'to eat the heart's blood' is used on occasions of grief and anger. The second meaning that arises in this verse is that in the illness of grief I experienced such relief from care that whatever food I ate, it seemed that I was eating heart's blood. (75)

Baqir: Before food is digested and turns into blood, in the first stage is assumes the form of kailuus, and becomes fire; after that in the second stage it attains the form of kaimuus and becomes like water, and assumes the form of blood. (124)

Shadan: In place of kahuu;N ([I] might say) there ought to be karuu;N ([I] might do), and that would fit into the meter as well. Because they say bayaa;N karnaa [for 'to mention'] and not bayaa;N kahnaa. (181)

Chishti: In this verse Ghalib produced the theme of eating the blood of the heart; that is, this verse is an extremely fine example of his theme-creation.... he has decided that sickness of the heart is freedom itself, and the excellence of the verse is bound up with this inventiveness. Along with theme-creation, the sarcastic style of expression is also worthy of praise. (372-73)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY FOOD: {6,4} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} JIGAR: {2,1} The first line is inshaa))iyah, an exclamation about the impossibility of expressing the relief provided by (or provided for?) the 'disease of grief'. A tantalizing line, just right for mushairah performance, since it whets our curiosity but is also impossible to decipher until we hear the second line. The second line offers what seems to be information about the lover's digestive process. There are at least two ways of reading it. One possibility: whatever I ate 'was' (literally or metaphorically or both) heart's blood. As Nazm points out, an idiomatic expression underlies this idea: 'to eat the blood of the liver' means to suffer grief. I lived on nothing but grief, and so

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found 'relief' from all worries about digesting my food. (On the significance of the liver in ghazal physiology see {30,2}.) Another possibility: whatever I ate 'turned into' heart's blood-- and without the intervening stage of becoming 'chyme', which in the Greek-Islamic medical system was a kind of digestive fluid. My food turned directly into heart's blood, perhaps because I was losing blood so fast, through weeping tears of blood and so on, that every bit of energy had to be diverted at once to the front lines. My whole body had converted itself into an obsessively focused grief-expressing organism. I thus obtained 'relief' from the cares of normal life, including normal digestion. But there's another sense in which I obtained 'relief', and it's a particularly Ghalibian one. Ghalib develops throughout the divan a concept of minnat, a dependent indebtedness that is always seen as humiliating. For a detailed discussion of this concept, with supporting evidence, see {26,1}. In Ghalib's poetic world, one should always be oneself and use only one's own unique, personal resources, even if they are deficient. Indebtedness to anything whatsoever-- even apparently to digestive fluid-- is a source of shame that one should find great 'relief' in avoiding. And of course, the first line could be entirely sarcastic, depending on the tone in which it's read. 'What a relief-- now that I'm too sick to eat normally any more, I have no further worries about digestion! See how fortunate I am? How can I express the relief I feel?' But then, the unironic 'straight' reading always reappears. Because the lover is always headed straight for death, aimed like an arrow, and never regrets this fulfillment of his true destiny: death for him is a true 'relief'.

Ghazal 40 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: uur thaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 33; Arshi #018; Raza pp. 224-25

{40,1} aa))iinah dekh apnaa-saa mu;Nh le ke rah gaye .saa;hib ko dil nah dene pah kitnaa ;Guruur thaa 1) having looked in the mirror she was at a loss-2) on not giving the heart, how much pride/deceivedness Her Lordship had!

Notes: ;Guruur : '(orig.) A thing by which one is deceived'; pride, haughtiness, vanity, vainglory'. (Platts p.770)

Nazm: That is, pride accomplished nothing, she became infatuated with her own self. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib says to the beloved, 'You taunted me for my passion, and mocked me. [Now] you've looked in the mirror and have yourself fallen in love with your own aspect. Now what has become of your pride at not giving your heart?' (75)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the subtlety is that outwardly it's not apparent that what the poet has is mind is to praise the uniqueness of the beloved's beauty; but in reality, it's exactly this. (92)

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FWP: SETS == IDIOMS MIRROR: {8,3} What a beautiful example of how to build a verse around an idiom. In the first line, the expression apnaa-saa mu;Nh le kar rah jaanaa implies something like to be taken aback, to be abashed or humbled, to be at a loss. Literally, though, it means something like 'to take a face like one's own and remain that way'. And what could be a better way to describe someone studying herself in a mirror? (For more on Ghalib's 'mirror' verses see {8,3}.) The first line is of course, in fine mushairah style, incomprehensible until the second line is provided. The second line at first looks somewhat tangential: it exclaims at what pride (and here the root meaning of ;Guruur as 'something by which one is deceived' works perfectly) the 'Sahib' had shown at not giving her heart. Only the power of implication enables us to realize that when she looked in the mirror she fell in love with her own peerless image, in a literally Narcissus-like way. Thus the second line marvels (and also gloats) to see how the mighty are fallen. She is still the lordly 'Sahib' to the lover-- such a title can never be entirely ironic to him-- but she's no longer lord and master of her own emotions. For once, the lover will have his revenge-- which otherwise he scarcely dares to expect even on Judgment Day (see {25,8}). For more on the beloved's falling in love, see {13,2}.

{40,2} qaa.sid ko apne haath se gardan nah maariye us kii ;xa:taa nahii;N hai yih meraa qa.suur thaa 1) please don't wring the Messenger's neck with your own hands! 2) the fault is not his-- this was my sin!

Notes: Nazm: That is, it's the limit of jealousy, that I can't stand it even if she kills someone-- I long for her to kill me. Through the words 'with your own hands' the author has gestured toward jealousy. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Passion does not permit the beloved to kill someone with her own hands, while the lover watches. Mirza Sahib has expressed this theme in this delicate garb. And in claiming the Messenger's fault as his own fault, the goal is that she would kill him with her own hands. (76)

Bekhud Mohani: Please don't kill the Messenger with your own hands! This deed is beneath your dignity. In addition, 'a messenger is not to be punished'. The sin is mine. And my head is at your service. What did that innocent one do? My life is not dear to me. Don't murder him and become ill-famed! (92-93)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR This is one of those rare verses in the divan that are truly funny, not in a sophisticated, understated, ironic way, but genuinely worth laughing at, and surely designed to be so. The lover has sent a Messenger with a letter, and the beloved is so enraged at this insolence that she threatens to wring his neck with her own hands. For anybody else, the neck-wringing would be the operative part of her threat, but of course for the lover it's 'with her own hands'. He can't stand the idea that somebody else-- and his own lowly Messenger, to boot-- should get such a treat. So in the second line he protests, and the funniest part is that his rhetoric is exactly that of chivalry. He sounds like someone trying to save a friend from

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severe punishment by gallantly taking all the guilt on himself. There's nothing in the verse to tell us otherwise (except perhaps the slightly overblown insistence and repetitiveness of the second line). But of course, since we know the lover, we know he's really using the rhetoric of a child trying to reclaim a toy from a sibling. In the guise of unselfish gallantry, he's selfishly clamoring for a treat. And what a treat-- the honor of having his neck wrung. It's so absurd, you have to laugh.

Ghazal 41 8 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: il nahii;N rahaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 34; Arshi #029; Raza pp. 126-27

{41,1} ((ar.z-e niyaaz-e ((ishq ke qaabil nahii;N rahaa jis dil pah naaz thaa mujhe vuh dil nahii;N rahaa 1) I did not remain capable of offering the submission of passion 2) the heart that I was proud of-- that heart did not remain

Notes: niyaaz: 'Petition, supplication, prayer; --inclination, wish, eager desire, longing, need, necessity; indigence, poverty; --a gift, present ;--an offering, a thing dedicated'. (Platts p.1164)

Ghalib: [1855:] It's a pity that you don't know the shape I'm in; if you look at me, you'll realize: 'the heart that I was proud of-- that heart did not remain to me'. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 3, p. 1167. ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 78

Nazm: That is, through enduring and enduring the shocks of faithlessness and inattentiveness, now that heart itself no longer remains to me, with which I would claim to offer the submission of love. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the heart that would be presented in the humility of passion-- that heart is now no longer with me. That is, I have sustained so many of the shocks of separation, the griefs of faithlessness, the agitations of inattentiveness, that I am no longer ablt to perform the services of passion. In the second line, he says proudly that in truth, my heart was worthy to be presented in the court of passion, and it was so presented, and at some time I indeed prided myself on that heart, but now it has endured so many shocks that it is capable of nothing. (76)

FWP: Because of the refrain nahii;N rahaa, 'did not remain', one might expect this whole ghazal to have an elegiac mood, looking backwards to the days when the lover was less ravaged and burnt out, so that he had more to bring to his passion, and could consider himself a more worthy offering to the beloved. But instead, look at the variety of the verses: in the first three, Ghalib does indeed ring changes on the mood of nostalgia, but after that, his thought veers off into other realms entirely. In the closing-verse, {41,8}, however, he refers to this opening-verse in a most unusual way, literally reproducing the second line. This verse is one with an effect of simplicity, starkness, dignity, loss. All the meanings of niyaaz-- a need, a longing, a supplication, a gift-- are

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appropriate here to express everything that the lover can no longer do. In theory, it's no surprise to the lover that he should 'lose' his heart; that's the name of the game, after all. But only after it's gone does he fully realize that the game in which he has had to stake his heart can't be played at all once the heart is gone. The wordplay is simple but appropriate, and serves to point up the paradox-the lover had felt pride or coquetry, naaz, about the depth of his humility and supplication, niyaaz. For a similar theme see {25,4}, in which the lover loses his heart even before the game gets started. And of course the general theme of progressive damage to the lover's heart, culminating in complete loss and death, is at the center of dozens of verses-- and of the ghazal world itself.

{41,2} jaataa huu;N daa;G-e ;hasrat-e hastii liye hu))e huu;N sham((-e kushtah dar;xvur-e ma;hfil nahii;N rahaa 1) [I] go, bearing the wound/scar of a [vain] longing for existence 2) [I] am a 'dead' candle, [I] did not remain worthy of the gathering

Notes: Nazm: It is only a metaphor for existence. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I leave the world bearing the wound/scar of the longing for existence; that is, I have given up my life under the compulsion of destiny. My heart didn't want to die. The second line contains a 'claim comprising a proof' [da((vaa muta.zammin-e daliil]. That is, I am an extinguished candle, I am no longer worthy of the gathering. The convention is that when a candle is extinguished, the wick keeps glimmering for a long time, and it's as if it's a longing for existence. (76)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I myself feel sorrow at the death of my youth. Perhaps it is a 'dead candle', dying right in the flower of its youth. That is, when an extinguished candle is called a 'dead candle', then uncontrollably an image of death, and early death, has been created. It also creates an effect of complaint against the Lord-- that is, this candle did not go out voluntarily, rather it has been put out. (94)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} The burnt-out (or perhaps abruptly extinguished, as Bekhud Dihlavi maintains) candle bears in its heart the blackened remains of its wick, just as the dying lover bears in his heart the burnt-out (but still smoldering?) wound/scar of the vain longing for life. Both candle and lover have wept their hearts out-- in tears of wax and blood, respectively-- and both remain unsatisfied even as their lives are finished. Both have sacrificed everything they have: the candle has illumined the gathering with its own flaming tears and melting body, while the lover has 'turned his heart to blood' for the sake of the beloved. And what is their reward? A cold, lonely, burnt-out death. But does the lover complain? He doesn't seem to. He simply observes, matter-of-factly, that he goes to death as inevitably as a burnt-out candle is removed from its place. The candle is no longer worthy of the gathering, and the lover has nothing left to offer either. Taking his unquenched (and unquenchable) longing with him, he departs. This verse is about as close to pathos as Ghalib ever gets. And even then, it's not so much pathetic as it is matter-of-fact and descriptive. There's not a hint of reproach, and no indication that anyone is to blame. In fact it's a very detached observation, isn't it?

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{41,3} marne kii ai dil aur hii tadbiir kar kih mai;N shaayaan-e dast-o-;xanjar-e qaatil nahii;N rahaa 1) for dying, oh Heart, make some other plan, for I 2) did not remain fit for the hand and dagger of the murderer

Notes: Nazm: That is, my state has become so altered that she considers me unworthy prey. (38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having seen the lover's wretched condition, the murderer felt pity: after starting to strike, she has withdrawn her hand from killing. He sets forth this theme in this way: that I am no longer worthy of the hand and arm of the killer. Now I ought to devise some entirely different scheme for dying. My wretched condition lost me the help of the murderer, and it's my wretched condition that demands that I should somehow or other die. (76-77)

Mihr: I am not worthy of having the beloved kill me, although indeed it's necessary to die. The pleasure is that he has not specified any scheme. The listener has been given occasion to consider as many means as can come to his mind. Among those schemes are: to take poison, to drown oneself, to fall from a height, etc.-- all sorts of schemes are included. Since they have been left unspecified, a new pleasure has emerged in the verse. (154)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 This verse and the two preceding ones all reflect on the lover's exhaustion and decay, and the inevitability of his death. And yet look at how different they are. The first one is generalized and reports the situation flatly; the second one sees the lover's death as occurring automatically, like that of a burnt-out candle; this one sees the lover's death as something that must be contrived and planned for. The lover must contrive and plan for his death even though he's pretty far along on the road to it anyway-- he's so worn down that he's 'no longer fit' to be murdered by the beloved with her own hands. Obviously he had been hoping for that great honor-- which he seeks in {40,2}, wittily but with apparent sincerity and fervor-- but he has now had to abandon his hopes. Bekhud Dihlavi points out the 'catch-22' quality of his situation: she won't kill him because of his wretched condition, yet it's his wretched condition that makes it so necessary for him to die. The lover addresses his own heart, and appeals for a way out. Because the heart is his best-- and, ultimately, only-- confidant? Because the heart was the one who particularly longed to be slain by the beloved? Because it is the heart that must now finish 'turning itself to blood', and thus free him from his wretched life? Or is addressing one's heart just a slightly formalized way of addressing oneself? These questions hover alongside those mentioned by Mihr, and add to the resonance of the verse.

{41,4} bar-ruu-e shash jihat dar-e aa))iinah baaz hai yaa;N imtiyaaz-e naaqi.s-o-kaamil nahii;N rahaa 1) facing toward the six directions the door of the mirror is open 2) here no distinction between defective and perfect remained

Notes: Nazm: In front of both defective and perfect, the six directions are present, and we are at a loss to understand them both. We are looking at both in that mirror,

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and are astonished that both have the same aspect. Here there's no difference between defective and perfect. A second interpretation is that the author would have called them 'facing toward six directions', and the meaning is that the way a mirror accepts reflections, and makes no distinctions, this is the same state as the image of the mystic knower's illumined heart. (38-39)

Hasrat: 'Facing toward the six directions'-- that is, for every individual. 'Here'-- that is, in the mirror-chamber. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way a mirror accepts reflections, it makes no distinction as to whether it is the heart of a mystical knower or of a worldly person. This verse has been taken as Truth [;haqiiqat] or Supposition [majaaz], both ways. If you want to take this verse toward Truth, then the meaning will be that the heart of the mystical knower overcomes both states, good and bad. And if this verse is taken in a Suppositional meaning, then this meaning will emerge, that the people of the world do not perceive the difference between good and bad speech, as a result of which they cannot distinguish between defective and perfect. (77)

Bekhud Mohani: The six directions are east, west, south, north, down, and up.... The world and the things in the world are all before the eyes, and the astonished eye is amazed-- that is, all, perfect and defective, are unable to understand the mysteries of the world. No being is acquainted with any other being's secret. (95)

Faruqi: In my opinion, this verse is the summarized story of a long mental and spiritual journey of the poet, or the speaker. The speaker's heart is like a mirror, which is one-sided-- that is, limited to unidirectionality. Since the mirror is polished on only one side, it can reflect things on only one side. This is the proof of its being limited and restricted in a sort of confinement. The speaker's mind too was limited like a one-sided mirror. Gradually and slowly progress is made in the mirror's power of reflection-- that is, awareness keeps increasing, so much so that there comes a stage when the door of the mirror of the heart opens for the six directions. In other words, the speaker's mind (or heart) reaches the stage on its inner journey when the scene of the perfection of awareness presents itself. That is that stage where the distinction between defective and perfect is erased, and that perfect oneness is obtained that is beyond superficial distinctions. When the mirror was one-sided, then it was defective. When it became six-directional, then it became perfect... Here no distinction any longer remains between defective and perfect, because whoever reaches that stage is perfect, although in reality he was defective. The metaphor of 'door' for a mirror is common, but to bring in the word 'face' [ruu] as wordplay for a mirror ('facing six directions') is Ghalib's special style. Whether meaning-based or verbal, if wordplay occurs to Ghalib (and it usually does occur), then he doesn't neglect it. This is the special trait of every great language-knower. (57-58)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES MIRROR: {8,3} What a total change from the first three verses! From extreme simplicity and starkness, to such a baroque, metaphysical complexity. Whenever Ghalib mentions the 'six directions', he always seems to go spiralling off into some kind of hypertrophied abstraction. For more such complex uses of the 'six directions', see {128,1}, {152,4}, and {228,2}.

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To me, Faruqi's explanation seems to make the most sense of the verse. A mirror reflects anything that comes along-- any kind of thing, defective or perfect, from any direction. The searching heart of the mystical seeker, says Faruqi, no longer bothers with such distinctions, but transcends them. Perhaps they are all part of God's creation; perhaps they are nothing at all, and just don't signify. The word yaa;N, literally 'here', usually implies either 'in the speaker's vicinity' or, more generally, 'in this world'.

{41,5} vaa kar diye hai;N shauq ne band-e naqaab-e ;husn ;Gair az nigaah ab ko))ii ;haa))il nahii;N rahaa 1) ardor has opened the ties of the veil of beauty 2) other than the glance, now no obstacle remained

Notes: Nazm: That is, the distinction between beholder and beheld that remains, this is the obstacle, because the eye cannot see it; and the veils that were there in addition to it, extreme of ardor has lifted. (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, ardor for self-display has opened the ties of the veil of beauty-- that is, every grain, every leaf, every drop is the expression of the Divine Glory. But the difficulty is that the beholder's outer eye cannot see it. Thus it's been said that except for sight, no veil remains between them. If the outer eye would open, then the outward veils can be lifted. (77)

Bekhud Mohani: The word 'ardor' applies to both the beloved's ardor for self-display and the lover's ardor for sight. The lover's ardor for sight, or the beloved's ardor for self-display, has opened the ties of the veil of the beloved's beauty, and now nothing is an obstacle except sight. Sight has been called an obstacle because the eye cannot see it. (95)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} The real question of course is what kind of obstacle now remains between the lover and beauty. Is 'other than the glance' an indication of how little, or how much, of a barrier there still is? Is the glance itself a form of distancing, a barrier? Or does the glance merely signify the (illusory?) belief in duality when there is really only oneness? If there were no obstacle at all, would I actually see beauty? Or would I cease to exist? After all, we should remember the complexities of the famous {32,1}. Moreover, isn't it also possible that the beloved's radiance burns out the gaze like lightning, like barq-e na:zaarah-soz, as in {214,7}? As usual, all such questions are carefully left unanswered-- and unanswerable. For it may well be the beloved herself, or the divine Beloved, who has opened the veil, so the possibilities of mystery and bafflement, and revelation too, are very real. Even the word 'other', with its overtones in the ghazal world of the Other who competes with the lover for the beloved's attention, is perfectly chosen.

{41,6} go mai;N rahaa rahiin-e sitamhaa-e rozgaar lekin tire ;xayaal se ;Gaafil nahii;N rahaa 1) although I remained pledged to the cruelties of everyday life 2) but I did not remain heedless of {the thought of you / your thought}

Notes: ;xayaal : 'Thought, opinion, surmise, suspicion, conception, idea, notion, fancy, imagination, conceit. whim, chimera; consideration; regard,

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deference; apprehension; care, concern; --an imaginary form, apparition, vision, spectre, phantom, shadow, delusion'. (Platts p.497)

Nazm: That is, in any situation, I didn't forget you in my mind. (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, despite the fact that I remained ensnared in the grief and sorrow of the world, your memory never left my heart at any time or in any situation, and I never neglected your memory. This verse and the previous one are in an especially Sufistic style. (77)

Chishti: With regard to construction and theme both, this is a verse of a very high level. For this reason it's become proverbial. (376-77)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Note for grammar fans: In English, we have both 'your thought' (located in your head) and 'the thought of you' (located in somebody else's head). In Urdu, however, teraa ;xayaal has to do duty for both. And the normal, 'least marked' usage is for 'your thought' to mean the thought of you, the thought that is located in somebody else's head. This usage is not invariable, but it seems to be primary; the 'thought that's in your head' tends to be conveyed in a different, carefully marked way (see for example {116,9}). This kind of cross-linguistic difference in usage extends to related words like 'picture', 'image', 'sight', 'memory', etc., and is a common source of confusing, misleading, or just plain wrong translation. It's something to be alert for, when translating or when reading translations. Sometimes, of course, it's used with deliberate doubleness, by poets like Ghalib. For more examples and discussion of such usages, see {10,6} (with the interesting mirii ta((miir ), {11,5x}, {16,7x}, {19,1}; {75,5}, {157,7}, and {229,2}. In the present verse, the primary thing that I remained attentive to was surely 'the thought of you'. But it's also possible that I remained attentive to 'your thought/idea/fancy/whim' so that I could humor it in every way: in addition to the cruelties of everyday life, perhaps I also experienced the exquisite pain inflicted by your 'conceits' and 'delusions'. This is a characteristic verse of wordplay with sound effects (which characteristically the commentators ignore). Just look at-- or rather, listen to- rahaa rahiin in the first line, juxtaposed with nahii;N rahaa in the second. They are not only complementary opposites in the semantic realm (although I rahaa rahiin, nevertheless I nahii;N rahaa), but also wonderful permutations of each other to the ear and eye. In fact, without the wordplay, why should this verse have much appeal at all? It's a verse that demands to be recited slowly, so the long vowels can be savored. Chishti describes it as 'proverbial'; it is still used in conversation as an answer when one is reproached for neglect, as Vasmi Abidi points out.

{41,7} dil se havaa-e kisht-e vafaa mi;T ga))ii kih vaa;N ;haa.sil sivaa-e ;hasrat-e ;haa.sil nahii;N rahaa 1) from the heart the desire for the cultivation of faithfulness was erased, for there 2) no harvest beyond the longing for harvest remained

Notes: kisht: 'Tillage, cultivation...a sown field; division of a crop'. (Platts p.836) ;haa.sil: 'Product, produce, outcome, what is cleared, what remains (of anything); result, issue, ultimate consequence'. (Platts p.473)

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Nazm: That is, the zeal for faithfulness no longer remains, so that I didn't find anything except the longing for faithfulness.

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now even the longing for the garden of faithfulness has been erased from the heart. Enthusiasm has waned. Courage has taken its leave, and the reason is that after faithfulness, I didn't find the tillage of faithfulness to be anything but longing and regret. (77)

Bekhud Mohani: Now we no longer have the enthusiasm for faithfulness. Because its fruit has been nothing but longing and regret. The implication of 'did not remain' [nahii;N rahaa] is that in the world, or in the beloved, there used to be faithfulness, but now it no longer remains. (96)

Mihr: 'Faithfulness' can also be used in its general meaning-- that is, the faithfulness of friends, of near and dear ones, and of the beloved can be intended. (156)

FWP: The heart is here imagined as a kind of farmer who is burnt out after many attempts at the 'cultivation of faithfulness' [kisht-e vafaa], because he gets no ;haa.sil, no 'harvest', no 'fruits', no 'results'. No matter how much faithfulness he shows, it gets him nowhere with the capricious beloved. He gets no 'harvest'-- nothing from her at all, and nothing in his own heart either except for 'the longing for harvest'. His efforts have become a form of addiction; he reaps nothing except the obsessive desire for a crop. No wonder his muchbetrayed heart has finally lost its zeal. This one reminds me of {10,6}, in which the farmer's own hot blood is the essence of the lightning that falls on his harvest. Isn't that the situation here too? It is the lover's own passionate cultivation of stony ground that has reduced him to despair; a more prudent, worldly person would have shrugged his shoulders long ago and turned his energies elsewhere. But there are other perspectives as well: in {12,1} the lover worships the lightning, but laments the harvest/result [;haa.sil]. And in one of my favorites, {214,6}, he is able to garden in the desert with great success-- but only temporarily, by using bits of his liver to nourish the roses. The lover's liver as fertilizer? In Ghalib's hands, metaphors from any domain can go in any direction-- and they usually do.

{41,8} bedaad-e ((ishq se nahii;N ;Dartaa magar asad jis dil pah naaz thaa mujhe vuh dil nahii;N rahaa 1) I do not not fear the injustice/cruelty of passion-- but/perhaps, Asad 2) that heart I was proud of-- that heart did not remain to me

Notes: Nazm: That is, when the heart itself didn't remain, then who would endure injustice? (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He has used the second line of the opening-verse once again. He says, I'm not afraid of the injustice of passion, and this is not because I shun fear, but because, oh Asad, the oppression-enduring heart that was in my breast, and on which I prided myself, that heart no longer remains. Now who would endure injustice? (78)

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Bekhud Mohani: I don't fear the injustice of passion. Rather, that heart that I prided myself on, because it wouldn't fall into the net of any beloved, now no longer remains. Thus I regret only that my claim not to have fallen into anyone's net will no longer be able to stand. Otherwise, the tyranny of passion is not such that I can't endure it. (96)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR As Bekhud Dihlavi points out, Ghalib has re-used, word for word, the second line of {41,1}, giving the ghazal an elegant and unusual form of closure. The word magar here works its usual double magic. Its position suggests that it applies, through enjambement, to the second line. If it's taken to mean 'perhaps', then the lover is speculating on the reason that he doesn't fear the cruelties of passion: maybe it's because he no longer has any heart to feel them with. Or rather, he no longer has the proper, vulnerable kind of heart, the one he was proud of before-- he no longer has 'that' heart. If magar is taken to mean 'but', then the lover is qualifying the bravado of his assertion of fearlessness: it's fine to have no fear for one's heart, but it's been bought at the price of losing the heart itself (or losing the passionate qualities that made it a heart to be proud of), so it becomes a hollow boast. For further discussion of magar, see {35,7}.

Ghazal 42 6 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa aashnaa composed 1821; Hamid p. 35; Arshi #021; Raza p. 225

{42,1} rashk kahtaa hai kih us kaa ;Gair se i;xlaa.s ;haif ((aql kahtii hai kih vuh be-mihr kis kaa aashnaa 1) Jealousy says: alas, her affection/loyalty toward the Other! 2) Wisdom says: whose friend is that unkind one?

Notes: i;xlaa.s : 'Purity; sincerity; candour; affection; pure friendship, sincere attachment; loyalty, fidelity; intimacy'. (Platts p.30)

Nazm: That is, Wisdom explains to me the beloved's bad qualities, so as to lessen Jealousy's agitation, considering that the way she showed unfaithfulness to me, she will also show it to the Other. (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, passion has produced in my heart the illusion that alas, she treats the Other lovingly. And after a whole lifetime of experience, Wisdom says, that faithless one, in whose nature love has never been present at all-- what the hell, to whom can she be a friend? (78)

Bekhud Mohani: Jealousy says that there is true love between the beloved and the Rival. And Wisdom says that that unfaithful one has never been anyone's friend, nor ever will be. That is, nowadays our life is passing in a struggle between Wisdom and Jealousy. (96)

Arshi: Compare {97,6}. (234)

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FWP: Arshi has picked a great one for comparison, in {97,6}. That one is about the beloved's undeceivability and this one is about her deceitfulness, but both qualities arise together from her essentially treacherous nature. This dual-perspective situation reminds me of another case in which we see two sides of the same coin. In {38,1}, the beloved is 'no one's friend': she is cruel to others, and not cruel to the lover-- and thus causes suffering to the lover. In the present verse, she is kind to others, and not kind to the lover-and thus causes suffering to the lover. When you put them together, the effect is almost funny. No matter what the beloved does, the result is suffering for the lover. But then, isn't that how it was always meant to be? The verse rests on an inner dialogue between Jealousy and Wisdom that seems to be unresolved-there's no indication that either one can defeat the other, so perhaps they go back and forth like this for hours. For of course, what else does the lover's inner life consist of, except endless brooding about the most minute aspects of the beloved's behavior? The question of whether she really is so cruel and tyrannical is unanswerable, since we see her only through the lover's eyes.

{42,2} ;zarrah ;zarrah saa;Gar-e mai-;xaanah-e nairang hai gardish-e majnuu;N bah chashmak'haa-e lail;aa aashnaa 1) every sand-grain is a wine-glass/flagon of the winehouse of fascination/magic 2) the going-around of Majnun is familiar with the glances/winks of Laila

Notes: nairang: 'Fascination, bewitching arts, wiles; magic, sorcery; deception'. (Platts p.1166) chashmak: 'Winking, a wink; looking askance (at), coldness, misunderstanding'. (Platts p.433)

Nazm: That is, in the world every sand-grain, which is caught up in the revolving of the cycles of time, is a sign of the amazement of the heavens. Here, he has arranged for the word 'wine-glass/flagon' the meaning of 'going round' [gardish] and, with the same kind of wordplay, has connected to the word 'amazement' the 'winehouse'. After this, by way of illustration [tam;siil] he says, Majnun's going around is at the behest of Laila alone. (39)

Hasrat: The way the going around of Majnun was in thrall to the effects of Laila's eyes, in the same way every sand-grain of the world is obedient to the fascination of the world. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the world every single sand-grain has the power of deceit and trickery of every single wine-glass/flagon in a winehouse. And all this fascination-making in the world is taking place at the behest of the heavens. An example of this is, look at Majnun, his wanderings in madness are at the behest of Laila alone. (78)

Shadan: I am finding it quite difficult to understand, and explain, why 'fascination' is called a 'wine-house'. How can I have the extremity of knowledge that others do? The words 'wine-glass/flagon', 'wine-house', 'going around', and 'glance' have affinity.... Contrary to Janab Ghalib's style of expression, this line can be [made] simple and clear like this: 'Every sand-grain of this world is a state of fascination'. (183-84)

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FWP: WINE: {49,1} ZARRAH: {15,12} Right after a verse of the most easily intelligible kind, comes this sudden gem of abstraction. Not surprisingly, the commentators don't entirely agree on how to interpret it, though Nazm and Shadan point out its fine wordplay. (Isn't Shadan an enjoyable commentator? So candid about his perplexities-and also so ready to show Ghalib how it should have been done.) This is another of those Ghalibian verses consisting of two abstract statements, one in each line, with no indication of how to link them together. Do they refer metaphorically to the same situation, or to two different situations? Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi take the first line as a statement of a general truth, and the second line as an illustration of it. This works reasonably well of course: the world is a fascinating place no matter where we go in it-- as an illustration, just consider how Majnun wanders around seeing Laila everywhere. But one could equally well reverse the lines: the basic situation then becomes that of Majnun, and the first line continues to elaborate on the second. Majnun is perpetually allured by the glances of Laila, he is on close or friendly terms [aashnaa] with them, and sees them everywhere. Every sand-grain sparkles in the sunlight, alternately catching and losing the light-like a 'wink' (the literal meaning of chashmak) from Laila's bright eyes. So every sand-grain is like a wink from Laila. Every sand-grain is also 'a wine-glass/flagon of the wine-house of fascination/magic'. Because the wandering of Majnun is, literally, his 'going around' [gardish], he moves just as wine-flagons and wine-glasses traditionally do, 'making the rounds' as they circulate among the drinkers. Since glass is made from silica, a basic ingredient of sand-grains, the imagery of the verse is all the more multiply interconnected. Interconnected indeed, and marvelously so-- but is the whole verse going anywhere other than 'around'? Consider the possibilities of nairang alone, which include fascination, magic, and deception, as Bekhud Dihlavi notes. And chashmak means not only 'wink' but also 'looking askance, coldness, misunderstanding'. So is it a dream of joy to see the the sand-grains glittering magically with winks like Laila's, or is it a nightmare to see their illusory tricks echoing her cold looks? Does Majnun wander freely in mystical delight, or is does he circle helplessly, trapped in cosmic illusion and/or Laila's displeasure? Very appropriately to the theme of the verse, Ghalib has made it impossible for us to be sure.

{42,3} shauq hai saamaa;N-:taraaz-e naazish-e arbaab-e ((ajz ;zarrah .sa;hraa-dast-gaah-o-qa:trah daryaa-aashnaa 1) ardor is the equipment-adorner of the glory/boasting of the lords/possessors of weakness 2) the sand-grain has desert-{knowledge/power} and the drop is a sea{friend/swimmer}

Notes: naazish : 'Glory, exaltation, eminence; boasting; dissimulation, blandishment; importunity.' (Steingass p. 1371) dast-gaah : 'Power, strength, ability, means; understanding; intellect; knowledge'. (Platts p.516) aashnaa : 'A friend, companion, comrade, acquaintance; swimming, floating; a swimmer'. (Steingass p.66)

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Nazm: The property of the weak ones is the coquetry of ardor, through which the sand-grain says 'I am the desert' and the drop says 'I am the sea'. (39)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the property of the lords of weakness-- that is, humans who are made of dust-- is the coquetry of passion, by reason of which a nothing of a sand-grain becomes the desert and an insubstantial drop becomes the sea. The meaning is that humans who are made of dust have an insubstantial existence, make such progress that... they obtain access to the Exalted Divine Court, thanks to passion. (78)

Josh: The arrangement of the words is worth noticing. How beautiful and memorable are the constructions! To search out such a grouping of words is no easy task. (111)

FWP: SETS == WORD DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} ZARRAH: {15,12} Another in his set of drop/ocean verses, with an elegant wordplay based on aashnaa . This time we also have the sand-grain and the desert; on this, see {16,4}. The sand-grain figured in the preceding verse, {42,2}, as well, but in a very different relationship. Yet after all, is the relationship really so different? In the preceding verse, every sand-grain was said to be a wine-glass or flagon in a wine-house of powerful-- and possibly dangerous-- wonder and enchantment. In other words, each sand-grain was full of intoxicating power. Here, the sand-grain appears to be boasting: claiming to possess the whole power of the desert, just as the drop boasts of being on familiar terms with the sea. The obvious question is, are these boastful claims by the tiny, helpless sand-grain justified? The imagery of {42,2} suggests that they might be. But of course it's equally possible that they might not be. Look at the range of meanings of naazish, which include both legitimate and false forms of pride. (In fact this verse could be called one of 'word-exploration' based on naazish.) After all, the sand-grain and the drop are referred to as possessors-or 'lords'; arbaab is the plural of rab , a term often applied to God-- of 'weakness'. Is a term like 'lords' meant ironically? What does it mean to call someone a 'lord of weakness'? The sand-grains' pretensions to glory are all wrapped up in their 'ardor', which according to the first line is their only justification. Does 'ardor' constitute a legitimating claim? Or is it a fraudulent, false denial of their actual helplessness? Or could it show an admirably gallant (or pathetic?) aspiration to reach beyond themselves? Naturally, Ghalib makes it impossible for us to decide among these alternatives. The second line simply reports on the nature of their claims or boasts-- or does it actually describe their reality, in the matter-of-fact tone of a reliable narrator? It depends, doesn't it, on what we think to be the nature of 'passion'.

{42,4} mai;N aur ek aafat kaa ;Tuk;Raa vuh dil-e va;hshii kih hai ((aafiyat kaa dushman aur aavaaragii kaa aashnaa 1) I, and that one 'fragment of disaster', the wild/savage heart! --which is 2) an enemy of repose and a friend of wandering

Notes: va;hshii: 'Wild, untamed; shy; unsociable;--uncultivated; uncivilized, barbarous; savage; untractable; fierce, ferocious'. (Platts p.1183)

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Nazm: 'Am' is omitted; that is, I am, and that heart which is an enemy of repose. Obviously, 'disaster' is not something of which there can at all be a 'fragment', but logic has no power at all over idiom. (39)

Hasrat: In the first line, 'and' is the 'connection of dependence' [((a:taf-e mulaazamat]. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I've been forced to raise this wild heart which is a fragment of disaster and an enemy of repose. That is, it doesn't even let me sit in my house in peace. In the madness of passion it drags me from street to street, and lane to lane. (79)

FWP: SETS == I AND FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} For more on the range of the idiomatic expression 'I and,' see {5,6}. The all-too-expressive phrase aafat kaa ;Tuk;Raa is hard to capture exactly in English. With its Indic retroflex sounds, it has a homey but exasperated feeling, like affectionate abuse directed at an intimate. The heart is infuriating! Still, the lover is fond of it. He sighs and calls it a miserable wretch; he tells it, 'you'll be the death of me yet'. But what would he do without it? The elegant wordplay of aafat and ((aafiyat is supplemented by the complex sound effects in the second line: just look at how many long aa vowel sounds there are, supplemented by the sh - n consonants repeated between dushman and aashnaa. Three prominent v sounds also knit together vuh, va;hshii, and aavaaragii. And there are the conspicuous aa sets in aavaaragii kaa aashnaa. Hamid and some others have have ik in the first line, but as always I follow Arshi, who has ek.

{42,5} shikvah-sanj-e rashk-e ham-diigar nah rahnaa chaahiye meraa zaanuu muunis aur aa))iinah teraa aashnaa 1) we ought not to keep reciting complaints of mutual jealousy 2) my knees-- a companion; and your mirror-- a friend

Notes: Nazm: That is, you constantly remain absorbed in the mirror, and I don't complain; and if I constantly sit with my head on my knees, then don't you take it amiss. Poets always use the mirror as a simile for the knees. (40)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, jealousy and suspicion are both creators of displeasure. We two ought to ignore both those disasters. Because the knees are my friend, I always have my head on my knees. And the mirror is your friend, you're always absorbed in it. You ought not to complain, nor ought I to take it amiss. (78-79)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab Shaukat [makes the objection that] the beloved absolutely never feels jealousy of the way Ghalib's head rests on his knees; thus, some other word should be used. [I reply that] although the beloved's jealousy is not as famous and wellestablished as the lover's, the world is not devoid of such examples....

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[A]lthough the beloved herself is not kind, she finds no rest from the suspicion-- after all, love for whom has made him into a picture of grief, and about whom is he always thinking? (97-98)

Faruqi: Compare with {71,2}. (84)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} Here an unusual degree of symmetry is set up between the lover and the beloved-- at least, at first glance. For one thing, they are envisioned as mutually jealous of each other. This does sound strange, in ghazal terms, but I think Bekhud Mohani has explained it well. The beloved too can be-- at least sometimes, and at least in her own way-- exceptionally possessive about the lover's attention, and suspicious of his attentions to others. The interest here lies, as it does so often, in the relationship between the two lines. Is the information in the second line the cause of the jealousy, or its cure? On the 'cause' reading, which all the commentators adopt, the beloved is jealous of the lover's knees, since he always sits hunched over, with his head down, and his eyes lowered so that his melancholy gaze is directed toward his knees. (Imagine a sort of raised-knee sitting position.) And he is jealous of her mirror, since her eyes are always obsessively focused on it. (For more on Ghalib's use of the mirror, see {8,3}.) Each resents the other's absorption in another object of attention, even though it's not a human rival. The lover is urging an end to this jealousy-- we shouldn't think of these objects of attention as rivals, but merely as each other's comforting friends. On the 'cure' reading, the lover and beloved have been jealously quarreling, each accusing the other of spending time with other beloveds or lovers. The lover is urging an end to this jealousy-- we should realize that in fact we don't spend time with other people. Apart from each other we spend our time alone-- I staring at my knees, you gazing into the mirror. The latter reading has a nice modern, solipsistic edge to it, doesn't it? Which is more irritating-- a flirtatious lover, or a self-absorbed one? And ultimately, isn't a self-absorbed lover really flirting with himself/herself?

{42,6} kohkan naqqaash-e yak tim;saal-e shiirii;N thaa asad sang se sar maar kar hove nah paidaa aashnaa 1) Kohkan was the carver/sculptor of a single/unique image of Shirin, Asad 2a) from striking the head with a stone, intimacy would not be born 2b) from striking the head with a stone, would intimacy not be born?

Notes: tim;saal : 'Resemblance, likeness, picture, portrait, image, effigy'. (Platts p.336)

Nazm: That is, he was only a sculptor, not a true lover. Otherwise it would have been surprising-- that he would strike his head with a stone, and the beloved would not emerge from it? (40)

Hasrat: Kohkan spilled so much sweat, but still he was neither able to create a stone replica of Shirin, nor Shirin herself. In this is a suggestion that Farhad's passion was not perfect; otherwise, for Shirin herself to be created was not at all impossible. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, when Kohkan carved through the Pillarless Mountain his purpose was to make a shadowy picture of Shirin. That foolish one did not

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understand-- as if you can make a beloved by striking your head with a stone! The meaning is that his passion was not perfect. (79)

Bekhud Mohani: Farhad only carved out an image of Shirin. That is, he was a sculptor, not a true lover. Otherwise, can it ever be the case that a man would smash his head open with a stone-- that is, go mad with love for someone-- and not obtain his beloved? (98)

Josh: In this closing-verse is the verbal device of 'reference'[talmiii;h]. Kohkan, that is, Farhad, before was a stonecutter used to do construction work. He used to make pictures on every wall of Shirin alone. Then he took up stonecutting and began to live in the mountains. The meaning of the verse is that Kohkan's passion was defective. He can only be counted among the stonecutters; otherwise, was it not possible that by smashing his head open with a stone, he might obtain Shirin? That is, if he had been a perfect lover, then he would have taken up painting, smashed his head and died, and in this way obtained a sight of Shirin. (112)

FWP: Farhad was nicknamed 'Kohkan' (literally, 'Mountain-digger'), and he dug through superhuman wildernessess of stone to carve out a channel that would carry milk for her bath (see {1,2}). Was there also a story of his having made a stone statue of her? If so, I've never heard of it, and it doesn't seem that the commentatore have either; we are thus on fresh ground when it comes to interpreting the verse. So let's try to pull it together. What exactly did Kohkan do in this verse? As usual, we can't really be sure, beyond the fact that he created a single or unique [yak] image of Shirin. There are obviously two possible interpretations of the second line; and we must also ask ourselves whether the act of striking his head with a stone is to be considered the same as the act of carving an image of Shirin, or a different act; and we must also ask ourselves whether he even did strike his head with a stone or not. If we read (2a), and assume the identity of the carving and the striking, then we find that by striking his head with a stone, Kohkan in his madness created an image of Shirin-- but it was only an image. An image in his spinning head, presumably. Could any other true lover have done better, though? The commentators assume so, but I don't see why. The second line is very flatly negative about any such possibility: striking one's head with a stone would not give rise to intimacy. In his passion and torment he did the best he could, but he could not go as far as he would have wished, and actually reach out to a/the living Shirin. If we read (2a), and assume that the carving and the striking are two separate acts, then we find that Kohkan became frustrated by merely striking his head with a stone, because it didn't give rise to any real intimacy with Shirin herself. So being a carver/sculptor, he created (out of stone? within his stonesoftened head?) a private, unique image of Shirin that was his alone. If we read (2b) as a negative rhetorical question, and assume the identity of the carving and the striking, then we find that by striking his head with a stone Kohkan created a unique image of Shirin that had a certain potency, a certain power to create intimacy. For would not striking one's head with a stone create intimacy? If we read (2b) as a negative rhetorical question, and assume that the carving and the striking are two separate acts, then we find that Kohkan struck his head with a stone so much that it gave him a certain intimacy with Shirin, a certain sense of her real essence. Thus he was able to create (out of stone? within his stone-softened head?) a unique, singular image of her such as no one else could have made.

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And if we read (2b) as a negative rhetorical question, there is one more possibility also: it could be that Kohkan did not in fact strike his head with a stone. In that case, his making a mere image of Shirin was a poor, blameworthy substitute for what he should have done. If he had struck his head with a stone (in a habitual way? to the point of death?), would that not have brought him a more genuine form of intimacy? Sometimes the commentators are like the proverbial blind men, each feeling and describing a different part of the elephant. Whereas the brilliance of Ghalib is to compress into a tiny two-line verse the whole elephant, and to keep our minds and hands constantly roving over it. I also like the sound effects of sang se sar maar kar. All those consonants and short, clipped syllables have a choppy effect-- like thrown stones.

Ghazal 43 8 verses; meter G4; rhyming elements: aa;N apnaa composed after 1847; Hamid p. 36; Arshi #042; Raza p. 292

{43,1} ;zikr us parii-vash kaa aur phir bayaa;N apnaa ban gayaa raqiib aa;xir thaa jo raazdaa;N apnaa 1) the mention of that Fairy-faced one, and then, my style-2) [he] became a Rival finally-- [he] who was my confidant

Notes: Hali: The person whom I made my intimate companion and confidant in praising the beloved's beauty-- after hearing it he became my rival; because first it was the praise of such a fairy-faced one, and that too in the language of a magical speaker like me. The second half of the first line, 'and then, my style'-- this is among Mirza's special characteristics. (142)

Nazm: That is, he too became a lover-- first, because the mention itself is heartalluring, and second, from the lips of a person who's becoming infatuated. And then, this is 'magic of speech'. (40)

Naim: Again that sense of humor. Again that subtle insistence on one's own greatness. It is not just the beauty of the beloved that causes the transformation; it is (to top it all) that fine eloquence of the poet which brings him to grief. But what was indeed a tragedy (that the confidanthimself became a rival) is treated lightheartedly. There is pride as well as selfmockery. The use of the word aa;xir suggests that this event had to happen and that the poet was perhaps aware of it. (1970, 23)

FWP: SETS == POETRY This is one of his very famous ghazals; verses from it are often memorized and often sung. A nice little mushairah verse-- from the first line, we have no idea where the thought will be going. Only in the second line do we learn what those two items named in the first line really are.They turn out to be two things that suffice to turn a confidant into a Rival: the mention of the irresistibly beautiful beloved, and (as the commentators enjoy pointing out) 'my style/words/utterance' [bayaa;N]. What is it about my bayaa;N that's so

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compelling? The poet mischievously leaves it up to the reader to fill in the blank. No doubt it's the lover's passion, as Nazm somewhat waspishly points out. But of course, it's also the verbal magic of a great poet. My own favorite touch is the little word phir, 'then'. Think of how the words could be said in the English translation. The phrase could be rolled out with a triumphant, histrionic flourish: 'and then-- there was my style!' Or it could be murmured with ostentatious modesty, as a kind of throwaway utterance: 'and then, well, there was, uh, my style.' If anything, the latter rendering is even more effective, isn't it? It conveys an arrogance so absolute that it tries to muffle itself to avoid knocking the listeners completely off their feet. Both these effects can be had in Urdu through the intonation-conveying power of phir.

{43,2} mai vuh kyuu;N bahut piite bazm-e ;Gair me;N yaa rab aaj hii hu))aa man:zuur un ko imti;haa;N apnaa 1) why does she drink much wine in the gathering of the Other, oh Lord? 2a) today alone she has resolved to test herself! 2b) this very day she has resolved to test me!

Notes: Nazm: That is, if she had wanted to test herself by wine-drinking, if only she had drunk herself into unconsciousness in my company! The complaint to the Lord is that this idea had to come into her heart today, of drinking wine at somebody's place. The late author has so composed it that the meaning emerges: why the hell is she drinking so much wine in the Other's gathering! This is just my ill-fortune-- if she would come to my house today, she would drink a great deal of wine. (40)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Another aspect of jealousy also emerges-- why did she decide to test herself while I was present? Through ill fortune, this sight was extremely heartlacerating and upsetting to me. (80)

Bekhud Mohani: Another aspect is this too-- that the beloved has drunk a great deal of wine in the gathering of the Other so that she would have a chance to act playfully, without formality. But the pride of passion, or unsuspiciousness, doesn't let these words fall from the lover's lips. And his spirit, for his own peace of mind or to maintain his own dignity, has come up with the excuse that the beloved only wants to test her wine-drinking capacity, nothing more than this. (99)

Shadan: In place of 'drinks' there ought to be 'drank'. For example, mai bahut-sii us ne pii bazm-e ;Gair me;N yaa rab 'Today she drank a lot of wine in the gathering of the Other, oh Lord!' (185)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Here we see the commentators working well together. If you add up Nazm, Bekhud Dihlavi, and Bekhud Mohani, you get several good interpretive possibilities for the nuances of this verse. I am inclined to think that apnaa can apply, secondarily, to the speaker/lover also. The grammar is a bit murky, but not completely impossible. For cases in which apnaa forms are used without the presence of a stated subject see {15,12} and {30,2}. I'm aware that the parallels with this verse are not perfect, and I'm skating in slightly thinner grammatical ice than I'd like, but still I want to suggest that a secondary meaning would work well here and be

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very Ghalibian, very much the kind of thing that he so often likes to do. (See the next verse, {34,3}, for more on this.) I took advantage of a chance to ask S. R. Faruqi what he thought. He said (July 2000) that apnaa could indeed apply to the speaker/lover, but that he didn't think it made for a very interesting interpretation of the verse. I think that it turns the second line into such a fine double reading that it enhances the force of Bekhud Mohani's point. The lover is so determined not to see the beloved as favoring the Other that he will go to any lengths, however implausible, to provide and endorse alternative possibilities.

{43,3} man:zar ik bulandii par aur ham banaa sakte ((arsh se idhar hotaa kaash-ke makaa;N apnaa 1) we would have been able to make a viewing-site on one height more 2a) if only our house were on this side of the sky! 2b) if only our house were on that side of the sky! [reading udhar]

Notes: man:zar: 'an object of sight, a sight, a view; a landscape; a show, spectacle, theatre, scene'. (Platts p.1078)

Nazm: That is, if only our house were on this side of the sky, so that we could establish a viewing-site in the sky and see our place. But the difficulty is that there is no place higher than our house itself. This is the reason that we are unaware of our true reality and essence. (40)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse can be read in two ways-- that is, in the second line, with the alif in the third word pronounced to make the word either idhar, 'this way', or udhar, 'that way'. Solution 1: To hell with the tyranny of existence and the necessities of humanity, such that our soul can't fly to that side of the heavens! If only our house were beyond the heavens (that is, that side of the heavens)! Then we wouldn't remain trapped in the oppressions of the human condition. And we'd stroll around and see the scene [man:zar] of being incorporeal [laamakaa;N]. Number 2: Our spirit flies (through mystical knowledge) beyond the heavens. That is, we've already strolled around in incorporeality. Now there's no viewing-site left to see. Now the ardor for the revealing of the secrets of True Reality is empty. If only our stroll were not so lofty, and when we obtained access to the heavens, then we would be attentive to the viewingsite beyond the heavens. Now, for the eye that seeks ever-new views to look at, there's nothing attractive left. (99-100)

Josh: He says, if only our house (which in reality is the heavens itself) were somewhat to one side of the heavens, and we could make a viewing-site in the heavens and see our place. But alas, the house is situated on such a height that there's no place higher. The point is that we are entirely ignorant of our true reality and essence. And how philosophical too is the reason for that ignorance! (113)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE As Bekhud Mohani observes, the idhar vs. udhar dispute is perennial. As always, I follow Arshi, who goes withidhar. Hamid, however, uses udhar and even argues for it in a footnote, and other editors seem also to be divided. To my mind it's inconceivable that Ghalib didn't set it up this way

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on purpose; I make the same argument about the previous verse, {34,2}, and could illustrate my point with dozens of more clear-cut examples if necessary, as any reader of this commentary will know. Of the two possibilities, I share Arshi's preference for idhar, not on textual grounds but simply because it's so much jazzier and wilder and more unobvious. After all, to wish for a house on the far side, on 'that' side, so we could have a better look at some new territory, is what anyone might do. But to wish for a house on 'this' side-- how much more provocative and complex are the implications! That we know much more about the world beyond the heavens than about this world; that we now live 'there' rather than 'here', somehow alienated from ourselves; that what is there does not satisfy us; that our knowledge is incomplete without a better sense of life 'here'. The clever arrangement of the words in the first line makes it impossible to say which 'height' would be higher, this one or that one beyond the sky. In fact, it makes them look parallel and similar to each other. Each of them is a spectacle or scene in its own right, each of them is on a height. We would prefer to have two of them rather than one-- simply, it seems, for the sake of novelty. Whichever one we have, we also want the other, if only for variety. It's a magnificent verse, isn't it? Witty, resonant, true-feeling. It uses the technical devices of inshaa))iyah speech and meaning-creation not just for sophisticated amusement, but for genuine thought and perceptive observation. And with all that, it still has a wonderful flowingness, and a quality of faux-naivete that makes it instantly memorizable. I can't resist: here's a *Pakistani commemorative stamp*, issued on Ghalib's death anniversary in 1969, that includes this verse-- and MISQUOTES it.

{43,4} de vuh jis qadar ;zillat ham ha;Nsii me;N ;Taale;Nge baare aashnaa niklaa un kaa paasbaa;N apnaa 1) no matter how much he abuses us, we'll let it go, laughingly 2) finally, her Gatekeeper became our friend!

Notes: Hali: That is to say, it was excellent that the beloved's Gatekeeper became our friend. Now we've obtained an occasion for this: however much he may abuse us, we'll keep accepting it laughingly, and we'll make it clear that he is our old friend, that for ages this has been our behavior. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: At this thought how happy he is, and he doesn't reflect that the world will consider how vile he is, and he chooses as his friend such a commonplace man as a Gatekeeper, and that too a friendship of such informality! (100)

Josh: In this verse the refrain apnaa, because it's very far away, creates an iihaam. This iihaam was created because the word apnaa [own] is near 'Gatekeeper' and far from aashnaa [friend]. (113)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} In terms of theme, this is a cousin of {111,12}, in which, as in this one, the lover abases himself enthusiastically before the guardian of the beloved's door.

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Josh points out something that occurred to me too. If we took the most obvious prose-ordered reading of the second line, we'd have 'Finally our Gatekeeper became her friend.' In the world of the ghazal, that is a much less likely reading than the one all the commentators-- Josh too, and I too-actually choose. We could always explain the reversed word order by saying the words just got fitted in as best they could, and Ghalib knew that there was nothing technically wrong with his line, and that his meaning would get across perfectly well. But Josh calls it an iihaam, meaning a deliberate literary effect-- a deception that forces the reader to backtrack and reread. That would mean that Ghalib deliberately planned for us first to read, 'Finally our Gatekeeper became her friend', before we went back to rearrange the line to make a more plausible meaning. Could that be the case? I don't think so, but I wanted to note the possibility.

{43,5} dard-e dil likhuu;N kab tak jaa))uu;N un ko dikhlaa duu;N u;Ngliyaa;N figaar apnii ;xaamah ;xuu;N-chakaa;N apnaa 1) how long will I go on writing the pain of the heart? I'll go and show to her 2) my wounded fingers, my blood-dripping reed-pen

Notes: ;xaamah : 'A writing-reed, a pen'. (Platts p.485) qalam : 'A reed; reed-pen, pen; .... qalam karnaa : To cut; to cut off; to prune'. (Platts p.794)

Nazm: The pen drips blood first, because of the theme of blood-dripping, and second, because the fingers are wounded. (40)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I should say to her that while writing and writing the pain of the heart, I've come to be in such a state, but the story of the heart doesn't by any means get finished.

Josh: The point of the verse is that while writing and writing the pain of the heart in letters, the fingers have become wounded, and the pen too has begun to drip blood. But in this way he has said, how long should I go on writing the state of the heart. Why don't I go and show her mywounded fingers and blood-dripping pen as proof of my 'letter-writing'. In letters, this story will never be finished. (113)

FWP: SETS == POETRY WRITING: {7,3} It's easy to see why the reed-pen might drip blood-- it could have been dipped in the ink of my bloody tears, which are fed from my gouged, ravaged, deeply-wounded heart. But why are the fingers wounded? Wounded fingers are not a big part of the basic ghazal repertoire. The subliminal connection, I think, lies in a word that's not even in the verse: the suggestive qalam, with its core relationship to reeds, thus reed-pens, thus the cutting and shaping of reeds into reed-pens, thus writing. To write the heart's pain I don't use a reed-pen, but my own fingers. Cut and channeled (like pens) by the sheer force of passion, they not only express by writing, but also directly embody, my suffering. The second line, in short, may offer two descriptions of one thing-- my fingers as my pen-- that I will show to the beloved, rather than two different things. For a very explicit example of this wordplay on qalam , see {167,6}. This verse also poses a question about the efficacy of writing. The question in the first line is obviously rhetorical. But does it imply merely that I'm tired

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of writing, I've been doing it a long time, and now I want to supplement it by going to her directly and having the consolation of seeing her? Or does it imply that writing-- and even poetry as well-- is entirely futile and useless (that is, that it can't at all express the heart's pain), so that mere telling in written words has to be replaced by the ostensive definition of 'showing'? Is writing of partial and limited use, or--more radically-- of no use at all?

{43,6} ghiste ghiste mi;T jaataa aap ne ((aba;s badlaa nang-e sijdah se mere sang-e aastaa;N apnaa 1) [being] rubbed and rubbed, [it] would have worn away-- futilely you changed 2) because of the disgrace of my prostration, your doorsill-stone

Notes: Nazm: That is, I would have performed so many prostrations that the stone would have been worn away. (41)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, we are servants, and worship is our duty. (100)

Josh: How can there be sufficient praise for the meaning-creation and inventiveness [jiddat-aaraa))ii]! It's worth reflecting on the loftiness of thought in such extremely commonplace matters. (114)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH A wonderful mushairah verse, isn't it? The first line can't be understood until we have heard the second line, and the second line withholds the key word, 'doorsill-stone', until the last possible moment. This verse uses enjambement, which is slightly unusual but really not that uncommon in ghazal verses. Beyond this, what analytical things are there to say about it? And what need of any? It has a fine punch of its own. A ghazal that contains both this verseand the abstract, thought-provoking {43,3}-- and such a diverse range of others as well-- is all the richer for the variety. Whether you read or listen, whether you want complex pleasures or an immediate jolt of delight, Ghalib has got your number.

{43,7} taa kare nah ;Gammaazii kar liyaa hai dushman ko dost kii shikaayat me;N ham ne ham-zabaa;N apnaa 1) so that he wouldn't engage in backbiting, [we] have made the enemy 2) in complaining about the friend, our confidant

Notes: Nazm: That is, so that he wouldn't go to the beloved and tell what complaints I make. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we swallow complaints about the friend from the mouth of the enemy, and then ourselves too keep agreeing with him. And this is so that he won't go and make snide remarks about us to the beloved-- as if we would make that fool a sharer in complaint about the beloved! (81)

Bekhud Mohani: In front of the Rival I complained about the beloved in such a style that he too began to support me. In this my purpose was that when he himself joins me in such speech, he won't go and mention our complaints to the beloved. (100)

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FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} Like {43,6}, this is a verse with enjambement, and a good mushairah verse. That means that it should pack its chief punch at the end. Although the commentators will never agree, I maintain that it does. If you were a sophisticated listener-- an educated patron or fellow-poet-- at a mushairah, what in this verse might you at once enjoy? No doubt there is the wordplay of 'friend' and 'enemy', and the conspicuous, unusual word ;Gammaazii. But what really hits your ear is the end of the second line: ham ne ham-zabaa;N apnaa. The rhythm of the verse makes the repetition feel strongly marked, so that to your ear the same word, ham, is being powerfully repeated. But to your mind, of course, those are two different words: the first is the Indic first person plural 'we'; the second is the Persian prefix meaning something like 'mutual; together; with one another' (Steingass p.1507), so that literally the enemy was made a 'fellow speaker.' This is elegant wordplay indeed. Then if we think further about this verse, we can go on to say things about the various kinds of 'we' and of 'mutuality' in relation to the 'friend' and the 'enemy'. For example, what kind of a 'friend' is it whose treatment of you drives you to make a fake 'friend' of an 'enemy'? What kind of an 'enemy' is it whose situation is so much like yours that you two can in fact easily become (fake? or real?) confidants (and thus 'friends' of a sort)? If you treat your beloved with such deep distrust, and your rival with such anticipatory suspicion, do you really have a 'friend' among them at all? And you yourself are not a 'friend' to either one, for aren't you engaging in a form of the very backbiting and tale-bearing that you deplore? And so on. The confusingness of ham ne ham is thus appropriate to the larger moral picture as well-- who is the 'we' here, and where is the 'mutuality'? And the other obvious examples of wordplay-- 'enemy' vs 'friend'-- lead into the deeper thought patterns of the verse, via the attention-grabbing ;Gammaazii. Not every seemingly simple mushairah verse has so much to offer.

{43,8} ham kahaa;N ke daanaa the kis hunar me;N yaktaa the be-sabab hu))aa ;Gaalib dushman aasmaa;N apnaa 1) what kind of a knower were we? in what skill were we unique? 2) without reason/cause, Ghalib, the sky became our enemy

Notes: Hali: What excellent reasons he has given for the sky's enmity, and how beautifully he has proved his wisdom and skilfulness. (142-43)

Nazm: The point is that wisdom and skill are always the cause of the enmity of the sky. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Thus, the excellence with which he has made his wisdom and skill manifest- it is impossible to praise it enough. (81)

Josh: What can I say of the informality of language in the first line! (114)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN A gem of a verse, isn't it? As Nazm observes, human wisdom and skill are proverbially likely to bring down the enmity of the heavens. The 'sky' becomes jealous and sends down disasters on the too-lofty figure; the idea goes back at least to Aeschylus. By protesting that he has no wisdom or skill, Ghalib points out with apparent wistfulness that others at least were blasted

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for a reason, while he himself had the worst of both worlds: he was blasted not even for cause, destroyed meaninglessly and for nothing. Yet of course that's not the end of the story. By asking the inshaa))iyah questions in the first line, the poet sets us up to answer them. After all, we know perfectly well how sharp his literary mind is, and exactly 'in what skill he is unique'. So we are aware that his claim in the second line is false. But that only makes it more effective as an expression of complete wretchedness and despair. The voice of someone who has abandoned even his legitimate claims to excellence, who claims to no attributes but that of receiving injustice from the heavens-- well, such a person's voice makes a great, haunting, sweepingly melancholy ending for a ghazal.

Ghazal 44 2 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa;N meraa composed 1816; Hamid p. 36; Arshi #030; Raza p. 127

{44,1} surmah-e muft-e na:zar huu;N mirii qiimat yih hai kih rahe chashm-e ;xariidaar pah i;hsaa;N meraa 1) I am free collyrium for the sight, my price is this-2) that my kindness should remain on the eye of the purchaser

Notes: Nazm: That is, my poetry is of general benefit, and it offers free advantages, the way using the eyes is freely available to every person. He has given for the pleasure of sight the simile of collyrium. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib has written this verse in praise of the beauty of his own poetry. That is, my poetry is a general benefit, and free advantages can be had from it. And all this for one sole purpose: that my kindness would remain on the eye of the purchaser. That is, the insight of poetic understanding is obtained from this collyrium. (81)

Chishti: There is a wordplay among 'collyrium', 'sight', and 'eye'. And in the second line there's a devastating flowingness, ease, and attraction. For this reason this verse has become proverbial. (384)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; POETRY INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} This is one of the relatively rare verses in which Ghalib speaks of himself as a poet; Chishti points out the wordplay involving vision. Collyrium [surmah] is a black salve applied around the eyes, thought both to be attractive, and also to reduce glare and keep the eyes healthy. I am a free gift for the eyesight-- but of course there's a catch, a price. The burden of (gratitude for) my kindness must remain 'on the eyes' of the purchaser; apart from its wordplay, idiomatically this suggests a particularly humble state of submission and deference in the purchaser. People receive kings' commands sar aa;Nkho;N par , 'on the head and eyes,' since these are the most honorable parts of the body. People also, of course, use their eyes to read poetry. Such gratitude for favors rendered is a much more significant burden than we might at first realize, for one of the most consistent themes in Ghalib's

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poetry is a repudiation of all forms of indebtedness and borrowing. The i;hsaa;N will remain 'on' the eyes of the purchaser, like a 'burden' of obligation, gratitude, debt; for a similar use of the same metaphor, see {130,1}. So what kind of a 'free gift' is it that carries a 'price'? Of course, it's the kind of 'gift' that imposes a debt of gratitude more undischargeable than any mere monetary obligation. Our eyes are beautified, and our eyesight enhanced, by Ghalib's poetry. The obligation laid on us by his kindness will be 'on our eyes' forever. But it's all right, for undoubtedly we get much the better end of the deal.

{44,2} ru;x.sat-e naalah mujhe de kih mabaadaa :zaalim tere chahre se ho :zaahir ;Gam-e pinhaa;N meraa 1) give me leave to lament, cruel one, lest 2) from your face might be manifest my hidden grief

Notes: ru;x.sat : 'Facilitation, license, indulgence.' (Platts. p.590)

Hali: That is, if permission to lament is not granted, then I will suppress it, and its effect will reach to you. (143)

Nazm: That is, if laments are not expressed, their effect of hidden grief will be felt only in the heart, and from my heart will spread to your heart. (41)

Hasrat: That is, may it not happen that I would die from the suppression of grief, and you would feel sorrow, and in this way from your face my hidden grief would be manifest. Or there's this meaning-- may it not happen that I would suppress my grief, and from the effect of that your heart too would be wounded, the effect of which would show from your face. (43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, if there's no permission to lament, then we will suppress our laments, and the effect of that will definitely reach to you. The lament emerges from the heart, and in the state of suppression is is extinguished like smoke in the heart itself. There's a famous proverbial saying that 'a heart finds a way to a heart'. Its effect will reach your heart, and as a result that effect will be manifest from your face. (81)

Bekhud Mohani: Solution 1: Torment me with full ardor; but indeed, give me permission to complain, lest it happen that the Lord would give justice to the silent, and you would suffer for my endurance.... Solution 2: May it not happen that suppression of complaints would take my life, and after my death you would feel grief, and love would show its effect, and you would be forced to wring your hands [with grief]. (101)

FWP: This one reminds me above all of {10,3}, in which the forbidden naalah turns the straw that the lover has taken between his teeth (in token of submission) into a reed-flute. Here, the lover's suppressed lament, bearing the full, compressed force of his grief, would have enough power actually to reveal itself on the beloved's face instead of his own. Along the same lines are {6,6}, in which it's the single unshed tear-drop that turns into a typhoon, not the many that are actually shed; and the even more extreme {5,4}, in which a mere 'passing thought' of madness/wildness accidentally burns up the desert.

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Bekhud Mohani suggests that suppression of my laments will kill me, and that will cause you grief-- implying, of course, that nothing short of my death will have such an effect. Which in turn evokes the wonderful {17,8}: 'alas, the repentance of that quick-repenter!'-- the one who killed me and then repentantly swore off killing.

Ghazal 45 5 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aah kaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 37; Arshi #020; Raza pp. 116-17

{45,1} ;Gaafil bah vahm-e naaz ;xvud-aaraa hai varnah yaa;N be-shaanah-e .sabaa nahii;N :turrah giyaah kaa 1a) the heedless one, with the illusion of coquetry, is self-adorning; otherwise, here 1b) [oh] heedless one, with the illusion of coquetry [you] are self-adorning; otherwise, here 2) the curl/crest of the grass is not without the comb/crest of the breeze

Notes: shaanah : 'A comb; a (cock's) comb, a crest. (Platts p.719) .sabaa : 'The east wind, or an easterly wind; a gentle and pleasant breeze; the morning breeze; the zephyr'. (Platts p.742) :turrah : 'Hair, or a fringe of hair, on the forehead; a forelock; a curl, ringlet; an ornament worn in the turban; an ornamental tassel, or border, &c.; a plume of feathers, a crest'. (Platts p.752)

Nazm: That is, people are ignorant of the mysteries of Truth; from the element of pride and coquetry that is in their temperament grows the illusion that we did this, and it came about through our scheme. Although whatever exists, it all comes from Him. In this verse the Divine Pleasure has been given the simile of the spring breeze. (41)

Bekhud Mohani: People are ignorang of the secrets of Reality and the adornedness of the world; otherwise, they wouldn't pride themselves on their uniqueness and their power. If the curtain would be lifted from their eyes, then it would be revealed to them that they have no right to pride themselves on their power, their creativeness, their discrimination, their inventiveness. They would see that the Creator of the world has given even to grass, the lowliest of the lowly, the comb of the breeze for its curls. (101-02)

Josh: They call the spring breeze a 'Messenger', and the task of a Messenger is to convey someone's command and words to some place. Thus the spring breeze is a sign from the True Self alone. (115)

FWP: This one reminds me of the lovely King James Bible wording, 'And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, [shall he] not much more [clothe] you,-o-ye of little faith?' (Matthew 6:2830). The word :turrah does wonderful work here. It can mean a curly lock of hair (something natural) or else a crest or plume, or turban-ornament (something

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artificial and coquettish). Using it in conjunction with 'comb' tilts the balance toward curls or ringlets, but the other meaning hovers in the background and gives the grass's adornment its own touch of adornment and naaz . The image of the 'comb of the breeze' allows for two possible readings. It is certainly a playful and pleasant breeze-- what exactly is it doing to the curls of the grass? Is its 'combing' merely metaphorical and even perverse, so that it tousles the grass into a disarray that is far more fetching than any contrived order? Or does it actually 'comb' the curls of the grass into a more formal symmetry and order, making them all flow in the same direction, as a brisk spring breeze can be seen to do sometimes? Or is it in fact not a 'comb' but-with elegant wordplay-- a 'crest' itself, adorning the heads of the curly grasses? Which makes us think carefully about the vahm-e naaz , the 'illusion of coquetry'. Is the heedless one being admonished for a clumsy human 'illusion' of coquetry, when she should learn the real thing from watching the carefully breeze-combed curls of the grass? Or is she being admonished for the illusion of 'coquetry', when she should learn from the fetchingly disarrayed grass-curls the irresistible superiority of naturalness? The contrast of the crucial words 'with', bah , in the first line, and 'without', be, in the second line, is also an enjoyable effect. And of course all this takes place 'here', in this world. Are we to draw a lesson, as in Matthew, about God's care for the least of his creatures? Or does the 'here' merely emphasize the overpowering realness of this sensory world, in which the small arts of humans are no match for the mysterious (artless?) arts of nature? Think of {13,1}. For more wordplay about combs and crests, see {207,4}.

{45,2} bazm-e qada;h se ((aish tamannaa nah rakh kih rang .said-e z daam-jastah hai us daam-gaah kaa 1) don't keep longing for enjoyment from the wine party, for color/mood 2) is a 'prey that has leaped from the net' of that net-place

Notes: rang: 'Colour, tint, hue, complexion; beauty, bloom; expression, countenance, appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood'. (Platts p.601)

Nazm: 'Net-place' is a metaphor for the world. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that to long for pleasure and enjoyment from a wine-drinking party is to hunt for a prey that cannot remain in one's control. In the world, there's no lasting attainment of pleasure and enjoyment. The delicacy of thought in this verse is that from drinking wine, for a little while color comes to the face; after the intoxication ebbs, that color cannot remain. (82)

Bekhud Mohani: To call the wine party a 'net-place' is enjoyable from a verbal perspective too-- Mirza has called the wine glasses links in the net, and thus made the wine into a 'net-place'.... That is, Enjoyment itself considers the world a place of sorrow, and wants to run away from here. 'A prey that has leaped from the net' for the color/mood of wine is a consummate simile. (102)

Mihr: One reason for bringing in the word 'color' is that it has a special affinity with enjoyment and a wine party. (167)

FWP: The colloquial Persian/Urdu phrase .said-e z-daam jastah, 'prey that has leaped from the net,' becomes a perfect metaphor for the relationship of the

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multivalent word rang to the wine-party. The commentators draw out some of the implications: wine-glasses are like the linked meshes of the huntingnet; the color in the drinkers' faces is all too quickly gone. In other verses, the Hunter [.sayyaad] also makes an appearance. The tormenting and tantalizing thing is that the prey was indeed, however briefly, in the net. If only it hadn't made that wild, unexpected leap, and suddenly vanished! Could something have been done to prevent the escape? Can the prey ever be recaptured? The verse warns against hope. Once lost, the prey is beyond reach. Even if you go to another wine-party, and another, you'll always find that the rang is fleeting. The subtle, intangible thing for which you actually long, is the very one you can't grasp and hold. We have a similar, though less colorful, image in English: we say that pleasure is 'fugitive'. This is a verse of mood; the phrase .said-e z-daam jastah is at its heart.

{45,3} ra;hmat agar qabuul kare kyaa ba((iid hai sharmindagii se ((u;zr nah karnaa gunaah kaa 1a) if Mercy would accept [it], is [it such a] remote [possibility]-1b) if [one] would accept mercy, is [it such a] remote [possibility]-2a) out of shame, not to make an excuse for sin? 2b) not to make an excuse, out of shame, for sin?

Notes: ba((iid: 'Far, far off, distant, remote'. (Platts p.158)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to make an excuse for sin is an easy thing. But we want an excuse for a sin worse than any sin; for this reason we can't make an excuse for sin either. But our repentance and shame have reached that level where if mercy accepts them in place of an excuse for sin, what's impossible about that? (82)

Bekhud Mohani: If we don't make an excuse for sin, then the reason is that we don't consider sin to be sin. Rather, we consider making an excuse for sin to be worse than sin. And we don't give our lips permission to open to make an excuse for sin. It's not strange if the mercy of the Provider would consider our not making an excuse itself, to be an excuse for sin, and accept it, and pardon our sin. (102)

Chishti: The excellence of this verse is that the very thing which is considered a defect (not to make an excuse for sin), Ghalib has established as a [sign of] skill. (386)

FWP: The grammar of ra;hmat agar qabuul kare also permits 'if [one] would accept mercy', if we assume that a masculine singular subject has been (quite permissibly) omitted. Then the first line has the very Ghalibian pattern of two possible readings, both of which elegantly fit with the second line. The conventional (1a), which all the commentators prefer, places the initiative for mercy-showing in (presumably) God's hands. The unorthodox (1b) places the initiative-- the choice of whether to accept the divine mercy or not-- in the human hands of the sinner. The phrase kyaa ba((iid hai is a negative interrogative question; its energy enlivens the verse's abstraction. And, then, look at the possibilities of sharmindagii se in the second line. The conventional (2a) applies the 'out of shame' to the whole rest of the line: out of shame, to make no excuse for sin. But can we entirely rule out (2b)? On this alternative reading, the deed which is not done is 'out of shame to make

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excuse for sin' (sharmindagii se ((u;zr karnaa gunaah kaa). I agree that this is distinctly a secondary reading, but constructions of this kind are not without precedent in Urdu, with its relative shortage of adverbs.

{45,4} maqtal ko kis nishaa:t se jaataa huu;N mai;N kih hai pur-gul ;xayaal-e za;xm se daaman nigaah kaa 1) with what joy I go to the execution ground! --{because / such that} 2) the garment-hem of the gaze is rose-filled from/with the thought of wounds

Notes: Nazm: That is, it's clear that he's given for a wound the simile of a rose. (41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the ardor of martyrdom I go to the execution ground with such happiness that it seems that a bridegroom who has put on a wedding-garland goes there. It's as if from the thought of wounds I have filled the lap of my gaze. (82)

Bekhud Mohani: Solution 1: I go to the execution ground with such happiness that because of the intense ardor for martyrdom my gazes are already savoring the springtime of a blooming garden of wounds.... Solution 2: Now in the ardor to be a martyr I am going to the execution ground. Perhaps the springtime of the Garden of Paradise is appearing before my eyes. (The place for martyrs is the Garden of Paradise.) (102-03)

Arshi: Compare {176,1}. (171, 297)

FWP: SETS == KIH As so often is the case, we can put the lines together in several ways. The versatility of kih works powerfully. Does the first line result from the second line (the thought of wounds causes me to go with such joy), or does the first line cause the second line (I go with such joy that I see the roses of the thought of wounds)? Wounds are like roses because they are blood-red, vital, beautiful to the lover's eye-- they are both means and signs of progress on the road toward God/ death/ the beloved. The execution-ground is the place of the final, ultimate wound, and so is to be approached with a unique joy. A gardener gathers roses by picking up the hem of his garment, and thus making a kind of pouch that he fills with flowers. This is the basic 'objective correlative' of the lover's feelings. But what about 'the garment-hem of the gaze'? On one reading of the i.zaafat, the gaze is itself a garment-hem; on another reading, the gaze possesses a garment-hem. In either case, the connection is not grounded in any apparent physical similarities. It is much more 'willed' and hypothetical than, say, the conventional description of the gaze (of the beloved) as an arrow. In either case, we know that this garment-hem is pur-gul, 'rose-filled'. But what kind of roses are these? The flexibility of se permits;xayaal-e za;xm se to mean either that the thought of wounds itself has assumed a rose-like form ('filled with the roses of the thought of wounds'), or that it has merely been a causative agent ('filled with roses because of the thought of wounds'). We are dealing with a simply furious degree of abstraction here. Or rather, with several possible degrees and kinds, forming a fluctuating array. How real are the roses? Are they caused by, or do they cause, the journey to the execution-ground? Are they roses of thought (and how real are these,

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anyway?), or are they roses that are merely created (at one remove) by thought? Apparently they are real enough to be visible not just to the mind but to the 'gaze' as well. But if they merely fill the 'garment-hem' of the gaze, doesn't that degree of abstraction place them at a further remove from reality? (And for that matter, in such an uncertain context, how real is the trip to the execution-ground itself?) Needless to say, the point and the pleasure lie in the undecidability. The only thing in the verse that feels unquestionably real is-- and how appropriately!-the 'thought'.

{45,5} jaa;N dar-havaa-e yak nigah-e garm hai asad parvaanah hai vakiil tire daad-;xvaah kaa 1) [my] life is [dependent] on the desire for a single warm/hot glance, Asad 2) the Moth is the advocate of your justice-seeker

Notes: Nazm: Asad's life is in the longing for one warm/hot glance, as if the advocate of your justice-seeker were someone as enthusiastic as the Moth, who longs to be burnt. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He said, Asad wants to give up his life in the ardor and torment of your glance of kindness, and has appointed the Moth as his advocate and comt to your gathering to seek justice. The Moth, burning itself up over the candle, will show you the spectacle of surrendering one's life. In the same way, take his-- that is Asad's-- life. (82-83)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {78,5}. (103)

FWP: The classic lover's dilemma (though to the lover it's not a dilemma at all) appears once again-- I live only in my longing for a glance from you; and a glance from you will slay me. So in fact I am passionately pleading for my death. But what a death! Not a meaningless, ordinary end, but a burning instant of supreme ecstasy and annihilation-- the death of the Moth who flies into the candle-flame and becomes one with the fire. (Or, as Bekhud Mohani points out, the death of the dew-drop when it receives a single glance from the sun.) There's an elegant ambiguity too about the nigah-e garm , which can refer either to the warm glance of affection and desire, or to the hot glance of wrath. Perhaps the lover doesn't even care about the distinction, since both would have the same effect. Moreover, we are in a court setting, for the lover is 'your justice-seeker' (with the 'you' receiving the intimate tuu ). Is the beloved the defendant, or the judge? Both together, without a doubt, since all power belongs to the beloved. Is there any hope of justice in such a situation? Perhaps so, since ironically what the plantiff is petitioning for amounts to a death sentence. If the beloved is merciful, she will grant it on the basis of his ardent plea. If she is cruel, she might grant it with a sneer, as an appropriate penalty for insolence. And the lover feels that this glance is somehow owed to him. He has taken the trouble to retain a suitable advocate or attorney, the Moth. Why is it owed to him? For his devotion, for his passion? Is there any higher standard of justice in the universe than the beloved's whim? For another verse about a plaintiff whom Ghalib himself described in a letter as a justice-seeker [daad;xvaah], see {1,1}.

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Ghazal 46 7 verses; meter G14; rhyming elements: aa))e;N kyaa composed 1854-55; Hamid p. 38; Arshi #046; Raza p. 333

{46,1} jaur se baaz aa))e par baaz aa))e;N kyaa kahte hai;N ham tujh ko mu;Nh dikhlaa))e;N kyaa 1a) she left off tyranny, but would she leave off? 1b) she left off tyranny, but she wouldn't leave off! 2a) she says, 'would we (be able to) show our face to you?' 2b) she says, 'what-- would we show our face to you?!'

Notes: Ghalib: [1858:] I have sent out books by post to various places. Although I've heard that they have arrived, I haven't yet received any acknowledgements. Verse: {46,2}. Look, my friend, at what the opening-verse of this ghazal is: {46,1}. [He goes on to write out {46, verses 5, 3, 7}.] ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 716-17 ==other translations: Russell and Islam, p. 184; Daud Rahbar pp. 94-95

Nazm: That is, now out of shame she doesn't show her face; this too is tyranny to me. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: She is so tyrannical-- how can she give up tyranny? That is, she will absolutely, absolutely never leave off her tyranny. (83)

Arshi: Compare {205,1}. (188, 293)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KYA A classic example of the use of kyaa; for more on its complexities see {15,10}. The first half of the first line tells us flatly that she gave up tyranny. But immediately that statement is called into question. In the second half of the line, we can't tell whether in fact she would really give up cruelty (1a); or whether it's absurd to think she would do so (1b). The paradoxical effect of both repetition and contradiction between the two halves of the line makes for excellent sound effects too: only a single nasal ending separates the perfect and subjunctive forms of the verb. And in the second line we learn that whether she says, or even thinks, that she is giving up tyranny, is immaterial anyway. For if she gives it up, she is then too shamefaced at the memory of her past cruelties to show her face to me (2a); and it's equally possible that she has immediately relapsed or changed her mind, such that she's indignant at the very thought that she'd show her face to me. Either way, I don't get to see her face. But such behavior is not surprising, after all: in {14,7} she tells me to spread my bedding at her door, then instantly reverses herself; and in {17,8} she first murders me, then at once repents and swears off murder. The lover is frustrated, perhaps even miserable; but in this verse his wit hasn't left him, and there's a definite note of teasing and repartee as he points out the beloved's perverse behavior. He almost takes pride in it; her arrogance and capriciousness delight him. If she is perverse in her tyranny, he is equally perverse in his not-very-submissive acceptance of it.

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{46,2} raat din gardish me;N hai;N saat aasmaa;N ho rahegaa kuchh nah kuchh ghabraa))e;N kyaa 1) night and day the seven heavens are revolving 2) something or other will happen-- why be anxious?

Notes: Ghalib: [1854:] Here a major sickness is spreading, and is it any ordinary sickness? The fevers are variegated, usually recurrent. That is, if in a house there are ten people, then six will be sick, and four healthy. And if among those six three will get better, then those four [healthy ones] will fall ill. Up till today, the outcome was good. Now people have begun to die. A poisonousness has developed in the air. It's a story like this: {46,2}. (Arshi 188-89) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1153-54 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 107

Ghalib: [c.1859:] I've already said that I have no relish for spectacles, nor any respite from a host of physical ills and spiritual griefs. If formerly I had a courage that had not been defeated, and a hope for help from the Unseen, now this Urdu verse of mine is constantly on the tip of my tongue, and with this habit I constantly give voice to my sighs: {46,2}. Now that the heart despairs of an improvement in my condition and of the achievement of my purposes, my temperament is well acquainted with the chanting [tarannum] of this verse from the same ghazal: {46,6}. (Arshi 189) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1480 ==other translations: Russell and Islam p. 211; Daud Rahbar p. 260

Nazm: It is an encouragement toward acceptance of God's will. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse is a high degree of acceptance of God's will. He says, the seven heavens night and day are absorbed in our affairs. Whatever is the Divine Command for us, all the things that are necessary for it will come together by themselves. Why should we be anxious and worried? (83)

Bekhud Mohani: In our actions, or in connection with the ordinary circumstances of the world, what's the need to become anxious? Not one but seven heavens are constantly in movement, day and night. Something or other is bound to happen. That is, revolution is a part of the nature of the times. (104)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; KYA NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} This verse and {46,6} are the ones Ghalib quoted most often in letters, especially when he was in a bleak or pessimistic mood. And who can blame him? I find myself quoting it too sometimes, usually in a hollow tone of voice. Whatever the seven (Aristotelian) heavens are up to, it does seem to have ominous overtones. Is the verse full of fatalism, despair, or acceptance of God's will? How rhetorical is the question at the end of the second line? You be the judge. It all depends on tone, doesn't it? And of course Ghalib leaves us to set the tone ourselves. For another verse about perpetual gardish, see {110,2}.

{46,3} laag ho to us ko ham samjhe;N lagaa))o jab nah ho kuchh bhii to dhokaa khaa))e;N kyaa

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1) if there would be enmity, then we would consider it affection 2a) when there would be nothing at all, then-- as if we would be deceived! 2b) when there would be nothing at all, then-- would we be deceived?

Notes: laag: 'Attachment, affection, love; ... enmity, animosity, hostility, rancour, spite'. (Platts p.946) lagaa))o: 'Attachment, connexion; bond, link; ...inclination, propensity'. (Platts p.961)

Hali: Laag is enmity and lagaa))o, love. It would not be strange if someone else too had used this theme, but to this day I haven't seen it. Even if somebody had used it, he would definitely not have used it with this excellence and refinement. The meaning is that the beloved feels toward us neither enmity nor friendship; even if there were enmity, then because in it too is a kind of relationship, we would consider it friendship. But when there is neither friendship nor enmity, then what is there to be deceived about? Leaving aside the fineness and crowningness of the thought, two words like lag and lagaa))o have been brought together, that have a single source and discordant meanings. And this is an extraordinary coincidence that has multiplied the excellence of the thought manyfold. (121-22)

Nazm: That is, even if she showed hatred, we would consider it love. (42)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {123,4}. (104)

Josh: It's a peerless and immortal verse....He has searched out two words that are entirely different and are derived from the same root and are opposite in meaning. He has thus doubled the loftiness of thought and the excellence of the theme. A theme of this type is to be found in one more place in Mirza's work: he says, {148,2}. (116)

FWP: SETS == KYA; OPPOSITES The commentators stress the elegant wordplay, which in fact is even more subtle than they acknowledge, since laag has an almost made-to-order double meaning that makes it both an antonym and a synonym for lagaa))o (though the synonym meaning is rarer). Which works well with the second line, of course. After all, we aren't entirely sure we can tell the difference between laag and lagaa))o; in fact, we'd be very likely to (mistakenly? deliberately?) identify the former as the latter. So if the presence of strong emotions can confuse us, then might their absence not also prove bewildering, as in (2b)? Or would we go on loudly whistling in the dark, as in (2a)? The desperate lover has thus managed to turn every possible attitude of the beloved's to good account. If she shows love, what could be better? If she shows hatred, he will consider it love. And if she shows nothing at all, then he will console himself with the thought that he's now safe from any deceit and disappointment. None of this is really very comforting, of course. But then, it is all the comfort the lover is ever likely to have.

{46,4} ho liye kyuu;N naamah-bar ke saath saath yaa rab apne ;xa:t ko ham pahu;Nchaa))e;N kyaa 1) why did we go along with the Messenger? 2) oh Lord! will we deliver our own letter?

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Notes: Nazm: In this verse 'oh Lord' is not for the vocative, but rather for the expression of surprise. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The ardor for an answer to his letter has increased to such an extent that he goes off along with the Messenger, and he's so absorbed in this ardor that he doesn't even remember that he's gone off with the Messenger. In the second line there's an indication of surprise-- oh Lord, will I deliver my own letter? This is an embarrassing thing. The pleasure of this expression is in no need of commentary. (84)

Josh: What can I say of the excellence of the theme and the inventiveness [jiddat]! (117)

Chishti: Ghalib has taken the theme of this verse from Qais's style of behavior. One day Qais met a camel-rider. Upon inquiry, he learned that he was going to Laila's village. Qais began to go along with him: tell Laila this, and tell Laila that. So much so that he reached the village. (389)

FWP: SETS == KYA WRITING: {7,3} This is a verse in which tone is everything. The rueful realization of his own absent-minded folly, the self-mockery-- all expressed in the form of two questions. Ghalib's talent for inshaa))iyah speech once again energizes and complicates a simple verse. Why did I go along with the Messenger? and will I deliver my own letter? Both of these exclamations of course express surprise and dismay, but they are also questions. To try to answer them is to unpack, as always, the lover's essentially out-of-control situation. Compare {17,3}, in which he finds himself constantly, compulsively going 'in that direction', and is constantly astonished [;hairaa;N] at his own behavior. Here the main difference is that the humor of his plight receives more emphasis than the helplessness. Another case study in excessive eagerness to communicate: {176,4}.

{46,5} mauj-e ;xuu;N sar se guzar hii kyuu;N nah jaa))e aastaan-e yaar se u;Th jaa))e;N kyaa 1a) even if a wave of blood would pass over [our] head 1b) why wouldn't a wave of blood indeed pass over [our] head? 2) as if we would get up from the beloved's doorsill!

Notes: Nazm: In the second line kyaa is for contempt. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By 'the wave of blood', here trouble and suffering is meant. He says, no matter how much trouble may come upon me, I'm now fixed here on the beloved's doorsill; and I've made up my mind to it. So I wouldn't at all get up get up from here-- now I'll get up only when I've died. (84)

Bekhud Mohani: In reply to someone's comment, or in his own heart, the lover says that now we've come and sat down at the beloved's door. Now to budge from here is contrary to courage. Now even if we lose our life, we won't get up. (105)

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Arshi: Compare {119,10}. (244)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; KYA The lover lies humbly prostrate on the beloved's doorsill (see {43,6}, in which the lover's prostrations wear away the doorsill). So a (literal or metaphoric) 'wave of blood' passing over his head doesn't imply a tsunami, but something closer to the ground: a humbler, more personal level of suffering. The 'Xhii kyuu;N nah [subjunctive]' construction in the first line is a normal way of saying 'even if Xshould happen', as in (1a). But here its literal meaning, 'why wouldn't X emphatically/indeed happen?', is also perfectly suitable, as in (1b). And of course, the lover disdains to 'get up' or 'stand up' (u;Thnaa) to avoid the wave of blood, so he plans to cling to the doorsill at all costs, letting the wave of blood wash over him. He indignantly rejects the idea of rising, with a negative rhetorical question that repudiates the very thought. The beloved's doorsill is thus a form of anchor, one that would save him from being swept away by the wave of blood. Ghalib has other 'wave of blood' verses: see {132,5} and {176,6}. Streams of blood too (see {111,6} for a juu-e ;xuu;N) are nothing remarkable in the ghazal world, and a whole ocean of blood, ik qulzum-e ;xuu;N, confronts the lover in the far more somber and powerful {208,12}.

{46,6} ((umr bhar dekhaa kiye marne kii raah mar gaye par dekhiye dikhlaa))e;N kyaa 1) a whole lifetime we kept {waiting for / watching the road of} death 2a) upon dying, let's see what [they] would show 2b) we died, but let's see what [they] would show

Notes: Ghalib: [1855:] There's no breath I take that I'm not mindful of the last breath. I'm already sixty years old. Now how long will I live? The ghazal, the ode, the verse-set, the quatrain, Persian, Urdu-- I've composed ten thousand verses, now how long will I go on composing? I got through the good and bad of life as best I could. Now my thought is, let's see what death is like, and what happens after death: {46,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p. 1167 ==another trans: Russell and Islam p. 78

Ghalib: [February 1857:] From the age of twelve years I have been blackening the paper with poetry and prose as if it were the record of my deeds. I've reached my sixty-second year-- fifty years have passed in the exercise of this pursuit. Now there's no strength or endurance in body or spirit. I've entirely given up writing Persian prose; in Urdu too I've renounced all ornamentation-whatever comes to my tongue, emerges from my pen. My foot is in the stirrup and hand on the reins-- what would I write, and what would I do? I constantly recite this verse of mine: {46,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1415

Ghalib: [1859:] Now, night and day, I'm wondering-- life has passed like this, now let's see how death will be: {46,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 604

Ghalib: [1861:] Neither can you take care of me, nor can I give you any help. God, God, God! I've swum the whole sea. The shore is near. With two more

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strokes, I'm across: {46,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p. 996 ==other trans.: Russell and Islam p. 264; Daud Rahbar p. 182

Ghalib: [1867:] Seventy-one years of age, crippled in the legs, deaf in the ears. Day and night I lie prostrate, if I write two lines, my body trembles, the words don't come to me. My powers are failing, my senses disordered, my diet is limited or rather minimal: {46,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1442

Hali: One day when Mirza was absorbed in chess, the late Munshi Ghulam Ali Khan recited this verse [of Zauq's] to somebody else: ab to ghabraa ke yih kahte hai;N kih mar jaa))e;Nge mar ke bhii chain nah paayaa to kidhar jaa))e;Nge [now, in distress, we say that we will die if even after dying we find no peace, then where will we go?] The late Khan used to say that the sound of this fell on Mirza's ear also. At once he abandoned his chess game and asked me, 'Brother, what did you recite?' I again recited that verse. He asked, 'Whose verse is it?' I said, 'Zauq's'. Hearing this, he was extremely surprised, and made me recite it again and again, and slapped his head. I too notice that Mirza, in his Urdu letters, has mentioned this verse repeatedly. Where he has praised an excellent verse, there he has certainly written down this verse. (82-83)

Hali: The reference in 'would show' is to the Lord. He says that his whole life he has been waiting for death, since it will certainly be better than the state of life. Now let's see, after dying let's see what state He would show me that has kept me waiting for a lifetime. (143)

Nazm: That is, his whole life he waited for death. When he dies, no telling what death will bring. (42)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the aspect of complaint against the Lord emerges, and it's clear what a bad life this life is, that a person would at every moment wait for death.... The True Beloved (the Lord) has promised to show Himself on Doomsday. The lover says, with this hope I have spent my whole life in passion and in waiting for death. Now let's see what happens after death, whether the longing for sight is fulfilled or not. (105)

FWP: SETS == KYA More than any other verse, this one seems to have often come to Ghalib's mind in his later years, at least when he wrote to his friends. The five instances given above are more than could be provided for any other verse. Such quotations in letters are of biographical interest of course, and also illustrate the emotional context in which the verse seemed appropriate to him. I reproduce in this commentary every such reference that I've found, since the instances in which he actually analyzes his own verses are all too few. This one is nicely turned out when it comes to wordplay. The expression 'X kii raah dekhnaa ' is a petrified phrase that means 'to wait for X', but its literal meaning is 'to watch X's road,' to watch for X to arrive. Here the 'watching' in the first line is echoed by the 'let's see' and the 'show' in the next line. The polite imperative dekhiye , literally 'please look', is colloquially used the way 'let's see' is in English. And dikhlaanaa , 'to show', literally

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means 'to cause to see', and is of course derived from dekhnaa , 'to see'. (In Urdu, 'to see', 'to look', and 'to watch' are all expressed by dekhnaa .) The eager spectator waited a lifetime to see what death would show him. Why? Because life in the world proved so unsatisfying in general? Because his particular life was so especially wretched and full of pain? Because death had a reputation as a master showman? In the second line, mar gaye par can be read either as an archaic variant of mar jaane par , 'upon dying', or more literally as '[we] died, but'. The former seems to be spoken before death, the latter after death. The former is more neutral and hopeful; the 'but' in the latter suggests that what death has to show is very likely to be disappointing. The most striking bit of grammar in the verse is the plural subjunctive, dikhlaa))e;N , which requires an implied plural subject. Death seems to be irrevocably singular. So who are the 'they' who would be doing the showing? One might of course argue that the plural ending was required by the rhyme, so that the poet was simply-- and slackly-- yielding to necessity. But Ghalib is too tricky a poet to be lightly constrained. I would argue that it's the same 'they' who appear in the expression 'they say' (in both English and Urdu)-- a wryly observed, vague group defined both by being elusively powerful, and by being not me/us. It certainly doesn't come across as a serious reference to God. Then, of course, the final jewel is the artistic use of the multifaceted kyaa; for more on this see {15,10}. All these readings of dekhiye dikhlaa))e;N kyaa are possible: 1) Let's see what they would show. (as translated above) 2) Let's see-- what would they show? 3) Let's see-- would they show, or not? 4) Let's see-- as if they would show! Ghalib cited this verse in melancholy contexts, including laments about the decline of his powers as a poet. But surely he was also reminding his addressees of what he as a poet had already so richly achieved.

{46,7} puuchhte hai;N vuh kih ;Gaalib kaun hai ko))ii batlaa))o kih ham batlaa))e;N kyaa 1) {that one asks / they ask}, 'who is Ghalib?' 2a) someone tell [us], what should we say? 2b) someone tell [us]-- should we tell? 2c) someone tell [that person], 'As if we would tell!' 2d) someone tell [that person], 'What can we say?' 2e) let someone tell [that person], because we would hardly tell [him]!

Notes: puuchhte hai;N as a plural verb means that the vuh could be either plural, as expected, or singular, and receiving a respectful form of address.

Nazm: In such a place ham batlaa))e;N kyaa is an idiom, in which the asker deliberately becomes ignorant. That is, he is surprised that the asker has forgotten Ghalib in such a way, as if anybody wouldn't know him at all. (42)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this closing-verse two meanings arise, and both are not devoid of pleasure. One meaning is that she inquires, who is Ghalib and what kind of man is he? His words are in search of advice-- shall we say quite plainly that he is your lover and has given his heart to you? There would be no harm in this? The second meaning that arises is that she knows Ghalib very well indeed and still asks; that is, she shows feigned ignorance. Now let someone give us advice, as to what answer we should give her. (84)

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Bekhud Mohani: This is not a verse, it's an album in which the beloved's indifference and enjoyment of tyranny and disdain are pictured, and it's a mirror of the lover's self-sacrifice and helplessness and despair and misery and deceivedness and faithfulness and wretched condition. There are many interpretations of it. Solution 1: The beloved asked, who is this Ghalib? The lover is present right there. He asks the beloved's gathering, my God, let somebody tell me what answer I should give to this. That is, you are acquainted with her mood and temperament. What ought I to say in this situation? In ko))ii batlaa))o a high degree of anxiety emerges. Number 2: The beloved is deliberately acting ignorant. Number 3: I had very great hopes from her, but from this question of hers I realize that to this day she doesn't recognize me. Number 4: The period of separation prolonged itself so greatly, and the sorrow of separation so altered my face, that she doesn't even recognize me. (106)

Shadan: In Delhi, even now they say ko))ii batlaa))o or batlaa do . In Lucknow, they say batlaa de . If anyone who is aware of something feigns ignorance, then they say tumhe;N kyaa bataa))e;N . (189-90)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; IDIOMS; KIH; KYA; SUBJECT Another astonishing portfolio of kyaa work, combined with both straightforward and idiomatic uses of verbs for asking and telling. The first line is straightforward in meaning-- though, as Nazm points out, it can be read in the tone of a deliberate sneer. (Why, he's a complete nobody!') Is it spoken by the beloved, or by a passing stranger, or by a hostile person? Needless to say, we can't tell. In the second line, however, the complexities form a dazzling number of permutations. Most fundamentally, the ko))ii batlaa))o can request either that someone speak on his own behalf and tell the original inquirer, in answer to the question; or that someone speak on my behalf and tell the original inquirer, quoting the words that I now say; or that someone tell me, so that I can answer the question most effectively. As for the final phrase, here are the basic possibilities, with their prose word order indicated: ham kyaa batlaa))e;N ?-- what would we say/tell? kyaa, ham batlaa))e;N ?-- would we tell? or would we not tell? ham batlaa))e;N, kyaa !-- as if we would tell! we would hardly tell! But as the commentators point out-- and as I have tried to suggest in (2d)-various ones of these shade off into particular idioms and colloquial uses. The final meaning, (2e), invokes the meaning of kih not as a quoteintroducer but as 'because'; on this see {13,6}. The result is a kind of album, a set of descriptions of social identity, with implications ranging from the insulting, through the neutral and coy, to the boastful. Better use has probably never have been made of the full range of possibilities not only of kyaa (which after all is used this way all the time), but also of batlaanaa . For a similarly complex treatment of kahnaa , 'to say', see {209,1}.

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Ghazal 47 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aarii kaa composed 1816; Hamid p. 38; Arshi #019; Raza p. 121

{47,1} la:taafat be-ka;saafat jalvah paidaa kar nahii;N saktii chaman zangaar hai aa))iinah-e baad-e bahaarii kaa 1) lightness/refinement without impurity cannot produce glory/manifestation 2) the garden is the verdigris on the mirror of the spring breeze

Notes: jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence; displaying a bride (to her husband) unveiled and in all her ornaments'. (Platts p.387) zangaar : 'Verdigris; rust'. (Platts p.618)

Nazm: That is, when verdigris appeared on the mirror of the spring breeze, then greenery came into being. This is an illustration [tam;siil] of the fact that glory/manifestation cannot be incorporeal and without relationship to substance. (42-43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, until lightness is mixed with impurity, it cannot have the ability to produce glory/manifestation. In the second line is an illustration [tam;siil] by way of proof of this idea. That is, the glory/manifestation of the spring breeze occurs by means of the garden, as if the garden, with respect to its greenness, is the verdigris of the mirror of the spring breeze. The meaning is that the impurity of verdigris of the garden is the cause of the glory/manifestation of the purity of the spring breeze. (85)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as there's no impurity, the glory/manifestation of lightness can't be seen. That which you consider to be a garden is not a garden-- rather, it's the verdigris on the mirror of the spring breeze. That is, the effects of the spring breeze can be seen. By itself, the spring breeze is not a thing that can be seen. People say that they've seen the spring; their opinion is incorrect. (106)

Arshi: Compare {63,1}. (170)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} MIRROR: {8,3} Clearly the word zangaar wants us to imagine a metal mirror, one that might have some verdigris on it. (For more on Ghalib's often-baroque 'mirror' images, see {8,3}.) The spring breeze is so pure and ineffable that it is invisible. It is like a mirror so bright and lustrous that it can hardly be seen at all, and can only act as a pure reflector. Only when the mirror contains some verdigris do we actually notice it as a mirror, and not just see what is reflected in it. Tthe cloudy green of verdigris, as Nazm points out, has a fine affinity with the greenery of the garden. Another verse with zangaar : {60,10} . At least, this is the best I can make of the metaphor. But I'm not entirely satisfied. What does it mean to imagine a metal mirror that is so light or clear or pure as to be invisible? How can it fail to still look like a piece of shiny metal? And since it would presumably then be an ideal reflecting surface,

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why can't it produce jalvah through what it reflects? If what is desired is its own jalvah rather than that of what it reflects, then why is the garden part of the spring breeze's own intrinsic jalvah , rather than (as seems more logical) part of what it reflects? Should we then say that the green garden-verdigris on the breeze-mirror is what alerts us to the fact that not just the spring breeze but the whole physical world is a mirror, presumably of God's presence? Ghalib certainly knew glass mirrors, as can be seen indirectly in {34,2}, where he insists that his verse refers not to a glass but to a metal one. If we were permitted to imagine a glass mirror, I would love to imagine that the garden is the painted backing (dark on one side, brilliant on the other) that turns the transparent glassof the breeze into a reflective mirror. Although I know this is my own 'transcreation', I still can't help but like it.

{47,2} ;hariif-e joshish-e daryaa nahii;N ;xvud-daarii-e saa;hil jahaa;N saaqii ho tuu baa:til hai da((v;aa hoshyaarii kaa 1) the self-respect of the shore is not { proof against / equal to} the agitation of the sea 2) where the Cupbearer would be you, false/vain is the claim of {selfcommand / awareness}

Notes: Hali: That is to say, the shore may draw itself back hundreds of thousands of times, but when the sea is in spate, then the shore cannot remain protected. In the same way, where you are the Cupbearer, there the claim of selfcommand cannot be sustained. This verse can be applicable to both the mystical and the human realms. (143)

Nazm: He has given for the Cupbearer the simile of the agitated sea, and by shore he means his own embrace: that having taken you in an embrace, and having drunk wine given by your hands, then where is self-command? Can the selfrespect and stability of the shore go anywhere to escape the waves of the agitated sea? (43)

Hasrat: The way when faced with the turbulence of the sea, the shore cannot prevent itself from being drowned in water, in the same way where you are the Cupbearer, there no claim of self-command can exist. (46)

Bekhud Mohani: Where you are the Cupbearer, there the claim of self-command is false. An example of this is the storminess and turbulence of the sea, which the embrace of the shore cannot restrain. That is, when the sea advances, then water cannot remain in the embrace of the shore. In the same way, when your intoxicated eyes do their work, then nobody's self-control, nobody's piety, can remain. (107)

Baqir: This verse can be applied to True Reality [;haqiiqat] and Contingency [majaaz] both. (138)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The only thing I see in this verse that the commentators have not mentioned is an unusual and fascinating pattern of internal rhyme. The ghazal is in the most regular of meters, simply / - = = = / repeated four times, but in this verse Ghalib has created a marked caesura effect in the middle of each line, and emphasized it with the unusual device of what might be called reversed internal rhyme. Here is how the feet break down

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;ha rii fe jo / shi she dar yaa // na hii;N ;xud daa / ri ye saa ;hil ja haa;N saa qii / ho tuu baa :til // hai da(( v;aa ho / sh yaa rii kaa As can be seen, 'yaa' and 'kaa' echo each other, while 'saa;hil' and 'baa:til' do the same, in a sort of X-shaped pattern of allusion that is hardly likely to have come about by accident. In fact, the crossover pattern suggests what is imagined in the verse: the way the ocean and the shore would mingle, the way the resistant drinker would surrender to the rush of intoxication.

Ghazal 48 10 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa ho jaanaa composed after 1821; Hamid p. 39; Arshi #036; Raza p. 251

{48,1} ((ishrat-e qa:trah hai daryaa me;N fanaa ho jaanaa dard kaa ;had se guzarnaa hai davaa ho jaanaa 1) the ecstasy of the drop is to become obliterated in the sea 2) pain's passing beyond the limit is [its] becoming a medicine

Notes: Hali: That is to say, when pain passes beyond the limit, he will die, that is, be obliterated, the way a drop is swallowed up in the sea; and this is his goal. Thus pain's passing beyond the limit is for it to turn into a medicine. (143)

Nazm: For pain to pass beyond the limit, that is, to bring about oblivion; and to attain oblivion is exactly the goal. (43)

Chishti: Note: The first line is an illustration [tam;siil] of the second one. (392)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} This is one of a number of drop-and-ocean verses; in general they seem to be mystically inclined, for obvious reasons. In this one, we see the common pattern of two abstract statements, with no indication how they are to be connected. Are they parallel cases? Contrasting cases? Two descriptions of the same case? We know from {21,8} and other verses that it's a proper ultimate destiny, and apparently a happy one, for the drop to merge into the sea and abandon its individual life (if in fact it ever had more than an illusory pretense of an individual life). The drop starts in an unknown state; we are told only that its progress ends in an ecstasy of obliteration. The lover starts in a state of pain, moves through a pain beyond all bounds, and ends with a cure: an obliteration of pain in death. These don't seem to be the same journey. But are they parallel ones, or contrasting ones? To believe the journeys are parallel, we would need to see strong resemblances between the lover and the water-drop. The drop is made of water, it is water, and its merging with the sea is a homecoming. Can we say that the lover is made of pain, that in some sense his identity is pain, and that for him to be entirely submerged in pain, to the point of death, is an equally overwhelming (and curative) homecoming? Even for the ghazal, it sounds a bit extreme; moreover, the intolerable pain becomes a metaphorically detached 'medicine' for the lover, not a medium in which he is submerged.

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More plausibly, the two lines and the two journeys might be contrasted. For the drop, life is simple and untroubled: it anticipates a glorious, joyous, homecoming of annihilation, in which will (re)gain its true essence. For the lover, by contrast, life is full of incurable and increasing pain, and the only end is the forced termination of being finally 'put out his misery' by an unendurable extremity of pain. So the drop is much more fortunate than the lover. What the drop and the lover have in common is a means of escape from life 'here' in this finite, doomed world; but in all else they differ-- and greatly to the advantage of the drop.

{48,2} tujh se qismat me;N mirii .suurat-e qufl-e abjad thaa likhaa baat ke bante hii judaa ho jaanaa 1) from you, in my destiny, like a combination lock 2) was written-- at the moment of 'clicking', to become separated

Notes: Nazm: 'From you' is related to 'to become separated', and 'in my destiny' is related to 'was written', and 'becoming separated' refers to the opening of a lock. When the letters are arranged to form that word which the maker has prescribed, then the combination lock opens. And they say baat kaa bannaa for 'for a plan to come to fruition'. (43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib says that the storehouse of his destiny was only this much: that when a connection of the heart would be made with you, then separation would occur. (85)

Bekhud Mohani: This simile is peerless. And this verse is a collection of hopelessnesses. If a person expects to fail in some task, and does fail, he doesn't feel as much vain longing, as much regret, as much suffering, as [he does] if the task is done and he is ruined by it. (108

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH Another fine mushairah verse: see {14,9} for further discussion of this concept. You and I are like a combination lock: after some effort and care, we click-- and then instantly we are drawn apart. Within the verse, the maximum possible distance has been placed between tujh se , 'from you', and judaa ho jaanaa , 'to become separated'. Moreover, qismat has the appropriate root meaning of 'division, partition' (thus its meaning of 'share, lot; fortune, fate'. Urdu has the idiomatic X se baat bannaa , 'to achieve a rapport with X'. Luckily, modern American English has 'to click with X', a similar idiom that could hardly be improved on. The English idiom even has the fortuitious ability to evoke the sound of an opening combination lock. How Ghalib would have enjoyed it! One other combination-lock verse: {203,2}.

{48,3} dil hu))aa kashmakash-e chaarah-e za;hmat me;N tamaam mi;T gayaa ghisne me;N is ((uqde kaa vaa ho jaanaa 1) the heart, in the {struggle / tug-of-war} of the remedy of trouble, was finished off 2) in abrasion/friction, the becoming-open of this knot was erased

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Notes: kashmakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; jostling, hustling; bringing and taking away; command after command; commanding and countercommanding; great unpleasantness, or grief, or pain; distraction, dilemma, perplexity, difficulty; struggle, contention'. (Platts p.835) ghisnaa : 'To rub, to rub off or away, to abrade;...to be worn (by rubbing or friction); to be rubbed smoth (as a coin &c.); --to waste away, to wear, to fret'. (Platts p.934)

Nazm: From the schemes for repairing the trouble of the heart, such a struggle ensued that the heart itself was finished off, as though it was a knot and had been worn away. (43)

Hasrat: The convention is that if many attempts are made, usually the knot becomes even tighter, and to open it becomes impossible. (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in order to repair the trouble of the heart, the schemes created so much struggle that the heart was finished off. In the second line he presents an example of this. That is, the way by constant rubbing neither does a knot remain, nor is the cord left, so my heart was finished off by its cure. (85-86)

FWP: In line two, it is not the knot that was erased, but 'the becoming open of the knot'. This abstract and awkward diction adds to the sense of doom, of lost possibility. The lover doesn't lament the wearing-away and loss of the heartknot itself; he laments only the loss of all possibility of the knot's ever being opened. The word kashmakash is perfect for the kind of friction that would rub away a knot-- or a heart. The chaarah or remedy has to wrestle with the trouble, to pull and tug, seeking to tear it out of the heart. The trouble never does come out, though. Long before that can happen, the chance of its removal ('the becoming open of the knot') is lost as the heart itself is abraded away. The lover's condition is desperate; it's a 'kill or cure' situation, and in the ghazal world the outcome is a foregone conclusion. The irony here is that the lover dies of what we might call an 'iatrogenic' condition-- one caused by attempts at a cure. For other 'knot' verses, see {8,2} and {214,4}.

{48,4} ab jafaa se bhii hai;N ma;hruum ham all;aah all;aah is qadar dushman-e arbaab-e vafaa ho jaanaa 1) now we are deprived even of oppression-- God, God! 2) to become to this extent an enemy of the possessors of faithfulness!

Notes: Nazm: The meaning is apparent, and it's impossible to praise it enough. It's a picture of the beloved's anger, and that anger is of a particular sort. And this theme too is particularly that of the author. (43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pleasure of this verse is enrapturing; it can't be described. He says, there was a time once when we received many kinds of kindnesses and favors. Now a time has come when she doesn't show us even tyranny. Her distaste, anger, and hatred have reached such an extreme that it doesn't even please her to be tyrannical to us. God, God, to become such an enemy of the possessors of faithfulness! (86)

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Bekhud Mohani: Compare {148,2}. (108)

Chishti: This is among those verses for which to explain the meaning is to murder the attraction, meaningfulness, and effect. (393)

Arshi: Compare {60,6}. (181)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION Bekhud Mohani and Arshi both cite related verses; Bekhud's example, {148,2}, is the more apposite of the two, since it lays the matter out plainly; in it the lover begs, Don't break off relations with us-- if nothing else, at least show enmity! For the beloved to deprive the lover even of cruelty/ tyranny/ oppression is harsh treatment indeed. But of course, in the world of the ghazal there's almost always another layer. Consider for example {91,3}-- tyranny is dear to me, I am dear to the tyrant: she's not unkind, if she's not kind. If tyranny is dear to me, and depriving me of cruelty is the supreme tyranny-- well, doesn't it follow that even in that extreme or limit case the beloved is doing her proper duty as beloved? By treating me with a cruelty beyond all cruelty, isn't she even showing me a perverted kind of favor? This is where the flexibility of is qadar, 'to this extent', comes into play. 'To this extent' seems on the face of it to imply, 'to such a huge, even total extent'. But of course it can also refer to a lesser, particular, more literal 'this' extent. The lover can exclaim over her astonishingly new, inventive cruelties without necessarily collapsing under their weight.

{48,5} .zu((f se giryah mubaddal bah dam-e sard hu))aa baavar aayaa hame;N paanii kaa havaa ho jaanaa 1) because of weakness, weeping turned into cold sighs 2) [it] became credible to us-- the turning of water into air

Notes: Nazm: That is, previously we didn't understand the changing of one element into another; now we have tested it, and it has become credible. (43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Up till now we were not convinced about the problem of the changing of elements. But when we saw that because of weakness and feebleness, our weeping changed into cold sighs, then after such a test we were convinced. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: There was such an excess of weakness that neither did blood remain in the body, nor did the strength for weeping remain in the heart. Now instead of tears dust flies in my eyes. Indeed, I constantly heave cold sighs. Now, through experience, I've understood the problem of the changing of elements-- that water becomes air. (109)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This is not quite a textbook case of 'elegance in assigning a cause', but it is surely closely related. Ghalib suggests that the process of evaporation is analogous to the way weeping gives way to sighing after exhaustion sets in. If he had said that the process was identical in both cases, we'd have the classic device of 'elegance in assigning a cause'.

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Instead, he presents his own experience as merely an illustrative example, a means of enhancing his understanding of scientific principles. For the lover, the whole cosmos revolves around the experience of passion. He doesn't understand emotional realities by means of scientific observations; instead, he accepts scientific observations only because they correspond to emotional realities. What teaches him about evaporation is not the observation of sun and water, but the experience of tears and sighs. There's also a lovely bit of wordplay: hu))aa in the first line and havaa in the second line are spelled identically. In fact at the end of the first line, the dame sard, 'cold sighs', makes it very tempting to read the following word as havaa, 'air'. This gives us, so to speak, two havaa occurrences in the verse, along with baavar to emphasize the sound effects. In addition, we have mubaddal bah dam, which contains the great aural phrase 'baddal badam' that itself sounds like some kind of a small conversion. For a very similar verse, see {48,7}. Faruqi has noted a similar theme in a verse of Mir's: M{12,5}.

{48,6} dil se mi;Tnaa tirii angusht-e ;hinaa))ii kaa ;xayaal ho gayaa gosht se naa;xun kaa judaa ho jaanaa 1) the erasure from the heart, of the thought of your hennaed finger 2) became the separation of the fingernail from the flesh

Notes: Nazm: He says, has the fingernail ever been separated from the flesh? That is, those two can never be parted. The thought of the hennaed fingers cannot leave the heart. (43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what the hell-- is a fingernail ever separated from the flesh? How can we erase from our heart the thought of your hennaed fingers? It can't at all be erased. That is, it's possible that death might occur. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: A hennaed finger is one on which henna [mihndii] has been applied. Or a finger which would look red because it has been hastily cleaned of a great deal of blood and so looks rose-colored.... Compare {186,2}. (109)

FWP: Abstraction is here joined to bloody physicality. The removal from the heart of the thought of the beloved's hennaed finger became-- notice the verb-- the tearing out of a fingernail from the flesh. The verb ho gayaa makes it sound not like an abstract idea, but like something that was actually attempted. Whether the attempt succeeded or failed, it was a mental experience of physical agony. Ripping out a victim's fingernails is a classic form of torture, and surely we are meant to have that knowledge too in the back of our minds. The dimensions of affinity between the beloved's perfect, henna-reddened finger and the lover's mutilated, blood-reddened finger are unusually clear and striking. How physical, and how metaphorical, are they? The verse equates the removal of a thought from the mind, with the removal of a fingernail from the flesh. The removal of a fingernail can be accomplished, at the cost of extreme pain. Does this mean that the removal of that particular thought can also be accomplished? And the fingernail will eventually grow back; perhaps we are to believe that the thought will always grow back as well.

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{48,7} hai mujhe abr-e bahaarii kaa baras kar khulnaa rote rote ;Gam-e farqat me;N fanaa ho jaanaa 1) to me, the opening and raining down of the spring clouds is 2) weeping and weeping in the grief of separation, to become obliterated

Notes: Hali: That is to say, to weep and weep in the grief of separation and be finished off is, in my view, as commonplace a thing as for the spring clouds to open and rain down. This is an entirely original simile. (144)

Nazm: That is, to weep and weep until I die is for me a cause for joy. I consider it to be like the way the clouds rained down and became a cause for joy. The excellence in this is the freshness of the simile. (43)

Bekhud Mohani: The refinement and colorfulness of the simile is worthy of praise. (109)

FWP: This verse is an obvious companion piece to {48,5}. Compared to that one it's an even clearer example of 'elegance in assigning a cause', because the equation is made explicit. The poet maintains that in his opinion the raining down, and thus the vanishing, of the spring rainclouds 'is' their weeping their hearts out in the grief of separation, until they become entirely obliterated. Thus the macrocosm is identified with the microcosm, and dependent on it: the causes that inform the lover's behavior operate on the spring rainclouds as well. Not that this claim is made with a show of objectivity: on the contrary, it is true 'to me' [mujhe]. But what else does the ghazal universe consist of except the passionate lover's subjectivity?

{48,8} gar nahii;N nak'hat-e gul ko tire kuuche kii havas kyuu;N hai gard-e rah-e jaulaan-e .sabaa ho jaanaa 1) if the scent of the rose doesn't desire your street 2) why is its turning into dust in the path of movement of the breeze?

Notes: Nazm: That is, why does it become dust in the path of the breeze? That is, it wants to travel with the breeze to your street. The refrain has fallen from the level of idiom. (44)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the scent of flowers doesn't long and yearn to reach your street, then why does it fly around, roaming, with the spring breeze?

Bekhud Mohani: The scent of the rose is always wandering here and there. But the lover, because of the ardor of love or jealousy, thinks, if the scent of the rose doesn't long to arrive in your street, then why does it like, despite its delicacy, to be trodden underfood by the spring breeze? That is, even delicate/coquettish ones are mad, and oppressed, with love for you. (109)

FWP: As Nazm points out, the second line, while grammatical, sounds a bit awkward-- something like, 'Why is [its] becoming dust in the path of movement of the breeze?' I think the verse has a larger problem, though. Its parts just never assemble themselves into an exciting or revelatory whole. The attributing of desire or lust [havas] to the rose-scent (which doesn't really work all that well in the

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first place) leads us to expect from it some kind of anthropomorphic behavior, such as a lover would show. Instead, all we get is a set of three inert i.zaafat constructions: the rose-scent becomes 'dust of road of movement of breeze'. In other words, it places itself humbly, like dust, in the path of the breeze, hoping to be borne toward your street. Which is all very well; no doubt the lover too would like to be wafted toward your street by the breeze if he could. But the lover can't, of course. So the rose-scent is left feeling a human emotion, but acting in a feeble, vague, and non-human way to express it. The argument could be made that the verse implicitly plays with the double meaning of the word havaa, which can mean both 'desire' and 'wind, air'. If so, it's a subtle form of play, since the word doesn't appear in the verse, unless we consider havas to be a sort of evocation of it. For an explicit play of this kind on havaa, see {48,9}. To me at least, the verse feels perfunctory and mechanical. There is nothing striking or astonishing or revelatory about it. Or rather, the most striking thing about it is that it's not a very good verse. That alone makes it stand out: there are only a few genuinely uninteresting verses in Ghalib's whole divan, as far as I can judge.

{48,9} ba;xshe hai jalvah-e gul ;zauq-e tamaashaa ;Gaalib chashm ko chaahiye har rang me;N vaa ho jaanaa 1) the glory/appearance of the rose gives a relish for spectacle, Ghalib 2) the eye should, in every color/mood, become open

Notes: ba;xshe hai is a variant form of ba;xshtaa hai .

Nazm: That is, seeing flowers of many colors blooming in the garden, there is born a relish to have the eye remain open in every color/mood, and see every kind of sight.... The second line explicates the 'relish for spectacle'. (44)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, the springtime/flourishing of flowers gives pleasure. The duty of humans is that in whatever state they might be, they should behold the scenery of the world. (110)

Faruqi: In former times it was a common custom to end a ghazal with a verse-set, and in order to indicate where the verse-set begins, they put the pen-name in its first verse. By Ghalib's time this custom had not remained very prevalent, but neither had it entirely vanished. Thus these two verses are of this type. Those editors of the diivaan-e ;Gaalib who didn't know about this custom have assumed the verse with the pen-name to be the closing-verse and have put it at the end. (59) [Further comments on this verse as part of the verse-set: {48,10}.]

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} TAMASHA: {8,1} This marks the beginning of a two-verse verse-set that includes {189,9-10}. Some editors, including Hamid, don't mark the verse-set, and reverse the order of the two verses so that the formal closing-verse is at the very end. As always, I follow Arshi. This stark verse feels very modern, doesn't it? The rose's glory/appearance lures us on, so that we crave to see and enjoy the loveliness of the world, we have a relish for its 'spectacle'. But there's no good cheer here, no emphasis on the beauties of nature or the flowers that bloom in the spring. The second line is suddenly bleak: the eye should, no matter what, be open. We humans

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should look fate in the eye. Although it shouldn't be forgotten that sometimes that eye is a mystical one: on the double sense that tamaashaa, 'spectacle', has for Ghalib, see {8,1}. Of course there's also the wordplay of har rang me;N, in every 'color/ mood/ aspect'; 'color' is exactly the chief glory of the rose, and the source of its allure. But the rose's color is all too probably a dazzling veneer that coats a darker reality. It gives us a relish for looking at the world. And looking at the world seems to be a kind of grim duty, a requirement of fully human integrity: the eye 'ought' to be open, no matter what kind of reality it is destined to behold. (And sometimes, as in {117,1}, wide open eyes will have good effects.) In any case, the other verse of the verse-set, {48,10}, with its imagery of the mirror and the spring greenery, gives a more fruitful and hopeful twist to the idea of looking,

{48,10} taa kih tujh par khule i((jaaz-e havaa-e .saiqal dekh barsaat me;N sabz aa))ine kaa ho jaanaa 1a) so that the miracle of the desire for polishing would be revealed to you 1b) so that the miracle of the cleansing air would be revealed to you 2) look at how, during the rainy season, green/verdigris develops on the mirror

Notes: Nazm: In the rainy season, verdigris [zangaar] develops on a metal mirror-- as if it's greenery which the cleansing air has created.... The conclusion is that ardor is something that has an effect even on metal. (44)

Hasrat: The poet's point is that nowadays the miracle of desire has increased to such a degree that in desire [havaa] too the same effect and miraculous power has come to exist, as is in the real air [havaa]. (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: From the air of the rainy season, verdigris [zang] appears on a metal mirror. Mirza Sahib says, by way of an example, that the effect of the spring season is apparent not only in the garden and the wilderness, but rather, even a metal mirror is influenced by it. The meaning is that one ought to find rest and enjoyment in the air of spring. (86-87)

Bekhud Mohani: Solution 1: If you want to see the miracle-working power of the air of spring, then look how in the rainy season even a metal mirror becomes green. That is, the spring air is something that has the power not only to bring about growth in plants, and vitality in animals, and enthusiasm and increased beauty in humans. Rather, even a hard thing like metal is not deprived of its benefit and effect-- the color of spring has overspread it too. Number 2: The longing to create color and form afresh, and the desire for a renewal of ardor, show us miracles. If you want to understand this problem, then take a look at a metal mirror. In the rainy season, verdigris [zang] runs over it so that it will again shine brightly after polishing. (110)

Faruqi: Because the polisher is in the capacity of the beloved or the desired one, and the polisher gives attention to the mirror only when it is covered with verdigris [zang], the mirror, because of its intensity of emotion, makes itself verdigris-covered. It's impossible to do sufficient justice to this 'delicacy of

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thought'.... The polishing done by spring is that greenness that silently appears and fills in brownness, colorlessness, the ugly earth, with greenness. The polishing breeze has such an intensity of effect that even the metal polish-marks of the mirror can't help but be affected by it, and the mirror too becomes green. The simile of greenery for polish-marks on metal Ghalib has used elsewhere: {217,2}.... Anyway, let's now consider the wordplay [in both verses of the verse-set, this one and {48,9}, taken together]: glory/appearance and spectacle; rose and color; eye and color;...color and the greenness of the mirror; eye and mirror; rose (red flower) and a green color; an open eye and seeing; and the delight on top of delight is that one is being invited to look at a green mirror- that is, a mirror in which nothing can be seen. And instead of looking into a mirror, one is asked to look at the mirror. The glory/appearance of the rose and the spring;... spectacle and look. In short, it's a mirror-chamber in which the mind loses itself. (61)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} This verse marks the end of a two-verse verse-set that includes {48,9-10}; for discussion, see {48,9}. This is another of Ghalib's many 'mirror' verses. For a piquant reversal of the role of verdigris, see {63,1}. Faruqi explicates first (1a), then (1b), showing how havaa-e .saiqal can be read with remarkable sophistication and effectiveness in both senses. (The passages here are excerpted from a longer discussion; as always, he is well worth reading in the original.) If we read 'desire for polishing', we have the mirror as an ardent lover, doing anything necessary to solicit the beloved's attention, no matter how harsh or painful the form that attention will take. And if we read 'cleansing air', we have the radiant greenness of the rainy season showing its creative, revitalizing power-- even on a metal mirror. Truly, it's a marvelous verse. The two readings of the first line are so striking, and so strikingly different, and yet they both work most remarkably with the second line. Here is Ghalib being Ghalib. Is it surprising that he had no real pupils? Though it doesn't insist on it, the verse also offers a double instance of 'elegance in assigning a cause'. Did you think you knew why mirrors go green in the rainy season? Well, think again-- here are two new causes, both of them witty and revelatory.

Ghazal 49 12 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa mauj-e sharaab composed after 1821; Hamid p. 40; Arshi #049; Raza pp. 251-52

{49,1} phir hu))aa vaqt kih ho baal-kushaa mauj-e sharaab de ba:t-e mai ko dil-o-dast-e shinaa mauj-e sharaab 1) again/then the time came that it would spread its wings, the wave of wine 2) that it would give to the wine-duck the heart and hands of a swimmer, the wave of wine

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Notes: Nazm: To fly on the great wings of wine is a metaphor for the tumult of wine, and by time is meant the spring, whose mischief gives ebullience and tumult to wine. And to give to the wine-duck the heart and hands of a swimmer means that tumultuous wine itself will be its heart. And the hand of the Cupbearer will be for it the hand of a swimmer-- that is, from his hand it will swim into the circle of a prison-cell (?). And he has given the glass itself too the simile of the heart. (44)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He said, that time has come when a wave of wine would spread its wing to fly, and the wave of wine would bestow on the wine-duck a heart with an ardor for swimming....[The flagon into which newly pressed wine is poured] they call the 'wine-duck'.... The meaning of the verse is that spring has come again, and the perfume of wine has again begun to pervade the air. Then the flagons, like ducks, float along in the pools. (87)

Bekhud Mohani: Nowadays wine is not cooled in ice, but rather the 'wine-duck' swims in the step-wells, and Mirza establishes the reason for its swimming to be not the waves or the motion of the air, but the wine's own fervor. (111)

FWP: WINE verses: {9,4}; {12,2} on ;xamyaazah and ;xumaar ; {12,5x}; {13,5}; {16,9x}; {20,11}; {28,1}; {30,1}; {33,2}; {33,6}; {42,2}; {43,2}; {49}, {56,1}; {57,7}; {58,4}; {60,5}; {67,3}; {68,5}; {80,6}; {86,3}; {87,9}; {90,1}; {90,3}; {95,2} {97,5}; {97,13}; {98,1}; {107,5}; {111,13}; {114,5}; {116,3}; {118,2}; {124,5}; {131,1}; {131,5}; {132,6}; {133,2}; {133,3}; {138,3}; {140,5}; {143,4}; {149,3}; {151,3}; {152,2}; {152,4}; {153,2}; {158,3}; {159,3}; {163,4}; {166,3}; {169,3}; {169,5}; {169,6}; {176,2}; {178,7}; {178,8}; {179,1}; {180,1}; {180,4}; {181,6}; {182,2}; {189,2}; {190,9}; {192,4}; {193,4}; {196,2}; {196,6}; {199,1}; {208,7}; {208,13}; {210,2}; {211,1}; {216,1}; {219,6}; {219,9}; {221,1}; {223,2}; {229,6}; {232,1}; {232,2}; {232,6}; {233,1}; {233,14} This ghazal has a remarkably long and specific refrain. Since every verse ends in mauj-e sharaab , 'wave of wine', this unifying semantic effect turns the entire ghazal into a sort of unofficial quasi-verse-set. And the effect is intensified by the fact that the first line of this opening-verse is repeated identically as the second line of the closing-verse, {49,12}. But of course, unofficial is the operative word; the unity of the ghazal is merely thematic, not (in principle) narrative or sequential. In this one ghazal, since it's possible, I've made a point of translating in a way that preserves the refrain; you'll see that every translated verse ends in 'wave of wine'. The idea of a 'wine-duck' is so striking and poetically appropriate that it's easy to see why Ghalib would want to use it. Bekhud Mohani appears to think of it as something contemporary, though other commentators are much less sure of exactly what it is. Just for pleasure, here is-- not exactly a wineduck, but a paan -duck, from the Metropolitan Museum collection. For our purposes, the details seem less important than the image. In the first line, the 'wave of wine' itself, not the duck, is what opens its wings. It thus inspires the wine-duck to swim-- in the water of a cooling pond? in the 'wave of wine' itself? It's not clear of course-- but does it matter? For another multivalent 'wave of wine' verse, see {152,2}. I once had a go at translating (1991) this ghazal.

{49,2} puuchh mat vaj'h-e siyah-mastii-e arbaab-e chaman saayah-e :taaq me;N hotii hai havaa mauj-e sharab

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1) don't ask the reason for the 'black-drunkenness' of the lords of the garden 2) in the shadow of the niche, the breeze is a wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: That is, in the shadow of the niche the air is so forceful-- as if it has become a wave of wine. The pleasure of 'black-drunkenness' has a great affinity with the shadow. (44)

Hasrat: The poet says that when the trees are swaying drunkenly in the garden, the cause for their mood of joy is that the breeze has passed through the shadow of the grape-vines and taken on the effect of wine. (48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the shadow of the niche the air is so joy-inspiring that it's as if it has become a wave of wine. The swaying of the trees is not because of the breeze; rather, the branches sway because of the intoxication of 'blackdrunkenness'. (87-88)

Chishti: In this verse the excellence of 'elegance in assigning a cause' is found. (397)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY How much more lyrical and intoxicated-seeming can a verse get? The commentators have explained the wordplay; extreme intoxication is siyahmastii, literally 'black-drunkenness', and the image works perfectly for the dark shade [saayah] of a niche in the garden. The 'lords of the garden' are the birds and flowers, and they too are as inebriated with the springtime as are the humans who join them in celebration. There's also a lovely sound-play between siyah and saayah that echoes the wordplay between the same two words. Mr. Mat Ansari reports a family anecdote that the references to blackness and to shadow or 'shade' (which can mean 'shelter, protection') might also be related to Ghalib's gratitude to his friend and protector (and Mr. Ansari's ancestor) Kale Shah [kaale shaah], the emperor Bahadur Shah's Sufi spiritual guide, who supported Ghalib and advanced his interests in many ways. The date of the ghazal makes this possible. On at least one occasion Ghalib did make a play on Kale Shah's name, as Hali tells us: When Mirza came out of prison [for gambling, in 1847], then he went and stayed at Miyan Kale's house. One day he was sitting with the Miyan. Somebody came and congratulated him on being freed from prison. Mirza said, 'What wretch [bha;Ruvaa, literally 'pimp'] has gotten out of prison? First I was in the white man's [gaure kii] prison, now I'm in the black man's [kaale kii] prison!' (31) ==another (expurgated) trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 71 So it's possible that some overtones of Miyan Kale's name might form a part of Ghalib's private sense of this verse. However, there's no way a reader could deduce this association without special knowledge, so it can't be considered a real part of the poetics of the verse.

{49,3} jo hu))aa ;Garqah-e mai ba;xt-e rasaa rakhtaa hai sar se guzre pah bhii hai baal-e humaa mauj-e sharaab 1) the one who became drowned in wine retains a powerful fortune 2) even when it passes over the head, [it] is the Huma's wing, the wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: It's well known that anyone over whose head the shadow of the Huma passes is fortunate and of lofty destiny. And for the wave of wine to pass over the head means for intoxication to ascend into the mind. And to be as if drowned

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in wine means to be drowned in intoxication. A second aspect also emerges-that we would pass out of our heads, that is be rendered totally helpless; even then, the wave of wine is not less than the Huma's wing. (44-45)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that even after rendering one unconscious, the intoxication of wine has the authority of the wing of the Huma. It's well known that anyone on whom the Huma's shadow falls becomes a king. (88)

Bekhud Mohani: Even if wine-drinking passes beyond the limit, it's equal to kingship. In the sense that a king is free and careless; in the same way the one who passes beyond rakishness becomes free of the prison of thought and anxiety. Even if he drinks until he dies, even then it's his good fortune, because to die in an extremity of pleasure is better than to live without enjoyment. (112)

FWP: If the Huma's wing passes over your head, and its shadow falls on you, you are destined to become a king. This famous motif from Persian oral tales forms an elegant basis for the verse's wordplay. Even when the wave of wine passes over your head, it still has the magic potency of the Huma's wing. As Bekhud Mohani points out, the possibility of death by drowning is very clearly evoked. If the wave of wine 'passes over your head', you are (metaphorically) deeply intoxicated, or (literally) drowning, as the word 'drowned, submerged' (;Garqah) in the first line confirms. To drown in wine is better, it seems, then to live in abstemiousness. The drowned drinker will become a king-- but in what sense, and in what realm? Predictably, the verse leaves us to figure it out for ourselves.

{49,4} hai yih barsaat vuh mausam kih ((ajab kyaa hai agar mauj-e hastii ko kare fai.z-e havaa mauj-e sharaab 1) this rainy season is that [kind of] season-- it's hardly strange if 2) the generosity of the air would make the wave of life, a wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: The spring breeze [havaa-e bahaar] brings such revolutionary changes.... When one substance turns into another, it gives great pleasure. A second reason that poets have given attention to this theme is that when in a simile movement is the ground of similitude, then that simile is usually extremely eloquent [badii((]....In short, the author has here created a movement in expressing the generosity of the air-- he has given the simile of a wave for swiftly-passing existence, and thanks to the generosity of the air he has made that wave a wave of wine, with the affinity of being joy-producing. (45)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that in the rainy season, the fallen rain on the ground engenders greenery. Is it strange if the spring breeze [baad-e bahaarii] would make the wave of life into a wave of wine? The meaning is that the spring season [bahaar kaa mausam] produces fervor and enthusiasm in temperaments. (88)

Josh: The mention of the rainy season along with spring in this verse has come in because in Iran, spring and the rainy season come together, and these Persian ideas have spread over Urdu too. (122)

FWP: According to Arshi, this verse is the beginning of a verse-set. I really have no idea where it would end. Perhaps with {49,8}? Since nobody but Arshi seems to mark it or treat it as one, I don't have any good ideas. But he does mark it in both editions of his work, so I'm duly noting it.

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The rainy season in India has always been the season of erotic passion for lovers who are together, and erotic suffering for lovers who are separated. But it isn't exactly 'spring'. Its fertility is lush, voluptuous, but also almost overripe; everything is always on the verge of rotting and decaying in the extreme wetness. The monsoon air is often not like a 'wave of wine', but rather more like a wave of steamy water vapor and intense humidity, until the weather gradually cools off. But here, as Josh observes, the rainy season is pressed into service to play the role that spring plays in different climates. The main South Asian seasons have been described as 'cold' (mid-December to March), 'hot' (April to June), 'monsoon' (July to September), and 'post-monsoon' (October to mid-December). Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi and other commentators effortlessly turn 'the rainy season' into 'spring' in their commentary, apparently without even noticing the discrepancy. But then, how important is the discrepancy really? The world of the ghazal is in any case made up of characters and environments possessing exactly, and only, the qualities needed for poetic effectiveness within the verse. If roses smile and laugh, captured birds talk, beloveds shoot eyelash-arrows, and dead lovers describe their own decomposition, does it really matter of the rainy season is endowed with the qualities of a stylized springtime?

{49,5} chaar mauj u;Thtii hai;N :tuufaan-e :tarab se ho kar mauj-e gul mauj-e shafaq mauj-e .sabaa mauj-e sharaab 1) four waves arise, having emerged from the storm of emotion/joy 2) a wave of rose, a wave of sunset, a wave of [spring] breeze, a wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: He has given for the turbulence of emotion/joy the storm-producing sea, the waves of which he has mentioned in the second line. And in this simile too [as in 49,4}], the ground of similitude is movement. (45)

Hasrat: 'Four waves' [chaar mauj] means a 'whirlpool'. The pleasure is that in the second line four kinds of waves have also been mentioned. (49)

Bekhud Mohani: In the spring, a storm of pleasure and joy has come; four waves are arising in all directions. On the ground a wave of rose and a wave of wine, in the atmosphere a wave of spring breeze, in the sky a wave of sunset. That is, nowadays everything in the earth and sky and atmosphere is in the grip of the fervor of spring and the intoxication of spring. (112)

FWP: Hasrat takes 'four waves' [chaar mauj] to refer to a whirlpool, and the use of the singular mauj rather than the plural mauje;N increases the plausibility of his suggestion. Hamid too makes this suggestion (p. 40). In addition, chaar can often colloquially mean 'some, a few': remember Zafar's ko))ii chaar phuul cha;Rhaa))e kyuu;N ('why would anyone offer a few flowers?' rather than 'why would anyone offer four flowers?') Perhaps we are also meant to think of the four traditional Greek-Islamic cosmological elements, earth (rose), air (breeze), water (wine) and fire (sunset)? Here, these elements seem to arise not from the forces of impersonal nature but from the microcosm of the lover's soul, from the 'storm of emotion/joy' in his heart. And of course, all these elements converge for an occasion as well: a garden full of roses and breezes, at sunset, is an ideal situation for drinking wine and savoring the overwhelming sensual beauty of the world.

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Ghalib always defeats you, though, when you try translating him. I remember how proud I was of coming up with my own version of this ghazal, and especially of this verse, which I knew was the very best I could possibly do: Out of the storm of joy Four, flung from the vortex: rose-wave, sunset-waave wave of wind, wave of wine And yet-- how unsatisfying. Even at the best, the sound effects you can get are so inferior to those of the original, the meaning is so attenuated or warped. What the hell is 'vortex' doing there? I can't seem to do without it, but obviously this is a 'transcreation'.

{49,6} jis qadar ruu;h-e nabaatii hai jigar-tishnah-e naaz de hai taskii;N bah dam-e aab-e baqaa mauj-e sharaab 1) to the extent that the vegetative soul deeply thirsts because of coquetry 2) [it] gives peace with a breath of the water of eternity, the wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: By 'vegetative soul' is meant the power of growth, which is in humans too. The meaning is that the longing and turbulence that arises in us through wine is the action of the power of growth. That is, wine works for the power of growth the way rain works for plants. And here, 'coquetry' means to swagger and spread oneself, which is the necessary part of pride and coquetry, and the special feature of growth. (45)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that the extent to which trees have the power of growth in the rainy season, in the same way in the hearts of wine-drinkers longing and turmoil are begotten. That is, wine is a kind of power of growth which generates in people's hearts not only growth and flourishingness, but also pride and coquetry. (88)

Bekhud Mohani: To the extent that the vegetative soul of mankind is coquettish, the wave of wine gives it exactly that many sips of the water of life and brings it peace. That is, according to the longing for the strength of growth, the wave of wine gives help in flourishingness and increase. The meaning is that the way vegetation, etc., flourishes because of rain, in the same way human strength flourishes because of wine. (112)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} The 'vegetative soul' is thirsty, and the wave of wine comforts it with a taste of the water of eternity; that much is clear. The word nabaatii comes from an Arabic root for 'to grow', and growth both seeks its own enhancement, and somehow subliminally looks for its limits. Is there (or isn't there) something that the principle of growth is growing toward? Is the 'vegetative soul' thirsting (1) to display coquetry (by showing off its verdure and luxuriance); or (2) to submit to coquetry (by encountering a 'beloved' with a power and glory greatly superior to its own)? The commentators prefer the first meaning, but I would emphasize the second as well. For an example of such a longing to experience naaz from a beloved, see {71,5}. By offering the water of eternity, the wave of wine perhaps reassures the 'vegetative soul' that its radiant, adorable growth is powerful and indeed almost infinite, since it is nourished by the water of eternity, as in (1). Alternatively, it perhaps gives it the calming, settling assurance that its

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merely finite, this-worldly growth is bounded by the limits of time, and that it is held in check by an even more adorable vitality and will that are outside time altogether, and must make its submission, as in (2). Do I even need to say that surely Ghalib means for us to entertain both possibilities, together and/or in alternation? The 'wave of wine' is the perfect medium for the conveying of such a double-edged vision, since wine reconciles us to life, and also to death.

{49,7} baskih dau;Re hai rag-e taak me;N ;xuu;N ho ho kar shahpar-e rang se hai baal-kushaa mauj-e sharaab 1a) [it] runs to such an extent in the vein of the vine, having become blood 1b) although [it] runs in the vein of the vine, having become blood 2) with a royal-feather of color/mood [it] spreads its wings, the wave of wine

Notes: shahpar: 'The longest feather in a wing.' (Steingass, p. 769) rang: 'colour, tint, hue, complexion; ...appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method'. (Platts p.601)

Nazm: That is, the way blood flows in the veins, in the same way in the veins of vines runs the essence of wine, and because of it the vines flourish verdantly. Thus its running is flight, and its greenery and colorfulness are the royalfeather of flight. (46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the essence of wine is running in the veins of grape-vines, the way blood runs in veins. And the way people's faces grow rosy from the running of blood, in the same way greenness and verdantness have been engendered in grape-vines by the wave of wine, as if greenness and and verdantness were engendered by the royal-feather of flight. (88-89)

Bekhud Mohani: The essence of wine runs through every grape-leaf, the way blood runs in human veins, and the greenness and flourishingness of the leaves act as a royal-feather for flight. When a man is very strong, then blood runs freely. (113)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH This whole ghazal is unusually lyrical and sensuous, isn't it? It has such flowingness that even to read it aloud is almost intoxicating. The evocative (and resonant) phrase baal-kushaa, literally 'wing-opening' or 'wingspreading', appears in the first line of {49,1}, and is echoed here. We speak of 'flights' of imagination, and of being 'high', so the metaphorical range comes through somewhat even in translation. The word rang is also perfect, with its range of meaning from 'color' into realms of abstraction; for an example of even more multivalent use of this word, see {6,1}. When a 'wave of wine' opens its wings and prepares to take flight, what else except color/ mood/ style/ nature (any or all of them, of course) would be the longest feather in its wing? Even to personify a wave of wine as a bird is a feat of creative imagination in itself. For more on the double meaning in the first line of baskih, 'although' (as itself and as short for az baskih, 'to such an extent'), see {13,5}. Here too, both possibilities are fully engaged by the second line. If we read it as short for az baskih, as in (1a), we see that the blood-wine in the veins of the grapevines is so potent that because of its power it also becomes a kind of wing of color and flight. If we read it as simply baskih, 'although', as in (1b), we

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learn that even though wine has the (liquid) form of blood in the vine-veins, nevertheless it also has the airy power of feathers, wings, and flight.

{49,8} maujah-e gul se chiraa;Gaa;N hai guzar-gaah-e ;xayaal hai ta.savvur me;N z bas jalvah-numaa mauj-e sharaab 1) through the wave of rose, the pathway of thought is a lamp-display 2) in the imagination [it] shows such glory/radiance, the wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: In this verse he has first used for 'wave of wine' the simile of 'wave of rose', then the simile of lamps, and by means of the affinity with lights he has constructed 'thought' as a 'pathway'. That is, what's the thought of the wave of wine? It's a wave of rose. What's a wave of rose? It's a path, in the imagination, of lights. It's obvious that if one uses a lamp as a simile for a wave of rose, then there's no cause of similitude. No doubt, if one uses a wave of rose as a simile for a wave of wine, then the cause of similitude, color, is present in both. And the simile of lamps for a wave of rose is perfect. That is, the radiance of every single rose is compared to the flame of a lamp. The result is that if a wave of rose is likened to lamps, and a wave of wine is likened to a wave of rose, then from the imagining of a wave of wine, the pathway of thought is lamp-lit. [Similes can legitimately be used in this transitive way, but] the condition is the oneness of the cause of similitude. Here, that is not found. That is, in the wave of wine and the wave of rose the cause of similitude is simple, and in the wave of rose and the lamps the cause of similitude is superimposed. (46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that different-colored flowers have bloomed and and created a springtime of lamps on the pathways of thought. And this is because the wave of wine has manifested itself in glory in the imagination. (89)

Bekhud Mohani: For the wave of colorful and glittering drops of wine, he has given the simile of rose-beds. And he says, the thought of the wave of wine has so settled in the heart that the sight of a rose-bed remains constantly before the eyes. [Nazm] Tabataba'i says that the simile of lamps and a wave of wine is impossible because no cause of similitude is present. [I say that] the similitude of lamps for a wave of wine is obvious, because every rose is a lamp, every drop of wine is a lamp. The cause of similitude is color and perfume. (113)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH JALVAH: {7,4} Nazm to the contrary, the imagery of this verse seems more straightforward than that of the previous one, {49,7}. In that one, after all, the wave of wine not only became blood and flowed in veins, but then instantly also became a kind of bird, with feather and wing. In this one, the wave of wine simply becomes a wave of rose, and a light for the path of thought-- images that are more abstract and less mutually contradictory, and thus easier to imagine. The wave of (red) wine is radiant like a lamp, and thus can be a wave of 'rose'-colored brilliance-- in the imagination, of course. 'In the imagination', ta.savvur me;N, can surely be taken in two ways, just as it can in English. As the primary meaning, something can exist 'in the imagination' only, meaning that it's not real but is just a product of fancy. On this reading, we imagine that the wave of wine is a rose-colored lamp, though we do (or at least should) know better.

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Or, if the metaphor is restored to its concrete possibilities, the imagination can be seen as a space that things can be 'in', a realm that can have both pathways and lamps to illumine them. On this reading, our imagination is indeed lighted by the rosy brilliance of the wave of wine, which provides a kind of decorative lamp-display; for more on chiraa;Gaa;N see {5,5}. A lamp-display is also a compelling image for the imagination. For while a single lamp lights the path, and thus helps the traveler, a whole decorative lamp-display is so eye-catching and dazzling that it causes the traveler to pause and enjoy, rather than moving onward in the real world.

{49,9} nashshe ke parde me;N hai ma;hv-e tamaashaa-e dimaa;G baskih rakhtii hai sar-e nashv-o-numaa mauj-e sharaab 1) in the curtain/guise of intoxication, [it] is absorbed in the spectacle of the mind 2a) to such an extent [it] has a head for nurture and growth, the wave of wine 2b) although [it] has a head for nurture and growth, the wave of wine

Notes: Nazm: That is, the attention that wine paid to nurture and growth, turned into intoxication and rose into the head, and the words 'mind' and 'head' have a mutual affinity. (46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the wave of wine, in the guise of intoxication, is absorbed in the spectacle of the mind. And this is because it has an ardor for nurture and growth. The meaning is that the way thought gradually makes progress and advances very greatly, in the same way the intoxication of wine, having arrived in the mind, keeps advancing. (89)

Bekhud Mohani: Since the wave of wine has regard for the flourishing and growth of the mind, it mounts into the wine in the form of intoxication and contemplates the mind. (113)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH TAMASHA: {8,1} VEIL: {6,1} Like {49,7}, this verse plays sophisticatedly with the double meaning of baskih. If we read it as 'to such an extent', as in (2a), we see line two as the cause and line one as the result. Because the wave of wine is so concerned with nurture and growth, it uses intoxication as a kind of cloak to screen itself while it pursues its real mission: studying-- and perhaps shaping or invigorating-- the mind. If we read baskih as short for az-baskih, 'although', then line two is read concessively: although the wave of wine is concerned with nurture and growth, nevertheless it is so entranced by the spectacle of the mind that it simply veils itself within the cloak of intoxication and watches quietly, in fascination. On the double meaning of baskih, see {13,5}. And let's not forget that the spectacle [tamaashaa] of the mind can have a mystical as well as a this-worldly sense; for more on this, see {8,1}. Describing the wave of wine as 'having a head for', sar-e, adds an extra source of pleasure. 'Head' has an affinity with 'mind', as Nazm points out; and the head and mind are the locus of intoxication. The effect is almost to suggest that the wave of wine too succumbs to a kind of intoxication. After all, the intoxication that the wave of wine uses as a 'curtain/guise' in the first line might perfectly well, grammatically speaking, be an intoxication felt by the wave of wine itself.

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{49,10} ek ((aalam pah hai;N :tuufaanii-e kaifiiyat-e fa.sl maujah-e sabzah-e nau;xez se taa mauj-e sharaab 1) [they] are at a [unique] height, the stormy ones of the mood of the season 2) from the wave of new greenery to the wave of wine

Notes: :tuufaanii: '(adj. & s.m.) Stormy, tempestuous; of or relating to a deluge;... -a boisterous fellow; a mischief-making person; an incendiary'. (Platts p.754)

Nazm: That is, the wave of wine and the wave of greenery have created a storm of the mood of the spring season-- that is, of joy and delight. (46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the mood of the spring season and the mood of the wave of wine have created a storm in the whole world. That is, the spring season has engendered greenery and roses without limit, and the intoxication of wine has created boundless joy and happiness, as if a storm of both things has come into the world. (89)

Josh: Because of 'wave', the excellence of the word 'storm' is clear. The meaningful breadth of this word's ability to create beauty is also worthy of praise. (124)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT Josh points out the wordplay between 'wave' and 'storm'. Calling the wave of greenery and the wave of wine 'stormy ones' [:tuufaanii]makes them feel as overwhelming as a typhoon [:tuufaa;N], which is an irresistible rush of air and water that sweeps all before it. After all, isn't the verdant, breeze-filled spring garden, when combined with the intoxicating rush of the wine, equally potent-- and equally devastating? This not only is a verse of kaifiyat, 'mood', but actually contains the word kaifiyat itself (here spelled kaifiiyat, with a tashdiid, for metrical reasons). The 'mood' has reached a special, overpowering level that extends over a wide range-- 'from' the wave of greenery 'to' the wave of wine. But over a wide range of what? If it is space, then the range is from the garden to the convivial gathering where the drinkers and the Cupbearer gather. And if it is time, then the wave of greenery includes the new fresh buds on the grape-vines that are destined eventually to become the wave of wine. Thanks to the versatility of the i.zaafat, moreover, the relationship between the 'stormy ones' and the 'mood of the season' could go in more than one direction. Are the 'stormy ones' themselves (passively) intoxicated by the mood of the season? Or are they 'stormy' because they (actively) stir up and generate the mood of the season? Since the line features two i.zaafat constructions in a row, there are still other possibilities, but these seem the most provocative; for more on the uses of i.zaafat, see {16,1}.

{49,11} shar;h-e hangaamah-e hastii hai zahe mausam-e gul rahbar-e qa:trah bah daryaa hai ;xvushaa mauj-e sharaab 1) [it] is a commentary on the commotion of existence-- good for the roseseason! 2) [it] is a guide for the drop to the sea-- hooray for the wave of wine!

Notes: Nazm: That is, the flourishing of the rose and the sea is saying, look how the turmoil of existence has heated up! And similarly, creatures engage in praise

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and celebration. And the wave of wine, having fertilized the world of existence, now shows the drop the way to the sea. (46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the ardor of the rose-season is telling us, 'Enthusiasm of the turmoil of existence is established in the world thanks to me alone-- as if I am a commentary on the turmoil of existence'. And in the same way the wave of wine is claiming, 'To take the drop to the sea, I have the power of a guide [;xi;zr-e raah]'. That is, the way the drop goes and finds oblivion in the sea, in the same way the intoxication of wine conveys the soul into the world of self-lessness, to its destined place. (89)

Josh: In both lines he has created comparability and a fine display of parallelism [;husn-e tar.sii((]. (124)

Chishti: In this verse the verbal device of 'juxtaposition' [taqaabul] is found, and the trimness of construction is worthy of praise. (401)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} Another of Ghalib's many drop-and-ocean verses. Structurally, its feature is parallelism, as Josh points out; for more on this see {22,5}. As usual in the verses that rely on parallelism of structure, the question of how to juxtapose the lines is especially acute. Do the two lines offer (a) two statements of the same basic situation? Or (b) statements of two similar situations? Or (c) statements of two contrasting situations? If the two lines offer two statements of the same basic situation, as in (a), then spring and wine are interpreters of the same tumultuous experience of life in the world, and we, along with the drop, are grateful for their help in leading us through and beyond that tumult to the great sea in which we can find the peace and fulfillment of oblivion, fanaa . If the two lines offer statements of two similar situations, as in (b), then we see the lines as truly parallel. The rose-season is a commentary on the tumult of existence, because although roses are captivatingly beautiful, their lives are painfully short. Through them we come to understand that we need to look beyond this transient world. Similarly, and very appropriately, the flow of the wave of wine is what guides the drop to the sea. The wine starts as new green grapes in the verdure of spring; the grapes are later ripped from their stems, trampled and crushed, fermented into wine, passed rapidly around in glasses and waved in the air, before attaining oblivion even as they offer intoxication (and oblivion?) to the drinkers. Just as the life-cycle of the rose guides us, so the life-cycle of the 'wave of wine' guides the (literal? metaphorical?) drop to the sea. If the two lines offer statements of two contrasting situations, as in (c), then we could say that while both the rose-season and the wave of wine deserve praise and gratitude, the wave of wine deserves more. The rose-season offers merely a commentary, while the wave of wine offers guidance all the way, and brings the journey to the only possible successful conclusion.

{49,12} hosh u;Rte hai;N mire jalvah-e gul dekh asad phir hu))aa vaqt kih ho baal-kushaa mauj-e sharaab 1a) my senses take flight, having seen the glory/appearance of the rose, Asad 1b) my senses take flight-- look at the glory/appearance of the rose, Asad! 2) again/then the time came that [it] would spread its wings, the wave of wine

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Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, since I saw the glory/appearance of the rose my senses have started to leave me. It seems that that time is coming, along with the spring, when the wave of wine will begin to fly in the air-- that is, here and there wine distilleries will be set up. (89-90)

Baqir: Oh Asad, having seen the glory/appearance of the rose, my senses are leaving me. It seems that again that time has come when the wave of wine would begin to move-- that is, the flagon would circulate for wine-drinking. It's possible that dekh might be the imperative of the verb. Between 'take flight' and 'wing' is a verbal affinity. (147)

Josh: Because of the wordplay of flying, he has described the wave of wine as 'spreading its wings'.... The first line of then the opening-verse has been repeated in the closing-verse. This repetition too is pleasurable in concluding a thought. Musicians too end their melodies by repeating the first line. (124)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} As Josh points out, the first line of {49,1} has been repeated as the second line of this last verse, thus providing an unusual sense of circularity and closure. In this respect too, as in the substantialness and influence of its refrain, this ghazal is unique in the whole divan. 'My senses take flight' is a fine way to end such a sensuous ghazal, one so full of soaring and intoxication. I faint, I swoon, I lose my senses-- because I have seen the glory/appearance, the jalvah, of the rose. Or else, feeling myself losing consciousness, I urge myself to make the glory of the rose the last sight to be fixed in my eyes. As Baqir observes, the grammar easily permits both interpretations. But how to connect the two lines? If we read line one as logically prior, then I find myself swooning, overcome by the rose-glory, and I recognize that now the time has come for the wave of wine to spread its wings, for me to lose myself entirely in (mystical?) intoxication. If we read line two as logically prior, then first the time comes once again for the wave of wine to spread its wings, and its effect on me is so powerful that I find myself swooning with visions of rose-glory. In a seductive, radiant, sensuous ghazal like this, it's hard to tell the difference between cause and effect, and perhaps it doesn't matter as much as usual, anyway.

Ghazal 50 3 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: ar angusht composed 1816; Hamid p. 41; Arshi #050; Raza p. 133

{50,1} afsos kih dandaa;N kaa kiyaa rizq falak ne jin logo;N kii thii dar-;xvur-e ((aqd-e guhar angusht 1) alas that the heavens made [their finger] a prey/food for teeth! 2) those people whose finger was worthy of a wreath of pearl

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Notes: Hasrat: Those people whose finger was worthy of a string of pearls, alas that the heavens made their finger the prey of teeth-- that is, alas that those people have their finger pressed to their teeth in vain longing. (50)

Bekhud Mohani: The revolutions of the times made the fingers of those people the prey of teeth, who were worthy to have pearl rings on their fingers. That is, the times have overpowered the most beautiful ones, and so ground them up that the finger would remain on the teeth [with amazement]. That is, the times have always been the enemy of people of accomplishment and beauty. (114)

Baqir: [If dandaa;N is accepted, then it becomes] those people are biting their fingers in vain longing. The meaning is that possessors of accomplishment lead lives of poverty and vain longing, not of peace and rest. (148)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH FOOD: {6,4} There's a textual disagreement about this verse. Nazm defends diidaa;N [worms] instead of dandaa;N [teeth] (47), as does Bekhud Dihlavi (90), as does Baqir (148), as does Chishti (402), as does Mihr (186). As always, I follow Arshi, and this time with pleasure-- I think dandaa;N makes for much better wordplay. And in fact, without wordplay, what does this verse have to offer? Surely whatever piquancy it has comes from the comparison/contrast between teeth and pearls. (Worms and pearls offer no possibilities at all, as far as I can see.) In case anyone finds the grammar of the verse a bit confusing, here's my reconstruction of its ideal prose form-- afsos kih falak ne [un logo;N kii angusht ko] dandaa;N kaa rizq kiyaa / jin logo;N kii angusht dar;xvur-e ((aqd-e guhar thii The gesture of touching the tip of the first finger of the right hand to the front lower teeth conveys astonishment, perplexity, bafflement. This mood can easily shade into stupefaction and helpless dismay, as Ghalib presumably intends us to realize. The teeth are parted to permit the finger to be conspicuously perched there, so it's possible to imagine that the teeth encircle the finger as if to prey upon it. Thus people whose finger deserves a wreath or ring (literally, a 'knot') made of pearls, are instead condemned to have their finger encircled only by a ring of teeth. This image works in several ways. On a literal level, the teeth threaten the finger, as if the finger were encircled by predators. On a metaphorical level, the teeth enable the finger to express stupefaction and dismay. And when the two lines are juxtaposed, the teeth are compared, to their disadvantage, with pearls. Both teeth and pearls are white and shining, but teeth are humble while pearls are aristocratic; teeth are mere body parts while pearls are expensive; teeth are dangerous, while pearls are delicate; teeth just happen to grow, while pearls are the result of much travail (as for example in {78,2}). That being said, this still seems to be basically a 'mushairah verse'; see {14,9} for more on this concept. When you've got it, you've got it, and there's nothing more left for another time.

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{50,2} kaafii hai nishaanii tiraa chhalle kaa nah denaa ;xaalii mujhe dikhlaa ke bah vaqt-e safar angusht 1) it's enough of a token, your not giving a ring 2) at the time of departure, having shown me an empty finger

Notes: chhallaa : 'A plain ring (of gold, silver, or other metal, worn on a finger or toe)'. (Platts p.462)

Nazm: A token is for the purpose of causing its giver to be constantly remembered. Your kind gesture is that at the time of departure, as an excuse for not giving a token, you showed me your little finger: 'Look, even though this is empty, I will never forget. Enough-- this is sufficient for remembering.' Or think of it like this-- that out of mischief she hid the ring and showed an empty finger. (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The rule is that at the time of departure, usually a ring is given as a token, to keep memory fresh. Mirza Sahib says, at the time of departure, to keep memory alive, instead of a ring, she showed me an empty finger, and this became, to me, more than the mark of a ring. I will remember this token of her: that she didn't even give me a ring as a token. (90)

Bekhud Mohani: Solution 1: At the time of departure, he had asked the beloved for a ring as a token. She showed her empty finger. Mirza says, 'The coquetry of that reply is itself a token that will keep reminding me of you'. In this verse it's also necessarily apparent that the beloved is fond of simplicity; she doesn't wear jewelry. Number 2: At the time of departure, on being asked for a ring as a token, the beloved showed her thumb [in mockery]. He says that I'll never forget this coquetry of mischievousness. (114)

Baqir: He says that when you were going on a journey without me, you didn't give me a ring as a token-- rather, when leaving you showed me an empty finger: 'Look, I don't have a ring, otherwise I would certainly have given you a ring'. Oh my friend, this token of yours is enough for me, that you showed me an empty finger. Showing an empty finger gives rise to two ideas: first, that she showed me a thumb [in mockery] out of mischievousness. Of which the meaning is, 'You aren't getting a ring at all, so just get used to it'. The second idea is that I will remember this very thing-- that you didn't give me a token. (148)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN In the first line Nazm has tirii , as do Hamid and Bekhud Dihlavi. As always, I follow Arshi. It's a marvelous verse, isn't it? Either very funny, or very sad, or quite matter-of-fact, or even cheerful. As so often, tone and mood are everything. Baqir summarizes the possibilities very nicely. Who is my beloved, and how do I remember her? That's easy-- she's the one who (ostentatiously?) didn't give me a ring when she left. And what was she implicitly saying, as she showed me her empty finger? Look at some of the possibilities: =You and I don't need rings, our hearts are one already. =Without you, I'm like a finger without a ring.

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=Whenever you see an empty finger, you'll remember me. =Oh dear, I'm out of luck, I forgot to bring a ring that I could give you. =You think you'll get a ring from me? =I make a gesture of mockery with my finger, as my token to you. Any or all of the above, of course. But what gives the verse a sense of mystery and depth is the lover's expressing contentment with the empty finger-- it's enough, your not giving me a ring; it's enough of a token of you. So we can imagine his side too, of all the possible interpretations above. Either it's enough because I'm so assured of your love, and so satisifed with it-- who needs a ring? Or it's enough because it evokes you perfectly, and what could I want more than that? Or it's enough because at least you took the trouble to notice me and offer me a gesture in parting. Not only do we not know her feelings toward him, we also don't know how he interprets her feelings, and what feelings he himself is expressing as he recalls the emblematic gesture. For another kind of paradoxical negative nishaanii , see {183,4}.

{50,3} likhtaa huu;N asad sozish-e dil se su;xan-e garm taa rakh nah sake ko))ii mire ;harf par angusht 1) [I] write, Asad, out of the burning of the heart, 'hot'/enthusiastic poetry 2) so that no one would be able to {'put a finger on' / criticize } my letters

Notes: Nazm: 'Heat of poetry' has the meaning of 'excellence of poetry', and 'to put a finger on' has the meaning of 'to point out a flaw'. (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, I write such delicate and pure verses that in my poetry opponents can't even point out a flaw. (90)

Baqir: The verse has become lofty through wordplay. The literal interpretation is that because of the burning of the heart, my poetry is so hot that nobody can even put a finger on it. (148-49)

Josh: The objection can be made, that this closing-verse is ostentatious-- thinking of the regularity of the refrain, the author has been forced to replace [the common word for finger] uu;Nglii with [the Persianized] angusht, and to ignore the unpleasing effect that this creates on the idiom. (125)

Chishti: This verse has been written only for the sake of the wordplay. It's nothing special. (403)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH; POETRY == TRANSLATABLES Another clever, suitable, amusing 'mushairah verse' like {50,1}; see {14,9} for more on the concept. The wordplay is so clear and universal that it comes through very well even in translation. My burning heart is the raw material that permits me to write such 'hot' verses that nobody would be able, literally, 'to put a finger on' them. In Urdu idiom, 'to put a finger on' is to blame. In English we have 'to lay a finger on', meaning to touch with some (usually harmful) intention, and 'to point a finger at', meaning to reproach or blame. My verses are thus so hot in temperature that no one can put a finger on them for fear of being burned; and so metaphorically hot and brilliant that no one can 'put a finger on' them by way of reproach or criticism. It makes a suitably witty and grandiloquent end for a ghazal.

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Ghazal 51 4 verses; meter G12; rhyming elements: at salaamat composed after 1821; Hamid p. 42; Arshi #052; Raza p. 252 {51,1} rahaa gar ko))ii taa qiyaamat salaamat phir ik roz marnaa hai ;ha.zrat salaamat 1) if until Doomsday someone would remain well, 2) still/then, one day [it] is necessary to die, [Your] Excellency [who is] well!

Notes: salaamat: 'Safety, salvation; tranquillity, peace, rest, repose; immunity; liberty; soundness; recovery; health'. (Platts p.668)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even if some individual lives until Doomsday, then so what? It's necessary to die-- he'll die on Doomsday. Dying on Doomsday has created this pleasant effect, that Doomsday is the day when the dead come to life. For someone to die on that day will not be devoid of pleasure. (91)

Bekhud Mohani: It seems that someone has expressed a longing for a long life, or a regret at someone's dying at an early age. This verse is in answer to that. (115)

Josh: ;ha.zrat salaamat is a colloquial idiom meaning 'Your Excellency'. With regard to dying, the word salaamat in this utterance is nothing less than mischievousness of style. (125)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} QIYAMAT: {10,11} As Josh observes, the use of ;ha.zrat salaamat is the chief pleasure of this verse. As a common title of respect, it means something like 'Your Auspicious Excellency', or in this case 'Your Excellency who possesses salaamat'. Since salaamat means something like 'wellbeing', including 'health' and 'safety', the use of this seemingly respectful title for the addressee comes across as tongue-in-cheek, and reminds the addressee that he shares our common human vulnerability. Bekhud Dihlavi points out that qiyaamat, 'Doomsday', is literally a day of resurrection, with a root meaning 'to stand'. It's the day when God will cause the dead to rise up and receive judgment. To say that someone will live till the day the dead rise, and still/then (phir) die one day, is a piquant notion that could suggest some odd theological possibilities. (What kind of an ik roz will it be when such a person dies?) There is also, of course, the enjoyable metrically-reinforced sound-play of qiyaamat salaamat. Ghazals of the 'short meter' kind, like this one, can make good use of fixed expressions with many nuances, like salaamat; for more on short meters see {21,1}.

{51,2} jigar ko mire ((ishq-e ;xuu;N-naabah-mashrab likhe hai ;xudaavand-e ni((mat salaamat 1) to the liver my pure-blood-drinking passion 2) writes, 'Oh beneficient and safe/healthy master!'

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Notes: salaamat: 'Safety, salvation; tranquillity, peace, rest, repose; immunity; liberty; soundness; recovery; health'. (Platts p.668)

Nazm: That is, passion has been nourished by drinking the blood of my liver; thus it writes to it with this title of honor. (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the food of passion is blood. Passion has been nourished by drinking the blood of my liver. Thus passion, the drinker of pure blood, addresses it as 'beneficent master'. (91)

Bekhud Mohani: The gist of the meaning is that today in this age, except for me no one has the enthusiasm, or the heart [lit., 'liver'], to feel passion. Passion lives thanks to me. (115)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH JIGAR: {2,1} This is another 'liver' verse; for more discussion, see {30,2}. As we know, in ghazal physiology the liver is the source of fresh blood, and is the only means by which passion can be sustained over time-- since the heart with its bloody wounds, and the eyes with their bloody tears, are constantly shedding it. Thus passion is described as 'pure-blood-drinking', and passion is naturally grateful and flattering in its address to the liver. The irony is in its addressing the liver as salaamat, when its own constant demands are exactly what will eventually wear the liver away and prevent it from remaining either 'safe' or 'healthy'. This is also an example of what I would call a 'mushairah verse'; see {14,9} for more on this concept. You can't tell from the first line where the second is going; the 'punch' is withheld until the last possible moment; and once the first burst of enjoyment has been experienced, there are no hidden depths that would require-- or reward-- further contemplation of the verse. All these qualities make for quick, effective impact during oral performance.

{51,3} ((alii ul-ra;Gm-e dushman shahiid-e vafaa huu;N mubaarak mubaarak salaamat salaamat 1) in despite of the enemy, [I] am a martyr to faithfulness 2) congratulations, congrations! [all is] well, [all is] well!

Notes: The phrase ((alii ul-ra;Gm, meaning 'in spite of, in despite of,' is pronounced as though it were ((alii'r-ra;Gm, with the ii flexible and shortened, and scanned accordingly.

Nazm: 'Congratulations' because the intention is against the enemy, and 'may you be well' because he became a martyr to faithfulness, and martyrdom of one's life is a love of the vision [of beauty] (;hubb-e diid). (47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, through obtaining martyrdom I have become one who has eternal life. Thus I will remain in a good state. (91)

Bekhud Mohani: The enemy wanted me to be proved unfaithful. But I gave my life in the path of faithfulness.Thus he himself congratulates himself. (115)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; REPETITION

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One of the ultimate exclamatory, inshaa))iyah verses. The whole second line seems to be a startling, tongue-in-cheek (?) chorus of self-praise by the lover. But of course, how are we to read it in the light of the first line? Hah, the lover says, I defied the enemy and martyred myself for faithfulness! Now isn't that a triumph? And in order not to permit his claim to sound hollow, he loudly congratulates himself and proclaims the auspiciousness and soundness of his deed. Because there seems to be no one else to do so. Because no one else is around, and he's ended up alone? Because his friends all disapprove of his behavior? Because he himself has had to fight down his own doubts and fears-- and retrospective regrets? Or, worst of all, because the beloved doesn't appreciate his supreme sacrifice? The beloved may even be the 'enemy' who has opposed his dying, and in defiance of whom he's died. There is precedent for calling the beloved an 'enemy' (dushman); see for example {4,3}. Or, technically speaking, he might really mean it, he might just be expressing his overflowing joy. But still-- this particular verse feels very much like a case of 'methinks thou dost protest too much,' doesn't it? The second line sounds chilling, like the sound of someone whistling too loudly in a haunted house.

{51,4} nahii;N gar sar-o-barg-e adraak-e ma((nii tamaashaa-e nairang-e .suurat salaamat 1) if there is no equipment of the senses for meaning 2a) the spectacle of the wonder of form [is] fine/satisfactory 2b) the spectacle of the wonder of form-- [may it be] well/sound!

Notes: Nazm: If there's no access to the world of meaning, then let it be so. May the miracle and revolving of the world of appearance remain well, for it is a mirror of the Beloved of meaning. (48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if I did not obtain a sight of the High Court of God Himself, and did not obtain senses fit for the Essence, then so be it. Seeing the colorful aspects of the world of the senses, I have obtained perfect belief in the existence of God Most High, for someone is the creator of this world. (91)

Faruqi: Compare {9,4}. Two interpretations of the verse under discussion have been set forth. In both cases, the word 'spectacle' [tamaashaa] bears a crucial importance. For Ghalib, 'spectacle' is both a Sufi term, and a poetic term of his own. As a poetic term, 'spectacle' means 'those attractive and colorful scenes and manifestations that continually appear in the material world, and that attract the poet's attention because they are both captivating and grief- and thoughtprovoking. In this way, 'spectacle' becomes a symbol for the beauty and pleasures of the material world. In Sufi terminology, 'spectacle' is used for a scene of mystical knowledge that is visible only to the eye of the heart, and that can be seen only by closing or rejecting the eye of the senses. In the present verse 'spectacle' is a symbol for the beautiful things of the material world. But along with this the word 'wonder' [nairang] (meaning 'trick, deceit') has also been used, which points to the fact that although things in the external world are beautiful, they are also deceit and illusion. If it is impossible to obtain access to an inner understanding of the reality of the universe, then so be it. The external manifestations are not less attractive;

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in fact, they are so attractive that despite being a deceit, they have the power of 'spectacle' (meaning mystic knowledge). The deceit of these manifestations is that despite being a deceit, it seems to be reality. To arrive at meaning is not within the power of everyone, but to arrive at appearances is something every person can do. In this way this verse at the same time establishes the reality of the inner universe, proves its difficulty of access, and maintains the validity of the external world.... In the world salaamat there is a sarcastic attraction that is Ghalib's special mode. The characteristic of external things is that they have no stability and well-being [salamatii]. Here they are being given the prayer/blessing of well-being. Or it is being said that if meaning is not attained, then so be it; appearance is satisfactory [salamat], we'll manage with that. Ghalib has enclosed these contradictory meanings within a tiny verse. If Rekhtah is to reach the rank of a miracle, then what other aspect can it have than this? (62-64)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} Faruqi's explication of the two senses of tamaashaa is very helpful. The two meanings of the second line both work excellently with the first line, as Faruqi also points out. (2a) is an expression of defiant contentment within the limits of the equivocal, even deceptive material world-- and thus parallel to the thought in {9,4}. And (2b) is a prayer/blessing that seeks to secure the well-being of this insubstantial, ungrounded world that we need so badly-- this world that we love because it's all we have.

Ghazal 52 1 verse; meter G5; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1833; Hamid p. 42; Arshi #053; Raza p. 276

{52,1} mu;Ndh ga))ii;N kholte hii kholte aa;Nkhe;N ;Gaalib yaar laa))e mirii baalii;N pah use par kis vaqt 1) the eyes closed just as I was in the act of opening them, Ghalib 2a) friends brought her to my pillow/bedside-- but at what a time! 2b) friends brought her to my pillow/bedside-- but when?

Notes: Nazm: The eyes' closing is an implication of death. And in this ground there is only this one verse, and it too should have been removed. Later on there's a verse with this very same theme: {72,3}. (48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my companions brought her to my bedside at the time when I was in my death throes. Just as a lamp flickers as it is being extinguished, in the same way my eyes, even as they were opening, closed forever. The meaning is that my friends have made an ill-timed effort, and the beloved has showed ill-timed kindness. (91)

Bekhud Mohani: It's a verse strangely full of vain longing. (116)

Arshi: Compare {72,3}. (197)

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FWP: The quizzical inshaa))iyah ending of line two opens up many moods-- grief, reproach, irony, a genuine question. But the main pleasure of the verse is contained in line one, in the idea that my eyes 'closed just as I was in the act of opening them' [mu;Nd ga))ii;N kholte hii kholte aa;Nkhe;N]. C. M. Naim has pointed out (July 2005) how different kholte hii kholte , with its sense of purpose and volition, is from khulte hii khulte , which would have merely referred to the action of the eyes themselves. Ghalib was so fond of that phrase that he used it identically (though perhaps less effectively) in the first line of {72,3} as well. The commentators are right to emphasize the similarity of these two verses; they are one of the few really close pairs in the whole diivaan. For more on the beloved's visits to the lover, see {106,2}. The dying lover's eyes are apparently closed in fatigue or despair, since it is only the news of the beloved's arrival that causes them to begin to open. And then, just as they are opening, they close again. Nothing in the verse itself tells us that this second closing is a sign of death--only the power of implication makes us aware of the melancholy and ironic truth. Possibly the intense emotion generated by awareness of the beloved's presence has been too much for the lover's much-abused heart, and has itself brought on his death. Thus the beloved's life-giving presence, which might almost have revived the lover (or perhaps had actually begun to do so, as his eyes fluttered open), has been death-giving. Compare {9,7}, in which the lover is killed by the stress of Jesus's breathing on him to restore him to life.

Ghazal 53 11 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aar-e dost composed 1816; Hamid p. 43; Arshi #051; Raza p. 132-33 {53,1} aamad-e ;xa:t se hu))aa hai sard jo baazaar-e dost duud-e sham((-e kushtah thaa shaayad ;xa:t-e ru;xsaar-e dost 1) since from the coming of the down, the bazaar of the beloved has become cold 2) it was the smoke of an extinguished candle, perhaps-- the down on the cheek of the beloved

Notes: Nazm: That is, because the down emerged, the buyers became few, and the bazaar of passion cooled off. So it's as if the down is the smoke of an extinguished candle, for both the arising of smoke, and the decline of the heat of the market and the radiance of beauty, accompany the [extinguishing of the] candle. (48)

Bekhud Mohani: Because of the emergence of the down, the beloved's admirers went their way, beauty and heart-deceivingness withdrew. Perhaps the down on the beloved's cheeks was the smoke of an extinguished candle. (117)

Faruqi: The solution to these two questions [of why the verse seems to denigrate the beloved's beauty, and why after such denigration the beloved is still called dost] is this: that this verse has been composed not to belittle the friend's beauty, but rather to humiliate petty lovers. This is not sarcasm directed at the beloved, but sarcasm directed at the petty lovers, in that they worship

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only outward beauty. Where the beard has begun to grow, and the candle of the cheeks has had its light dimmed, their ardor too has cooled. But the speaker is a true lover. He keeps the beloved always as a dost [friend/beloved], and considers him a dost. The Others made themselves scarce when the down began to grow, but for us, the dost is always a dost. (65-66)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS This is one of only a very few of Ghalib's verses in which the beloved is unambiguously a youth; on this see also {9,2}. Like {9,2}, this verse too makes use of the beloved's newly downy cheek for its possibilities of wordplay. The beloved's cheek is brilliant and rosy, and dazzles his lovers as if it were a candle-flame-- until the first down appears on his cheek, after which his lovers begin to lose interest and fall away. By convention, in the ghazal world it is only the pre-pubertal youth, with his still somewhat girlish beauty, who is considered attractive. Thus the dark growth of down on his cheek is like the ashes of the fire that once blazed there, evoking a passion that has now grown cold. The idiom baazaar sard honaa, for the market to become 'cold', conveys the falling-off in demand for a product-- one that, in our idiom, is no longer 'hot'.

{53,2} ay dil-e naa-((aaqibat-andesh .zab:t-e shauq kar kaun laa saktaa hai taab-e jalvah-e diidaar-e dost 1) oh heart thoughtless of consequences, control your ardor 2a) who can find the power to bear the glory/appearance of the sight of the beloved? 2b) who can bring the radiance of the glory/appearance of the sight of the beloved?

Notes: taab : 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming; pain, affliction, grief; anger, indignation, wrath, rage; light, radiance, lustre, splendour; strength, power, ability, capability; endurance'. (Platts p.303)

Nazm: The phrase 'thoughtless of consequences' suggests the events of Mount Tur. (48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh heart that does not think of the results of action, control your ardor for the sight. Don't you remember what a state Hazrat Musa got into on Mount Tur, after only a tiny glimpse? (92)

Bekhud Mohani: When Janab Musa, compelled by the insistence of his people, went to Mount Tur and petitioned the Lord Most High, 'Oh Lord, show me Your radiance', he received the reply, 'You cannot look upon it'. When he asked again, a stroke of lightning flashed. The bush of Tur burned, the mountain of Tur shuddered in an earthquake. Janab Musa fainted and fell to the ground. (117)

Arshi: Compare {152,5}, {158,7}, {214,7}. (192, 276)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} Undoubtedly the commentators are right to place this verse in the context of the experience of Hazrat Musa, the Islamic counterpart of Moses, on Mount Tur. And Arshi sets it within an equally appropriate group of verses that depict the beloved's radiance itself as a form of veil, since it blinds everyone

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who tries to look; {214,7} is especially apt here. Arshi's verses too can be seen as evoking Hazrat Musa's ordeal-- he rashly aspires to look upon the glory of the Beloved, and is almost destroyed for his foolhardiness. The situation of Hazrat Musa is evoked only by implication-- yet how clearly it emerges in the reader's mind! But the real delight of the verse is the celebration of the perfect word, taab, placed in a perfect setting, right in the conspicuous middle of the second line. Among its meanings are 'endurance' (the quality the lover so desperately needs), and 'radiance' (the quality the beloved so eminently has). Both meanings are well-established and current; it's almost impossible to use one without evoking a ghost of the other. At their common core is the idea of heat as a sign of radiance, glory, passion, strength, power. The idiom taab laanaa means 'to endure', which is the sense all the commentators use and is clearly the dominant sense. On this reading (2a), the lover should curb his ardor because its results will be so deadly: if the beloved actually comes, who can bear to look? And what we are reading as a negative rhetorical question ('Who can bear...?') can perfectly well be read also as a straightforward question, to which one answer is 'not Hazrat Musa'. Is there another answer? A verse like {60,11} says so.The meaning of taab as radiance is, on this reading, just an elegant example of wordplay. But taab as radiance works well as a primary meaning too. On this reading (2b), the lover should curb his ardor because it's almost impossible to fetch or summon the beloved, no matter how eagerly the lover longs to do so: one can't bring [laanaa] the radiance of the Beloved on demand. But the task may not be absolutely impossible-- after all, Hazrat Musa succeeded. Perhaps the lover might even madly dream of doing so too? Ghalib's love of inshaa))iyah speech is once again on brilliant display.

{53,3} ;xaanah-viiraa;N-saazii-e ;hairat tamaashaa kiijiye .suurat-e naqsh-e qadam huu;N raftah-e raftaar-e dost 1) the home-desolatingness of amazement-- make a spectacle of it! 2a) [I] am in the semblance of a footprint, carried away by the beloved's gait 2b) like a footprint, [I] am carried away by the beloved's gait

Notes: Nazm: Among the qualities of a footprint, the amazement of poets is well-known. They say that just as a footprint, seeing the speed of movement, has become the eye of amazement, similarly I too am carried away by her gait, and the home-desolatingness of amazement has left me turned into a footprint by the side of the road. (48)

Hasrat: raftah-e raftaar, that is, erased by the gait, meaning mad for the gait. tamaashaa kiijiye is the translation of a Persian idiom. He describes himself as in the grip of amazement, and trodden under foot, and in a state of homelessness, with the simile of a footprint. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, consider the home-desolatingness of amazement. That is, we have become absorbed in amazement and forgotten our house, and without us that house has become desolate. We saw the spectacle of the beloved's gait; its effect was that we become self-less and intoxicated like a footprint and fell to the ground and lay there, and in a little while we will surely be erased. (92)

Bekhud Mohani: Just as the footprint, seeing the beloved's gait, remains amazed, similarly I too am absorbed in the gait. The beloved has gone on, but I lie in the street in

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amazement like a footprint, and amazement overpowers me, so that I have no power to move. Just as amazement has destroyed me, so it has desolated my house as well; it's a sight worth seeing.... 'House' can also mean 'the house of the body'. (227)

Josh: They call the footprint amazed because it never blinks its eye, as if it were an eye wide open in amazement. (127)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} This verse, like others, builds on the double (worldly and mystical) meaning of tamaashaa; for more on this, see {8,1}. The second line is an extravaganza of wordplay. The word .suurat can mean 'having the likeness/shape of' (I have the appearance of a footprint), as in (2a); or it can be adverbial, meaning 'like' in a general way (like a footprint), as in (2b). But surely the best part of the verse is the interplay between raftah [gone, past, departed; idiomatically, 'mad about, crazy about'] and raftaar [gait, pace], both from the same root and thus so similar in sound, so that their juxtaposition is a pleasure in itself (raftah-e raftaar). But the pleasure doesn't end there. The beloved's gait is what carries her away from me, as she walks onward; her gait also carries me away, as I watch it and am ravished with love. Yet I am like a footprint, and a footprint by definition is not carried away-- it's the very thing that is left behind when someone walks onward. As a footprint, I am merely an empty shape carved out by the brief pressure of that arrogant little foot on the ground; I was helplessly created, and am helplessly stupefied with love, and have now been helplessly left behind. As Josh points out, the image of a footprint for the lover's 'amazement, stupefaction' [;hairat], is well established in the ghazal world. The footprint has the shape of an unblinking, unwavering eye, fixed open forever in helpless wonderment by the astonishing sight it has seen. The 'homedesolatingness' [;xaanah-viiraa;N-saazii] of passion lies in its reduction of activity and agency to passivity and submission. The footprint is outside, homeless, an empty hollow in the ground; it has no further need of houses.

{53,4} ((ishq me;N bedaad-e rashk-e ;Gair ne maaraa mujhe kushtah-e dushman huu;N aa;xir garchih thaa biimaar-e dost 1) in passion, the injustice/iniquity of the envy of the Other killed me 2) [I] am killed by the enemy finally, although [I] was sick over the friend

Notes: Nazm: The cause of being sick over the friend is passion, and the cause of being killed by the enemy is that the envy of the enemy slew me. (48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, absorbed in the beloved, I had been sick for some time with the sufferings of passion. I was already only half-alive; now the injustice of the envy of the enemy gradually slew me. Previously I was sick due to the friend; now I have been slain due to the enemy. Alas, that I came to no good end. (92)

Bekhud Mohani: The injustice of the envy of the Other took my life. (117)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} The 'envy of the Other' [rashk-e ;Gair] can mean two opposite things: either 'my envy of the Other', that is, the envy felt by me toward the Other; or 'the

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Other's envy of me', that is, the envy felt by the Other toward me. Either way, the second line provides further wordplay: it was my ironic fate to be finally struck down by the 'enemy', even though I was initially sick (with love) for the 'friend'. If it was my envy of the Other that finished me off, the reason must be that the beloved was far kinder to him than she ever was to me. Even while I was sick with love for her, she seemed to have eyes only for the (false, fickle) Other. How could my experience of this extra injustice, my desperate and futile envy of my rival, not be the last straw, the shock that finally ended my wretched life? It is equally possible, however, that the envy the Other felt for me was what killed me. And why should the Other not envy me? After all, I had the honor of being half-dead anyway, sick with love, and thus proving my passion beyond all doubt. Perhaps the beloved had even done something to provoke my love-sickness. Perhaps the beloved seemed to look on this state of sickness with a small amount of favor (or at least, with less disfavor than usual). Even the smallest such sign from her would turn the jealous rival green with envy. In my weakened condition, why wouldn't the injustice and anger of his envy be the last fatal stroke? In either case, the envy is characterized by not just cruelty but, literally, 'injustice' [bedaad]. The final irony is that whichever of the two rivals is envying the other, the envy is misplaced, inappropriate, unjust. Because the beloved is so fundamentally untrustworthy that in fact her favor can't be counted on by anyone; this is surely part of what makes the jealousy so unbearable and killing. For a more explicit analysis of the lover's envy and the beloved's fickleness, see {42,1}.

{53,5} chashm-e maa raushan kih us bedaad kaa dil shaad hai diidah-e pur-;xuu;N hamaaraa saa;Gar-e sarshaar-e dost 1) my eye [is] radiant, for that cruel one's heart is joyous 2) our blood-filled eye, the beloved's brimming wine-flagon

Notes: Nazm: In the second line, 'is' is omitted. chashm-e maa raushan has been taken from Persian, but it's so famous that it ought not to be considered a mixing of the two languages. And similarly they also say chashm-e maa raushan dil-e maa shaad [my eye is radiant, my heart is joyous]. For this reason the author has said, 'that cruel one's heart is joyous'. And this too is one of the verbal devices, although people of skill have renounced the use of this verbal device. (48)

Hasrat: In the second line, the omission of 'is' is extremely displeasing. (51)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although in passion we are weeping tears of blood, it's only because that cruel one's heart is joyous when she sees us weeping tears of blood. Therefore we too say chashm-e ma raushan. That is, we too are pleased with our blood-filled eyes, or our blood-filled eyes have become the brimming wine-flagon of the beloved. The meaning is that just as one who has drunk wine feels happy, in the same way that cruel one's heart sees us weeping tears of blood and is happy, and at her happiness we too are happy. (92-93)

FWP: SETS == A,B; IDIOMS Nazm is usually the only commentator who complains about words that are 'omitted'-- in this case, he objects to the absence of 'is' in the second line. But this time he has an ally: Hasrat strongly agrees, finding the omission

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'extremely displeasing' [nihaayat naa-gavaar]. As is habitual for the commentators, they pay far too little heed to Ghalib's love for meaningcreation, his determination to create verses that can be read in as many ways as possible. If the 'is' were there in the second line, it would create a flat statement, A 'is' B. Without the 'is,' that possible reading still exists. We can read the line as a copulative construction in which the 'is' is merely implied; that is how Nazm and Hasrat both read it, with perfect comprehension despite their disapproval. But the absence of the 'is' means that other readings are also opened up to us. 'A, B' is so much more flexible than 'A is B'! As a parallel case consider {4,4}, with its first line consisting of an extremely simple (and thus multivalent) 'A and B, C and D' structure, with not a verb in sight; I have suggested four ways this line could be interpreted. In the present case too, other possibilities come to mind. Perhaps the second line should read, 'We have a blood-filled eye; she has a brimming wineflagon'. Each of us, in short, is showing appropriate signs of delight. The blood-filled eye (from constantly weeping tears of blood) is the proper mark of the lover, blood is red and radiant like fire, my eye is thus radiant. The beloved is made happy by a brimming glass of red wine, and by seeing my lover-like suffering; I am made happy by her happiness, and by pride in my own blood-filled eyes. We are both happy-- but how differently! On this reading, the verse would belong with others like {13,3} ('you and X, I and Y') or {15,2} (here X, and there Y). The Persian idiom cited by Nazm, chashm-e maa raushan dil-e maa shaad, 'my eye is radiant, my heart is joyous', suggests another kind of depth as well. By replacing the lover's joyous heart with the beloved's in the second half of the idiom, the verse suggests that the beloved is part of the lover, that the two are one. Perhaps we two, sharing our joy, are about to offer up a toast to our mutual good fortune? I proffer my blood-filled eyeball, she raises her glass full of red wine.

{53,6} ;Gair yuu;N kartaa hai merii pursish us ke hijr me;N be-takalluf dost ho jaise ko))ii ;Gam-;xvaar-e dost 1) the Other asks how I am, in her absence, in such a way 2) familiar(ly)/informal(ly), as though some friend would be a sympathizer of a friend

Notes: Nazm: [Speaking of {53,6-10} together as a verse-set]: That is, the enemy has become a friend, and by way of graciousness has burnt me up, and fanned the flames of envy. In the whole verse-set this same general idea is developed in detail. (49)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse-set, how excellently Mirza Sahib has painted a picture of the enemy's hypocritical behavior, and at the same time he has also emphasized the way the enemy's expression of affection not only is based on boastfulness, but is also extremely heart-lacerating, or rather is kinding the fire of envy. (93)

Bekhud Mohani: [In this verse-set] the Rival, seeing me restless and anxious in separation from the beloved, informally and in the guise of sympathetic friendship comes to inquire about me in all the situations of love, in order to burn me in the fire [of envy]. (118)

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FWP: As Nazm notes, this verse introduces a verse-set that consists of {53,6-10}. Most of the commentators treat them fully as a set; they offer almost no commentary on any of the individual verses in isolation. If this verse is taken in isolation, there seem to be two possible readings of it. One is the obvious, primary one adopted by all the commentators. The other would rest on the possibility that the cruel, fickle beloved is tormenting both the lover and the Other alike with her absence and disdain. This possibility arose in {53,4} as well, and is discussed at more length in {42,1}. Perhaps the Other is (almost) as miserable as the lover himself, and has in fact come over to express a kind of fellow-feeling based on mutual suffering? We might well entertain such an idea, since the verse lays it out quite clearly; formally speaking, the possibility of hypocrisy remains only an implication. But of course, when we move on to the rest of the verse-set, we see that the Other is in fact behaving in a truly sleazy fashion. Perhaps the lover himself might have briefly entertained the possibility of the Other's sincerity, before he was undeceived? On the complexities of be-takalluf , see {65,1}.

{53,7} taa kih mai;N jaanuu;N kih hai us kii rasaa))ii vaa;N talak mujh ko detaa hai payaam-e va((dah-e diidaar-e dost 1) so that I would know that his access extends to there 2) he gives me a message of a promise of a sight of the beloved

Notes: FWP: This is the second verse in a verse-set that begins with {53,6} and is discussed more fully there. The 'he' is of course the Other, as we know from {53,6}. The lover recognizes the Other's behavior as hostile, though it is cloaked in the guise of helpfulness (he's kindly bearing a hopeful message). This 'message' doesn't show, however, that he really has the access [rasaa))ii] he's implicitly claiming. He might just be inventing it all. The three i.zaafat constructions in a row add a bit of vagueness and pompousness-- how reliable is a 'message of a promise of a sight'? And is the unreliability that of the beloved, the Other, or (most likely) both of them?

53,8} jab kih mai;N kartaa huu;N apnaa shikvah-e .zu((f-e dimaa;G sar kare hai vuh ;hadii;s-e zulf-e ((anbar-baar-e dost 1) since I make my complaint about weakness of the mind 2) he 'heads into' a story of the amber-scattering curls of the beloved

Notes: sar karnaa: 'To make head[way]; to bring to an end, accomplish, achieve, perform, complete; to discharge, fire (a gun)'. (Platts p.648)

Nazm: sar karnaa with a meaning of 'to begin' is a translation from Persian. (49)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By saying this he means that the perfume of the beloved's curls is a cure for weakness of the mind, so why do you complain to me of weakness of the mind? (93)

Mihr: Perfume is considered to be a cure for weakness of the mind. (191)

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FWP: This is the third verse in a verse-set that begins with {53,6} and is discussed more fully there. It's a verse that finds its chief charm in wordplay. Above all, it plays with the secondary meaning of the common dimaa;G, which means not only 'mind', but also 'nose'. (For more on this, see {11,2}.) When I complain about the weakness of my mind/nose, he-- whom we know from {53,6} to be my rival, the Other-- 'heads into' a story about the beloved's amber-(perfume)scattering curls. This final image works perfectly, since it unites the ideas of head (curls) and nose (perfume). Perfume as a cure for weakness of the mind is a notion also mentioned by the commentators. It's apparently another installment in the Other's campaign to harass and distress the lover, while pretending to offer company and cheer him up. The Other might, of course, be faking it: he might be as thoroughly deprived of the beloved's company as is the lover. But if so, he hasn't lost his hostility. Or could he possibly mean it kindly after all, as a form of distraction or even a curative process (as Bekhud Dihlavi and Mihr believe)? Unlike {53,7}, this verse contains no allegation of motive.

{53,9} chupke chupke mujh ko rote dekh paataa hai agar ha;Ns ke kartaa hai bayaan-e sho;xii-e guftaar-e dost 1a) if by stealth/silence he manages to see me weeping 1b) if he manages to see me weeping furtively/silently 2) he laughs, and speaks of the mischievousness of the beloved's conversation

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: Considering that the cure for my furtively/silently weeping is the mischievousness of the beloved's conversation, he begins to praise the beloved in such terms. (93)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} This is the fourth verse in a verse-set that begins with {53,6} and is discussed more fully there. The 'he' is of course the Other, as we know from {53,6}. Like its predecessor {53,8}, this verse too is built chiefly on wordplay. In the first line, we have both tears and silence [chup]-- whether the silence is that of the lover as he seeks to conceal his tears, or that of the Other as he seeks to spy them out. In the second line, of course, we have laughter, speaking (by the Other) and conversation (of the beloved). Probably the Other is once again being malicious. But theoretically he could be trying to cheer me up, as Bekhud Dihlavi seems to feel. Telling the weeping lover stories of the beloved's playful conversation-- is that a friendly distraction, or a patronizing parade of access, or a piece of sheer cruelty? (Or perhaps a little of each, in the usual human mixture?)

{53,10} mihrbaaniihaa-e dushman kii shikaayat kiijiye taa bayaa;N kiije sipaas-e la;z;zat-e aazaar-e dost 1) [please] complain of the kindnesses of the enemy 2) so that mention would be made of the praise of the the pleasure of the wrath/cruelty of the beloved

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: Complaint should be made of the enemy's cruelty-mixed 'kindnesses', or gratitude should be expressed for the beloved's tyranny. (93-94)

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FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; OPPOSITES FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} This is the fifth and last verse in a verse-set that begins with {53,6} and is discussed more fully there. This final verse in the verse-set plays on the ambiguous 'kindly' behavior of the Other, about which we've recently heard so much-- as well as on the always-twofaced behavior of the beloved. Here's how the first line can be read: (1) Please complain to the beloved of the Other's 'kindnesses' (2) Please complain to the beloved of her own 'kindnesses' (3) Please complain to the Other of his own 'kindnesses' (4) Please complain to the Other of the beloved's 'kindnesses' Just to complicate things further, the lover could be talking to himself, making suggestions for his own future. Or he could be talking to either the beloved or the Other, and urging whichever one he is talking to to speak to the other about the other's behavior. We know how two-faced the Other's behavior is in this verse-set, and we know, always, that the beloved is capable of extreme, unrepentant cruelty and fickleness. (For more on this see {42,1}.) Either or both could thus be described as the 'enemy' [dushman]. By the same token, either or both could also be complained to about the behavior of either or both, since they are certainly of the 'intimate enemy' type; for an example in which the beloved is clearly named as the dushman, see {4,3}. The elegant thing is that any of the above interpretations works well with the second line, for any of them will involve mention, by at least one person and probably two, of the 'pleasure of the wrath/cruelty of the beloved'. This verse deserves to be ranked as a 'meaning generator'; see {32,1} for more on this.

{53,11} yih ;Gazal apnii mujhe jii se pasand aatii hai aap hai radiif-e shi((r me;N ;Gaalib z bas takraar-e dost 1) this ghazal of mine pleases me deeply/inwardly in itself 2a) in the refrain of the verse, Ghalib, there is, quite sufficiently, repetition of 'beloved/friend' 2b) although in the refrain of the verse, Ghalib, there is repetition of 'beloved/friend'

Notes: 'z-bas (short for az-bas): 'From the abundance; sufficiently; very, extremely, excessively; notwithstanding, although'. (Platts p.45) az-baskih: 'Inasmuch as; extremely; &c.; = az bas (q.v.)'. (Platts p.45)

Nazm: The word that comes after the rhyme and occurs repeatedly is called the refrain. The rhymes share a similarity, and the refrain is repeated. And the rhyme is a pillar of the verse, and the refrain is among its adornments. In Arabia and Persia and Hind poets describe verse as 'metrical rhymed speech', and logicians call verse 'imaginary speech'. (49)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, this ghazal pleases me from the heart, because in its refrain the word 'beloved/friend' comes a number of times. The word that comes again and again at the end of the verse, after the rhyme, is called the refrain. (94)

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Bekhud Mohani: I liked this ghazal of mine very much, because in its refrain is the 'beloved/friend'. That is, the word 'beloved/friend' comes in it time after time. (119)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH; POETRY This closing-verse is a lovely, simple, witty wrap-up to the ghazal. Unusually, the verse is full of technical vocabulary (ghazal, verse, refrain). And that vocabulary isn't there for nothing. In the first line, the poet tells himself that he's quite fond of this verse. Why? On the popular commentarial reading of the second line, the reason is (2a) that it's quite sufficiently [z-bas] full of repetition of (the word) dost , the 'friend' or beloved. But of course, z-bas , short for az-bas , is almost identical in meaning to az baskih . Which means it has the alternative meaning of 'although, notwithstanding.' For more on az baskih , see {13,5}. In this sense (2b), the poet is fond of the ghazal not because of, but despite, its repetition of the word dost . In ghazal composition, certain kinds of repetition [takraar] constitute literary flaws. For an illustration, see {17,9}, in which several commentators reproach Ghalib for it. When 'repetition' takes the form of words used in the rhyme it can indeed be a flaw; but when it involves the refrain itself it's not culpable at all, but quite inevitable. So Ghalib is right to refuse to apologize, even with tongue in cheek, for such a commendable, lover-like case of 'repetition'. For another expression of the lover's pleasure in even mentioning the beloved, see {180,3}.

Ghazal 54 3 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar hai aaj composed 1816; Hamid p. 44; Arshi #054; Raza p. 134

{54,1} gulshan me;N band-o-bast bah rang-e digar hai aaj qumrii kaa :tauq ;halqah-e bairuun-e dar hai aaj 1) in the garden the arrangements are of a different mode/color today 2) the turtledove's neck-ring is the 'circle/gathering of the outside of the door' today

Notes: :tauq: 'A neck-ring; a collar (of gold, &c., for ornament; or of iron, &c., for punishment; or worn as a badge of servitude); a necklace; a yoke'. (Platts p. 754)

Nazm: Someone who is not invited into the gathering, and is kept outside, they speak of metaphorically as 'the gathering outside the door'. The meaning is only that today in the garden there's an arrangement such that not even the turtledove can pass. And this theme-- that is, being barred from entering the garden and complaining about it-- is constantly used by the poets. (49)

Hasrat: The 'circle outside the door'-- that is, a link in the chain outside the door. Our beloved is about to come for a stroll in the garden; for this reason, nobody is allowed to enter the garden. (52)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: 'The circle outside the door' refers to the niche of the door. Mirza Sahib says, spring has come to the garden, so a different arrangement has been made. And that is that the circle outside the door-- that is, the niche of the door-has become the turtledove's neck-ring. Today, anyone who comes for a stroll in the garden will be imprisoned by the garden like a turtledove. By convention, in the spring season there's the ebullience of madness. Nowadays, the garden's atmosphere and a stroll in the garden are madnessinducing. (94)

Bekhud Mohani: Today in the garden the arrangement is of some other style entirely. The turtledove's neck-ring has become a circle outside the door-- that is, today not even he, who is born of the garden and for whom the garden exists, is allowed to set foot inside the garden.... Remark: If we look at it with the death of the sultanate in mind, then this verse is a picture of the destruction and helplessness of the Mughal dynasty, and a sketch of the grip of the East India Company, and Ghalib's foreseeing of the essence of events. (119-20)

Josh: Today, in the garden of the mystery of the world, God knows what secrets are being discussed between the Seeker and the Sought, such that for others the entry is barred. (129)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS The commentators disagree unusually much about the idiomatic (?) meaning of ;halqah-e bairuun-e dar-- literally, the 'circle/gathering of the outside of the door'. Their divergent views show that the phrase was not well-known in the tradition; perhaps it was obscure even to Ghalib's contemporaries. For another example of a verse based on a now-obscure idiomatic expression, see {55,1}. And perhaps Ghalib even meant the idiom to be obscure. For doesn't the mysteriousness of its meaning add to the effect? It links too many domains; it offers an embarrassment of interpretive riches; it remains unresolvable. Its (self-conscious) esotericism is reminiscent of {29,2}, in which polish-marks on a metal mirror are called 'a wounded parrot'. The complex and contradictory possibilities of the word 'neck-ring' [:tauq] (see definition above) are surely no accident. (For another example of how multivalently this word can be used, see {113,9}.) Surely something mystical and powerful is going on here, something that is, as we learn from the first line, far outside the ordinary. But what can it be? Or rather, how can we tell which of many possible exclusions or seclusions or imprisonments or intimacies is taking place?

{54,2} aataa hai ek paarah-e dil har fi;Gaa;N ke saath taar-e nafas kamand-e shikaar-e a;sar hai aaj 1) one piece of the heart comes with every sigh 2) the thread of the breath is a noose for the prey of 'effect' today

Notes: Nazm: That is, the sorrowful sigh has, like a noose, made 'effect' its prey. Whenever anyone sighs, a burden is removed from the heart. That is, from the effect of the sigh, the heart breaks into fragments and is drawn out along with the sigh. (49-50)

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Hasrat: The noose of the 'thread of the breath' has made 'effect' its prey; that is, today effect has appeared in our sighs, but the result of that effect is reversed: with each sigh, one piece of the heart comes out. That is, the effect of a sigh is that the heart breaks into fragments; by mentioning this reversed result, he means to his express his own ill-fortune. (52)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, today, along with a sigh, a fragment of my heart emerges. The noose of the 'thread of the breath' has captured 'effect'. The meaning is that today effectiveness has been engendered in my sigh, and its effectiveness is working on my heart itself. Thus I've begun to hope for success from my sighs. (94)

Bekhud Mohani: He describes his own ill-fortune, that today with every sigh a fragment of the heart emerges. Today the 'thread of the breath' has become a noose for the prey of 'effect'. That is, as its effect gradually occurs, what happens is that it's my own heart that breaks into fragments. (120)

FWP: The commentators have some trouble making a strong connection between the emergence of a single bit of the heart with every breath, and the 'thread' of the breath as a noose for hunting the prey of 'effect'. They seem to have two basic notions: (1) heart-morsels are the prey that the breath-noose is seeking to capture; or (2) heart-morsels are unintentionally captured as a byproduct of the hunt for 'effect'. I'd like to suggest a third, more literal connection: the heart-morsels can be seen as bits of bait that are meant to lure the prey of 'effect' into the range of the breath-noose. Their carefully described distribution (one morsel for every sigh or breath-noose) seems just right, if they are to be part of the equipment for a proper, serious hunt. The prey of 'effect' would thus be lured by raw morsels ripped from the heart, and then snared by the gossamer but tough silk of a sigh. If the desired 'effect' is the beloved's attention and favor, then the beloved would be a kind of metaphorical bird of prey (not to say vulture). And after all, isn't she? Remember her delight in the bloody writhing of the wounded, in {8,3}.

{54,3} ay ((aafiyat kinaarah kar ay inti:zaam chal sailaab-e giryah dar-pa-e diivaar-o-dar hai aaj 1) oh Satisfaction, step aside! oh Arrangement, move on! 2) a flood of tears is in pursuit of walls and doors today

Notes: dar-pa-e : 'Following, after, close behind; in pursuit or quest (of); in prosecution (of), intent (upon)'. (Platts p.508)

Nazm: It's as if Satisfaction is a woman, and Arrangement is a man; the poet says to them both that they should save themselves and leave, for fear that otherwise they might drown. (50)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Satisfaction-- that is, the era of a life of rest and ease-- begone from me, and oh Arrangement, you too leave this house and make yourself scarce. My flood of tears-- that is, the typhoon of my weeping-- is now about to bring down my house. After today, the days of my life will pass in

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difficulties and troubles. Why do you both endure sufferings with me? (9495)

Bekhud Mohani: Today, because of the flood of tears, the door and walls are in poor shape. Oh Satisfaction (wellbeing), oh Arrangement, take your leave! That is, the turbulence of disaster, or the turbulence of illness, is about to bring life to an end. Now help is useless. (120)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} What a great phrase it makes to say dar-pa-e diivaar-o-dar near the end of the second line. The first dar means 'on,' the second one 'door', but juxtaposed in this way they not only provide fine alliteration, but also give a sense of inevitability and closure. This is a verse full of vigorous abstractions. 'Satisfaction' and 'Arrangement' have to be chased away, because a 'flood of tears' is actually chasing-literally, 'is on the heels of'-- the walls and doors. When the lover warns off Satisfaction and Arrangement, is he acting for their sakes, since he fears for their safety in the coming flood of tears? Or is he impatiently dismissing them, since he himself is sick of them and is eager to enjoy the flood? For a full range of the lover's possible reactions to the flood, see the wonderfully complex {15,10}. The doors and walls may themselves be eager to welcome the flood, which may be pursuing them in almost an erotic way; in {58,9}, their greeting to the flood takes the suitably ambivalent form of a 'dance'.

Ghazal 55 1 verse; meter G3; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1833; Hamid p. 44; Arshi #055; Raza p. 276

{55,1} lo ham marii.z-e ((ishq ke biimaar-daar hai;N achchhaa agar nah ho to masii;haa kaa kyaa ((ilaaj 1) all right, we're a nurse for the passion-sick one 2) if [he] doesn't recover, then 'what cure of the Messiah?'

Notes: Nazm: In an idiom they say, 'If this is not done, then what cure for you?'-- that is, how should we treat you then, and what punishment should be given to you? And in this verse he has used the idiom in a manner extremely full of affinity. The verse is multiply meaningful [ka;siir ul-ma((nii] -- that is, it offers proof for these meanings as well: You people who say 'What cure is there for our passion-- we ought to have the Messiah cure it!'-- look, this is how I respond. (50)

Hasrat: All right, we're a nurse for one sick with passion. But when it is clear that he will not recover, then 'what cure of the Messiah?'-- that is, the Messiah's cure is useless. (52-53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the beloved accuses the passion-sick one of having no nurse to give him medicine at the right time and make him eat foods he avoids, so that through heedlessness and recklessness the disease increases. Mirza Ghalib says, we will become the nurse of those sick with passion, and take responsibility for overseeing their medicine, etc. But first this ought to be

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decided: if the one sick with passion does not recover-- that is, if not even the medicine of union causes his disease of passion to abate-- then what punishment should be devised for the Messiah, that is, the beloved? Mirza Sahib's claim is that the disease of passion can't be cured in any way. (95)

Bekhud Mohani: If the sick one is not cured, then what [honor] will remain for the Messiah? (120)

Josh: Others too have used this theme....but Mirza has composed this verse, and especially the first line, apart from all the rest, in an absolutely untouched style. (130)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS This verse, like {54,1}, turns on the witty, multivalent use of an idiomatic expression. And as in that case, it seems that the commentators don't agree on how to understand the idiom (though I'd go with Nazm's meaning over the others). And also as in that case, it seems that the verse can still be effective even without our knowing the original idiom. If we knew the original idiom, we'd start with that, and then add the extra, grammatically possible interpretations of the phrase as other latent possibilities that were certainly (since this is Ghalib, after all) meant to occur to the reader. Since we don't know exactly what the original idiom is, we can simply treat the phrase as having all the permutations of meaning that would be grammatically available. And these, as the commentators' readings make clear, are amply amusing and interesting: 'what cure of the Messiah' could mean that if the Messiah can't cure the patient, then (1) what punishment can (or should) be inflicted on the Messiah for his failure?; (2) can anybody improve on his treatment?; (3) does he have any curative ability at all? We also know that the speaker, the lover himself, is just as much a 'passionsick one' as the patient he undertakes to nurse. This makes his role as Messiah or physician doubly problematical. If he can't cure himself, how can he cure anybody else? And if he fails to cure the patient, how, in his condition of illness, can he be blamed? As Bekhud Dihlavi points out, the Messiah could also be taken to be the beloved herself, while the speaker, the lover, merely offers himself as a nurse. In this case, his use of the idiomatic phrase would be a way of disavowing responsibility for the result, as though he already foresees a fatal outcome. Fatal-- but still somehow, in this verse, to be taken lightly.

Ghazal 56 6 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: ar khe;Nch composed 1821; Hamid p. 45; Arshi #056; Raza p. 229

{56,1} nafas nah anjuman-e aarzuu se baahar khe;Nch agar sharaab nahii;N inti:zaar-e saa;Gar khe;Nch 1) outside the gathering of longing, don't draw a breath 2) if not wine, then 'draw' a wait for the wine-flagon

Notes: Nazm: That is, breathe longing with every breath, don't depart from it; if there's no wine, then keep waiting for it. The word khe;Nch is connected with both

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wine and waiting, but inti:zaar khe;Nchnaa [to pull/draw a wait] is an Urdu idiom too, while sharaab khe;Nchnaa [to draw wine] is only a translation from Persian. (50)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even in the event of failure, a person ought not to abandon hope and longing. If there's no wine, then he still ought to wait for the wine-flagon. The meaning is that the hope for success should not be given up in any circumstances. inti:zaar khe;Nchnaa and sharaab khe;Nchnaa are both idioms [mu;haavarah]. (95)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i claims on every occasion that something is a translation of a Persian idiom, and is contrary to Urdu idiom. The first part of this statement is true, the second falls below the level of trustworthiness. What he should have said is that Mirza shaped a Persian idiom in the mould of Urdu. Many Urdu idioms are translations of Persian idioms. To label richness as bid((at [heretical innovation] and augmentation as stupidity is to destroy Urdu's progress forever. In all living languages the chain [silsilah] of growth and development is continuous. And this is the reason that the final extent of their progress can't even be imagined. The exploration of Persian has produced in the language of Europe such glories that now the world prides itself on them. If we look at the work of Momin among Mirza's contemporaries, and Mir and Sauda among his predecessors, then Mirza can be seen to be following, as a rightly guided pupil, in their footsteps. (121)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} This opening-verse, obliged as it is to repeat the refrain at the end of both lines, cleverly uses khe;Nch, 'draw, pull', to unify the domains of three otherwise quite disconnected idioms. In the first line we have nafas khe;Nchnaa, to 'draw' breath; fortunately the same idiom exists in English. In the second line, Nazm complains that while inti:zaar khe;Nchnaa, to wait-literally to 'draw' a wait-- is accepted in Urdu, saa;Gar khe;Nchnaa, to 'draw' wine (from a cask?), remains a mere translation from Persian. Bekhud Mohani's vigorous attack on Nazm's position makes a great deal of sense; I applaud both his spirit and his literary judgment. Other than the wordplay of khe;Nch, there's nothing much going on in this verse, as far as I can see. The prose meaning can easily be reduced to a pious truism about never giving up hope or longing, which in fact is just how Bekhud Dihlavi interprets it. If the wordplay didn't induce a listener to say vaah, surely such a trite sentiment wouldn't be able to. So I would describe this one as mostly a riff on the nuances of khe;Nch.

{56,2} kamaal-e garmii-e sa((ii-e talaash-e diid nah puuchh bah rang-e ;xaar mire aa))ine se jauhar khe;Nch 1) don't ask [about] the perfection of the heat of the effort of the search of sight 2) in the mood/aspect of a thorn, {draw / having drawn} the polish-lines from my mirror

Notes: Nazm: The longing for sight is a mirror, in which instead of polish-lines there are thorns, and during the search for sight these thorns have created scratches. In the first line of this verse there are four meaningful [i.e., necessarily present] i.zaafat constructions, and the presence of more than three i.zaafats is a poetic flaw. There's no doubt that if more than one i.zaafat is present,

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slackness develops in the construction-- not to speak of four i.zaafats, and those too meaningful ones! (50)

Hasrat: The mirror, that is, the mirror of my longing for sight, in which instead of faces there are thorns which ought to be considered the result of the extreme heat of the effort at sight-- just as it commonly happens that those who run around and make excessive efforts have thorns lodge in their feet. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't ask me about the state of complete heat and effort of my mirror. What difficulties and troubles I've endured in the quest for people of insight and inquiry!-- such that now the polish-lines of my mirror of perfection are pricking in my eyes like thorns. In despair at not finding any accomplished judges of poetry, I only want to find someone who will pull out the polish-lines of perfection from my mirror as though they were thorns. (95-96)

Bekhud Mohani: In the longing for sight, how much effort the mirror of my eyes, or the mirror of my heart, made! Now there's no more time for that question-- don't ask it. Rather, just look at state of the polish-lines of passion and the polish-lines of searching-- they've become like thorns.... Now I wish that somebody would take those polish-lines away from me. (121)

Josh: He calls the foot of ardor a mirror, because it has been worn smooth into a mirror. The thorns that have lodged in it he has called the polish-lines of that mirror. Both similes are very lofty and entirely new. In Mirza's poetry, there's a typhoon of entirely new and entirely untouched similes. (130)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; IZAFAT JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} This is another of his 'mirror' verses, which tend to be some of his most complex. As always, the mirror is a metal one, with small polish-lines that show how it has been cleaned. But four i.zaafat constructions in a row! The i.zaafat is versatile in any case; for more on its possibilities, see {16,1}. Perhaps Nazm is a touch severe, but still, Ghalib is certainly pushing his luck. The Urdu indeed feels almost as clumsy and forced as the four sequential and bumpy 'of' constructions in the translation. That being said, the ambiguity level of the i.zaafats is, by Ghalibian standards, quite restrained. The chief duality that emerges is at the end of the i.zaafat string: is it the 'search of sight' in the sense of a 'search for sight', or is it a 'search made by Sight' for something else? And the big question-- how to put it all together? It isn't at all clear how we are to find 'objective correlatives' for the images. What is 'my mirror'? Is it my longing for sight (Nazm, Hasrat), my eyes or heart (Bekhud Mohani), or the 'foot of ardor' (Josh)? All these entities sit awkwardly with the idea of having polish-lines in them. And then, of course, to demand that the polishlines be pulled out like thorns is itself a large and peculiar leap; why are the polish-lines like thorns, and how are they to be pulled out, and by whom, and from what? Josh's idea that the mirror is really a foot is an attempt to account for the thorns, but of course has major silliness problems of its own. If there were a link through the concept of heat, that would help a lot: the first line laments the intense heat of the search for/by sight, and the second would propose a remedy for it. Is it conceivable that the physical polishing of the metal mirror, that creates the polish-marks, generates painfully intense heat? If so, where is the connection to thorns and the removing of thorns, which have nothing to do with heat?

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In short, in this verse Ghalib is metaphorically equating abstractions with abstractions. The verse is unresolvably confusing; its energy spins out into a cloud of uncertainty. I think it's one of his less satisfactory verses. But of course, there could well be some 'key' to it-- some idiom or bit of wordplay now lost to us-- that would resolve these problems and provide the focal point that the verse now lacks.

{56,3} tujhe bahaanah-e raa;hat hai inti.zaar ai dil kiyaa hai kis ne ishaarah kih naaz-e bistar khe;Nch 1) to you waiting is a pretext for rest/ease, oh Heart? 2) who gave you a sign [of command], [saying] 'Lie coquettishly in bed'?

Notes: Nazm: On the contrary, you ought to wander in the wilderness and roam in the desert, or seek the beloved-- it would be better to die than to endure this torment of waiting. (51)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To lie in bed waiting for the beloved, or waiting for sleep, is flagrant restseeking. The beloved's promise didn't imply that lover should lie around luxuriously in bed. If the beloved hasn't come as promised, then one should search out the reason for her not coming. If the lover is in a state of absolute hopelessness, then he can pass the time absorbed in wine-drinking, desertwandering, rending his garments, lamenting, and many other such tasks. And if even if a man should be simply lying in bed tossing and turning and waiting for sleep, there can be many pursuits possible in that situation. The meaning is that for every type of man, seeking rest is forbidden. (96)

Bekhud Mohani: For the lover, only waiting for the beloved is a source of rest. Whence comes this lying around in bed! (122)

FWP: The idiomatic phrase naaz khe;Nchnaa, 'to practice (or receive) coquetry', is a well-established one; for a clear illustration of its use, see {71,5}. It creates a perfect tone for scolding the heart-- who told you to loll around luxuriously in bed?! Whatever the lover's heart should be doing, in short, it's not that. The heart has no right to pamper itself, and the lover's rhetorical question in the first line is almost a threat. Of course it could also be an exclamation, since there's no formal question-indicator, but in this case it just feels, semantically, as if it should be a question. Bekhud Dihlavi offers an inventory of more suitable ways for the lover (and his heart?) to pass the time: the lover should engage in 'wine-drinking, desert-wandering, rending his garments, lamenting, and many other such tasks'. Waiting for the beloved, even endlessly if need be, should be full of unrelieved suffering, with no intervals of repose. The lover is indignant that his heart has sought to take a furlough and have a little nap. The charm of this verse is the colloquial tone in which he scolds the dilatory heart. It's just how one would sarcastically reproach an intimate for laziness or negligence.

{56,4} tirii :taraf hai bah ;hasrat na:zaarah-e nargis bah korii-e dil-o-chashm-e raqiib saa;Gar khe;Nch 1) toward you, with longing, is the gaze of the narcissus 2) to/with the blindness of the heart and eye of the Rival, lift/draw a glass

Notes: Nazm: That is, [the Rival is] the narcissus, who is looking toward you with longing. It means, why don't you go ahead and drink wine? Why do you fear the

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Rival, who is blind-hearted and blind-eyed? These two things have grown out of the narcissus's qualities-- one, that its eye is lightless; the second, that it is compared to a wine-flagon. (51)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the narcissus is staring fixedly at your face with a look of longing. And for anyone to look at you in my presence is an expression of rivalry. But my Rival-- that is, the narcissus-- is blind both in heart and in eye. On this occasion for joy, you ought to drink wine. (96)

Bekhud Mohani: The aspect of the narcissus is similar to that of a flagon, but its eye is lightless. Mentioning it on this occasion is inappropriate; it reduces the effect of the verse. (122)

Baqir: [The commentator Sa'id says:] The narcissus is looking with great longing toward you, so drink a glass to the blindness of eye and heart of this rival of mine, so that he will become blind and the 'evil eye' will not affect you. (158)

FWP: All the commentators take the narcissus to be the Rival in this verse. The narcissus is thought to have the ideal shape of an eye; it can be used to describe the beloved's eye. No doubt its eye is blind. So this reading is quite possible. You, the beloved, should drink a glass bah korii-e dil-o-chashm-e raqiib , 'to/with the blindness of heart and eye of the Rival'. Here the elegant multivalence arises: how to interpret bah ? Three readings are presented by various commentators: 1) joyously drink to the Rival's manifest blindness (Bekhud Dihlavi); 2) freely drink because of the blindness, since the Rival can't see you (Nazm); or 3) drink as a form of protective curse, to ward off the evil eye (that might otherwise be invoked through such fixed staring) and to strike the Rival blind (Baqir). These simultaneous possibilities, all quite appropriate in the great Ghalibian style, are the real heart of the verse. A further consideration presents itself: the beloved is to drink to, or in connection with, the 'blindness of heart and eye' of the Rival-- and I'm not aware of any idea in the ghazal world that the narcissus is false, or morally dubious, such that it would be described as blind at heart. In fact by looking toward the beloved with longing, even though blind, the narcissus seems to be showing the behavior of a proper lover. In {181,5}, the narcissus even gets its sight restored. So it's also attractive to consider the narcissus merely a suggestive evocation of the Rival, who is a real human being. When I see the blind eye of the narcissus turned toward you with apparent longing, I'm reminded of the Rival, who also stares at you so fixedly. Yet he's blind! He's blind not only of eye, but also of heart, and unworthy of your beauty. Since he's as blind as the narcissus and more so, let's drink a toast to his folly and frustration and (moral) blindness.

{56,5} bah niim-;Gamzah adaa kar ;haq-e vadii((at-e naaz niyaam-e pardah-e za;xm-e jigar se ;xanjar khe;Nch 1) with a half/sidelong glance uphold the right of the trust of coquetry 2) from the sheath of the seclusion of the wound of the liver, draw the dagger

Notes: vadii((at: 'A deposit, trust, whatever is committed to another's charge'. (Platts p.1185)

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pardah: 'Secrecy, privacy, modesty; seclusion, concealment; secret, mystery, reticence, reserve'. (Platts p.246) adaa: 'Grace, beauty; elegance; graceful manner of carriage; charm, fascination; blandishment; amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'. (Platts p.31) adaa karnaa: 'To perform; accomplish; fulfill; discharge'. (Platts p.31)

Nazm: If the dagger-- that is, alif [a straight vertical line]-- is removed from niyaam [sheath], then it becomes niim [half], but this dagger has also murdered the meaning. The field of interpretation is very broad. If he has put a meaning in it, it is this: that your airs and graces are a Divine trust; in order to do them justice, show your coquetry, and thus grasp the dagger, so that it can be recognized. Being drawn out, it emerges from the veil of the lover's liver. That is, coquetry is a sword without a sheath; if it has a sheath, then it's the wound in the lover's liver. (51)

Hasrat: I've given your dagger, in the sheath of the veil of the wound of the liver, a trust. Now you too fulfill the right of that confidence, and give recompense for what was entrusted to you, with a half-glance. (54)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, The airs and graces that God Most High has bestowed on you are like a trust from Him. Do justice to this trust with a sidelong glance. If you give a full glance, then the lover's life will at once leave him. So it's necessary for you to use a sidelong glance, and an example for that is if after inflicting a wound in the liver, the dagger is left there, then the wounded one is at once on the point of death. And if after the attack the dagger is pulled out, it will certainly take longer for the wounded one to die, and perhaps his life might even be saved. Thus it's better to use a sidelong glance. The other verbal device that has been placed in this verse is after removing the alif from niyaam, niim remains. And niim-;Gamzah is exactly what the lover says to use. (96-97)

Bekhud Mohani: I have endured tyranny with the hope that sometime you would show me your airs and graces, and give me a sidelong glance. I don't even ask you for a full glance, I seek only a sidelong glance. The word adaa increases the verse's beauty; there is an iihaam in it too. This verse also has the pleasing feature that if we remove the alif from niyaam, then niim remains....The 'murder of meaning' [alleged by Nazm] has not been proved. (122-23)

Baqir: [The commentator Said (sa((iid) says:] Since you have thrust the dagger into the liver, now fulfill the obligations of coquetry and draw it out in such a way that the wound becomes wider and the wounded one can easily be finished off. (158)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} VEIL: {6,1} SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} The master of wordplay (and meaning-play) is here in superlative form. The commentators point out the clever visual 'letter-play' with the dagger-like alif, between niyaam and niim. Nazm's complaint that this supererogatory wordplay 'murders the meaning' is merely persnickety; it's enjoyable in itself, and is not obliged also to work on every possible semantic level; and as Nazm himself points out, the range of possible interpretations is very broad in any case.

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Bekhud Mohani perceptively points out that the word adaa constitutes an iihaam. What he means is that the reader thinks first of its normal meaning, which is something like coquetry, the display of airs and graces (similar to naaz). The verb adaa karnaa, however, meaning 'to perform', is what is required for the meaning of the verse. This is the classic form of iihaam: a misdirection that requires the reader to backtrack, and leaves an enjoyable touch of the primary meaning lingering in the air as well. To the set of niim-;Gamzah, adaa, and naaz in the first line is juxtaposed pardah in the second line: the beloved's coquettish behavior implies a clever use of concealment or avoidance, alternated with blandishments. The image of the beloved's sidelong glance, or a glance from behind a (literal or metaphorical) pardah, 'veil, curtain', is a perfect example of such coquetry. This coquetry is a 'trust' that has been placed in the beloved's custody (by God? by the lover?), so it is positively the beloved's duty to maintain and display it. Drawing out the dagger from the pardah or seclusion of the lover's liver, and letting it flash coquettishly in full daylight, is surely no more than proper behavior on the beloved's part. Not surprisingly, the commentators disagree on what it means to pull the dagger from the sheath of the pardah of the liver. (For more on the implications of jigar, see {30,2}.) It could mean: 1) draw the dagger out, to use it for coquetry, from the liver-sheath in which you store it (Nazm); 2) slow the dying of the wounded lover by drawing out the dagger (Bekhud Dihlavi); 3) kill the dying lover quickly by drawing out the dagger (Baqir). There is undoubtedly a connection between the beloved's coquetry and the use of the lover's liver as a sheath for the beloved's dagger-- but it's not exactly clear what that connection is. And of course, despite Nazm's strictures, why should it be clear? Multivalence is not exactly foreign to Ghalib's poetry. And ambiguity is an indispensable part of all flirting and coquetry.

{56,6} mire qada;h me;N hai .sahbaa-e aatish-e pinhaa;N bah ruu-e sufrah kabaab-e dil-e samandar khe;Nch 1) in my glass is wine of hidden fire 2) upon the dining-cloth, lay out a kabob of the heart of the Salamander

Notes: Nazm: That is, when the wine is of hidden fire, then the kabob too ought to be made from the Salamander's heart, for the heart too is an inner [baa;tinii] thing. Here, kabaab gives no pleasure. khe;Nch is a translation [from Persian]; in Urdu idiom one 'selects' [chun denaa] or 'spreads' [lagaa denaa] a diningcloth. (51)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in my glass the wine of passion is hidden, in which there's more heat than in a fireplace. As an affinity with this, the kabob too ought to be made of the heart of the Salamander (the Salamander is a creature that is born in a hearth and at once dies if it leaves the fire). (97)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that kabobs of the liver of the Salamander, which is born in hearths after the fire burns for a thousand years, are worthy of being our side-dish. From this it becomes clear of what rank this wine itself must be, to have such a side-dish with it. (123)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH FOOD: {6,4}

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Ghalib has occasional 'food verses', and in a resolutely abstract, non-physical genre like the ghazal they're often quite striking, not to say grotesque; for more on this, see {6,4}. This one is a charming little example, more or less what I would call a 'mushairah verse' (described in {14,9}). The commentators explain it well-- though Nazm quibbles, as usual. In my glass is wine full of hidden fire; this could be literal, of course, or else metaphorical-- in my body is an intoxicated heart heart full of burning passion. Either way, I deserve a little snack with my wine, and a kabob made from the Salamander's heart will be just the thing.

Ghazal 57 9 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa mere ba((d composed 1821; Hamid p. 46; Arshi #057; Raza pp. 229-30

{57,1} ;husn ;Gamze kii kashaakash se chhu;Taa mere ba((d baare aaraam se hai;N ahl-e jafaa mere ba((d 1) Beauty became freed from the tug-of-war of coquettish-glances, after me 2) finally the people of tyranny are at ease, after me

Notes: ;Gamzah : 'A sign with the eye, a wink; an amorous glance, ogling; coquetry, affectation.' (Platts 773) kashaakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; jostling, hustling; bringing and taking away; command after command; commanding and countermanding; great unpleasantness, or grief, or pain; distraction, dilemma, perplexity, difficulty; struggle, contention, wrangle, squabble; attraction, allurement'. (Platts p.835)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, beauty was freed, after my death, from the tug-of-war of coquetry. Finally the cruel and tyrannical ones-- that is, all the beloveds-- became at ease. As long as I was alive, every beautiful one was ensnared in the expression of coquettish graces, in order to make me mad for her. (97)

Bekhud Mohani: After death, the lover says, I've died-- that was good. The cruel beloveds are at peace. As long as I was alive, coquettish glances didn't give the beautiful ones any peace. That is, after me, now there's not another lover left at all in the world upon whom the beautiful ones would shower the arrows of their coquettish glances. (123)

Mihr: In Urdu very few ghazals are found, of which all the verses are continuous and which have been composed with excellence of arrangement [;husn-e tartiib] about different aspects of one single theme. This ghazal of Mirza Ghalib's too is an extremely fine example of continuous verses. (202)

FWP: THE DEAD LOVER SPEAKS: The whole ghazal is spoken by the lover, somehow, after his death. Other verses in which the same premise seems to be adopted, and the lover speaks or thinks or has opinions after his death: {4,11x}; {8,4x}; {14,5}; {16,3}; {20,9}; {32,2}; {57}; {62,9}; {67,1}; {83,1}; {115,9}; {179,4}; {202,6}; {210,6}; {217,5}. With a refrain like mere ba((d , 'after me', this ghazal is bound to have a certain degree of semantic unity. Mihr wants to classify it as a continuous

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ghazal, but perhaps that's a bit too strong. For if the verses were rearranged, or some added or subtracted, we wouldn't be able to detect the fact (except in the case of the opening-verse and closing-verse, of course, for formal reasons). Thus it's clear that the ghazal has no narrativity or internal organization, which is usually part of the definition of a continuous ghazal. In a ghazal with a melancholy refrain we might expect a generally melancholy tone as well, but Ghalib is never melancholy for long. Here he wittily represents the flirtatious exchange of glances as a tug-of-war, a kashaakash-- a word with a wonderfully elaborate series of meanings, all of them apposite here. The lovely ones, personified as 'Beauty', no longer need to undergo this tension and stress now that I am gone; they can be at peace. The lover speaks from beyond the grave, solicitously reflecting on the greater relaxation the beloveds will enjoy in his absence. The grandiloquent implication, of course, is that there are no worthwhile lovers left on the face of the earth, now that he is gone. Even the leisurely alliteration of baare aaraam se seems to suggest the repose that Beauty will now enjoy. Of course, we know the beloved will no more be happy without a lover than a tiger would be content to forego the 'tension' of hunting its prey. And surely the lover knows it too. So there's a little flavor of sarcasm and selfmockery-- and mockery of the beloved-- here too, to add spice to the verse.

{57,2} man.sab-e sheftagii ke ko))ii qaabil nah rahaa hu))ii ma((zuulii-e andaaz-o-adaa mere ba((d 1) no one remained qualified for the ministry of madness/distractedness 2) there was a dismissal of airs and graces, after me

Notes: man.sab: 'Post, office, station, dignity; ministry; magistracy.' (Platts. p. 1077) ma((zuulii: 'Removal (from office), dismissal; deposition; dethronement;-disgrace'. (Platts p.1048)

Nazm: In this verse ke is for an i.zaafat, otherwise it would have been kaa. (51)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now no one has remained worthy of the ministry of passion. This post has become empty, and along with that the airs and graces of the beloveds have become useless and void. (97)

Bekhud Mohani: Airs and graces sent me (since I was a true lover of the beloveds) down into the dust. As a punishment for this crime, the beloveds dismissed them, for because of their tyranny such a lover no longer remained. (164)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} In this verse the lover imagines a bureaucratic context for the aftermath of his departure. There is turmoil in the ranks of the civil service. No one is now fit to preside over the Ministry of Madness, and the airs and graces have all been 'dismissed' from their posts, with prejudice. In short, the whole administrative apparatus of passion has ground to a halt, since the lover has been gone. Without him, how can it function? On the dead-lover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,3} sham((a bujhtii hai to us me;N se dhuvaa;N u;Thtaa hai shu((lah-e ((ishq siyah-posh hu))aa mere ba((d 1) [when] a candle goes out, then from within it smoke arises 2) the fire of passion became black-robed, after me

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Notes: Nazm: That is, it's not smoke, but rather the flame has become black-robed in mourning for the extinguished candle. In the same way, the flame of passion has become black-robed in grief for me. That is, I burned and melted like a candle from the flame of passion. (52)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when a candle is extinguished, the flame that manifests itself by turning into smoke is in reality not smoke, but rather the flame becomes black-robed in mourning for the dead candle. In the same way, after my death the flame of passion has become black-robed in grief. (97)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the way after a candle is extinguished it becomes dark, in the same way after my death the world of passion was darkened, and after me no lover remained. I was a lover such that passion itself mourned for me, and put on black clothing in grief for me. Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i [writes], 'That is, I burned and melted like a candle from the flames of passion'. This is the sort of statement that destroys the city of this verse. That is, what he had written previously was incomplete, but not wrong. (164)

Faruqi: Without a doubt we should count this among the best verses in Urdu. (67) In the first line is a claim, and in the second line is the response to the claim. The flame is dear to the candle; when it is extinguished, smoke arises from the candle's heart. But I was dearer to the flame of passion. When I died, then the flame of passion became black-robed, it became an embodiment of mourning, or by putting on black attire it vanished from sight. Because my death is the death of the person who was the most precious to passion, as if I myself were passion. The candle loves the flame, but it only mourns its departure to the extent that smoke arises from within it (that is, smoke arises from its heart and spreads outward, and we feel that the smoke has emerged from inside the candle). Smoke is accidental and insubstantial, therefore the candle's mourning too is accidental and insubstantial. By contrast, at my death passion feels grief to such an extent that it puts on black attire-- black attire that is more durable and more concealing than smoke. After being extinguished, a candle can be relit, but the flame that submerges itself in blackness cannot be lit again. Now look at one more aspect: in Persian, 'to extinguish a candle' is 'to kill a candle'. Thus when the candle has been extinguished, it's as if it has died. On the candle's head the flame of passion burned. When the candle died, then the flame became lost in smoke; that is, it became black-robed. That is, assume that the candle is a separate being, and imagine that the flame is a separate being. When the candle is extinguished, then from within it smoke arises, but if the candle exemplifies the heart of the lover and the flame of the candle exemplifies the flame of passion, then we'll say that when the candle (the lover's heart) was finished, then from within it smoke did not arise; rather, the flame of passion itself became black-robed. That is, the speaker's death is not merely like the extinguishing of a candle, but rather it is far beyond it. (69)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} This simple-seeming verse makes use of one of the common Ghalibian structures: two independent statements, with no hint as to how we are to connect them. Do they describe similar situations, or contrasting ones?

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Most of the commentators consider that the two lines describe similar situations. On this reading, just as smoke rises from a newly-extinguished candle, seeming to robe it in the black of mourning, so the fire of passion itself became 'black-robed' after I died, presumably because of a similar cloud of dark smoke that surrounded its embers. Just as the candle's black mourning attire seems to mourn the death of its own flame, so the mourning attire of the fire of passion seems to mourn my death as the death of its own burning heart, as though I were identified with passion itself. Faruqi, however, maintains that the two lines describe contrasting situations: 'the speaker's death is not merely like the extinguishing of a candle, but rather it is far beyond it'. We should take seriously the difference between the candle's act of giving vent to smoke 'from within' it, and the fire of passion's much more significant act of becoming wholly 'black-robed'. Faruqi's case is a strong one, especially since it provides a much richer and less obvious meaning for the verse. He is even prepared to rank this verse 'among the best verses in Urdu', which the other commentators with their more conventional interpretation show no inclination to do. The complexity and subtlety of Faruqi's interpretation stands in piquant contrast to the apparent simplicity of the verse. After the previous two relatively light, almost tongue-in-cheek verses, this one feels much more abstract, stark, and serious. But the imagery and the situation are very much part of the same universe, which adds to the pleasure. On the dead-loverspeaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,4} ;xuu;N hai dil ;xaak me;N a;hvaal-e butaa;N par ya((nii un ke naa;xun hu))e mu;htaaj-e ;hinaa mere ba((d 1) the heart is blood, in the dust, at the condition of the idols-- that is, 2) their nails became in need of henna, after me

Notes: Nazm: That is, in mourning for me they left off using henna [meh;Ndii]. 'Dust' refers to the dust of the grave. (52)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the dust of the grave our heart has turned to blood with grief that after our death the beloved's fingernails have been in need of henna. The meaning is that usually the beautiful ones used to apply our blood as henna [mih;Ndii], so that in their henna there would be a brilliant color like that of our blood. After our death, they were compelled to apply [merely ordinary] henna [mih;Ndii]. (98)

Bekhud Mohani: My heart, in the grave, turns to blood at the state of the beloveds. After my death, they gave up applying henna. That is, although it was in mourning for me alone that they gave up applying henna, when I see their hands without henna my liver bursts [in sympathy]. (124)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE IDOL: {8,1} Nazm misses the boat on this one. He thus provides a good case study: compared to Bekhud Dihlavi's more directly physical connection, how anemic is Nazm's notion that the beautiful ones merely stopped using henna in grief after my death! It is possible that they did this, of course, but it is far from the end of the story. Bekhud Dihlavi not only makes the necessary equation between the colors (henna is red like blood) but also links the two substances themselves-- the beloved used to mix my blood into her henna for extra brightness and luster

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(and kinky satisfaction?); now that I'm gone she's deprived of the chance to do this. The argument can even be pushed a step further, for Ghalib expressly says that it's the beautiful ones' nails that lack henna after I'm gone. Henna is normally applied to the palm of the hand and the fingers, so why emphasize the nails? Obviously because the beloved enjoyed actually handling my bloody heart, and even scratching or gouging it with her nails, so that her nails in particular were adorned with my blood, in lieu of henna. This kind of thing is characteristic of the beloved, after all; to take just a couple of examples, she enjoys holding a hundred hearts in her hand, as in {8,1}; and she enjoys watching the writhing of her wounded, stricken prey, as in {8,3}. Does this extravagance, the beloved's habitually gouging and scratching my heart with her bloody fingernails, bring the verse into the category of what I call 'grotesquerie'? (For more on this concept, see {39,3}.) Maybe we can put it there provisionally, since the whole concept is still something I'm just thinking about, and marginal possibilities are also of interest. Moreover, when I realize her deprived condition, even in the dust my heart turns to blood for her. This is a lovely 'concretization' of a conventional phrase. Usually one's 'heart turns to blood' with grief, which is quite appropriate here for the lover's intense sympathy and sorrow on the beloved's behalf. But even more aptly, since it's the lover's blood that the beloved lacks, even when the lover is dust his heart will somehow turn to blood as it seeks to fulfill her every need. The pluralization of 'idols' goes with the general emphasis of this ghazal on the lover's death as a cosmic event affecting not only all beautiful women, but even passion itself. On the dead-lover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,5} dar-;xvur-e ((ar.z nahii;N jauhar-e bedaad ko jaa nigah-e naaz hai surme se ;xafaa mere ba((d 1) there is no place fit/worthy for display, for the jewel/quality of cruelty 2) the glance of coquetry is angry with collyrium, after me

Notes: jauhar: 'A gem, jewel; a pearl; essence, matter, substance ,...absolute or essential property; skill, knowledge, accomplishment, art; excellence, worth, merit, virtue.' (Platts. p. 399) ((ar.z: 'Presenting or representing; representation, petition, request, address... Breadth, width;... --a military muster, a review.'. (Platts p.760)

Nazm: jauhar-e bedaad -- that is, in her eyes there's no place for collyrium. 'Worthy of the display'-- that is, worthy of mention. The word ((ar.z has been brought in only for its affinity with jauhar. (52)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, there remained no occasion for displaying the jauhar of the cruelty of injustice. That is, I died, so after me the glance of coquetry began to be disgusted with collyrium. The meaning is that after the death of a connoisseur of beauty like me, the beautiful ones have begun to despise selfadornment. (98)

Bekhud Mohani: Now the jauhar of the cruelty of injustice--that is, the coquetry of the beloved-- finds no one on which its glory could fully display itself. Thus the glance of quetry is disgusted with collyrium. That is, when no one can even endure the glance of those collyrium-stained eyes, then applying collyrium is useless. (125)

FWP: JAUHAR: {5,4}

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As Nazm observes, ar.z and jauhar are at the heart of this verse. In logic, the two are related somewhat like 'accident' and 'essence', but their use is much wider as well. For what use is an excellence/ merit/ accomplishment, without a suitable venue for displaying it to advantage? After my death, the glance of coquetry is angry with collyrium. Because I'm not there to provide an ideally devoted and submissive audience for the coquettish glances, so the beloved decides to stop bothering with her eye makeup? Because the coquettish glances worked all too well, and killed me, so that from now on they must be a bit toned down, to avoid such losses (of suitable prey) in the future? Because the beloved actually did feel sorrow at my loss, and so abandons makeup for a period of mourning? (Or, of course, why not all of the above?) For more on jauhar, see {5,4}. On the dead-lover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,6} hai junuu;N ahl-e junuu;N ke liye aa;Gosh-e vidaa(( chaak hotaa hai garebaa;N se judaa mere ba((d 1a) madness is, for the people of madness, the embrace of 'leave-taking' 1b) madness is, for the people of madness, in the embrace of 'Leave-taking' 2) 'tearing' is [habitually] separated from the collar, after me

Notes: Nazm: 'Tearing' takes leave of the collar of the people of madness, as if Tearing is the 'embrace of leave-taking', for after me it will have departed from the people of madness. The place for hai was after vidaa((, but because of the necessities of the verse he moved it [to the beginning of the line]. (52)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, 'tearing' has become separated from the collars of those madmen who constantly keep their collars torn open. That is, after my death 'tearing' won't come, even by accident, near any collar. The meaning is that after me, the age will be devoid of accomplished ones; no such lover as I will be born again. (98)

Bekhud Mohani: After us, madness is becoming separated from the people of madness, and 'tearing' is becoming separated from the collar. That is, it was we alone who, in the turmoil of madness, seized our garment and turned the 'tearing of the collar' and 'the tearing of the garment-hem' [chaak-e daaman] into the same act. Now nobody will be able to do this feat. (125)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} MADNESS: {14,3} The tearing of the collar, chaak-e garebaa;N, is one of the mad lover's characteristic activities. Of course it's not exactly a 'collar' that he tears, but the vertical slit at the throat of his kurta that opens so the garment can be pulled on over the head. Why does he tear it? Because he's mad, and madmen do insane things; or because he feels suffocated by passion and loosens his collar to get more air; or because he seeks to become a naked hermit in the desert. How elegantly this simple, stylized physical action is made to radiate complexity in all directions! In the first line, the grammar of aa;Gosh-e vidaa(( can permit two readings: for madmen, madness either is the embrace of leave-taking (1a); or else it is in the embrace of leave-taking (1b). And of course the 'embrace of leavetaking' can be, thanks to the clever i.zaafat, either an embrace that signifies leave-taking, or an embrace of a personified entity called Leave-taking. (This

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latter reading is made more plausible by the similar treatment of chaak in the second line.) And what exactly does it mean to be in the embrace of Leavetaking? An embrace is a sign of intimate presence, but this embrace is also a sign of the end of all intimate presence, since it will separate the two who are embracing. For another creative use of the phrase aa;Gosh-e vidaa((, see {74,1}. And in the second line, is 'tearing,'chaak, a mere noun, or a personified entity called Tearing? If 'tearing' is separated from the collar, this might mean simply that the collar will never be torn again. But if the personified Tearing is separated from the collar, it might mean that Tearing is intolerably kept apart from access to its single defining activity, its reason for existing-almost the way the lover is separated from the beloved. Moreover, as Vasmi Abidi points out, the line itself, in its word order, enacts the separation of chaak from garebaa;N. The repetition of junuu;N, the insistence on lovers as 'people of madness' opens further possibilities. The multivalent craziness of this verse might, after all, simply express the madness of the mad lover, who sees the world refracting his own passion-skewed sensibility. Perhaps the quest for intelligibility and coherence is a futile one. At the heart of this marvelous verse is the deep and intolerable (but also so colloquial and unforced) paradox of the 'embrace of parting,' the aa;Gosh-e vidaa((. On the deadlover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,7} kaun hotaa hai ;hariif-e mai-e mard-afgan-e ((ishq hai mukarrar lab-e saaqii me;N .salaa mere ba((d 1) who can withstand the man-killing wine of passion? 2) there is many times on the lips of the Cupbearer a call, after me

Notes: Hali: The apparent meaning of this verse is that since I have died, the Cupbearer of the man-killing wine of passion-- that is, the beloved-- many times gives the call-- that is, summons people to the wine of passion. The meaning is that after me, no buyer of the wine of passion remained; thus he shad to give the call again and again. But after further reflection [ziyaadah ;Gor karne ke ba((d], as Mirza himself used to say, an extremely subtle meaning [nihaayat la:tiif ma((nii] appears in it, and that is, that the first line is the words of this very Cupbearer's call; and he is reciting that line repeatedly. One time he recites it in a tone of invitation.... Then when in response to his call no one comes, he recites it again in a tone of despair-- Who can withstand the mankilling wine of passion! That is, no one. In this, tone [lahajah] and style [:tarz-e adaa] are very effective. The tone of calling someone is one thing, and the way of saying it very softly, in despair, is another. When you repeat the line in question in this way, at once the meanings will enter deeply into your mind. (130-31)

Nazm: me;N seems to be a calligrapher's error; kii or yih should be here. Most people have done a lot of subtle analysis of this verse's meaning, but it is outside the established path [jaadah-e mustaqiim]. (53)

Bekhud Mohani: In my opinion, there's no need for kii or yih. Because after once calling out like this, when no one hears then he goes on saying these words to himself, and this was the reason Mirza said me;N. (125)

FWP: WINE: {49,1}

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According to Hali, the obvious meaning of the first line is a general reflection, and the second line is an illustrative sequel to the first-1) Who can withstand the man-killing wine of passion? (Not me, I died of it! -- and not anybody else either.) 2) [Thus] after my death the Cupbearer often calls out [for drinkers, but in vain]. But Hali then tells us that Ghalib used to say that 'after further reflection' another meaning--in fact, an 'extremely subtle/ refined/ delightful meaning'-arises in the verse. And how is that meaning created? By rearranging the relationship of the two lines, so that we read the first as a result of the logically prior second: 2) After my death the Cupbearer goes around calling out many times, 1) 'Who can withstand the man-killing wine of passion?' In short, more meanings can-- and should!-- be brought out by rearranging the logical and semantic relationships of the two lines. Moreover, we notice that the first line is in the inshaa))iyah mode, and in Ghalib's greatly favored category, the interrogative. Ghalib has been guiding Hali not only to read the verse with two different internal line-relationships, but also to create a range of effects by reading it with different kinds of intonation [lahjah]. His analytical approach to this verse is a charter for what I am doing in this commentary. The only surprising thing, to me, is that the traditional commentators show so little interest in this really very obvious kind of analysis. But in his letters, Ghalib himself doesn't show much interest in such analysis either. He's much more inclined to tailor his comments according to the abilities of his addressee, the framework of their relationship, and the space constraints of the page, than to actually get into complexities. Perhaps his heart sank at the thought of trying to get it all across. Here, in Hali's account, we see him acting as a friendly teacher, suggesting that the subtleties of the verse become evident not at once but 'after further reflection'. What is this except a courteous form of moral support? Certainly Ghalib himself didn't 'discover' these subtleties at a later stage, after 'reflection'-- he built them in from the beginning, and indeed built the verse around them. But he's trying to guide Hali in an encouraging way, as any good teacher would. For another example of such guidance on his part, see {230,5}. On the dead-lover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,8} ;Gam se martaa huu;N kih itnaa nahii;N dunyaa me;N ko))ii kih kare ta((ziyat-e mihr-o-vafaa mere ba((d 1) I die of grief that there is not even anyone in the world 2) who would console/mourn love and faithfulness after me

Notes: ta((ziyat: 'Consoling; condolence; lamentation, mourning'. (Platts p.327)

Nazm: That is, I'm dying of this grief: that no one, after me, would even ask kindly after love and faithfulness as I have done. That is, before death, grief is killing me. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I die of grief because along with my dying, love and faithfulness too would come to an end. And then there's not even anybody who would mourn for love and faithfulness after me. (99)

Bekhud Mohani: I am so faithful that faithfulness itself will mourn for me. It's impossible that there would be anyone like me again. There is not even anyone who would provide faithfulness with a bit of consolation. (126)

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Shadani: [The first line] ought to be like this: mar gaya ;Gam se par itnaa nahii;N dunyaa me;N ko))ii -- 'I died of grief, but there was not even anyone in the world'. (209)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS I 'die of grief' both metaphorically and perhaps even literally, just as the expression works in English. In the first line, the implications of itnaa nahii;N dunyaa me;N, 'not even this much in the world', are worth noting. As I look back over my life, there are so many things I've lost and missed and longed for in the world! It's impossible to mention them all, and what would be the point? But of all the things lacking in this heartless world, the really cruelest, the one that is killing me with grief, is that there won't even be-- and then we are into line two with its multiple possibilities of loss and mourning. And in line two, what an astonishingly clever use of the meanings and suggestive possibilities of ta((ziyat! I die of grief because after me-1) no one will even think to go and say a few words of consolation to Love and Faithfulness, who will be grieving for the irreplaceable loss of a lover like me 2) no one will be able to console Love and Faithfulness for my loss, since no one will be able to become a lover like me 3) no one will mourn for love and faithfulness, qualities that will vanish from the world with my death 4) no one else will mourn for love and faithfulness-- qualities that had vanished from the world long before my time-- the way I mourned for them All these possibilities-- a whole litany of the lover's sufferings and grievances-- are entirely present within the carefully-contrived grammar of the second line. Ghalib once again creates great complexity and subtlety with the simplest possible devices. On the dead-lover-speaks theme, see {57,1}.

{57,9} aa))e hai bekasii-e ((ishq pah ronaa ;Gaalib kis ke ghar jaa))egaa sailaab-e balaa mere ba((d 1) at the helplessness of passion, tears come, Ghalib 2) to whose house will the flood of disasters go, after me?

Notes: aa))e hai is a variant form of aataa hai.

Nazm: In the second line, he has constructed passion itself as the flood of disasters. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, I weep for the loneliness and helplessness of passion. After my death, who will become its host, and to whose house will the flood of disasters-- that is, passion-- go? (99)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I don't see in anyone else the courage to accept this flood of disasters. (126)

FWP: Two independent lines-- how to connect them? Nazm wants to apply them to the same situation, by equating 'passion' in line one with the 'flood of disasters' in line two. The effect is one of compassion, as for a homeless orphan. We weep for the plight of helpless Passion, who will be without a home once I am gone; to whose house will the poor disaster-laden thing go then?

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Yet we needn't equate the two, to make the verse work. The 'helplessness of passion' could be simply the inability of the passionate lover to continue his activities beyond the grave. Throughout his life he was always available for the 'flood of disasters' that constantly poured down on him from the heavens; who will show them such hospitality after he is gone? Or perhaps the lover sympathizes with the plight of those equally helpless lovers, his fellow victims of passion, whom he is leaving behind. While the 'flood of disasters' was falling on his house, others escaped. Now that he is not available, on whom will the flood of devastation descend next? And of course, 'tears' come to the lover in his anxiety over the future of the 'flood' of disasters. Could he be somehow creating the torrent himself? In {111,16} he suggests this threatening possibility, and in {233,17} he calls his tears 'equipment for a typhoon.' See also {58,2}, in which the lover describes what his tears have done to his own house. On the dead-loverspeaks theme, see {57,1}.

Ghazal 58 10 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: ar dar-odiivaar composed 1821; Hamid p. 47; Arshi #058; Raza p. 230

{58,1} balaa se hai;N jo yih pesh-e na:zar dar-o-diivaar nigaah-e shauq ko hai;N baal-o-par dar-o-diivaar 1) to hell with them, these doors and walls that are before my gaze! 2a) to the gaze of passion, doors and walls are wings and feathers 2b) to the gaze of passion, wings and feathers are doors and walls

Notes: balaa : 'Trial, affliction, misfortune, calamity, evil, ill; a person or thing accounted a trial, affliction, &c.... (N.B. The word balaa is often used most idiomatically in a manner difficult to be rendered in English; e.g. tumhaarii balaa-se , sc. kaam hai , lit. 'It concerns your evil genius'; it is no concern of yours; what is it to do with you, never mind: -- tuu kyaa balaa hai , 'What awful thing are you?' Who cares for you? You are of no significance: --kis balaa kaa kaam , 'What fearful or trying work'; what a fearful amount of work: -- aaj to balaa mirche;N ;Daalii hai;N , 'They have put in a fearful or tremendous quantity of chillies today.')'. (Platts p.163)

Nazm: That is, doors and walls are barriers to the gaze. But when it is obstructed by them, passion becomes sharper, as if they had become wings and feathers for the flight of the gaze of passion. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says these doors and walls that are barriers to the gaze and don't let the glance reach to the beloved-- their interposition does us no harm. Our glance of ardor has begun to reach the beloved in imagination, and the practice of imagination is also the disguise/veil of the door and walls, as if they, by interposing, became wing and feather of the glance of ardor. That is, because of them alone this power has been born in the imagination. (99)

Bekhud Mohani: For people of ardor, doors and walls are not barriers to sight. Rather, they act as wings for the bird of the gaze. That is, however many restrictions there are, that's how much progress ardor will make. (126)

Mihr: Compare {62,10}. (203)

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FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY The colloquial expression balaa se is a generalized malediction, wishing evil on whatever is mentioned. 'To hell with!' is probably the nearest we can get in English. Here are additional examples of this idiomatic usage: {91,9}; {99,4}, in the fuller form merii balaa se ; {107,2}; {234,2}. A use of balaa alone, to mean something like 'fearfully much': {6,8x}. Platts really struggles to capture such usages; see his definition above. For contrast, here are some 'straight' uses of the word balaa : {20,8}; {21,13}; {57,9}. I once did a translation of this ghazal that sought to preserve both rhyme and refrain. Versions of it were published in an article on the ghazal, co-authored with S. R. Faruqi, and also as an appendix to Nets of Awareness. Needless to say, it's not easy to preserve both; it's easier to preserve just the refrain, and most English-knowers will hardly even register the awkwardly-achieved additional presence of the rhyme. Obviously, only a handful of ghazals with unusually suitable refrains will lend themselves at all well to this kind of translation. If anybody wants to try, I recommend {5} ('burned'); {49} ('wave of wine'); {57} ('after me'); {75} ('candle'); and {80} ('rose'). Since 'after me' works, you'd think {208}, 'before me', would work too, but it doesn't (unless you omit some verses); try it and you'll see why. There's also the odd little {127} (ko))ii nah ho). In its apparent simplicity, this verse offers some pleasing word/meaning plays. The 'doors and walls that are before my eyes' (or literally, before my line of sight) in the first line may be so described merely casually, to identify them: 'the physical ones, the ones I can see'. But they may also be 'before my eyes' in the sense that they are blocking my vision and preventing me from seeing what is beyond them, the way a blindfold 'before my eyes' would interfere with my power of sight. This irritation would provide an excellent reason for abusing them. Similarly, in the second line, two readings are possible. If the gaze of passion sees 'doors and walls' as 'wings and feathers', as in (2a) and everybody's reading, the implication is that these physical barriers and protections merely inspire the lover's imagination to fly beyond them, and empower him to break out of their imprisoning shelter. If the gaze of passion sees 'wings and feathers' as 'doors and walls', as in (2b) and my speculative secondary reading, the sense would be that the lover has no home-- he lives only in flight, in movement, in wandering, so that his habitual surroundings, the 'doors and walls' of his home, would be the imaginative means for rapid motion. (See {18,3}, in which Majnun's house is 'without a door'.) In either case, of course, the lover might well react with the emotion depicted in the first line.

{58,2} vufuur-e ashk ne kaashaane kaa kiyaa yih rang kih ho ga))e mire diivaar-o-dar dar-o-diivaar 1) the abundance of tears created such a mood/aspect in the house 2) that my walls and doors became doors and walls

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the walls fell down and became doors, and the doors were filled up and became walls. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my turmoil of weeping, making progress, has created such a state in the house that the wall has fallen and become a door, and the door has been blocked and turned into a wall. (99-100)

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Bekhud Mohani: I wept so much that the very state of my house changed. The walls opened up and became doors, and the door, being filled up with mud, became a wall. That is, my constant weeping had its effect, and destroyed the house. (126)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; REPETITION Nazm suggests one possibility: my copious weeping created a flood that virtually destroyed the house. This is quite possible; for discussion of such cases, see {57,9}. Equally possible, of course, is that the lover's tears so blurred his vision that he couldn't tell doors from walls, but mistook them for each other. The word rang seems to tilt toward this possibility, since it has more to do with aspects, looks, feelings than with violent destruction and radical changes in physical conditions (though it can be used for either). In either case, this is a very clever and delightful example of what I'd call a 'mushairah verse'; for more on this see {14,9}. In this verse Ghalib not only uses a long, inconveniently specific refrain like 'doors and walls' with ease and grace, but he manages to repeat the same phrase in inverted form just before the refrain, and not only with no feeling of effort or forcedness, but in fact with excellent poetic effect. He well deserves the praise Josh gives him in {58,3}.

{58,3} nahii;N hai saayah kih sun kar naved-e maqdam-e yaar ga))e hai;N chand qadam peshtar dar-o-diivaar 1a) [it] is not a shadow-- for, having heard the good news of the coming of the beloved 1b) there is no shade/shelter, for, having heard the good news of the coming of the beloved 2) doors and walls have gone some steps forward

Notes: saayah: 'Shadow, shade; shelter, protection'. (Platts p.631) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: 'Shade' refers to the shade of the doors and walls, which have run out some steps beyond the door in order to welcome the guest. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, this is not the shadow of the doors and walls that can be seen at a little distance from them; rather, having heard the good news of the beloved's coming, doors and walls themselves have gone some paces forward to welcome the guest. (100)

Bekhud Mohani: At the time when his beloved comes, the lover is so happy and so absorbed that he doesn't think a shadow is a shadow, but considers it to be doors and walls. And he says that not only I, but doors and walls too, are joyous. And so joyous that they have advanced some steps forward in order to greet the beloved. (126)

Josh: With what artistry he has made this extremely narrow, extremely limited and 'stony' [sanglaa;x] ground into water [i.e., irrigated it]! No verse is devoid of inventiveness of thought [jiddat-e ;xayaal] and felicitousness of expression [shiguftagi-e bayaa;N].... Shadow, and in it this light of elegance of meaning [;husn-e ma((nii]-- praise be to God! (135)

FWP: The commentators tend to go for (1a), in which someone outside in the street outside the lover's house notices what he thinks is a large dark shadow, only

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to be corrected by the lover: that's not a shadow, that's my walls and doors themselves! They so deeply share my ecstatic joy at the news of the beloved's arrival that they've gone forward a few steps to meet her (in the traditional gesture of courteous welcome). Or else as in (1b), the lover, entering his house, notices that it no longer provides any protection from the elements-- the walls and doors have gone out to welcome the beloved. As Bekhud Mohani implies, all this could well be happening only in the mad lover's fevered imagination. But nothing in the verse requires this supposition; the grammar is straightforward and the tone matter-of-factly explanatory. This makes the verse much more amusingly deadpan and saves it from the curse of over-explanation. Josh describes the rhyme-refrain of this ghazal as a 'stony ground', punning on the literal meaning of 'ground', zamiin. Although his praise for Ghalib's dexterity under these conditions is generalized to the whole ghazal, this verse is singled out particularly. To my mind, {58,2} is an even better example of the kind of technical virtuousity he's admiring.

{58,4} hu))ii hai kis qadar arzaanii-e mai-e jalvah kih mast hai tire kuuche me;N har dar-o-diivaar 1) to what an extent has occurred cheapness/abundance of the wine of glory/appearance! 2) that in your lane every door and wall is drunk

Notes: Nazm: By way of a taunt, the poet says, to what an extent now you'e made the wine of the sight of you available to anybody and everybody! (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's a great pity-- you've made the wine of splendor/appearance so cheap that even the doors and walls of your lane have become intoxicated with the wine of the sight of you. (100)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover has been so affected and intoxicated by the splendor/appearance of the beloved that to his unfocused gaze doors and walls appear to be swaying like drunkards (when intoxication is very acute, that is exactly how things appear). (127)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} WINE: {49,1} Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi see the verse as a taunt or reproach to the beloved, who is intimately addressed in the tuu form. The sense of arzaanii as 'cheapness' bears them out, but even its sense of 'abundance' works too. The beloved's proper role is to be difficult of access, not to freely show herself to all and sundry. The proof that she is easily visible is that all the walls and doors in her lane are intoxicated and reeling with her splendor. She shouldn't be providing her radiance, like cheap and abundant wine, to all comers. As Bekhud Mohani observes, however, it's equally possible that the lover himself is the one who's intoxicated, which is why he sees the doors and walls as swaying, and thinks of them as reeling and staggering with drunkenness. And of course, the possibilities aren't mutually exclusive either.

{58,5} jo hai tujhe sar-e saudaa-e inti:zaar to aa kih hai;N dukaan-e mataa((-e na:zar dar-o-diivaar

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1) if you have a mind for the merchandise/madness of waiting, then come 2) for they are a shop for the goods/property of sight/gazing, door and walls

Notes: saudaa : [from the Persian:] 'Goods, wares; trade, traffic; marketing; purchase, bargain'; [from the Arabic:] 'melancholy; hypochondria; frenzy, madness, insanity; love'. (Platts p.695)

Nazm: That is, my or the lover's gaze has dwelt so heavily on doors and walls, in the state of waiting, that it's as if they've become a shop for the goods of waiting. If you are a purchaser and connoisseur of these goods, then come. (53)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you want to buy the merchandise of waiting, then come and see the spectacle: in the state of waiting, my glances have adhered to the doors and walls the way goods for sale are arrayed in shopkeepers' shops. (100)

Bekhud Mohani: Having said that much [as Nazm has said], the commentary is not complete. Mirza says, oh beloved, the group of lovers stand intently staring at your doors and walls. If you want to enjoy this spectacle, then come-- the sight is worth seeing.... [Or:] If you have a nature that can endure the difficulty of waiting, then come. Doors and walls have become a shop for the goods of sight (sightilluminating beauty). That is, if you have a nature fit for waiting, then there's no lack of radiance/appearance. (127)

Josh: The word saudaa, meaning 'madness', has come as a wordplay with 'shop', because in a shop too goods are sold. (135-36)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} At the heart of the wordplay is saudaa , with its double meaning of the Arabic 'madness' and the Persian 'commerce'. For 'commerce' is echoed by 'shop' and by 'goods, wealth' [mataa((]; while 'madness' is echoed by 'head' [sar], which I've translated as 'mind' to convey the idiomatic sense more accurately. Another verse that rests on the same brilliantly exploited double meaning of saudaa : {214,8}. Then in addition we have the wordplay of inti:zaar, 'wait', and its root, na:zar, 'sight'. (This because to wait for someone, kisii kaa inti:zaar karnaa, literally means something like 'to keep an eye out for someone'.) Endless waiting is part of the lover's madness. And 'sight' or 'gazing'? It is aligned with madness-- and with commerce too, for the shop offers the 'goods/property of sight'. Finally, what does the shop consist of? 'Doors and walls', of course, presumably those of the lover's house. After all his waiting and (vain) gazing, the doors and walls are now so saturated with it that he has enough for all his likely customers. Probably he is only addressing one customer, with the intimate tuu-- himself? the beloved? a confidant? And of course, nobody but a madman would 'have a mind' to buy 'gazing' anyway, or think to see a display of it on the walls and doors of a mad lover's chamber. Bekhud Mohani, in his second meaning, pushes the verse in a mystical direction. 'Sight' could also mean a kind of insight or even epiphany; if you 'have a mind for' inner illumination, come to me. Even walls and doors are revelatory, if you know how to look and are willing to wait. And what outer 'goods' could be better than such sight with the eye of the mind? Ghalib doesn't often use images of commerce, but when he does, the verses are usually striking.

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{58,6} hujuum-e giryah kaa saamaan kab kiyaa mai;N ne kih gir pa;Re nah mire paa;Nv par dar-o-diivaar 1a) when did I ever collect the equipment for an attack/onslaught of tears, 2a) that my doors and walls didn't fall at my feet? [they did so every time!] 1b) when did I ever collect the equipment for an attack/onslaught of tears! [I never did!]-2b) for didn't my doors and walls fall at my feet? [and prevent me?]

Notes: kih: 'That, in order that, to the end that, so that, for that, in that, because, for; if; and; or; whether; namely, to wit, saying, thus, as follows'. (Platts p.866)

Nazm: In the framework of a negative question [istifhaam-e inkaarii] he says, when did I do that?-- that never happened! That is, [it never happened] that I collected equipment for weeping, and doors and walls didn't fall at my feet. (54)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, whenever I have wanted to weep my heart out, then at once the doors and walls have fallen at my feet. The meaning of the verse is that there is so much effect in my weeping that before my intention is completely accomplished, its effect becomes apparent. (100-01)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that if I had not seen doors and walls falling at my feet (that is, collapsing), then I would have wept my heart out, and the house which appears to be in this ruined state (that is, with the walls collapsed and the door fallen in) would already have been torn apart long ago and not even a trace of it would have remained....In another place he has said, {27,7}. (128)

FWP: SETS == KIH This verse, with its entirely inshaa))iyah structure, permits two negativequestion readings. In the first reading, the framework is 'When did I ever do X, that Y didn't happen!'-- that is, that every time I did X, then Y happened. In the second reading, the framework is, 'When did I ever do X? Didn't Y always happen, to prevent me?' So either I did X many times (always with Y as one result), or I never did X at all (since I was deterred by Y). The key to these two readings is the versatility of the omnicompetent little clauseintroducing conjunction kih. The X is, of course, collecting the 'equipment' for an 'attack, onslaught' of tears; in other words, preparing to create a devastating personal flood, as in {58,2}. The Y is, my doors and windows' falling at my feet. Just as in English, falling at someone's feet [kisii ke paa;Nv par pa;Rnaa] can suggest, most probably, deliberate collapse as a gesture of humility and supplication; or, alternatively, simple collapse (reason unspecified; the collapse just happened to take place near the feet). In this case, the first sense would provide the image of the doors and walls begging the lover not to weep such a flood that they would be destroyed; the second sense would suggest that the lover's mere preparations for a flood of tears were so potent that the doors and walls were knocked down even before the actual flood hit them. (As in {5,4}, where even a passing 'thought' of wildness or madness burns the desert to ashes.) Nobody will be surprised to realize, knowing Ghalib, that both senses of 'falling at my feet' work for both readings of the verse, given above in the translation. We are left nicely and undecidably balanced among several sets of possibilities. One set: If my tears destroyed my doors and walls, they did

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so either physically (my preparations led directly to actual tears) or by suggestion (the mere preparations caused my house to collapse). And this destruction happened either repeatedly, as in reading (a), or never, as in reading (b). Another set: If my tears didn't destroy my doors and walls, it was because I heeded the humble supplication of the fearful doors and walls themselves; and this supplication happened either repeatedly, as in reading (a), or never, as in reading (b).

{58,7} vuh aa rahaa mire ham-saayah me;N to saaye se hu))e fidaa dar-o-diivaar par dar-o-diivaar 1) when she came and stayed in my {neighbor / shade-sharer} [house], then {because / by means} of the shade 2) doors and walls sacrificed themselves for doors and walls

Notes: aa rahaa is a compressed form of aa kar rahaa. fidaa : 'Sacrifice; consecration, devotion; devoting oneself (to save another); a thing devoted'. (Platts p.777)

Nazm: That is, the shade of my doors and walls sacrificed itself [balaa))e;N lenaa] for her doors and walls. (53)

Hasrat: The shadow of one house often advances and reaches to another house; from this, the idea was born. (57)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when she came and settled in my neighborhood, then the shadow of my doors and walls began to sacrifice itself for her doors and walls. (100)

Josh: What a fine instance it is of 'elegance in assigning a cause'! (136)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} A closely embroidered tapestry of word/meaning play. When the beloved came to stay next door, not only did I almost die of joy, but the very doors and walls of my house adored (sorry, I couldn't help it) the doors and walls of her house. Why did they adore them? On one reading of the crucial phrase saaye se, because they fell under the spell of the exquisitely cool and sensual shade that the newcomers provided to my house that had been for so long burning with passion. How did the doors and walls show their adoration? On another (and even more delightful) reading of saaye se, by devotedly providing shade to the newcomers, self-sacrificingly interposing themselves between the cruel son and the beloved's house. As Josh observes, this verse is an example of 'elegance in assigning a cause'. The observed fact that the shadow of one house often extends over the house next door has now been given a far more romantic explanation than a mere explanation of planes and angles. There's also some conspicuous wordplay: hamsaayah, 'neighbor' or, literally, 'shade-sharer', is echoed in saayah, 'shade'. And look at the second line: fidaa dar-o-diivaar par dar-o-diivaar is made up of a mere handful of consonants and vowel sounds, combined and recombined.

{58,8} na:zar me;N kha;Tke hai bin tere ghar kii aabaadii hameshah rote hai;N ham dekh kar dar-o-diivaar

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1) in [our] eyesight/gaze, the comfort/activity of the house pricks/stings, without you 2) we always weep, {seeing / having seen} doors and walls

Notes: aabaadii: 'Inhabited spot or place; ...prosperity; state of comfort; happiness, joy, pleasure.' (Platts, p. 2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in separation from you the bustle of our house pricks in our eyes; the necessary result of something's pricking in the eyes is that tears begin to flow. When we see our doors and walls we always weep at the memory of you. (100)

Bekhud Mohani: Mir Taqi Mir says, aa))ii bahaar gulshan gul se bharaa hai lekin har goshah-e chaman me;N ;xaalii hai jaa-e bulbul [spring has come; the garden is full of roses, but in every corner of the garden, the Nightingale's place is empty]. (128)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani compares this verse to one of Mir's great masterpieces, a verse so brilliant, mysterious, and full of mood that it does put this particular verse into the shade. The second line of Mir's verse is as good as it gets in Urdu ghazal; I'd rank it right up there with the second line of {18,3}. Unlike Mir's 'mood' verse, Ghalib's is based partly on wordplay: the idea of 'in [our] eyesight', na:zar me;N. In a general way, what is in our eyesight is the house and its doings; but in a specific way, what is in our eye(sight) is a thorn, suggested by the verb kha;Taknaa, 'to prick, sting'. The house collapses into a 'thorn' because both of them are 'in [our] eyesight'. And the inevitable result of either one would be tears, so having both in our eyes together makes us constantly weep. More punchy and remarkable, however, is the second line. When we know that it's the aabaadii, literally, 'inhabitedness', of the house that makes the lover weep, we expect some reference to people, activity, hustle and bustle-what in Urdu is often called the raunaq, the 'glory', of a house. That in itself would be sufficiently punchy, since what makes everyone else happy would make the lover weep. But then we learn that what the lover calls aabaadii is-- doors and walls. What he means by 'inhabitedness, comfort, prosperity, joy' is simply the solitary, stark enclosure of the house itself. What an enjoyable shock to our expectations! Without the beloved, even that degree of domestic comfort offends him. Remember {56,3}, in which the lover reproaches his heart for presuming to want even so much as a nap. And if the lover in fact weeps any time he sees any doors and walls, in anybody's house-- as seems quite a possible reading-- he'll be weeping all the time. (Why are we not surprised?)

{58,9} nah puuchh be-;xvudii-e ((aish-e maqdam-e sailaab kih naachte hai;N pa;Re sar bah sar dar-o-diivaar 1) don't ask about the self-lessness of the enjoyment of the coming of the flood 2) for they dance, fallen, end to end-- doors and walls

Notes: Nazm: That is, from the desolation of my house I get such pleasure that when walls and doors begin to fall in the flood, I consider it a dance and become beside myself [be;xvud]. (54)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time when the flood comes, don't ask me about the selflessness of passion. It's as if doors and walls enter a [mystical] state. And they become absorbed in dancing. (101)

Bekhud Mohani: The house of the body was waiting with such ardor for its destruction that now, when death is about to come, its walls and doors are dancing. (128-29)

Josh: To construe the doors and walls collapsing in the flood as a dance, is such excellence of expression that there's not enough space to do justice to it. 'House' refers to the lover's heart. (137)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} In this ghazal, doors and walls have often been treated as agents. In {58,3}, they went out ahead to welcome the beloved; in {58,6} they fell at the lover's feet in fear of a flood of tears; in {58,7} they sacrificed themselves for the beloved's doors and walls; and now they dance in heedless rapture to welcome the flood. In every case, as is proper in the ghazal world, their behavior has been deduced from physical correlatives (doors and walls casting shadows, collapsing in floods, bobbing up and down in flood waters). In {58,6} and the present verse, the doors and walls react to a destructive flood (of tears) in (at least on one level) opposite ways. Such ambivalence is not surprising; we see it even more clearly in {15,10}, which also presents a variety of reactions to maqdam-e sailaab, the 'coming of the flood'. For the doors and walls, the coming of the flood is the approach of dissolution and death. In this verse we see them bobbing up and down in the roiling flood waters, dancing with the 'self-less' (i.e., 'devoid of self', hyphenated to differentiate it from the English 'selfless' meaning 'unselfish') ecstasy of the mystical lover about to escape from this transitory world into the realm of the eternal. And of course, their emotions may be their own; or they may be ascribed only by the lover who watches them, so that they're really his emotions. The wordplay with sar bah sar -- 'totally, from end to end', but literally meaning 'head to head'-- is also a pleasure, since dancers moving in unison often place their heads close together. The excellent rhythm and sound effects of pa;Re sar bah sar dar -o-diivaar also well evokes the feel of dancing-- or of bobbing up and down. (Are the doors and walls waving, or drowning? Both, of course.)

{58,10} nah kah kisii se kih ;Gaalib nahii;N zamaane me;N ;hariif-e raaz-e mu;habbat magar dar-o-diivaar 1a) don't tell [it] to anyone, Ghalib! for in the world/age there's no [one] 1b) don't tell anyone, Ghalib, that in the world/age there's no [one] 2) equal to the secret of love-- {but / except for} doors and walls

Notes: Nazm: That is, don't tell the secret of love to anyone else, because no one else in the world except doors and walls is trustworthy. And to talk to doors and walls is a futile action; the result is that you should never let the secret of love pass your lips. (54)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza says, oh Ghalib, don't tell your secret of love to anyone except for doors and walls. That is, if you can't keep your secret of love concealed and

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consider it necessary to tell it to someone, then instead of a person, tell it to doors and walls. The meaning of the verse is that the secret of love should never emerge from the mouth. (101)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, you've said to me that besides doors and walls, there's no one in this world/age worthy of keeping the secret of love.... Oh cruel one, can such a thing be so?! If there were not such people then the world wouldn't remain established. (169)

FWP: SETS == KIH; MAGAR Nazm takes a dim view of talking to doors and walls. After going through this ghazal, I don't share it. Doors and walls have become the lover's reliable companions and intimates, reacting to and even sharing his passion. Why not imagine the lover as talking to his doors and walls? After all, why would he not? The verse tells us clearly that no one in this world/age is capable of handling the powerful secrets of passion except doors and walls, making them the ideal confidants. The additional logical step of ruling them out is not Ghalib's, but Nazm's. The double readings of the first line depend on clever use of the varying possibilities of kih. On either reading, the remarkable closural force and rueful, ironic, humorous tone of this closing-verse make it a real delight. How better to wrap up a ghazal about doors and walls? Once you've read this verse, you can't imagine how else the job could possibly have been done.

Ghazal 59 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar kahe ba;Gair composed after 1847; Hamid p. 48; Arshi #064; Raza p. 293 {59,1} ghar jab banaa liyaa tire dar par kahe ba;Gair jaanegaa ab bhii tuu nah miraa ghar kahe ba;Gair 1a) when [I] built a house at your door, without saying [anything to you] 1b) when [I] built a house at your door, without [your] saying [anything to me] 2a) will you not know my house, even now, without [my] saying [anything]? 2b) you will not know my house, even now, without [my] saying [anything]!

Notes: Nazm: In the second line there is a negative question [istifahaam-e inkaarii]. (54)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this opening verse Mirza has used a new style of mischievousness. He says, whenever I've complained to the beloved that she never comes to my house, out of mischievousness she says in reply, I don't know your house, otherwise I'd certainly come. Now Mirza, leaving his old house, has come and taken up residence on the beloved's doorstep. And he says to her, without your permission I've made a house on your doorstep, but even now you can't know my house without my telling you! (101)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved has usually been seen as stubborn and pitiless and stonyhearted. If some poor person or lover goes to her even a thousand times, then every time she always asks, who are you, where do you live. (129)

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Josh: This ground too is very 'stony' [sanglaa;x]. In the first line kahe means 'permission', and in the second line it means 'telling'.

FWP: Josh describes this set of rhyming elements too, like those of {58}, as a 'stony' ground, meaning that its long and very specific refrain, kahe ba;Gair, challenges the poet's inventive powers. But just as in {58}, Ghalib shows himself more than equal to the occasion. I'm not convinced that the use of 'stony' grounds for ghazals poses as much of a problem for the ustad as Josh seems to think, anyway. Some of the subtleties of kahe ba;Gair are hard to translate. I've inserted the parenthetical '[anything]' because 'without saying' is so unidiomatic in English; yet 'without speaking' doesn't convey the right idea either, since silence is not the point so much as the specific utterance that is not said. The kahe in the first line may refer either to my not saying anything to the beloved (1a); or, as Josh points out, to the beloved's not saying anything to me (1b). The second line, though not formally a question (since it lacks the prefatory kyaa), can quite well be read as one, since the prefatory kyaa that marks a yes-or-no question can always be colloquially omitted. Nazm and other commentators in fact insist on reading it this way. But reading it as a flat statement is also appropriate to the context, and makes a simpler but equally reproachful effect of its own.

{59,2} kahte hai;N jab rahii nah mujhe :taaqat-e su;xan jaanuu;N kisii ke dil kii mai;N kyuu;Nkar kahe ba;Gair 1) [she] says, when no strength for speech remained to me, 2) how would I know [the feelings] of anyone's heart, without [his] saying [them]?

Notes: Nazm: The meaning of the verse is apparent. This verse makes very clear that the poet often speaks in assumed voices. Sometimes, considering himself a creature without speech, a nightingale, a turtledove, he complains of the hunter and the gardener. Sometimes, assuming himself to be a motionless blade of grass, he declares himself to be a withered branch or an autumnwasted plant. Sometimes, considering his breath to be like that of unbreathing things, he converses with the tongue of the dust of the roadway or the wave of the spring breeze. Sometimes, becoming a lifeless dead person whose hopes have been extinguished, he claims justice for his murder. In short, this field is very broad. In this verse the poet himself says that he has no further strength for speech, then he also complains that when I despaired of describing the state of my heart and when the power of speech was finished, then you say 'without your speaking, how would I know the state of your heart?' And this speech is in an assumed voice. (54)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The reference of 'that one says' is to the beloved. That is, she says-- and says at the time when no strength of speech remained to me-- that I may describe the state of my heart at length and in detail, for how can she understand the intent of the heart without its being described? The meaning of the verse is that when no power of speech remained to me, then that enjoyer of tyranny, out of mischievousness, accuses me of not describing the secrets of my heart. (101-02)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is a universe of poetry. It must be remembered that the poet is the translator of the world-- sometimes he tells his own experiences, and

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sometimes a universal story; sometimes he speaks with the voice of his situation, and sometimes with words.... Mirza has captured a picture of a situation before which the mastery of speech prostrates itself. (129-30)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE For once, the beloved speaks at length-- but only when I am too weak and worn out with passion to speak in reply. And her speech is-- with deliberate cruelty or casually cruel indifference-- designed only to put me in the wrong, and place me in an impossible situation. All the times I've tried to speak, and even spoken, with all the eloquence at my command, wearing myself out with it-- not a word has registered. She alone decides what counts and what doesn't. She waits till I'm talked out, then talks-- only to reproach me for not talking. But I'm not surprised, of course. I'm just ruefully reporting, maybe even with a wry amusement, the normal vicissitudes of the lover's life.

{59,3} kaam us se aa pa;Raa hai kih jis kaa jahaan me;N leve nah ko))ii naam sitamgar kahe ba;Gair 1) {work/desire} with that one has befallen [me]-- [that one] of whom, in the world, 2) no one would mention the name without saying 'tyrant'

Notes: leve is a variant form of le (the future subjunctive of lenaa)

Nazm: In the language of Delhi, kahve and rahve are quite enough. To use them habitually is also improper and is rejected [matruuk]. But leve and deve and hove too, although in theory they are correct, are steadily being abandoned. (54-55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I'm in love with such a tyranny-practicing beloved that along with her name everyone certainly uses the word 'tyrant'. With such a cruel one, how can anything be accomplished? (102)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse two words, 'world' and 'no one', are worthy of attention. They reveal the widespread fame of the beloved's beauty and cruelty. (130)

FWP: At the heart of this verse is the multivalent and absolutely fundamental word kaam in all its senses, with basic meanings of both 'work' (from the Prakritic) and 'desire' (from the Persian and Sanskrit). For further discussion of these meanings, see {22,6}. The grammar of the first line is hard to capture in English, though I've come as close as possible (at the cost of great clumsiness). The verb pa;Rnaa, 'to befall, to fall', suggests the strong coercion of fate, and one's helplessness to resist or escape. It has simply 'fallen to my lot' to have to deal with and/or love such a person, and I am compelled to do so. These suggestions of coercion and helplessness work well, of course, with the fact that the person in question is such a universally acknowledged tyrant or oppressor. To be helplessly forced into a relationship with her is only too appropriate to her basic nature; it is a harbinger of things to come. It's also amusing to think that not only does everyone in the world know and gossip about the beloved, but also no one ever so much as mentions her name without calling her a 'tyrant'. Tyranny is part of her essence, it's her special identifying feature. It makes her sound like Attila the Hun. (But then, isn't that appropriate?) Still, this is not one of his great verses. As an opening-verse, it's more of an agreeable appetizer for the banquet to come.

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{59,4} jii me;N hii kuchh nahii;N hai hamaare vagarnah ham sar jaa))e yaa rahe nah rahe;N par kahe ba;Gair 1) there's nothing inside our self/spirit itself, otherwise we 2) whether [our] head would go or stay, would not remain without saying [it]

Notes: jii: 'Life, soul, self, spirit, mind; heart; courage; disposition; affection, regard; strength; health'. (Platts p.411)

Nazm: In this verse there's a moral theme. He says, my heart is the purest-- if in it there were any ill will toward anybody, I would have expressed it. Therefore whatever emerged as expression, I accept it; but I don't accept a dual temperament-- that one thing would be apparent, and another thing would be within. (55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The truth is that Mirza Sahib in his life was an example of fine morality. Who can cast doubt on the excellence of the verse? (102)

Bekhud Mohani: If we are silent, then don't think that we are silent through consideration for, or fear of, anybody. We're straight-speaking. If we had anything to say, then we wouldn't stop till we'd said it, even if it contained a secret. That is, we are absolutely uninhibited in speaking the truth. (130)

Baqir: It's possible that he wants to say, we feel only love for the beloved, and have no other longing; otherwise, we would certainly have spoken out about our purpose. (167)

Shadan: In Lucknow, they say [not jii me;N hii but] jii hii me;N. (212)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} I've given the commentators full play on this one, to show that they have no interest in anything except what Nazm calls a 'moral theme'. (And of course Shadan's quibble about word order.) They entirely miss (or choose to ignore) the clever and amusing wordplay of the second line. I've said my say about their blindness to wordplay in discussing {26,7}, which is the most flagrant possible example, so I won't repeat it all here. But this is another notable instance of the same kind. On the simplest level, look at the letters: in the second line there are no vowels except an overwhelming presence of short a (fourteen), varied with a few examples of long aa (three), and ba;Rii ye (with the sounds of e and ai) (four). The sound of the line thus emerges as a riff on short a, rhythmically interspersed with various consonants, especially re. So many short vowels give it a somewhat incantatory quality. And when you say it aloud a few times, something else emerges suddenly from the rhythm. Look at sar jaa))e yaa rahe nah rahe;N par (the whole second line except for the refrain). One way to say 'the head might go or might remain' is sar jaa))e yaa rahe. Another common way to express the same idea, however, would be to say that the head rahe nah rahe, 'might remain, might not remain'. Here, Ghalib has virtually reproduced that phrase, in rahe nah rahe;N, which differs only in the nasalized plural ending (for ham) of rahe;N. So one subliminally reads the line as 'the head might go or might remain or might not remain'. Then the par that ends the phrase so strongly evokes the initial sar that it almost recreates it, as well as having an emphatic meaning of 'but, however'

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(collapsed in my translation into the 'whether' by the exigencies of English grammar). In short, the closural force and well-roundedness of the phrase are powerfully present to the ear (and mind). And of course, the bouncing back and forth between the head going or staying or not staying works perfectly with the meaning of the first line-- if the whole self is so empty, can one even care whether the head goes or stays? The primal little word jii, intensified and echoed by hii, works wonderfully here. It means so many things, and such fundamental ones, that it's almost untranslatable. One who has an empty jii has indeed nothing to say-- or to think, or to feel, or to live for. In short, nobody would call out vaah vaah in approval-- and all the classical poets aimed at public approval in the mushairah setting-- for a verse that merely asserted the poet's moral high-mindedness. The punch comes in the second line, and it comes through a deft combination of wordplay, meaningplay, and sound effects.

{59,5} chho;Ruu;Ngaa mai;N nah us but-e kaafir kaa puujnaa chho;Re nah ;xalq go mujhe kaafir kahe ba;Gair 1) I won't leave off the worship of that ungrateful/infidel idol 2) although the people wouldn't leave off without calling me 'infidel'

Notes: kaafir: 'Infidel, impious; ungrateful; --one denying God, an infidel, an impious wretch'. (Platts p.801)

Nazm: The word chho;Rnaa in both lines is worth noting, for the repetition [takraar] has increased the beauty of the poetry. This too is a verbal device among the 'word-based [laf:zii] verbal devices' although the experts have not mentioned it. (55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The use of chho;Rnaa in both lines with such casualness is the high point of beauty of expression. (102)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse Mirza has very beautifully expressed the extent of his love. On the surface, it doesn't even enter one's mind that the point is to express the extent of love. That is, love has now reached the limit of worship. (130)

Josh: What a state of affinity there is between 'infidel idol' and 'worship'! Firmness in love, and persistence in the path of passion, is an example for everybody. The meaning is clear, and requires no further commentary. (138)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION IDOL: {8,1} INFIDEL: {21,12} This verse is distinguished by a double repetition: forms of chho;Rnaa appear in both lines, and so does kaafir. Obviously, as Josh notes, the affinity among 'infidel', 'idol', and 'worship' is a delight. The lover who 'worships an infidel idol' may indeed be thought to be an 'infidel' himself, since he is showing himself 'ungrateful' (the literal meaning of kaafir) to God by renouncing the Islamic requirement of reserving worship for God alone. The appreciation of chho;Rnaa is based on its being used in two somewhat different senses: in the first line, for leaving off or stopping a form of behavior (i.e., worship); and in the second line, as part of an idiomatic expression, '[perfect participle] ba;Gair nah chho;Rnaa'-- which is comparable to an expression like 'not to be content without doing'

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something. I've translated chho;Rnaa as 'leave off' to avoid suggesting the common English sense of 'to depart [from a place]'. Nobody says anything about the repetition of kaafir, apparently because the commentators interpret that too as used in two different senses: the beloved is a kaafir in the sense of an 'ungrateful wretch', while the lover is called a kaafir because people think he has renounced Islam. In this verse, there's no argument, because all the commentators appreciate the two senses in which chho;Rnaa has been used, so that they all agree on considering such repetition [takraar] a virtue rather than a defect. Compare the treatment of {17,9}, in which Hasrat's criticism of the repetition of qismat in both lines is countered by C. M. Naim and Naiyar Masud on the same grounds: namely, that qismat has been used in two different senses. This is the difference between reprehensible 'padding' and creative variation on a theme.

{59,6} maq.sad hai naaz-o-;Gamzah vale guftaguu me;N kaam chaltaa nahii;N hai dashnah-o-;xanjar kahe ba;Gair 1) the intention/goal is coquetry and sidelong glances, but in conversation the work 2) doesn't move along without saying 'knife' and 'dagger'

Notes: guftaguu; 'Conversation, discourse, dialogue, common talk, chitchat; altercation, dispute, debate, expostulation, controversy, contention'. (Platts p.910)

Nazm: Knife and dagger is a simile for coquetry and sidelong glances; sensory things are a simile for mental things. And not everybody has a head for mental things, so by imagining them as sensory he accomplishes his task-that is, he he explains their effects. (55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, by knife and dagger I mean airs and graces. That is, without giving similes from the realm of the senses not everybody can understand the meaning. (102)

Baqir: Our real intention is airs and graces, but what can be done? In poetic conversation [guftaguu-e shaa((iraanah], the task can't be done without calling airs and graces, knife and dagger. The meaning is that in poetry, without using similes and metaphors the pleasure of poetry does not arise, as if we are compelled by the necessities of poetry. (168)

FWP: This verse and the next one, {59,7}, are famously cited in discussions of ghazal poetics. The two verses form a kind of twinned set: this one says that knife and dagger are necessary metaphors for conveying the effect of airs and graces; the next one says that wine and flagon are necessary metaphors for conveying the effect of God's presence. But in both verses, the mediating term is not poetry but guftaguu, 'conversation'. Does the speaker have to make his point more graphic, so that skeptical or naive listeners will be persuaded of how crual and deadly the beloved's airs and graces really are? Nazm suggests that by using physical objects metaphorically the poet 'accomplishes his task-- that is, he explains their effects'. Ghalib is talking here about the poet's judicious choice of rhetorical devices: he chooses to use certain tools for certain purposes. But it's important to note that all the tools are fully present in the ghazal. Like these two microcosmic verses, the ghazal world itself is full of talk of airs and graces, and knives and daggers, and the seeing of God, and wine and

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flagons. (Both 'tenor' and 'vehicle' are, in short, fully available within the ghazal tradition.) So these two verses can't at all be used (as some have tried to use them) to demonstrate the alleged limitations of the ghazal world, or to claim that Ghalib was expressing dissatisfaction with its formal constraints. On the contrary in fact: as this verse itself demonstrates, the metaphorical equation between airs and graces, and knives and daggers, can easily be made in the space of two elegant lines, with room left over to ruminate about the process. And Ghalib in his letters constantly expresses pride and satisfaction with his achievements in the ghazal, rather than any sense of grievance about its limitations. As he well knew, only the technical limitations of the genre made the ghazal poet's achievements both so possible, and so striking.

{59,7} har-chand ho mushaahadah-e ;haq kii guftaguu bantii nahii;N hai baadah-o-saa;Gar kahe ba;Gair 1) although there might be conversation of the seeing of God 2) [it] doesn't get done without saying 'wine' and 'flagon'

Notes: The implied subject of the second line is baat, with which bantii nahii;N hai (feminine singular) agrees; this is a very common colloquial usage. The phrase baat bannaa means something like 'for a task to be accomplished.'

Nazm: The meaning of this verse is like that of the previous one. (55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse too, the meaning of the one mentioned above has been expressed in different words. In the second line he's doubled the beauty by leaving the word baat omitted. That is, without saying wine and flagon, the baat won't be accomplished. (103)

Bekhud Mohani: If you want to mention the seeing of God, then there's no recourse but to mention wine and flagon. Because wine and flagon are such words that upon hearing them the listener understands that the divine glory has made you self-less. (131)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS This verse is a companion piece to the previous one, {59,6}, and much of what I want to say about it has been said there. Here too, the key word is guftaguu, 'conversation'. This is a verse about the persuasive strategies of rhetoric, not the limitations of the ghazal. Bekhud Dihlavi points out a clever touch: in the second line, the one that contains the refrain kahe ba;Gair, 'without saying', Ghalib has (surely deliberately) composed the line itself 'without saying' the extremely important word baat. Rather, he has caused us to infer its presence from the grammar, and from our knowledge that it's often colloquially omitted in such situations. Then, the excellent idiom baat bannaa basically means 'for a plan/task/idea to come to fruition', which works perfectly well in the second line. But baat bannaa can also literally mean 'for conversation/speech to develop', so that it echoes the concerns of the first line-- although there can be conversation, guftaguu, it depends on speech/conversation-- the cleverly missing but powerfully present, and obviously highly necessary, baat.

{59,8} bahraa huu;N mai;N to chaahiye duunaa ho iltifaat suntaa nahii;N huu;N baat mukarrar kahe ba;Gair

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1) [since/if] I am deaf, then kindness ought to be redoubled 2a) I don't hear [kind] speech without [your] saying [it] repeatedly 2b) I don't hear [kind] speech without saying, 'Again!'

Notes: Nazm: As if the beloved has said in response to something, have you gone deaf? And she herself has made him deaf, and she herself has also become angry. (55)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is according to Mirza Sahib's own circumstances (toward the end of his life, his difficulty of hearing had greatly increased). (103).

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved said something, the lover did not hear; at this she grew angry and said, are you deaf? And with these words, she became annoyed. At such a point the lover excused himself-- and in a way that suited his purpose. (131)

Josh: In old age, Mirza could hear only raised voices; thus, in addition to mischievousness of expression, this theme is according to his situation. Praise be to God, praise be to God, what an utterance he has brought forth! (138-39)

FWP: Some of the commentators love this verse, because it's possible in this case (as in extremely few others) to connect the verse to Ghalib's actual life; he indeed complained of deafness in his old age. They disregard the fact that this verse was almost certainly composed before his deafness made itself felt. Since the classical ghazal is one of the least autobiographical of all literary genres, however, the verse's real charms lie elsewhere. As Nazm observes, the beloved may have scolded the lover for inattention: are you deaf? Cunningly, the lover replies, well, if I'm deaf, you ought to be extra kind to me, and say any sweet things twice! As Bekhud Mohani notes, this clever reply is designed to suit the lover's purpose: he has an opening, and can try to wheedle her into providing a little extra attention. The possibility of less attention from him has been made into a pretext for demanding more attention from her. And that too so charmingly that unless she has a heart of stone she would surely smile at his remark. (But of course, she does have a heart of stone, so who knows?) In a larger structural way, the first line sets up a general truth: people with disabilities should be treated with redoubled kindness and concern. Then the second line unexpectedly converts that general truth into a direct bit of flirtation. For indeed, the reading in (2b) suggests that the lover may not be deaf at all, but simply taking advantage: every time he hears a (rare) kind word from the beloved, he at once feigns deafness and demands to hear it again. This sudden, witty 'punch', and not the alleged biographical accuracy, is surely what makes Josh express such marked delight in the verse.

{59,9} ;Gaalib nah kar ;hu.zuur me;N tuu baar baar ((ar.z :zaahir hai teraa ;haal sab un par kahe ba;Gair 1) Ghalib, don't make a petition again and again in the Presence 2) your whole situation is manifest to [Him/her], without saying [it]

Notes: Nazm: In this verse is the verbal device that he's expressed his state in such a way that it's as if he hasn't said anything. And this ought to be counted among the verbal devices of meaning [ma((navii]. (55)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: In addition to the verbal device of meaning [ma((navii], in this closing-verse the great excellence has been created that even after presenting the petition of his case in its entirety, it is proven that it's as if he's said nothing at all. (103)

Josh: Helplessness and wretchedness are implied so logically in this theme that there's not even any need of further commentary. (139)

FWP: As Josh observes, if the lover is sufficiently wretched-looking, wasted, and visibly suffering, then what need of words to describe his plight? And as the other commentators note, he has found a rhetorically clever way to say something without saying it, by telling himself not to say it, and identifying exactly what it is that he's not to say. Or rather, not to say repeatedly [baar baar], since perhaps it would be permissible to say it once (even though it shouldn't be necessary to say it all, since it's manifest anyway). The person to whom he's not to say it is 'His Excellency'-- literally, 'the Presence' [;hu.zuur]-- a title of great respect used for a superior in rank, who is naturally addressed in the plural of respect [un par]. By contrast, the poet is addressed with the intimate tuu, either because he's talking privately to himself, or else because someone else (a friend? a courtier in His Excellency's service?) is addressing him in a patronizing manner, politely but firmly requiring him to observe proper courtly etiquette.

Ghazal 60 12 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar dekh kar composed 1833; Hamid p. 49; Arshi #063; Raza p. 277

{60,1} kyuu;N jal gayaa nah taab-e ru;x-e yaar dekh kar jaltaa huu;N apnii :taaqat-e diidaar dekh kar 1) why did I not burn [to ashes], seeing the radiance of the beloved's face? 1) why did I not burn [to ashes], seeing [my] endurance of the [sight of the] beloved's face? 2) I burn [with jealousy/pain], seeing my own strength of vision

Notes: jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c'. (Platts p.387) taab : 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming; pain, affliction, grief; anger, indignation, wrath, rage; light, radiance, lustre, splendour; strength, power, ability, capability; endurance'. (Platts p.303)

Nazm: The way lightning is the limit case [of light intolerable to the eyes], in the same way the author has expressed the limit case of jealousy: I myself burn at my own strength of vision. The same meaning he has expressed very clearly in a later verse: {153,1}. (55-56)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He's expressed the perfection of jealousy with such excellence that it's impossible to praise it sufficiently. He says, seeing the radiance of the

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beloved's face, I ought to have burned up-- why didn't I burn up? Now the result has emerged that seeing my own strength of sight, I burn [with jealousy]. That is, jealousy has lit a fire within my heart. (103)

Josh: The use of 'burn' in the two lines is entirely different; this pleasure of language is especially worthy of note. (139)

FWP: SETS == WORD Here is a verse where wordplay is hard to distinguish from meaning-play. For the whole pleasure of it hinges on the various meanings of jalnaa and taab . The literal meaning of jalnaa is of course 'to burn', but its range of extended, semi-metaphorical associations include suffering, pain, and jealousy. Similarly, taab (a Persian cognate to the Sanskrit taap , as in tapasya ) has the root meaning of 'heat', from which its associations of wrath, radiance, and endurance are all semi-metaphorically derived. In line one, the sight of the taab , radiance, of the beloved's face ought to consume me in flame (1a); or, my own taab , endurance, of the sight of the beloved's face ought to consume me in flames of jealousy/wrath at my toughness and presumption (1b). In line two, in either case I burn with jealousy and rage against my own 'strengh of sight', which has caused me to behave not with the glorious self-abandon of the moth flying into the candleflame, but with an entirely discreditable, un-lover-like enduringness (see {1,2} for the related concepted of sa;xt-jaanii , 'tough-lifedness'). In short, it is my failure to jalnaa that causes me to jalnaa ; the problem is based on my taab for the beloved's taab . (For another verse based on taab wordplay, see {204,8}.) Nazm rightly points to {153,1} as an excellent example of the same theme-at the thought of his getting to see the beloved, the lover exclaims that he is 'jealous of himself'.

{60,2} aatish-parast kahte hai;N ahl-e jahaa;N mujhe sar-garm-e naalah'haa-e sharar-baar dekh kar 1) the people of the world call me a fire-worshipper 2) seeing me {eager / hot-headed} for spark-scattering laments

Notes: Nazm: That is, the way in which people devote themselves to worshipping fire-with that same relish and ardor I am always hot-headedly eager to make fiery laments. (56)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the intention with which fire-worshippers worship fire-- in that same relish and ardor I remain hot-headed in heaving spark-scattering sighs. Seeing this condition of mine, the people of the world call me a 'fireworshipper'. (103)

Bekhud Mohani: This is a proud boast that is being expressed. (132)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION RELIGIONS verses: {14,2}; {60,2}; {60,8}; {93,2x}; {111,14}; {112,1}; {115,2}; {118,1}; {120,8}; {173,7}; {173,10}; {174,6}; {204,7}; {208,9}; {231,6} In {59,5}, the lover accepted the risk of having people abuse him with the general term 'infidel' because of his 'worship' of an 'infidel idol'. Here, people call him a 'fire-worshipper', as though he had abandoned Islam for the rituals of the Parsis. Only the 'people of the world' do this, of course, and we know

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their limitations all too well; see {5,6} for a scathing indictment of them that also turns on imagery of fire. In general, Ghalib's references to other religions are very sympathetic; he establishes a kind of admiring mystical parallelism that unites them all under the great banner of passion and faith. The verse is built on the wordplay of fire: 'fire-worshipper', 'hot-headed', 'spark-scattering'. But of course, if the lover's burning hot sighs scatter sparks in all directions, the source of the fire must be an inward one. And since the lover eagerly pursues his 'worship' of this inner fire, he must be absorbed in cultivating the fiery wounds of passion in his heart; in {19,1}, he actually uses his fingernails to claw these wounds open and keep them from healing. So behind the wordplay there's even a literal sense in which the lover can rightly be described as a 'fire-worshipper'. For after all, the verse never claims that in this particular case the 'people of the world' are wrong.

{60,3} kyaa aabruu-e ((ishq jahaa;N ((aam ho jafaa ruktaa huu;N tum ko be-sabab aazaar dekh kar 1) what honor of/for passion, where cruelty would be general? 2) I pause/halt, seeing you afflicting [people] without cause

Notes: Nazm: The construction be-sabab aazaar is Persian.... Indeed, freshness in words and in poetic structure gives rise to great beauty, but it ought to be understood that when one does not have very good command of another language, not everybody has the right to make changes in usage. Here, by cruelty being universal is meant that the Rival, in whom the cause for cruelty (that is, passion) is not found-- even at him you get angry in a beloved-like way, as you do at me. (56)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you have made cruelty universal, no kind of discrimination remains. And this deed of yours has stained the honor of love. That is, enduring cruelty is always the lover's essence. You show cruelty to the Rival as well; in the Rival's heart there is no passion for you. Seeing your cruelties to him, I can say that you are angry without reason, and this very thought is the reason that I pause. (104)

Mihr: One excellence of the verse is its universality and widespread applicability. That is, the theme is not limited simply to ordinary passion; rather, it can be used naturally in politics as well. And this too is a special distinction of many of Mirza's verses. (212)

FWP: At first glance, the second line is so reassuringly commonsensical-- the lover tells the beloved, it gives me pause to see you be cruel without reason. So it should! What more ominous alarm signal could there be, than to see a show of wanton cruelty in someone you love? Naturally it would give you pause-and maybe cause you to turn on your heel and make a quick escape. But needless to say, the commonsense reading has to be stood on its head. What gives the lover pause is not the sight of serious flaws in the beloved's character, or the fear of falling victim to unjust cruelty. On the contrary in fact-- what gives the lover pause is a fear of losing his precious monopoly rights over the beloved's cruelty. If she is cruel to everyone, causelessly, indiscriminately, how can her cruelty remain a special bond between lover and beloved? Her cruelty should not be lavished upon undeserving others (if it's considered a privilege), nor should it be inflicted upon helpless others (if it's considered a torment).

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Like her kindness, her cruelty should be a mark of favor reserved for the true lover alone. See {38,1} for the limit case of inappropriateness: the beloved is cruel to others, and pointedly not cruel to the lover. The situation is serious: the very 'honor of passion' can't be maintained unless the beloved does her part, and channels her cruelty as she should. The honorable lover is as jealous of the beloved's cruelty, as a lesser, worldly lover would be of her favors. (Since, of course, her cruelty is her favor, or at least as much favor as the lover is likely ever to get from her.)

{60,4} aataa hai mere qatl ko par josh-e rashk se martaa huu;N us ke haath me;N talvaar dekh kar 1) she comes to murder me but from the heat/tumult of envy 2) I die-- seeing the sword in her hand

Notes: josh: 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal'. (Platts p.397)

Nazm: The second line demands the theme that she comes so gracefully to kill me that I die. The late author has brought out so many aspects of the meaning of jealousy that it is impossible to praise them sufficiently. But the rule is that when you express one single meaning time after time, then it becomes overfamiliar. For this reason, two verses of this ghazal have remained loose [in structure]. One is this verse; the other is {60,10}. Both actions [described in these verses] are abnormal and not pleasing; and for this reason, the line here has not retained any connection. In order to find this idea a source of insight, you ought to hear that the verse is created in reverse-- that is, first the poet's task is to devise a rhyme. His second thought is to look at the rhyme he has devised and join to it some adjective [.sifat], or related noun [mu.zaaf], or some other grammatical form, or some idiom, or some actor, or some recipient of action, so that a line is formed. Or if it is not, then he would take out or put in some word, or change the word order, to complete it. Then the second line has been composed. The great goal is that after composing the second line, he should add a [first] line that would become connected [marbuu:t] as tightly as a hand on a collar. And it's clear that to see something in the beloved's hand and become jealous of it is abnormal. It is only hypothetical and disconnected [naa-marbuu:t].... In short, in composing the second line the poet is constrained to fulfill the relationships of the rhyme and the refrain, and the chief excellence of this line is that he should search out such an aspect that there should be no coincidence and that the line should not clash/echo [la;Rnaa] [with any other poet's line]. Indeed, after composing the second line, to add a line is to cross a very wide field in which are hundreds of paths. And a very helpful and easy method for practicing how to add a line is that if you open the divan of some pleasing poet, then on the right hand will be all the first lines, and toward the left will be all the second lines. You should hide the first lines with a piece of paper, and for every second line think about what theme would be connected [marbuu:t] with it. When a theme comes to mind, then slide the paper down and see what the poet has composed. In short, for the verse to become a magic spell, and the poet to be proved a master, usually depends on the adding of lines. (56-58) [For more of Nazm's thoughts on the ghazal, see {167,6}.]

Bekhud Mohani: The aspects of jealousy that Mirza has depicted are rightly praised. And it's also correct that using one theme over and over becomes excessive. But

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when Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i decides to declare this verse devoid of pleasure and without connection and merely artificial, the state of the verse is entirely the opposite of this opinion. The trouble of the beginning of passion, and the situation in the midst of passion, and the state of the extreme of passion, are different. In addition to this, the master knows these human dispositions-- that temperaments are diverse.... When the emotion of jealousy reaches a limit, then the lover starts to take amiss even the beloved's looking in a mirror to adorn herself. (133)

Josh: This is a strange kind of jealousy, which is also contrary to the nature of passion. It prevents the verse from penetrating deep into the heart. (140)

FWP: One of the pleasures of working with commentaries is that they contain unexpected little gems, tucked away with seeming arbitrariness in the discussion of particular verses. Nazm's account of how one should learn to write ghazal verses is one such gem. He points out that the second line, with its greater technical constraints, is to be composed first; and for practice one can cleverly make use of the second lines in other people's divans. He emphasizes the centrality of connection and the need to learn how to add a line, which are both strongly grounded in the traditional poetics of the ghazal. If the lover dies of jealousy on seeing the sword in the beloved's hand, that implies that he considers it in some sense a rival. Nazm and Josh consider this excessive degree of jealousy to be morbid, implausible, and unsatisfactory. Bekhud Mohani responds that when passion reaches its extreme point in some temperaments, even such limit cases are appropriate, and help to reveal the nature of the feeling involved. I agree. After all, the lover is jealous of the spring breeze, the mirror, and all kinds of other unrivalrous entities. In the first verse, {60,1}, he's apparently even jealous of his own power of vision. It's hard to get much stranger and more 'abnormal' than that, yet Nazm has no difficulties with it. So these objections seem to be only sporadic and subjective. To me, the weakness of this verse is that there's not much going on in it beyond the literal meaning. It's one of his rare verses that can be paraphrased in prose with very little loss. Nazm is right that there isn't much connection in it, or much wordplay, or much multivalence, or much of anything. It's the kind of verse of which there are thousands in the whole corpus of classical ghazal, but no more than a handful in the divan of Ghalib.

{60,5} ;saabit hu))aa hai gardan-e miinaa pah ;xuun-e ;xalq larze hai mauj-e mai tirii raftaar dekh kar 1) [guilt for] the blood of the people has been proved, on the neck of the flagon 2) the wave of wine trembles, seeing your gait

Notes: larze hai is a variant form for laraztii hai.

Nazm: Seeing your intoxicated gait in a state of drunkenness, the wave of wine is trembling, [aware that] this gait will cause the murder of the world. From this we have learned that the cause of the murder of the world is this very glass of wine-- if you had not drunk wine, then your intoxicated gait would not have murdered the world. (58)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on the neck of the wine-flask is proved to lie the blood of the Lord's creatures. For this reason, out of fear the wave of wine, seeing your gait, is

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trembling. The meaning is that in the state of intoxication your gait has become more intoxicated, and seeing it, the whole age is being slain. (104)

Bekhud Mohani: The wave of wine naturally trembles. But Mirza says the reason for this is that since your intoxicated gait has murdered the world, the wave of wine is realizing that if you hadn't drunk wine, then your gait wouldn't have been so intoxicated, nor would the world have been destroyed. The wave of wine considers itself to be the reason for this universal slaughter, and is trembling with fear of Judgment Day. (133)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Bekhud Mohani in effect claims, though without using the term, that this verse is an example of the verbal device called 'elegance in assigning a cause'. Wine tends to show small wave movements in its surface when the flagon or glass that holds it is moved. Now the verse tells us what those movements are: they are caused by the 'trembling' of the wine as it anticipates the punishment it will receive for the murder of thousands-- those countless lovers who have been slain by the ravishing loveliness of the way you walk, swaying slightly, when you are intoxicated. Of course, this explanation doesn't account for the trembling of wine that is drunk by other people in other gatherings, so the causality is not as universal as might be deemed necessary for a strict claim to 'elegance in assigning a cause'. Usually murderers are spoken of as having the blood of their victims on their 'neck' [gardan], the way in English murderers have blood on their 'head' or 'hands'. And a wine-flagon too has a thin, elegant 'neck'; if the flagon is held by the neck for pouring, the main body of it will be especially likely to 'tremble'. If the punishment for capital crimes is thought of as loss of one's head (as in {59,4}), then the flagon's neck, which actually poured out the blood-red, murder-causing wine, is an aptly anthromorphic part of it to mention. There is also a nice connection between the beloved's 'swaying' gait and the 'trembling' of the wine in the flagon. Even more elegantly, this likeness is made entirely through implication-- there's not a word in the verse that describes the beloved's gait.

{60,6} vaa ;hasrataa kih yaar ne khe;Nchaa sitam se haath ham ko ;harii.s-e la;z;zat-e aazaar dekh kar 1) alas, Longing! for the friend lifted [her] hand from tyranny 2) seeing us greedy/covetous for the pleasure of cruelty/wrath

Notes: ;hasrataa is a sort of nickname suggesting that the speaker and addressee are on friendly and casual terms.

Nazm: To make [love's sufferings] into a friend and beloved, and to long and pine and yearn for them, and to feel pride and joy and plume oneself on receiving them, is a theme such that there's no doubt at all that it's usually effective and heart-penetrating. (58)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Alas, oh woe-- seeing us desiring cruelty, that tyrant renounced anger. The meaning is that the beloved doesn't fulfill even the lover's bad wish. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza has composed other verses on this theme, and composed them well. One is {191,3}. (133)

Arshi:

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Compare {48,4} (181)

FWP: In {60,3}, the lover reproaches the beloved for being cruel to everybody, including others as well as himself. In the classic {38,1}, he reproaches the beloved for being cruel to everybody else and refusing to be cruel to him. Here, all others are filtered out and the lover reproaches the beloved simply for refusing to be cruel to him. Arshi rightly points to {48,4} as another treatment of the same idea. But of course, the nuances are always different. In the present verse, a sort of vicious circle is implied: the beloved is cruel to me, I joyously accept her cruelty, she sees that I relish the cruelty, so she then cruelly stops offering the cruelty. But then this act must inevitably restart the circle. If she stops offering the cruelty that I want, that is clearly a fresh form of cruelty. The next step ought to be that I joyously accept her new cruelty (of withholding cruelty), and that she sees that I relish it, so she then stops offering the cruelty (of withholding cruelty). The level of casuistry rapidly escalates out of control; the situation becomes unstable and ever more quixotic. Which after all seems to be part of the point of the verse. I am condoling with my poor Longing, who not only can never be satisfied but whose satisfaction can't even be properly imagined. My Longing and I, deprived of pleasure, had to learn to find pleasure in cruelty; now we are deprived even of cruelty. Can we find pleasure in the suffering brought on by the lack of cruelty? If we are greedy enough for such morbid fare, who knows-- maybe we can. After all, the lover's position is unstable and paradoxical from the start of his infatuation. A verse like this doesn't describe a new condition, but simply exposes the colliding impossibilities that are the essence of the lover's fate.

{60,7} bik jaate hai;N ham aap mataa((-e su;xan ke saath lekin ((ayaar-e :tab((-e ;xariidaar dekh kar 1) we ourself are sold along with the merchandise/goods of poetry 2) but [only after] having seen the measure of quality of the buyer

Notes: ((ayaar : 'A standard (of measure, weight, or fineness); mark, proof, test, touchstone, assay'. (Platts p.767) :tab((a : 'Stamping, printing; print, impression, edition (of a book, &c.); -nature, innate or natural disposition; genius; natural temper, temperament; idiosyncrasy; quality'. (Platts p.751)

Nazm: The meaning of the first line is that I myself am sold along with my poetry, and the second line implies that having a correct taste for my poetry is a proof that that person is a person of accomplishment, and this is the reason that I myself am sold into his hands. (59)

Bekhud Dihlavi: We first test the judge of our poetry, and see whether to what extent he can understand our poetry. After that, we ourselves become a judge of his worth. The truth is that to understand Mirza's poetry requires an uncommon mind. In the depth of his ordinary verses too, something is hidden that can only be understood with great difficulty. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: Somebody has said, people have the opinion that you're very arrogant about your poetry, and you don't even recite your poetry to anyone. In answer to this he says, no, Hazrat, such is not the case. Not to speak of reciting verses, I myself am sold into the hands of listeners. (134)

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FWP: SETS == POETRY COMMERCE: {3,3} The second line of this witty little verse depicts the caution and careful scrutiny exercised by a prudent buyer-- the kind who is proud of his ability to detect inferior goods, the kind who never buys a car until he has checked out the transmission and kicked the tires. But all this caution and prudence are attributed not to the buyer, but to the seller. Why would the seller be so careful about the qualities of the buyer? The first line tells us why: because the poet himself is somehow sold in the transaction. He is passed on along with the children of his heart and mind, his verses, because he can't easily let them go. So much of himself is invested in them! Would he let his treasures go to an inferior home, where they wouldn't be properly valued or cherished? Naturally he has to be very particular about such things. Ghalib's imagining the transfer of verses as a commercial transaction is striking in itself. Usually, it seems, he thinks of commercial transactions only in a way that subverts them. See for example {3,3}, in which my Thought's dealings with you take place only in a dream; or {58,5}, in which my doors and walls become a 'shop' of gazing, for the 'trade' in waiting. Is this verse too, with its seller/buyer role reversal, of the same kind? If you wanted to interpret it more literally, you could consider it in the light of the new print technology through which Ghalib disseminated his divan. (Consider the wordplay created by the various meanings of :tab((a.) He supervised the printing of his divan four times in the course of his life (in 1841, 1847, 1861, and 1862), and his letters make clear how he agonized over misprints, typos, and other errors that he was not always able to get corrected. How different was this kind of dissemination from the traditional oral recitation in an elite, sophisticated mushairah! And yet, ultimately, how different was it? We also know from his letters that Ghalib found his service at the Court, as Bahadur Shah's ustad, irksome and unworthy of his talents. He complained at intervals throughout his life of not having the audience his genius deserved, and not receiving the patronage that was his due. Perhaps the impersonal vexations of printed books merely replaced the personal vexations of the traditional patronage system. Ultimately, this verse is not about print versus oral recitation, but about the uneasy relationship between the power of the poet (with his brilliance) and the power of the patron (with his money). How to negotiate a mutually tolerable exchange between them? In his life, Ghalib never found a really satisfactory solution to the problem.

{60,8} zunnaar baa;Ndh sub;hah-e .sad-daanah to;R ;Daal rahrau chale hai raah ko hamvaar dekh kar 1a) tie on a sacred thread, rip apart the hundred-beaded prayer-beads! 1b) having tied on a sacred thread, having ripped apart the hundred-beaded prayer-beads 2) the traveler moves along, having seen the road smooth

Notes: chale hai is a variant form of chaltaa hai .

Nazm: The relationship between the prayer-beads and sacred thread is that both are roads, but the difference is that the sacred thread is smooth and the prayerbeads are a road in which it's necessary to face bumps. Poets always give

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preference to idol-houses, Brahmins, and sacred thread over Sufu hospices [;xaanaqaah] and Preachers and Shaikhs and holy men and prayer-beads. And the intention is a taunt-- that is, what does the knower of mystical knowledge need with prayer-beads and holy men? (59)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the sacred thread and the prayer-beads are a kind of string; that is, in the eyes of the knower of mystical knowledge, they are both paths. In reaching the desired destination, he has constructed the sacred thread as smooth, because it is clear. And because of the rise and fall of the beads of the prayer-beads, he has declared it to be an uphill-downhill path, on which it's necessary to endure a hundred blows on the way to the goal. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is in a rakish [rindaanah] style. (134)

Shadan: To have the rakish, wine-drinking poets remain opposed to the Shaikh and Preacher and Advisor is a perpetual assumption of the poets. (215)

FWP: RELIGIONS: {60,2} The verse is indeed a 'rakish' one; as Nazm points out, such a stance is a fundamental attitude of the ghazal. The ghazal poet disdains the guardians of ostentatious religiosity (the Preacher, the Shaikh, the Brahmin), and their ostentatious religious paraphernalia (the prayer beads, the sacred thread) as well. The true seeker of the divine Beloved is carried along on a tide of passion, committed to following his quest to the point of death-- and beyond. Minor external tokens like sacred threads or prayer beads are useless, ludicrous, even contemptible in their pretentiousness. Thus the injunction (addressed intimately to a tuu who might be the speaker himself) to remove the 'bumpy' prayer-beads and replace them with the 'smooth' sacred thread. (Alternatively, the verbs in the first line may be read as kar constructions with the kar colloquially omitted.) After all, everybody knows that travelers prefer a level road to a rough one. And why shouldn't they? The traveler-- literally, 'road-goer' [rah-rau]-- is rightly interested in the road as a means, not an end. Traditional religions may offer different paths, but they're all branches of the same road. It's moving along on the road that is the traveler's one real obsession. What better vision of the mystic's path can there be? I can't resist including this equally enjoyable treatment of the subject by Mir Dard, which construes the thread on which prayer beads are strung as the Brahminical sacred thread: zaahidaa shirk-e ;xafii kii bhii ;xabar ;Tuk lenaa saath har daanah-e tasbii;h ke zunnaar bhii hai [Ascetic, just pay a bit of attention to 'hidden idolatry' too-with every bead of the prayer-beads there's a sacred thread too]

{60,9} in aabalo;N se paa;Nv ke ghabraa gayaa thaa mai;N jii ;xvush hu))aa hai raah ko pur-;xaar dekh kar 1) from these blisters on my feet I had become anxious/dismayed 2) my nature/self has become happy, seeing the road full of thorns

Notes: Nazm: In this verse the author has indicated the blisters, and thus given more attention to the speaker. If instead of 'these' there were 'what' [kyaa], then this pleasure would not have been obtained. (59)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says he had been very anxious about these blisters, but seeing the wilderness full of thorns, his heart rejoiced. The meaning is that when the human heart is cracked open by passion, then no matter how many troubles it has to confront, it doesn't lose courage. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: He expresses his worship of suffering, his love of difficulty [mushkilpasandii], his ardor for the destination-- I had become anxious over the blisters on my feet, but now that I see the road ahead to be full of thorns, my heart is gladdened. Blisters didn't let me walk; now the thorns will burst the blisters and I will quickly reach the desired destination. (134) [He also makes a good point about this verse in his discussion of {87,9}.]

Naim: The blisters on the feet are due to the hardships of wandering, but they also symbolize the first stage of the poet's passion. These blisters have appeared not because of the hardship of the love but because of the hardship of the road. His feet were not accustomed to the torture. These blisters only show the immaturity of his love. Now the thorns have appeared on the road. They will rid the poet of these blisters which are beneath his dignity as a loverpoet. The path of love has become more torturous, and consequently the more pleasing for the lover. (24-25)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE I remember how the first time I read this verse, I just had to laugh; it was so over the top that I felt sure that it had been intended for humorous effect. But when I checked with S. R. Faruqi, he said that to him it was no different from any other verse, so perhaps my reaction was just American, or just personal. Still, this verse is an example of what I call grotesquerie; for more on this concept, see {39,3}. To me it makes sense for the lover to have blistered feet, after wandering along hot desert rocks and sands; and it makes sense for the path of passion to be thorny, both metaphorically and even literally. But when these two images are brought together as they are in this verse, the effect is what as a kid I would have called 'gross.' The reader is forced to envision the blistered feet walking along the thorny path, as the blisters burst excruciatingly on the thorns (are there audible little pops?) and leak fluid and pus and bits of dead skin all along the ground. It's perhaps a bit more than we care to know about the lover's state. Vasmi Abidi suggests that our minds are meant not to explore the imagery so literally, but instead to move at once into the realm of abstraction, and to perceive this verse as a cousin of {48,1} or {111,15}. I see the force of the argument, but as a general interpretive policy it is important to take Ghalib's imagery very seriously, so I always begin by doing so. And after all, if we don't, we weaken the force of the verse in a different way, one that risks making it facile and superficial. Literarily speaking, the first line is cleverly framed for ambiguity. The verb ghabraanaa with its wide range of meanings can well suggest the dismay of someone in pain, all alone, with blistered feet, obliged to keep walking yet unable to walk. The lover's anxiety may involve, we expect, the question of where to find bandages or soothing ointments for his poor tormented feet. Then in the second line we are startled to learn that indeed the lover has come up with a solution-- and apparently a perfectly delightful and complete one, too. He can keep right on walking as he wants to do anyway, and as a by-product, his blisters will be lanced by the thorns in the road ahead. What could be better! For the lover disdains all rest anyway (see {56,3} for an illustration of his attitude), and welcomes all suffering incurred on the road

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of passion. What could be more emblematic of the proper loverly attitude than this verse? The lover's cult of eagerly-sought suffering makes mere stoicism look self-indulgent.

{60,10} kyaa bad-gumaa;N hai mujh se kih aa))iine me;N mire :tuu:tii kaa ((aks samjhe hai zangaar dekh kar 1a) what-- {are you / is she} suspicious of me? --that in my mirror 1b) how suspicious {you are / she is} of me! --that in my mirror 2) seeing the verdigris, {you consider / she considers} it the reflection of a parrot

Notes: samjhe hai is an archaic variant of samajhtaa hai . The use of masculine singular verbs and omission of subjects means that the verse could be either vocative (addressed to the intimate tuu ), or in the third person singular.

Nazm: That is, the suspicion is that the parrot too might feel ardor. Later he says: {202,5}. (59) [In his commentary on {60,4}, Nazm criticizes this verse as well as that one for being 'loose' in structure.]

Hasrat: Between the parrot and the mirror there is the same relationship as between the rose and the nightingale. Between verdigris and the parrot is a similitude, because of their greenness. If we remove the metaphors, the meaning turns out to be that the sadness of my heart is due to the effects of hopelessness and deprivation, but that suspicious one considers this sadness and lowness of spirits to be caused by the love of another entering into my heart. (59)

Bekhud Dihlavi: One of the beloved's qualities is excellence of speech and expression. The quality of excellence of expression is in a parrot also; thus a parrot's sweetness of voice is famous. The beloved is even somewhat more jealous than the lover. Mirza Sahib says, she is so jealous of me that even when I look in a mirror, my beloved amuses herself by considering the greenness of verdigris to be the sweet-voicedness of a parrot. Gradually my love for her will vanish, thus in her suspiciousness she is jealousness of the verdigris on the mirror. (106)

Bekhud Mohani: Poets always call the parrot lover of the mirror. Although the truth is that when they want the parrot to talk, they put a mirror in front of it. The parrot takes its reflection to be another parrot, and begins to talk.... From this verse it doesn't follow that the parrot too feels ardor for her [as Nazm says]. Its words, its style, tell us that the poet has made use of metaphors. Then, how permissible is it to call the verse [mere] wordplay? In addition to this, love and suspicion keep company. And the beloveds' suspicion and jealousy are not the kind of thing that requires a proof. It's been observed that when in the beloved's presence the lover pays more attention to a show or a nightingale or parrot, etc., then this action displeases her. (135)

Josh: The beloved considers that there is no constancy in his love; he loves even a parrot. There's no pleasure in the theme of this verse. Moreover, two things are never seen: first, for the lover to use a mirror, which is peculiar to the beautiful ones; second, there's no connection between passion and love, and the keeping of a parrot. It seems that in his ardor to bring in the rhyme

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zangaar, only this theme occurred to Mirza, and he put it in; he paid no attention to the lack of connection. (142)

Arshi: Compare {202,5}. (203, 301)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} This is another of his many 'mirror' verses. But only a couple of these are concerned with the verdigris on the mirror; for another example see {47,1}, which is also a difficult one to properly decipher. For other parrot-and-mirror verses, see {29,2}. The obscurity of the present verse can be seen in the trouble it has given to the commentators. The parrot loves the mirror. The verdigris on the metal mirror is greenish like a parrot. Nazm thinks this means that the parrot too loves the beloved. Josh thinks this means the beloved suspects the lover of loving a parrot. Hasrat thinks this means the mirror is the lover's desolate heart. Everybody except Hasrat thinks it means that the beloved is jealous of the lover's looking in a mirror. Both Nazm and Arshi suggest comparison with {202,5}, in which the lover wishes he were not so fond of the song of the garden birds, because the beloved is so suspicious [bad-gumaa;N]. That does seem to point in the right direction: whatever the beloved is suspicious about in the present verse, it does seem to be something extravagant and absurd. But still, the connection with the (metal) mirror, the verdigris, and the parrot seems weak and forced. This is what Josh is complaining about. Of course, it's what the lover is complaining about too-- how far-fetched and improbable are the alleged grounds for the beloved's jealousy. But still, that's somewhat like saying a dull story is really a cleverly contrived story about dullness; it's special pleading, and a poet like Ghalib needs no such help. He can compose a clumsy verse once in a while, and we can recognize it as such. There also could be some missing source of 'connection' that we don't (any longer?) know. Some secondary or tertiary meaning of zangaar, :tuu:tii, ((aks? Ghalib is the kind of poet whom you can never be sure you are finished interpreting.

{60,11} girnii thii ham pah barq-e tajallii nah :tuur par dete hai;N baadah :zarf-e qada;h-;xvaar dekh kar 1) the lightning of glory should have fallen on us, not on Mount Tur! 2) they give wine after seeing the capacity of the cup-drinker

Notes: :zarf : 'Ingenuity, skill, cleverness; beauty, excellence;... --capacity, capability; a receptacle, vessel, vase'. (Platts p.755)

Hali: In this verse there is a reference to the theme of that Qur'anic verse in which it's said, 'We presented the trust before the earth and sky and the mountains, but they did not lift it up, and were afraid, and Man lifted it up' [Qur'an 33:72]. The poet says, it was my right to have the lightning of glory fall on me, not Mount Tur's right, because wine is given after seeing the capacity of the wine-drinker. Thus Mount Tur, which is of a middling rank-- how can it bear the lightning of God? This thought too, together with the illustration in which it is expressed, seems to be an absolutely untouched thought. (122)

Nazm: He's produced a very ambitious line, and has given the similes of wine for glory, and a winehouse of small capacity for Tur. And its being of small capacity is manifest-- it could not become the abode of glory. (59)

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Bekhud Mohani: Compare {12,2}. (25)

Shadan: Janab Nazm says that he's used the simile of wine for the lightning of glory, and a winehouse of small capacity for Tur. However, the second line is neither an illustration [tam;siil] nor a simile. In an illustration, the two terms of the simile have no relationship. Rather, the outcome turns into a simile. 'Capacity' [:zarf] means 'worthiness'. But together with 'wine' and 'wineglass', the verbal device of iihaam has a resemblance [tanaasub]. (217)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} Bekhud suggests comparison with {2,2}, in which the lover equates capacity [:zarf] and thirst, claiming for himself unique preeminence in both. I would add {36,5}, in which the lover dismisses a mere single flash of lightning as nothing very special, observing pointedly that he was 'thirsty-lipped for speech'-- with God, though this is only an implication. This is another of Ghalib's trademark verses of mischievousness [gustaa;xii], or what we might equally call chutzpah. Imagine claiming to be (uniquely?) capable of receiving and sustaining the glory of God! He doesn't humbly suggest the possibility, he clearly points out an injustice done to him, a flaw in the Divine arrangements. His logic is that of the wine-house: people give different amounts and kinds of wine to drinkers, according to their :zarf . As Shadan observes, the word :zarf here acts as a (mild kind of) iihaam . It performs an enjoyable misdirection: at first we think of its general meaning of ability, capability; but the reference to the 'cup-drinker' [qada;h-;xvaar] reminds us of its specific meaning of 'vessel, receptacle.' To metaphorically convert God's glory to lightning, and lightning to wine, and a lightning-bolt to a stream of wine into the drinker's cup, is a fascinating trick in itself, when done as effortlessly as it is here. But that's only the background of the verse-- for it then goes on to make an aggrieved complaint about wine-distribution! How much more metaphysical complexity could possibly fit into two small lines? Contrary to what Hali suggests, the real Qur'anic reference here is surely 7:143. As Mr. Mat Ansari points out, it's interesting that Ghalib compares himself not to Moses-- whom he (pointedly?) doesn't even mention-- but to Mount Tur. He imagines himself not as a mere observer (and one who collapses and faints, anyway), but as the actual recipient of the intolerably powerful divine force as it descends. In the verse that Hali speaks of, there's no reference to the actual descent of divine power at all, nor any mention of Mount Tur, while 7:143 contains both. Note for trivia fans: from this verse Robert Bly and Sunil Dutta took the title of their book of Ghalib translations, The Lightning Should Have Fallen on Ghalib (1999). Unfortunately, in the abbreviated form they've chosen, the title sounds like nothing so much as a heartfelt death-wish or curse.

{60,12} sar pho;Rnaa vuh ;Gaalib-e shoriidah-;haal kaa yaad aa gayaa mujhe tirii diivaar dekh kar 1) that wretched Ghalib's breaking open [his] head 2) came to my mind, seeing your wall

Notes: sar pho;Rnaa: 'To break the head (of), crack or split the skull (of); to wrangle, quarrel, fight; --to rack (one's own) brains, to labour or strive in vain'. (Platts p.649) shoriidah: 'Disturbed (in mind), distracted, mad, frantic; desperately in love; faint; dejected'. (Platts p.736)

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Nazm: The author has put 'Ghalib' instead of 'lover'-- he has used a proper name instead of a common noun. And for this reason the verse has become more familiar. And the other delightful thing is that the words he has used to fill out the line are very meaningful indeed. For one thing, Ghalib's quality is his being 'wretched', which makes manifest the cause of his breaking his head. Second, he's used the word 'that', which by its meaningfulness raises the beauty of the verse from single-fold to thousand-fold. (60)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In the first line, Mirza Sahib has created with the word 'that' a picture of his breaking his head before the eyes. The time and occasion of the headbreaking have passed, but seeing her wall, even now that spectacle passes before the eyes, and those who see the door and walls have their memory refreshed. (106)

Josh: In the first line, saying 'Ghalib' instead of 'lover'-- that is, a proper noun instead of a common noun-- is also a special part of the beauty of style. (142)

Arshi: Compare {72,7} (204)

FWP: The commentators point to what might be called the intimacy of the verse. Someone speaks to the beloved in the intimate form [tuu], and casually mentions a shared memory. Who is the someone? A new lover? An old friend? There's no way of telling, but certainly someone who shares the kind of closeness to the beloved that the lover could only dream of. The way the speaker uses the 'that' [vuh] does indeed, as Nazm says, make for a sense of assured recognition; the speaker is referring to a well-remembered event, not imparting information about something previously unknown: ('I just thought of that day when...') The memory of the wretched Ghalib's breaking his head in despair came to the speaker when he saw the beloved's door-- a beautiful example of implication. We immediately understand that Ghalib tormented (or even killed?) himself by beating his head on a wall-- that very wall? or merely a similar one?-- to escape the intolerable suffering of passion. The memory is so vivid that merely the sight of the beloved's wall can trigger it. Perhaps the wall outside her house was the nearest Ghalib ever got to the beloved? Nazm emphasizes the extra familiarity given by using the name 'Ghalib.' But of course, this is a closing-verse and needed to include the poet's pen-name, so there's an element of convenience as well. And perhaps the strong suggestion of death given by sar pho;Rnaa also seemed suitable to a closingverse. In {72,7}, the verse cited by Arshi, the same theme is rephrased in a very similar way. These two verses are about as close as any two in his muravvaj diivaan.

Ghazal 61 8 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa;N par composed 1821; Hamid p. 50; Arshi #059; Raza pp. 230-31 {61,1} laraztaa hai miraa dil za;hmat-e mihr-e dara;xshaa;N par mai;N huu;N vuh qa:trah-e shabnam kih ho ;xaar-e bayaabaa;N par 1a) my heart trembles at the trouble taken by the shining sun 1b) my heart trembles at the pain inflicted by the shining sun 2) I am that drop of dew/'night-wetness' that would be on a desert thorn

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Notes: za;hmat: 'Disquietude, indisposition (of body or mind); pain, affliction, trouble, sickness'. (Platts p.615)

Nazm: That is, the thirsty tongue of the thorn will itself swallow me up-- what need is there for the sun to take the trouble of devouring me? In this verse, the trembling of the heart has been used as a simile for the glistening of the dewdrop in the sun, and the basis for the likeness is trembling. (60)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, In swallowing up a worthless drop, the sun is showing such enthusiasm [lit., 'hot-headedness'] that my heart trembles to see it. A drop-and that too a drop that has paused on the tip of a thorn-- has a very insecure hold on existence. (106-07)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, in order to erase me, is the thirst of the thorn itself not sufficient? That is, I myself will attain oblivion. What need is there for [the sun] to take the trouble? [It could also be read with a sarcastic meaning.] (136)

FWP: As Bekhud Dihlavi says, a drop of dew on the tip of a desert thorn 'has a very insecure hold on existence'. It must have formed during the night, and it's doomed to die with the first shafts of sunlight. And what will it be able to look back on? A brief life of futility and sterility on the tip of a thorn, as a drop unable even to provide moisture to a single blade of grass. Really, as the commentators point out, the drop is so unworthy a thing that it trembles at the thought of the great and shining sun deigning to take the trouble of vaporizing it. That's based on (1a), but (1b) offers an elegant second possibility, thanks to the multivalence of the i.zaafat construction and the range of meanings of za;hmat. The heart of the drop trembles not just with shame and humility at the thought of the sun's taking trouble over it, but also with the pain that the sun's dazzling heat inflicts. Moreover, what Nazm calls a simile could also be a form of 'elegance in assigning a cause'. We see that dewdrops quiver, and now we know why: they tremble with shame and/or pain. While the first line has a firm present habitual verb [laraztaa hai], the second line modulates from another clear present tense [huu;N] into, unexpectly, a mere subjunctive [ho]. This subjunctive represents a clear choice, since the poet could have used another present tense [hai] in the same place without the least difficulty. But the contingent-sounding ho, with its quality of hesitation and uncertainty, adds to the mood of the verse. It seems to call into question not only the continued survival of the drop, but even its very existence. The wordplay that opposes dew ('night-wetness') to desert (literally, 'waterless-place'), also opposes night to day, and the softness and limpidity of a drop to the harshness and darkness of a thorn. The lover imagines himself as in a state of absolute helplessness and imminent death, his existence already tentative and contingent. Far from doing anything as aggressive as indulging in despair, he simply waits, with a trembling heart, for his fate. But might his heart not also be trembling with joy? Think of {78,5}, in which a similarly placed dewdrop awaits a mystical 'education of/for oblivion'.

{61,2} nah chho;Rii ;ha.zrat-e yuusuf ne yaa;N bhii ;xaanah-aaraa))ii safedii diidah-e ya((quub kii phirtii hai zindaa;N par 1) even here, His Excellency Joseph didn't cease from chamber-adorning

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2a) the whiteness of the gaze of Jacob wanders in the prison-cell 2b) the whitewash of the gaze of Jacob spreads itself in the prison-cell

Notes: Nazm: That is, when in separation Jacob's eyes indeed keep turning white, then it's as if he's come into Joseph's cell. The reason is that his eyes, searching and searching, arrived in the cell, and the whiteness of his eyes is spreading whitewash on the walls of the cell. And the spreading of whitewash on the cell, and the eyes' becoming white, share a common condition of movement, and here too the basis for similitude is movement. (60)

Hasrat: In 'spreads' [phirtii hai] there is an iihaam. First, the whiteness [safedii] of the eyes of Yaqub, which spreads on the walls of the cell through ardor for the search for the sight of Hazrat Yusuf. Second, the whitewash [safedii] which is spread on houses for adornment and cleanliness. (59-60)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in prison equipment appeared for the adornment of the beauty of Joseph. That is, the whiteness of Jacob's eyes is spreading over the door and walls. This is a reference to the way weeping and weeping at the thought of Joseph had made Jacob's eyes blind. (107)

Bekhud Mohani: The poet says that wherever beauty goes, the radiance of that place increases....Where in every direction the mirrors of the eyes of those eager for sight can be seen, the greatest adornment of beauty is that those eager for beauty would not leave it under any circumstances. The word 'too' has increased the force in the verse. In 'spreads' [phirtii hai] is an iihaam.... First, the whiteness [safedii] of the eyes of Yaqub...can be seen 'wandering' [phirtii hai]. Second, whitewash [safedii] is spread [phernaa] on houses for adornment and cleanliness. (136-37)

Shadan: This theme too is an example of the inventiveness and elaboration [takalluf] of Ghalib and some of his contemporaries of the later generation. This is exactly what is meant by 'an enchantment of words'. (143)

FWP: The story is that Jacob went blind with weeping for the lost Joseph; his eyes turned completely white. Joseph ended up in Egypt, in a dark prison cell, but Jacob's white gaze, wandering everywhere, sought him out even there. No gaze can see for miles, into a foreign country; no gaze can see through thick walls. Yet Jacob's blind gaze somehow can, and does. No gaze can see into a dark cell, yet Jacob's 'white' gaze somehow can and does. Yet does the gaze really 'see'? It 'wanders' all over the cell-- is that 'seeing', or a sign of a deeper mystical insight, or simply a kind of blind restless longing? This is a haunting verse about the love of a parent for a lost child. In the first line, we learn that even in prison Joseph didn't abandon his 'chamber-adorning' [;xaanah-aaraa))ii]. This phrase has two possible meanings: first, that he himself was chamber-adorning, meaning that he was so beautiful as to be himself an adornment to any room; or second, that he did chamber-adorning, meaning that he redecorated a room to enhance its beauty. The first of these possibilities is evoked and answered by (2a), the second by (2b). Joseph is so irresistibly beautiful that even alone in the darkness he adorns his chamber, and the blind white gaze of Jacob never ceases to wander after him, lovingly and admiringly (2a). And Joseph is also fastidious: he beautifies even his prison cell, and the whitewash of Jacob's gaze constantly spreads itself [phirnaa] on the walls of his dingy chamber

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(2b). The commentators give so much prominence to (2b) that they consider the verse to contain an iihaam, but in the strict sense I wouldn't call it one. I think both meanings are intended, so there's no real 'misdirection'.

{61,3} fanaa-ta((liim-e dars-e be-;xvudii huu;N us zamaane se kih majnuu;N laam alif likhtaa thaa diivaar-e dabistaa;N par 1) I am oblivion-instructed in the lesson of self-lessness since that era 2) when Majnun used to write laam alif on the wall of the schoolhouse

Notes: Nazm: Both 'oblivion' and 'instruction' are fresh vocabulary, and the construction that joins both words is Persian-- that is, 'oblivion-instructed' has become an adjective referring to a person who has been instructed in oblivion. And this lesson which it has given is self-lessness. And the author has rejected alif-be [A,B] in favor of laam-alif [L,A] because when both letters are put together they become laa ['without'], which has an affinity with 'oblivion'. (60)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I received instruction in oblivion at a time when Majnun was a schoolboy and drew the lines of individual letters on the schoolhouse walls as children do. When laam and alif are put together they make laa, and from laa illaah the venerable Sufis say that the clash of negation and affirmation is generated. (107)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, at a time when Majnun didn't even understand that laa means 'oblivion', I had already been honored with the rank of 'oblivion in God'. (137)

FWP: SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} WRITING: {7,3} An apparently simple verse, yet rich in interpretive possibilities. The commentators explicate the most obvious one: a boast of my superiority over Majnun. I was already highly 'oblivion-instructed' when he was a mere schoolboy only beginning to learn the alphabet. In the process of learning, he used to write laam-alif on the schoolhouse wall. If these two letters are joined, they become laa , a fundamental word: a negation meaning in Arabic 'no, not, without'. And if the two letters are taken as initiating two separate words, they stand for laa illaah , the beginning of the Arabic for 'There is no God but God', which is not only the start of the Muslim profession of faith, but also, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, a Sufi mystical phrase. And yet, 'since that era' [us zamaane se] can mean not only temporal sequence, but also an implied causality. It could be that what made me 'oblivion-instructed' was in fact the sight of Majnun writing laa on the schoolhouse wall. Was it the childish Majnun's precocious mystical wisdom- his choice of writing 'nothing' instead of 'A,B,C'? Or was it my foreknowledge of his tragic fate that made his childish scrawl so affecting and revelatory to me? Either way, it was from this sight that I obtained instruction in oblivion. Thus I report this coincidence of events not as a boast of superiority over him, but as a tribute to the role he played in my own mystical education.

{61,4} faraa;Gat kis qadar rahtii mujhe tashviish-e marham se baham gar .sul;h karte paarah'haa-e dil namakdaa;N par 1a) to what extent I would find freedom from the trouble of salve/ointment! 1b) to what extent would I find freedom from the trouble of salve/ointment? 2) if the pieces of the heart would agree among themselves over the salt-dish

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Notes: tashviish: 'Confusion; perplexity, distraction; grief, care, anxiety, disquietude'. (Platts p.325)

Nazm: That is, the pieces of the heart find such pleasure from being sprinkled with salt that they dispute among themselves over it. For this reason, I wonder why I would apply ointment, and deprive them all of this pleasure. Another aspect is this as well: that if the pieces of the heart would agree among themselves about the salt-dish, then I would consider the removal of this torment to be better than the trouble of [applying] ointment. (60)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I would be free of the care of searching out and seeking prescriptions for salve, and acquiring them from skilled people, if the wounds in the heart would agree among themselves about the salt-dish. The meaning is that contentment and endurance free mankind from the troubles of searching and seeking. (107)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the pieces of the heart find so much pleasure in the sprinkling of salt that they quarrel among themselves about it. Worn down by this quarrel, I want to put ointment on them all, and deprive them of this pleasure (138)

FWP: We know from {17,7} that the fragments of the heart and liver find their joy in suffering, and their real ecstasy lies in 'diving into the salt-dish'. Thus it's no surprise if they quarrel among themselves over the salt-dish, the way children fight over a prized toy. If they should cease their quarreling, what might be the consequences? There are at least the following two possibilities: 1a) If they stopped fighting, how wonderfully free I would be from the bother of applying ointment! After all, it's their mutual attacks and abrasions and self-tortures that require the ointment in the first place. 1b) Even if they stopped quarreling, how free would I be from the bother of applying ointment? Not very free at all, no doubt. For then they'd all joyously leap together into the salt-dish, and instead of the old suffering I'd simply have a new sort of excruciating pain to deal with. We are back once again in the pleasure/pain thickets that we explored in {60,6} in connection with the beloved's cruelty and the pleasure the lover takes in it. Is it possible, in a situation like this, to untwist the strands of pleasure and pain? Whether the lover is exclaiming a bit hopefully (as in 1a), or observing wryly (as in 1b), his tone is always rueful. He knows his fate, and accepts it so entirely that he can joke about it.

{61,5} nahii;N iqliim-e ulfat me;N ko))ii :tuumaar-e naaz aisaa kih pusht-e chashm se jis ke nah hove muhr ((unvaa;N par 1) in the realm/continent of love there's no such account-book of coquetry 2) that would not have on its title page a seal of/from the back of the eyes

Notes: hove is an alternative form of the future subjunctive ho.

Nazm: The author's meaning is that in the office of beauty there's no account-book of coquetry that doesn't have on its title page the seal of the back of the beloved's eyes. (And for there to be a 'seal of the back of the eyes' gestures toward the beloved's averting her eyes, and turning her gaze away, and giving sidelong glances.) And between a seal and an eye, the cause for similitude is blackness. The result is that just as it's necessary for every account-book to have a seal on the title page, in the same way it's necessary

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for coquetry to show averting of eyes, and looking sideways. In this verse the author has envisioned the realm of love only through the account-book and the seal. And if we consider it in this respect, then for account-book and seal, rather than 'realm' the word 'divan' has more affinity. But [the author rightly preferred the virtue that] the moment the seal has made an impression on the title-page, it at once turns its 'back' [as it is removed], and the moment their eyes have met, the beloved at once turns her eyes away from the lover, which is a simile of eloquence [badii((], and the basis of the similitude is movement-- and that too, movement which is extremely beloved. (61)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In these two lines Mirza Sahib has expressed a very important theme, compared to the breadth of which the largest record book is nothing. He says, in the realm of passion no record book is devoid of the airs and graces and coquetry of beloveds, and the coquetry of the beloved has always had dominion over the lover.... Mirza's claim is that the true lover is always unsuccessful and unachieving. No lover has been born in the world whose beloved has not used coquetry and refusals, and has not put the seal on the refusal with the back of the eye. (107-08)

Bekhud Mohani: When someone receives a royal decree, he first places it on his head, and presses it to his eyes; after that, he reads it. (138)

Josh: This verse too is an example of convoluted expression [pechiidah biyaanii]. (144)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} COMMERCE: {3,3} WRITING: {7,3} The second line is indeed a bit convoluted, as Josh observes, but it goes into prose order like this: kih jis ke unvaa;N par pusht-e chashm se muhr nah hove. This verse plays on bureaucratic and commercial terminology. Every reputable account-book must have the appropriate seal, carefully stamped on its title-page, as a proof of authenticity. Why shouldn't the same proper arrangements prevail in the realm of love? They do, of course: all the account-books of coquetry there have a seal 'of' or 'from' [se] the back of the beloved's eyes. Nazm does a good job of explaining what this means. The beloved's black eyes resemble the black seal with its black ink (and the seal is rounded like half an eyeball). Even more to the point, the moment the seal has made a firm imprint on the page, it is withdrawn at once, in a single movement, to prevent smearing. Which of course is just how the gaze of the coquettish beloved operates: a single powerful, impression-making glance, then instant withdrawal of the eyes. Just as the seal 'turns its back' after its work is done, the beloved's eyes do the same. So that the account-back of coquetry is sealed, and its authenticity guaranteed, with/by the 'back of the eyes' [pusht-e chashm] of the beloved. Nazm gets into the spirit of the thing by pointing out an alternative path of wordplay that the poet rightly chose not to take. Since there's a 'realm of love' [iqliim-e ulfat], it might well have a chief minister, a diivaan-- whose title would of course evoke a divan of poetry. But in this case, what Ghalib did choose was a more unusual and complex kind of wordplay, as Nazm approvingly notes. For another use of eyes and writing, see {143,6}.

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{61,6} mujhe ab dekh kar abr-e shafaq-aaluudah yaad aataa kih furqat me;N tirii aatish barastii thii gulistaa;N par 1) now, seeing the sunset-stained cloud, there comes to my memory 2) that in separation from you, fire used to rain down on the garden

Notes: aaluudah: 'Defiled, polluted, sullied, soiled, stained, spoiled; smeared, immersed, covered; loaded (with), overwhelmed'. (Platts p.78)

Nazm: In this verse, the word 'now' is full of meaning. That is, to say that 'now' it comes to mind necessarily implies that previously it had been forgotten. And to forget the shock of separation in this way implies that seeing the beloved has brought on a state of extreme absorption and joy. And that implies that it's as if some complaint of separation had been made, and some words now fitfully come to mind. In short, so many meanings in one word is the extreme of rhetoric [balaa;Gat]. And then again, the simile of the clouds of sunset as 'fire-raining' is the extreme of eloquence [badii((]. (61)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib addresses the beloved and says, now, in your presence, seeing the red sunset cloud, I've remembered that in separation from you, fire rained down on the garden in just this way. That is, when in separation from you, I happened to go for a stroll in the garden, then when my glance happened to fall on a rosebud, it seemed as if fire was raining down. Because of the affinity of the red color, his giving for the rose the simile of fire, and his expressing the distastefulness of strolling in the garden in a state of separation-- the excellence with which he has expressed these things is impossible to praise sufficiently. (108)

Faruqi: This verse too is among those uncommon verses of Ghalib in which he has brought his creative intelligence into use and put into the verse kinds of problems of which the people of that time were not aware. In the absence of the beloved, fire seemed to rain down on the garden. When the period of separation passed, then these matters were lost. Then after many days his glance fell on the sunset-stained cloud-- that is, the season of spring came, the same season of spring that once before had been passed in separation. The moments of union had diminished the grief of separation. Now when he saw the sunset-stained cloud, then the pathways of thought made fresh the memory of the moments of separation. In this way it was also proved that the wounds that are inflicted on lovers' hearts are in truth not cured, because memory keeps refreshing them. Between 'sunset-stained cloud' and 'fire' are two affinities: one is redness, and the other smoke, which accompanies fire. Clouds spread like smoke, and the redness of sunset in them creates an effect like leaping flames. Water rains from the cloud. In this respect, in the second line for fire to rain down is also appropriate. (71-72)

FWP: It's the word 'now' that's so full of mystery and so enticing for speculation, isn't it? What state am I in 'now', that calls to mind this bloody caricature of a picturesque garden scene? As Faruqi points out, the sunset-stained cloud has several kinds of affinity with fire and water imagery in the verse: it is red like fire, it is swirling and opaque like smoke, it 'rains down' fire into the garden. The 'sunset-stained' [shafaq-aaluudah] cloud itself, because of the basically negative flavor of aaluudah, seems to be something not only damaging, but also damaged.

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The commentators agree that the 'now' means that the lover is much better off than formerly: he is addressing the beloved with the intimate [tuu], and seems to be sitting with her watching the sunset and remembering the bad old days of separation. That obviously is one possibility, but to me it's much too cozy and happy-ending-ish to be entirely satisfactory. Can we really imagine the lover and beloved riding off into the sunset (so to speak) together? What if the 'now' is not a time of blissful union, but a time of radical exhaustion, such that the lover is on the verge of death? Think of {48,7}, in which the lover observes that the way the spring rainclouds pour themselves out in rain shows how in the grief of separation one can weep oneself into oblivion. In the present verse we see the lover watching a cloud that's red only because it's 'sunset-stained', and it reminds him of how, suffering in your absence, the cloud-- that same one?-- used to rain fire down on the garden. Why shouldn't the clouds too suffer from the beloved's absence? Or perhaps the garden suffered so grievously that even rainwater burned it like fire? All nature is disordered when the beloved has gone away. 'Now' the lover and the cloud are both burned out and fading like embers. The lover doesn't even enter the garden any more-- is he too weak? is the garden a charred ruin? He only sits and watches the sunset-stained cloud. It reminds him of the long-ago days when the garden was a place where lightning could strike and fires rage, and when he too had a heart that could endure the ravages of passion-- as he no longer does; see {41,1} for his quiet recording of its loss. His addressing the beloved is, alas, no proof of her presence.

{61,7} bah juz parvaaz-e shauq-e naaz kyaa baaqii rahaa hogaa qiyaamat ik havaa-e tund hai ;xaak-e shahiidaa;N par 1) {except for / apart from} the flight of the ardor of/for coquetry, what will have remained? 2a) Doomsday is a single cool breeze on the dust of the martyrs 2b) a single cool breeze is Doomsday on the dust of the martyrs

Notes: Nazm: That is, what of the martyrs of the longing for sight now remains for Doomsday to cause to rise up? Indeed, in ardor for the appearance/glory of the entirely-coquettish one their dust is flying around, such that for them, the tumult of Doomsday is a cool breeze. That is, in their flight this breeze too will be a helper. And if you take its mirror image, then the meaning is that when a cool breeze came, it did the work of Doomsday-- that is, their dust began to fly in the ardor for sight. (62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Doomsday has already come a hundred times to the heap of dust of those martyred by your coquetry. That is, when a brisk wind blew, their dust has flown up and become scattered. Even if Doomsday comes at the appointed time, how will it be able to raise up those martyred by your coquetry? Where is there any dust of theirs left-- it's already been carried off by the wind. (108)

Faruqi: It's my view that out of all Ghalib's ghazals, this one ought to receive a special rank for its sound effects alone. [Faruqi does not elaborate on this point.] .... But some problems still remain. In the second line, what is the subject? Is it 'Doomsday', or 'a cool breeze'? [Either is possible.]

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Still, the question arises of how 'flight of the ardor of coquetry' is to be understood. This construction can be interpreted in at least two ways: 1) flight of the ardor of coquetry; and 2) flight in the ardor of coquetry. In the first case, it is taken to imply that the lover's ardor for coquetry (that is, an ardor to experience coquetry) remains always inclined to flight; that is, it is limitless and incalculable, and this ardor to experience coquetry remains established even after his death. He himself will turn to dust, but the ardor for coquetry remains. In the second case, a situation that accords with temperament is the outcome: the lover has ardor for coquetry to such an extent that he himself keept taking flight-- that is, in order to fulfill his ardor he keeps making earth and sky into one. The lover's limbs have turned to dust, but he himself has not turned to dust; rather, he's flying like the wind. In such a case his becoming dust, or his dust being scattered, has no reality. If he's a true lover, then in any case the trace of him can only be found in the flying around of dust, in the ardor of coquetry; accordingly, the universal destructiveness of Doomsday cannot affect him. A third case can also be that the emotion of the flight of the ardor of coquetry is so intense that the way after the lovers' deaths their dust keeps flying around-- in truth, that too is an expression of this same emotion. Although Doomsday restores everything to life and brings it back into its original body, Doomsday cannot obtain control of that ardor. Its situation before the lover's dust is only that of a cool breeze. If the verse under discussion is read together with this [Persian] verse of his, then its pleasure is doubled: kaf-e ;xaakiim az maa bar nah ;xezad juz ;Gubaar aa;N-jaa fizuun az .sar.sar-e nabvad qiyaamat ;xaaksaaraa;N raa [I am just a handful of dust, there's nothing of me there to arise Doomsday is no more than a blast of cold wind for the {humble / dustessenced} ones]. (73-75)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT; TRANSITIVITY QIYAMAT: {10,11} Classic Ghalib, and one of the brilliant verses of the divan. The interrogative first line is inshaa))iyah and also presumptive, so it's doubly removed from the world of fact. And it has two i.zaafat constructions, so its multivalence is at least triply assured. And the seemingly simple second line provides two answers to the question in the first line, both of them indirect and informative only through implication: one, that A is B; and the other, that B is A. All common enough technical features in Ghalib's poetry. But in this particular verse, what meanings! Both of them are complex and devastatingly effective, and both of them ultimately return us to the subtleties of the first line. In the ghazal world, dead lovers are 'martyrs' [shahiidaa;N] if they die true to their 'faith' of passion; this is not a parody of the religious use of the term, but an extension of it-- and perhaps not a very indefensible extension, since the beloved may (almost) always be God. According to (2a), Doomsday is a cool breeze on the dust of the martyrs: the dust of the dead lovers has been so utterly consumed by the fires of passion that even the turmoil of Doomsday will be, by comparison, nothing more than a cool breeze. And according to (2b), a cool breeze is Doomsday on the dust of the martyrs: the dust of the dead lovers is so light, so easily agitated, so ethereal that even a cool breeze would swirl them around as if it were the turmoil of Doomsday. (And of course 'Doomsday' is really the day of 'standing, rising', a sort of resurrection day, which enhances the pleasure still further.)

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And as Faruqi points out, how is 'the flight of the ardor of [=for] coquetry' [parvaaz-e shauq-e naaz], with its two i.zaafat constructions, to be understood? Is it a flight that is in ardor, by means of ardor, or pertaining to ardor? Is there any remaining dust of the lovers at all, such that it can take flight? Or has the lovers' dust vanished completely, so that the flight of the dust is replaced by an inexhaustible 'flight of ardor' instead? The possibilities multiply, but somehow, in this verse they are all mysterious, all moving and beautiful. The internal rhyme of parvaaz-e shauq-e naaz , which aligns itself beautifully with the metrical feet, feels fluent and uncontrived. The verse soars, and creates around itself a refined, bright, eternal flight of passion. For a more melancholy vision of the flight of the dead lover's dust, see {114,2}. But for a structural parallel, see {222,1}, which is similar to the present verse and almost equally brilliant.

{61,8} nah la;R naa.si;h se ;Gaalib kyaa hu))aa gar us ne shiddat kii hamaaraa bhii to aa;xir zor chaltaa hai garebaa;N par 1) don't quarrel/fight with the Advisor, Ghalib-- so what if he uses force/severity? 2) we too have power, after all, over the collar

Notes: shiddat: 'Hardness, firmness; strength, power, force; vehemence, violence, intenseness, stress, pressure, severity, rigour'. (Platts p.723)

Nazm: Won't I feel comforted by tearing my collar? What a fine verse he has composed. (62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: No better picture of helplessness and oppression than this can be drawn in words. He says, oh Ghalib, why do you complain of the Advisor's harsh language and pitilessness, and why do you quarrel with him? Hold your peace, be patient. In contrast to him, we too have power over the collar. When we become very much hopeless and oppressed, then in that state of sorrow and grief we tear our collar. The Advisor's tongue moves, he reads us a lecture. Our hands move, we, oppressed, tear our collar. He's composed a peerless closing-verse. (108-09)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, why do we tangle with the Advisor? If he scolded us, and treated us harshly, then there's no cause for complaint. After all, we too get angry at our collar. Anger always carries people away. The Advisor has done nothing new. Such things happen in the world. (140)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} The commentators agree on one obvious meaning: don't mind if the Advisor scolds and abuses you, or generally treats you harshly, Ghalib, because you can always take it out on your collar-- you can always tear open your collar, in the classic style of mad lovers in the ghazal world. That will remind you that you too [bhii] have the power to use force and harshness on something. (Or, as Bekhud Mohani suggests, since you are rough with your collar, you have no right to complain of the Advisor is rough with you.) But even more wittily, what if the Advisor's use of force or violence [shiddat] consisted in grabbing the perverse madman by the collar and holding him when he sought to leave-- or even holding him by the collar and shaking him, to compel his attention? The scene is easy to imagine, and the lover's later self-consolation then becomes even more ruefully humorous: 'After all, he's not the only one with the power to grab my collar-- I too can

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grab my collar and treat it roughly if I want!' This thought also gives a richer meaning to 'don't fight with the Advisor'-- in addition to meaning 'don't fight with him, be calm', it can mean 'don't fight with him, fight with the collar instead'. Of course we're then left to wonder how much of a consolation it is, when you've been beaten up, if you reflect that you can also beat yourself up. If you're a mad lover, though, it may be all the consolation you need. Or at least, all the consolation you're ever destined to get.

Ghazal 62 11 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aa;N aur composed 1852; Hamid p. 51; Arshi #065; Raza pp. 311-12 {62,1} hai baskih har ik un ke ishaare me;N nishaa;N aur karte hai;N mu;habbat to guzartaa hai gumaa;N aur 1a) to such an extent in her every sign/gesture is a different/additional sign/indication 1b) although in her every sign/gesture is a different/additional sign/indication 2) [when/if] she shows affection, then a different/additional suspicion arises

Notes: ishaarah: 'Sign, signal; beck, nod, wink, nudge, gesticulation; pointing to, indication, trace, mark, allusion, hint, clue; insinuation, innuendo; loveglance, ogling'. (Platts p.55) nishaan: 'Sign; signal; mark, impression; character; seal, stamp; proof; trace, vestige; --a trail; clue'. (Platts p.1139) aur: 'And, also, for the rest, besides; again, moreover; but, yet, still; over, else;...another, other, different; more, additional'. (Platts p.104)

Ghalib: Ghalib appends to a letter written in 1858, verses {1, 4, 8, 3, 2, 5, 10, 7, 11} ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 717-18 ==translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 95-96 Ghalib appends to a letter written in 1861, verses {1, 8, 6, 2, 4, 7, 11}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 374-75 ==translation: Daud Rahbar, p. 20

Nazm: That is, even if she shows affection, then I know it's a trick. (62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that nothing about her is free of artifice and deceit. In the guise of love, enmity is expressed. Thus I'm always suspicious and on the alert about her. (109)

Bekhud Mohani: Even while she's saying something, her state of mind changes. Thus even if she shows affection, I feel no happiness, thinking that her love has no stability; and I also begin to think, let's see what comes after this love! (140)

FWP: SETS == AUR; BASKIH Here is another wonderful exploitation of the doubleness of baskih ('although'), which can also be short for az bas kih ('to such an extent; whereas') for more on this, see {13,5}. The commentators take the latter option, which is delightful enough: she's so generally tricky that when she

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shows affection, one immediately suspects that she's up to something else. (In Urdu, mu;habbat karnaa does not have the primarily physical sense of its literal English translation 'to make love.') But taking the 'although' meaning moves us into another dimension that's even cleverer and more enjoyable: although in general she's tricky and deceptive, it's especially when she shows affection that one's suspicions are aroused. This whole ghazal is a tribute to the protean possibilities of aur, with its extremely wide penumbra of meanings-- including both 'more of the same' (consider kuchh aur) and 'something different' (consider aur kuchh). And just to compound the multivalence of the beloved's behavior, consider the two crucial words ishaarah and nishaan, with their semi-overlapping meanings. Does the beloved make a sign/signal/clue with another sign/signal/clue in it, so that the two meanings almost coincide? Or should we emphasize the differences? The commentators treat this as a very simple verse, but in fact it's an unresolvably multivalent verse about opacity, about obscurity, about misdirection and deceit. Its own structure suggests the very qualities that the beloved shows. She shows them all the time-- but when she makes an affectionate gesture, then you'd better look out!

{62,2} yaa rab vuh nah samjhe hai;N nah samjhe;Nge mirii baat de aur dil un ko jo nah de mujh ko zabaa;N aur 1) oh Lord, 'they' have not understood, nor will [they] understand, my speech/idea 2) give 'them' another heart, if you don't give me a different/additional tongue/language

Notes: Hali: This verse outwardly seems to be about the beloved, but concealed within it is also a reference to those people who used to call Mirza's poetry meaningless or difficult to understand. (144)

Nazm: That is, I can't talk openly about the question of union, and she in her simpleheartedness can't understand the meaning without its being expressed very clearly. (62)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {1,4}. (4)

FWP: SETS == AUR; TRANSLATABLES Ah, but the big question: who is, or are, the 'they' [vuh], the 'them' [un]? The pronoun is plural, and the verbs mark it as masculine. But plural pronouns and verbs are routinely used in Urdu to show respect, and as we know, the beloved in the ghazal is always construed as grammatically masculine, even if treated as a woman. The 'they' could be: a group of men and/or women; an honored man; or an honored woman (since masculine verbs tend to accompany pluralization). Hali notes the two main choices: the 'they' could be the ignorant poetryconsuming public of Ghalib's time, or the (honorifically labeled) beloved. The former are suitable candidates because, as Hali also notes, Ghalib's verse was so often criticized as 'difficult' or even 'meaningless'. The latter is a suitable candidate because, needless to say, she's the one hardest to reach-and the one the lover most wants to reach. This verse neatly brings together the poet's literary concerns and the lover-persona's romantic longings.

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In either case, the problem seems to be insensitivity, indifference, or hostility, not mere stupidity or literary ineptitude. For Ghalib prays that 'they' will be given not a new head or mind, but a new 'heart'. Either God should change 'them', or he should change the poet himself, providing a new 'tongue', instead of, or in addition to, the old one. Without such intervention, the situation is clearly hopeless. The poet can't change his own baat -words, ideas, expression-- or his own language [zabaan]. If a humble poet framed this verse, we might expect that he was asking God to improve his defective powers of communication. But this is Ghalib, after all-- he knows that his baat and zabaan are already too lofty for 'them' to understand, and any change would represent an intolerable deterioration. So it's a kind of stalemate, such that only God can step in and resolve it. The first line has two each of nah and samjhe / samjhe;N, which sets us up for an even more thoughtfully rhythmic second line full of fine sound effects and word-repetitions. The second line offers two each of de, ko, and aur, and the elegantly rhymed placement of ko jo, right in the semantic middle of the line. It's the kind of verse that's particularly fun to say out loud. And all the repetitions help convey a sense of exasperation-- oh Lord, so many times I've said it, and 'they' still don't understand! For another view of the poet's alienation from those around him, see {113,7}.

{62,3} abruu se hai kyaa us nigah-e naaz ko paivand hai tiir muqarrar magar us kii hai kamaa;N aur 1a) does that glance of coquetry have a connection with the eyebrow? 1b) as if that glance of coquetry had a connection with the eyebrow! 2) [it] is certainly an arrow-- but/perhaps it has a different/additional bow

Notes: Nazm: To call the eyebrow a bow, and the glance an arrow, is an old simile. The author has in this case made it fresh-- that is, the arrow of the glance does not come from the bow of the eyebrow. The heart-trickery of beauty exerts its energy upon it. (62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Considering the old simile of arrow and bow to be worn out, Mirza Sahib has taken a new tack. He says that her glance of coquetry has no connection with the eyebrow. That is, the glance of coquetry is certainly an arrow, but its bow is not the eyebrow. The arrow of this glance of coquetry strikes its target through the bow of the intention of the heart. Thus the wounds it causes are always of different kinds. Sometimes it makes the lover writhe with the happiness, sometimes is slays him with the arrowhead of anger. (109)

Bekhud Mohani: The glance is certainly an arrow, but this arrow does not come from the bow of the eyebrow. Rather, the niche [mi;hraab] of the lips is its bow. The arrow has no connection with the eyebrow. The author has created a new bow for the arrow of the glance. (141)

FWP: SETS == AUR; MAGAR Ghalib poses for us a remarkably open-ended question, and doesn't even pretend to answer it. He seems to be mulling over the usual 'glance = arrow' and 'eyebrow = bow' equations that are such basic themes in the ghazal world; while he accepts the former, he questions and/or rejects the latter. We can't be entirely sure, however, for the verse contains three separate layers of uncertainty. First: the first line is a question (the beauties of inshaa))iyah

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speech once again)-- and one that can also be read, thanks to the multivalence of kyaa, as an indignant negative exclamation. Second: the second line makes use of the double meaning of magar as both 'but' and 'perhaps' (on this see {35,7}.) Third: aur can refer to an additional bow (as well as the eyebrow), or to an entirely different bow (ruling out the eyebrow). Surely the heart of the verse, conceptually and also through its striking sound effects, is the juxtaposition muqarrar magar, or 'certainly perhaps/but' in the second line. We can speculate, we can have intuitions, but we remain in doubt. Because after all, we are talking about 'that' [us] glance of coquetry, not just any old glance! It is so different, so much deadlier than all the others, all the ordinary ones-- how can it have come merely from the same old source, the arched eyebrow? Does it come from the beloved's curved lips, as Bekhud Mohani suggests? Does it come from her steely will, as she coolly pierces her prey with a single carefully-calibrated glance? Does it come from some irresistible or even divine source, bearing with it the power of fate and doom? The commentators seem sure of the source, but the verse itself does not: it insists on remaining enigmatic.

{62,4} tum shahr me;N ho to hame;N kyaa ;Gam jab u;The;Nge le aa))e;Nge baazaar se jaa kar dil-o-jaa;N aur 1) if you're in the city, then what {do we care/ grief do we have}? when we get up 2) we'll go and bring back from the bazaar a different/additional heart and life

Notes: Nazm: That is, thanks to you, everybody will be able to buy a heart and life cheaply. (62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in passion for you everybody has gotten sick of his heart and life. In the bazaars they are being sold cheaply. We will buy another heart and life. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: As the beloved has said, it's not as if you're dying, in reply he says, what do we care about our life, as long as you're well-- your cruelties have reached such a limit that everybody's heart and life have become a burden. If our one life goes, lives will be available in the bazaar. (141)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR What layers of implication underlie the pleasure in this light little verse! First of all, we know that if the beloved is in the city, on view to countless others while the lover is not even present, any pretense of his not caring is absurd. We can see that it's just a piece of bravado when he claims indifference and even claims to find advantage in the situation. The first evidence-- as if we needed any!-- is provided by 'when we get up'. The lover is naturally devastated, collapsed, unable to move-- so he claims to be lounging, or taking a pleasant nap. 'When' we get up looks like another piece of bravado-- how will the lover's condition possibly improve, in the beloved's absence? When and if the lover does manage to get up, he will saunter into town and buy another, or a different, 'heart and life' [dil -o-jaa;N]. Here again are several fresh layers of implication. Why does he need another 'heart and life'? Obviously, because the beloved's departure for town has destroyed his present one. Why will he expect to find them on sale, presumably cheaply, in

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the bazar? Naturally, because while she's been in town the beloved has destroyed countless other people's hearts and lives, so the damaged goods will be in ample supply. Why will the lover be willing to buy a damaged heart and life? Because with the beloved in town, no other kind could possibly be available, of course; and also because no other new, amateur lover's heart and life could be as badly destroyed as his own, so he's bound to gain by the exchange. All these implications, in a witty, insouciant little verse utterly devoid of pathos or self-pity. We laugh at the lover-- and surely the lover is also laughing, ruefully, at himself.

{62,5} har-chand subuk-dast hu))e but-shikanii me;N ham hai;N to abhii raah me;N hai sang-e giraa;N aur 1) although we became {light/quick-handed / deft} in idol-breaking 2) while we are, then still in the road is a different/additional heavy stone

Notes: Hali: In this verse the whole emphasis is on the word 'we'. That is, as long as our existence remains, so long will there remain one more heavy stone obstructing the path of mystical knowledge of the divine. Thus, if we have obtained dexterity in idol-breaking, what's the benefit? A big heavy stone-that is, our existence-- is still present. (144)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as pride and arrogance and ego are present, then not to speak of a knower of mystical knowledge, one cannot even become a human being. (142)

Faruqi: One more subtle meaning appears: that our existence by its very nature claims a hundred roads-- or rather, keeps on drawing towards itself the obstacles in the road. Even if we've broken some idols, then so what? We are here, and as long as we are, more heavy stones will keep rising up to block the road. That is, from the point of view of Hali's commentary the theme of the verse is, how can the level of oblivion be obtained? And according to the present commentary, the theme is that man is inherently inclined to err. As long as he is human, he will keep drawing to himself obstacles in the road to truth. Humans are by nature sinful; their very existence guarantees that their path of progress will remain blocked. (76)

FWP: SETS == AUR IDOL: {8,1} For more verses of 'stone' wordplay, see {110,1); {183,6}; {202,2}. The delight of this verse centers on ham hai;N to , '[while] we are, then'. When you first look at it, it looks like the cliche it is. You read it the way you'd read 'as long as we live' in English, as simply a strong claim of duration ('as long as we live, we'll never forget such-and-such'). And it works that way, of course: 'as long as we live, we'll keep on finding stones in the road'. But when we look again, what was once a mere duration-claim springs to life in its own right, offering (by implication) a causal connection: as long as we live, there will be more stones in the road-- because we ourselves are the stones, or the source of the stones. (For another example of such reactivation of a cliche, see {15,16x}.) What a wry, dry, amused comment! Can anyone read this verse without an inner smile (though a rueful one, of course)? Then of course there is the elegant wordplay of our becoming 'light-handed' [subuk-dast] at breaking 'heavy' [giraa;N] stones/idols. In the ghazal world,

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idols are always made of stone. Idols block our spiritual path, just as stones in the road block our physical path. Spiritual growth consists in recognizing and destroying one idol after another, as we move along the path toward the Truth; the parallel with travellers on a stony road works so well that it can all be done instantly, effortlessly, by implication. As is the case throughout this ghazal, aur is also made to work brilliantly. As long as we are alive, there is always in the road one heavy stone aur . Is that an 'additional' heavy stone, merely the latest in a long series? Or is it a 'different' heavy stone, such that we routinely break all the others but find that the stone of our life can only be broken by our death? Although the verse uses some Persianized vocabulary and an i.zaafat , most of the words in it are short and colloquial. It feels unforced, natural, flowing. Yet it is so provocative, so inviting to mull over, so entertaining to say aloud. In the whole firmament of world poetry, there can't be many geniuses like Ghalib. And of course, he was lucky to have a genre like the ghazal at his disposal.

{62,6} hai ;xuun-e jigar josh me;N dil khol ke rotaa hote jo ka))ii diidah-e ;xuu;N-naabah-fishaa;N aur 1) the blood of the liver is in turmoil-- I would have wept to my heart's content 2) if I had had a number of additional/different pure-blood-scattering eyes

Notes: Nazm: 'The blood of the liver is in turmoil' is informative [;xabariyah], and after it, to the end of the verse is a longing [in the contrafactual form] so that the author has mixed the information with inshaa. And in poetry inshaa, as compared to information [;xabar], gives more pleasure. (62-63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the blood of the liver is in turmoil. If only I had received many pure-blood-scattering eyes, then it would have been possibly for me to weep to my heart's content-- that is, to weep in proportion to my longing, and to cause a river of the blood of the liver to flow. In the state of turmoil of the blood of the liver, how can I possibly weep enough with only two eyes! (110)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {27,7}. (143)

Mihr: Compare {179,3}. (225)

Arshi: Compare {27,1}. (205)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE JIGAR: {2,1} Right after the irresistible {62,5}, which shows the ghazal world at its most captivating, comes this one which reminds us that the ghazal world is also an acquired taste, and that we no longer have the chance to acquire that taste through what once were the normal channels. So we have to work at it, and try to wrap our minds around some of its stranger patterns of imagery. This verse falls into the category of what I would call grotesquerie; for more on this, see {39,3}. Are we really supposed to picture the lover with a number of extra eyes growing out of his head, each of them spouting or scattering 'pure blood' like a small horizontal volcano, so that he can efficiently vent all the blood that's boiling up out of his liver? Surely we're not: we're supposed to keep the

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image on an abstract level. The many blood-scattering eyes must remain a mere figure of speech, from which we should extract only the idea of how intensely the lover desires to weep. Once you've 'got' this idea, you've 'got' the whole verse, as far as I can see. For a tolerably non-grotesque use of roses as blood-scattering eyes, see {25,7}. And for a non-grotesque wish for 'a number of' hearts, see {179,3}. But because so much of the ghazal's genius involves taking such patterns of imagery seriously, the choice in this case is between grotesquerie and a certain degree of vitiation, a made-for-prose-paraphrase quality. Maybe the verse is meant humorously, but if so then the humor isn't really very captivating. This is not one of his truly successful verses, to my mind. Compare it to the previous verse-- what a world of difference!

{62,7} martaa huu;N us aavaaz pah har-chand sar u;R jaa))e jallaad ko lekin vuh kahe jaa))e;N kih haa;N aur 1) [I] die [of love] for that voice, although [my] head may fly off! 2) but let her keep saying to the Executioner, 'Yes, more/another!'

Notes: Nazm: Her saying, 'Yes, use the sword more!' pleases me so much that I have no care for my life's being lost. (63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the beloved's saying 'Yes, strike again! Yes, deliver another blow! Yes, inflict another wound!' pleases me to such an extent that I have no grief at all over my life's going. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: I am a lover of her voice, and a lover to such an extent that if at the time of my murder she would keep on saying to the executioner, 'Yes, more!' then in my absorption in the pleasure of her voice I won't give a damn if my head is cut off. To take the intention of that voice as 'Yes, use the sword more', as Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i says, is not correct. (143)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR Her voice is 'to die for' (so to speak) and I 'die' [martaa huu;N] of delight and love when I hear it. I die of love when I hear her voice-- and I won't deny it, even if I die for it! On an initial reading both phrases in line one-- 'I die for that voice' [martaa huu;N us aavaaz pah] and 'even if I die' [har-chand sar u;R jaa))e]-- sound like the cliches that they are. We take them as 'petrified phrases' thrown in just for melodramatic emphasis, like 'I'm dying of love!' and 'even if I die for it!' in English. Not until we reach the second line do we realize that both phrases should also be taken literally. Not just general passion, and general resolve to the point of death, are at issue, but specific means: it's significant that it's her voice that I die for, and 'although my head may fly off' evokes what is literally in the process of happening. Several consequences follow: 1) Even though my head may fly off as a result of her voice (as she decrees my doom), I don't mind a bit, I just want to hear her go on speaking-- and I hear such passion in her voice, as she zealously encourages the Executioner! 2) There may be some logistical problems, but I defy them. My head might be struck off and go flying, so that I wouldn't be able to hear her voice any longer. But still, I want her to go on speaking, calling down more and more blows on me, even if I'm not around any longer (in the flesh, at least) to enjoy the experience. 3) Since I 'die' for her voice, there's no need for the Executioner to give me any blows at all, much less more of them. So iI don't care whether he strikes

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off my head or not. I am slain already by the deadly effects of that irresistible voice. As I die, the only wish in my heart is that she won't stop talking. This verse resembles {62,5} in its power to make us go back and reread (reexperience, reinvigorate) a stereotypical expression. In this case, two expressions, which between them occupy the whole first line. And of course under conditions of mushairah performance, the gap between the recitation of the first line and the second line might be relatively prolonged. How the audience must have loved hearing the second line, and suddenly recontextualizing the first one in a way that made it far more punchy and amusing!

{62,8} logo;N ko hai ;xvurshiid-e jahaa;N-taab kaa dhokaa har roz dikhaataa huu;N mai;N ik daa;G-e nihaa;N aur 1a) people are mistaken/deceived about the world-{heating/burning} sun 2) every day I show one additional/different hidden scar/wound

Notes: dhokaa is a variant spelling of dhokhaa . daa;G : 'A mark burnt in, a brand...; scar, cicatrix; wound, sore; grief, sorrow, misfortune, calamity; loss, injury, damage'. (Platts p.501)

Nazm: Every day I reveal one more hidden scar/wound, which people erroneously think to be the rising of the sun. And they consider that what they see emerging is the sun. (63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, thousands of scars/wounds are hidden in my heart and liver. From among those scars/wounds, every day at dawn I show people a new scar/wound. People think that the world-illumining sun has, as usual, risen in the east. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, every scar/wound in my heart is a sun. (143)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR In the first line we learn that people make a mistake, or are deceived, when they think they see the 'world-heating/burning sun'. But what kind of a mistake is it? As so often, you can't tell, under mushairah performance conditions, until you get to hear the second line. Not surprisingly, Ghalib has carefully framed several possible mistakes, all of them amusing, and all of them triggered by the information in the second line. People think they see the sun rising, but they're actually seeing one of my scars/wounds [daa;G]. Why are they fooled? Because every day I bring a new one out from hiding and reveal it, the way the sun rises every day. The line of the scar suggests the glowing golden line of the rising sun at dawn. And my scar/wound is blazing like fire, because my heart is a hotbed (literally) of flaming passion. So people are dazzled by the intense light and heat, and naturally mistake my scar/wound for the sun itself. Probably people make the mistake because the real sun is nothing much-- just a pallid wimpy little candle-- compared to my scar/wound. Or even more drastically, maybe there is no 'real' sun at all. Maybe the scar/wound of my passion is all that heats and lights the world? If so, it's fortunate that my scar/wounds are innumerable, so that a new one can be revealed every day and the world won't be left in the dark and cold. Thus what people call the 'sun' is only one of my scars/wounds. Or, in another kind of mistake, curious people come to visit me and see my by-now-legendary scars. I show an additional/different [aur] one every day, as a kind of morbid tourist attraction. Whenever I unveil one of them, people

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are so overwhelmed and dazzled that they invariably mistake it for the sun itself. I have to calm then down and provide them with dark glasses, and explain their error. For another example of the scars/wounds in the heart as tourist attractions, see {5,5}; for a more cosmic instance, see {67,1}. This is a tongue-in-cheek verse, of course, so exaggerated as to be comical. As hyperbolic as it is, I don't think it suffers from the grotesque quality of {62,6}. It's less problematic to imagine someone having an implausibly dazzling, glowing, burning scar than having a bunch of extra blood-raining eyes. But is there really a consistent line that can be drawn here? This is one of the many topics I'm thinking through as I go along. For a similar verse of cosmic ambition by Mir, see {M7,10}.

{62,9} letaa nah agar dil tumhe;N detaa ko))ii dam chain kartaa jo nah martaa ko))ii din aah-o-fu;Gaa;N aur 1) if I hadn't given you [my] heart, I would have taken a few breaths/moments of peace 2) if I hadn't died, for a few days I would have heaved additional/other sighs

Notes: Ghalib: [1864:] This is an extremely refined/pleasing utterance [la:tiif taqriir]. letaa has a connection with chain, and kartaa is connected [marbuu:t] with aah-ofu;Gaa;N aur. In Arabic, tying together of [separated] words and meanings [ta((qiid-e laf:zii-o-ma((navii] are both flaws. In Persian, tying together of meanings is a flaw and tying together of words is permitted-- in fact it is eloquent [fa.sii;h] and agreeable [malii;h]. Rekhtah is a reproduction [taqliid] of Persian. The result of the meaning of the two lines is that if I had not given you [my] heart, then I would have experienced peace for a few breaths/moments; if I had not died, then I would have sighed a few days more. (Arshi 204-05) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum 4:1513-14 ==other translations: Daud Rahbar p. 266, Russell and Islam p. 301

Nazm: But from the point of view of meaning, one ought to go against grammatical order here, and he has caused letaa and kartaa necessarily to be understood in a way that increases their meaningfulness. That is, now the word order establishes the meaning that it's as if the beloved has said to him, You never experience even a few breaths/moments of peace, and now you are heaving fewer sighs. In answer to that, there is this verse. (63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The beloved asks Mirza Sahib, why don't you remain even briefly at peace, and why do you always lament? In reply, Mirza says, [this verse]. Despite the 'tying together of words' (which the Persianists have declared to be permissible), both lines have become extraordinarily enjoyable and meaningful. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: Both lines are in one style and of one glory, and this is the style of speech that no one before Mirza had ever adopted in Urdu. (143)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM When Ghalib boasts about this verse, what he's proud of is the refinement of its feats of connection: he shows how he has separated compound verbs that should be together, and has operated right on the limits of poetic permissibility. For what he has done would be a 'flaw' in Arabic, but is permissible in Persian, and Urdu prefers, almost always, to follow Persian precedents.

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By separating the verb parts in this way, he has created something like an iihaam of sorts. When we read letaa nah agar dil tumhe;N detaa we at first think the two verbs taken [letaa] and given [detaa] are parallel, as they so often are: if I hadn't 'given', I would have 'taken'. Not until the very end of the line, when we encounter chain, do we realize that all that would have been 'taken' was a bit of peace (as in the English 'take comfort'), and that too for only a few 'breaths/moments' [dam]. Similarly, especially after seeing letaa and detaa, when in the second line we read kartaa jo nah martaa we tend to take the two verbs as psychologically opposite-- if I hadn't 'died', I would have 'done' something or other. Not until we reach the end of the line do we realize that the 'doing' is an illusion-- all I would have 'done' is heaved a few extra sighs [aah-o-fu;Gaa;N kartaa]. Thus according to Ghalib's account, the pleasure of the verse rests on the strategic placement of letaa (vs. detaa) and kartaa (vs. martaa), both widely separated from their proper grammatical other halves. Of course, these new juxtapositions offer the charms of strong internal rhyme and interesting rhythm as well. But surely the need to go back and agreeably rethink the verse, reconfiguring it into a more subtle pattern, is a great pleasure in itself. The commentators also see the word order as framing the verse as an answer to an implicit question (presumably asked by the beloved). Like a number of verses, this one consists of two parallel lines, with no indication of how to connect them; for more on parallelism, see {22,5}. Do the two lines describe the same situation, or two different situations? Perhaps giving you my heart is basically equivalent to dying-- an equation that becomes plausible when we notice how readily taking a few breaths in peace can be compared/contrasted with heaving a few more sighs. To me this verse recalls {20,1}-- if I had lived longer, it would have been more of the same old waiting around; but the main thing, union with you, would never have happened, so what would be the point of living longer? Similarly, in this verse, my giving you my heart was what sealed my doom. That having been done, what's left of my life except a few sighs more or less? For more examples of the dead-lover-speaks situation, see {57,1}.

{62,10} paate nahii;N jab raah to cha;Rh jaate hai;N naale ruktii hai mirii :tab((a to hotii hai ravaa;N aur 1) when [they] don't find a path, then streams/laments rise 2a) [when/if] my temperament halts, then [it] moves along more/differently 2b) [when/if] my temperament halts, then it becomes more flowing

Notes: naalaa: 'A watercourse; channel (for water), a ravine; a rivulet, brook, canal'. (Platts p.1117) naalah: 'Complaint, plaint, lamentation, moan groan; weeping'. (Platts p.1117)

Hali: Laments, that is to say, river-like laments, not sighs and such. How appropriate the illustration is, and how suitably the theme is established! In fact, when because of suffering and grief and trouble the poet's temperament halts, to exactly that extent it makes way. Especially the theme that he writes according to his circumstances at the time-- it is extremely effective and pain-evoking. (145)

Nazm: That is, when the temperament starts to move again after being halted, then it moves more strongly. The way when a risen stream finds a path, it flows with a great deal of force; the meaning is one of comparison: that is, compared to formerly, there is more flowingness. (64)

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Bekhud Mohani: When flowing streams don't find a path, then they become even fuller; and in that situation, wherever they find a path they flow with great force. He says, when after some days of non-production my temperament is moved to compose poetry, then more force is created in it. Then I compose-- and I compose well. (143)

Josh: He's used a flowing river as a simile for his flowingness of temperament. (147)

Mihr: Compare {58,1}. (203)

FWP: SETS == AUR; PARALLELISM; POETRY As Hali explains, the first line relies on an implicit equation of laments with water. When streams [naale] are dammed, their level rises; when my laments [naale] are blocked, they 'rise' (in level? in volume? in power?). The first line is also full of alif sounds, while paate jab then resolves itself into jaate, so that the line has a strong, repetitive rhythm. And of course there's the lovely wordplay of naalaa and naalah, which look identical in plural and oblique forms, and both of which fit perfectly into the meaning of the first line. The second line can be read in two ways. 'Temperament' [:tab((a] can mean either what we would think in English-- nature, disposition-- or a specifically literary capacity, such that it's assumed to mean 'poetic temperament'. It is in this sense that (2b) is appropriate, for 'flowingness' [ravaanii] is a term used for poetry (and poets) with a certain musical quality. Like the previous verse, this one consists of two parallel-seeming abstract statements, with no indication as to how to connect them to each other; for more on this pattern of parallelism, see {22,5}. We might take the two lines to be describing the same situation, in which case the pleasure lies in the equation of something as specific as 'laments' with the lover's whole 'temperament'. For after all, what else does the proper lover need in his temperament except an inexhaustible capacity for laments? His poetry too consists of nothing else but versified lamentations. Or we might take the two lines to be describing two different situations; in this case, the tone of the verse might even be boastful. Look at how when laments are blocked, the person lamenting becomes even more desperate, aggrieved, and determined, and redoubles their force. Similarly, when I encounter a (literary? romantic?) setback, does it discourage me? Never! On the contrary-- I get moving again even more forcefully and determinedly than before (2b). Or, if we consider (2a), when I am blocked or thwarted, my temperament gets moving again-- but how? Either with 'more' of the same kind of movement, or 'differently', with some other kind (what kind?) of movement. As throughout this ghazal, the multiple possibilities of aur leave us with a piquant hint of unresolvable mysteries.

{62,11} hai;N aur bhii dunyaa me;N su;xanvar bahut achchhe kahte hai;N kih ;Gaalib kaa hai andaaz-e bayaa;N aur 1) there are in the world more/additional very good poets as well 2) [they] say that Ghalib's is a style of speech [that is] different/other

Notes: Nazm: Since the subject of 'say' is *omitted, the meaning arises that this matter is widespread and commonly known. (64)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the world there are also other very good poets. But it is accepted, everybody says with one voice, that Mirza Ghalib's style of speech is distinct from everybody's. (This is Mirza Sahib's specialty.) (111)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, no one has been endowed with a style of speech like his. (143)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Since this whole ghazal is a kind of jazz riff on the creative possibilities of aur, this closing-verse ends it delightfully. Here we see two occurrences of aur-- the only such repeated use outside the opening-verse (in which of course it was compulsory). And for once, the meanings of aur seem to be deliberately controlled: they are divided such that one meaning occurs in the first line, the other in the second. In the first line, the general sentence structure, and especially the use of the phrase aur bhii, makes it clear that we're in the 'additional, more of the same' domain. There are many more very good poets in the world, Ghalib affirms magnanimously. Already we can tell that there is at least one additional very good poet who is not included in this particular line, since aur bhii requires a starting point to which its contents will be additional. Just as in English, the difference is between 'there are many very good poets in the world' and 'there are many more very good poets in the world'. It is clear that these poets are being relegated to the sidelines. We are being set up, both grammatically and psychologically, for a punchline in the second verse. In the second line, we learn that 'they' (subject omitted but assumed to be the generalized 'they') say that Ghalib's is a 'style of speech/expression' [andaaze bayaa;N] that is 'different' or 'other' [aur] from that of the rest of the 'good poets'-- and here 'poets' is su;xanvar, which literally means 'those eloquent in speech', so we have a verse entirely focused on saying/speaking (three instances in two lines). In the second line, to take aur as simply 'additional, more of the same' would make nonsense of the verse. To end lingeringly on aur, in its strong sense, creates a well-earned claim of mystery, originality, even uniqueness. When 'they' say such things about Ghalib, they're right, and after reading even this ghazal alone, we know it.

Ghazal 63 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: ang aa;xir composed 1816; Hamid p. 51; Arshi #060; Raza p. 140

{63,1} .safaa-e ;hairat-e aa))iinah hai saamaan-e zang aa;xir ta;Gayyur aab-e barjaa-maa;Ndah kaa paataa hai rang aa;xir 1) the purity of the amazement of the mirror is the stuff/property of verdigris, finally, 2) the corruption of left-in-one-place water/luster acquires color, finally

Notes: aab : 'Water; water or lustre (in gems); temper (of steel, &c.); ...splendour; elegance; dignity, honour, character, reputation'. (Platts p.1) maa;Ndah : 'Left, remaining;--fatigued, tired, weary, languid; ailing, indisposed'. (Platts p.985)

Nazm: That is, just as the color of stagnant water deteriorates and scum forms on it, for amazement too to go beyond limits is not good. In this verse the

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appearance of verdigris on a mirror has been given as a simile the appearance of scum on water, with the condition of lack of movement as the grounds of similitude. (64)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that just as from lying useless and neglected a mirror becomes covered with verdigris, in the same way scum forms on stagnant water and makes it discolored and dirty. The meaning of the verse is that the man who is considered most famous and useful remains most liable to disaster and calamity. (111)

Bekhud Mohani: The Sufi is obliged to pass through many states and many guises. Amazement too is one of the states. Strive for purity and the manifestation of Divinity, and don't remain in one single state. (144)

Arshi: Compare {47,1}. (170)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM MIRROR: {8,3} This is one of his many 'mirror' verses; on this image see {8,3}. Arshi suggests comparison with {47,1}, and I add {48,10}. All these use metal mirrors, and the greenish verdigris that develops on them, to illustrate abstract philosophical points. In {47,1} the verdigris [zangaar] is the garden itself, an opaque layer that makes the otherwise-invisible 'mirror' of the spring breeze capable of being seen. In {48,10}, the verdigris [sabz] is evidence, on one reading, of the mirror's intense desire to be polished. Here, conversely, the verdigris is not evidence of a desire for polishing (and thus for renewal), but proof of the inevitability of decay. The mirror is an image of amazement [;hairat] because it resembles a wide-open eye fixed in a perpetual stare. In the ghazal world, amazement in both people and mirrors is conceived of as a form of stupefaction, of frozenness or arrested motion. This state of amazement can have Sufistic meanings too, as Bekhud Mohani notes. As in so many verses, we have two parallel abstract statements in the two lines, with no indication of how they are to be connected. In this case, the two may not quite make it to the formal level of parallelism (for more on this see {22,5}), but the situations described are suggestively similar. The key word that brings them together is aab, with its multiply appropriate meanings of water, luster (as of a gleaming mirror), and temper (as of a polished metal mirror). In this verse we experience an elegant double turn. Having started by reading the first line about the metal mirror, we then move on to the second line and realize that it too describes the mirror's situation, thanks to aab. But thinking about aab makes us realize that its primary meaning in the second line is undoubtedly water, because the line is evoking the greenish cast that develops in stagnant water. So when we return to look again at the first line, we realize (as we had no cause to do before) that the 'mirror' can also refer to water, since the process is just the same, and since clear, pure water acts as a fine mirror. So the two processes 'mirror' each other: when a mirror is left alone too long in a static state of 'amazement' and is not vigorously polished, its purity is vulnerable to verdigris, its clearness turns greenish. And when water is left stagnant, abandoned, unmoving, it is corrupted into 'color', and of course we know the color of such water is greenish. The commentators are concerned to derive a moral lesson from the verse, though they don't agree on what exactly it should be. It seems clear that 'amazement' or stagnation-- any prolonged lack of movement-- results finally

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in corruption or decay. But is that a morally culpable situation, or an inevitable one? The verse gives no hint. The real fascination of the verse is the way the mind oscillates back and forth between the 'purity of the amazement' [.safaa-e ;hairat] of the mirror, and the 'left-in-one-place' [barjaa-maa;Ndah] quality of the water. The former sounds so lofty and ideal and mystical, while the latter is clearly a sign of trouble, as the overtones of maa;Ndah make clear. Yet the structure of the verse implicitly but very clearly equates them. We feel there's something complex going on here, but we're frustrated by the opacity of the imagery. It's like trying to glimpse something shining in an unpolished mirror or a stagnant pond. Also, the sound effects are lovely in this one-- all those long vowels, and especially the high ratio of alif to all the others. Perhaps ironically, it's a verse full of flowingness.

{63,2} nah kii saamaan-e ((aish-o-jaah ne tadbiir va;hshat kii hu))aa jaam-e zumurrud bhii mujhe daa;G-e palang aa;xir 1) the equipment of luxury and enjoyment did not provide a cure for wildness/madness 2) even an emerald cup became, to me, 'spots of the leopard', finally

Notes: daa;G: 'A mark burnt in , a brand, cautery; mark, spot, speck; stain; stigma; blemish;...scar, cicatrix; wound, sore; grief, sorrow; misfortune, calamity'. (Platts p.501) va;hshat: 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; --wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness....distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183)

Nazm: That is, I consider an emerald cup to be a 'spot of the leopard', and madness increases. The theme of the verse is trifling, but the simile has given it life. (64)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my madness of temperament could not be removed even by equipment for pleasure and pomp, and he presents this illustration of it: that even an emerald cup became, in my eyes, a 'spot of the leopard'. (111)

Bekhud Mohani: The gist of it is that luxury cannot become a cure for the heart's madness and restlessness. (144)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH This verse puzzled me, but S. R. Faruqi explained it elegantly (Jan. 2003): FARUQI: Emerald was a popular stone for making drinking vessels and even somewhat larger utensils, perhaps because a) it is soft to carve, b) it is a light stone, and c) it invariably has flaws, so an emerald with few or no flaws is extremely precious. Flawed emeralds can be used conveniently for vessel making. The spots on the leopard are supposed to be green because there is no word for 'brown' in Persian. Urdu also has two totally inappropriate words, bhuuraa or katthaa))ii. Whereas 'brown' has numerous shades. Hatim's dictionary defines 'brown' as qahvaa))ii, that is, 'coffee-coloured.' A leopard's spots are best described in English as 'liver-coloured'. So if the greenish/brownish-spotted emerald cup ultimately reminds the mad lover of a leopard's coat, it becomes a sign only of further madness/wildness [va;hshat], rather than of civilization and luxury. The madness/wildness of the lover's heart is as innate and unremovable as the leopard's spots. (There's also a nicely appropriate English proverb: 'A leopard can't change his spots'.)

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For another example of wordplay involving palang, see Naskih's verse in {112,9}. The two kii constructions in the first line also strike the eye and ear. Although they look the same, the first is the feminine singular perfect of karnaa, while the second is the feminine possessive adjective; both are agreeing with tadbiir. But you could almost read the line as, saamaan-e ((aish-o- jaah ne tadbiir nah kii (balkih us ne) va;hshat kii. That is notof course the real, main reading, but it does seem to lurk somewhere on the borderline of awareness. This would be another great mushairah verse; for more on this concept, see {14,9}.

Ghazal 64 6 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: an par composed 1816; Hamid p. 52; Arshi #062; Raza p. 139-40

{64,1} junuu;N kii dast-giirii kis se ho gar ho nah ((uryaanii garebaa;N chaak kaa ;haq ho gayaa hai merii gardan par 1) {from / by means of} what/whom would madness receive {help / a handgrip}, if nakedness would not exist? 2a) the right/duty of ripping the collar has fallen upon {my neck / me} 2b) [oh] Collar, the right/duty of ripping has fallen upon {my neck / me}

Notes: ;haq: 'Right, title, privilege, claim, due, lot, portionshare, proprietorship; -duty, obligation'. (Platts p.479)

Nazm: Oh Collar, the right/duty of this ripping has fallen upon {my neck / me}, since it has made me naked. Otherwise, I could not have given {help / a hand-grip} to madness. That is, if I were not naked, then what kind of madness could it be? (64)

Hasrat: The result of ripping of the collar is nakedness, and madness has power over nakedness. Thus, addressing the collar he says, Oh collar, because I am a friend of madness, I have acquired the right/duty over my collar of ripping, because by making me naked, it's as if it has seized upon my madness. (63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am indebted to my nakedness, for it has aided my madness; for this reason the right/duty to rip the collar-- that is, kindness-- has devolved upon {my neck / me}. If the collar were not ripped, then I could have done nothing to help madness. The meaning is that the effects of madness are never established without the ripping of the collar. (112)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, divine love is not possible without cutting off relationships with the world. Accordingly, as I keep abandoning relationships, I become indebted to nakedness. (144)

Josh: Here, ;haq has the meaning of 'kindness'. He says, If there would be no nakedness, then madness remains without status. I ripped the collar and became naked. Thus this nakedness came from the tearing of the collar. Thus the kindness of ripping the collar is on my neck. Because of this kindness, I was able to be of help to madness. (148)

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Chishti: garebaa;N chaak, that is, chaak-e garebaa;N. haq ho gayaa, that is, [I] am indebted to his/its kindness [us kaa mujh par a;hsaan hai]. Meaning: If the lover is not naked, then his madness cannot be established. Since the ripping of the collar has made me naked and thus assisted my madness, for this reason I am indebted to it. (442)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; WORDPLAY CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} MADNESS: {14,3} This is one of a number of verses about the ripping of the collar. And it's a particularly multivalent, self-consciously 'difficult' one. But what lovely wordplay! The first line opens up a bewildering variety of possibilities. 'Nakedness' is obviously in some sort of helpful relationship to madness-- but what kind? Is 'Nakedness' a personified entity, who for some reason can be confidently called on to offer help? Or is nakedness a mere means, a prerequisite for obtaining help from some other source? The help is literally 'a hand-grip' [dast-girii]-- but who is to grip what? 'Madness' and/or 'Nakedness,' as personified abstractions, might in principle have hands. Or is the hand-grip to come from some outside source, so that these abstractions would simply be what is gripped? For a discussion of the uses-- and positioning-- of the word 'nakedness' [((uryaanii], see {6,1}. In the second line, we first have to decide what to do with the awkward juxtaposition of two nouns 'collar ripping' [garebaa;N chaak]. Some commentators tend to take the former as a vocative (2b), even without any of the usual vocative markers, so that the lover is addressing his own collar. To others (including me), the two nouns look better as a sort of implicitly hyphenated expression (2a), of the kind very common in English but rare in Urdu. Both solutions are awkward, though. The ambiguity of ;haq, which can mean both 'right' and 'duty', also makes it harder to decide what is going on. Does the mad lover eagerly claim the right to rip open his collar, or does he experience the collar-ripping as an unchosen duty that has 'fallen upon his shoulders' (or literally, that is 'on his neck')? Perhaps it doesn't much matter, since the mad lover's fate in general is both self-chosen and helplessly imposed. Why should his collar-ripping be any different from the rest of his destiny? For another play on the ambiguities of ;haq, see {26,7}. Or perhaps, as Chishti maintains, the ;haq on my neck is not the right/duty of ripping the collar, but the burden of the indebtedness I owe to the ripping of the collar (by whom or what?), which has done me a favor by furthering the progress of my madness. As can be seen, the commentators have different ideas about who is doing what to whom. In a verse like this, it's possible to spin off and defend a variety of notions. I'm not ready to even try synthesizing them into any one 'best reading.' It's always possible to say (glibly) that Ghalib meant for us to feel all the wildness and bewilderment of madness when reading this verse, so that our interpretations would be as fractured as the lover's mind. But surely the reason people would say 'vaah vaah!' when they heard this verse is its spectacular witty and amusing wordplay. Both the 'hand-grip' [dast-girii] for 'help,' and 'on my neck' [merii gardan par] for 'upon me' work excellently with the ideas of ripping the collar, madness, and nakedness. The 'hand-grip' is for grabbing the collar in order to rip it; and for seizing the madman in order to restrain him. The 'on my neck' is for the collar, the ripping of the collar, and the right/duty (of whichever kind) that is upon me. As they interact with the complex meaning-play, don't these extra

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pleasures of related wordplay provide as much as any two-line verse needs to give us?

{64,2} bah rang-e kaa;Ga;z-e aatish-zadah nairang-e betaabii hazaar aa))iinah dil baa;Ndhe hai baal-e yak tapiidan par 1) with the aspect/color of fire-stricken paper [is] the wonder/trick of restlessness 2a) [it] binds thousands of mirror-hearts onto the wing of a single agitation 2b) the heart binds thousands of mirrors onto the wing of a single agitation

Notes: nairang: (in P. also niirang; prob. prep. ni or nii + rang, q.v.), s.m. Fascination, bewitching arts, wiles; magic, sorcery; deception; --deceit; trick; pretence; evasion; --freak; --a wonderful performance, a miracle; anything new or strange'. (Platts p.1166) taab: 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming; pain, affliction, grief; anger, indignation, wrath, rage; light, radiance, lustre, splendour'. (Platts p.303) baa;Ndhe hai is a variant of baa;Ndhtaa hai. tapiidan: ''Growing hot; being in great agitation; trembling; palpitation; agitation, uneasiness, restlessness'. (Platts p.309)

Nazm: In the first line 'is' has been omitted. He says, the wonder of restlessness is like a fire-stricken paper, for the heart has bound thousands of mirrors onto every single wing-agitation. In this verse he has used as a simile for the agitation of the moving mirror, the flame, which would be higher than the fire-stricken paper. (64)

Hasrat: The prose of this verse is like this: the wonder of restlessness binds onto a wing-agitation a thousand mirror-hearts like a fire-stricken paper.... Upon a fire-stricken paper, after its burning up, thousands of points of lights can be seen glowing. Ghalib has constructed a 'wing of agitation' as a 'fire-stricken paper', and has compared its points of light to hearts. (63)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, just as star-like gleams begin to appear in a burned paper, in the same way the conjurer Restlessness has tied thousands of mirrors onto the wings of my heart. With a single agitation thousands of points of light become visible (112)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart, with the color/aspect of fire-stricken paper, is a wonder/trick of restlessness that ties thousands of mirrors to the wing of a single agitation. It's not a heart-- it's a miracle and enchantment of restlessness, of which every agitation presents such a scene of restless ones that it's like a firestricken paper. That is, the state that a fire-stricken paper is in only once, the restless heart remains in constantly, and the heart is always burning/melting from head to foot, and entirely wounded/scarred. (145)

Josh: Like the previous verse, this verse too is difficult/obscure [ganjlak]. What can be guessed from the words is that in the way that fire-stricken paper writhes, in the same way my restlessness, like a conjurer, has tied thousands of writhing hearts onto the wing of every agitation, and is showing off the spectacle of its restlessness. (148)

FWP: SETS == SUBJECT? MIRROR: {8,3}

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This verse is so wildly difficult and obscure that it's even hard to be sure I've translated the commentators correctly. In the first line we learn that (with elegant word-and-meaning play) the nairang is bah rang. That is, the wonder/trick of restlessness has the aspect/color of 'fire-stricken' paper. A piece of paper that has been set afire first shows glowing spots here and there, then curls and writhes as it burns, showing flames of a variety of colors. Then it blackens into a frail tissue full of tiny surviving sparks, before it crumples into a grey ashy ghost of itself. Although betaabii basically means 'restlessness, agitation, impatience', it has the root taab, with all the associations of heat, radiance, grief, and anger that are noted above. For the second line, we have at least two possible readings. Either the subject is the nairang-e betaabii from the first line, which binds thousands 'mirrorhearts' (2a), or the heart, which binds 'thousands of mirrors' (2b). And where does it bind them? Onto the 'wing' of every 'agitation', of course. The 'wings' of each 'agitation' display thousands of 'mirrors' (or 'mirror-hearts'), so that they resemble a fire-stricken paper, and all this is the wonder/trick of restlessness! We're thus left with a pattern of imagery so tortuous and abstract that it's impossible to visualize. Probably the verse means to leave us with the image of the burning, 'firestricken' piece of paper-- in its first glowing spots, its flaring up, writhing, crumpling, show of glittering sparks, and quick ashy death. On this see {69,2}. The lover's wonder/trick of betaabii, 'restlessness' (literally, lack of taab) is actually full of taab, in all its senses. Is that why it can be a 'trick' as well as a wonder? It is as evanescent as the burning/burnt paper glowing with all those heart-sparks, yet renewed in every moment; it seems to be capturable in words, yet the words spiral off into extravagance while the feeling itself eludes us.

{64,3} falak se ham ko ((aish-e raftah kaa kyaa kyaa taqaa.zaa hai mataa((-e burdah ko samjhe hu))e hai;N qar.z rahzan par 1a) what claims we have against the sky for vanished pleasure! 1b) what claims do we have against the sky for vanished pleasure? 1c) as if we have any claims against the sky for vanished pleasure! 2) we have considered stolen property to be a debt on the highway-robber

Notes: Hali: This theme too is absolutely drawn from reality: for after being free of care, when people become needy, they always consider themselves oppressed and tyrannized and struck down by the sky, and to their last breath they retain the hope that sometime or other they will certainly receive justice and their star of fortune will rise again. (145).

Nazm: The gist is that when with the revolving of the heavens the time of pleasure goes, it's futile to hope for it to return. (64)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, three words are very meaningful: 1) 'what'; 2) 'stolen property'; 3) 'highway-robber'. From 'what' and 'highway-robber' it's clear that now that he's already looted it, why would he give it back? (145)

FWP: SETS == KYA SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} After the first two very complex, ponderous verses, this charming little one feels like a kind of relish. In line one, we have another example of the versatility of kyaa ; for more on this, see {15,10}. (For an especially close

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comparison, see {21,10} with its use of kyaa kyaa -- and its opposite conclusion.) As usual in the case of this supremely canny poet, each reading of the first line evokes an entirely apposite reading of the second line. 1a) What many and serious claims we have against the sky for vanished pleasure! We think it is a highway-robber, and when it is brought to justice someday, we will pursue our right to have our goods back! 1b) What claims do we have against the sky for vanished pleasure? We consider it a highway-robber-- will we be able to obtain any restitution? Are we right to think that such debts exist, and can be enforced? We fear the chances are not good. 1c) As if we have any claims against the sky for vanished pleasure! What an absurd idea! We have foolishly considered it a debtor, when in fact it is a highway-robber. We are not creditors, but helpless victims, and we should stop being so naive: the chances for restitution are nil. The third reading, (1c), is surely the most amusing, and is the one that leaps out first of all-- but the presence of kyaa kyaa instead of just kyaa somewhat guides us toward the other possibilities as well. And how fine it sounds to say the sequence kaa kyaa kyaa taqaazaa out loud! Through the repetition and alliteration, the sense of urgency, demandingness, insistence makes itself felt. A piquant verse for comparison: {120,10}.

{64,4} ham aur vuh besabab-ranj aashnaa dushman kih rakhtaa hai shu((aa-e mihr se tuhmat nigah kii chashm-e rauzan par 1) we, and that causelessly-grieved friend-enemy! for she places 2) blame for the glance of the sun-ray, on the eye of the crevice-work

Notes: Nazm: That is, seeing the ray that comes through the crevice, she becomes grieved without cause: it was your glance, you must have peeked! I've been forced to consort with such a suspicious person. (64-65)

Hasrat: The second line provides a commentary on 'causelessly grieved'.... [She] takes a ray of sunlight to be the line of a glance, and accuses the eye of the crevice of casting the evil eye. (64)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that when she sees a ray of sunlight that comes through a chink in the wall, my beloved quarrels with me: 'You stared at me through the crevice in the wall! That was not a ray of sunlight, but your glance.' (112)

Bekhud Mohani: besabab ranj = becoming angry without reason. aashnaa-dushman = enemy of lovers. She's so suspicious, so causelessly-grieved [besabab ranj], that when rays of sunlight come through a crevice, then she says, The crevice is staring at me! That is, when she's so suspicious, so causelessly-grieved, then you can guess what we experience in loving her and what difficulties we're in. (145)

Josh: besabab ranj aashnaa dushman : The meaning of this construction is, an enemy who becomes angry without reason and holds grief dear. (148)

FWP: SETS == I AND FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} In this verse the poet once again uses the 'I and X' structure; for more on the rhetorical implications of this, see {5,6}. The lover exclaims helplessly at his

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involvement with such a person: 'We, and that...!' [ham aur vuh]. His inability to find the right words is illustrated when he describes the beloved not only as grieved without a cause, but also as a 'friend-enemy'. The beloved is a 'friend-enemy' in several senses: she is a friend who is an enemy; she is an enemy of her friend/lover; and she is an enemy of friends in general. RAUZAN: His example of her unreasonableness involves the rauzan , the 'crevice-work in the wall', Although 'crevice' is the only word I can think of in English, it's not very satisfactory, because a 'crevice' sounds tiny and accidental, a sign of sloppy construction or deliberate tampering. The rauzan is an architectural feature common in brick-built structures in South Asia. It is a small ventilation grill made by spacing a group of bricks in a small patch of wall so that symmetrical holes, usually half a brick-length wide, are left between them. These holes are generally squarish, and are arranged in a somewhat decorative geometrical pattern. For privacy and better ventilation, they are usually placed very high on the wall, so that only sky can be seen through them; they're definitely not meant to be small windows. Other verses that use the imagery of rauzan : {87,3}; {87,4}; {111,4}; {113,2}; {113,4}; {113,6} The beloved is so unreasonable that she blames the 'eye' of the crevice in the wall for the glance of the sun-ray. The commentators differ on exactly what this means: she blames the lover for spying on her (Nazm); she blames the crevice for casting the 'evil eye' (Hasrat); she blames the crevice for staring at her (Bekhud Dihlavi). But surely the basic idea is that she's blaming an indisputably innocent, passive party (the rauzan) for behavior by another party (the sun) over which it has no control. In the same way, she blames the hapless lover for-- it hardly matters what: for staring, for spying, for intruding, for permitting others to stare or spy or intrude. Since she's so unreasonable, and since the lover is as helpless as the rauzan , it hardly matters what the exact charge might be. She's looking to pick a fight, she's besabab-ranj , she's an aashnaa-dushman , and the poor lover is doomed from the start. And yet-- the rauzan does seem to have an eye, for she blames the chashm-e rauzan . Does this turn the rauzan into a voyeur, like the mirror and the lover? Maybe her beauty is such that even normally passive, neutral entities take on human-like desires and longings? Among the commentators I've looked at, Josh alone breaks up the first line differently, into besabab-ranj-aashnaa dushman , 'enemy who is a friend of causeless grief'. My friend Vasmi Abidi also argues for this reading. What I want to know is, how much interpretive difference will it make? This is one we need to think more about.

{64,5} fanaa ko sau;Np gar mushtaaq hai apnii ;haqiiqat kaa furo;G-e :taala((-e ;xaashaak hai mauquuf gul;xan par 1) confide [yourself] to oblivion, if you are ardent for your own reality 2) the radiance/glory of the destiny of the wood-chips is dependent on the fireplace/furnace

Notes: furo;G: 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; -glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780) ;xaashaak: 'Sweepings, chips, shavings, leaves, rubbish, trash'. (Platts p.484)

Nazm: That is, seek freedom in oblivion in God. (65)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, one ought to achieve oblivion in God and obtain the final culmination of mystical knowledge; and he presents an illustration of this:

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just as when [dried] grass, etc. is used as fuel for an oven, it becomes flame and glows, in the same way the truth of mystical knowledge is made manifest through attainment of oblivion in God. (113)

Bekhud Mohani: If you have ardor for becoming aware of your own reality, then confide your existence to oblivion. Because if the fortune of straw and wood-chips glows bright, then it is after their falling into the furnace. That is, if you want to recognize yourself, then become obliterated in God. Except for this, there's no way to reality through your senses. If you erase yourself, then you would become merged in the essence of the Lord. (145-46)

Arshi: Compare {87,11}. (228)

FWP: FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Flame, and straw or wood-chips, go together in ways that work very well for Ghalib. Like {21,5}, this verse too plays with furo;G, in its related double meanings of literal brightness or flame (fire), and metaphorical brightness or radiance (glory). In both senses, of course, the wood-chips are dependant on the furnace: for the literal flame that will make them glow with radiance, and for the metaphorical glory of being recognized as fuel for a higher purpose. Is this advice from Ghalib to himself? Many such verses use the intimate tuu-- see for example {13,1}-- and this verse uses it too. And who is the 'you' so addressed? It is a 'you' whose own reality or deepest truth [apnii ;haqiiqat] consists in finding oblivion, rather than finding a 'real' self. Or rather, the paradoxical advice emerges that the supreme, longed-for reality is nothingness, which is to be embraced with all the ardor of the moth flying into the candle flame. Or, of course, the ardor of the wood chips gladly 'confiding themselves' to their momentary blaze of fiery glory and brilliant death. The first line is a general truth, with the second a particular illustration or proof of it. This verse also fits, I think, into the series beginning with {26,1}, in which the poet enjoins the reader (himself? all of us?) to borrow nothing from others, for one should seek only what is one's own. One should prefer one's own inferior insights or talents, rather than becoming indebted to those of others and living with a merely derivative sense of self. In this verse, the logic is pushed as far as it will go: one's only 'real' self is found in oblivion. Or maybe just in the splendid, definining, climactic gesture with which you 'confide yourself' [sau;Npnaa] to oblivion?

{64,6} asad bismil hai kis andaaz kaa qaatil se kahtaa hai kih mashq-e naaz kar ;xuun-e do-((aalam merii gardan par 1a) what a stylish wounded one Asad is! he says to the murderer 1b) what kind/style of a wounded one is Asad? he says to the murderer 2) 'Practice coquetry-- the blood of two worlds [be] upon my neck!'

Notes: Nazm: The meaning is clear. And here kis is not for inquiry, it is for exclamation. It is beyond the bounds of possibility to give sufficient praise to this verse. (65)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, one feels surprised at the situation of Asad-- he is a wounded one of such style that one can't understand him. He himself says to the murderer, Keep on practicing coquetry in this very way, and let people go on getting slain, the blood of two worlds will be upon my head, you will not be held to account for it. (113)

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Bekhud Mohani: Compare {21,9}. (54) From this verse it can be learned that that coquetry is Doomsday. The verse is irresistible. (146)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani is right to suggest {21,9} for comparison. In that verse, there may very likely (depending on the reading we choose) be no bloodguilt at all for those 'martyrs' slain by the beloved's glance. In this verse, it's clear that there is, and it's of cosmic proportions-- but the lover still insists on taking it all upon himself. He solemnly affirms that the blood should/may be 'upon my neck' [merii gardan par], which is a formal guilt-assuming expression like 'Upon my head be it!' in English. Another example of this usage: {219,2}. Nazm, usually so grudging in his praise, says it's impossible to admire this verse as much as it deserves. He says the best part of it is kis , which is not for inquiry but for exclamation; in other words, he prefers (1a). I agree that (1a) is the more amusing reading, because of its casual, tongue-in-cheek arrogance, as a bystander is made to marvel at Asad's grace, wit, and passion under pressure. Passion because he wants more of what has already wounded him, and grace and wit because he works into his exclamation both a compliment to the beloved's devastating beauty (which will slay everybody in the two worlds) and an implication that he alone has the power and authority to almost off-handedly assume all that cosmic blood-guilt. But it is the inextricably intertwined set of (1a) and (1b) that is far more captivating than either one taken alone. For after all, that bystander might just as easily be bemused or surprised, and be seeking further information-what kind of a person is this Asad, anyway, to behave in such a way? The little particle kis is of course the oblique singular of kyaa ; for more on the wonders of kyaa , see {15,10}.

Ghazal 65 1 verse; meter G2; rhyming elements: iib aa;xir composed 1816; Hamid p. 52; Arshi #061; Raza p. 140 {65,1} sitam-kash ma.sli;hat se huu;N kih ;xuubaa;N tujh pah ((aashiq hai;N takalluf bar-:taraf mil jaa))egaa tujh-saa raqiib aa;xir 1) I am a tyranny-accepter advisedly, for beautiful ones are your lovers 2) {leaving aside formality / 'to tell the truth'}, a Rival like you will become available [to me] finally

Notes: takalluf : 'Taking (anything) upon oneself gratuitously or without being required to do it, gratuitousness; taking much pains personally (in any matter); pains, attention, industry, perseverance; trouble, inconvenience; elaborate preparation (for); profusion, extravagance; careful observance of etiquette, ceremony, formality; dissimulation, insincerity'. (Platts pp.331-32)

Nazm: That is, among the beautiful ones who are in love with you, one or another of them will fall to my lot. With this counsel I submit to your coquetry-- that if I don't get you, then I will get some rival as beautiful as you. (65)

Hasrat: You are the beloved of the beloveds of the world-- among your lovers some such rival will turn up, who will be as beautiful as you. I will give my heart to that one. (64)

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Bekhud Mohani: Today, you don't care about me. When I get one of the beloveds who is in love with you, then you will be doubly jealous-- first, that I've stopped loving you, and second, that I've turned a lover into a beloved. That is, you'll feel even more jealous than you're making me feel today. (146)

Shadan: Those who have a proper [poetic] temperament know that in Urdu such Persian plurals as ;xuubaa;N don't sound good even to the ear, when they are used like this without a connective or an i.zaafat. (226)

Mihr: The true and plain fact is that sometime or other one of these [beautiful ones], having endured your tyranny and oppression, will become my confidant and sympathizer, and I will keep comforting my heart with the knowledge that you don't hesitate to make even the loveliest ones objects for the practice of cruelty and injustice. So why should passion become anxious? To say that Ghalib would give his heart to one of these beautiful lovers and thus find satisfaction, is to make a complete mockery of Ghalib's poetic art [shi((r-go))ii]. (234)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS The verse is a sly little sweet-and-sour morsel offered to the beloved. The lover seeks both to compliment her beauty (since all the other lovely ones of the world are said to be in love with her) and to arouse her jealousy (since the lover will thus be surrounded by a crowd of gorgeous people, all jostling and competing for the beloved's attentions). The implied advantage to the lover will be either that he will manage to capture one of them for himself (as most commentators think) or that he will just have access to them as confidants and companions (as Mihr maintains, in an attempt to defend what he thinks of as Ghalib's honor as a lover). The wit of the verse is heightened by leaving the possibilities open. For there's another doubleness too: what exactly does 'like you' [tujh-saa] mean? As beautiful as you, so that I will no longer need you any more, and can then forget you? Or like you in temperament and style as well, so that if you're not available I can at least seek the best facsimile, since I can't ever forget you? The most amusing feature of the verse, however, is its 'reviving' of the petrified expression 'leaving aside formality' [takalluf bar-:taraf]. It's a commonplace introductory phrase, used the way 'to tell the truth' or 'if you want to know the truth' is used in English. So at first, we read it as just a standard 'claim of candor' phrase for introducing the real point of the utterance. But as we take in the full import of the second line, we recognize its much wittier and more apropos sense as well. For if it is read adverbially to mil jaa))egaa , the meaning is that finally I will meet a lover like you under conditions of informality, leaving aside all official decorum [takalluf bar-:taraf]. In the jostling, intimate, crushed-together crowd of your lovers, I will be in especially conducive proximity to many beautiful ones, and will eventually find intimacy with someone like you. And that will show you, cruel beloved! says the lover, perhaps with a wicked little sneer. For other, equally complex uses of takalluf bar-:taraf , see {132,2}, {205,6}, and {226,2}; there are similar uses of 'without formality' [be-takalluf] in {25,1}, {53,6}, and {87,11}. For another verse that plays with the idea of taking a new lover, see {131,2}.

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Ghazal 66 10 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aa ko))ii din aur composed 1852; Hamid p. 53; Arshi #066; Raza p. 312 {66,1} laazim thaa kih dekho miraa rastaa ko))ii din aur tanhaa gaye kyuu;N ab raho tanhaa ko))ii din aur 1) it was necessary/proper for you to {wait for me / 'watch my road'} a few days more 2) why did you go alone? now remain alone a few days more

Notes: rastaa is rastah, with the spelling adjusted for the sake of the rhyme.

Hali: With Zain ul-Abidin Khan 'Arif' [zain ul-((aabidiin ;xaa;N ((aarif], Mirza Sahib had an extremely close relationship. Partly because of their kinship, and mostly because he had an extremely inventive and creative temperament, and despite his loquaciousness was an extremely fine speaker, Mirza cherished him beyond all limits. For this reason, when he died as a young man it was a heavy blow to Mirza and his wife. Mirza wrote a ghazal about his death, by way of a lament [nau;hah], which is extremely eloquent and pain-evoking. (37)

Nazm: In this verse the author has addressed Arif: you should have died with us-since you made such haste, now remain alone. All the verses of this ghazal are an elegy for Arif. Arif was Mirza Sahib's wife's brother; his name was Zain ul-Abidin Khan. He was creative [;xush-fikr], and died young. (65)

Chishti: In truth, this ghazal is an elegy for Arif who died young. But everyone is constrained by his own nature. Thus even in an elegy, the mood of sarcasm and mischief is present-- for example, in the second lines of {66,4}, {66,5}, {66,7}. (447)

FWP: This is the one ghazal in the whole muravvaj diivaan that is grist for the mill of the 'natural poetry' [necharal shaa((irii] school. Out of the 234 ghazals, this one alone can be linked directly and legitimately to a major event in Ghalib's own life. It's a lament for a beloved brother-in-law who died young. As a lament, it 'works' because it has the power to move us: the sorrow in it comes through all too clearly. As Chishti points out, however, it's still a ghazal by Ghalib, and thus inevitably makes use of literary devices and provides literary pleasures. It's one of his simplest ghazals, technically speaking. But it's also unified and energized by a powerful human emotion that we all know. Although it may seem an odd comparison, this one in its strong, consistent mood reminds me of {49}: that one is a 'wave of wine,' this one is a 'wave of grief'. In this particular verse, the imagery of travelers setting out on a journey is emphasized by the verb used for 'wait': not inti:zaar karnaa but rastah dekhnaa, 'to watch the road'. Travelers are safer as well as happier if they make their journeys together. Ghalib, being older, is expressing a kind of pique: you should have waited for me; since you wouldn't, well, you'll just have to go on alone, and it serves you right! But of course, the loneliness will be only for 'a few days more', and I'll join you soon on the last great journey.

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This is the only ghazal for which I will speak of the protagonist not as 'the lover' but as 'Ghalib', since I think the poet himself wants to inhabit this poem and is not invoking the usual persona. All the verses except {66,5} and {66,10} are vocative, addressed directly to Arif. In all of them he is tum, except for {66,2} where he becomes tuu. This is the only whole ghazal of this intimate kind, but there's also another verse: {202,9}.

{66,2} mi;T jaa))egaa sar gar tiraa patthar nah ghisegaa huu;N dar pah tire naa.siyah-farsaa ko))ii din aur 1) the head will be erased, if your stone will not be worn away 2) [I] wear down my forehead at your door a few days more

Notes: Nazm: That is, my forehead-wearing-away at your door is not for always. In a few days either the stone will wear away, or there won't be a head left at all. And 'door' refers to Arif's tomb. (65)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the stone of your tomb doesn't wear away, then my head certainly will wear away. (114)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, in grieving for you my bitterness of spirit [shoriidah-sarii] is such that I constantly keep beating my head on your tomb; and I am confident that if the stone of the tomb doesn't wear away, then I won't remain alive. That is, this grief won't permit me to live. (147)

FWP: For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. The first line evokes the ghazal convention that the lover prostrates himself before the beloved's door, repeatedly pressing his forehead to the doorsill in passionate submission. But in this case, the 'stone' is not the doorsill, but the tomb. And while the lover counts on his persistence to wear away the doorsill (for an example, see {43,6}), in this case Ghalib considers the outcome of the contest uncertain. Which will be worn away first, the tomb or his forehead? In either case, it is the finiteness of the process that provides his only consolation.

{66,3} aaye ho kal aur aaj hii kahte ho kih jaa))uu;N maanaa kih hameshah nahii;N achchhaa ko))ii din aur 1) [you] came yesterday and today itself you say, 'I'm going' 2) granted that [it will] not [be] forever-- all right, a few days more!

Notes: Nazm: Out of an excess of grief, he has imagined this scene-- as if Arif is still alive, and is about to take his leave. (65)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how much time has even passed since you came into the world? It's as if you came only yesterday, and today you're saying that you're going. I agree that you won't stay forever, but stay a few days more. Why are you in such a hurry to die? (114)

Bekhud Mohani: At the time of Arif's death, or in the turmoil of grief, he has versified the thought that Arif has come, and is taking his leave. Then he says, you only came yesterday, and today you leave? Come now, brother-- all right, not forever, stay a few days more. (147)

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FWP: For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. Any guest who has ever tried to leave a traditional South Asian host knows how difficult it can be. For the host to try to detain the guest is very proper, and does credit to both parties. The tone of this verse is entirely colloquial, and thus impossible to capture in English. It is part of that last hospitable conversation as the guest is politely but firmly heading for the door. The 'all right' [achchhaa] in the second line represents a show of concession on the host's part. The host has reluctantly granted that the guest will not stay forever-- and on the strength of that concession he both demands 'a few days more', and tries to force the guest to agree by implying that he already has agreed, and that 'a few days more' is a compromise they have both accepted. This host-and-guest conversation between Ghalib and Arif continues in the next verse.

{66,4} jaate hu))e kahte ho qiyaamat ko mile;Nge kyaa ;xuub qiyaamat kaa hai goyaa ko))ii din aur 1) departing, [you] say we'll meet on Doomsday 2) that's a good one! as if Doomsday is some other day!

Notes: Nazm: That is, we know that today itself is Doomsday. (66)

Bekhud Mohani: At the time of taking leave of me, you promise to meet on Doomsday. From your saying this it seems that Doomsday has not come today, but rather will come some other time. That is, for me, the day of your death itself is Doomsday. (147)

Josh: How moving is the style of every single verse! In this form of address, how the informality of language and simplicity of expression, with their natural [necharal] effect, penetrate the heart! (150)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE QIYAMAT: {10,11} For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. This is the end of the 'host-guest' conversation that began in {66,3}. It began in cajolery, and now ends in bitterness, sarcasm, and helpless grief. The secondary meaning of goyaa, 'as if', is 'speaking', which has a fine affinity with 'you say'; for more on this useful double meaning, see {5,1}. Josh is right about the power of feeling. I can never get through this ghazal without tears in my eyes.

{66,5} haa;N ai falak-e piir javaa;N thaa abhii ((aarif kyaa teraa biga;Rtaa jo nah martaa ko))ii din aur 1) indeed, oh ancient/venerable Sky, Arif was still young 2) what harm would it have done you if [he] hadn't died for a few days more?

Notes: piir: 'An old man; a saint; a spiritual guide or father; a priest; founder or head of a religious order'. (Platts p.298) ((aarif: 'Knowing, wise, sagacious, ingenious; skilled in divine matters, possessing knowledge of God and of his kingdom and of the way of dealing well with him; pious, devout.' (Platts pp.756-57)

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Nazm: In this verse haa;N is not in its own place-- it's the place of kyuu;N. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the word haa;N has been used by way of an attention-getter, before addressing the Sky. This haa;N has no connection with affirmation; that is, it's not the opposite of nahii;N. He wanted to make to the Sky the complaint that the one dying was young, he hadn't reached his natural lifespan. If he had remained alive for some days more, what harm would it have done you? (114)

Bekhud Mohani: [Contrary to Nazm's assertion,] in this verse haa;N has been used in its own place. From it, sir, we learn the absorption and immersion in mourning. As though some people would be seated, and the master of the house would be absorbed in some thought. When his absorption lessened, he would begin his speech with haa;N.... It also sometimes happens that if sophisticated people complain to someone of some important matter, then they don't begin all at once; first they speak of this and that, then often they begin the complaint with haa;N. (147)

FWP: For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. This is one of the very rare times in the whole divan that a 'real person' (rather than a literary or symbolic figure) is mentioned by name. A few verses later, in {66,8}, we find another such reference, to Arif's friend Nayyar. The Sky's ancientness and Arif's youth are juxtaposed as jarringly as possible: in the first line, thanks to the cleverly contrived i.zaafat, we find the sequence 'ancient young' [piir javaa;N]. The term piir also has associations of venerableness and mystic insight. It is the proper role of a piir to teach and guide the young, not to cut them off in their prime. These associations are further emphasized through the name Arif; an ((aarif is a possessor of (mystical) knowledge. The idiomatic haa;N charms the commentators, though they struggle to express its exact nuances. It turns the verse into part of a continuing dialogue between Ghalib and the Sky; it gives the air of pressing home with an additional argument some other point that has already been urged.

{66,6} tum maah-e shab-e chaar-duham the mire ghar ke phir kyuu;N nah rahaa ghar kaa vuh naqshaa ko))ii din aur 1) you [were] the moon-of-the-fourteenth-night of my house 2) then why didn't that state of the house remain a few days more?

Notes: naqshaa is really naqshah, with the spelling altered to reflect the rhyme.

Nazm: That is, after the night of the fourteenth, the moon remains for some days. Why did you suddenly vanish? (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: x

Bekhud Mohani: x

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. Beautiful beloveds are frequently called moons; Joseph in particular was the Moon of Canaan (see {111,5} for an example).

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Arif, you were the full moon of my house-- but the full moon only gradually wanes over a period of many days, so why did you vanish so abruptly? Ghalib's tone is one of reproach and perplexity. Since the verse takes the viewpoint of the house, it laments a shocking, unendurable change from total light to total darkness.

{66,7} tum kaun-se the aise khare daad-o-sitad ke kartaa malak ul-maut taqaa.zaa ko))ii din aur 1) since when were you so strict in [your] accounts?! 2) the Angel of Death would have made his claim some other day

Notes: kharaa: 'Good, excellent, best; prime, choice; genuine, real, true....honest, upright....just, fair, right, exact, strict'. (Platts p.873)

Nazm: This and the next two verses are in the form of negative questions [istifihaam-e inkaarii], and are addressed to the person who died young.

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. How in the world to translate tum kaun-se aise? It's so colloquial that if done literally it makes no sense. But fortunately we have the 'Since when are you such a...?' construction in English, which conveys the same skepticism and overtones of ridicule, the idea that somebody is pretending to some quality that the speaker knows very well is not genuine. The quality in this case is strictness about [daad -o-sitad], literally, 'giving and taking', which I have taken as 'accounting' in order to get the same effect in English. Ghalib scolds Arif: if the Angel of Death presented his claim on your life, so what? It was only the first reminder. You didn't have to pay him at once, that very instant! Since when were you so scrupulous about such things? You should have put him off and at least gained some time; he would unquestionably have come back another day. But instead you showed an appalling (and uncharacteristic!) degree of scrupulousness-- all too quickly you accepted his claim, and gave your life into his power.

{66,8} mujh se tumhe;N nafrat sahii nayyar se la;Raa))ii bachcho;N kaa bhii dekhaa nah tamaashaa ko))ii din aur 1) all right, you hated me, [and] quarreled with Nayyar-2) you didn't even watch the children playing, a few days more!

Notes: Nazm: Nayyar is the writer's devoted pupil. From this verse it is clear that his special intimacy with the writer displeased Arif. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here, 'Nayyar' refers to Navab Ziya ud-Din Ahmad Khan Bahadur [navaab .ziyaa ud-diin a;hmad ;xaa;N bahaadur], with the pen-name 'Nayyar' and 'Rakhshan' [ra;xshaa;N]. He was a noble from Loharu who cherished the late Arif even more than he did Mirza Sahib. The rest of the verse is clear. (115)

Mihr: The meaning of the first line is absolutely not that Arif hated Ghalib or would have quarreled with Nayyar. This has only created scope in the second line for affinity of situation.... Even if that impossible thing should be supposed, at least your little innocent children had committed no sin. You

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could not hate them, nor was there any possibility of a quarrel with them. So why didn't you watch them playing, a few days more? (228)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. The colloquial sahii is hard to translate; 'all right' is not ideal, and I'll try to think of something better. As to the interpretation, I think that Nazm misunderstands this one, and Mihr gets it right. The point of supposedly 'granting' that Arif may have hated Ghalib himself and quarreled with Nayyar is to emphasize that even these two extreme improbabilities could be imagined as possible motives that might cause Arif to think of leaving his loved ones. The second line then begins with an invisible but strongly rhetorically present 'but'. 'But' even these powerful motives would be so quickly outweighed by a much stronger motive for staying. Even if you would leave us, Arif, how is it possible that you would leave your young children? It's inconceivable that you wouldn't-- that you didn't-- linger a while, to enjoy the sight of your children at play! We are back to the bitterness and irremediableness of grief-- the reproaches that endlessly well up, even with no one here any longer to receive them. For more on sahii , see {9,4}.

{66,9} guzrii nah bah har ;haal yih muddat ;xvush-o-naa-;xvush karnaa thaa javaa;N-marg guzaaraa ko))ii din aur 1) didn't this time-interval pass in any case, happily and unhappily? 2) you who died young should have {gotten through / passed} a few days more

Notes: guzaaraa is really guzaarah, with spelling changed to reflect the rhyme. This is a variant spelling of gu;zaarah, just as guzarnaa (source of guzrii in line one) is a common variant spelling of gu;zarnaa. gu;zaarah: 'A passing, passing over, crossing; a passage; passing of time or of life; living, subsisting'. (Platts p.900)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, The way up to now you spent your portion of life in the happiness and grief of the times, in the same way you should have spent more days in the world. Why did you die in your youthfulness? (115)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. There is a word/meaning play between guzarnaa in the first line, and guzaaraa in the second line. In the first line it is the 'time-interval' [muddat] that is the subject, as usual: 'time passes' in Urdu just as it does in English. But in the second line, guzaaraa karnaa is an active, transitive verb: it is something Arif had a duty to do, yet he failed to do it, and Ghalib reproaches him for it. So what was it his duty to do? Literally, to 'pass' more days of life. But colloquially, something like to 'get through' life. The idiomatic uses of guzaarah karnaa have to do with earning a livelihood, managing to live, 'making it' from day to day, 'carrying on', 'getting by'. The difference in tone is that the first line presents life passively (not in the literally grammatical sense, of course, since guzarnaa is intransitive), as something that just happens to you, willy-nilly, with alternations of happiness and sorrow. The second line requires you to think of actively

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accepting your life, 'making it happen'. You ought to do this, for after all, we aren't talking about forever, but only of 'some days more'. It is this commitment to life, awkward perhaps but tenacious, that Ghalib accuses Arif of not making. Of course, it's an unfair accusation, since there's no reason to believe that Arif didn't want to live. But the reproaches in this whole ghazal ring so true. Since when is deep grief reasonable?

{66,10} naadaa;N ho jo kahte ho kih kyuu;N jiite hai;N ;Gaalib qismat me;N hai marne kii tamannaa ko))ii din aur 1) [you] are foolish when [you] say, why does Ghalib live? 2) in [my] destiny is the longing to die for a few days more

Notes: Nazm: You people are surprised that after sustaining the wound of Arif's early death, Ghalib lives on-- but you're very foolish. To keep longing for death for a few days more is written in my fortune-- how could I die prematurely? (66)

FWP: LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} For general comments on this ghazal, see {66,1}. Throughout the ghazal, tum has been Arif. Now, suddenly, it's not. It's some man or group of men (or mixed group), who is/are apparently close enough for familiarity and anger on Ghalib's part. (After all, it could have been hai;N and kahte hai;N without affecting the meter; but then the implied subject would have been the usual 'they', as in 'they say', and the second-person sense of engagement would be gone.) What is written in Ghalib's destiny is not life, or a desire for life, but a longing [tamannaa]-- a longing for death, a longing which, because of the mighty power of destiny, can't yet be satisfied. Though it will be soon, of course-- in only 'a few days more'. Arif suffered death, and Ghalib suffers the longing for death. As he says in {66,9}, one simply has to 'get through' life as one's destiny requires. (In his letters, Ghalib always lamented his domestic responsibilities; in his life, he always strove to fulfill them.) But 'living' shouldn't be equated with enjoying life, or callously or shallowly choosing life-- especially when that life has lost so much of its meaning. Only a 'foolish' person would make any such supposition, and thus incur Ghalib's wrath.

Ghazal 67 3 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: an hanuuz composed 1816; Hamid p. 54; Arshi #067; Raza pp. 141-42 {67,1} faari;G mujhe nah jaan kih maanind-e .sub;h-o-mihr hai daa;G-e ((ishq ziinat-e jeb-e kafan hanuuz 1) don't consider me {free / at leisure}, for, like the dawn/morning and the sun 2) the wound/scar of love is an ornament of the neck-opening of the shroud still/now

Notes: jeb in modern Urdu has come to mean 'pocket', but that's by extension to a vertically-opening pocket, from its original meaning of a vertical neckopening like that of a kurta.

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Nazm: Morning is a metaphor for the passing of the night of the lifetime, and he has given the neck-opening of the shroud as a simile for the collar [garebaa;N] of the dawn. The meaning is that even after dying, I am not free of passion. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse he has given morning as a simile for the ripping [chaak] of the shroud, and the morning sun for the wound of passion. The meaning is that even after dying, I am not free of the cares of love. (115)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the way the dawn and the sun will remain together until Doomsday, similarly the wound of love and my shroud will remain together. In short, passion is not transitory. (149)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ What's going on in this verse? It takes us a while to find out, for the first line is incomprehensible until we hear the second-- which, in the clever oralperformance arrangements of a mushairah setting, might take a while. Don't consider me to be at leisure, free from care, even now that I'm in the grave. For the wound/scar of passion is still/now an ornament to the neckopening of the shroud. On the use of hanuuz, which can mean either 'still' or 'now', see {3,4}. For more examples of the dead-lover-speaks situation, see {57,1}. How is it an ornament? Why, 'like the dawn/morning and the sun'. But like them in what sense? First, in shape and fieriness. Dawn shows itself in a glowing golden-orange line of light like a slash along the edge of the dark horizon; in English, we even speak of 'the crack of dawn'. This narrow line of brilliant light is like the neck-opening of a kurta-- or a shroud-- which in the lover's case is soon torn open to reveal further radiant, burning wounds/scars [daa;G]. Similarly, of course, the sun rises to reveal the full light and heat of the morning. Second, in inseparability, as Bekhud Mohani points out. There is never a sunrise without a morning, or a morning without a sunrise. Similarly, the neck-opening of my shroud never fails to reveal the wounds/scars of passion, and the wounds/scars of passion never fail to end up, along with the lover who bears them, under a shroud. Third, in universal significance and visibility. Just as everyone in the world observes the first line of dawn and its resulting sunrise, and counts on it to sustain life, similarly my 'dawn' and 'sun' of wounds/scars are part of the ongoing cosmic passion play. That's why you can't consider me to be well out of it, free, at leisure. Sometimes my daa;G are even presented as a possible tourist attraction: for an early example, consider {5,5}. Or even more to the point, consider {62,8}: when every day the lover shows off one more scar/wound, people think it's the rising sun. (And, I argue, they may even be right.) With this verse, we learn that the centrality of the wound/scar of passion continues onward into the grave-- and outward into the cosmos, as the ultimate life force of the ghazal universe. For there's even an ultimately arrogant fourth reading possible: the wound/scar of passion is an ornament at the neck of my shroud-- just as the dawn and the sun are as well. All of them are equally at my disposal, even in the grave. (Perhaps they are like those sets of interchained silver buttons one can buy for the neck-opening of a certain kind of kurta.) In short, don't imagine that I'm at leisure just because I'm dead; there's as much going on with me as ever, or perhaps even more (remember the two meanings of hanuuz ).

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{67,2} hai naaz-e muflisaa;N zar-e az-dast-raftah par huu;N gul-farosh-e sho;xii-e daa;G-e kuhan hanuuz 1) the pride/coquetry of the impoverished is about gold that has gone from [their] hands 2) I am a rose-seller of the mischievousness of ancient wounds/scars now/still

Notes: Nazm: That is, if I don't now have the wound of passion, then I constantly speak about it. He's given for 'wound' the simile of a gold piece, and for the decline of passion, lost wealth. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, just as poor people, having lost their wealth, speak with pride about their departed gold, similarly I, having lost my wound of passion, always speak of it. (116)

Bekhud Mohani: Our priding ourselves on our ancient wound of passion is as if poor people would pride themselves on their lost wealth. That is, when the wound no longer remained, then we establish our pride by mentioning the wound. (149)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ Poor people plume themselves on the memory of the gold they no longer have. I am a rose-seller of the mischievousness/coquetry of long-ago wounds now/still. (On the doubleness of hanuuz, see {3,4}.) Gold pieces are beautiful, round, valuable, highly desired; so are roses. When gold pieces are gone, they rarely return; roses too have a short life expectancy. Gold pieces are also like the wounds of passion: they can be acquired and lost, not everybody can acquire them, they can be displayed to earn prestige, they can obtain desirable goods for their possessor; all this is true of the wounds of passion as well. Roses are also like the wounds of passion: they are red, they fade away in time, they are reminders of mortality, they are emblems of the pursuit of (human or divine) beauty. Poor people and lovers have in common a love of coquetry, pride, style, even if it is founded only on memory. I'm a 'rose-seller of the mischievousness/coquetry' [gul-farosh-e sho;xii] of ancient wounds. I used to have wounds, but now they're all gone, all healed over; they can be a source of pride only in retrospect. But is that ALL we get out of this verse? It is easy to lay out patterns of affinity in this verse, and yet hard to put them all together and find the real 'punch' of the verse, the key to it, the sudden burst of pleasure that would make listeners say 'vaah vaah!' I'm sure I'm missing something; either that, or else by Ghalib's standards it's a minor and disappointing verse, really just a shuffling around of conventional imagery expressing a theme that's easily captured in prose paraphrase. How unGhalibian! I need to work more on this one. S. R. Faruqi points out (personal communication, Feb. 2003) that gul-farosh can also mean 'rose-displayer', not just rose-seller. He says, 'As regards faroshii, faro;xtan also means, 'showing, exhibiting, i:zhaar kardan'. So a gul-farosh is one who shows, exhibits, does i:zhaar, of gul [=scar, daa;G]. For this meaning see Ali Hasan Khan Salim [((alii ;hasan ;xaan saliim], Mawaridul Masadir [mavaariid ul-ma.saadir], a Dictionary of Persian Verbs (Agra, Matba'-e Mufid-e 'Am, n.d. [circa 1875]), p.261.'

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{67,3} mai-;xaanah-e jigar me;N yahaa;N ;xaak bhii nahii;N ;xamyaazah khe;Nche hai but-e bedaad-fan hanuuz 1) in the wine-house of the liver here there is {not even dust / nothing at all} 2) the injustice-practicing idol is yawning with thirst now/still

Notes: Nazm: The blood-drinking beloved, who used to consider the blood of my liver to be wine and always used to drink it, is yawning with thirst, and her intoxication does not increase-- but here, in the wine-house of the liver there's not even a grain of dust. (66)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the wine-house of the liver, here not a single drop of the wine of passion is left now. Dust is blowing around. That is, all the blood has already been used up. But the beloved, thirsty for blood, is still yawning with thirst. (116)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved, who used to drink the wine of the blood of the liver from the wine-house of my liver, now yawns with thirst. And the state of the winehouse is such that in it dust is flying around. The meaning is that in us this capacity did not remain. But even now that tyrant's heart is not satisfied with tyranny; she still thirsts for more, she is not intoxicated enough. (149)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; HANUZ; IDIOMS FOOD: {6,4} IDOL: {8,1} JIGAR: {2,1} WINE: {49,1} This is another 'liver' verse; for discussion and an inventory, see {30,2}. Since the liver is, in ghazal physiology, the source of all fresh blood, it can well be likened to a wine-house that should serve up ruby-red wine. But what to do when the wine-house itself has been drunk dry? The idiomatic expression ;xaak bhii nahii;N is normally used to mean 'nothing at all'; in that sense it works well, but its literal meaning, 'not even dust', is also amusingly appropriate. A dried-up environment with no more liquid wine/blood would be easily imagined as a desert, a place full of unmoistened dust; but the my liver is in such dire straits that 'not even dust' is to be found in it. Compare the similar idiomatic usage, and imagery of blood and dust, in {114,1}. A ;xamyaazah is, literally, a yawn or stretch, but it's considered to be a sign that intoxication is waning and more wine will be required. For a discussion and examples, see {12,2}. Things look ominous for the lover. The cruel, unjust beloved is yawning ominously, hanuuz . Does that mean she's yawning 'now', meaning that a fresh episode of torment is about to begin, as she decides to punish me for having no wine? Or is she yawning 'still', meaning that after I've just finished giving her all the wine/blood in my liver, she's still not satisfied? Both meanings of hanuuz are equally possible; for further discussion, see {3,4}. This verse is also a candidate for my category of 'grotesquerie', since it so clearly makes the beloved a blood-drinking cannibal who is literally eating (or rather drinking) the lover alive: she gets drunk on blood; she slurps up the fresh blood even faster than the unfortunate lover/liver can produce it. Needless to say, the lover's only regret is that he can't keep up a blood supply sufficient to meet the demand.

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Ghazal 68 5 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aaz composed 1821; Hamid p. 55; Arshi #068; Raza p. 231

{68,1} ;hariif-e ma:tlab-e mushkil nahii;N fusuun-e niyaaz du((aa qabuul ho yaa rab kih ((umr-e ;xi;zr daraaz 1a) the incantation of prayer/humility is not equal to a difficult purpose 1b) the spell/magic of desire/neediness is not equal to a difficult purpose 2) may the prayer be accepted, oh Lord, that the lifetime of Khizr be long

Notes: fusuun : 'Enchantment, incantation, fascination'. (Platts p.781) niyaaz : 'Petition, supplication, prayer; --inclination, wish, eager desire, longing; need, necessity; indigence, poverty'. (Platts p.1164)

Hali: Because this thought was widespread, and the theme claimed inclusion in the opening verse, the first line has to some extent become remote from Urdu colloquial language; but it's entirely a new mischievousness, which perhaps has not occurred to anyone else. He says that in the achievement of some difficult purpose the spell [mantar] of weakness and humility can do nothing; having no choice, now we will pray only: Oh God, may the lifetime of Khizr be long; that is, we will seek such a thing as would already have been given. (122)

Nazm: For example, if a prayer for our own long life will not be accepted, then we'll pray for the long lifetime of Khizr-- there, let Him accept that! (67)

Bekhud Mohani: Hazrat Khizr is a prophet, who always shows the way to lost ones. He has drunk the Water of Life, and will remain alive until Doomsday. Whichever road he passes over, fresh green grass begins to wave on it. (150)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR What a delightful, playful, mischievous verse! The possibilities of niyaaz in the first line give rise to two readings, both amusing, both of which work perfectly with the second line. In (1a), fusuun-e niyaaz is taken as something like 'the compelling/enchanting power of my humble petition'. I strongly suspect that God will not pay much attention to a wretch like me; I don't have much leverage with him. So why don't I play it safe, and pray for something that has already been granted anyway, like the long life of Khizr? This may amuse God, or at least may show him my great humility and desire to please him. There are many stories about Hazrat Khizr, who is thought in Islamic folk tradition to be present, though unnamed, in the Quran. He is widely considered to be the 'one of Our servants' who enlightens Moses through seemingly perverse behavior (Quran 18:65-82). For further notes on Khizr, see Yusuf Ali's translation of this passage and commentary on it. Khizr and Alexander went together to seek the Water of Life [aab-e ;hayaat], but through one or another set of circumstances only Khizr actually drank it. Thus he will live until Judgment Day. He wears green (;xi.zr in Arabic), is associated with rivers and fertility, and acts as a guide to wanderers and the lost.

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In (1b), fusuun in the first verse is contrasted with du((aa in the second. A fusuun is a sort of magic spell or enchantment, the kind of thing that for good Muslims is at best dubious, and at worst positively forbidden. On this reading, my fusuun-e niyaaz , the enchantment/spell 'of' (made by? made for? identical with?) my desire/neediness, is simply too feeble to achieve any major purpose. Wretch that I am, if I can't work magic, what's left? The only recourse is to give up on enchantment and try prayer instead; and how much confidence can I have in that? In despairing cynicism, I'll just pray for the long life of Khizr. As Nazm says, 'There-- let Him accept that!' This reading, full of semi-serious (and semi-desperate?) 'mischievousness' [sho;xii] toward God, is in a direct line of descent from {1,1}. For a more serious look at the paradoxes of prayer, see {79,1}.

{68,2} nah ho bah harzah biyaabaa;N-navard-e vahm-e vujuud hanuuz tere ta.savvur me;N hai nasheb-o-faraaz 1) do not be, vainly/absurdly, a desert-wanderer of the illusion of existence 2) still/now in your imagination is lowness and highness

Notes: Nazm: 'Existence' refers to 'existence with reference to God', and lowness and highness have the same cause-- that is, you consider that there are degrees of existence, of which the high degree is necessary [vaajib] and the low degree is suppositional [imkaan].... That is, the established [correct] path is to consider every substance to be existent and only existent, and don't create categories for existent things, for this path is groundless. (67)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, he wanders uselessly, enduring hardship, in 'existence without reference to God'. He realized that there is still lowness and highness in the image of You. If that is so, then the image of you is still incomplete and defective. (116)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, you still consider the world of material substances to be separate from the existence of God, although all this is the attraction of His power and is not separate from Him. As long as this state exists, don't cast your glance upon the substance and reality of the world. In short, first acquire belief concerning the 'unity of being' [va;hdat ul-vujuud]. (150)

Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii says:] It's a sarcasm toward the Sufis. The meaning is, you in your illusion want to traverse the road of 'unity of being' [va;hdat ul-vujuud]-- that is, monotheism and mystical knowledge. And in it you've established ranks-- first attain 'oblivion in the Shaikh', then 'oblivion in the Prophet', then 'oblivion in God'.... If you're absorbed in these thoughts, then traversing the road is a vain and foolish task. (189)

Faruqi: In the context of interpreting this verse, the first crucial thing is that 'being' [vujuud] should not be assumed to be 'unity of being' [va;hdat ul-vujuud]. The second thing is that the word 'illusion' [vahm] should be given a suitable importance. In the verse it has been clearly said that that you must not travel uselessly in the desert of 'the illusion of being.' Now you are trapped in 'lowness and highness.' 'The illusion of being' refers to that stage when we begin to doubt the existence of ourselves and of things in the world, or become ensnared in the illusion that neither we nor the external world have any existence. Both these views can be events of one single station [on the mystical path]....

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'Lowness and highness' we can take as meaning the lack of right judgment, the need to look around for the proper course, the tendency to go along keeping an eye out above and below (that is, worldliness), the habit of measuring things according to their rank instead of their real essence. Now the interpretation of the verse becomes: you haven't yet arrived at the stage of illusion about your existence. As yet you are imprisoned in the fears and dangers of the road. You are still a beginner, don't try to reach the level of finality. (77-78)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; HANUZ; OPPOSITES This is one of those hyper-metaphysical ones that it's hard to pin down even enough to fix up a few possible readings. In a verse like this the usual parts of Ghalib's bag of tricks, like hanuuz with its double meaning of 'still' and 'now', are hard even to plug in, because of the extreme open-endedness and generality of the interpretive possibilities. The commentators have a variety of ideas about this one. I have quoted Faruqi's at length because to me it makes the most sense. But I can't add anything of significance myself.

{68,3} vi.saal jalvah tamaashaa hai par dimaa;G kahaa;N kih diije aa))inah-e inti:zaar ko pardaaz 1) union is a {glory/appearance}-spectacle, but where is the mind/spirit 2) such that [one] would give a finish/perfection to the mirror of waiting?

Notes: jalvah: 'Manifestation, publicity; conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence; displaying a bride (to her husband) unveiled and in all her ornaments'. (Platts p.387) dimaa;G: 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance; intoxication; high spirits'. (Platts p.526)

Nazm: That is, I concede that union with the beloved is a glory-spectacle-- that is, that it shows the spectacle of the glory of beauty. But how can I have a mind to give a polished finish to the mirror of waiting? The conclusion is, who would wait until the spectacle of the glory of beauty would be vouchsafed? (67)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, well, I agree that union with the beloved always shows ever-new spectacles of beauty. But how can I obtain a mind to sit and constantly polish the mirror of waiting? The meaning is it's easy to long for the spectacle of the glory of beauty; but it's a very difficult thing to endure the harshnesses of waiting. (116)

Bekhud Mohani: From this verse a picture of Mirza's rakishness [baa;Nkapan] begins to pass before the eyes. And he himself has just said: {22,2}. (151)

FWP: SETS == A,B; IDIOMS JALVAH: {7,4} MIRROR: {8,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} 'UNION': {5,2} Initially, the most striking feature of the verse is vi.saal jalvah tamaashaa, the first three words of the first line. It's not obvious how to put these three abstract nouns together. Metrically, there could be an i.zaafat that would give us a reading of vi.saal-e jalvah, 'union of/with splendor/display'. If we

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don't insert this optional i.zaafat, we must make jalvah-tamaashaa into a (Persian-style) compound. This compound can mean either 'a spectacle of splendor/display'-- that is, a tamaashaa of jalvah-- or, if we decide that it's adjectival, 'making a spectacle of splendor/display', with the adjective applying to vi.saal. Whatever choice we make, it feels somewhat arbitrary and confusing. For another strange and arbitrary-looking use of tamaashaa , see {227,1}. After this initial phrase, we encounter the concessive clause 'but where is the mind/spirit' [par dimaa;G kahaa;N]. This is an idiomatic expression something like 'I just don't feel like it.' See for example {27,4}, where the phrase is mujhe dimaa;G nahii;N. What is it that one just doesn't feel like? We learn in the second line what it is: finishing/perfecting the mirror of waiting. The lover is just too impatient to be able to bide his time, it seems, or too arrogant to feel that even such a union is worth his waiting for. Bekhud Mohani speaks of his 'rakishness' (which could also be called 'mischievousness' [sho;xii]), and which points to {22,2}, in which the lover prides himself on exactly this attitude). As usual with Ghalib's poetry, when you read a verse again and turn it around in your mind, it wheels like a kaleidoscope and shows some new aspect. In this case, what you realize is that dimaa;G kahaa;N could also be taken literally, not just as an emotional idiom of rejection but as a serious question. Where is the mind is capable of finishing, perfecting, polishing the 'mirror of waiting' so as to reveal these glories of union? Merely waiting is only the beginning: it must be refined, honed, focused. With the best will in the world, does anyone have a mind of such powerful mystic capabilities? And as a fringe benefit, with this realization comes a fresh enjoyment of the first three words of the first line. No wonder they are confusing-- they describe a state that no one has the mental ability to properly envision, evoke, imagine. We see them through a blurry, only semi-polished mirror. No wonder they look like awkward, unresolved shapes. We still see 'through a glass darkly'. Will we ever be able to come 'face to face' with the divine Beloved?

{68,4} har ek ;zarrah-e ((aashiq hai aaftaab-parast ga))ii nah ;xaak hu))e par havaa-e jalvah-e naaz 1) every single grain of the lover is a sun-worshipper 2) even on [his] becoming dust, the desire/wind of the glory/appearance of coquetry did not go

Notes: havaa: 'Air, wind, gentle gale;...--affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: There is an iihaam in the word havaa-- that is, the dust-grain is in the air (havaa); the past tense [of honaa] is hu))e. (67)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, every single grain of the lover's dust is a sun-worshipper. Even after his turning to dust, the longing for the glory of coquetry was not erased. The meaning is that just as grains of dust begin to sparkle when confronted by the sun, so the grains of dust of the lover seek light from the sun of the beauty of the beloved. (116-17)

Bekhud Mohani: The grains fly in the wind. But the poet expresses the captivating cause of this: that the lover's form has mingled with the dust, mixed with the dust. But even now so much glory-worship remains that every grain has become a sunworshipper.

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Janab Shaukat says that in the second line there's a need for 'even' [bhii], [such that it should read] ga))ii nah ;xaak bhii ho kar havaa-e jalvah-e naaz [even upon becoming dust, the longing for the glory of coquetry did not go]. In this line, bhii could not enter without murdering eloquence [fa.saa;hat]; for this reason Mirza kept in view flowingness, and composed it in this way. From bhii one necessity is fulfilled, but it also engenders congestedness [ta((qiid]. (151)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} ZARRAH: {15,12} Ghalib loves to think about grains (of sand) and the way they glitter in the sun; for more on this see {16,4}. He imagines the lover's body as decomposed into dust, each grain of which glitters adoringly in the sunlight, capturing and returning the glowing rays of the radiant, coquettish presence (of the sun and/or the beloved). Nazm describes havaa as an iihaam, and it could be said to have even three dimensions. The first, which he points out, is its identity in spelling with the masculine singular perfect form of honaa; this is made especially prominent by its placement almost directly after hu))e, the masculine plural perfect form of honaa; one could imagine a sentence like vuh do kaam nahii;N hu))e par hu))aa kuchh aur... One might be fooled for a moment on first reading. But then, in view of the i.zaafat, it's clear that the word is the feminine noun havaa instead-- which itself has two meanings, a primary, very satisfactory one of 'desire'; and a secondary one, on the fringes of the mind, as 'air, wind'. The radiance/appearance of coquetry thus also acts like a kind of 'wind' that keeps the dust of the dead lovers floating restlessly through the air, and glinting in the sun. It's easy to see how this meaning plays with, and heightens, the primary meaning of 'desire'. For an example of the dead lover's dust becoming pure ardor that flies upward and is blown in the wind, see {61,7}.

{68,5} nah puuchh vus((at-e mai-;xaanah-e junuu;N ;Gaalib jahaa;N yih kaasah-e garduu;N hai ek ;xaak-andaaz 1) don't ask about the extent/capacity of the wine-house of madness, Ghalib 2) where this bowl of the sky is a single dust-bin

Notes: vus((at : 'Latitude; amplitude; spaciousness; capacity; space, extent; space covered, area; dimensions; bulk; --convenience, ease; opportunity, leisure'. (Platts p.1192) ;xaak-andaaz : 'A shovel; loop-hole; a sling; fringe or skirt of a tent; a magician.' (Steingass p.441) ;xaak-daan : 'A receptacle or pit for dust, earth, ashes, &c.; a place where rubbish is placed, a dust-bin; --(met.) the world'. (Platts pp.484-85)

Nazm: [The bowl of the sky is compared to a dustbin] and the ground of similitude is that the dustbin is enclosed. And the point is that it is only filled with dust. That is, the bowl of the sky too is in the respect limited to a dust-receptacle, full of dust like a dustbin. The point is that even in the wine-house of madness of the bowl of the sky, there isn't even enough scope for it to be numbered among bowls of wine; rather, it is only a dustbin. The word 'single' [ek] in Urdu [here conveys diminution and contempt]. (67-68)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, don't ask me about the extent/capacity of the wine-house of madness. I tell you in a few words, that there the bowl of the sky is like a receptacle for throwing away rubbish. (117)

Bekhud Mohani: How can I express the extent/capacity of the wine-house of passion! Where the sky, despite so much extent, is considered to have the capacity of a dustbin. That is, there it is not even counted among the wine-glasses, but rather treated as a dustbin. That is, the people of passion and mystic knowledge consider the world, and creation, as trifles. (151)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; INEXPRESSIBILITY MADNESS: {14,3} WINE: {49,1} What an amusing, witty, vivid verse-- and so classically Ghalibian. Among verses earlier in the divan, one obvious parallel would be {10,1}, in which the whole heavenly Garden of Rizvan is reduced to a mere trifling bouquet lying forgotten in some dusty niche in the house of 'us self-less ones'. (For other dismissive-- or not-- uses of the roundness of the sky, see {138,1} and {217,4}, in which it's imagined as an egg; and compare also {147,3}.) The 'wine-house of madness' is nonpareil because of its vus((at -- its scope, spaciousness, capacity, 'convenience, ease, opportunity, leisure'. It not only puts the 'bowl of the sky' to shame, but actually puts it to use-- as a dustbin, a small round container stuck discreetly in a corner and used for removing swept-up dirt and flinging away things no longer desired. As Nazm points out, calling it ek, literally 'one', gives the sense of 'mere'. How much more deft and insouciant can a put-down be! Literally, ;xaak-andaaz means 'dust-thrower'. In Persian, as can be seen from the Steingass definition above, it retains appropriate related meanings. But in Urdu, the commentators without exception take it to be a dust-bin, and I think it's clear that Ghalib does too, since otherwise the whole punch of the verse is lost. Here is one more example of the independent evolution of Urdu, as Persian words take on new, autonomous meanings. For a related usage in Urdu to which ;xaak-andaaz might have been assimilated, see ;xaak-daan above. (In a pinch, the Persian sense of 'fringe or skirt of a tent' could also be invoked as an alternative possibility for wordplay.) In the ghazal world, the mad, drunken lover is of course also the mystic knower, mocking the limited, limiting externalities of organized religion (and, in this case, of the physical universe itself). Who wouldn't prefer a spacious, capacious, convenient wine-house, over a tiny, dirty, unappealing dustbin lying humbly in one corner of it?

Ghazal 69 2 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aar hanuuz composed 1816; Hamid p. 56; Arshi #070; Raza p. 142

{69,1} vus((at-e sa((ii-e karam dekh kih sar-taa-sar-e ;xaak guzre hai aabalah-paa abr-e guhar-baar hanuuz 1) look at the extent of the effort for kindness, that from edge to edge of the dust

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2a) the pearl-shedding cloud passes blister-footed, still/now 2b) the cloud passes, blister-footed, pearl-shedding, still/now

Notes: Nazm: The reason for calling the cloud 'blister-footed' is the word 'pearl-shedding'. By using this verbal device he has made clear in the effort for kindness blisters have been worn on its feet, and still it is running from end to end of the whole land, to provide the benefit of kindness; that is, this is how the glory of kindness ought to be. (68)

Hasrat: On the basis of the drops of rain, he has called the cloud 'blister-footed'. (66)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza has put so many meaningful words in it, that it's difficult to explain the pleasure of them all. The first word is, 'extent'. on which he has provided a commentary with 'from end to end of the dust'.... Then there's the word 'effort', which can also have the meaning of 'running'. Here, from it an iihaam has also been created, because the author's intention is 'attempt'.... It is completed with hanuuz, that is, from the beginning of creation to today. (152)

Faruqi: [Reading the second line with an i.zaafat produces problematical, confusing meanings.] If we read abr guhar-baar without an i.zaafat, then the meaning emerges that despite its blister-footedness, the cloud is so generous that it passes by scattering pearls. That is, the raindrops falling from the cloud are like pearls. And it's clear that this metaphor is absolutely correct. [Besides the common metaphor of calling a cloud 'pearl-shedding',] the second, special metaphor is that the drops that rain down from the cloud are pearls. From this special feature the advantage also accrues, that there has been no necessity of making the drops of rain into the water that fills the blisters. Now the question remains, why has he called the cloud 'blister-footed'? There can be several possible reasons for this. From the burden of rain, clouds bend downward toward the earth, and seem to have a rounded shape. It's clear that the part of the foot in our view is its lower part; accordingly, it can be given the similitude of a blistered foot. It can also be said that since clouds come from afar, they can be imagined to have blistered feet. (79-80)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; HANUZ What an unusually interesting test case for my concept of grotesquerie, explained in {39,3}. Until I read Faruqi's commentary, it never occurred to me that the verse would not intend to suggest that the pearly raindrops were, or at least might be, fluid from the blisters on the cloud's feet. Now that I notice, I see that on the whole the commentators skirt the issue; without denying the connection, they avoid making it quite explicit. Faruqi considers it a definite 'advantage' that his interpretation removes any perceived need to make this equation of raindrops with blister-fluid. When I thought in the case of {60,9} that the verse went deliberately, amusingly over-the-top (into grotesquerie), Faruqi disagreed, and was willing to entertain the thorns-and-blistered-foot imagery straightforwardly. In the present case he seems to recognize the possibility of the grotesque, and then seeks to rescue the verse from it. Perhaps the thought of being actually rained on by liquid from a cloud's bursting foot-blisters is particularly repellent. He provides a whole paragraph of alternative justifications for 'blister-footed'. (Despite his good arguments against the i.zaafat in the second line, I retain it on principle, since I'm following Arshi.) There's obviously an element of subjectivity here, and certainly 'grotesquerie' wasn't a category in Ghalib's thinking, or in the tradition as he knew it. (It

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might be said that the sometimes pejorative term 'excessive wit' [;xayaalbandii] would have included such verses, but it was a far wider notion.) To my mind the connection between 'pearl-shedding' and 'blister-footed' is so patent, and so solidly grounded in basic physical similarities, that it's hardly possible that it never occurred to Ghalib, even if it was not the only, or even the primary, meaning he had in mind. Of course, nit-picking is possible either way. One could well ask about the logical priority: if the cloud is so desirous of being kind, presumably it is traveling over the land in order to shed rain. But the blisters surely develop only after it has been running around over the land for a while. So it must surely have had raindrops already available for shedding, even before it had any blisters? But then in reply one could also say, a cloud that sheds any significant amount of rain usually 'rains itself out' and dissipates before long; a cloud that kept running back and forth in all directions thus can't really be showing much kindness or offering much rain (unless, of course, it then develops fresh supplies of rain from its 'feet' blistered in running). And so on, in what soon becomes an absurd kind of argument. But look at the progression: for a cloud to have 'feet' is fine; for the 'feet' to have blisters is acceptable; but for the blisters to burst and rain down fluid is grotesque. Is it simply a question of poetic tact we're dealing with here? At the end of his wide-ranging discussion of {92,7}, Nazm gives an example of a verse of Mir's in which a blister is compared to a pearl. He comments on it unfavorably, though not in the same terms that I am using here. Thanks to the doubleness of hanuuz (on this see {3,4}), one is able to watch the cloud's journey either as Bekhud Mohani does, marveling at its continuing generosity from the beginning of time to the present; or as a happening right before our eyes: now the cloud is passing by, and perhaps its blisters have only recently grown so noticeable. It's also conspicuous that the first line begins with two fancy, somewhat pretentious Arabic words, starting us off with a sense of obscurity and difficulty. By contrast, the vision of the helpful, kindly, self-sacrificing, cloud in the second line is a simple, vivid, pictorial one.

{69,2} yak-qalam kaa;Ga;z-e aatish-zadah hai saf;hah-e dasht naqsh-e paa me;N hai tab-e garmii-e raftaar hanuuz 1) {entirely / 'with one penstroke'} burnt paper is the page of the desert 2) in the foot-print is the warmth of the heat of movement still/now

Notes: yak-qalam : 'Consistent (writer); --all, total; --together; entirely; at one stroke, at once'. (Platts p.1251)

Nazm: In this verse the author has used the term yak-qalam for the wordplay with 'paper'. In the poetry of that time, they consider wordplay too to be a verbal device, and they call it 'wordplay' when they use one word such that it would have some relationship and affinity, merely verbal, with another.... In short, there's no doubt that in such cases sometimes this wordplay, sometimes .zil((a, seems good, but they carried it to such lengths that in their search for .zila(( they have no thought for elegance of meaning [;husn-e ma((nii] or for simplicity of words.... Undoubtedly this is to be rejected; it is a verbal device invented [nikaalii hu))ii] by the common people [baazaarii]; literary people [ahl-e adab] have nowhere mentioned it. When the loafers [lau;N;De] of the city assemble, they compose .zila(( .... These very people have, in mushairahs and gatherings [majlis], incited the poets to such wordplay, and drawn them in this direction. (68-69)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the effect of the heat of my movement is still left in my footprint, to such an extent that the page of the desert has become burnt. (117)

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Bekhud Mohani: yak-qalam, paper, page-- all have an affinity.... When in the fervor of passion and mystical knowledge I showed the contemptibleness of the charms of the world, to this day the effect of it remains in the world. (152)

Faruqi: First of all consider the affinity. The words are so meaningful that at first glance the attention is not even drawn to them: 'pen' [qalam], 'paper' [kaa;Ga;z], 'page' [.saf;hah], 'shape, print' [naqsh]. Now look at the meaning. Usually it is said to be a picture of the lover's heat/speed of movement. But this theme can also be for the beloved's heat/speed of movement.... Usually it's been said that so much heat of movement remains in the footprint that the whole desert lies there burning. But if this is so, then there's no way to understand the necessity of 'a burnt paper'. In reality the meaning is, the whole desert is not burning, rather only those places are burning where the footprints have fallen; thus the desert presents the aspect of a burning paper. When paper burns, it doesn't burn all at once, rather here and there glowing spots appear on it. The young Ghalib, in a ghazal from this same period, expressed this sight with even more beauty: {64,2}. (81)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ On the idiomatic yak-qalam construction, see {11,1}. One of the pleasures of working with commentators is their unpredictable outbursts. (I certainly have mine!) Nazm has an excellent outburst about this verse. He seems especially provoked by the phrase yak-qalam and its ostentatious wordplay. He goes on at length, giving hard-to-translate examples that I have omitted, and declaiming about how vulgar and low-class it is to engage in fancy punning and competitive word-games. This, he says, is what the loafers and common people do, and not what the 'proper' ghazal should do. Nazm was a Lakhnavi; if you're interested in a more detailed account of what he describes as Lucknow street culture, see Harcourt and Hussain; if you know Urdu well, you can go straight to the source, Sharar. As usual, hanuuz (on this see {3,4}) has the two senses of 'still', emphasizing long duration, and 'now', emphasizing newness or immediacy. And what is it that the 'still' and 'now' help us to observe? The traces of the lover's passage through the desert; or, as Faruqi points out, the beloved's passage. In either case, merely the act of walking through the desert was too much for the desert to bear; it has charred, glowing embers in footprint patterns all over it. The inflammable sandy desert, when exposed to human passion, caved in immediately and entirely, and resembled something as frail and destroyed as a burnt paper. In this respect, the verse evokes the even more extreme {5,4}, in which even a 'passing thought' of wildness/madness inadvertently burnt up the whole desert.

Ghazal 70 3 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: aan ((aziiz composed 1862; Hamid p. 56; Arshi #071; Raza p. 353

{70,1} kyuu;Nkar us but se rakhuu;N jaan ((aziiz kyaa nahii;N hai mujhe iimaan ((aziiz 1) how would I hold my life dearer than that idol? 2) what-- is faith not dear to me?

Notes:

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iimaan: 'Faith, religion, creed; conscience; good faith, trustworthiness, integrity'. (Platts p.115.

Hali: The apparent meaning of this is that if I hold my life dearer than she, then she will take away my faith; therefore I don't hold my life dear. And the second, delightful meaning is that to sacrifice one's life for that idol is exactly what faith is, so then how can life be held dearer than she? (131)

Nazm: That is, in the religious sect of passion, to hold one's life dearer than the beloved is ingratitude/heresy [kufr]. (70)

Hasrat: That is, to sacrifice one's life is exactly [proper to] faith. Or this: that idol is my faith, therefore one's life is sacrificed for faith.

FWP: SETS == HUMOR IDOL: {8,1} Bekhud Dihlavi marks this little ghazal as a verse-set (p.116). The verses do have a general unity of tone, but nobody else so marks it. Short ghazals with semantically meaningful refrains are especially likely to strike people as resembling a verse-set. How rich and amusing the second line is, after the buildup of the first! What- how can you think that I would value my life more than that idol [but]? Do you think I have so little regard for my own faith [iimaan]? Here, 'faith' can refer to at least three things: (1) my personal integrity as an honorable man; (2) the 'faith' of passion, in which I worship that 'idol'; and (3) the 'faith' of Islam, which would be violated if I went back on my pledged word (in this case, of devotion to her). As the commentators point out, the enjoyableness of invoking one's iimaan toward a but energizes the verse, especially in view of the indignation in the lover's tone: he's addressing somebody who's on the verge of challenging his (good) faith, and he's properly scornful of the imputation. Only two ghazals from the period after 1857 made it into Ghalib's printed, established [muravvaj] divan. The first one, composed in 1858, was {216}; the present one, composed in 1862, was the second. The last of the four editions of his published divan was printed in that year, so nothing he composed afterward could have made it into the divan anyway.

{70,2} dil se niklaa pah nah niklaa dil se hai tire tiir kaa paikaan ((aziiz 1) [it] emerged from the heart, but did not emerge from the heart 2) the head of your arrow is dear

Notes: Nazm: The head of your arrow, which had gone deep into the heart, emerged from it, but it didn't emerge; that is, love for it still remains. (70)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; REPETITION Above I have quoted the full extent of Nazm's thoughts on this one, and none of my other dozen or so prime commentators does anything more than paraphrase the same thought, or explain it in even simpler terms. You'd think at least one of them might deign to comment on the elegant structure of the first line, which while declining to tell us what it is talking about, describes whatever it is in terms of a flat-out, in-your-face logical impossibility, or paradox. We are left with that riddle to mull over-- what is it, and how can it do two opposite things at once? Under mushairah

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performance conditions, we would have to wait for the answer to what is really a kind of riddle. And by the time we get the answer, we have been able to savor the fluent complexity of the first line, and to guess the general direction in which he's planning to take us. But Ghalib would never do anything so commonplace as say, 'I mean, of course, the arrow that you shot into my heart'. He does it by implication: he knows we will understand, he says only, 'the head of your arrow is dear'. Such simple lines, words of (almost literally) one syllable, full of flowingness, full of a sense of unforced, unpretentious affection. It's a lovely little verse, isn't it? He somehow resolves a riddle into a mood of love. It still amazes me that countless effects like this in Ghalib's poetry have been passed over in silence by the commentators for more than a century, right up almost to the present when finally the work of C. M. Naim, Naiyar Masud, and Shamsur Rahman Faruqi has begun to offer serious literary analysis of at least some verses.

{70,3} taab laa))e hii banegii ;Gaalib vaaqi((ah sa;xt hai aur jaan ((aziiz 1) only having shown endurance will [a task/project/notion] succeed, Ghalib 2) the event/occurrence is harsh and [one's] life is dear

Notes: baat bannaa : 'To be successful, prove a success, answer well; to gain credit or honour, to prosper, flourish'. (Platts p.117) vaaqi((ah : 'Event, occurence, incident; --news; intelligence; --accident; misfortune; a grievous calamity; -- battle, encounter, conflict; -- casualty; death; --a dream, vision'. (Platts p.1175)

Ghalib: [1865:] I haven't seen our brothers since; one is afraid to go out into the bazaar. Javahir the messenger [;xabar-daar] conveys my salaam to the brothers, and their salaam to me. This I consider to be a lucky break [;Ganiimat]: {70,3}; {219,1}. This closing-verse and opening-verse are recorded in the divan, but just now my eye fell on both verses, thus they have been written down. [For the continuation of this letter, see {216,1}.] ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 421-422

Ghalib: [1866:] Why do you renounce clothing [as an ascetic]? What do you even have to wear, that you'd remove it and fling it away? Through the renunciation of clothing the bondage of existence won't be erased. You can't live without eating and drinking. Treat harsh and easy times, sorrow and comfort, as all equal. No matter how, in this way, in any way, let things flow by: {70,3}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 355 ==English trans.: Russell and Islam p. 334

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib's closing-verse too is in grief at the death of the late Arif.... That is, the harshness of the event says, you ought to give up your life; and life is such a dear thing that under any circumstances, a man doesn't wish to give it up. (118)

Josh This closing-verse too is in memory of the late Arif. (145)

Chishti: Apparently, its meaning is that although separation from the beloved is a very soul-destroying event, or rather incident, still, one will be forced to endure this shock. Because everyone's life is, under all circumstances, dear

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to him. But a reference to the occurrence of 1857 may also be intended. (456)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; IDIOMS The feminine singular banegii is agreeing, colloquially, with an invisible (omitted) baat . For another example, see {191,1}. Bekhud Dihlavi and Josh assert quite firmly that the 'event' referred to in this verse is Arif's death. Chishti suggests, more cautiously, that the 'event' may be the Rebellion of 1857. As far as I know, there's not a shred of evidence to substantiate either claim. Ghalib's elegy for Arif, {66}, was composed in 1852, fully ten years before the present ghazal. The Rebellion of 1857 took place five years or so before this ghazal was composed. Apart from the scholarly issue of their blandly inventing such things, you may well wonder why these commentators even want or need to do it. Why seek to attach a radically unspecific verse to only one single event, and thus rob it of much of its power? This is another result of the 'natural poetry' [necharal shaa((irii] movement in Urdu poetry and criticism, which values poetry chiefly for its power to reveal the 'real life' of the poet and the 'real conditions' of his society. I have railed against this approach to the ghazal often; if you're interested, I spell it all out in Nets of Awareness. The commentary on this verse is one more small piece of evidence in favor of my case. For an even more egregious commentarial folly, see {90,3}. And for my favorite personal anecdote, see {191,8}. This whole little ghazal shows what can be done with a 'short meter.' Simple, stark, unaffected lines can be created that achieve powerful effects in few words-- and usually short ones, at that. It's life in general that's at issue here. We have to grit our teeth and endure: life is painful, but we want to live. How much more stark, and more true, can two lines get? By leaving the nature of the 'event' in line two absolutely unspecified, the poet invites us to fill in our own choice of calamity, or even to take the word to mean 'news, intelligence.' This 'imagine-it-yourself' device is one that he uses often: see for example {71,2}, {191,8}, and {208,12}.

Ghazal 71 10 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aaz composed 1821; Hamid p. 57; Arshi #069; Raza pp. 231-32

{71,1} nah gul-e na;Gmah huu;N nah pardah-e saaz mai;N huu;N apnii shikast kii aavaaz 1) I am neither the rose of melody nor the tone/frets of an instrument 2) I am the sound of my own breaking/defeat

Notes: pardah : 'A musical tone or mode; a note of the gamut; the frets of a guitar, &c'. (Platts p.246) shikast : 'Breaking, breakage, fracture; a breach; defeat, rout; deficiency, loss, damage'. (Platts p.730)

Nazm: That is, I have no connectiion with joy or music, I am entirely made of pain and in my own difficulty. (71)

Josh: My existence is no musical instrument from which melodies would emerge and turn to flowers. My voice is the sound of the breaking of my heart, as if my existence had become the musical instrument of my pain. (155)

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Baqir: gul-e na;Gmah = gulbaa;Ng [ = 'The note of the nightingale; warbling; -sound; --fame, rumour; --glad tidings'. (Platts p.911)] (192)

Chishti: gul-e na;Gmah means a joyous/pleasing melody [na;Gmah-e ;xvush].... In this verse Ghalib has made a philosophical statement, that my existence is not made by anyone, nor is it anyone's fault; rather, in itself in itself it is a proof of its own negation. That is, my existence is saying with the tongue of its condition, 'in truth, I have no existence.' (457)

Naim: gul-e na;Gmah: the song blossoming forth; a beautiful thing as well as something with inherent growth. Progression. Maturity. pardah-e saaz: the source of music; the source of beauty. Any damage to it would be lamented, and any pressure on it would produce pleasant sounds of music. I am neither the first nor the latter. I am the sound of my own defeat and breaking apart. Neither the event nor its source is of much consequence. (7)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} I was sure that gul-e na;Gmah was a technical musical term of some kind, as it ought to be for reasons of Ghalibian affinity-creation and parallelism with pardah-e saaz. I was counting on the commentators to know what exactly it meant, and was surprised that not one of them seemed to have a notion. After much questioning of musical experts, it turned out that the best information came from S. R. Faruqi (Feb. 2003): FARUQI: Briefly, gul-e na;Gmah is a construction [tarkiib] whose aparent inventor is Mir Hasan. Other than Ghalib, he seems to be the only one to have used it. Mir Hasan seems to be imagining the raga [raag] as a tree, and the different notes [suur] as its flowers. He uses gul-e na;Gmah twice in the same narrative of a singing scene in 'Sihr ul-bayan' [si;hr ul-bayaa;N], ed. Rashid Hasan Khan (New Delhi: Anjuman Taraqqi-e Urdu, 2000), p. 233: gul-e na;Gmah jo us se girte hazaar to letaa u;Nhe;N dasht daaman pasaar (verse 1522) gul-e na;Gmah-e tar kii thii yih bahaar kih sihraa ke gul us ke aage the ;xaar (verse 1528). The phrase caught on, though whether because of Ghalib's popularity or that of Mir Hasan's masnavi is impossible to tell. Yashowanto Narayan Ghosh adds that gul-e na;Gmah went on not only to become the title of Firaq Gorakhpuri's divan, but also to feature in this verse by Ziya Jalandhari: dil bujhaa ho to gul-e na;Gmah bhii nashtar hai .ziyaa / shiddat-e ;Gam kaa ((ilaaj anjuman-aaraa))ii nahii;N. Thus we can document the fact that Ghalib didn't just make up the phrase himself; instead (and characteristically, in a case like this), he used a preexisting phrase, one from the most famous and popular masnavi in Urdu-- a phrase that would be recognizable to his audience, and would thus add to the pleasure of the verse. In {13,1} we see the pardah of a saaz invoked in another context: as part of a mystery, an interplay between the meaning of pardah as concealment and as stringed instrument. Thus in the first line we see two familiar and beautiful visions of music evoked-- and then negated. I am not either one of these; we wait expectantly to find out what I am. Instead, I am something unfamiliar, shocking, discordant. 'I am the sound of my own breaking'-- some of the effect even comes across in translation, doesn't it? I'm not convinced of Chishti's idea that this should be taken as a serious philosophical statement. It's striking, it's arresting, it's provoking; and

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in Urdu, it also sounds beautiful. It has a sense of what might be called shorish -- turbulence, bitterness, strong emotion. In a background of related imagery, what more does a two-line verse need to offer? This is a very famous verse, one that people often memorize and recite. For comparison, here's another verse about suffering and music: {196,1}. And here's an indication that shikast might not be only a negative experience: {214,8}.

{71,1} nah gul-e na;Gmah huu;N nah pardah-e saaz mai;N huu;N apnii shikast kii aavaaz 1) I am neither the rose of melody nor the tone/frets of an instrument 2) I am the sound of my own breaking/defeat

Notes: pardah : 'A musical tone or mode; a note of the gamut; the frets of a guitar, &c'. (Platts p.246) shikast : 'Breaking, breakage, fracture; a breach; defeat, rout; deficiency, loss, damage'. (Platts p.730)

Nazm: That is, I have no connectiion with joy or music, I am entirely made of pain and in my own difficulty. (71)

Josh: My existence is no musical instrument from which melodies would emerge and turn to flowers. My voice is the sound of the breaking of my heart, as if my existence had become the musical instrument of my pain. (155)

Baqir: gul-e na;Gmah = gulbaa;Ng [ = 'The note of the nightingale; warbling; -sound; --fame, rumour; --glad tidings'. (Platts p.911)] (192)

Chishti: gul-e na;Gmah means a joyous/pleasing melody [na;Gmah-e ;xvush].... In this verse Ghalib has made a philosophical statement, that my existence is not made by anyone, nor is it anyone's fault; rather, in itself in itself it is a proof of its own negation. That is, my existence is saying with the tongue of its condition, 'in truth, I have no existence.' (457)

Naim: gul-e na;Gmah: the song blossoming forth; a beautiful thing as well as something with inherent growth. Progression. Maturity. pardah-e saaz: the source of music; the source of beauty. Any damage to it would be lamented, and any pressure on it would produce pleasant sounds of music. I am neither the first nor the latter. I am the sound of my own defeat and breaking apart. Neither the event nor its source is of much consequence. (7)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} I was sure that gul-e na;Gmah was a technical musical term of some kind, as it ought to be for reasons of Ghalibian affinity-creation and parallelism with pardah-e saaz. I was counting on the commentators to know what exactly it meant, and was surprised that not one of them seemed to have a notion. After much questioning of musical experts, it turned out that the best information came from S. R. Faruqi (Feb. 2003): FARUQI: Briefly, gul-e na;Gmah is a construction [tarkiib] whose aparent inventor is Mir Hasan. Other than Ghalib, he seems to be the only one to have used it. Mir Hasan seems to be imagining the raga [raag] as a tree, and the different notes [suur] as its flowers. He uses gul-e na;Gmah twice in the same narrative of a singing scene in 'Sihr ul-bayan' [si;hr ul-bayaa;N], ed. Rashid Hasan Khan (New Delhi: Anjuman Taraqqi-e Urdu, 2000), p. 233:

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gul-e na;Gmah jo us se girte hazaar to letaa u;Nhe;N dasht daaman pasaar (verse 1522) gul-e na;Gmah-e tar kii thii yih bahaar kih sihraa ke gul us ke aage the ;xaar (verse 1528). The phrase caught on, though whether because of Ghalib's popularity or that of Mir Hasan's masnavi is impossible to tell. Yashowanto Narayan Ghosh adds that gul-e na;Gmah went on not only to become the title of Firaq Gorakhpuri's divan, but also to feature in this verse by Ziya Jalandhari: dil bujhaa ho to gul-e na;Gmah bhii nashtar hai .ziyaa / shiddat-e ;Gam kaa ((ilaaj anjuman-aaraa))ii nahii;N. Thus we can document the fact that Ghalib didn't just make up the phrase himself; instead (and characteristically, in a case like this), he used a preexisting phrase, one from the most famous and popular masnavi in Urdu-- a phrase that would be recognizable to his audience, and would thus add to the pleasure of the verse. In {13,1} we see the pardah of a saaz invoked in another context: as part of a mystery, an interplay between the meaning of pardah as concealment and as stringed instrument. Thus in the first line we see two familiar and beautiful visions of music evoked-- and then negated. I am not either one of these; we wait expectantly to find out what I am. Instead, I am something unfamiliar, shocking, discordant. 'I am the sound of my own breaking'-- some of the effect even comes across in translation, doesn't it? I'm not convinced of Chishti's idea that this should be taken as a serious philosophical statement. It's striking, it's arresting, it's provoking; and in Urdu, it also sounds beautiful. It has a sense of what might be called shorish -- turbulence, bitterness, strong emotion. In a background of related imagery, what more does a two-line verse need to offer? This is a very famous verse, one that people often memorize and recite. For comparison, here's another verse about suffering and music: {196,1}. And here's an indication that shikast might not be only a negative experience: {214,8}.

{71,2} tuu aur aaraa))ish-e ;xam-e kaakul mai;N aur andeshah'haa-e duur daraaz 1) you, and adorning of curly tresses 2) I, and faraway long doubts/fears

Notes: andeshah: 'Thought, consideration, meditation, reflection; solicitude, anxiety, concern...; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; apprehension, dread, fear'. (Platts p.91)

Nazm: That is, having seen you adorning yourself, I feel doubt/concern: let's see which ones become lovers, or to which lovers this adornment would be shown. (71)

Josh: The word 'long' [daraaz] is a wordplay with 'curls' [kaakul]. (155)

Chishti: This verse is an extremely fine example of iihaam and pithiness [ajmaal], and possessors of taste know that these things are the life of the ghazal. In addition, in this verse Ghalib has also created the verbal device of opposition [taqaabul]. (457-58)

Faruqi: Outwardly, this verse if very simple, but it ought to be counted among Ghalib's most ambiguous [mubham-tariin] verses, because even after a thousand analyses, not all of its mysteries are elucidated....

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First of all the affinity of 'curls' [kaakul] and 'faraway long' [duur daraaz].... The lover sees the beloved absorbed in adornment of her curly tresses, as if he has been granted such closeness, as to be a witness of the beloved's selfornamentation. Before ordinary lovers the beloved only appears when completely adorned; thus between the beholder and the beheld there is not this ordinary relationship that exists between some commonplace lover and desired one. It's very possible that this relationship would already have assumed the form of union, and this verse is presenting the scene of the morning after the night of union. It is also possible that the speaker is only imagining.... [Compare it with] {42,5}. Another aspect is this: the beloved is not usually a believer in primping and adorning herself; rather, she trusts in her natural beauty. Suddenly the lover learns, or he sees, that the beloved is absorbed in adorning her tresses. Now there's special emphasis on the word 'you'. This is you who are absorbed in adorning your curly tresses! I feel 'long, far' fears: what is it today, that you're absorbed in this unusual pursuit?.... The situation is such that the lover is absorbed not in the beloved, but rather in his own thoughts. In this way, this verse becomes a symbol of 'in union, the decline of ardor' [part of line one of {116,9}]. Or if it's not the decline of ardor, then it's certainly some kind of mental entanglement.... If andeshah is taken to have the meaning of 'fear', another extensive world reveals itself: 1) The lover fears that the black curls will become white. Today's beauty reminds him of tomorrow's unattractiveness. 2) He also fears that the effects of that time when life will be completed, youth will wane and turn into old age. 3) He realizes that even such perfect beauty is not free from death; he fears that death will devour even her, and will not respect such beauty. 4) According to Hasrat Mohani, he thinks the beloved does not trust his faithfulness; thus she adorns herself because she wants to ensnare him in the deceit-net of her beauty. 5) He fears that if others see the beloved in such a state of adornment, they'll become her lovers; or rather, how would it be strange if they sacrifice their lives? 6) He fears that the beloved might have fallen in love with herself 7) He fears that so much adornment is being done for some new lover. 8) He fears that there's no trusting life; we're all absorbed in our own tasks, and have forgotten death-- although, how 'the earth has eaten up the sky' [zamii;N khaa ga))ii aasmaa;N kaise kaise]! 9) He fears that the beloved may have become immersed to such an extent in self-adornment, and will not be faithful; her interest is in herself, not in me. (83-85)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; PARALLELISM; YOU AND I This is one of his 'you and I' verses; on these, see {13,3}, which is itself a good example for comparison. For an even more intriguingly similar verse, see {78,1}, which I analyze largely in connection with the present verse. Faruqi says that this verse should be considered one of Ghalib's most ambiguous, because its meanings can't be teased out and analyzed to any reasonably satisfactory point of closure. In one sense he's right, because the 'faraway long doubts/fears' that you could entertain while your beautiful beloved is adorning her hair could obviously be almost infinite in number and kind. And yet, the verse certainly doesn't feel unduly obscure or abstruse. On the contrary, in fact: it can be enjoyed greatly (even fully?) and suitably on a first reading (or even hearing). Compare it to the very next verse, {71,3}, which really IS difficult, and which Faruqi analyzes very

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effectively. Obviously, there are different kinds of 'ambiguity' possible in such verses. The heart of the verse is the elegant, mysterious parallelism between the beloved's adorning (complexifying, elaborating, emphasizing) of her curls (long, dark, twisted, and far beyond the lover's access or control); and the lover's implied 'adorning' (complexifying, elaborating, emphasizing) of his doubts/fears (long, dark, twisted, and concerning matters far beyond his control). This parallelism is evident at once-- is it possible not to perceive it? While the verse suggests that an inventory could possibly be made of (some of) the lover's long dark thoughts, it certainly doesn't require such an inventory in order to be understood and appreciated. And the inventory itself would surely, almost by definition, be incomplete and partly personal; beyond some obvious topics (jealousy etc.), my list of such long dark thoughts would be different from yours, and from Faruqi's. Yet this wouldn't cause me to conclude that the verse itself was 'ambiguous'. On the contrary: it's as simple as it can possibly be, and it's the very simplicity that lets your mind create its own complex, personal repertoire of 'long, dark' doubts and fears. This verse reminds me of {70,3}-- the 'event' is harsh, and life is dear. What event? Our very inability to pinpoint any single one is what lets us substitute our own idea of such an event. Which is surely more powerful and effective than any ready-made event or list of events could possibly be. This is also a lovely verse for sound effects: the long vowels in andeshah'haa-e duur daraaz want to go on forever, don't they? Just like the curls, and the thoughts. For a similar take on the beloved's twisting curls and the lovers dark thoughts, see {176,5}. And for a very different verse about the beloved's curls and the lover's thoughts, see {111,8}.

{71,3} laaf-e tamkii;N fareb-e saadah-dilii ham hai;N aur raaz'haa-e siinah-gudaaz 1a) a boast of dignity, a trick/deceit of simple-heartedness 1b, etc.) [see variant readings enumerated below by Faruqi] 2) we are, and breast-melting secrets

Notes: Nazm: Oh boast of simple-heartedness, you're famous for being a trickster/deceiver of dignity. But take heed, in my heart are secrets that are breast-melting-that is, that it would reveal them, that the burden of them would fall from my heart. In short, there is a complaint to simple-heartedness about its 'selfcontrol' and 'dignity', and it's clear that the claim of simple-heartedness is secret-revelation and the glory of dignity and pomp is the concealment of secrets. (71)

Bekhud Mohani: If we claim to be restless in passion and to control our love, then the reason is that we have been fallen for the trick/deceit of our ignorance and inexperience. Otherwise, the hell of it is [;Ga.zab to yih hai] that the secret of passion melts the heart. That is, repent of the idea that this secret can ever be hidden. (154)

Faruqi: [An even more radical kind of ambiguity than that charted by William Empson in Seven Types of Ambiguity is available to the classical ghazal.] In the verse under discussion, in the first line this situation is at an extreme limit. At least these readings of it are possible: 1) laaf, tamkii;N , fareb , saadah-dilii -- boast, dignity, trickery, simpleheartedness 2) laaf-e tamkii;N fareb , saadah-dilii -- dignity-tricking boast, simple-

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heartedness 3) laaf-e tamkii;N , fareb-e saadah-dilii -- reading (1a) 4) laaf, tamkii;N fareb saadah-dilii -- boast, dignity-tricking simpleheartedness 5) laaf, tamkii;N fareb-e saadah-dilii -- boast, dignity-tricking of simpleheartedness 6) laaf-e tamkii;N fareb-e saadah-dilii! -- boast of dignity, trickery of simple-heartedness! 7) laaf tamkii;N , fareb saadah-dilii -- boast [is] dignity, trickery [is] simpleheartedness 8) laaf tamkii;N fareb , saadah-dilii -- dignity-tricking boast, simpleheartedness But the remarkable thing is that despite so many possible readings, the connection of both lines is not clear at first glance. Every reading demands thought and attention, although seemingly there's no difficulty in the verse.... 1) Proud claims, dignity and self-control, trickery, simple-heartedness-- all these things are present, but in our heart there's no place for them. Our heart is a treasury of breast-melting secrets. [See {13,7}, which may be roughly contemporary.] 2) Our simple-heartedness is really a false claim that deceives our dignity and self-control. Otherwise, our heart lies here full of breast-melting secrets- where is the scope in it for simple-heartedness? 3) We had made the claim of endurance and self-control and dignity, but in reality this is our simple-heartedness, because of which we are ensnared in the deceit/illusion of self-control. The truth is that our heart is melting from breast-melting secrets. 4) Our claim is that we maintain a simple-heartedness that that gives the deceit/illusion of intelligence and self-control; that is, because of our simpleheartedness people are deceived into thinking that we are very enduring and self-controlled. The reality is that our heart lies here full of breast-melting secrets. 5) Our proud vaunting is really deceiving our simple-heartedness about our dignity and self-control. Otherwise, the reality is that-- we are, and breastmelting secrets. 6) Oh dignity-deceiving claim of simple-heartedness, the truth is that our heart lies here full of breast-melting secrets. How can we be 'simplehearted'? This is only a merely verbal claim. 7) Our self-control and dignity is only a false claim. Our simple-heartedness is only a trick. In both ways we are a liar. The truth is that-- we are, and breast-melting secrets. 8) Oh simple-heartedness, you are a claim that creates a deceit/illusion of dignity. But we have neither simple-heartedness nor dignity. We lie here full of breast-melting secrets. (86-88)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; I AND; IZAFAT This one must be second only to {32,1} in its sheer multivalence of possible readings; it too is of the 'meaning generator' kind. For more on this, see {32,1}. It's useful to compare this verse to the previous one, {71,2}, also analyzed by Faruqi, to see the different kinds of 'ambiguity' the verses provide. I've retained both i.zaafats, following Arshi as is my rule. But both are metrically optional, so that Faruqi's dispensing with either or both is entirely legitimate. Even if we retain both i.zaafats, the ambiguity of the construction is here maximally productive. Is a laaf-e tamkii;N a boast made 'by' dignity, or a boast 'of' having dignity? Similarly, is a fareb-e saadah-dilii a trick

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played 'by' simple-heartedness, or a trick played 'on' simple-heartedness, or an illusion 'of' simple-heartedness? For more on i.zaafats, see {16,1}. The verse also belongs to the 'I am, and' group; for more on this, see {5,6}. Its first line is also reminiscent of the possibilities of {4,4}, though this one is more multivalent. Both take deft advantage of the many kinds of possible interplay between innocence and cleverness.

{71,4} huu;N giraftaar-e ulfat-e .sayyaad varnah baaqii hai :taaqat-e parvaaz 1) I am trapped by love of the Hunter 2a) otherwise, strength for flight is still left (and can be used) 2b) otherwise, strength for flight is still left (but vainly, unusably)

Notes: Nazm: Worldly relationships have imprisoned me; otherwise, if it's up to the heart, then I can free myself. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: The thing that prevents me from getting out of the path of the beloved is not the compulsion of the heart; rather, my beloved herself loves me. (154)

Josh: That is, I have the strength to fly out of the trap, but the love I've come to feel for the Hunter doesn't permit me to do it. The meaning is that the Hunter releases us, but we can't release the Hunter. By the Hunter is meant worldly relationships. (155)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH The Hunter and his/her prey [.said] are part of the landscape of the ghazal universe, like the Executioner and his/her victim. The Hunter seems usually to be the beloved; the Executioner seems usually to be the beloved's agent. Here, the Hunter is out trapping birds, and the lover is a bird, for he speaks of the power of 'flight' [parvaaz]. (This can be confusing in English, but in Urdu it's clearly from 'to fly' with wings rather than 'to flee' from something.) This verse is another example of the dual valence of varnah, which is hard to translate. It can have either an indicative or a contrafactual sense that 'otherwise' just doesn't capture. For more on this, see {15,12}. The contrafactual sense of varnah suggests an interpretive possibility that the commentators ignore: that of the lover's self-deception. Does the lover really still have the power of flight, or do we think he doth protest too much? Is he not perhaps just whistling in the dark, trying to tell himself that it's really his own choice to be captured? The lover has no choice, and never has had since the moment when he first set eyes on the beloved, and we know this and he knows it too. For the perfect verse to illustrate the empty bravado of his claim, see {230,7}: the real pledge of faithfulness is not fancy verbal claims of love-as-choice, but more like 'a hand trapped under a stone'. In {72,1}, however, we see the lover preparing to live up to his boast: he is a wild bird, eagerly preparing to fly into the Hunter's net.

{71,5} vuh bhii din ho kih us sitam-gar se naaz khe;Nchuu;N bajaa-e ;hasrat-e naaz 1) may that day too come when, from that tyrant 2) I would experience coquetry, instead of the longing for coquetry

Notes: Nazm: In this sentence, 'I would experience coquetry from that tyrant' [us sitamgar se naaz khe;Nchuu;N], se doesn't seem good. The relationship of se is with

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longing [;hasrat]. That is, the way that I am experiencing the longing for coquetry from that tyrant, may that day too come when in the same way I will experience coquetry. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: May God bring to pass that day, when I will support/endure [u;Thaanaa] her coquetry in the same way that I am now supporting/enduring [u;thaanaa] the sorrow of the longing for coquetry. (154)

Shadan: 'To 'draw'/experience coquetry' [naaz kashiidan] is an idiom of Persian. According to my understanding, it ought to be like this: vuh bhii din ho kih us sitamgar ke naaz u;Thaa))uu;N bajaa-e ;hasrat-e naaz (233)

FWP: In this one Ghalib is trying out a clever juxtaposition in which naaz khe;Nchnaa , to 'draw'/experience coquetry, shares its verb, to unexpected effect, with ;hasrat khe;Nchnaa, to 'draw'/experience longing. The effect is similar to 'She told me to take great care and a piece of cake.' For another verse in which the poet plays with khe;Nchnaa , see {119,5}. However, the commentators take him to task for undue awkwardness and Persianization. As Bekhud Mohani's paraphrase makes clear, the normal Urdu verb for that situation would be u;Thaanaa , 'to support/endure' (literally, 'to lift up', where the Persian metaphor is 'to draw/pull'). Shadan is even endearingly ready to suggest how Ghalib should have rephrased his verse. Nazm also disapproves of using naaz khe;Nchnaa with the postposition se . Whether or not we accept the technical objections, the poet's intentions are clear enough, and the simplicity of the verse gives it the starkness that helps to convey unvarnished longing and desire. The little word bhii also expands in the mind-- vuh bhii din ho , may that day too come to pass, emphasizes how mired the speaker is in this day, the present, when his situation is so incomparably worse. And of course, what does he long for? For 'that day' to bring him-- not real intimacy, not union, but merely coquetry, with all its implications of hard-heartedness and frivolity. His desire is touchingly modest-- and even that desire is nowhere near achievement, and may never be.

{71,6} nahii;N dil me;N mire vuh qa:trah-e ;xuu;N jis se mizhgaa;N hu))ii nah ho gul-baaz 1) in my heart [is] not that drop of blood 2) with which the eyelashes would not have been 'rose-players'

Notes: Nazm: He says, in my heart there's no such drop of blood, with which the fingers of the eyelashes have not done gul-baazii; that is, all the blood of the heart has dripped from the eyelashes. (72)

Bekhud Dihlavi: gul-baazii is a kind of game which is played with the flowers of roses or marigolds. (119)

Bekhud Mohani: Solution 1: There's no drop of my blood with which the eyelashes of the beloved haven't played gul-baazii. Solution 2: All the blood of my heart has turned into tears and dripped away through my eyelashes. (154)

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Shadan: gul-baaz: Two individuals stand facing each other, at some distance. One flings a rose, or in Hindustan a marigold, toward the other. The other catches it in his hand, and returns it back toward the first. If both are experienced, then they tie a string to it. Whoever misses, so that the flower falls to the ground, is considered to have lost. (234)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani points out the two possibilities: either I've simply dripped out all the blood in my heart through my eyelashes, drop by drop, like round red roses used for gul-baazii; or the beloved's eyelashes have appropriated all those same blood-drops for a more organized game of gul-baazii. Thus there's no drop of blood in my heart that hasn't been used for gulbaazii, either by my eyelashes or by the beloved's. But any drop of blood that has been taken away and used for gul-baazii is not, by definition, in my heart any more. So does the verse risk becoming tautological? Does it merely mean, every blood-drop that's been taken out of my heart (for game-playing) is no longer in my heart? If it's literal, it seems also to imply that there are no blood-drops left in my heart. It sets up a clear paradox: there's no drop 'in my heart' that hasn't been taken out of my heart; this itself it an enjoyable state of affairs for the reader to contemplate, and an entirely apt destiny for the lover. In addition, no doubt we will want to say that the drops can be 'in my heart' metaphorically: surely every drop of blood in my heart feels as if it's been battered like a game-ball-- either flung down by my eyelashes, or tossed around by hers. Or else, it is constantly holding itself available for submission to such battering. Moreover, 'in my heart' has a metaphorical meaning of being valued or cherished. I would indignantly repudiate, eject from my bosom, any drop of blood not suitable for gul-baazii. You won't find any such drop of blood present in my heart-- or in my esteem either! Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

{71,7} ay tiraa ;Gamzah yak-qalam angez ay tiraa :zulm sar-basar andaaz 1) ah your side-glances-- utterly arousing! 2a) ah your cruelty-- everywhere throwing/casting [weapons]! 2b) ah your cruelty-- entirely style/coquetry!

Notes: angez : 'Stirring up, rousing, exciting, raising, fomenting, causing; --raised, elevated, &c. (used as last member of comp. e.g. fitnah-angez, adj. & s.m. Strife-exciting; mischievous; mischief-maker, &c.)'. (Platts p.98) andaaz : 'Throwing; thrower, caster, shooter; (used as last member of comp. e.g. barq-andaaz, lit. 'lightning-thrower,' a matchlock-man'. (Platts p.90) andaaz : 'Elegance, grace; mode, manner, style, fashion, pattern; carriage, bearing, gait'. (Platts p.90)

Nazm: The aspect of these two sentences is that of information [;xabar], but the poet has the intention of inshaa.... ai is the vocative [;harf-e nidaa], and the vocative is inshaa; for this reason its use is only in inshaa. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: Both lines are symmetrical [baraabar ke].... Oh beloved, your side-glance is the very essence of airs and graces; and not just that-- your cruelty is entirely coquettish. (154)

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Shadan: Your side-glance is entirely arousing to the emotions of the lover, and your cruelty too, like airs and graces, is completely heart-pleasing. angez doesn't seem very good. (234)

Josh: This verse ought to be considered, along with [the following one], a verse-set [qi:t((ah-band]. [For more, see {71,8}.] (156)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; PARALLELISM This verse is as conspicuous an example of parallelism as you could expect to find (for more on this see {22,5}). We're never in the slightest doubt that the two lines are addressed to the same person, the beloved, and are offering two-fold praise of her qualities. Josh and Bekhud Mohani (154) consider these two verses to constitute a verse-set, but this view is very much a minority one. The piquant quality of the verse is that Ghalib has ended each line with a Persian compound-ender (see definitions above), but has used it as a freestanding adjective. He explains this in the verse itself. In the first line, your coquettish sidelong glances are not this-arousing or that-arousing, they are entirely, globally, simply, 'arousing'! For this totalness he has used yakqalam, the same expression as in {69,2}; for more on these constructions, see {11,1}. In the second line, your cruelty is apparently not this-throwing or thatthrowing, but utterly, from-one-end-to-the-other [sar-basar] everythingthrowing (2a). And here we realize Ghalib's usual cleverness, for he has created an iihaam of sorts (a backwards one, technically speaking). By the strong parallelism with the first line, he has caused us to read andaaz as a specialized Persian compound-ender used in an unusual way. Whereas of course, the moment we stop to consider, we realize that andaaz is an absolutely established, classic word for manner, style, airs and graces, as in (2b); on the poet's own andaaz see {62,11}. One can even look a bit further. What if we insist on reading the Persian compound-enders as really the latter part of (unusual) compounds? Then in the first line your side-glances are 'one-pen-arousing', which is perfect since they are being celebrated in a written poem. And in the second line your cruelty is, literally, 'head-upon-head-throwing', What could be a better final touch for a lovely, witty, deceptive, pseudo-simple verse? Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

{71,8} tuu hu))aa jalvah-gar mubaarak ho rezish-e sijdah-e jabiin-e niyaaz 1a) you became {glory/appearance}-showing-- may [you] {find auspicious / enjoy} 1b) you became {glory/appearance}-showing-- may [it] be congratulated/blessed, 2) the pouring-out of the prostration of the forehead of prayer/longing

Notes: mubaarak: 'Blessed; happy, fortunate, auspicious; august; sacred, holy; -intj. Welcome! well! hail! all hail! blessings (on you)!; congratulations (to you)!' (Platts p.988) rezish: 'Pouring out, scattering; flowing in small quantities, running; a running at the nose'. (Platts p.611) niyaaz: 'Petition, supplication, prayer; --inclination, wish, eager desire, longing; need, necessity; indigence, poverty'. (Platts p.1164)

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Nazm: You came; now may my prostrating myself be enjoyable/auspicious for you. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh beloved, your sidelong glance is the essence of airs and graces; and not only that, but your tyranny is completely coquetry. You showed your glory/appearance-- may the prostration of the people of humility be auspicious. (145)

Josh: To do prostration [sijdah karnaa] is also called 'pouring out of prostration' [rezish-e sijdah]. This verse ought to be considered, along with the previous one, a verse-set [qi:t((ah-band]. After mentioning in the first verse the beloved's two opposite qualities and addressing her, he says, you gave me a sight of you. Now may you enjoy the prostrations of our forehead of supplication/longing. (156)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION JALVAH: {7,4} In this verse, part of the pleasure is in the two ways that mubaarak ho can be read. The commentators prefer (1a), in which the grammar is tujh ko rezish-e sijdah mubaarak ho, may the pouring out of prostrations be auspicious/blessed to you-- or, colloquially, you're welcome to them! As the commentators say, you've manifested yourself, so may you enjoy your reward. That's such a tame, insufficiently Ghalibian meaning, that naturally I had to think about it further. In (1b), the reading is, mubaarak ho, rezish-e sijdah-e jabiin-e niyaaz! -may congratulations/blessing be the pouring-out of prostrations! It did a great job! Against all odds, it caused the beloved to manifest herself! For a similarly complex use of mubaarak honaa, see {77,3}. Its real achievement, though, is a kind of sarcastic tone that's almost impossible to capture in translation. It's something like, 'Oh, you've appeared in all your glory! Wonderful! I grovel before you and abase myself to the floor in humility, of course!' The only sign of the sarcasm is the hyperbolic excess of humility. In this verse, the whole second line is taken up with profuse groveling. Not just a bow, but prostrations-- and not just any prostrations, but ones requiring a string of fancy Persian nouns joined by no fewer than three (compulsory) i.zaafats. The tone of voice is surely what Ghalib is creating for us here. We're not required to read it sarcastically, but we're strongly invited to. If there's any doubt about the tone, take a look at the next verse, {71,9}, in which the sarcasm becomes even more explicit. Josh actually asserts that these two are a verse-set, while Bekhud Mohani (154) and Nazm [{71,9}] consider them at least informally to be a pair.

{71,9} mujh ko puuchhaa to kuchh ;Ga.zab nah hu))aa mai;N ;Gariib aur tuu ;Gariib-navaaz 1) if you asked about me, it wouldn't { 'do any harm' / cause any disaster} 2) I'm poor, and you're a 'Protector of the Poor'

Notes: ;Gariib : 'Foreign, alien; strange, wonderful; rare, unusual, extraordinary; -poor, destitute; meek, mild, humble, lowly'. (Platts p.770)

Nazm: In this verse, kuchh ;Ga.zab nah hu))aa is replete with meanings. If instead of this phrase he had said [any other form of words], then the words would simply have expressed a meaning, it would not be an invention [iijaad]....

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Only the word ;Ga.zab [is such] that a whiff of complaint comes from it, and it conveys the information that his heart is in a complaint-filled state.... In both these verses [this and the previous one, {71,8}] there is exactly the same excess/extremity [;Gaayat]. And both verses are in a mode of thankfulness, and the claim of a mode of thankfulness is that when giving thanks, to prolong the expression of gratitude is attractive. And for this reason a line in which there's hyperbole [i:tanaab] goes even beyond the claims of the mode-- in comparison to the proportionate line, that is, the hyperbolic line is eloquent [balii;G], and the proportionate line noneloquent. From the comparison of both these verses, the conclusion is that in the mode of hyperbole, proportionateness [masaavaat] reduces poetic beauty [;husn-e kalaam]. (73-74)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse, the phrase kuchh ;Ga.zab nah hu))aa has given rise to a strange, pleasurable meaning. Connoisseurs of language [ahl-e zabaa;N] use this [phrase] on an occasion of thankfulness, sarcastically [:tanza:n]. The meaning of the rest of the verse is clear. (119)

Bekhud Mohani: Asking about me is not contrary to your glory. And I am entitled to it. This also emerges: that I am grieved at your not asking up till now, and I have a complaint about it too. You should have asked, because I am poor and you are a 'protector of the poor.' (155)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; YOU AND I This one is the second half of a sort of quasi-verse-set; for more on this, see {71,8}. The commentators have spoken of the untranslatable colloquial charm of kuchh ;Ga.zab nah hu))aa; I've been searching for counterpart English phrases, but not with much success. 'It wouldn't do any harm'; 'It wouldn't cause any great disaster'; 'It wouldn't be the end of the world'. There's a sarcastic, hyperbolic quality that works beautifully in the context. (Although the verb grammar of the line is in the perfect, idiomatically its intention more like a subjunctive-- 'if you inquire about me, it won't do any harm'; the nuances of the intersection of Urdu and English usage here are too complex to go into.) More possible to convey in English is the pleasure of the second line. 'Protector of the Poor' is a title appropriate to a king or saint, and is especially used for Khvajah Mu'in ud-Din Chishti, whose dargah is in Ajmer. Undoubtedly the lover is poor [;Gariib]-- and also of course strange, wonderful unique. And to call the beloved 'Protector of the Poor' is a deft touch, mischievously converting a religious claim on a saint into a claim for attention from one's beloved. It reminds me of {162,9}, in which the cry of a wandering ascetic is similarly appropriated into a sort of flirtatious, erotic suggestion. Needless to say, such an epithet as 'Protector of the Poor' is also a notable invitation to sarcasm, and thus works well with the previous verse. Nazm somewhat obscurely praises the hyperbolic quality of the second lines of both verses. I'm not sure he means to locate their effectiveness in their appeal for a sarcastic reading; but if he doesn't mean that, he should. Here's my long-ago attempt at a translation (1985).

{71,10} asadull;aah ;xaa;N tamaam hu))aa ay dare;Gaa vuh rind-e shaahid-baaz 1) Asadullah Khan is done for 2) ah, alas!-- that reprobate/rake, that pursuer of beautiful ones!

Notes:

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rind: 'A sceptic; a knave, rogue; a lewd fellow, reprobate, drunkard, debauchee, blackguard, profligate, libertine, rake'. (Platts p.600)

Nazm In the second line there's the tone of lament [nau;hah], and it's of the type of inshaa. (74)

Bekhud Mohani: Asadullah Khan has died. Alas, that reprobate, that pursuer of beautiful ones! From vuh it's clear that the person who is saying this is well acquainted with Asadullah Khan and his worship of beautiful women. (155)

Josh: shaahid-baaz means 'worshipper of beauty' [;husn-parast]. rind means 'rash/heedless wine-drinker ' [mai-kash ;Gair mu;htaa:t]. After mentioning two flaws, to express regret at his death, and to say 'ah, alas!' is not without pleasure. (157)

Mihr: Here, the greatness, venerableness, and loftiness of rank that are apparent in 'Asadullah Khan' are not present in 'Asad' alone. [For another such example, see {158,9}.] (249)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; EXCLAMATION If we put these three commentators together, they do the job nicely. The speaker apparently knows the dead man well; he refers to him by his full, dignified title; he speaks of what are (ostensibly at least) his flaws of character; he expresses what feels like sincere sorrow at his death. In a closing-verse, it's very appropriate to appear to 'close out' the poet as well. NOTE FOR NIT-PICKERS: Is the poet's use of his full name to be considered a use of his pen-name 'Asad', which is included within it? I don't know. Maybe the whole question is meaningless, if no one ever bothered to ask it. Or maybe some (later) critic simply made a decree on the subject; and if so, do we care? Another such case: {158,9}. rind is the most untranslatable word, the kind that is full of with unique cultural meaning. If the word 'rake' (as in 'rakish' [rindaanah]), were still in circulation, instead of so archaic-feeling, that would be the one reasonable satisfactory translation. But alas, 'rake' is no longer really available, and what else is there? An amalgam of carelessness, carefreeness, wine-drinking, sophistication, evening parties, the pursuit of beautiful beloveds-- all this is what we want. It can no doubt be a reproach, but it should also have overtones of rueful, affectionate tolerance and even semi-admiration. Wouldn't we all secretly love to inspire such an epitaph? This verse is discussed by Faruqi in comparison to a similar verse of Mir's, in an essay that is part of the Mir site.

Ghazal 72 7 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aar ke paas composed 1821; Hamid p. 58; Arshi #072; Raza p. 232 {72,1} muzhdah ay ;zauq-e asiirii kih na:zar aataa hai daam-e ;xaalii qafas-e mur;G-e giraftaar ke paas 1) good tidings, oh Relish for enchainedness! for there can be seen 2) an empty net near the cage of a captured bird

Notes: Nazm:

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It's a well-known method for hunting, that people spread a net and place a caged bird there, so that when they see it and hear its voice, wild birds would come down. (74)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved, even while her lovers are present, has arranged her curls. From that it can be seen that she intends to ensnare new lovers. Now one ought not to miss out-- this is the time! If this time is missed, then it will be necessary to wait for some time. (155)

Shadan: The captive bird's cage has been placed there, and the net too is empty. There's not even any other bird trapped in it. Accordingly, this is a good time for your becoming captive-- if you are captured, then you're captured-- you'll become near to the Hunter. (235)

Arshi: In the divan of Navab Ilahi Bakhsh Khan Ma'ruf Dihlavi [navaab ilaahii ba;xsh ;xaa;N ma((ruuf dihlavii] (d.1242/1826), which to my knowledge had been edited by about 1820, there's a ghazal in this ground (published divan: 58). In Gul-e Ra'na [gul-e ra((naa] too five verses of it have been anthologized. (209)

FWP: Far from being deceived by the caged decoy bird and the concealed net nearby, the wild bird is eagerly taking stock of an excellent chance to be captured, and thus to receive the undivided attention of the beloved in her guise as bird-catcher or Hunter. This verse follows perfectly from the logic of {71,4}: there the lover claims to be have been captured only by love of the Hunter, while here we see him preparing to launch himself into captivity out of a 'relish for enchainedness'. It's so piquant, that second line. Good news-- I see one! there's an empty one, right next to an occupied one! The speaker is looking eagerly for a space-just the way one would search for a parking space, or a table in a crowded restaurant, or a seat in a movie theater. Or, in this case, an empty snare right next to an occupied one. Quick, rush in and grab it, before somebody else does! The lover, already hopelessly ensnared by passion and the 'relish' for his own imprisonment, only seems to have a choice. The 'trap' is hardly necessary in his case-- and it wholly fails to deceive him. Rather, to the wild bird it's hardly a trap at all, but an offering, an enticement, into which he will fly with open eyes.

{72,2} jigar-e tishnah-e aazaar tasallii nah hu))aa juu-e ;xuu;N ham ne bahaa))ii bun-e har ;xaar ke paas 1) the liver thirsty for torment was not comforted/satisfied 2) we caused a stream of blood to flow near the root of every thorn

Notes: Nazm: That is, my liver, which is thirsty for torment, and which gets pleasure from blister-footedness and desert-wandering, is even now not satisfied. From the soles of my feet, there flowed streams of blood near every single thorn. But my liver was not satisfied after enduring [even] that much suffering. (74)

Bekhud Mohani: Rivers of blood flowed from our foot-soles onto every single thorn, but the torture-seeking heart was still not satisfied. That is, while searching for a path, many great difficulties had been encountered, but we were not defeated. (155)

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Josh: tasallii nah hu))aa is an idiom of the language, and its meaning is 'was not a finder of satisfaction' [tasallii paane vaalaa nah hu))aa]. (157)

BAQIR: All [the commentators] agree that these rivers of blood flowed from the footsoles when they were pierced by thorns during desert-wandering; but Asi [aasii] writes that because of the thorns that are lodged in the foot-soles, a stream of blood flowed from the foot-soles and from the feeling of pain in them. (196)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE JIGAR: {2,1} This verse is one of the 'liver' ones; for more on the role of the liver, see {30,2}. It is also a candidate for the quality that I call grotesquerie; for more on this concept, see {39,3}. Here, as so often, are two independent statements. If we read line one as logically prior, we have a solicitous lover who notices his liver's dissatisfaction, wishes to satiate his liver's urge for torment, and thus saturates the root of every thorn with streams of blood. If we read line two as logically prior, we read of a lover who has already saturated the root of every thorn with a stream of blood, but the result is that after all that, the liver's urge for torment is still not appeased. Needless to say, both readings could apply to the same situation, in a classic back-and-forth ('more! more! I'm still not satisfied!') way. There is a missing physical link in the verse: how do the streams of blood get from the liver to the thorn-roots? Most of the commentators supply as an intervening link the soles of the lover's feet; this of course makes sense, since the lover is often imagined to be wandering barefoot in the desert. Asi considers that the thorns are not just stepped on but are lodged deeply in the soles of the feet themselves, which is convenient in explaining how the 'roots' of the thorns get bathed in blood. Nazm alludes to the blistered feet which we have noticed before, in verses that are potential candidates for my category of grotesquerie [{39,3}]. But here we don't actually have blisters. Instead, we have whole streams of blood, and they're directed toward the root of each thorn. This reminds me of {214,6}, in which 'fragments of the liver' are used to make the thorns literally bloom, so that the lover practices 'gardening in the desert'. In the present verse it's hard to tell whether these 'streams of blood' poured out on the thorn-roots are (or are meant by the lover to be) fertilizing in this way, but it's at least a possibility. Perhaps it wasn't enough for the lover to merely walk with bloodied feet over the thorns, leaving scattered blood-drops on the tips. Perhaps the restless liver insisted on offering more-- it was not content merely to suffer pain in the ordinary course of walking, but wanted to intensify and systematize the process. As is so often the case, the verse doesn't give us all the information we want; it leaves us to arrange and rearrange in our minds the lover and the liver, satisfaction and torment, the thorn-roots and all those streams of blood.

{72,3} mu;Nd ga))ii;N kholte hii kholte aa;Nkhe;N hay hay ;xuub vaqt aaye tum is ((aashiq-e biimaar ke paas 1) the eyes closed just as I was in the act of opening them, alas-2) at a fine time you came to this sick lover!

Notes: Nazm: kholte hii kholte is a description of the situation of waiting. Another verse with this same theme has already passed: {52,1}. (75)

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Bekhud Mohani: Some confidant [raaz-daar] of the lover's complains to the beloved, 'The lover longed a thousand thousand times to to have a good look at you, but it wasn't able to happen. Fine, bravo! At what a very good time you've come to see him!' (156)

Josh: That is, because of the extremity of weakness, when he tried to open his eyes for the sight of beauty, he finished himself off, and his eyes closed (he died). Entirely this kind of theme has already come in under the refrain te: [{52,1}]. It would be better if 'this one' [it's not clear which one he means] had been removed from the divan. (157)

Arshi: Compare {52,1}. (197, 210)

FWP: The commentators point out the strong similarity with {52,1}, and rightly so; Josh in fact wishes that one of them had been stricken from the divan, and it's hard to blame him. Not much really differentiates the two. There's another such 'duplicate' verse in this ghazal; see {72,7} for further discussion. If this verse can claim any small extra merit beyond its companion, it's in the wordplay involving 'sick' [biimaar]. The locus classicus is {22,4}, in which the lover expresses himself as content to be biimaar , because it means sharing a name with the beloved's eyes; the beloved's eyes are traditionally called 'the eyes of a sick person' [chashm-e biimaar] because they are lowered and unresponsive. The eyes are in the first line, and are not chashm but aa;Nkhe;N , while nothing is done to connect them with biimaar in the second line. Still the connection is very much there, by implication at least, and it's hard to believe it never occurred to Ghalib, or that he didn't count on his original audience to enjoy it as a small extra dollop of pleasure. For more on the beloved's visits to the lover, see {106,2}.

{72,4} mai;N bhii ruk ruk ke nah martaa jo zabaa;N ke badle dashnah ik tez-saa hotaa mire ;Gam-;xvaar ke paas 1) I too would not have died {slowly / with pauses} if instead of {a tongue / language} 2) my sympathizer had had a single, sharpish dagger

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the sympathizer's taunts and reproaches and admonitions murdered me like a dull dagger. I would have given up my life so quickly, if he had had, instead of that tongue, a sharp dagger. (120)

Bekhud Mohani: 'I would not have died slowly and haltingly' [ruk ruk ke nah martaa] means that the effect of his blame on my heart was such that I can't remain alive, I will die. But I will die sobbing and writhing in pain. (156)

FWP: The commentators seem to assume that my 'sympathizer' [;Gam-;xvaar], literally 'grief-eater', doesn't want to kill me, but merely seeks to correct my ways with scoldings and reproaches; he thus kills me slowly and cruelly-but apparently involuntarily, and only in the process of trying to reform me. But consider {2,1}, in which the 'sympathizer' [;Gam-;xvaar] brings presents that are actually lethal-- like wounds, and diamonds (to swallow). Yet Asad is congratulated on this sympathizer's visit; the double meaning of jaan-e dardmand is also exploited, and in directions that favor the sympathizer. We

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are reminded that killing the lover may be doing him the supreme kindness (by removing him from his worldly despair, and/or uniting him with his divine Beloved). The description of the ideal weapon is worth noticing. If only the sympathizer's weapon had been ek (single, instead of the diffuse tiny pinpricks of language); and tez-saa (sharpish, instead of the cruelly slow 'blunt instruments' of words); and a ;xanjar (a purpose-built killing-machine, not a jury-rigged one put together from miscellaneous bits and pieces). Think of the second line of {20,8}-- why would I have minded dying, if it had once [ek baar] (not many times, and not never) actually happened? So we are left with several open (and, as usual, unclosable) questions. Who is the sympathizer? (The beloved? a genuine friend? a hostile fake 'friend'?) What are the sympathizer's intentions, to kill or to cure? Does the lover know and/or share the sympathizer's plans? And what of he little monosyllable 'too' [bhii]? 'I too would not have died slowly,' suggests that other people have had quick, clean deaths, and I could have been among them; who are these other people? (Other lovers of the past?) Ultimately, of course, in the lover's paradoxical situation one can't tell killing from curing. I am more than ready to die, and my sympathizer is sympathetically (?) helping me. But how clumsy he/she is, and how long it takes! I am impatient, longing to get it over with-- perhaps it's not the pain at all that bothers me, but simply the delay.

{72,5} dahan-e sher me;N jaa bai;Thiye lekin ai dil nah kha;Re huujiye ;xuubaan-e dil-aazaar ke paas 1) please go and sit in the mouth of a tiger but, oh heart, 2) please don't stand near heart-tormenting lovely ones!

Notes: Nazm: 'To sit' and 'to stand' have the pleasure of opposition. (75)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh heart, to become a morsel for a tiger's mouth is much better than to fix your heart on some heart-tormenting beloved. (121)

Shadan: If it were like this, it would be better: [a reworking of the verse using intimate tuu imperatives].... Use of the honorific form of address for the heart doesn't appeal. (236)

FWP: Who says Ghalib can't be simple, when he wants to be simple? Here's a verse that anybody would be hard put not to understand at once. As Nazm observes, the opposition between the sitting and the standing is a source of pleasure in itself. But we should consider it a little more deeply, for the opposition is carefully developed. The heart is invited to 'sit'-comfortably, informally, at ease-- right 'in' the tiger's mouth. But by contrast, it is urged not even to 'stand'-- humbly, fearfully, formally-- anywhere even 'near' the cruel beloveds. Shadan's rewritings of Ghalib are usually notable, but this one is not very interesting, since it's only a change of verb-forms and a little padding. Shadan doesn't like the idea of a polite address, rather than an intimate one, to the heart. But surely the formality of the polite imperatives gives a sense of cautious handling, elaborate care. At all costs the heart mustn't be offended-- the lover is too afraid of what it might do! Advice can be given only diffidently, with a great show of courtesy and respect.

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{72,6} dekh kar tujh ko chaman baskih numuu kartaa hai ;xvud bah ;xvud pahu;Nche hai gul goshah-e dastaar ke paas 1a) having seen you, the garden flourishes to such an extent 1b) although, having seen you, the garden flourishes 2) {all by itself / of its own will} the rose arrives at the edge of the turban

Notes: Nazm: The cause of the flourishing is the enthusiasm of ardor. The author refrained from mentioning it because it can be assumed; that is, to see the beloved is not such a thing that anybody would see her and, having seen her, not generate the turmoil of ardor. (75)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having seen you, the garden's vegetative power so increases that the flowers spontaneously advance up to your turban-cloth. The meaning is that from the sight of the beloved, turmoil is created in everyone's hearts. (121)

Josh: numuu karnaa is a literal translation of [the Persian] numuu kardan. In Urdu they say numuu paanaa, although this meaning is very much [more]. (158)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH Here is another elegant use of the two meanings of baskih; for more on these, see {13,5}. If we join the commentators and adopt (1a), then baskih means 'to such an extent', and the emphasis is on the garden: after seeing you, it grow so outrageously tall that the rose vine, even without being trained to climb on a trellis, reaches up as high as a turban. (Remember Oklahoma, where 'the corn is as high as an elephant's eye'?) But equally possible is the other meaning of baskih, 'although', which would give us (1b): although the garden in general, taken as a whole, grows outrageously after seeing you, even against that background the rose's behavior is something extraordinary. For it separates itself from the garden. It actually reaches out, voluntarily, and touches the turban-cloth. (A dastaar is a decorative cloth that is used for the outer wrapping of a turban.) On this reading, the rose is apparently endowed with will, and even perhaps with some kind of erotic intentions. Does it wish to be worn on the beloved's turban? (The beloved might of course be a beautiful adolescent boy with a turban.) Does it wish to caress or stroke the beloved's head? Does it wish to sacrifice itself by becoming irresistibly available to the beloved for plucking? Is it simply responding to the power of passion, with no will left at all? The mystery (but also the lovely appropriateness) of the rose's response to the beloved's beauty is more memorable when left unexplained than it would be if diluted by further information. In the ghazal world, the beloved is always the primary source for light and life, with all the 'natural' world dependent upon borrowing or reflecting his/her glory. Here's one more example: not that the beloved is as radiant and fruitful as a garden, but that the garden is only so radiant and fruitful because of the beloved. Just as in {111,9}, the nightingales only sing the way they do because they've heard my ghazals!

{72,7} mar gayaa pho;R ke sar ;Gaalib-e va;hshii hai hai bai;Thnaa us kaa vuh aa kar tirii diivaar ke paas 1) [he] died, beating [his] head, the mad/wild Ghalib-- alas 2) [for] his coming and sitting near your wall!

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Notes: Nazm: It has been mentioned above [in his earlier commentary] that there's more pleasure in inshaa than in informative speech [;xabar]. That is, inshaa dwells in the heart/soul [qalb]; for this reason the practiced [mushshaaq] poet converts informative speech into inshaa. In this verse the author, rejecting the aspect of informative speech, has made the verse extremely eloquent [balii;G].... The gesture of 'that' [vuh] in the [second] line is a further excellence.... it points out that the beloved who is being addressed is not unfamiliar with this event of which the speaker reminds her. And the words 'having come' [aa kar] prove that that madman's custom was that at those times when he hoped to see the beloved's face, or hear her voice, he used to come every day and sit down. If aa kar were not in the second line, then the meaning would have emerged that only his sitting there would be remembered, and the beauty of the verse would be lessened. (75)

Bekhud Dihlavi: What a peerless closing-verse he has written. (121)

Josh: In the second line, the words 'comes to mind' [yaad aataa hai] are omitted. This omission has given rise to a great deal of beauty in this line, and has doubled the glory of this closing-verse. (158)

Arshi: Compare {60,12}. (204, 210)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE This verse is indeed almost a replay of {60,12}. The present ghazal contains another, even more striking 'duplicate' verse, in {72,3}. However, by thinking of the verses in this ghazal as the derivative ones we'd be reversing history: both {60} and {52}, homes of the almost-matching verses, were composed in 1833, while {72} was composed in 1821. So the verses in the present ghazal would be, if anything, the 'originals' from which the later ones might have been borrowed, even though the later ones happen, because of alphabetization by refrain, to come earlier in the divan. But in a case like this chronology doesn't mean much anyway, and 'borrowing' or 'copying' from one's own earlier verses is not a good description of the ghazal poet's creative process. Anybody who is interested in these questions should look at the work of Kalidas Gupta Raza, and see the very large penumbra of unpublished verses from which Ghalib selected the ones he wanted to have published. One can argue, as Josh does in {72,3}, that one member of each pair should have been omitted from the divan. But the question of which one could surely only be decided on literary grounds, not chronological or alphabetical ones. Ghalib's muravvaj diivaan is thin enough anyway, and few people would really care to make it thinner. Nazm does a good job on this verse. The shift from information to sorrow, the intimacy of recollection between the speaker (some confidant?) and the addressee (the beloved), do indeed carry such a colloquial ease. And the recollection is of his 'coming and sitting near your wall', as though that in itself were a death sentence-- to be near even her wall is to be haunted by her, and eventually to smash one's head against the barrier that blocks the way.

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Ghazal 73 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aar aatish composed 1816; Hamid p. 59; Arshi #073; Raza p. 144

{73,1} nah leve gar ;xas-e jauhar :taraavat sabzah-e ;xa:t se lagaave ;xaanah-e aa))iinah me;N ruu-e nigaar aatish 1) if the straw of the polish-lines wouldn't take moisture from the lines of down/greenery [on the cheek] 2) the face of the beautiful one would light a fire in the mirror-chamber

Notes: :taraavat : 'Freshness, juiciness, succulence; greenness, verdure; moisture, humidity, dampness'. (Platts p.752)

Nazm: For a reflection to fall on a mirror, and for a fire to start-- in both of these, the cause of similitude is movement, and this simile is extremely eloquent [badii((] because the cause of simitude is highly refined. The meaning is that the polish-lines of the mirror receive moisture from the down on the cheek of the beloved; otherwise, the reflection of the flame of the cheek would have started a fire in the mirror-chamber. (76)

Bekhud Mohani: If the straw of the polish-lines did not receive moisture from the down on the beloved's cheek, then the moment the fire of the beloved's reflection fell on it, fire would start in the mirror. (This is a poetic explanation for fires not starting in mirrors.) (157)

Josh: For expressing the radiance of beauty he has used exaggeration, and in the ardor of his inventiveness [jiddat-aaraa))ii] he has created a new enchantment of words. leve is a word from old speech [puraanii zabaa;N]; now they say only le. (159)

FWP: FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} This verses combines 'flame and straw' imagery with creative exploitation of the word jauhar (for more on this term, see {5,4}). It's also of course a member of the 'mirror' set; on this see {8,3}. It would be easy to call this verse far-fetched or obscure, yet in another way it's not. Nazm apparently got it quite easily, and since then every other commentator seems to have either got it with equal ease, or else simply paraphrased Nazm's interpretation. The beloved here is unambiguously a youth, a boy just reaching puberty who has begun to have down on his cheeks [sabzah-e ;xa:t]. (For other examples see {9,2}.) The literal meaning of sabzah is greenery or verdure, from the Persian word for green [sabz]. Thus the word works suggestively with all the meanings of the (much rarer) Arabic word :taraavat. The polish-lines on the metal mirror are like dry straw; if they weren't moistened by the lines of down on the beloved's cheek-- the ;xa:t in sabzah-e ;xa:t literally means 'lines'-- they would burst into flame when exposed to the sudden brilliant fire of his face. And there you are: you put it together like a complex machine, and then-behold, there it is. A bit more than the sum of its parts, but not to die for, either. Compared to, say, the first few verses of {71}, how cumbersome and one-dimensional it seems.

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{73,2} furo;G-e ;husn se hotii hai ;hall-e mushkil-e ((aashiq nah nikle sham((a ke paa se nikaale gar nah ;xaar aatish 1) from the radiance/flame of beauty is the solution of the lover's difficulty 2) the thorn would not emerge from the foot of the candle if fire did not remove [it]

Notes: furo;G: 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame'. (Platts p.780)

Nazm: They call the wick of the candle the 'thorn' of the candle, and the remover of this thorn is the flame of the candle. He has treated 'solution' as feminine; perhaps he was deceived by its being next to 'difficulty' [which is masculine]. Otherwise, the idiom is [to treat it as masculine]. (76)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the radiance/flame of beauty the lover's difficulty is solved, and he gives this illustration: that the thorn would never emerge from the foot of the candle, unless the flame would remove it. They call the wick of the candle the 'thorn of the candle,' and he has told us that the remover of this thorn is the candle flame. It's an absolutely new thought, and has been presented with great excellence. (121)

Bekhud Mohani: [As for Nazm's criticism,] it can't be shown by investigation whether this is an error of the scribe [kaatib], or of the author. The probable [;Gaalib] guess is that it would be of the scribe. (157)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} What a simple, elegant, understated yet mysterious verse-- and what a contrast to the previous one, {73,1}! The basic image behind it is clear: the wick is a 'thorn' in the candle's foot, and it can't be removed except by the burning of the candle. The burning begins when a flame is applied, and ends in the 'death' of the candle in a little pool of cooling wax, its 'thorn' entirely consumed. Similarly, the lover's suffering begins with the radiance/flame-- furo;G in its range of meanings is such a perfect word-- of the beloved. This fire of beauty, the source of his pain (and delight), is also said to provide the 'solution of his difficulty'. Nothing but the power of implication can enable us to conjecture what that difficulty might be-- the problem of how to live as a lover, how to endure the self-destructive suffering, how to cope with life at all. Moreover, it's only by implication that we know how to connect the two lines, since nothing in the verse gives us any guidance. Yet how smoothly the connection makes itself in our minds. Just as the candle's painful 'thorn' is part of its essence, and is only to be removed through its burning-out and death, so the lover's suffering will have the same end. And its end, like the candle's, is in its beginning: the fiery beauty of the beloved lights the inner fire that will consume the lover, melting him right down until he and his 'difficulty' burn away together. What could make better sense, or a richer meaning? In {115,5} the lover asks, almost wonderingly, how 'before dying', anyone could possibly expect to escape from grief.

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Ghazal 74 1 verse; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa(( composed 1816; Hamid p. 59; Arshi #074; Raza p. 145

{74,1} jaadah-e rah ;xvur ko vaqt-e shaam hai taar-e shu((aa(( char;x vaa kartaa hai maah-e nau se aa;Gosh-e vidaa(( 1) the path of the road, to the sun, in the evening, is the thread of a ray 2) the sky opens, by means of the new moon, an embrace of leave-taking

Notes: Nazm: That is, the sun travels out of the sky, and the sky has opened up the embrace of the crescent moon. That is, after its setting, the line that shows itself just above the horizon is its track.... But in this theme there's no 'ghazalness' [;Gazaliyat]; if it would be the opening-verse of an ode, then it would be acceptable. (76)

Bekhud Mohani: After sunset, a white line appears on the sky, and in that situation a new moon is emerging; seeing this mood [kaifiyat], the poetic imagination says that by the road of this shining line the sun is setting out; and this is not a new moon, but rather the sky, in order to take leave of it, has opened an embrace. In reality if this would be the opening-verse of an ode, then that would be fine. If it's the opening-verse of a ghazal, then we ought to consider that the poet has given an imaginative form to the scene of the face of Nature. (158)

Josh: How can this meaning-creation, and this beauty of expression [;husn-e bayaan], and this 'elegance in assigning a cause', be sufficiently praised! (159)

FWP: Josh is right to see in this verse an instance of 'elegance in assigning a cause,' since it accounts for the line of light on the horizon after sunset, and its being accompanied by the crescent moon. Now we know what's really going on-not just random astronomical phenomena, but a traveler setting out on a journey, being seen off with a farewell embrace. The visual image is direct, approachable, and charming. For another creative use of the 'embrace of parting', aa;Gosh-e vidaa((, see {57,6}. The images are thoughtful, lovely, tranquil ones, yet Nazm has trouble accepting this verse into the ghazal universe. Nazm made a similar complaint about {14,2}, which is, like this one, a verse of sensitive, quiet observation of the natural world. Surely the range of the ghazal cannot be so narrowed as to refuse to admit verses like this? Nazm had his own axes to grind, of course, as is evident in the course of his comments on many other verses as well. I'd like to write about him at more length someday.

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Ghazal 75 7 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aanii-e sham((a composed 1816; Hamid p. 60; Arshi #075; Raza p. 145

{75,1} ru;x-e nigaar se hai soz-e jaavidaanii-e sham((a hu))ii hai aatish-e gul aab-e zindagaanii-e sham((a 1) from the face of the beautiful one is the eternal burning of the candle 2) the fire of the rose has become the water of life of the candle

Notes: Nazm: They call this a 'poetic claim' [ad((aa-e shaa((iraanah]. First he established that the candle burns after having seen the face of the beloved. Then on that foundation he has created the theme that the fire of the rose, which is in the face of the beloved, is 'water of life' [aab-e ;hayaat] for the candle. And for this reason, in the idiom they call an extinguished candle a 'dead candle' [sham((a-e kushtah], and poets imagine a burning candle to be 'alive'. (76)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the candle has felt envy of the beloved's radiant face, it is burning with the fire of envy. In the second line he says that the fire of the rose, which is in the beloved's face (that is, the rosy color of her cheeks) has the power of 'water of life' [aab-e ;hayaat] for the candle. In Persian they call an extinguished candle a 'dead candle' [sham((a-e kushtah]; thus Mirza Sahib has imagined a lighted candle to be 'living'. Other poets also write [this usage]. (122)

Shadan: He has made the rose a metaphor for the cheek of the beloved. And bees suck the juice of the rose, and from this wax and honey are created. And from wax, candles [are made]; so the life of the candle-- or rather, the very existence of the candle!-- is dependent on the rose. (238)

Josh: He says, seeing the beauty of the beloved's face, the candle is envious, and burns forever, as if the fire of the beauty of that flower had become 'water of life' [aab-e ;hayaat] for the candle. In this verse, how successful is the attempt to prove that fire is water! And then, what kind of water? Why, the 'Water of Life'! (160)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} The commentators almost all revert to the familiar phrase 'water of life' [aabe ;hayaat]-- which the verse itself, however, avoids: it instead uses aab-e zindagaanii. Of course one could always say that this is for technical reasons of rhyme, but that kind of technical constraint is rarely a final determinant with a great poet. Is it because we're meant both to think of aab-e ;hayaat, and to recognize its absence? The 'water of life' is both there and not there; similarly, the 'fire of the rose' is both deadly and soothing. Christina Oesterheld points out that Annemarie Schimmel has discussed aatish-e gul at some length. Schimmel observes, 'The rose-fire that increasingly burned in poets' diwans became joined with Nimrod's fire, which turned into a cool rose garden for Ibrahim (Sura 21:69).' (A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 174). Even more intriguing is the 'eternalness' insisted upon in the verse: what the candle gets from the beloved's face is its soz-e jaavidaanii, its 'eternal

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burning'. And yet we all know that candles are the very opposite of eternal; Ghalib's ghazals, like everybody else's, are full of images of burnt-out candles. These are even referred to by Ghalib specifically as 'dead candles' [sham((a-e kushtah]; see for example {41,2} and {53,1}. So whence the 'eternalness'? According to the verse, the eternal burning comes from the beautiful one's face, and the 'water of life' comes from the 'fire of the rose'. The (human) beloved's face, alas, is all too mortal, as is the rose (in the garden) itself. So that forces us to consider some 'essence of candle' and 'essence of beauty' that never die. Or else we can feel that the candle, the rose, and the beloved live so totally and powerfully in their moment that the moment seems to become forever. As Josh observes, Ghalib cleverly proves in this verse that fire is water. And as Schimmel observes, he evokes a fire that becomes a rose-garden. So why can't he also show that the candle's life is both eternal and brief? In the next two verses, {75,2} and {75,3}, he further explores this same paradox. I once had a go at translating this ghazal.

{75,2} zabaan-e ahl-e zabaa;N me;N hai marg ;xaamoshii yih baat bazm me;N raushan hu))ii zabaanii-e sham((a 1a) in the tongue of the 'people of tongue', death is silence 1b) in the tongue of the 'people of tongue', silence is death 2) this matter became illumined in the gathering by the tongue of the candle

Notes: Nazm: In this verse, zabaan and ahl-e zabaan and marg and ;xaamoshii and bazm and raushan and zabaanii-- all these are words connected by .zil((a to the candle, but all are used unostentatiously [be-takalluf].

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that when a candle is extinguished, then they call it a 'dead candle' [sham((a-e kushtah]. And when it continues to burn, then they call construe the flame as the 'tongue of the candle' [zabaan-e sham((a]. The intention is that the falling silent of the ahl-e zabaan is considered to be their death. (122)

Bekhud Mohani: In the idiom of the ahl-e zabaan, the falling silent of the poetry-knowers [su;xan-sanj] is itself their death. In the gathering, this fact became known through the tongue of the candle. That is, just as in the gathering the candle's becoming extinguished is its death-- that is, when that happens, sadness and darkness spread [over the gathering]. In the same way the death of a poet [su;xanvar] is his silence. (158-59)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION; TRANSITIVITY; WORD; WORDPLAY CANDLE: {39,1} In this one, the wordplay is such a tour de force that even Nazm is moved to admiration at how informally, with what ease and unforcedness, it is deployed. Just consider his inventory of effects: 'In this verse, zabaan [tongue, language] and ahl-e zabaan ['people of tongue'; 'masters of language'] and marg [death] and ;xaamoshii [silence] and bazm [gathering] and raushan [illumined, radiant] and zabaanii ['from the tongue of', orally]-- all these are words connected by .zila(( to the candle, but all are used unostentatiously [be-takalluf]'. All this is true, and of these effects the greatest is the use of the 'people of tongue/language' [ahl-e zabaan]. In Urdu literary tradition these are the people who police the boundaries of proper usage-- they are the ones who

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are able to declare that a certain idiom or turn of phrase is acceptable or matruuk , 'rejected'. They are the educated poetry-knowing native speakers, the ones whom poets and commentators address when they say, only the ahle zabaan will know the real pleasure of this. So in all this tangle of elegant multiple wordplay, what is actually being said? Except at a basic level, it's impossible to be too sure. At a basic level, the connection of the candle-- which even in English has its 'tongue' of flame-- and the ahl-e zabaan, the 'people of tongue/language', is clear. Both of them are dead (in Urdu a 'silent' candle is an extinguished one) when they lose their 'tongues', This situation becomes illumined [raushan] 'by the tongue of' [zabaanii] the candle. In short, in the language of poets, critics, and candles, death is silence and/or silence is death. This is not, after all, a very revelatory thing to say. Surely the pleasure of the verse lies elsewhere-- in its wordplay, and its sound effects. This could be called a verse of 'word-exploration' based on the word zabaan. And listen to how it sounds when you say it! With three slightly differing variations of the same word-- zabaan zabaa;N zabaanii-- the verse can hardly help but be rhythmic and even a bit hypnotic.

{75,3} kare hai .sirf bah ((iimaa-e shu((lah qi.s.sah tamaam bah :tarz-e ahl-e fanaa hai fasaanah-;xvaanii-e sham((a 1) [it] {completes/ finishes off} the tale only with/like the sign/suggestion of the flame 2) with/like the style of the 'people of oblivion' is the story-telling of the candle

Notes: iimaa : 'Sign, nod, beck, hint, suggestion, indirect reference or allusion; emblem, symptom'. (Platts p.115)

Ghalib: [1858:] Rajab 'Ali Beg 'Surur', who has written fasaanah-e ((ajaa))ib -- the first verse at the beginning of the dastan gives me much pleasure now: yaadgaar-e zamaanah hai;N ham log yaad rakhnaa fasaanah hai;N ham log [we people are a memorial of the age remember-- we people are a story] How 'hot' [garm] the second line is, and with regard to a story, what an affinity 'remember' has! (Arshi, introduction, p. 35) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 1, p. 278

Nazm: The candle completes the whole story only through the gesture of the flame. That is, when the flame is lit, then it [=the candle] becomes obliterated from head to foot, the way among the Sufis, the 'people of oblivion', having been set alight, become 'oblivious to themselves' in the fire of passion, and pass away from their lives. (77)

Bekhud Mohani: In qi.s.sah tamaam karnaa there is an iihaam-- that is, 'to finish the story', or to die.

Faruqi: First of all please reflect on the word iimaa.... That is, the candle expresses its illumined meaning by means of the symbol [((alaamat] of the flame. On the head of the candle, the flame has the form of a tongue (they use the tongue as a simile for the candle flame). That is, the the candle makes its thought apparent wordlessly, through the tongue of the candle. The flame of the candle is a symbol of turmoil [shorish] and oblivion [fanaa]. In this way, through the 'tongue' of the flame's condition, the candle says, I am burning, I am becoming obliterated.

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In this theme there's a twofold pleasure. One [aspect] is that the candle uses the tongue of the flame-- the flame which has the form of a tongue and is a symbol of burning. The second aspect is that the tonguelessness of the candle is itself its tongue. 'Tongue' is in both meanings-- that is, in the meaning of 'conversation' as well as in the meaning of a part of the body. That is, it's a metaphor for a metaphor, and the dictionary meaning too is appropriate. This type of paradox is the special style of Ghalib and Mir. Now it's clear that 'story-telling' [fasaanah-;xvaanii] has no special semantic importance.... Having written 'finished the tale' [qi.s.sah tamaam] in the first line, to make the .zil((a of 'story-telling' in the second line would be, for Ghalib, irresistible. This skill too Ghalib learned from Mir: afsaanah-;xvaa;N kaa la;Rkaa kyaa kahye diidanii hai qi.s.sah hamaaraa us kaa yaaro shuniidanii hai [The story-teller's boy-- what can one say?-- is worth seeing our and his tale, friends, is worth hearing]. (90-91)

FWP: SETS == BAH; IDIOMS CANDLE: {39,1} This verse completes (and finishes off?) what I think of as a quasi-verse-set consisting of the first three verses of this ghazal. The first verse debates the candle's eternal life vs. its imminent death; the second juxtaposes the candle's (and the poet's) speech/life to its silence/death; in this one, the candle ends its tale in the style of the 'people of oblivion'. Are the people of oblivion dead, or alive? We can hardly say. They have traded in this mortal, transient world for an eternal realm that is utterly beyond our comprehension. Bekhud Mohani suggests that the first line contains an iihaam. I think his idea is that if you heard the first line in isolation (as of course you initially would in a mushairah), you might take qi.s.sah tamaam karnaa in its idiomatic sense of 'to finish off'-- that is, to kill something or somebody. But while this is indeed one intended meaning, when we hear the second line we learn that it's only a secondary meaning. The primary meaning is the literal one, 'to complete a tale'-- a meaning that shows an enjoyable connection to the 'story-telling of the candle' in the second line. Like the other verses in this little set of three, this one is so rich you almost can't cut through the glowing, radiant, tightly-meshed surface to assign it more than a rather basic meaning. And as in the others, surely much of the pleasure is to be found not in contemplation of a spelled-out, literal meaning, but in the whole ornate but flawlessly integrated, elaborate but perfectly relaxed, 'informal'-feeling quality of the verse. The praise that Ghalib offers to Surur's verse about story-telling has two elements: the second line's being 'hot' or passionate, and the wordplay or affinity between the imagery of story-telling and the injunction to 'remember'. He thus praises in another poet's work the same effects he himself creates, through the (suggested) idea of the 'tongue' of the candleflame, and the wordplay about story-telling, in the present verse.

{75,4} ;Gam us ko ;hasrat-e parvaanah kaa hai ai shu((le tire larazne se :zaahir hai naatavaanii-e sham((a 1) it feels grief at the longing of the Moth, oh Flame-2) from your trembling is manifest the weakness of the candle

Notes: Nazm: That is, the grief of the Moth has made it [=the flame] weak; this is the reason for the flame's flickering. Here, to address the Flame is not devoid of unpleasingness [be-lu:tfii]. (77)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that when the flame moves because of the breeze, Mirza Sahib's 'delicacy of thought' has declared it to be due to weakness. Addressing the Flame has created in the verse an extraordinary pleasure. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: He addresses the Flame: from your flickering the sacret was revealed, that the candle has become weak. And this weakness is out of grief that its lover (the Moth) has been burnt up. The flame flickers from the breeze, but the poetic cause [shaa((iraanah taujiih] is this.... Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has declared the address to the Flame to be unpleasing. But he has not written any reason. In my opinion, to address a lifeless thing like a living one is a thing of great pleasure. (159)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH CANDLE: {39,1} This would be an excellent verse for performance in a mushairah. If we heard the first line alone, we'd have no idea who the 'us' was who felt the grief, or why a 'Flame' was being addressed. Only the second line makes the first intelligible, and the crucial word, 'weakness', is deferred as long as possible in that line, so that revelation comes all at once, with a real burst of pleasure. You can also see from this verse how seriously the other commentators take the pronouncements of Nazm. Often they simply adopt his views, but when he says something unduly critical they tend to react strongly. His declaring the vocative to the Flame unpleasing causes Bekhud Dihlavi to pointedly say the opposite, and Bekhud Mohani to disagree with him in so many words. That's one reason (though not the only one of course) that I give such prominence to Nazm in this project. Although the commentators don't use the term 'elegance in assigning a cause', that's certainly what the two Bekhuds are describing. We might wrongly have thought it was the breeze, but now we know the real reason why the candle flame flickers. Its weakness has not physical causes, but emotional ones-- it's trembling with sorrow and sympathy over the (vain) longings of the Moth. Which of course is highly unorthodox. We know that the candle is the Moth's beloved, and that the moth will sooner or later die a fiery, ecstatic death in the flame. Since when does the beloved go all 'weak' with sympathy, to the point of trembling, over the sufferings of the lover? This is very unghazal-like behavior; the beloved's proper, necessary role is to be cold, fickle, unavailable. My theory is that Ghalib found the chance to use this particular image, and to 'elegantly assign a cause', irresistible. After all, if the beloved is sufficiently fickle, once in a while she can inadvertently happen to be kind; candles are made of wax, so perhaps they can't quite manage to have hearts of stone.

{75,5} tire ;xayaal se ruu;h ihtizaaz kartii hai bah jalvah-rezii-e baad-o-bah par-fishaanii-e sham((a 1) from the thought of you, the spirit quivers [with joy] 2a) [I swear] by the glory-scattering of the breeze, and by the wing-fluttering of the candle 2b) as [in the case of] the glory-scattering of the breeze, and the wingfluttering of the candle

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Notes: Nazm: In the second line, bah in both places is for an oath.... And if the bah were removed, then this pleasure would not remain. And if we take bah with the meaning of a simile, the same meaning as formerly is created. (77)

Hasrat: In 'with the splendor-scattering' and 'with the wing-fluttering' is the 'with' of similitude [baa-e tashbiihii]. That is, the way a candle flame moves from the splendor-scattering of the breze, in the same way at the thought of you the spirit quivers [with joy]. (70)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the thought of you, the lover's spirit attains a movement of joy, the way movement is created in the candle flame by the breeze. (123)

Shadan: ihtizaaz: When a bird puts his head in water, then {shudders / shakes himself} in order to spread the water over his whole body. The liveliness that spreads through the body, and the movement that is created, when in a state of joy. (239)

Josh: ihtizaaz means 'dance'. (161)

FWP: SETS == BAH CANDLE: {39,1} JALVAH: {7,4} As Nazm points out, the unexpectedness and wit of the verse lies in the presentation of the second line as a pair of oaths affirming the content of the first line (2a): X is true-- I swear by Y, I swear by Z. In this case, 'X' affirms a 'quiver [of joy]', and Y and Z describe a cause and an effect of such a quiver. As Nazm points out, Y and Z can also be read as plain old similes (2b), which are much less piquant but no less appropriate to the occasion. This useful duality Ghalib owes to the handy multivalence of the Persian bah, 'with'. Look how the commentators seek to explain the uncommon word ihtizaaz. It seems to be a sort of quivering/shuddering expressive of almost uncontrollable joy. Thus it's perfect for the verse-- it's presented in the first line, then illustrated in the second line. What could illustrate that quiver of rapture? What if not the 'splendor-scattering of the breeze', and the 'wingfluttering of the candle'? Both are so lovely, and so apt! They even sound pretty good in English; but of course they are truly ravishing in Urdu. The whole verse rests on implication-- nothing in the verse links the two phrases in the second line except our prior knowledge of what breezes do to candle flames. Here the breeze and the candle are presented in parallel constructions: the breeze 'quivers' as it darts here and there in its playfulness and glory, the candle 'quivers' (in response? or independently?) as it flutters its wings. And my heart 'quivers' at the thought of you-- like the (active?) breeze, and also like the (passive?) candle. Of course, it's very possible that the breeze will blow out the candle, but in this verse that's not an issue at all-- the sense of joy is too overwhelming. The first line is so simple and straightforward, then the second line blossoms into such sheer beauty of language and thought. Who could read this verse and not want to recite it aloud? On the usage of 'the thought of you' versus 'your thought', see {41,6}.

{75,6} nishaa:t-e daa;G-e ;Gam-e ((ishq kii bahaar nah puuchh shiguftagii hai shahiid-e gul-e ;xizaanii-e sham((a

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1) the ecstasy of the flourishing/springtime of the wound/scar of the grief of passion-- don't ask [about it]! 2) floweringness martyrs itself for the autumnal rose/snuffer of the candle

Notes: gul: 'A rose; a flower; a red patch (on anything); --snuff [=snuffer out] (of a lamp or a candle)'. (Platts p.911)

Nazm: The meaning is that just as the flowering flame of flourishing/springtime [bahaar] creates autumn for the candle, in the same way the wound/scar of passion finishes off the lover. But in this wound/scar is a strange bahaar, and floweringness sacrifices itself for that autumnal rose. (77)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't ask me about the state of happiness and joy of the wound/scar of the grief of passion. It has the mood [kaifiyat] of the spring season. The way a candle is extinguished by a 'rose'/snuffer, in the same way the lover is martyred by the wound/scar of passion. The meaning is that in the wound/scar of passion such bahaar is hidden that floweringness has given up a thousand lives for it. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: The one who's been slain by the grief of passion-- how can I describe the bahaar of his ecstasy? Look-- floweringness dies for the autumn-stricken rose of the candle. That is, in passion all the bahaar is for the dying ones. And Mirza says in another place, {231,2}. (159)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; IZAFAT CANDLE: {39,1} Faruqi didn't comment on this one, but if he had, he would certainly have done for the first line another bravura i.zaafat analysis of the kind he did for {71,3}. So let me try to lay out the possibilities (only the final i.zaafat is compulsory): 1) nishaa:t-e daa;G-e ;Gam-e ((ishq kii bahaar nah puuchh 2) nishaa:t daa;G-e ;Gam-e ((ishq kii bahaar nah puuchh 3) nishaa:t-e daa;G ;Gam-e ((ishq kii bahaar nah puuchh 4) nishaa:t daa;G ;Gam-e ((ishq kii bahaar nah puuchh 1) as in the text main above, following Arshi 2) Ecstasy, don't ask about the bahaar of the wound/scar of the grief of passion! 3) Ecstasy of the wound/scar, don't ask about the bahaar of the grief of passion! 4) Ecstasy, wounds/scars-- don't ask about the bahaar of the grief of passion! I had a go at this verse on pp. 108-09 of Nets of Awareness too. At the time I thought it was pretty unusual among Ghalib's verses, but that was only because I didn't know him then the way I know him now. Not only are all these four possibilities quite legitimate, but some of them should actually be subdivided. In (3), for example, the i.zaafat opens up several further possibilities: is it ecstasy that is caused to me by the wound/scar; or ecstasy that is felt by the wound/scar itself; or ecstasy that pertains to the wound/scar in some more general way? The admirable and surprising thing is, no matter how you slice and dice the first line, it works excellently with the second line, showing lots of connection of both words and meaning. The verse is so rich in wordplay that a whole lovely extra dimension, gul as not only a flower but also a small cup-shaped candle-snuffer, is noticed only by Bekhud Dihlavi. (And what could be more 'autumnal' to the candle than a snuffer?)

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As in so many verses of this ghazal, the imagery is so rich that you can hardly get your analytical knife into it. Wherever you choose to prod it, a flock of meanings fly out, but there are always more behind them. Maybe we can sum it up as Bekhud Mohani does: in passion, all the bahaar is for the dying.

{75,7} jale hai dekh ke baaliin-e yaar par mujh ko nah kyuu;N ho dil pah mire daa;G-e badgumaanii-e sham((a 1) [it] {burns / feels jealousy}, having seen me at the beloved's pillow 2) why wouldn't there be on my heart the wound/scar of the suspicion of the candle?

Notes: Nazm: On the part of the candle there's suspicion, from seeing me at the beloved's pillow. It is struck by envy, and keeps on {burning / feeling jealousy}-- that is, in that place it considers itself special. (77)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it seems that the candle too is the beloved's lover, and considers me its Rival. Because having seen me near the beloved, it keeps burning with envy and jealousy. I have this suspicion about the candle. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: The candle {burns / feels jealous}. The lover considers, I am in the beloved's private chapter, the candle is {burning / feeling jealous} for this reason. Thus why wouldn't I be suspicious of the candle? That is, the candle is my Rival. When passion reaches a level of perfection, then a man begins to take offense at his own shadow. (160)

Shadan: In the art of rhetoric [fan-e badii((], the name of this is the verbal device of 'elegance in assigning a cause'.

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT CANDLE: {39,1} Some commentators read the verse as (1) I am suspicious and jealous of the candle; others read it as (2) the candle is suspicious and jealous of me. Whereas in fact, the chief pleasure of the verse is that it's carefully framed to permit both readings. On reading (1), we take the first line as an accurate observation about the feelings of the candle; on reading (2), we take the first line as a wildly jealous personification of an ordinary candle. In either case, the ambiguity of the i.zaafat in line two works perfectly. On reading (1), we take 'suspicion of the candle' [badgumaanii-e sham((a] to mean my suspicion of the candle; on reading (2), we take it to mean the candle's suspicion of me. Both readings are absolutely natural-sounding and possible. And in the process, the back-and-forthness of the readings also amusingly illustrates the reactive, obsessive, other-directed nature of jealousy. The lover and the candle, eyeing each other darkly (so to speak) in the beloved's chamber, feeling injured by each other's presence-- it's a captivating scene to imagine. The perfect convenience of the verb jalnaa, which means both 'to burn' and 'to feel jealous', can't of course be fully captured in English. We can 'burn with envy', but that's not as versatile. Shadan's claim that this verse represents 'elegance in assigning a cause' looks dubious to me, because the lover isn't explaining why all candles burn in general. He's only concerned with the behavior of one particular candle in one particular situation-- and even then, we are encouraged to consider him very possibly an unreliable observer.

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Ghazal 76 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar ;haif composed 1816; Hamid p. 61; Arshi #076; Raza pp. 146-47

{76,1} biim-e raqiib se nahii;N karte vidaa((-e hosh majbuur yaa;N talak hu))e ay i;xtiyaar ;haif 1) through terror of the Rival we do not take leave of consciousness 2) we became compelled/oppressed to this extent-- oh Control, {alas / what a pity}!

Notes: biim : 'Fear, terror, dread; danger, risk'. (Platts p.211) ;haif : 'Iniquity, injustice, oppression; a pity; --intj. Ah! alas! what a pity!' (Platts p.483)

Nazm: The cause of the fear is that the Rival, seeing me unconscious, might become acquainted with the secret of passion. This is love at the extreme-- that one is not even in control of his own consciousness, even in that there is fear of the Rival. Poets nowadays have rejected the word talak, and consider it un-eloquent [;Gair-fa.sii;h]. In place of talak they say tak . But in every language the standard of eloquence is idiom. Both talak and tak are current. Thus there's no reason to reject talak . (78)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that my inner self wants me to necessarily become unconscious; and the occasion too is such that I would do so. But with the thought of the revelation of the secret, I can't do such a thing. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: [Or else I fear unconsciousness because] the Rival will get up to some game with the beloved.... [About talak and tak] I agree with every word Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has said. In fact, I want to say this much more: that talak is more eloquent than tak . (160)

Chishti: In the second line, Ghalib has joined together two antonyms [ta.zaad ulma((nii laf:z] and created the excellence of the verbal device of opposition. Force [jabr , source of majbuur , 'compelled'] and control [i;xtiyaar] are opposites. (467)

FWP: The word biim is stronger than the ordinary ;Dar, and suggests a degree of terror from which one might indeed faint, or vidaa((-e hosh karnaa, 'take leave of one's awareness'. The first line thus becomes amusing and piquant: the lover complains not of fainting with fear, but of being too fearful to allow himself to faint. Why does the lover have this fear? The commentators generally follow Nazm: it's the fear that the Rival would realize the degree of my passion, and my secret would be revealed. (I would thus be guilty of an indiscretion, and the beloved might be angry; or the Rival might be able to use this knowledge against me.) Or, as Bekhud Mohani suggests, the lover might take advantage of my unconsciousness to make headway with the beloved.

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Why does the lover want to become unconscious in the first place? Perhaps from the extremity of passion, and the nearness of the ravishingly beautiful beloved. Or perhaps a mystical state of self-lessness [be-;xvudii] beckons. If the beloved is imagined as God, these two states of course collapse into one. The really clever, witty part of the verse is that final inshaa))iyah exclamation, 'Oh Control, alas!' [ay i;xtiyaar ;haif]. Only Chishti even tries to explain its appeal. Here are some possible ways of reading it: 1) Oh Control, alas that you're so strong! (So that I am able to refrain from losing consciousness, even when i long to do so.) 2) Oh Control, alas that you're so weak! (Since I'm so oppressed by fear of the Rival that I don't even have control over when to lose consciousness!) 3) Oh Control, alas for our unjust situation! (You and I are trapped, suffering together, so that whatever we do is a painful, oppressive choice.) 4) Oh Control, shame on you! (Couldn't you have got me out of this somehow? How does it happen that I find myself so oppressed?) The enjoyable ambiguity of the word i;xtiyaar -- control by whom or what? over whom or what?-- makes all these readings quite possible. It's clear that the lover is lamenting something, and that he feels put-upon, but it's impossible to decide exactly where the blame lies. The lover has set up a paradoxical situation in which because he is (uncontrollably?) forced to control himself, he complains that he lacks control. As usual, Ghalib doesn't let us resolve the situation-- but of course, he makes sure we can see and relish the unresolvability of it.

{76,2} jaltaa hai dil kih kyuu;N nah ham ik baar jal ga))e ay naa-tamaamii-e nafas-e shu((lah-baar ;haif 1) the heart {burns / feels jealous/envious}: why didn't we burn up one time? 2) oh incompleteness of the flame-shedding breath, alas!

Notes: jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: That is, the heart {burns / feels jealous/envious} over the fact that every breath produces a movement of incendiary sparks, but incomplete ones. Why don't we burn up completely, all at one time? In so many places the author has versified this medical problem [maslah-e :tibb]! (78)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The fire that flames in the breast had a claim that we would all at once burn up and turn to ashes. But incompleteness and unsuccessfulness prevent us from burning all at once. (125)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse can also be appropriate to the disease of fever/consumption [diqq]. (161)

Arshi: Compare {137,2}, {143,2}. (212, 257, 270)

FWP: On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6}. Arshi rightfully points to {143,2}, which is really strikingly close-- it too involves jalnaa , naa-tamaamii , and a nafas that is aatish-baar . But this one reminds me of {20,8}-- especially the second line: why would I have minded dying, if it had taken place one time [agar ek baar hotaa]? The

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possibilities here are the same as in that case. What is the cause for the lover's lament? Here are three possibilities: 1) The burning takes place not once, but many times-- so that we feel we've died a thousand deaths. 2) The burning takes place not all at once, but by degrees and in small increments-- so that we feel we're being slowly tortured to death by flying sparks. 3) The burning takes place not once, but never-- so that we're left longing vainly for the release that death would bring. As is usual with Ghalib, each of these readings works perfectly with the second line. And in the first line, each yields a slightly different reading of jalnaa in the sense of 'to feel jealousy/envy'-- in each case, we're jealous/envious of those lovers who have attained what we've failed to attain. And perhaps there's a secondary sense in which we're envious of the perfection, the completeness, that we've failed to achieve-- as in {60,1}, in which we {burn / feel jealous/envious} over our own failure to 'burn up' completely at the sight of the beloved. Nazm refers to the verse as describing a 'medical problem', and I think he's just teasing. But Bekhud Mohani seems to speak in all seriousness. At least he doesn't go so far as to claim that Ghalib had consumption at the time he wrote this verse-- after all, in 1816 Ghalib was only nineteen years old. Let me not get started on another rant about the problems of necharal shaa((irii when applied to the ghazal.

Ghazal 77 8 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa namak composed 1821; Hamid p. 62; Arshi #077; Raza pp. 232-33

{77,1} za;xm par chhi;Rke;N kahaa;N :tiflaan-e beparvaa namak kyaa mazah hotaa agar patthar me;N bhii hotaa namak 1a) as if careless children would sprinkle salt on the wound! 2a) how could careless children sprinkle salt on the wound? 2a) what pleasure there would be if in the stones too were salt! 2b) what pleasure would there be, if in the stones too were salt? 2c) would there be pleasure, if in the stones too were salt? 2d) as if there would be pleasure, if in the stones too were salt!

Notes: Nazm: The boys who are throwing rocks at the madman, and who don't think to put salt on the wounds-- what kind of intelligence do they have? If these stones were lumps of salt, it would have been a wonderful pleasure-- the wound would have been received, and salt too would have been sprinkled! (78)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the boys consider me a madman and throw stones, and from those stones wounds appear on my body. The boys are so careless that they don't sprinkle salt on the wounds. If there had been salt in the stones, or if the stones had been chunks of salt-stone, then I would have received great pleasure. That is, my body would have felt the wounds, and salt too would have been sprinkled on them. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: These careless beloveds (that is, raw/undisciplined [alha;R] beloveds) steal their lovers' hearts-- if only they knew how to torment them and show coquetry to them as well, which are the salt in the wound of passion. (161)

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Josh: It's as if they have no care for my pleasure of pain. If in those stones there were salt, what a pleasurable thing it would be! How can this pleasure of pain be described-- even in stones, a search for salt is made. (162)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN; KYA Well, this is an unusually clear-cut case. As far as I can tell, not one of the commentators mentions a single reading except (1a) and (2a). Every single later commentator whose work I'm using follows right along in Nazm's footsteps (including Bekhud Mohani, who simply interprets the boys as unpracticed beloveds). Yet I will argue for the existence of all the other readings. I think hardly anyone will deny that all the readings are grammatically possible. The commentators don't invoke them because they are satisfied that they already have either the best, or the only legitimate, reading-- the one that Ghalib himself had in mind. But how sadly unGhalibian their attitude is! If you've been looking at other verses in this commentary, you probably already know my general lines of argument. Ghalib has a tool-kit of special effects (many of which are illustrated in the SETS list) through which over and over again he demonstrates his remarkable genius for creating lines and verses with multiple, unresolvable meanings. In the absence of reason to the contrary, therefore, we should always LOOK for multiple meanings in a verse, so we can savor the pleasure of meaning-creation that Ghalib so manifestly cherished. I don't at all reject (1a) and (2a), so I'll leave them as the commentators have them. Why might we want also to explore (1b)? Think of uses like 'what kind of friendship is this?' [yih kahaa;N kii dostii hai], in {20,5}. Or even closer, 'where/how might we go and test fate?' [ham kahaa;N qismat aazmaane jaa))e;N], in {26,3}. They are both contrafactual in a sense, but can also be questions, and need not be wholly rhetorical ones. We can imagine a similar structure for 'how could/would the children sprinkle salt?' [:tiflaan namak kahaa;N chhi;Rke;N]. It might suggest the idea that they never could/would, but it also leaves a grammatical loophole for being explored, or even answered. And that reading gives a whole new twist to the second line. How can we expect rock-throwing urchins to know the subtleties of passion or pain? How can they possibly provide salt for the wounds, even if they want to? And who wants them to? Here are some responses by the lover, implicit in the various readings of the second line: ==What would be the pleasure if salt were in the stones too? I don't need any more salt-- I have enough of my own already! ==Imagine my wanting salt from such careless little barbarians! I get salt for my wounds only from the beloved herself, who is supremely expert at providing it. (Though the Advisor does his best to provide some too; see {4,7} for a description.) ==What a disaster-- if salt were everywhere and easy to get, there'd be no honor in being a lover! (This follows the reasoning of {60,3}.) ==Everybody knows that salt has to be 'sprinkled' [chhi;Raknaa] on a wound, delicately, slowly, repeatedly, for maximum effect. How could careless children with their crude one-time stones possibly accomplish this? == I wonder-- what would it be like if salt inhered even in stones? Would that in fact be pleasurable, or not? I must consider the implications before deciding. And so on; I'm sure that a bit of thought would reveal other possibilities. (And of course, it's fun to look for your own-- when you do, keep the bhii in mind.) But surely these are enough to make the point. Wouldn't we rather

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have a richer verse than a poorer one? Wouldn't we rather have a multidimensional verse, rather than one that can be replaced by a prose paraphrase? In the next verse, {77,2}, we see once again that 'salt' is nothing simple, but comes in varying kinds that have varying value. For more verses about stone-throwing, see {35,10}.

{77,1} za;xm par chhi;Rke;N kahaa;N :tiflaan-e beparvaa namak kyaa mazah hotaa agar patthar me;N bhii hotaa namak 1a) as if careless children would sprinkle salt on the wound! 2a) how could careless children sprinkle salt on the wound? 2a) what pleasure there would be if in the stones too were salt! 2b) what pleasure would there be, if in the stones too were salt? 2c) would there be pleasure, if in the stones too were salt? 2d) as if there would be pleasure, if in the stones too were salt!

Notes: Nazm: The boys who are throwing rocks at the madman, and who don't think to put salt on the wounds-- what kind of intelligence do they have? If these stones were lumps of salt, it would have been a wonderful pleasure-- the wound would have been received, and salt too would have been sprinkled! (78)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the boys consider me a madman and throw stones, and from those stones wounds appear on my body. The boys are so careless that they don't sprinkle salt on the wounds. If there had been salt in the stones, or if the stones had been chunks of salt-stone, then I would have received great pleasure. That is, my body would have felt the wounds, and salt too would have been sprinkled on them. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: These careless beloveds (that is, raw/undisciplined [alha;R] beloveds) steal their lovers' hearts-- if only they knew how to torment them and show coquetry to them as well, which are the salt in the wound of passion. (161)

Josh: It's as if they have no care for my pleasure of pain. If in those stones there were salt, what a pleasurable thing it would be! How can this pleasure of pain be described-- even in stones, a search for salt is made. (162)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN; KYA Well, this is an unusually clear-cut case. As far as I can tell, not one of the commentators mentions a single reading except (1a) and (2a). Every single later commentator whose work I'm using follows right along in Nazm's footsteps (including Bekhud Mohani, who simply interprets the boys as unpracticed beloveds). Yet I will argue for the existence of all the other readings. I think hardly anyone will deny that all the readings are grammatically possible. The commentators don't invoke them because they are satisfied that they already have either the best, or the only legitimate, reading-- the one that Ghalib himself had in mind. But how sadly unGhalibian their attitude is! If you've been looking at other verses in this commentary, you probably already know my general lines of argument. Ghalib has a tool-kit of special effects (many of which are illustrated in the SETS list) through which over and over again he demonstrates his remarkable genius for creating lines and verses with multiple, unresolvable meanings. In the absence of reason to the contrary, therefore, we should always LOOK for multiple meanings in a

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verse, so we can savor the pleasure of meaning-creation that Ghalib so manifestly cherished. I don't at all reject (1a) and (2a), so I'll leave them as the commentators have them. Why might we want also to explore (1b)? Think of uses like 'what kind of friendship is this?' [yih kahaa;N kii dostii hai], in {20,5}. Or even closer, 'where/how might we go and test fate?' [ham kahaa;N qismat aazmaane jaa))e;N], in {26,3}. They are both contrafactual in a sense, but can also be questions, and need not be wholly rhetorical ones. We can imagine a similar structure for 'how could/would the children sprinkle salt?' [:tiflaan namak kahaa;N chhi;Rke;N]. It might suggest the idea that they never could/would, but it also leaves a grammatical loophole for being explored, or even answered. And that reading gives a whole new twist to the second line. How can we expect rock-throwing urchins to know the subtleties of passion or pain? How can they possibly provide salt for the wounds, even if they want to? And who wants them to? Here are some responses by the lover, implicit in the various readings of the second line: ==What would be the pleasure if salt were in the stones too? I don't need any more salt-- I have enough of my own already! ==Imagine my wanting salt from such careless little barbarians! I get salt for my wounds only from the beloved herself, who is supremely expert at providing it. (Though the Advisor does his best to provide some too; see {4,7} for a description.) ==What a disaster-- if salt were everywhere and easy to get, there'd be no honor in being a lover! (This follows the reasoning of {60,3}.) ==Everybody knows that salt has to be 'sprinkled' [chhi;Raknaa] on a wound, delicately, slowly, repeatedly, for maximum effect. How could careless children with their crude one-time stones possibly accomplish this? == I wonder-- what would it be like if salt inhered even in stones? Would that in fact be pleasurable, or not? I must consider the implications before deciding. And so on; I'm sure that a bit of thought would reveal other possibilities. (And of course, it's fun to look for your own-- when you do, keep the bhii in mind.) But surely these are enough to make the point. Wouldn't we rather have a richer verse than a poorer one? Wouldn't we rather have a multidimensional verse, rather than one that can be replaced by a prose paraphrase? In the next verse, {77,2}, we see once again that 'salt' is nothing simple, but comes in varying kinds that have varying value. For more verses about stone-throwing, see {35,10}.

{77,2} gard-e raah-e yaar hai saamaan-e naaz-e za;xm-e dil varnah hotaa hai jahaa;N me;N kis qadar paidaa namak 1) the dust of the beloved's path is the equipment of the coquetry of the wound of the heart 2a) otherwise, to what extent is salt created in the world! 2b) otherwise, to what extent would salt be created in the world?!

Notes: Nazm: He says, the existence of salt in a wound is no such cause for pleasure. My wound plumes itself greatly on being full of the dust of the path of the beloved. Otherwise, what lack of salt is there in the world? Another aspect is that we would take kis qadar to mean, how/where [kahaa;N] is so much salt possible in the world, about which the wound in my liver could be proud? (78)

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Hasrat: Plenty of salt is produced in the world anyway, but what do we care about it? Here, the possession of the wound in the heart is the dust of the beloved's path. (72)

Bekhud Mohani: The phrase kis qadar cannot be for disdain. Because this line starts with varnah. And in the first line the poet has said that only the dust of the beloved's path is a cause for pride to the wound. (161-62)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT; KAHAN; VARNAH Nazm points out that kis qadar can be taken to operate the way kahaa;N does; I think he's exactly right. He points out two rhetorical possibilities of the second line. First, the affirmative (2a): how much salt is created in the world! (There's so much of it, but what good is any of it to me? I disdain and reject it all, since my own preferred salt is the dust of the beloved's path). Second, the negative (2b): how much salt could be created in the world?! (I use so much of it that I could never find enough for my purposes merely from the normal supply, so I must improvise and find my own private source.) As so often, this unresolvable back-and-forthness between two opposite meanings, both of which go so perfectly with the first line, is the real charm and relish of the verse. Ghalib is inshaa))iyah almost to the point of madness sometimes. The first line, shown with five i.zaafat constructions, is really structured like this: gard (-e) raah-e yaar hai saamaan (-e) naaz-e za;xm (-e) dil In other words, three of those i.zaafats are optional, rather than being required by the meter. (As always, I follow Arshi, who puts in all five.) By removing a selected one or more if we delete the one after saamaan, we could make, 'the dust of the beloved's path is equipment, oh Coquetry of the wound of the heart!' By deleting the first one, we could make 'oh Dust, the beloved's path is the equipment of the coquetry of the wound of the heart'. And so on, with several more possibilities available. Perhaps they aren't profound in their effects, but nevertheless they can't be ruled out by any kind of fiat, so they're there for the imagination to play with.

{77,3} mujh ko arzaanii rahe tujh ko mubaarak huujiyo naalah-e bulbul kaa dard aur ;xandah-e gul kaa namak 1a) may [it] remain bestowed on me, may [it] be auspicious for you-1b) may [it] remain bestowed on me, you are welcome to [it]! 2) the pain of the Nightingale’s lament, and the salt of the rose's smile

Notes: mubaarak: 'Blessed; happy, fortunate, auspicious; august; sacred, holy; -intj. Welcome! well! hail! all hail! blessings (on you)!; congratulations (to you)!' (Platts p.988) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, may the pain of the nightingale's lament be bestowed on me, and may the salt of the rose's smile be auspicious for you. In this verse huujiyo is a very distasteful word and is to be rejected. (78)

Bekhud Mohani: (1) The pain of the nightingale's lament-- that is, effect-- and the salt of the rose's smile-- that is, pleasure-- are such things as may God give to all, for they seem good to everyone.

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(2) May the pain of the nightingale's lament be auspicious to me, and the salt of the rose's smile to you. That is, I am of the 'people of pain', this is suitable for me. You are a lover of the pleasures of the world; may that be auspicious to you. (3) That is, may the pain of the nightingale's lament be vouchsafed to my laments. I am content with this. (162)

Josh: In this verse 'collecting and scattering' has been created. Salty/spicy [namkiin] beauty and salty/spicy laughter are united in eloquent everyday language. He says, oh friend may the pain of the nightingale's lament be bestowed upon me-- that is, may it continue to be vouchsafed to me. And may the salty/spicy laughter of the flowers be auspicious to you. A complaint of being ignored, in the curtain of sarcasm [:tanz], has been made. (162)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} As so often, we can't tell anything at all from the first line, and under mushairah performance conditions we'd have to endure the wait until the second line gave us, in a sudden rush, the missing puzzle pieces. Even then, we'd have some choices to make, since this verse is one of the many that provide us with a set of puzzle pieces that can fit together in a variety of ways, and we have to assemble them ourselves-- usually with more than one possible solution. Nazm reads the pieces as distributive-- the first half of the first line corresponds to the first half of the second line, and the second half of the first line corresponds to the second half of the second line. This is indeed the most obvious reading, and is saved from ordinariness by the doubleness of mubaarak honaa, which can be either sincere or (very readily and colloquially) sarcastic. For a similarly complex use of mubaarak honaa and further discussion of these uses, see {71,8}. Or, as Bekhud Mohani's first reading suggests, both halves of the first line can be taken as applying to both halves of the second line. Then, we also need to ask in what sense the parts of the second line are to be allocated to the parts of the first line. Bekhud Mohani's third reading proposes that to have the pain of the nightingale's lament would be an advantage to me because it would improve the efficacy of my own laments. Or maybe pain just does, and should, naturally gravitate to me, in my capacity as suffering lover. Just as the salt of the rose's smile inevitably belongs to you. (And of course, you in turn provide the 'salt' for my wounds.) You are successful and worldly, and I know it, and I let you know that I know it, not without a touch of bitterness; for another verse in this vein, see {17,6}. As Josh notes, to be 'salty', namkiin, is also to be lively, risque, daring, saucily attractive. (This is where we get salaunii in Urdu, and 'salacious' in English-- from salt.) Thus he reads the verse as witty and humorous, with the lover mischievously teasing the beloved. The nightingale is madly in love with the rose, of course, as we all know. His song, and his pain, are only for her. She smiles-- with what kind of a smile? (See {33,3} for another example of her smile.) As we all know, her 'smile' is her full bloom, and it heralds her imminent death. Does she smile despite knowing this? Does she smile because she knows this? Is this why her smile rubs salt in the nightingale's wounds? Is he singing not only with passion, but with the pain of imminent loss? Thus we have a 'tragic' reading to set against Josh's 'comic' reading, and also Bekhud's 'global' reading, and a lot more ambiguities and possibilities

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constantly hovering around the edges. Another ravishing, haunting, unresolvable verse.

{77,4} shor-e jaulaa;N thaa kinaar-e ba;hr par kis kaa kih aaj gard-e saa;hil hai bah za;xm-e maujah-e daryaa namak 1) whose turbulence/bitterness of movement/chains was at the edge of the sea? --that today 2) the dust of the shore is, with/like the wound of the sea-wave, salt

Notes: shor : 'Din, clamous, uproar, tumult, disturbance;.... --adj. Disturbed (in mind), mad (=shoriidah); --salt, brackish...; very bitter; -- unlucky'. (Platts p.736) jaulaa;N : 'Wandering up and down, wandering about;... moving around (as a horse in a manege [=riding school]), coursing;... Fetters, irons'. (Platts p.398)

Nazm: At the edge of the sea, the movement of the beloved's horse was so full of shor that it turned the sand-grains of the shore into salt. Energy and shor are among the qualities of the ocean; seeing this quality in her movement, salt began to enter the wounds of the waves-- that is, from envy. (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what pearl of the sea of delicacy runs her horse across the sands of the ocean, such that the dust of the horse's hooves act as salt to the wounds of the sea waves? The meaning is that my beloved's horse was swifter than even the sea waves, and quickly responded to the reins, so that envy of this sprinkled salt in the wounds of the sea waves. (125)

Josh: jaulaa;N has a number of meanings. Here, it means 'chains'. shor means 'turmoil', and also 'salt'. Here advantage has been taken of both meanings. He says, the turmoil/bitterness of which madman's chains was on the seashore, that the ground of the shore too became turmoil/bitterness? And the dust that flew up from this ground and went toward the water, it too was scattering salt on the wounds of the sea waves. (162-63)

Faruqi: The interpretation of the verse is entirely clear. [He agrees with the consensus expressed by Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi.] After this explication of the verse, there remain some important points in the verse itself. (1) In this verse Ghalib has used in an extremely beautiful manner a central subject of his-- that is, movement.... (2) In the verse under discussion, the metaphor of ocean/sea for movement has been searched out. Even the quietest sea or ocean is in motion at every instant. (3) For this reason, the sea is a symbol of time. In the dictionary meanings of the words, the following points are hidden: (1) No matter how swift-moving the ocean may be, it doesn't cause dust to fly. [The beloved's horse does, which increases the ocean's envy.] (2) The beloved's beauty and charm have created in the sand of the shore the qualities of salt. (3) The sea water is salty because the kicked-up salty dust of the beloved's steed has become mixed into it. (4) The movement of clear water is not very apparent, but if something like dust should fall in, then through its movement the movement of the water becomes clear.... Movement is a symbol of restlessness....

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(5) The opposite can also be true. If dust is thrown into water, then from the burden of the dust the movement of the water can also become less....This became a cause for further envy. (6) From the phrase 'that today' in the first line, the conclusion can also be drawn that the ocean or sea is more wounded than previously.... (8) [=7] The wordplay is worthy of attention: shor (meaning 'tumult', and meaning 'salt' or 'salty'); jaulaa;N (meaning 'gallop of a horse', 'movement', and 'chains for the feet'); the saltiness of the sea (brackishness), the wound (which is like a smile, and a smile is 'salty').... (9) [=8] Except for the last two feet, in this verse all the feet end just where the words end. This is a form of parallelism. Perhaps Asar Lakhnavi was the first to suggest the abundance of this kind of parallelism in Ghalib's poetry. This excellence certainly plays some part in the individuality of Ghalib's verbal harmony. (93-95)

FWP: SETS == BAH An elegant verse based on complex wordplay. The commentators appreciate the play on salt, but they miss-- or perhaps deliberately reject-- the play on jaulaa;N . Most of them prefer its meaning of 'movement', while Josh insists on 'chains'. Needless to say, Ghalib surely intended us to relish the interplay of both, as Faruqi indicates. For another such double use of jaulaa;N , see {23,1}, and especially Faruqi's commentary. It's the word shor that helps to pull everything together. Tumult, madness, bitterness, saltiness-- its range of meanings contains suitable matches for both jaulaa;N as 'movement' and jaulaa;N as 'chains'. With, of course, the sense of 'saltiness' left over to go with the namak in the second line. Salt is a property of the sea anyway, and to connect it to the salt that is sprinkled on the lover's wounds is an enjoyable notion. But what is the relationship of the sea-salt to the shore-salt described in line two? Here again, we have two choices, thanks to the versatility of the little Persian preposition bah . If we take bah to mean 'with', then it is the salt received from the wound of the waves that has made the shore sands salty, since the waves constantly come lapping over them. If we take it to mean 'like', then both the wound of the waves and the sands of the shore are equally salty. In either case, the shore sands are salty because someone has passed by who has either made them envious (and thus rubbed salt in their wounds); or else conveyed to them a sense of his own bitterness, passion, and suffering, such that they have become salt-- either to enhance his pleasure in suffering, or in some kind of self-sterilizing response to his bitter pain. Most of the commentators think they're simply jealous of the beloved's horse with its fast movement, and of her beauty and power over it. To me that sounds adequate in a way, but still somehow a little deflating. Why not leave the question as a question, and let it haunt the salty air of the seashore? After all, whose passing has left the shore-sands in this condition? Rhetorically, it's almost the same kind of question as the one asked in the first line of {1,1}.

{77,5} daad detaa hai mire za;xm-e jigar kii vaah vaah yaad kartaa hai mujhe dekhe hai vuh jis jaa namak 1) [she] does justice to the wound in my liver-- bravo! 2) [she] remembers me, [in] whichever place she sees salt

Notes: Nazm: It's an expression of the beloved's mischievousness, that she sprinkles salt in wounds and where she sees salt, she remembers me; that is, she sends for me and sprinkles salt in my wounds. (79)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, wherever my beloved sees salt, she remembers me-- that is, involuntarily I come to mind, and the wound in my liver which she always fills with salt. And when I come to mind, she also praises the wound in my liver. (125)

Bekhud Mohani: He complains that when some new tyranny occurs to her, then she remembers me. That is, having become a lover I've experienced a remarkable amount of punishment. [Or:] She is proud of me, for she has faith in my ability to endure pain; and most of all she knows me as one who craves the pleasure of suffering. (162)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} As so often, we have two independent lines, and no clear indication how to link them. Perhaps the first is an explanation of the second (I notice her behavior in the presence of salt, and have now found out how to account for it). Or perhaps the second is an explanation of the first (I am delighted at her appreciation of the wound in my liver and can give an example of her great solicitude for it). The vaah vaah, though it initially presents itself as my (sarcastic?) approval of her attitude, could even be a representation of her words, an exclamation of approval as she 'does justice to' the wound in the liver. But what does it really mean to 'do justice to' the wound in the liver? To admire it? To think about it? To poke and prod it approvingly? To add more salt to it? Any or all of these, of course. And what does it mean for her to 'remember me'? yaad karnaa is much stronger and more purposeful than the intransitive yaad aanaa. When the king sends for someone, the messenger tells the person that the king has 'remembered' [yaad farmaanaa] him. The king's recollection is taken as equivalent to a command for immediate appearance in the Presence. This is why Nazm interprets the beloved's 'remembering' of the lover as an immediate summons to her Presence. Does the sight of salt trigger her memory because the lover's liver-wound is already so full of salt? Because she has so often sprinkled salt into it? Because it reminds her how enjoyable it would be to send for him and sprinkle more salt into it? As usual, why not all of the above?

{77,6} chho;R kar jaanaa tan-e majruu;h-e ((aashiq ;haif hai dil :talab kartaa hai za;xm aur maa;Nge hai;N a((.zaa namak 1) to go and abandon the lover’s wounded body-- it's a shame! 2) the heart seeks out a wound, and the limbs demand salt

Notes: Nazm: That is, the limbs have already been wounded; they are demanding salt. And the heart has not yet been wounded, and it wants a wound. In such a difficulty, where/how [kahaa;N] can you go and abandon them? (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in such a time your going, and leaving the lover's wounded body, is a cause for regret-- when the heart is in search of a wound, and the limbs of the body are seeking salt; that is, when the wounds aren't as yet filled with salt, and neither has the yeart been wounded at all. (125)

Josh: That is, having wounded only the body, why are you going? My heart too seeks a wound, and the limbs too want a sprinkling of salt. This half-finished cruelty is a cause for regret. The point of the utterance is that to satiate my relish for suffering, this much cruelty cannot be enough. (163)

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FWP: SETS == HUMOR It's clear from the first line that this verse reproaches the evil behavior of the beloved. How could she go off and leave her lover wounded, helpless, alone? For shame! Just at the time when his need is most dire, she coldheartedly refuses to fulfill it. We are invited to share the speaker's-presumably the lover's-- indignation. The enjoyableness of the verse depends, in fact, on a mushairah-like separation of the lines. After the first line has left us seething with righteous indignation, we have to wait for the second line to discover more details of the beloved's callous conduct. Then, of course, we learn the real nature of her guilt: she has not sufficiently tormented her lover. How can she leave the poor heart to beg in vain for a wound, while all the limbs of the body are vainly beseeching her for salt? It is cruel of her not to tend to their needs, as they writhe and plead in pathetic suffering. This could almost be taken as the kind of complaint made against a hunter who has not humanely finished off her wounded prey. Almost, but not quite. For the hunter who has wounded her prey owes it, in common humanity, a quick and relatively painless death. It's her duty to seek it out and administer the coup de grace. But here, of course, what is wanted is more wounds, more lingering pain, more degrees and kinds of agony. How indignantly the lover itemizes his body's claims! In a light, witty verse like this, tone is everything. In fact, this beloved is being reproached for not acting like the beloved in {2,1}, who visits her lover in his time of need, and kindly (?) brings him all manner of thoughtful little attentions-- gifts of pain and suffering, wounds, and ground glass.

{77,7} ;Gair kii minnat nah khe;Nchuu;Ngaa pa))-e taufiir-e dard za;xm mi;sl-e ;xandah-e qaatil hai sar-taa-sar namak 1) I won’t accept the kindness of {another / the Other} with regard to an abundance/excess of pain 2) the wound, like the murderer's smile, is, from end to end, salt

Notes: Nazm: The 'smile of the wound' is a famous metaphor; here, the writer has made the invention of giving it the simile of the smile of the beloved. And the cause of similitude he has declared to be its being salty. And the wound in which there's salt-- how can its pain be described? (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I don't like to plead with the Other, and that too with the wordplay of pain: my wound, like the murderer's smile, is end-to-end salt. (126)

Bekhud Mohani: Why would I become indebted to anyone's kindness for increasing pain? For my wound of itself, like the beloved's smile, consists of salt. That is, my wound itself is giving the extreme of pain-- what need is there of sprinkling salt on it? (163)

Faruqi: (1) 'Other' can mean the Rival, and the beloved too, [or] 'other people'.... (2) ;xandah-e qaatil is a compound phrase [murakkab i.zaaf;aa] meaning 'the smile of the murderer'. But we can also consider it a descriptive phrase [murakkab tau.siifii], that is, 'that smile which is murderous'. (3) They call the wound 'smiling' because it's open like lips, and is red. The smile is salty, so the wound too is salty. The salty smile is beautiful, so the

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salty wound is beautiful too. However beautiful the smile is, that's how salty it will be. However deep the wound is, that's how salty it will be. (4) The salty wound is extremely beautiful. The speaker sees beauty in his wound. (In one place Shakespeare has called a wound 'ruby lips'.) (96-97)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} Normally ;Gair refers to the Other as the Rival, and that is certainly possible here. I might refuse to receive any extra salt for my wounds at the cost of being beholden to the patronizing, snide generosity of my competitor in love. But given the generality of the first line, it might also mean the 'other' in a more abstract sense-- any other. This reading is made more plausible by Ghalib's frequent insistence on independence and radical non-indebtedness (for more on this see {26,1}). And after all, why do I need to even think of such indebtedness to another or an Other anyway? All that I might need is more pain-- more salt for my wounds-- and I have an ample supply of that! The wound is end-to-end salt already, and could hardly even accommodate any more. Best of all is that wry little aside, 'like the murderer's smile'. It is presented as a mere simile, and as Nazm points out, it cleverly evokes the 'smile of the wound'. (In English too, a wound has a 'mouth' and can be 'gaping'.) The beloved's smile as end-to-end salt is so evocative! The wider her smile, the more it stretches her length of her lips, and so the more salt it contains. The more sincere and affectionate she might intend/pretend her smile to be, the more salt it provides for the wounds of the lover who knows she will always be beyond his reach. And of course, 'saltiness' is part of the beloved's beauty; on this see {77,3}. And providing salt for the lover's wounds is not only or always an act of cruelty, but is even part of her proper duty as a beloved. Not only this verse but most of the verses of this ghazal, after all, reflect the lover's search for more, or better, salt for his wounds. We are back again in the world of hopelessly fused opposites-- pain and joy, cruelty and kindness-- in which the lover pursues his passionate madness.

{77,8} yaad hai;N ;Gaalib tujhe vuh din kih vujd-e ;zauq me;N za;xm se girtaa to mai;N palko;N se chuntaa thaa namak 1) you remember, Ghalib, those days when, in a trance of relish 2) [when it] fell from the wound, then I used to gather the salt with [my] eyelashes

Notes: Nazm: It's a famous idea that if salt falls on the ground, then it ought to be picked up with the eyelashes. (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, you're an old friend and sympathizer. You've always remained with me. You remember those days too, when grains of salt fell from my wounds, and I used to pick them up with my eyelashes. In this expression two excellences have been created. One is this: that I was so devoted to suffering that the portion of salt that was lost from my wounds, I used to ardently pick it up again and restore it to the wound. The second excellence is this: that there's a gesture toward this famous idea that if salt falls on the ground, it ought to be picked up with the eyelashes. (126)

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Josh: The old idea is that you shouldn't let a single grain of salt fall on the ground; otherwise, you will be forced to pick it up with the eyelashes [on Doomsday]. That is, you'll be punished for this sin. Zauq has said: jitnaa hai namak tum mire za;xmo;N me;N khapaa))o palko;N se u;Thaa))oge nah haatho;N se giraa))o [however much salt you use/consume from my wounds you will lift it with the eyelashes, not knock it out with the hands] The meaning of the verse is, oh Ghalib, you surely remember those days when, intoxicated with your relish, you yourself filled your wounds with salt, and were so careful in this task that if any grain of salt fell from the wound, then you picked it up with your eyelashes and returned it to the wound. It's a pity that in this limit of despair now neither that intoxication has remained, nor has that relish remained. (163-64)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE If we put the commentators together, I think they make this one pretty clear. The belief that one must not spill even a grain of salt is perhaps based not only on salt's once-great value and rarity, but also on its unique usefulness as a spice and preservative. That prudent, sensible reluctance to waste a valuable foodstuff is here wittily transmuted into a sign of the lover's former condition, his virtual 'trance' of passion. As Bekhud Dihlavi observes, that time is over now-- it is pointedly contrasted with the (despairing? apathetic? burnt-out?) present. But whose voice are we hearing? Who is the 'I' who addresses Ghalib as 'you', using the intimate tuu? The question surely must remain perplexing. Nazm, Chishti, Mihr, and some other commentators consider the textual warrant for replacing tujhe with mujhe in the first line, or else mai;N with tuu in the second line; as always I follow Arshi. The simplest solution is just to say that Ghalib is addressing himself in both the first and intimate second persons. For after all, who else would be a likely candidate for picking up salt grains with his/her eyelashes and restoring them carefully to the lover's wound? Certainly not the cruel or indifferent beloved; hardly the lover's friend or confidant; and who else is there? Perhaps the lover just talks to himself in this complex, intimate way because he has no one else to reminisce with.

Ghazal 78 7 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: ar hote tak composed 1821; Hamid p. 63; Arshi #078

{78,1} aah ko chaahiye ik ((umr a;sar hote tak kaun jiitaa hai tirii zulf ke sar hote tak 1) a sigh needs a lifetime until an effect will occur 2) who lives until your curls will be subdued?

Notes: Nazm: It's an idiom that ham is baat ke sar ho ga))e-- that is, we've understood it. That is, by the time your curls would become aware of my condition, I'll be finished off. (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a sigh needs a lifetime to create an effect, and by the time the effect will have been made and your curls will become aware of our

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anxious/tangled [pareshaa;N] condition-- how will be be able to remain alive till that time? (126)

Bekhud Mohani: sar honaa = raam honaa [to be tamed, subdued].... A sigh will create an effect in a lifetime. And by the time your arrogant/'high-headed' [sar-kash] curls would be sar (raam), our life will be over. That is, we won't live long enough for you to become kind. (164)

Shadan: [There are some difficulties in this verse.] I don't have any other commentary in my possession except these two [Hasrat and Nazm] that I mention. I hear that ten or fifteen commentaries have already been printed. If I had another, then I'd look into it. I don't want to buy one. I haven't managed to borrow any yet. The search continues. (243)

Mihr: sar honaa: The meanings of this idiom are varied.... A common meaning of it is 'to subdue, to subjugate' [musa;x;xar karnaa]. (262-63)

FWP: Some editors modernize the refrain of this ghazal into hone tak. I'm glad Arshi has not followed this unfortunate practice. What do we gain by such modernization, compared to what we lose in losing the words that Ghalib actually wrote? As so often, in this verse we're presented with two independent lines, and no guidance as to how to connect them. I'm surprised that some of the important commentators insist on an excessively literal-minded link: the idea that it's your curls that will eventually (though much too slowly) become aware of my condition (2b). Why should the beloved's curls suddenly be made sentient, and what's the poetic gain achieved thereby? And what's the poetic connection, in that case, between the two lines? Apparently these commentators consider that the idiomatic expression sar honaa should be read primarily as 'to understand', and they then read it in a literal-minded way. I can't rule this meaning out entirely, but I certainly think it's an inferior and secondary one. 'Who lives until your curls will understand?' is not any more effective in Urdu than it is in English. I go with Bekhud Mohani, Mihr, and the minority: if we take sar honaa to mean 'to be subdued, tamed', as in (2a), we end up with much richer and more interesting interpretive possibilities. I even have the perfect illustration ready: {71,2}. In that verse, the long, dark, tangled curls of the beloved are implicitly (and only implicitly) likened to the long, dark, tangled thoughts of the lover. She sits obliviously adorning her hair, he sits thinking. We imagine that he is probably watching her, but we can't prove it. In this verse, similarly, she sits combing her thick, hard-to-subdue curls. He sits sighing, or else thinking about sighing, and regretting her (physical? emotional?) inaccessibility, her unsubdueableness. We imagine that he is probably watching her, but we can't prove it. He realizes that it will take as long for his attentive concentration to have an effect on her, as it will for her attentive concentration to subdue her unruly curls. Or rather, almost as long: it will take a lifetime for his sighs to have an effect, but more than a lifetime (who can live that long?) for her curls to be subdued. Alternatively, she may be so fatally irresistible that the lover's lifetime will be extremely short-- merely the time it takes her to comb her hair is already longer than he, ravaged by passion, will be able to survive. This ghazal, and this verse in particular, are very famous and often recited. In both this verse and {71,2}, the two lines suggest two very different emotional and physical worlds, even if both these worlds are located in the same room. Isn't there a particularly 'modern', distant, remote quality about

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these two verses? A sort of 'so near and yet so far' effect. They seem so simple, but then somehow there's no end to them.

{78,2} daam-e har mauj me;N hai ;halqah-e .sad kaam-e nihang dekhe;N kyaa guzre hai qa:tre pah guhar hote tak 1) in the net of every wave is a circle of a hundred crocodile-mouths 2) let [us] see what happens to the drop until it becomes a pearl

Notes: Hali: The meaning that has been expressed in this verse is only to this extent: that man, in reaching the level of accomplishment, has to face severe difficulties. (129).

Nazm: This verse is an illustration [tam;siil] that in the world a storm of events is constantly raging. The meaning is that even on the verge of success, one might not manage to succeed. Here every wave is a net; and every circle of the net, a crocodile's mouth. (79-80)

Mihr: Mirza's accomplishment is that he has presented the dangers in the most inescapable form possible. In addition, he has not described in detail which disasters will come to the drop; and these cannot be described, because every drop cannot be confronted by the same circumstances. And every reader, keeping the dangers in view, can estimate them himself. In truth, in the verse this non-describedness too has a special pleasure-giving effect. (264)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; MUSHAIRAH This verse relies on an Indian folk-traditional notion that raindrops falling into the sea during the month of Swati, if they reach the depths of the sea intact, and if they are then swallowed by oysters, are the source of pearls. Ghalib has dramatized the difficulties and dangers of this process. The first line, appropriately to mushairah performance conditions, is entirely striking and powerful, but quite obscure. Why should waves be nets, and why should their round meshes be hundreds of round crocodile-mouths? It doesn't sound like a description of the dangers to humans in the sea. And yet, none of the other characters in the ghazal world-- the Moth, the Nightingale, etc.-- are aquatic. We are left perplexed, obliged to wait in suspense until, after a suitably tantalizing delay, we're allowed to hear the second line. Now we receive the necessary information, but, as appropriate, only at the last possible moment. Even the mention of the drop doesn't help much, for the usual range of relationships between drops and oceans have nothing to do with the imagery of the first verse; for more typical drops and oceans, see {21,8}. Not until the end of the verse when we hear the word 'pearl', the rhyme-word itself, do we finally have the necessary information to make sense of the verse. And then, of course we grasp it completely and all at once. As Mihr nicely observes, the very 'non-describedness' of the dangers facing the hapless, vulnerable, gallant, ambitious drop is also part of the charm of the verse. We are left to imagine them for ourselves. Which of course we are all too well able to do, for don't we recognize in the travels (and travails) of the drop, the journeys of our own lives?

{78,3} ((aashiqii .sabr-:talab aur tamannaa betaab dil kaa kyaa rang karuu;N ;xuun-e jigar hote tak 1) being a lover is endurance-demanding, and longing is restless

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2a) what color/mood would I make of the heart, until it becomes blood of the liver? 2b) what a color/mood I would make of the heart, until it becomes blood of the liver! 2c) how would I make a color/mood of the heart, until 'blood of the liver' appears/exists?

Notes: Nazm: That is, the affairs of passion are such that they can't be accomplished quickly, and longing is restless and is in a hurry. In short, until the liver would be turned to blood [jigar lahuu hu))aa] and would be finished off, it's very difficult to control the heart. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, being a lover is a patience-demanding task, and longing is in a hurry to obtain success as quickly as possible. How would I be able to give patience to my heart and restrain my liver? The meaning is that when the liver will be turned to blood, at that time there will be effect in the sigh, and the aspect of success will be visible. (126)

Baqir: In such a condition, until the liver turns to blood, and stability and effect would be created in passion-- until that time, how would I manage my heart, how would I control it? (208)

FWP: SETS == KYA JIGAR: {2,1} All the commentators agree on the lover's basic dilemma, and they all agree that when the 'liver turns to blood' the dilemma will be resolved. They disagree on how it will be resolved. To Nazm, the resolution will be the liver's death, and thus apparently the lover's death, so that all his troubles will be over. Bekhud Dihlavi and Baqir seem to feel that the liver's turning to blood will create 'effect' [a;sar] in the lover's sighs, and will thus bring him at least some form of success. If we read the second line as the commentators do, we have dil kaa ... ;xuune jigar honaa , 'the heart's being blood of the liver'. On this reading, the heart itself would eventually melt away through grief into a mere little blob of blood-- blood which itself could be reprocessed and used by the desperate liver in its quest for fresh supplies. This is a piquant way of solving the problem of the uncontrollably impatient heart. But in any case, the multivalence of kyaa is the key to the verse. Perhaps the second line asks a question (2a): what would I do with the heart, how can I manage it, until it finally turns into blood and ends the problem? Or perhaps the line is exclamatory (2b): since my longing is so restless, it will uncontrollably turn the heart into such wondrously strange 'colors' and 'moods' during the interval before it finally turns into blood! In the grammatical context of the line, another meaning for ;xuun-e jigar honaa , 'blood of the liver to be', would appear to be the arriving of (fresh) blood from the liver (2c). As everybody in the ghazal world knows (on this see {30,2}), the liver is the emblem of fortitude precisely because it makes fresh blood; it then sends this blood along to the heart which rapidly uses it up through wounds, bloody tears, etc. So if the speaker asks how he can can control the impatient, restless heart until fresh blood supplies arrive from the liver, the verse works perfectly well. (Although of course a purist might wish for aate tak instead of hote tak). Faiz used this verse in one of his nazms, rang hai dil kaa mire . I used this particular nazm as an example in an article on translation. This article is now available online.

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{78,4} ham ne maanaa kih ta;Gaaful nah karoge lekin ;xaak ho jaa))e;Nge ham tum ko ;xabar hote tak 1) we've been persuaded that you won't show negligence, but 2) we'll become dust by the time the news reaches you

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is that when the news reaches you, you will take heed, but while the news is on its way to you-- here, we are finished off. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To pull out from this ground such a clear and unexampled verse-- this was a task for an accomplished master like Mirza. He says, we're persuaded that you won't engage in neglect, and will come quickly. But while news is in the process of reaching you, we will turn to dust, so what's the cure for that? (127)

Josh: It's a very clear and well-worked-out [suljhaa hu))aa] theme. That is, I'm persuaded that you will give up negligence and will return quickly. But the state we are in in your absence will finish us off, and by the time news of our bad state reaches you, we will already have been done for. (164)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; HUMOR A lovely, witty, little 'catch-22' in this one. If I don't accept your your pledge not to neglect or ignore me, I will offend you-- and thus assure that I'll never get any favors from you. Yet if I do accept it, and thus earn your good will, I'll never live long enough to get any favors from you. (For I'll of course be in bad shape in your absence, but I'll be dead before you even learn of it.) So no matter what I do, I'm doomed. Yet the tone of the verse is surely wry, dry, rueful, even amused. The lover is quite aware of the paradoxical quality of a non-negligence that has exactly the same effect as negligence: a nonnegligence that will be brought to bear only after the non-neglected person is dead. In fact, this paradoxical quality reminds me of {17,8}-- oh, the repentance of that 'quick-repenter'! First she kills me, then she swears off murder. In the present verse, first I will die without her, then she will show her non-neglect! Why will it take so long for word to reach her? Perhaps because she's always so far away, so inaccessible, so basically indifferent, that even a Messenger traveling at full speed would take ages to reach her. Or perhaps because my condition without her will be so dire that I won't last any longer than a candle in the wind, so even a fast channel of communication will prove too slow. Or perhaps because she will use slowness of communication as an excuse-- oh, I would have come, but alas, the message only reached me too late. (Or, of course, since these possibilities aren't mutually exclusive, all of them at once.) One more possibility occurs to me. Perhaps the 'news' that will reach her only after I'm dead is not some hypothesized news of my illness, but the 'news' that I've conceded, and claimed to be persuaded, that she won't show negligence. Perhaps we had had a quarrel, and I accused her of being negligent. She denied it. Later, upon reflection, I decided to concede the point, maybe as a gesture of reconciliation. But of course, my concession is useless, because I'll be dead before she learns of it. What can a poor lover do but at least tease her, at least enjoy the irony? That much he's doing. The verse, after all, is addressed directly and familiarly [tum] to her.

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{78,5} partav-e ;xvur se hai shabnam ko fanaa ki ta((liim mai;N bhii huu;N ek ((inaayat kii na:zar hote tak 1) from the ray of sun is, for the dew, education in oblivion 2) I too exist until a glance of favor appears

Notes: Nazm: That is, my existence is like that of dew, and your glance is a ray of sunlight. With one single glance from you, I can no longer have any stability or foundation, the way dew is obliterated by a ray of sunlight. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way the dew evaporates and flies up from the heat of the sun, in the same way I too will be obliterated by a glance of favor from you. The meaning is that my existence has no more substance than that of the dew, nor can I have any more stability or foundation than it does. (127)

Bekhud Mohani: [He might be speaking to the True Beloved.] [Or:] It's possible that he might have said 'glance of favor' out of sarcasm-that is, the day your eye falls on me, I'll be finished off. [Or:] When you become kind to me, my life is over, [as in] {126,8}. (165)

Shadan: This word ta((liim doesn't seem like a very good one. [Here's an improved version of the first line:] partav-e mihr to hai vaj'h-e fanaa-e shabnam /the ray of sun is the cause of the oblivion of the dew/. (244)

FWP: Unusually for Ghalib, in this verse we actually have some genuine interpretive help in connecting the two lines. The little bhii, 'too', confirms for us that the comparison is between the lover and the drop of dew, and that they share important traits. The relevant trait is obviously that of being instantly evaporated, receiving an 'education in oblivion', from the first ray of the sun or the first 'warm' glance of the beloved. The Sufi term fanaa suggests that the lover might feel about that glance the rapturous delight that a mystic would feel about absorption in the Divine. There might also be a bit of trembling involved, as we saw when the lover literally depicted himself as a drop of dew in the desert in {61,1}. If we take the beloved's 'kindly' glance as benevolently intended, there's a suggestive parallel to the situation in {9,7}, in which the lover is so weak that Jesus's attempt to revive him by breathing on him kills him instead. Perhaps the beloved looks with kind intentions-- and then regrets that her glance has caused the lover to vanish in a puff of vapor? Equally possible is Bekhud Mohani's notion that the lover is speaking sarcastically-- thanks for your 'kind' glance, it's bound to vaporize me! Or his even more extreme suggestion that she might do it on purpose: in {126,8}, the verse he cites, the second line is, 'the person whose friend you are, why should the sky be his enemy?' (Or, as we'd put it in English, 'with friends like you, who needs enemies?') Of course in the previous verse, {78,4}, we learned that the beloved's neglect will kill the lover; now we learn that her glance of favor too will do him in. What's a poor beloved to do? Or a poor lover? The lover's journey is a predestined route to death; and he knows this and chooses it even as it chooses him. It's the anticipatory part of his 'education in oblivion'-- an education which, as we learn from {61,3}, has been going on for some ages now.

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{78,5} partav-e ;xvur se hai shabnam ko fanaa ki ta((liim mai;N bhii huu;N ek ((inaayat kii na:zar hote tak 1) from the ray of sun is, for the dew, education in oblivion 2) I too exist until a glance of favor appears

Notes: Nazm: That is, my existence is like that of dew, and your glance is a ray of sunlight. With one single glance from you, I can no longer have any stability or foundation, the way dew is obliterated by a ray of sunlight. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way the dew evaporates and flies up from the heat of the sun, in the same way I too will be obliterated by a glance of favor from you. The meaning is that my existence has no more substance than that of the dew, nor can I have any more stability or foundation than it does. (127)

Bekhud Mohani: [He might be speaking to the True Beloved.] [Or:] It's possible that he might have said 'glance of favor' out of sarcasm-that is, the day your eye falls on me, I'll be finished off. [Or:] When you become kind to me, my life is over, [as in] {126,8}. (165)

Shadan: This word ta((liim doesn't seem like a very good one. [Here's an improved version of the first line:] partav-e mihr to hai vaj'h-e fanaa-e shabnam /the ray of sun is the cause of the oblivion of the dew/. (244)

FWP: Unusually for Ghalib, in this verse we actually have some genuine interpretive help in connecting the two lines. The little bhii, 'too', confirms for us that the comparison is between the lover and the drop of dew, and that they share important traits. The relevant trait is obviously that of being instantly evaporated, receiving an 'education in oblivion', from the first ray of the sun or the first 'warm' glance of the beloved. The Sufi term fanaa suggests that the lover might feel about that glance the rapturous delight that a mystic would feel about absorption in the Divine. There might also be a bit of trembling involved, as we saw when the lover literally depicted himself as a drop of dew in the desert in {61,1}. If we take the beloved's 'kindly' glance as benevolently intended, there's a suggestive parallel to the situation in {9,7}, in which the lover is so weak that Jesus's attempt to revive him by breathing on him kills him instead. Perhaps the beloved looks with kind intentions-- and then regrets that her glance has caused the lover to vanish in a puff of vapor? Equally possible is Bekhud Mohani's notion that the lover is speaking sarcastically-- thanks for your 'kind' glance, it's bound to vaporize me! Or his even more extreme suggestion that she might do it on purpose: in {126,8}, the verse he cites, the second line is, 'the person whose friend you are, why should the sky be his enemy?' (Or, as we'd put it in English, 'with friends like you, who needs enemies?') Of course in the previous verse, {78,4}, we learned that the beloved's neglect will kill the lover; now we learn that her glance of favor too will do him in. What's a poor beloved to do? Or a poor lover? The lover's journey is a predestined route to death; and he knows this and chooses it even as it chooses him. It's the anticipatory part of his 'education in oblivion'-- an education which, as we learn from {61,3}, has been going on for some ages now.

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{78,6} yak na:zar besh nahii;N fur.sat-e hastii ;Gaafil garmii-e bazm hai ik raq.s-e sharar hote tak 1) not more than a glance is the leisure of existence, heedless one! 2) the warmth of the gathering is as long as a single spark-dance

Notes: Nazm: The meaning is that your duration is to look at the world for not longer than a single glance, the way a spark cannot remain established longer than to look at the gathering with a single glance. (80)

Hasrat: Zauq: kyaa i((tibaar hastii-e naapaa))edaar kaa chashmak hai barq kii kih tabassum sharaar kaa [what trust in unsteady existence? is it the wink of a lightning-bolt, or the smile of a spark?]. (72)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh heedless humankind! The interval of life is not longer than a glance, and I give as an example the 'warmth' of a gathering-- that is, the liveliness of the gathering of life is is as long as the dance of a spark. The way a spark glitters and then is extinguished, in the same way a human being has an existence that is destined to be obliterated after the space of a breath. (127)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, there's time enough only to cast a glance on the world, not time enough to understand its mysteries. (165)

FWP: A classic treatment of a classic theme: our little life is as brief as the flare of a spark in the darkness of the time before and after it. Our life is as brief as a glance, as brief as the spark's dance. Zauq's verse too is so appropriate that once Hasrat has cited it, several other commentators mention it favorably as well. It's good to be reminded that Ghalib was surrounded by all kinds of highly talented peers. (Well, he didn't think they were peers, but they certainly felt themselves to be such.) The power of the verse lies in its measuring-rods, one in each line. In the first line, 'no longer than a glance' [yak na:zar besh] is an unremarkable way to measure something extremely brief. And yet the glance is not only the measuring-rod, but also, in effect, the thing that's measured. For what do (and should) we do with our tiny, brief lives except devour the world with our eyes, try to take it in and savor it? Similarly in the second line, the lifespan of a spark is an unremarkable measuring-rod for momentariness. And yet, the spark's dance is not only the measuring-rod, but also what is measured, for the 'warmth' [garmii] of the gathering, both literally and metaphorically, depends on the tiny, sometimes sputtering flames of candle and lamp-wick. It's important too that the spark is imagined as 'dancing', not as repining, and the listener is rebuked as a 'heedless one' [;Gaafil], one who is negligent or inattentive. Isn't the listener being urged to pay attention, to be even more open-eyed and watchful? And isn't the 'dance' of the spark, in the 'warmth' of the gathering, exactly what there is to watch? Think of {48,9}-- the eye should, no matter what, be open. In that verse it's the glory of the rose that gives the eye relish for a spectacle. In this one, it's only the dance of a tiny spark. But this isn't a verse that enjoins the heedless to turn to thoughts of religion. If anything, it enjoins alertness and attention to the world-- all the

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more should we look, since we have so much beauty to see, and such an unbearably short time in which to see it.

{78,7} ;Gam-e hastii kaa asad kis se ho juz marg ((ilaaj sham((a har rang me;N jaltii hai sa;har hote tak 1) for the grief of life, Asad, what would the cure be except death? 2) the candle, in every color/mood, burns until dawn

Notes: Hali: Both of Mirza’s divans, Urdu and Persian, are filled with this kind of novel and peerless similes. (127)

Nazm: That is, no matter what kind of color/mood and joy there might be in the gathering, there can be no cure in it for the candle's burning. Only its extinguishing (death) is the cure for its burning. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has given for human life, in which until death comes there's no salvation from grief, the simile of the candle, which keeps on burning no matter what until morning comes. Such eloquent [badii((] and supreme similes don't even occur to anyone except Mirza Sahib. (127)

Bekhud Mohani: Only death can cure the grief of life. Look, the candle is compelled to burn, no matter what, until morning. That is, life and grief are contemporaneous: {115,5}. (165-55)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} As the commentators say, this is a chillingly beautiful and grim verse, a classic formulation of the dilemma of human suffering. The first line poses the rhetorical question, what could cure the grief of life except death? Then the second line illustrates the ineluctability of the situation with a perfect example. The example is the candle, which 'burns', or suffers, for as long as it is 'alive', or lit. Its burning is coterminous with its being lit; its suffering is thus coterminous with its life. The metaphorical use of 'burning' as a sign of suffering is common in Urdu, and not strange in English either. (The official metaphorical meaning of jalnaa is 'to be jealous', but it's used more widely and loosely as well.) However much the candle suffers, it's powerless to extinguish itself; it thus goes on 'burning' (both literally and metaphorically) 'in every rang' until morning. The versatility of rang here does excellent service: it literally means 'color', but thus by extension means 'mood', 'style', 'manner', etc. Even as a flame changes its color and shape, it continues helplessly to burn. The candle burns until dawn. Dawn represents the time when the colorful gathering breaks up, and the candles gutter to extinction. Finally the candle, now a small puddle of cold wax, is free from its 'burning', just as the human being can expect death to bring an end to suffering. Is this an image of despair? In a sense it is, but not entirely. The image of the lively 'warm' candle-lit intoxicated party that terminates in the cold deadness of dawn is one side of the coin. But the welcome arrival of the light of dawn to terminate a dark night of pain is the other side of the coin. (Mystically speaking, death can be a dawn in itself; but sometimes a dawn is just a dawn.) For an illustration of dawn as light and hope, consider the second verse in the whole divan: in {1,2}, making it through a black night of solitude and suffering until the hopeful white light of dawn is as difficult as Farhad's task

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of carving a channel through black stone to bring white milk. Or consider {169,1}: in my dark chamber, in the night of grief and oppression, the only proof of the coming of dawn [daliil-e sa;har] is a single candle-- and that candle is, as it must be, an extinguished, literally 'silent' [;xaamosh], one.

Ghazal 79 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa nah maa;Ng composed 1816; Hamid p. 64; Arshi #079; Raza p. 147

{79,1} gar tujh ko hai yaqiin-e ijaabat du((aa nah maa;Ng ya((nii ba;Gair-e yak dil-e be-mudda((aa nah maa;Ng 1a) if you are confident of [God's] acceptance [of your prayer], don’t ask in prayer 1b) if you are confident in [your] acceptance [of God's will], don’t ask in prayer 2a) that is, except for a single heart with no intention/motive, don’t ask [for anything else] in prayer 2b) that is, without [having] a single heart with no intention/motive, don’t ask in prayer

Notes: ijaabat: 'Granting a favourable reply; accepting (a petition or prayer); acceptance, approval; compliance, consent, sanction, assent'. (Platts p.22)

Nazm: That is, when you have no intention/motive at all, then there won't even be any need for asking for anything in prayer. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you have confidence that your prayer for something will be accepted, then why waste time in praying for it? Here, the meaning of ba;Gair is 'in addition to' [sivaa ke]. That is, don't ask for anything else 'in addition to' a heart without intention/motive. When there's a heart without intention/motive, then nothing else is even necessary. No prayer can possibly be superior to this prayer. (12728)

Mihr: By 'a heart without intention/motive' Mirza doesn't mean that in the heart there should remain no longing, no desire. He means only that it's not proper to pray for ordinary, trivial, commonplace things that are entirely worldly. (268)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS Among other complexities, this verse features a lovely, extremely clever double use of ba;Gair-e to mean either 'except for' or 'without'. The second line thus urges you either to pray for nothing except an unmotivated heart (2a); or to pray for nothing unless you have an unmotivated heart (2b). In the case of the first line, surely yaqiin-e ijaabat, 'confidence of acceptance', can also be read in two ways. All the commentators

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adopt the obvious reading (1a), 'confidence about God's acceptance of your prayer'. But why can't it also work the other way? Then we would have (1b), 'confidence in your acceptance of God's will'. Both meanings obviously work elegantly with the second line. The commentators confront some, though by no means all, of the paradoxes of the verse. What does it mean to ask for-- or not ask for- a heart with no mudda((aa, no intention/motive? If you pray for such a heart (2a), you are praying for something that will cause your prayers to cease. For if you don't have a purpose or desire (2b), you have nothing to pray for. Do you then pray only for a desireless heart? Do you pray only as a way of glorifying God? Do you not pray at all? (For a cynical comment on the 'power' of prayer, see {68,1}.) And finally, what kind of 'confidence of acceptance' is required here, for the achievement of such assured access to God in prayer-- or such complete resignation to God's will? This verse is another of Ghalib's tightly constructed, unresolvable little 'meaning generators'.

{79,2} aataa hai daa;G-e ;hasrat-e dil kaa shumaar yaad mujh se mire gunah kaa ;hisaab ay ;xudaa nah maa;Ng 1) the number of wounds of the longing/grief of the heart [habitually] comes to mind-2) don't ask from me, oh Lord, an accounting of my sin

Notes: Hali: In this too there’s a new kind of mischievousness, which is absolutely untouched [by other poets]. Outwardly, he asks, oh Lord, don’t ask me for an account of my sins; and secretly he lays blame, as if he says, what kind of an account for sins? They are so numerous that when I count them, then the number of those wounds that you’ve given me in the world, and that are as numerous as my sins, comes to mind. Because the sins and the wounds are identical in number, he means that when he committed some sin, then because of his powerlessness, he could not satisfy his temperament; one or another longing certainly remained unfilfilled. For example, if he drank wine, then he didn’t attain union; and if he attained union, then he didn’t get any wine. Thus however many sins he committed, he suffered exactly that many wounds to his heart. (123)

Nazm: The meaning is that since the cause of every sin is one or another longing and ardor, then the mention of sins evokes the memory of those longings and shocks, for the abundance of the sins is similar to the abundance of the wounds. (80)

Hasrat: There's another verse on this same theme: {230,10}. (73)

Arshi: Compare {230,10}. (214, 283)

Naim: My unfulfilled yearnings left scars in my heart. I counted these scars as long as I lived. My life was measured in the reckoning of these

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scars of defeat. Now that you ask me for an account of my sins (my moments of pleasure), I am reminded of my life in your world.... See {230,10}. (1970, pp. 10-11)

FWP: SETS == A,B COMMERCE: {3,3} Hali has done a pretty good job of making the best case for this verse, though I can't share his enthusiasm for it. The verse does offer us the mild amusement of its businesslike accounting imagery. It also requires us to make for ourselves the connection between the two lines, and provides an 'A,B' structure that can be read in two different cause/effect ways. If we read the verse with A as the cause and B with the effect, we have 'I'm absorbed in thinking about all my numerous my unfulfilled longings, oh Lord, so I can't pay attention to you right now; go away, and don't come nagging at me about my sins!' And if we read the verse with B as the cause and A as the effect, we have 'Oh Lord, don't ask me to account for my sins, because whenever you nag me about that, I always think of all my unfulfilled longings!' Then in this case we have two possible implications of that thinking: either 'when I do so I feel sad and miserable, so don't make me cry'; or 'when I do so I compare them to the accounting of my sins, so don't make me angry at you'. There is one excellent way to appreciate the pleasures of this verse, pallid, limited, and obvious as they are. That way is to compare it with {230,10}, which is a similar treatment of the same basic theme. But {230,10} is prosy to the uttermost, and spells everything out in a hopelessly pedestrian way. It makes the present verse look like a miracle of subtlety and complexity.

Ghazal 80 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa-e gul composed after 1821; Hamid p. 65; Arshi #080 Raza pp. 252-53

{80,1} hai kis qadar halaak-e fareb-e vafaa-e gul bulbul ke kaar-o-baar pah hai;N ;xandah'haa-e gul 1) to what extent there is murder by the deceit/trick of faithfulness of the rose! 2) at the doings of the Nightingale, are the smiles of the rose

Notes: Nazm: That is, the Nightingale dies of the illusion that the rose's color is lasting. The rose laughs at this misunderstanding. Exactly this line has already passed in another place: {33,3}. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the Nightingale gives his life in the deceit/trick and illusion that the quality of faithfulness is firm and established in the rose. Look at the flowers-- they are smiling at this misunderstanding of the Nightingale's. The meaning is that every lover's eyes, every beloved is an undying being. (128)

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Bekhud Mohani: The flowers are laughing. The Nightingale is absorbed in the deceit/trick of faithfulness. He considers that the flowers are laughing in the fervor of joy at seeing him. Although they laugh at his simplicity and foolish behavior. (167)

Arshi: Compare {33,3}. (214)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} Nazm and Arshi are right to point out {33,3}; its second line is word-forword identical with the first line of this verse. As far as I can tell, the only conclusion to be drawn from this repetition is that Ghalib probably liked this line. As the commentators point out, the rose's trickery implies a promise of faithfulness-- which, as we all know in the ghazal world, the rose is radically unable to fulfill. For the 'smile' or 'laughter' of the rose is an expression of its full bloom, which immediately precedes its withering and death. So the rose's smiling or laughing at the Nightingale's folly might not be cruel or callous. It might rather be rueful, melancholy, resigned-- the rose's acceptance of its own mortality. For after all, the 'murder' perpetrated by the rose's illusory 'faithfulness' includes first of all the death of the rose itself. We might also ask a further question. If what the rose smiles at is the doings of the Nightingale, would the rose not smile in their absence? Is it possible that it's only the Nightingale's romantic folly that brings us the glory of the roses in the spring? The verse certainly leaves that possibility open. I once had a go at translating this whole lovely ghazal.

{80,2} aazaadii-e nasiim mubaarak kih har :taraf ;Tuu;Te pa;Re hai;N ;halqah-e daam-e havaa-e gul 1a) congratulations to the freedom of the spring-breeze!-- that [in] every direction 1b) the freedom of the spring-breeze [is] auspicious/welcome-- that [in] every direction 2) lie broken the links of the net of desire/breeze of the rose

Notes: Nazm: havaa-e gul means 'ardor of the rose'. He has given for a withered rose the simile of the broken links of a net. And by the spring breeze is meant 'perfume', which breaks the links of the rose's net of ardor and becomes free. That is, congratulations to the rose-scent on its freedom, for all the flowers have been broken. (81)

Bekhud Mohani: May the freedom of the spring breeze be auspicious for those ardent for rosescent, for the links in the net of ardor of spring lie broken. That is, the kindness of the spring breeze is now the rose-scent itself is reaching the ardent ones. Now there's no longer any need for them to reach the rose itself. (167)

Josh: That is, the desire for a stroll among the flowers was a net. Those whose hearts were given to recreation were ensnared in this net. The forceful hand of time broke those nooses apart. All the prisoners emerged from that net. Now in the garden no one is to be seen except the spring breeze. It alone, in complete freedom, has become master of the garden. May this freedom be auspicious for it. (166)

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FWP: Look at the excellent wordplay-- was the rose's daam-e havaa a 'net of desire' (in which it might ensnare, for example, the Nightingale), or a 'net of the breeze'? If the latter, was it a net designed for capturing the breeze itself with the exquisite scent of its petals? Or was it a net that used the breeze to capture others, by causing its perfume to be spread throughout the garden? (And it was surely all these at once, for why should it not be? Ghalib is never a poet to settle for one meaning when he could just as well have several.) In the first verse we are either congratulating the (semi-personified) 'spring breeze' directly on its freedom (1a), or we are privately expressing our own approval of what it has done with its freedom (1b). In both cases, the implications are rich. The fallen, scattered petals are symbols of liberation-of several possible kinds. (1) The breeze is now itself free from literal or metaphorical 'captivity' in the rose's 'desire/breeze net' and can blow as it wishes, since with the rose's death the net has fallen apart. The breeze is to be congratulated on its new freedom (1a). (2) All lovers of the rose are now free from her deceptive and transitory charms, since the rose is dead, as the scattered petals prove. We are grateful to the breeze for freeing the lovers by blowing apart the petals of the dying rose, and thus making clear, or even helping to bring about, her death. (1b). (3) Now that the breeze has scattered the rose-petals, it blows the rose-scent around freely, and thus pleases those who stroll in the garden; we are grateful to the breeze for providing this service. Most of the commentators seem to prefer some form of (3), though to me it's the weakest-- since there's no mention of perfume in the verse, and since perfume is not 'ensnared' in the rose and liberated on the rose's death, but is at its height when the rose is alive with its petals intact. It also seems the shallowest meaning, since it's really about ease of access-- before the rose's death, the perfume is quite available to those who stroll in the garden; scattering the rose's perfume more sidely is presented as at best an extra convenience. Leaving aside the trivial (3), the other interpretations demand to be read in a hollow, painfully ironic tone of voice. For what kind of 'liberation' is it for the lover to lose the beloved? Does the breeze really want its freedom at that price? Does the Nightingale? Does the lover himself? The whole logic of the ghazal universe is about the willing, eager submission of the lover to the beloved, and his pursuit of this fatal destiny right up to the point of death (and even, of course, beyond it at times). This is a whistling-in-the-dark verse, putting a brave face on a terrible, irrevocable, unendurable loss. The lover knows the hollowness of his words, even as he speaks them. And we, the audience, share his painful awareness.

{80,3} jo thaa so mauj-e rang ke dhoke me;N mar gayaa ay vaa))e naalah-e lab-e ;xuunii;N-navaa-e gul 1) whoever/whatever was, thus died in the deceit/trick of the wave of color 2) oh alas, the lament of the bloody-voiced lip of the rose!

Notes: Nazm: 'To die' means the extremity of infatuation. That is, people consider the bloody voice and blood-dripping lament of the rose to be a wave of color, and are becoming captivated. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that the color of the rose is in reality the rose's blooddripping lament and heart-lacerating complaint, which people have through

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error considered to be a wave of color and have become infatuated with it. (129)

Bekhud Mohani: He laments the rose's ill-fortune: it was not the rose's colorfulness, but rather it was the blood-dripping lament of its complaining lip. Which the worldly, because of their lustfulness and heedlessness, have considered to be a wave of color and have thus kept on expressing a lack of sympathy. (167)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; FILL-IN Who or what died, in the deceit/trick of a 'wave of color'? The first line has been made so broad that anything or anybody can be included. Ideals? Naive illusions? Innocent hearts? You, the reader, are allowed-- and required-- to fill in the blank yourself. We know only that 'whatever/whoever was,' died. One death that surely can't be overlooked, though, is that of the rose itself. The rose is most colorful, most brilliant, most sensuous, most perfumed, most irresistible, just before it dies. Thus it's easy to believe that what looks like a 'wave of color' is really a lament from a 'bloody-voiced lip', as it grieves over its own approaching end. ('Bloody-voiced lip' sounds so powerful in English, and it's also exactly literal-- how often does the translator get such a break?) The commentators point out that the 'dying' of the infatuated lovers may be metaphorical ('I'm dying to be with her!') rather than literal. But the dying of the rose herself is all too imminent, and all too real. Thus the lament in the second line is also genuine, no matter what else it may be. In n its inshaa))iyah glory it's a wonderful showcase for lahajah, 'tone of voice'. Is it ironic, despairing, amused, amazed, contemptuous, sympathetic? You decide. It's almost as protean as the second line of {17,8}.

{80,4} ;xvush-;haal us ;hariif-e siyah-mast kaa kih jo rakhtaa ho mi;sl-e saayah-e gul sar bah paa-e gul 1) the happy state of that black-drunk Rival!-- who 2) would put, like the shadow of the rose, [his] head on the foot of the rose

Notes: ;hariif: 'A fellow worker (in one's craft or ordinary occupation), an associate, a partner, a mate;-- a rival, opponent, adversary, antagonist; an enemy'. (Platts p.477)

Nazm: That is, that fortunate 'black-drunk' one who would put his head on the feet of the beloved and present his longing. What can be said about his state? For the beloved the simile of a rose has been used, and for the lover the simile of the shadow of the stem of the rose. (81)

Bekhud Mohani: That 'black-drunk' rakish one [rind] is fortunate, who would put his head on the beloved's feet and present his longing. [Or:] What can be said of that drunkard who is so sunk in intoxication that he considers the rose to be the beloved, and would fall at its feet and place his head there! (168)

Josh: That is, how fortunate is that individual who in the intoxication of drunkenness would fall at the beloved's feet and bend toward her the way the rose's shadow bends toward the rose's feet. By ;hariif is meant 'Rival' [raqiib]. (166)

FWP: More of Ghalib's lovely and complicated wordplay. The rose's shadow is dark, and the intoxicated Rival is 'black-drunk', an idiomatic expression for

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extreme drunkenness. The rose's shadow touches only its base, but cannot be detached from it; the Rival, even in his drunkenness, presumes no further than to touch the beloved's feet-- but to those feet he is as tightly bonded as is the rose's shadow to the rose-stem. (One of the traditional forms of extreme supplication is to humbly fall at someone's feet and then refuse to rise-- or to release the victim's ankles-- until one's request is granted.) And of course, if the Rival appears at the beloved's feet as a supplicant, what more would be the object of his plea than to be allowed always to remain at the beloved's feet? The verse is in Ghalib's favorite inshaa))iyah mode, and its exclamatory force is of envy, admiration, even almost a form of approval not usually accorded to the Rival. Perhaps because for once, the Rival is acting as a true lover should. In fact, he's obviously acting the way the lover himself would like to act. The verse thus measures the lover's abjection and wretchedness-he is obliged to watch his more fortunate Rival fall at the beloved's feet, expressing the abjection and wretchedness that he himself longs to display. He would give anything to be in the Rival's place. Yet the tone of the verse is almost lyrical, isn't it? The lover, watching the spectacle, is moved beyond the mere particulars of his own predicament, to a kind of empathy with the Rival's plight-- and even the Rival's happiness. Notice the range of meanings of the word ;hariif. Unusually, in this verse the lover's empathy with him is palpable.

{80,5} iijaad kartii hai use tere liye bahaar meraa raqiib hai nafas-e ((i:tr-saa-e gul 1) spring invents it for you-2) [it] is my Rival-- the attar-like breath of the rose

Notes: Nazm: 'For you'-- that is, the flowers would become a garland for your neck, and remain in contact with you. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, spring has created flowers in the garden so that they would make a garland for your neck, and sleep with you all night in your bed, and I would see it and be jealous. It seems that the attar-like breath of the rose is my Rival. (129)

Josh: That is, spring has created flowers for you so that their attar could be extracted and rubbed on your body. Thus because of this creation, attar remains your companion-- or rather, in your embrace. For this reason this essence of flowers that is called attar is my Rival, and I am envious of its success. (166)

FWP: In classic mushairah style, the first verse is entirely uninterpretable until we are allowed to hear the second as well. We can't possibly guess what the 'it' might be, and the suspense is a real part of the pleasure of the verse. 'Attar' [((i:tr] of roses is, in the words of the Shorter OED, a 'fragrant, volatile, essential oil obtained from the petals of the rose'. Empress Nur Jahan, wife of Jahangir, is usually credited with its invention-- which is quite proper, since making even a small amount of powerfully aromatic attar requires royal amounts of rose-petals and much pressing and distillation. Here, however, it's just a simile, just an adjective describing the breath of the rose. It's as though the breath of the rose is so fragrant that it's already its own concentrated essence, already its own attar. And of course attar is made only from torn petals of destroyed roses, so the very mention of it already

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evokes both the rose's death, and its quasi-immortality as a precious essence in a small bottle, to be used only a drop or two at a time. Why is the rose-breath my Rival? Partly, no doubt, because I'm so mad with passion that I see all sorts of implausible things as rivals. (For commentarial discussion of this point, see {60,4}, in which the lover dies of jealousy of the very sword in the beloved's hand.) But there's more to it than just general insanity. Since the rose will be woven into a garland for you, or tucked into your hair or bosom, it will be crushed against your body and its scent will mingle intimately with your skin in a way that drives me mad-- and also arouses my furious jealousy-- when I think about it. I'm jealous not just of the actual rose attar that you perhaps rub delicately on your body (which would be a mad enough jealousy), but even of the (entirely intangible) scent of the rose. This is the measure of my passion, my suspicion, my desperate and vain possessiveness. And why shouldn't I be on my guard? Spring itself, with all its irresistible sensual powers, is my enemy; to see you is to desire you, and why shouldn't Spring too fall victim?

{80,6} sharmindah rakhte hai;N mujhe baad-e bahaar se miinaa-e be-sharaab-o-dil-e be-havaa-e gul 1) [they] keep me ashamed before the spring breeze-2) the glass without wine and the heart without {desire for / breeze of} the rose

Notes: Nazm: This verse is the answer to an implied question. That is, people disapprove of my drinking wine and strolling in the gardens. But if I don't do that, then I feel ashamed before the spring breeze. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if my glass is empty of wine, and there's never any ardent desire for a stroll in the garden, then these two things make me ashamed before the spring breeze. The meaning is that in the season of spring it's necessary for wine to be in the glass, and in the heart there must be ardor for a stroll in the garden. (129)

Bekhud Mohani: Looking at his previous life and present sorrow/coolness, he says, Yes yes-when the intoxicated breezes of spring are blowing, then for the glass to remain empty of wine, and in the heart no ardor for a stroll in the garden to grow, I'm ashamed of this. (168)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} What kind of shame is it exactly that the lover feels, and why? In a nice mushairah touch, the first line refuses to tell us, forcing us to wait for the second. There are several possibilities, not mutually exclusive of course. 1) He's not responding to the season in general as he should. Responsiveness to seasons is a valued sign of a properly 'open' heart and eye. In particular, spring is intoxicating and is linked with intoxication; for the best illustration of this, see {49}, the 'wave of wine' one. Wine-drinking too is linked to times and seasons, as in the lovely {97,13}. 2) He's not responding to the spring breeze itself, and is thus seeming to cast doubt on its powers of intoxication. The spring breeze itself is a powerful source of intoxication, as in {49,2}. So his 'glass without wine' is an image of his unintoxicated heart. Why wouldn't the spring breeze be offended or hurt, if its blandishments prove so vain?

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3) He's not even responding to the rose, the archetypal image of the beloved! This, in a lover, is of course the cardinal sin. There's a fine wordplay here, because havaa-e gul can be both 'desire of/for the rose' and 'breeze/air of the rose'. The latter meaning elegantly evokes both the spring breeze itself, and also the perfume of the rose that it wafts to the lover-- but it's a perfume that doesn't, alas, penetrate to his heart. Why is the lover so unresponsive, so derelect in his duty? It's not because he's brazen and shameless, not because he's joined the ranks of the 'worldly' people who are immune to the powers of love. His sense shame is proof that he knows his duty, and would do it if he could. But no doubt he's a 'burnt-out case' by now, with no heart left to respond. Of all the verses that describe the lover's wrecked, lost, ruined heart, perhaps the simplest is {41,1}. That stark, plain second line says it all-- jis dil pah naaz thaa mujhe vuh dil nahii;N rahaa.

{80,7} si:tvat se tere jalvah-e ;husn-e ;Gayuur kii ;xuu;N hai mirii nigaah me;N rang-e adaa-e gul 1) from the grandeur of the pride of your glory/appearance of beauty 2) [it] is blood in my sight-- the color/style of the coquetry of the rose

Notes: Nazm: That is, because of your pride you don't know what kind of coquetry would please the lover. For this reason, the color of the rose is blood in my sight; that is, it doesn't please me. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that since your pride doesn't want your lover to be infatuated with any other beloved, the color of flowers, in my eyes, has no more value than blood. (129-30)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved's proud beauty has made such a deep effect on my heart that the coquetry of the rose doesn't please me. (168)

Josh: The distance of the possessive kii from si:tvat [in the first line] has created a verbal bonding [ta((qiid-e laf:zii]. (167)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} Nazm takes the rose to be the beloved, and the other commentators in general take the rose to be a competitor of the beloved. I think they're right, and Nazm has got this one wrong. For the lover to arrogantly reject the beloved's coquetry, just for the hell of it, is so wild and unusual a notion that it needs to make an exceptionally rich meaning if it is to justify itself. Here, pretty clearly, it does not. The first line piles it on pretty thickly-- your grandeur, pride, radiance of beauty, all unified, as Josh points out, by a kii that's as far as possible from its noun. It's easy to imagine that such commanding beauty might not brook any competition. This is either because of the simple effect of your overpowering grandeur and radiance in itself (as Bekhud Mohani says); or because of your own watchful hyper-jealousy, that requires me not to enjoy even the color of a flower (as Bekhud Dihlavi maintains). The prominent inclusion of ;Gayyuur, 'pride', among the attributes of the beloved's beauty seems to go in Bekhud Dihlavi's direction. All the commentators I've looked at consider kisii kii nigaah me;N ;xuu;N honaa to mean nothing more than 'to be displeasing to someone'. I wish there were a more 'colorful' (so to speak) idiomatic meaning as well. I'm asking around.

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Other than the wordplay of redness-- blood, color/style, rose-- not much seems to be going on in this verse, as far as I can tell. In verses like this I always have the nagging thought that something is eluding me. What could it be?

{80,8} tere hii jalve kaa hai yih dhokaa kih aaj tak be-i;xtiyaar dau;Re hai gul dar-qafaa-e gul 1) this is an illusion of your radiance/appearance-- that up to today 2) the rose runs uncontrollably {after / to the neck of} the rose

Notes: qafaa: 'The back of the head; nape of the neck;-- adv. Behind, after; in pursuit'. (Platts p.793)

Nazm: That is, seeing one flower in bloom, then when the next flower emerges, it has the illusion that you have manifested yourself. (81-82)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when a flower blooms, then other buds consider that you have manifested yourself in the guise of a flower. The flowers begin to bloom in sequence [silsilah], and seeing this sequence, it is proved that one flower keeps running after another flower. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: Seeing one flower bloom after another, a monotheistic lover has had the thought that every rose considers another rose to be the Beloved; for this reason it advances so uncontrollably toward it. (169)

FWP: This verse rests on a lovely bit of word-and-meaning play involving the word qafaa. A rosebush is full of roses that bloom one after the other, so that as each of them blooms it 'runs after' its predecessor as though it thinks it is pursuing you, the beloved. Thus a sequence is formed in time, with each rose blooming 'in pursuit of' the next. This is the obvious meaning that the commentators prefer. But the word qafaa also has the meaning of the back of the head, or the nape of the neck-- in other words, exactly where beautiful women place flowers when they twine them into their hair. Roses on a rosebush bloom in very close proximity, and sway toward each other when the breeze blows, so it's easy to imagine that each one is trying to reach the next one's neck, thinking it to be your neck, longing to be woven into your hair. We thus have another example of 'elegance in assigning a cause'. We might have thought that roses bloomed at random, but now we know that 'to this day' they bloom chasing each other, reaching for each other, under the illusion that they are thus approaching the beloved. And how much of an illusion is it, really? If we go with Bekhud Mohani and read the verse mystically, then of course it's an illusion, since Muslims know that God is not to be found directly manifest in physical form in this world. But if we go with the other commentators, then we know that the rose is to the garden what the human beloved is to the lover, and the two can readily be conflated. In fact in the verse right before this one, {80,7}, we saw that Nazm and the other commentators disagreed on exactly this point-- were the rose and the beloved to be identified (Nazm), or differentiated (the others)? The ghazal world offers ample precedents for both identification and differentiation, and each verse must choose its own treatment of the possibilities. Does one rose pursue the next because is literally thinks it is you, or because of the generally intoxicating, ardor-inspiring, deceptively intimate effect of your glory in the world? Does the rose naively pursue another rose, or does it pursue the Rose-- no more naively than any of us

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pursue any (ultimately deceptive, because unattainable) vision of the Rose? A canny poet like Ghalib leaves the door ajar, so that both possibilities can meet and mingle as they do here.

{80,9} ;Gaalib mujhe hai us se ham-aa;Goshii aarzuu jis kaa ;xayaal hai gul-e jeb-e qabaa-e gul 1) Ghalib, I long to embrace that one 2) the thought of whom is the rose of the neck-opening of the robe of the rose

Notes: Nazm: That is, that True Beloved, the thought of whom the rose has made an ornament for its collar-- I want to embrace that one. (82)

Hasrat: ham-aa;Goshii aarzuu is a Persian idiom. In this connection he has not said ham-aa;Goshii kii aarzuu [as in Urdu] but rather has translated it [literally]. (74)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, I have a longing to embrace that one the picture of whom, the thought of whom, is the ornament of the rose's collar. That is, I am becoming mad in ardor for union with my beloved-- the one for whom beloveds die of love. The True Beloved can also be intended. (169)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH == TRANSLATABLES What an irresistible verse! It's my favorite in this whole lovely ghazal. I even found it relatively translatable-- 'Ghalib, I long to embrace her / The thought of whom is the rose on the dress of the rose'. This verse has its complexities wrapped within such lovely simplicities. The 'thought of the beloved' is an adornment for the neck of the rose's robe. In other words, it's a kind of corsage. (Although jeb commonly means 'pocket' in modern Urdu, that's an extension of its basic meaning of a slit opening, as in the neck of a kurta.) The dainty but tangible-sounding 'rose' to be used as a corsage by the rose is actually something remarkably abstract-a mere 'thought' of the beloved. And in whose head is this 'thought' of the beloved? It could be either in mine (I imagine her beauty as a supreme adornment even to the rose itself) or in that of the rose (which proudly pins to its garment a corsage of the thought of her). All this abstraction is in fine counterpoint to the simple, direct physicality of the first line. I long to embrace 'that one'. Which one? In the classic style of an effective mushairah verse, we have no clue until we're allowed to hear the second line. And the answer is that I long to embrace the one defined only as a thought, only by being thought of-- and even then, only in an impossible kind of decoration worn hypothetically by a flower. The full impact of the second line is deferred and strung out, withheld until the last possible moment in a series of i.zaafat constructions including both rhyming elements. 'Ghalib, I long to embrace her-- the thought of whom is the rose on the dress of the rose'-- doesn't that send your mind ricocheting vertiginously back and forth between the very concrete and the radically (though delightfully) abstract? Can you wrap your mind around it, or can you not?

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Ghazal 81 5 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aanah ham composed 1816; Hamid p. 66; Arshi #082; Raza pp. 150-51

{81,1} ;Gam nahii;N hotaa hai aazaado;N ko besh az yak nafas barq se karte hai;N raushan sham((-e maatam-;xaanah ham 1) grief is not, for free ones, more than one breath/life 2) with lightning we light the candle of the mourning-chamber

Notes: nafas: 'Breath (of life), animal life; --soul; spirit, self, person'. (Platts p.1145)

Nazm: That is, if there is a candle in our mourning-chamber, then it is the lightning. When we don't grieve for more than a moment/breath [dam], then there's no need for light at all beyond a moment/breath. (82)

Hasrat: It's clear that the flash of lightning doesn't last longer than a moment/breath [dam]. Having declared us to be free, he proves in this way that 'grief is not, for free ones, longer than a breath'. (75)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we are free people. For us, the grief of the world is no more than a moment/breath [dam]. As if in our mourning-chamber the lightning serves instead of a candle. The meaning is that the way lightning flickers for only a moment, in the same way, for us, the thought of grief comes and at once is erased; that is, its effect doesn't remain even for a brief period. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: People who are free don't grieve over misfortunes except for a moment/breath [dam]. As if these people light the candle of the mourningchamber with lightning. That is, the way lightning flashes for a moment and then vanishes, in the same way for those people, there is sorrow caused by the difficulties of the human condition, but only for a little while. (169-70)

Faruqi: This verse points to an uncommon state of affairs. We are free; that is, pure of worldly relationships. For this reason, grief too is unable to keep us captive for very long. Lightning falls on our mourning-chamber; we feel sorrow for a moment, but then at once return to our usual state of selfpossession. And we acquire such control over our grief that with the lightning-brought fire we light the extinguished candle. Or we consider the flash of lightning to be the candle of the mourning-chamber. Or the fire started by the lightning becomes for us a means of removing the darkness. Whether we call this verse exaltation or exaggeration, the intensity of arrogance and self-confidence that has been expressed in this verse; and for expressing it the glittering, or rather flashing, use that has been made of the candle lit by lightning in the mourning-chamber-- a similar example of this will not be easy to find. .... [T]he cause of the grief (the lightning striking) and the cause of its removal (the lightning flash) too are both unequalled in their rapidity of movement.... Lightning, which is the cause of grief, is also the cause of its removal. The oneness of on-existence and existence, affirmation and negation, is scattered throughout all Ghalib's poetry. This verse is a beautiful example of it....

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Another point is that the house is a mourning-chamber; accordingly, for the house it's a cause for grief that a candle should be lit, since light is the negation of the state of mourning. But for us, grief is no longer than a single breath. The proof is that we use lightning like a lighted candle. Now it's here, now it's gone. A single moment of light, then nothing but darkness. (98-99)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} LIGHTNING: {10,6} As Faruqi observes, this verse is truly nonpareil. His commentary also shows what can be done simply by close reading and careful attention. All the other commentators that I've read follow the simple, short, onedimensional track of Nazm, Hasrat, and the two Bekhuds: we free ones have a (non-specific) grief; we grieve for a moment; the lightning-candle measures, or signifies, the length of our time of grief. And that's the end of the matter, as far as they're concerned. For all four of these commentators, I've translated every word they wrote about this verse. By contrast, Faruqi opens up, and then explores, far richer interpretations. To consider merely the largest and most obvious question, what exactly is the role of lightning in the mourning-chamber? He suggests several possibilities, which are often not mutually exclusive. (1) Lightning is the cause of our grief in the first place. This idea is not at all far-fetched; see for example {10,6} or {12,1}, in which lightning sets fire to the (literal and metaphorical) 'harvest'. If lightning sets fire to our house, the house itself will thus become a 'mourning-chamber' for us as we grieve over its destruction. (2) Lightning is used to light the candle that illuminates the mourningchamber. We free ones have such power that we can seize and use the lightning itself to light our candle. A great, dangerous natural power is dominated and controlled by our will. (This interpretation takes the second line of the verse literally.) (3) Lightning itself takes the place of a candle, illuminating the mourningchamber. This interpretation takes the second line of the verse more metaphorically. We use the lightning itself as our candle, because we only need the light for a moment anyway-- either for experiencing our grief (as the other commentators would have it), or for symbolically demonstrating the end of our grief (as Faruqi would suggest). (4) The fire that lightning starts in our house we treat as a 'candle' since it removes the darkness of our mourning. A burning house, after all, is a convenient source of light, and the fire will serve as well as any other light to demonstrate that the time of our mourning is over. Faruqi's greatest improvement on the other commentators is his idea that lightning itself should be taken as the source of the 'grief' in the first place. That complicates (and enriches) our understanding of the verse remarkably. In addition, while the other commentators assume that the lighting of a candle in the mourning-chamber is a sign that mourning is taking place, Faruqi assumes that it's a sign that mourning is over. Whichever assumption we adopt, Faruqi pushes the verse into new elaborations in ways that Ghalib would surely have approved. I would like to try adding one more possibility as well. All four of the earlier commentators that I translated said that grief lasted no more than a dam-- a literally a 'breath', meaning also a 'moment'. However, the word that Ghalib actually used for the interval was the much less common nafas-- also literally a 'breath', but with the secondary meaning not of moment but of 'life, spirit'. (On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6}.) Could Ghalib also be playing with the idea that grief is so short it only lasts a lifetime? After all, he has said literally not that grief is no 'longer' than a breath, but that it's no 'more' than a breath-- thus leaving the door open for

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my reading. The brevity of the life-breath itself is what ensures that the 'free ones' are really free. For although grief may last as long as life (see {115,5}), it lasts no longer; and we know how tiny a moment of time a lifespan is ({152,1}). Consider {78,1}, in which a sigh requires 'one lifetime' to take effect, and nobody can live as long as it takes for you to comb your hair. Moreover, freedom for Ghalib is often defined in terms of absence or loss: in {7,7}, the sign of his being 'free' is his corpse without a shroud.

{81,2} ma;hfile;N bar-ham kare hai ganjifah-baaz-e ;xayaal hai;N varaq-gardaanii-e nairang-e yak but-;xaanah ham 1) the card-player of Thought makes gatherings confused/jumbled/entangled 2) we are the page-turning of the wonder of a single idol-house

Notes: bar-ham : 'Confused, jumbled together, turned upside down or topsy-turvy, entangled, spoiled; offended, angry, vexed, enraged, sullen'. (Platts p.150) ganjiifah : *Glossary* *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The gist is that gatherings of beautiful ones that have been broken up, always remain in our memory, as though we are the page-turning of the wonder of an idol-house. In this verse the page-turning of the cards has been given as a simile for the breaking up of pleasure gatherings, and it's a fresh simile. (82)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that gatherings of beautiful ones that have already been broken up, are still in my thought, and constantly remain in my thought. The 'page-turning' of cards means the way card-players repeatedly spread out the cards with their fingers and keep looking at them.... This simile is entirely new, and up to this day hasn't been seen in anyone else's poetry. (130-31)

Bekhud Mohani: He has called Thought a card-player and himself a 'page-turning', so that an interpretation of uncontrollableness has been created. That is, there is a sequence of pictures of former enchanting gatherings that uncontrollably pass before the gaze and then disappear. The way in an idol-house the glimpse of beautiful ones is now here, now gone. (170)

FWP: GATHERINGS: {6,3} IDOL: {8,1} As in so many verses, the first line gives no clue where the second one might go. We are told of the activity of the 'card-player of Thought'-- and what he really does is shuffle the cards. He is endlessly absorbed in laying the cards out, gathering them up, reshuffling them, and laying them out again in a different but equally arbitrary order. The result can only be incoherence-images of beauty and elegance, in an order that conveys no larger meaning whatsoever. The first line might be considered a bit reassuring-- there is control over the incoherence. We might identify ourselves with the powerful card-player, and imagine ourselves revisiting all the scenes of beauty and delight stored in our minds. But of course, bar-ham karnaa also means 'to confuse, to spoil, to make angry' and so on. So it's equally possible that the card-player of Thought breaks up our gatherings-- either retrospectively (by confusing them while we try to remember them), or even while they're happening (by somehow alienating us from the group, or the group from us). Either way, under mushairah conditions, we'll have to wait as long a time as can be managed, before we are provided with the second line.

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Alas, the second line! The grammar is all too clear, and I can't see any way to escape it. We are not the card-player, we are not Thought itself (whoever or whatever it may be). What we are is the 'page-turning' process. We are random, blindly mutating assemblages of scenes, memories, images. Even if these images are real memories rather than fantasies, and even if they are of wonder and (perhaps illicit) delight, our helpless incoherence and passivity can't be overcome. We're not the shuffler, and not even the cards. We're the shuffling. The momentary little patterns of our selves are constantly, meaninglessly rearranged by powers outside our comprehension. As a final touch, the scenes we consist of are not necessarily comprehensible (they are 'wonders'), and not even well-grounded-- they come from a 'single idolhouse', a home of beautiful but false gods. For a less utterly bleak perspective on the winehouse of thought, see {169,5}.

{81,3} baavajuud-e yak-jahaa;N hangaamah paidaa))ii nahii;N hai;N chiraa;Gaan-e shabistaan-e dil-e parvaanah ham 1a) despite [the presence of] a world, there's no creation of commotion 1b) despite a 'world of' commotion, there’s no creation/result 2) we are the lamp-display of the bedchamber of the heart of the Moth

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says that the ardor of the lamp that, when lit, generated such commotion in the heart of the Moth, is so hidden that for it there is no creation of effect at all. This is also the state of our existence-- everything is commotion, but there's no information about existence itself. That is, if in reality there's any existence, then it is one alone. (82)

Hasrat: The expression of the second line is a commentary on the first line. (75)

Bekhud Mohani: Despite the fact that our species has created a commotion, a noise in the whole world, in reality our existence is nothing. So it's as if we are lamps in the bedchamber of the heart of the Moth. That is, the fire of ardor that is flaming up in the Moth's heart can't be seen. Indeed, people only see his restlessnesses when he burns in the candle. The same situation is that of our existence. (170)

Josh: In the heart of the Moth dwells a world of longings, but in it no turmoil, no commotion, is created. We too are in this same state. That is, the light that has illumined the heart of the Moth is also present in our heart. Or say this: that we are that very light. (168)

Faruqi: In this verse attention first of all falls on yak jahaa;N hangaamah. If this phrase is taken as a construction, then the interpretation becomes, despite a great deal of commotion, nothing is being expressed-- yak jahaa;N hangaamah meaning an extreme amount of commotion. To put yak to mean 'a great deal' is a Persian idiom, and it's not easy to use it, because without a suitable [munaasib] noun yak has no effect. Besides Ghalib, perhaps only Mir was able to have the courage to use it: yak biyaabaa;N barang-e .saut-e jaras mujh pah hai bekasii-o-tanhaa))ii [like the clamor of a bell, a 'desertful' of helplessness and solitude is upon me]

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In the verse under discussion, yak jahaa;N hangaamah is usually read as a construction. But we can also consider that yak jahaa;N and hangaamah are separate.... [In this case] he has said yak jahaa;N, that is, 'one world'. Commotion, that is, turmoil and clamor, is the quality of a world; thus in the next words he has mentioned it [and negated it, as a surprising absence]. Another excellence [of this reading] is that now 'we'-- that is, the personality of the speaker-- have become unlimited, like the world. It's better to say 'we are a world, but commotion is not apparent', as compared to saying 'there is a great deal of commotion in us, but the commotion is not apparent'. Now the question arises, what is intended by a lamp-display in the heart of the Moth? The theme of the whole verse is clear: just as in the Moth's heart there's always a lamp-display, but it's not visible to anybody (rather, compared to the candle the Moth looks dark and black), in the same way we too, although we are a world, or inside us have a world of commotion, nevertheless all this remains inside us alone. Outwardly there's nothing, only peace and quiet. So then, what's the affinity between the Moth's heart and a lamp-display? Most commentators haven't discussed this question. Although its answer is present in Mir: aa pa;Raa aag me;N ai sham((a yihii;N se to samajh kis qadar daa;G hu))aa thaa jigar-e parvaanah [it emerged in flame, oh candle, from right here; then understand to what extent the Moth's liver had become a wound] The Moth's heart, because of the burning bestowed on it and the flame kindled by its passion, is covered with wounds. He gives a lamp as a simile for a wound. In this way the Moth's heart is a lamp-display [though never outwardly visible].... The metaphors of both lines, and the form of the second line, are astonishing. The harmony of the constructions has made the verse even more beautiful. (100-01)

FWP: Faruqi has made the main points I wanted to emphasize; and he's made them so lucidly and thoughtfully that I've translated most of his whole commentary on this verse. I agree with him that (1a)-- adopted by Josh-- is more interesting than (1b)-- adopted by Nazm and Bekhud Mohani. But of course, to have both of them alternating in your perception is inevitable-- no serious reader of Ghalib can fail to perceive yak-jahaa;N hangaamah in its (1b) meaning, as at least a secondary choice. For more on Ghalib's beloved yak-something constructions, see {11,1}. On chiraa;Gaa;N as lamp-display, see {5,5}. It's hard to refrain from commenting on Mir's wonderful verses as well, but I will refrain. Only I can't prevent myself from pointing out that barang, in Persian, also means 'bell'. Nobody has anything to say about the word 'bedchamber'. Yet it has its own role to play. If we consider the sequence, we are 'the lamp-display of the bedchamber of the heart of the Moth'. We are reduced by steady degrees to the smallest possible scope-- not just to the size of the tiny, doomed, shortlived Moth, but even to his still tinier heart, and in that his still tinier bedchamber, and in that his still tinier lamp-display. Yet we are a world! And a world of passion, commotion, turmoil-- all of it invisible from the outside. And perhaps that's the way we want it. Consider {100,4}-- our every drop may be an ocean, but why should we show as little self-restraint as Mansur? We and the Moth know how to keep our secrets to ourselves. On the tiny scale of the lover's huge passion, see also {96,2}.

{81,4} .zu((f se hai ne qanaa((at se yih tark-e justujuu hai;N vabaal-e takyah-gaah-e himmat-e mardaanah ham

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1) from weakness, not contentment, is this abandonment of searching 2) we are a blight/burden on the resting-place of manly courage

Notes: ne is really nah, and is only written this way so it can count as a long syllable. qanaa((at: 'Content, contentment; resignation; tranquillity; --abstinence; ability to do without'. (Platts p.795) vabaal: 'An unhealthy climate or atmosphere; --anything painful or distressing; bane, pest, plague; --a crime, sin, fault'. (Platts p. 1178) takyah: 'A pillow, bolster, cushion; anything upon which one leans, prop, support; reliance, trust; the reserve of an army; a place of repose; the stand or abode of a faqiir'. (Platts p.352)

Nazm: That is, manly courage rests when it finds contentment, and contentment ought to be the cause for renunciation of the world-- not that the world is renounced, but only because of weakness of courage. If weakness is the cause of the renunciation of the search, then such renunciation of the search is a blight to manly courage. (82)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if we've renounced the search, we didn't do this because of contentment; rather, no strength for the search has remained in us. In this respect we have become a blight on the resting-place of manly courage. The meaning is that the task of men is that they should make courage their resting-place, but here a contrary situation has been presented. (131)

Bekhud Mohani: If we've renounced the search for a livelihood [ma((aash], the pity is that it is not because of contentment. Rather, it's because of lack of courage. (171)

Josh: If we've renounced the search for the friend, then the reason is not contentment. That is, don't consider that we have adopted patience/fortitude; rather, the reason is weakness. We no longer even have the strength for the search. People consider manly courage to be their resting-place, but we have become a burden on that resting-place. That is, manly courage has become disaffected with us. (168)

Mihr: The claim of 'manliness' was that we would obtain control over longings, and be content with the least possible amount. (276)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN Before the present verse, Ghalib has only used the word mard three times: {7,1} (passion as a warrior and 'seeker of men'); {7,7} (the dead Ghalib as a 'strangely free man'); and {57,7} (passion as 'man-killing' wine). Apart from {7,7} with its implicit renunciation, the other two both have contexts of battle or struggle, as does the present verse, and a sense that virility or even machismo is the quality desired. This 'manly courage' eventually halts at a 'resting-place' of some sort, where it stops and recuperates, or relaxes, or makes a stand, etc. But it only stops when it reaches a point of 'contentment' (or tranquility, or abstinence). For us to stop on false pretenses-- to stop out of mere exhaustion and weakness, not contentment-- makes us a blight or burden on the mood ('manly courage') or place (a general 'resting-place', or a faqir's hospice) where we stop. Or, if we read the i.zaafat differently, 'manly courage' itself can constitute a 'restingplace, and what we are a blight on is 'the resting-place that is manly courage'.

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But what is really going on here? What kind of 'search' is it, and what kind of a 'resting-place' is there, and what kind of 'contentment' can one find? The commentators don't know either: Nazm turns a renunciation of the search into a renunciation of the world; Bekhud Dihlavi suggests a pursuit of courage itself; Bekhud Mohani proposes a search for a livelihood; Josh understands the search to be for the 'friend' or beloved (human or divine); Mihr maintains that 'manliness' means contentment in austerity. The ultimate appeal of the verse is its cryptic abstractness and undecideability. The multiple meanings of the key words (see definitions above) permit readings that are religious or worldly, romantic or martial, specific or general, pragmatic or moral. It's another of those verses in which we have to fill in the blanks ourselves.

{81,5} daa))im ul-;habs us me;N hai;N laakho;N tamannaa))e;N asad jaante hai;N siinah-e pur-;xuu;N ko zindaa;N-;xaanah ham 1) all the hundreds of thousands of longings are in 'life imprisonment' in it, Asad 2) we consider our blood-filled breast to be a prison-house

Note: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Those longings that will never {emerge/be fulfilled}, he has constructed as 'life-prisoner' inmates. (82)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we consider our blood-filled breast to be a jailhouse [jel-;xaanah]. Because in our breast are all the hundreds of thousands of longings have been imprisoned for a whole lifetime; neither has any {emerged/been fulfilled} so far, nor can any hope be held out of any of them {emerging/being fulfilled} in the future, for the whole life long. The meaning is that many longings are in our heart such that their emergence/fulfillment depends only on the grace of the Lord. (131)

Bekhud Mohani: He has called them 'life-prisoners' because those longings were never fulfilled. Our blood-filled breast is a prison-house, in which all the hundreds of thousands of longings are imprisoned forever. (171)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} And after the baroque, fascinating, heavy-duty verses {81,1-3}, and the cryptic {81,4}, here comes our light relief: an enjoyable little mushairah verse. We can't tell what's being referred to in the first line, and must wait in some perplexity for the second. Even then, we don't receive full information until the very end of the line. But when we've got it, we've got it, and there's no need for further reflection. These qualities, by my definition, are the very essence of a 'mushairah verse'. The most amusing feature of the verse is its use of bureaucratic terminology, the fancy Arabic-based officialese of daa))im ul-;habs. It's something like 'life imprisonment', except that it refers to the prisoner. To apply it to longings imprisoned in a blood-filled bosom is amusing in itself. Moreover, there's the deftly invoked and exploited double meaning of nikalnaa-- both 'to emerge', and 'to come true'. For a famous example of wordplay involving both meanings, see {219,1}. Most interestingly, the word is not even used in the verse! and yet its presence, lurking in the background, is strongly felt, and is reflected in some of the commentary (e.g., Bekhud Mohani's). The wordplay of nikalnaa is what energizes the

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doubly morbid idea that the longings will never 'come out' of their prison, nor will they ever 'come true'. Other examples in which the double sense of nikalnaa is implied: {132,3}; {137,1} The clever use of laakho;N gives a finishing touch to the verse. Anybody could speak of 'lakhs of longings', hundreds of thousands of them. But the oblique plural ending specifically shows completeness-- 'all the hundreds of thousands'. It thus nicely reinforces the idea that none of them ever have come out; the whole supply of them, all that ever existed, are still trapped there, clamoring and suffering and filling the breast with blood, like prisoners banging vainly on the bars.

Ghazal 82 1 verse; meter G9; rhyming elements: aa ma((luum composed 1816; Hamid p. 67; Arshi #081; Raza pp. 149-50

{82,1} ba-naalah ;haa.sil-e dil-bastagii faraaham kar mataa((-e ;xaanah-e zanjiir juz .sadaa ma((luum 1) with/through lament, gather the harvest of heart-boundness 2) the property/wealth of a house of chains, except for sound-- is known [to be nothing]!

Notes: bastah [root of bastagii]: 'Bound, shut, closed; fastened, folded up; frozen, congealed'. (Platts p.155)

Nazm: He has constructed heart-boundness and relationship of temperament as chains. He says, if you engage in heart-binding, then adopt the practice of lament as well, for in a house of chains, the only wealth and property is the sound of mourning. His intention is the scorn of the world. (83)

Bekhud Mohani: A 'house of chains' is a prison-house; he has called the world a prison-house. If you are interested in the world (which in respect to its difficulties is a prison-house), then cultivate an interest in lament and complaint as well. That is, if you are ensnared in the world, you'll spend the rest of your life weeping. (171)

Josh: juz .sadaa ma((luum-- to speak like this is an idiom of the language used by eloquent ones. The meaning is that except for sound there's nothing else; it's written in one's destiny that ;xaak sonaa ma((luum-- that is, gold cannot be obtained. The meaning of the verse is, collect the property of your heartboundness through complaint. The heart-binding of the madman of love is in this fashion. The wealth of a house of chains is nothing else except complaint. The sound of chains is called the 'lament of chains'. The mention of chains is because of the madman of love. (168-69)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Here the address is to 'you' in the intimate tuu, and its bitter, cynical tone suggests that the lover is either counseling himself, or giving heartfelt, candid advice to some younger friend. The colloquial use of ma((luum, as Josh observes, gives an extra punch. The first line plays with images of the harvest. The word ;haa.sil itself, though it often means merely the abstract 'result', can refer literally to the 'harvest'; for an example of wordplay involving both meanings, see {12,1}.

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When we also see that it is to be 'gathered' [faraaham karnaa], we have a sense of grain being brought in. Brought in 'with lament' [bah naalah], of course, since it's the harvest of heart-boundness, and we know it will somehow be lost or blighted. But not until we are vouchsafed the second line-- and in a mushairah, there would probably be a conspicuous delay-- do we realize that the lament itself is the harvest, and not just a reaction to it. The 'lament' is placed at the beginning of the first line, and the 'sound' at the very end of the semantic part of the second line, so that (in good mushairah style) the full realization is delayed as long as possible. And in between we have-- the chains. As with the laments, we are taken by surprise. In the first line, dil-bastagii registers only as a common expression for the state of being in love. Only when we see the zanjiir do we recall its literal meaning of 'heart- boundness'. And then we realize that the elegant wordplay of the 'house of chains' with 'heart-boundness' is at the center of the verse. If you chain up your heart, the only 'harvest' that you 'gather' will be laments, your only 'wealth' will be the sound of the chains themselves as they screech and groan with your every movement. They are thus both themselves a lament, and a cause for lament in you. And as Josh points out, mad lovers, like other madmen, are chained up anyway. The verse is unusually full of conspicuously placed aa sounds. I count seven, one each in: naalah ;haa.sil faraaham mataa(( ;xaanah .sadaa ma((luum. Perhaps they are the .sadaa of the lament. V

Ghazal 83 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ii kii sharm composed 1833; Hamid p. 67; Arshi #083; Raza p. 277

{83,1} mujh ko diyaar-e ;Gair me;N maaraa va:tan se duur rakh lii mire ;xudaa ne mirii bekasii kii sharm 1) [someone] killed me in an alien/other realm far from the homeland 2) my Lord upheld the pride/shame of my helplessness/friendlessness

Notes: sharm: 'Shame, bashfulness, modesty'. (Platts p.725)

Hali: Nobody wishes to die in another country; [but] he thanks the Lord for it, since if he lies without grave or shroud it’s no harm, for nobody knows who he was or of what rank. But to die in his own homeland, where everybody is aware of his circumstances but he has not even a single patron or sympathizer-- for the dead person’s dust to be dishonored like this would be a matter of severe disgrace and humiliation. Therefore he thanks the Lord that he has struck him down in another country and thus upheld the honor of his helplessness. Although outwardly this is an expression of thanks to the Lord, in reality it is from start to finish a complaint against the people of his homeland, which he has expressed in a strange guise. (123)

Nazm: That is, if he had died in the homeland, then how could he have prided himself on helplessness/friendlessness? That is, this helplessness/friendlessness would have been a cause for disgrace. (83)

Bekhud Mohani: My Lord saved me from the compassion of my countrymen. Death came to me in a strange land. If I had died in the homeland, then the honor of my

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helplessness/friendlessness would not have survived. That is, I died outside the country, and remained deprived of the sympathy of my countrymen. So it's well and good-- nobody's compassion was offered to us. (171)

Josh: By 'alien land' he means the world, and by 'homeland' he intends the world of the spirit of the world of possibilities. (169)

FWP: HOME: {14,9} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} The first line sounds entirely like a complaint or lament: somebody (unspecified) killed me, and added insult to injury by killing me in a foreign land, far from my homeland. What could be a crueller deed? What could be a sadder fate? (For more examples of the dead-lover-speaks situation, see {57,1}.) Yet after the requisite mushairah performance delay, we learn in the second line that the dead lover is relieved and grateful for such a death. In fact, he considers that the Lord must have been watching over him and somehow looking out for his interests. (If in fact the Lord didn't mercifully kill him himself-- which is the simplest grammatical reading, though not one of the commentators is willing to entertain it.) Why would the dead lover think that? Here are some of the possibilities: 1) The lover's dying abroad means that nobody at home learned how poor and helpless and friendless he was in that land, so he is glad not to have been embarrassed by their pity or scorn. 2) Dying in a state of helplessness and friendlessness abroad is no disgrace; it is what might happen to anyone who's alone in a strange country. But if the lover had died in the very same helplessness and friendlessness in his own country (as might well have happened), that truly would have been a shame and a disgrace. He is thankful to have been spared it. 3) The lover wanted his helplessness and friendlessness to be perfect and complete, as an emblem of his passion, and a proof of his total indifference to public opinion and worldly success. He is grateful to the Lord for bringing this state of bekasii to perfection through the nature of his solitary, helpless death; he does not have to fend off any sympathetic countrymen. 4) The Lord knew that the lover was sick of this life, and wanted to die, but had no one around who would be obliging enough to kill him. (The beloved is often reluctant to perform this office, as in {19,4} for example.) So the Lord himself went ahead and, as a favor, killed the lover, thus helping him out in the embarrassments of his 'friendlessness'. What's really interesting in all this is the seemingly paradoxical double sense of the word sharm; you'd think it would be hard to explain, except that we have something like it for 'shame' in English. We can call the same behavior 'shameless' and 'shameful'. Immoral people are said to 'have no sense of shame', and also to 'live a life of shame'. In the same way, sharm goes in both directions. See {24,1} for another example of its complexity. And because it's the refrain in this ghazal, it's also present in {83,2}. So to maintaining one's bekasii kii sharm, the 'shame/pride of one's helplessness' (see definition above), can mean: desperately concealing one's bekasii (out of shame or embarrassment); or living with it as best one can (so as not to act 'ashamed' of it and thus hurt its sense of proper pride/shame); or even adopting it as a value and flaunting it as wildly as possible (out of sheer pride and perversity). This verse reminds me of {3,5}, with its remarkable double use of the word nang, which means 'honor/shame' even more complexly than does sharm.

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Just a point of cultural interest: Ghalib himself had a very local sense of his 'homeland'. When he went to Calcutta, he wrote to friends about being far from the va:tan.

{83,2} vuh ;halqah'haa-e zulf kamii;N me;N hai;N yaa ;xudaa rakh liijo mere da((v;aa-e vaarastagii ki sharm 1) those circles of curls are in ambush, oh Lord! 2) uphold the honor/shame of my claim of liberation!

Notes: vaarastagii: 'Liberation, deliverance, salvation; --humility'. (Platts p.1174) sharm: 'Shame, bashfulness, modesty'. (Platts p.725)

Nazm: That is, if I become a prisoner of the curls, then my claim of freedom and liberation will no longer remain. (83)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, her veiled curls are lying in wait for me. Oh Lord, now the honor/shame of my claim of liberation is in your hands. Preserve my honor/shame! The meaning is that if I become a prisoner of the curls, then my claim of freedom and deliverance will prove false. (132)

Bekhud Mohani: I pride himself on not having come into the snare of any beautiful one. Oh Provider, maintain the honor/shame [laaj] of my claim! The circles of the beloved's curls are in ambush for me. From this prayer, we learn that there is such heart-deception in those curls that the foot can be seen to falter and he says that to escape them is impossible without support from the Unseen. (171)

Mihr: Mirza composed other verses too that resembled this one, in which it seems that he had a very deep sense of the disrespect of his countrymen: {87,11}; {101,10}. (278)

FWP: In the previous verse, {83,1}, I discussed the complexities of the word sharm, with its meaning of 'honor/shame', so there's no need to repeat it all here. The first line is a panicky exclamation, the second a cry for help, making the verse another of the countless examples of Ghalib's love of inshaa))iyah speech. As the commentators explain, the lover begs God to help him avoid the terrible allure of the beloved. This is a verse in which those who maintain that the beloved can always be taken as God find themselves in trouble. Clearly the lover is asking God for help with the beloved; it's hard to make sense of the verse in any other way. It would really be an extraordinary casuistry that could make the lover ask God to help the lover escape His own curly tresses. For more examples of such verses, see {20,3}. Why should God help the lover? The word vaarastagii has, as can be seen in the definition above, religious as well as worldly dimensions. It can mean 'liberation' from many things, including the world-- and certainly including the snare of passion. The lover may be proposing a clever deal here: oh Lord, if you help me maintain my 'liberation' from passion, I can devote my full attention to You-- but if those curls get me, it's all over! As Bekhud Mohani points out, the lover's needing to call on God for help is clear proof in itself of the irresistibleness of the beloved's power. The lover's desperate cri de coeur sounds as if it's already too late for any rescue to reach him.

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Ghazal 84 1 verse; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa karuu;N composed 1816; Hamid p.67; Arshi #84; Raza pp. 151-52

{84,1} luu;N daam ba;xt-e ;xuftah se yak ;xvaab-e ;xvush vale ;Gaalib yih ;xauf hai kih kahaa;N se adaa karuu;N 1) [I] would borrow from [my] sleeping fortune a single happy dream/sleep, but 2a) Ghalib, there is this fear, that-- {from where / how} would I return [it]? 2b) this fear is dominant, that-- {from where / how} would I return [it]?

Notes: Nazm: Fate is sleeping, and I am sleepless/dreamless. If it's in my power to borrow a happy dream, then I can have one. But from where will I repay this debt? I am deprived of the 'wealth of a dream'. (83)

Josh: In the grief of lack and poverty, it never befalls one to sleep in peace. One wants to borrow a little happy-heartedness from one's 'sleeping' fate. But the fear is, how will I be able to return this debt, and when will the wealth be available to me to pay this debt? Mirza always remained indebted; it's as if this verse is about his own situation. (169)

Faruqi: In the second line, ;Gaalib is by way of a pen-name, but it also has its dictionary meaning too.... [In saying] daam instead of qar.z, yak instead of ik, and vale instead of magar, Ghalib has demonstrated his Persianization. But in place of qar.z, daam also has more of an affinity because it gestures toward qar.z daam karnaa; this idiom is used to express compulsion.... My fortune is asleep, but I am sleepless. I would borrow from the sleeping fortune one ;xvaab-e ;xvush (= (1) deep sleep; (2) sweet dream), but then from where would I return the debt? There are a number of difficulties in paying a debt. (1) The poor man's fortune remains asleep. My fortune is sleeping, and I am so poor that I can't even repay the debt of a sleep. (2) A debt of sleep can only be repaid with sleep [which is exactly what I don't have, and won't want to lose if I should get it]. (3) The meaning of giving sleep back to fortune is to put the fortune to sleep. But my fortune is already asleep-- now who would be able to put a sleeper to sleep? Let's consider some further points. My fortune is to be wakeful day and night, and my fortune's fortune is to sleep day and night. My wakefulness and my fortune's sleeping are two names for the same thing. A second point is that when I borrow a sleep from my sleeping fortune, then as long as that sleep lasts the fortune will awaken-- but then the fortune awakens, then I will go to sleep. If I go to sleep, then I won't be able to take advantage of the awakened fortune. A third point is that the awakening of the sleeping fortune is meaningless for this reason too: that afterwards I will be compelled to repay that debt-- that is, I will be compelled to myself put my awakened fortune to sleep..... The final point is that a metaphor for life is 'to be awake' and a metaphor for death is 'sleep'. [Thus the paradox of my seeking to borrow 'death' in order to enhance my 'life'.] Because waking is life, and sleep is death. I can borrow either life or death; I can't take both at one time. (103-04)

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FWP: The commentators assume that we know that a 'sleeping fortune' is a common idiomatic expression for a negligent, inattentive, badly behaved fortune that is not doing right by you. (Thus boys are sometimes named Baidar Bakht, or 'Awake Fortune'.) When people speak of their luck improving, they say their sleeping fortune has awakened. Here, of course, Ghalib is taking the worst-case situation and using it to make one of his plays with paradox. If my fortune is deeply and hopelessly asleep, one result might very probably be perpetual wakefulness for me-because sleep is a good, and ill-fortune would naturally include loss of many such goods; and because ill-fortune would include many other losses and anxieties, such as poverty and debt, that would keep me awake with worry. Because sleeplessness in itself is such a miserable state, and also because dreaming offers an escape from a world full of ill-fortune, I would like to borrow a ;xvaab-e xuush that, as Faruqi points out, can mean either a good sleep or a happy dream (since ;xvaab means both 'sleep' and 'dream'). And from whom could I borrow it, except my own fortune, the giver or withholder of all aspects of my destiny? And yet-- when I think of borrowing it, all the problems, confusions, impossibilities, and paradoxes so well spelled out by Faruqi are bound to arise. This is one of those really tangled verses that can be translated (overlooking the ambiguity in line two, of course), but can hardly be explicated in anything less than several paragraphs. Vasmi Abidi points out the striking repetition of the letter ;xe-- especially in all four parts of the two i.zaafat phrases in the first line. Is it too fanciful to think that this might create a slightly soporific mood?

Ghazal 85 8 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aal kahaa;N composed after 1821; Hamid p. 68; Arshi #96 Raza pp. 254-55

{85,1} vuh firaaq aur vuh vi.saal kahaa;N vuh shab-o-roz-o-maah-o-saal kahaa;N 1) that separation and that union-- where? 2) those nights and days and months and years-- where?

Notes: Nazm: The poet remembers former times-- separation is a bad thing, but now he remembers that the heart and the passion have not remained, because of which separation was considered separation; and union, union. This whole ghazal is in the same one theme. (83)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that time is gone; and those nights of separation have been passed, the passing of which was more difficult than cutting through a mountain [as in {1,2}]; and those pleasures of union too have been erased, which I still remember.... This whole 'continuous ghazal' [;Gazal-e musalsal] has been composed in this same theme. (133)

Baqir: In short, those days, nights, months, and years have all taken their leave; things of past times now seem like dreams and fantasies [;xvaab-o-;xayaal]. (218)

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Josh: That is, the nights of separation have passed, the time of union has also passed. Now neither those days exist nor those nights, nor those months nor those years. Somehow or other life is passing. In only one word, vuh-- what details he has captured! Its excellence is worthy of attention. (170)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} 'UNION': {5,2} Nazm notes that this whole ghazal has the same theme; basically, it's the classic 'But where are the snows of yesteryear?' motif of lost time with its irrecoverable joys and sorrows. By choosing a 'short meter' the poet has restricted the amount of space in which he can operate, and by choosing a powerful, vivid, colloquial, almost controlling refrain like kahaa;N he has further tightened his structural options. Bekhud Dihlavi actually calls the result a 'continuous ghazal' [;Gazal-e musalsal], but that's pushing it too far. Since we can quite well account for the unity of theme by the poet's choice of meter and refrain (and theme, of course), Occam's Razor prevents us from attributing to the ghazal, in the absence of historical evidence, such a further, unusual kind of unity. The word kahaa;N does powerful work throughout the ghazal. It is really short for kahaa;N hai or kahaa;N hai;N, but the idiomatic force of the omission of honaa is so natural and legitimate that not even Nazm complains. The word kahaa;N works partly through simplicity and the sheer force of repetition. But also it works through its own double inshaa))iyah possibilities: as a straightforward, if abstract, question (I wonder-- where do the old days go when they're over?); and as a negative rhetorical question (Where are they now? Gone forever, of course, and you can whistle for them!). As Josh observes, in this verse the little word vuh also does much of the heavy lifting. Its repeated use implies that we readers already know which ones (the ones the speaker has been thinking about; or the ones the speaker has already told us about; or the ones we've experienced ourselves). Or else it may suggest that they're beyond words-- the speaker can't describe them; overwhelmed by emotion, all he can do is point to them, gesture toward them. He's framing an elegy for his life. And yet, this ghazal was written when Ghalib was in his twenties-- including the later verses that seem to complain of decline and old age and so on. They are part of absolutely standard ghazal convention, and were never meant to be taken as autobiography. In the last few years of his life Ghalib quoted the closing-verse, {85,8}, in several letters lamenting the ills of old age. This is one of the many advantages of stylization-- the poetry of his youth could still be meaningful in his old age.

{85,2} fur.sat-e kaar-o-baar-e shauq kise ;zauq-e na:z:zaarah-e jamaal kahaa;N 1) who has leisure for the doings of passion? 2) a relish for the sight of beauty-- where?

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now who has that absorbedness in ardor? And now where is that relish and ardor for beauty? (133)

Baqir:

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Now who has leisure for the doings of passion and romance? That time itself has passed-- so much so that not even the relish for the sight of beauty has remained in the heart. (218)

Josh: This verse too is in the series [silsilah] of the theme of the opening-verse.... Someone has said, zaahid mujhe sunaa nah ;haqiiqat bihisht kii dil hii nahii;N rahaa jo tamannaa-e ;huur ho [Ascetic, don't tell me the state of paradise there's no heart left, with which to long for an Houri]. (85)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. Many commentators simply don't discuss this verse, considering it an extension of the one before. It isn't exactly difficult. Exercising my right of personal interpretation, I enjoy reading this one in a weary, kvetching New York tone of voice-- as part of a lament of constant busyness, the decline of the times, the degeneracy of the youth nowadays, and so on. Usually, in New York at least, these laments come from people in the midst of their midlife busyness-- people who would flee in horror from any attempt to rediscover their youthful follies. I think {85,5} is another such gem of the kvetching mood.

{85,3} dil to dil vuh dimaa;G bhii nah rahaa shor-e saudaa-e ;xa:t:t-o-;xaal kahaa;N 1a) not to speak of the heart-- not even that mind remained 1b) a heart is a heart [after all-- but] not even that mind remained 2) the tumult of the madness of down [on the cheek] and beauty spot-where?

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, That heart in which passion built up-- if it got erased, then let it go [mi;T gayaa to mi;T jaa))e]. But the sad thing is that that mind too did not remain, which felt madness for down [on the cheek] and mole. (133)

Baqir: Not to even mention the heart [dil kaa to ;zikr hii kyaa hai]-- now that mind itself has not remained what it used to be. When this is how things are, then how can the madness of passion remain? (218)

Josh: He says, leaving aside the heart [dil dar-kinaar]-- not even that mind has remained, which used to be filled with the madness of somebody's down [on the cheek] and mole. (170)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; KAHAN MADNESS: {14,3} Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. In this verse, Ghalib once again plays with an idiomatic construction. The first words of the verse, dil to dil, have a colloquial sense something like 'not to mention the heart' or 'leaving aside the heart [as of lesser importance]'. This meaning (1a) can be seen in all three commentators' paraphrases. But then, two ways to read it can easily be envisioned. Does 'not to speak of the heart' or 'leaving aside the heart' imply that the heart is of so little value that we brush it aside and hasten to the really important loss, the mind? Or does it imply that the loss of the heart is so major and inevitable, so far

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beyond words, that rather than even attempting to address it the only thing to do is to pass on to note with surprise that the mind is gone too? And in the second line we see the verse's obsession with passion, even with madness, and its final question-- where? Where is it? And when we look back at the first verse, dil to dil, looms much larger and looks more mysterious. Its literal meaning also swims to the surface (1b). 'A heart, then a heart'; 'if it's a heart, then it's a heart'; 'when it's a heart, then it's a heart'. The heart, rather than the mind, feels like the center of the loss after all. The 'down on the cheek' suggests that the beloved is an adolescent boy; for more examples of such verses, see {9,2}.

{85,4} thii vuh ik sha;x.s ke ta.savvur se ab vuh ra((naa))ii-e ;xayaal kahaa;N 1) that [which] was, from the imagining of one individual-2) now, that gracefulness of thought-- where?

Notes: ta.savvur: 'Imagine or picturing (a thing) to the mind; imagination, fancy; reflection, contemplation, meditation; forming an idea; idea, conception, perception'. (Platts p.326) ra((naa))ii: 'Gracefulness of motion, graceful gait; grace, loveliness, beauty'. (Platts p.595)

Nazm: Here, the phrase ik sha;x.s is very eloquent [balii;G]. If instead of it he had said ik sho;x [one mischievous one], then praise of the beloved would have emerged and it would have been clear that relish and ardor are still left, so that he has constructed the beloved in those words. And this would have been contrary to the claim of his situation. (83-84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: All these things that have been mentioned above [in the preceding verses] were from the imagining of one individual. Now where do the highflyingness and colorfulnesses of thought remain? (133)

Bekhud Mohani: The tyranny of old age, the cruelty of the circumstances of earning a livelihood, and the oppression of sad-heartedness have been shown in this verse. (173)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. The verse makes a then/now contrast, with the first line describing the past and the second line, the present. But the two lines are welded together-although technically each could be read separately, there's no way we could tell what vuh in the first line referred to (or what feminine noun thii was agreeing with) until we heard ra((naa))ii. And ra((naa))ii in fact dominates the whole verse. It's such a gracefulsounding word in itself, and its long aa sounds (since the ((ain here sounds like alif) almost demand to be prolonged and caressed. Then the effect is enhanced by the long alif sounds of ;xayaal and kahaa;N. This graceful flowingness is especially marked since it follows the notably consonantheavy, short-vowelled set of ik, sha;x.s, and ta.savvur in the first line. It's also clear that this ra((naa))ii-e ;xayaal, this 'graceful movement of thought', is internally generated-- it's not attributed to the beloved's beauty, but to the ta.savvur, the 'imagining' or 'image', of 'one individual'. Nazm makes an excellent point about this phrase-- saying merely ik sha;x.s

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conveys an air of detachment appropriate to a former lover marvelling at the loss of his long-ago passions of the mind. There's also another possible interpretation of ik sha;x.s-- it could refer not to the beloved at all, but to the lover himself. On this reading, the ex-lover is explicitly marvelling at his own imaginative powers-- how was it possible for a single individual's imagination to create such 'graceful movement of thought' as his impassioned imagination used to create, and where is all that grace now? Even in English, we can say not only 'your memory haunts me' but also 'my memory (of you) haunts me', and this kind of ambiguity of the possessive is much more common in Urdu.

{85,5} aisaa aasaa;N nahii;N lahuu ronaa dil me;N :taaqat jigar me;N ;haal kahaa;N 1) [it’s] not such an easy [task] to weep blood 2) strength in the heart, fitness in the liver-- where?

Notes: Nazm: That is, the limit of the difficulties of passion has been reached, and all the blood of the heart and liver has been expended. (84)

Bekhud Mohani: Weeping is no easy thing. For it, there ought to be strength in the heart and liver-- which has already been offered up to the difficulties of passion and the difficulties of life. (173)

Josh: The difficulties of passion have already passed beyond the limit. Now not even weeping blood is easy. Neither is there strength in the heart, nor is there that state of the liver such that it would be able to give blood for weeping. (170)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN JIGAR: {2,1} Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. For discussion of the liver's role as a blood-maker in ghazal physiology, see {30,2}. To my ear, there's that same great kvetching quality here as in {85,2}. It's a martyred lament, almost a whine-- so you think it's easy to weep tears of blood? It's not so easy, let me tell you! Why, you wouldn't believe the state my liver is in! And so on, perhaps at some length. '[It's] not such an easy [task]', aisaa aasaa;N nahii;N, at first stands on its own, as a colloquial expression. But the aisaa also leaves a sense of loose ends-- it's not such an easy task as what? Only by implication do we realize that the present is being juxtaposed to the past. When the lover complains of the exhaustion of his heart and the unfitness of his liver, his complaint is lodged firmly in the present. But hovering over the verse is the implication that all this was different in the past, and that this awareness redoubles the lover's suffering. For the lover is in the position not of an ordinary person coming to grips with physical decline, but of an Olympic athlete whose body is not what it used to be. He monitors his losses more obsessively, and mourns them more deeply, than the rest of us can really imagine. His commitment to weeping tears of blood was such that he can never be reconciled to his loss of the power to do so. For a lover, it seems like a form of impotence.

{85,6} ham se chhuu;Taa qimaar-;xaanah-e ((ishq vaa;N jo jaave;N girih me;N maal kahaa;N

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1) the gambling-house of passion has been [unwillingly] left by us 2) if [we] would go there, money in the purse-- where?

Notes: Nazm: That is, now there's neither the cash of the heart, nor the gold-piece of the wound, nor the wealth of endurance. With what wealth can I gamble, and with what stakes can I throw the dice? (84)

Bekhud Mohani: Looking over his lack of worldly pomp and circumstances, or his sadheartedness, the lover exclaims, now we've left the gambling-house of passion. There it's necessary to have worldly wealth, or tumult and longings- all of which I've lost forever. From the word chhuu;Taa the speaker's agitation of heart can be learned, and it's clear that whatever is happening is contrary to his will and his desire. (173)

Josh: In order to throw the dice of passion, relish and ardor, longing, desire, turmoil, eagerness, etc. are necessary. This wealth hasn't remained in our purse at all. Thus we've left off going to that gambling-house. (170)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. In the previous verse, loss of health in the heart and liver was portrayed as a kind of impotence. And here too, the lack of 'money in the purse' means that the lover will never be admitted to the gambling-house of passion, and could never perform even if he got there. So once again he's lamenting his powerlessness. In both cases, it's the sense of decline from a former state that gives the verse its bite. The reason we can't go to the gambling-house any more is that we've already wagered and lost everything we had. We're bankrupt now. It's the drastic nature of the fall that makes our expulsion so bitter. Yet all this emerges only by implication, from our general knowledge of the ghazal world.

{85,7} fikr-e dunyaa me;N sar khapaataa huu;N mai;N kahaa;N aur yih vabaal kahaa;N 1) in worry about the world I wrack/ruin my brains 2a) how can I and this curse/ruin be equal/compared? 2b) I am-- where? and this curse/ruin-- where?

Notes: khapaanaa: 'To destroy, make an end of, make away with, to despatch; to ruin, ravage, lay waste; to end, finish, complete, exhaust'. (Platts p.869) vabaal: 'An unhealthy climate or atmosphere; --anything painful or distressing; bane, pest, plague; --a crime, sin, fault; --punishment (for a crime); divine vengeance; curse; misfortune; ruin'. (Platts p.1178)

Nazm: That is, there was a time when I had no relationship at all with any worldly cares or concerns. (84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I was a slave of passion; I was involved with the grief of passion. I used to endure the difficulties of separation, I used to enjoy the pleasures of union. What did I have to do with the grief of the world? What did I consider that curse/ruin to be? (134)

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Bekhud Mohani: Now I am, and the worry about livelihood [mai;N huu;N aur...]. Where am I, and where this snare! He expresses the movement of the time, and his own oppression. That is, he shows the disrespect of the people of the world; and if things were not like this, then why would a free one like me become involved in these quarrels? (173)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; KAHAN Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. This verse makes excellent use of the idiomatic pattern kahaa;N yih kahaa;N vuh, where the point is that the two items are radically incommensurable-how could they even be mentioned in the same breath? The famous proverb kahaa;N raajaa bhoj kahaa;N ganguu telii [where [is] Raja Bhoj, where [is] Gangu the Oil-presser?] comes to mind: it expresses the extremes of the social system, with its two ends that cannot be imagined as meeting. For another example of this usage, see {219,9}. Here, as so often, Ghalib uses an idiom in an unexpectedly complex way. Consider some of its possibilities: 1) How can I, a former lover, have fallen so low as now to immerse myself in worldly worries? I should instead be experiencing the grief of passion, which is my only proper concern. 2) How can I, a helpless and hapless type with no resources, possibly cope with the manifold practical difficulties of making a living in the real world? 3) My perpetual worry and anxiety is what really wears me down. I ruin my brains with all this self-torment about life in general. How can my mind endure the ruinous burden of such constant anxiety and distress? In other words, the flexibility of the kahaa;N ... kahaa;N idiom makes possible three quite different readings of the nature of the ex-lover's suffering. It might be due to shame at his personal history, to practical difficulties in the world, or to psychological self-torment. (Or, of course, all of the above.) And the nature of the idiom also makes us ask about the relation between self-inflicted and external kinds of ruin. To wrack (or ruin) your brains, sar khapaanaa, is a form of ruin that both is self-generated (since you do it to yourself), and is not self-generated (since outside factors cause you to do it). So one may well ask, where am I, and where is this vabaal , this curse/ misfortune/ burden/ ruin? I and it are incommensurable, poles apart, as the idiom makes clear. But obviously I and it are also related fairly intimately. After all, it's the very immediate 'this' curse, not the more usual 'that' one. Am I trapped inside it [fikr-e dunyaa me;N], or is it a (mind-generated) part of me? Or, as usual, both at once?

{85,8} mu.zma;hil ho ga))e quv;aa ;Gaalib vuh ((anaa.sir me;N i((tidaal kahaa;N 1) the strengths/powers became weak/exhausted, Ghalib 2) that balance in the elements-- where?

Notes: Ghalib: [Writing in 1866 (?):] My kind friend, in the Persian language the writing of letters had already been renounced [matruuk]. From the onslaughts of old age and weakness, the strength for laborious scrutiny and liver-utilization have not remained in me. The vital warmth is in decline, and this is the state: {85,8}. (Arshi 224) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 842 ==translation: Daud Rahbar p. 272

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Ghalib: [c.1867:] The truth is that in composition and writing, that power over the faculty of speech has not remained. In the temperament that pleasure, in the head that madness-- where? None of the mastery [malakah] of fifty or fiftysix years of practice [mashq] has remained. For this reason, in the art of composition I [merely] converse. As for what remains of the senses, the proof is this verse of mine: {85,8}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 828

Nazm: By 'balance of elements' is meant 'youth'. (84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the time of youth has passed. Now where has the time of balance remained? The interval of youth is now finished. The strength/powers have begun to decline. (134)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, the strengths/powers have become weak, and no youthful kind of balance has remained in the elements. That is, youth has gone and has taken the strengths/powers with it. (173)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN Some general points about this whole gazal have been made in {85,1}. It almost sounds like a mysterious prophecy, full of foreboding-- the strong shall be weak. Here, it's already happened: the strengths/powers have lost their strength/power. Now there is nothing but weakness. It's not that strength used to be unlimited. But there used to be a sense of balance, of harmony, of the powers and forces of the body working smoothly together. Now it's all gone-- gone where? All this awareness of the past is conveyed to us through the verb ho gaye, 'became', and above all through the little pronoun vuh, 'that'. There is a kind of pathos here, but also a kind of mystery. Where do the powers of youth go when they're gone? But then, of course, where are the snows of yesteryear? And remember that this whole ghazal was composed when Ghalib was in his twenties. So this verse is, in the classic ghazal style, the very opposite of autobiographical.

Ghazal 86 9 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa kahte hai;N composed 1847; Hamid p. 69; Arshi #107; Raza pp. 286-87

{86,1} kii vafaa ham se to ;Gair us ko jafaa kahte hai;N hotii aa))ii hai kih achchho;N ko buraa kahte hai;N 1) [when/if she] showed faith to us, then the Others call it oppression/cruelty 2) [it] has come down [to us]-- that [they] {vilify / call 'bad'} the good ones

Notes: buraa kahnaa: 'To speak ill (of), to pronounce or call (one) bad, evil, wicked, &c.; to vilify, abuse'. (Platts p.143)

Nazm: The subject of kii is the beloved. (84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when the beloved treated us with faithfulness, then the Rival calls this oppression/cruelty. This ancient custom comes down to us, that enemies or jealous people always {vilify/ call bad} good people. (134)

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Bekhud Mohani: The first line is the complaint of the Rivals. In the second line he consoles his heart, that if they call faithfulness 'oppression/cruelty', then let them do it. It's nothing new. The people of the world always {vilify / call bad} the good ones. (174)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; MUSHAIRAH; OPPOSITES GOOD/BAD: {22,4} This verse is another example of play with words and idioms. The first line contains an amusing and attractive pair of nouns-- opposites that are separated by only a letter. Those who show vafaa are accused of jafaa. It's a very convenient slippage that involves replacing only one letter, so the Others can readily engage in saying that something is really its opposite. The second line begins with the soothing truism-markerhotii aa))ii hai, something like 'it's come down to us' or 'by longstanding custom'. And indeed we learn that the longstanding custom is that 'they' vilify or abuse certain people. The expression buraa kahnaa is a stylized one, a 'petrified phrase' with this meaning. But of course, the people who are vilified are 'good ones'. And this at once revitalizes the expression buraa kahnaa-- we are reminded of its literal meaning, 'to say/call bad'. (For more on Ghalib's play with good/bad opppositions, see {6,5}.) Thus the second line plays on one set of opposites, just as the first line plays on another set. The first line can now be seen as a specific case; and the second line is revealed as the general principle illustrated or proved by it. And of course the verse will be a lovely mushairah one, offering witty and quickly-grasped pleasures, and withholding the final, clinching idiom until the last minute.

{86,2} aaj ham apnii pareshaanii-e ;xaa:tir un se kahne jaate to hai;N par dekhiye kyaa kahte hai;N 1) our distraction/disorder of temperament-- today we, to her, 2a) indeed go to say it-- but [let's] see what [we] say 2b) indeed go to say it-- but [let's] see what [she] says

Notes: Nazm: That is, having gone there, let's see what we say; or let's listen and see what she says. Of these two aspects, the first aspect is more meaningful. It expresses the additional meaning that having gone before the beloved, the absorption and self-transcendance that is created-- in it, will I say anything, and will anything come out of my mouth? (84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse two meanings have been created. One is that having arrived before her, are we able to say anything, or not? That is, whether the awesomeness of beauty deprives us of the power of speech or not. The second meaning is that having heard our situation, let's see what answer she gives to it. But greater enjoyment is in the first meaning. (134)

Bekhud Mohani: Some Ustad has said, kahte ho yih kahte ham yih kahte jo yaar aataa sab kahne kii baate;N hai;N kuchh bhii nah kahaa jaataa /You say, 'we'd say this, we'd say this if the beloved came' these are all mere words; nothing {is/ can be} said/....

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In this verse to and par dekhiye are full of meaning. That is, at the hands of our heart we're now so anxious that we can't do without telling it. But along with that, it also emerges that hopelessness even now lowers the heart-- that speaking is useless, there prayers are not answered. (174)

FWP: SETS == SUBJECT? Normally I translate line by line; this verse, however, is so classic a case of enjambement that it forced me into contortions to do so. (The point of doing so is to help readers get at the exact words in each line.) Otherwise, if we translate both lines together, the word order is very readable Urdu prose: Today we indeed go to tell her our distraction of temperament-- but let's see what {we/she} say(s). This is a conspicuous example of Ghalib's trick of making grammar that can be read in two (or sometimes three, or more) ways. As all the commentators point out, the subject of kyaa kahte hai;N can be either ham for the speaker, or vuh (with the plural of respect), for the beloved. Nazm makes the excellent point that the former reading is more interesting, because it offers two possibilities: the usual 'let's see what we say' (we don't know what words will fall from our lips when we get there); and a negative rhetorical question or exclamation, 'let's see if we say anything! (since we may be incapable of speech in that setting). This latter possibility is set up by the first line-- the lover's problem is pareshaanii-- scatteredness, distraction, confusion, anxiety. Just the sort of condition, in short, that may make it difficult or even impossible to find words. And when we add the awesomeness of the beloved's beauty and bad temper, the effect may well be truly overpowering. Or, as Nazm maintains, the lover may be silent out of mystical absorption and self-lessness. Or, of course, out of exhaustion and weakness. Or out of sheer despair. Almost any other outcome is more probable, in short, than an effective, moving speech by the lover, that would be well received by the beloved. And we all know this already-- including the lover, who knows it best of all. For the rhetorical situation seems to be that the lover is responding to the urging of some well-meaning friend. Go see her, the friend says, tell her how you feel. The lover agrees to try. But his dubiousness is set up in advance by 'indeed' (my best translation here of to). And it's made manifest by par, 'but'- a small word that, here as always, says it all. Bekhud Mohani quotes a verse by 'some Ustad'. I wonder if it could be a misremembered form of this wonderful one of Mir's (from the second divan): kahte to ho yuu;N kahte yuu;N kahte jo vuh aataa yih kahne kii baate;N hai;N kuchh bhii nah kahaa jaataa [you say, 'we'd say thus, we'd say thus if she came these are just words; nothing {is / can be} said].

{86,3} agle vaqto;N ke hai;N yih log u;Nhe;N kuchh nah kaho jo mai-o-na;Gmah ko andoh-rubaa kahte hai;N 1) these people are of bygone times, don’t reproach them! 2) they who call wine and music 'sadness-dispelling'

Notes: Nazm: His intention is to deny that it is sadness-dispelling, or establish that it is sadness-creating. Or the point is that sadness is the kind of thing that 'when cajoled, doesn't get cajoled' [bahlaa))e nahii;N bahaltaa]. (84)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, those people who count wine and song among grief-removing things are simple, straightforward men of the old days. Wine and song are

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not sadness-dispelling-- rather, they are sadness-creating. Because when some item of pleasure comes before the eyes, then the memory of the beloved is refreshed. (135)

Bekhud Mohani: People of the old times consider that from wine and music the sorrow of the heart is erased. Don't tangle [ulajh] with them. These people are of the old times-- that is, they are simple and straightforward. Or, they aren't capable of understanding the situation and pace of this era. Either the meaning is that from wine and song, sorrow increases, or that sorrow is not a thing to be erased. (174)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} In the first line, the speaker seems to be soothing somebody-- himself?-- and helping him control his temper. 'These people' may have offended him, but they are merely leftovers from the old days, and one should not rebuke them, quarrel with them, abuse them. The phrase kisii ko kuchh kahnaa literally means 'to call somebody something'; it shouldn't be confused with kisii se kuchh kahnaa, 'to say something to somebody'. And by convention, what you 'call' somebody when using this phrase about a person is something negative, so it comes to mean abuse, scolding, quarreling. Bekhud Mohani interprets it as 'Don't tangle with them', and Baqir interprets it as 'Don't shake a finger at them [in reproach]' (221). The phrase also, of course, has a fine affinity with the next line. So what do these old fossils do that's so irritating that one can barely refrain from quarreling with them? In good mushairah style, the first line gives us no clue at all, and we are forced to wait for the second. What they do, we finally learn, is to call wine and music sadness-dispelling. Why exactly is this so offensive? As usual, we're left to deduce the reasons for ourselves. Here are several obvious possibilities: 1) Wine and music are not sadness-dispelling, but in fact are useless for this purpose, and one shouldn't promote false remedies. 2) Wine and music are not sadness-dispelling, but in fact are sadnessenhancing. (According to some commentators, this is because they bring back memories of happier times.) 3) Nothing whatsoever is sadness-dispelling, since sadness is coterminous with life, and one shouldn't deal in illusions and false hopes. Wherever we place the emphasis among these options, the question remains: why do people of 'old times' hold these erroneous views? Again, we can think of more than one possible reason. Are they simply romanticizing their own youth, as they think back to the good old days when the world was young, and thus see things falsely in the golden glow of memory? Or has the world evolved over time, as the world is wont to do, so that people actually do have more complex and grievous sorrows now than they used to in the past-- sorrows beyond the reach of wine and song? And what is the speaker's relationship to these time changes? Is he himself a burnt-out former lover, such that the 'old times' they speak of represent his own early days of intense passion? Or is he a member of the younger generation, with a furious need to correct the irritating follies of his elders? All these interlocking questions hover in a kind of cloud of implication around this lovely, simple verse. Lovely, simple-- and ominous. This verse chills the heart. Compare it with the more overtly desperate, almost furious {131,5}.

{86,4} dil me;N aa jaa))e hai hotii hai jo fur.sat ;Gash se aur phir kaun-se naale ko rasaa kahte hai;N

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1) [it/she] comes into the heart when there is leisure from fainting spells 2a) which other lament, then, do [they] call 'effective'? 2b) which lament, then, do [they] call still more 'effective'?

Notes: aa jaa))e hai is a variant form of aa jaataa hai.

Nazm: An 'effective' lament is one that attains effectiveness. But the poet has here, through an inquiry, made it clear that his laments have never attained effectiveness. He doesn't even know that they call 'effective' a lament that reaches its goal and causes an effect. Rather, he considers 'effectiveness of a lament' to be its having emerged from passion and its arriving and being present in the heart. (84-85)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when I obtain respite from fainting spells, then my beloved comes into my heart, and this is the effect of my lament.I don't know which other lament they call 'effective'. What more effectiveness can a lament have than this, that it at once seizes the beloved and brings her into the heart? (135)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the lover's state has been beautifully evoked. But detail has been sacrificed for this. That is, our life is such that we are constantly writhing in passion. When we recover ourself, then again the picture of the beloved comes into the heart. (175)

FWP: SETS == AUR; SUBJECT? In proper mushairah style, the first line on its own is uninterpretable, since it lacks a subject. Even when the second line arrives, there seem to be at least two possibilities. Either it is, very defensibly, the 'lament' that comes into the heart; or, as some commentators maintain, it is the beloved herself who comes into the heart, fetched by the lament. In either case, it is merely a setup for the wonderful inshaa))iyah-based second line. The pleasure of this line is enhanced by the deliberately dual reading possible for aur bhii, which can be read as either an adjective modifying 'lament' (2a), or an adverb modifying 'effective' (2b). Either reading of course works beautifully within the larger rhetorical structure of the verse. The second line is a question, no doubt-- but is it innocent and naive? Straightforward and earnest? Cynical? Bitter? As the tone shifts, the whole rhetorical flavor and interpretation of the verse shift as well. Here are some of the ways we could put the verse together: 1) My lament comes into my heart whenever I have a moment free from fainting spells, and thus demonstrates its ongoing existence and penetrative power. And that's about it. But I call that pretty 'effective'. For since no lament has any more power than that, what more can any other 'effective' lament do? (A cynical, resigned tone.) 2) My lament comes into my heart whenever I have a moment to spare from fainting spells. Isn't this what it's supposed to do? Does this count as 'effect'? Do other laments really achieve more, or is that just a rumor? (An earnest and sincere tone.) 3) My lament not only can't bring me access to the beloved, it can't even mitigate my suffering. It only can even come into my heart at all in brief intervals between my prolonged fainting spells. This must be what they call 'effect', since I've never known any lament to do more. It's clear that laments are as useless as everything else. (A bitter tone.) 4) My lament causes (an image of) the beloved to come into my heart whenever I have a moment to spare from my fainting spells. This image and

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its prompt availability is proof of the lament's effectiveness. What more can any other 'effective' lament do? It's not as if any of them could actually get me near the beloved in person! (A rueful tone.) 5) My lament causes the beloved herself to come into my heart-- whenever, of course, I'm not too absorbed in fainting spells. Isn't she kind and wonderful to do it, and isn't the lament splendidly 'effective' since it can to induce her to do it? What more could any lover possibly ask? (A tone of desperately forced cheer.) So there's a vast range of voices and tones, isn't there? My own favorite is probably (2), since it so powerfully opens the door to all the other meanings, simply by remaining so apparently ignorant of them. It reveals a failure and non-access so radical that the inquirer doesn't even know-- really doesn't know, not just pretends for rhetorical purposes not to know-- what 'effect' in laments could possibly mean. This is the kind of verse that begs to be memorized and recited-- in the tone you know is best. For another verse about the 'effectiveness' of laments, see {210,4}.

{86,5} hai pare sar;had-e idraak se apnaa masjuud qible ko ahl-e na:zar qiblah-numaa kahte hai;N 1) beyond the limit of the senses is [their] own {worship/prostration}-object 2) people of vision call the Qiblah the 'Qiblah-pointer'

Notes: Hali: Calling the Qiblah the 'Qiblah-pointer' is something that clearly no one other than Mirza has done. (147)

Nazm: The author has versified this problem: that by doing prostrations toward the Ka'bah, the goal is not to do prostrations to the Ka'bah. Rather, the one to Whom we do prostrations is beyond the directions, and a prostration must have a direction. For this reason, He has decreed the direction of the Ka'bah. (85)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To separate the Qiblah from the 'Qiblah-pointer' is a theme that could fall to Mirza Sahib's lot alone. Before Mirza Sahib, nobody said it. This verse is an answer to the objection of those people who say that the Muslims too prostrate themselves before the stones of the door of the Ka'bah. He says, our worship-object is absolutely very far beyond the limit of the senses. That is, whether we have seen the Ka'bah or not, we prostrate ourselves in the direction of the Ka'bah. (135)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; MUSHAIRAH This is a classic mushairah verse, with all the elements in place. The first line is theologically irreproachable, since every Muslim knows that God is not a material object that our senses can detect. We effortlessly read masjuud in its normal sense of something that is 'adored, worshipped' (Platts p.1033). But the line is also quite obscure as to its intention-- what is the point of such a vague, broad abstraction? And in particular, the use of apnaa, literally 'own', denies us any information about the identity of the worshiper(s) in question. In a mushairah setting, we of course are compelled to wait through the traditional tantalizing interval of repetition, audience response, and so on, before we are allowed to hear the second line. And then we learn not only who the worshipers are ('people of vision'), but also where the first line was going. We realize that masjuud is to be read, unusually, in its absolutely literal, grammatically precise sense of 'a receiver of sijdah [prostration]'. But the full sense of the verse is withheld until the very last moment-- qiblah-

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numaa is the final word in the second line, right before the refrain. Thus it comes with a shock of surprise, delight, and fulfillment. As the commentators admiringly observe, nobody but Ghalib would think to call the Qiblah the 'Qiblah-pointer'. There is thus also the intellectual shock of radical originality. Yet this originality is of a focused, limited, lucid kind. Far from being difficult to understand, Ghalib's point is impossible to miss. And, as in the case of all the best mushairah verses, once you get it you've got it. This is a verse that yields up all its pleasure at once, like a crushed grape. It doesn't demand that you work at it, reread it, worry it in your mind before you can enjoy it. What I especially like about it is the identity of the worshipers. It's the 'people of vision'-- and na:zar is the ordinary word for sight, gaze, etc.-- who don't just 'see' the material Qiblah as one might expect, but who 'see through' it and consider it merely a pointer toward the real, immaterial masjuud. There's thus a nice play on 'sight' and 'insight', which fortunately we can more or less capture in English with the double (physical and mental) sense of 'vision'.

{86,6} paa-e afgaar pah jab se tujhe ra;hm aayaa hai ;xaar-e rah ko tire ham mihr-giyaa kahte hai;N 1) ever since you have had mercy on the wounded foot 2) we call the thorn of your road 'mihr-gaya'/mandragora

Notes: giyaa is a shortened form of giyaas , 'grass'.

Nazm: By 'your thorn of the road' is meant the thorn that has lodged in the lover's foot during his search for the beloved. The reason for calling it mihr-giyaa is that it became the cause of the beloved's affection and mercy. If it had not wounded the foot-soles, then she would not have felt mercy. And mihr-giyaa -- that is, giyaah-aaftaab [sun-grass] is a species of grass. (85)

Hasrat: mihr-giyaa is a kind of plant of which the root is in the shape of a man. It's well known that people become kind [mihrbaan] toward the man who keeps it with him. Here, he has called the thorn of the road mihr-giyaa because the foot was wounded by the thorn, and the beloved felt mercy toward the wounded foot. (77)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, since our feet have become wounded by thorns of the road, you've felt mercy toward them. Thus we don't call the thorns of your road thorns, but rather, mihr-giyaa. [He then copies Hasrat's explanation for this, without acknowledgment.] (135)

Shadan: [In English mihr-giyaa] is 'root of mandrake' [English], a plant the root of which is two figures facing each other. They say that whoever has this root, the person before whom the root-bearer goes becomes kindly [mihrbaan] to him. (284)

Josh: mihr-giyaa is a species of grass. They say that whoever might have a sprig of this plant, everyone always remains kind [mihrbaan] to him. (172)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; MUSHAIRAH The proverbially magic plant with the man-shaped root is called in English mandragora or mandrake. Could mihr-giyaa contain some cognate echo? Whether it does or not, it's clear that the affinity between its name, 'mihr-

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grass', and the mihr that means kindness or graciousness, as in mihrbaanii , is at the heart of the verse. But as far as I can tell, there's not much else going on in the verse. It would surely be at its best in a mushairah, where it would be called on only for one quick, punchy, enjoyable effect. 'A fresh word is equal to a theme', as Abu Talib Kalim, Shah Jahan's poet laureate, famously said. (For further discussion, see {17,2}.) Presumably mihr-giyaa is such a fresh word that it can energize and carry the verse all by itself. From the commentaries it's easy to see that the commentators are mostly not (very) familiar with the word; when in doubt, as they are here, they simply paraphrase from each other, or even copy each other word for word. And Nazm, the earliest commentator, doesn't seem even to recognize the mandragora connection; this shows that mihr-giyaa was not necessarily a term well known to Ghalib's earliest audience. Not that that would have fazed Ghalib. A word so perfect for his purposes would surely be too tempting to ignore.

{86,7} ik sharar dil me;N hai us se ko))ii ghabraa))egaa kyaa aag ma:tluub hai ham ko jo havaa kahte hai;N 1) one spark is in the heart; what-- will anybody be perturbed by it? 2) we seek/mean 'fire' when we/they say 'wind'/desire

Notes: ma:tluub : 'Sought, required, demanded, desired, longed for; wanted, needed, necessary; --s.m. A quest; a desire; an object, a purpose'. (Platts p.1044)

Nazm: That is, it ought not to be thought that humans are made to take a breath through being perturbed by the heat of the animal spirit [ruu;h-e ;hevaanii] that is in the heart. Rather, it is the vital spirit [a.sl], and merging into it is desired.... The author has versified this theme in the manner of a poetic account. But since the question of the circulation of blood has been proved, it is actually thus.... From this verse the author's philosophical temperament can be estimated. (85)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In accordance with modern philosophy (since the problem of the flow of blood has recently been proved) he has composed this verse, from which the philosophical capability of Hazrat the author can be learned. By the 'spark' is intended the animal spirit, which is present in human beings. He says, humans are not obliged to take a breath through the heat of the animal spirit; rather, through the wind/desire of every breath the mingling with the vital spirit is sought. (136)

Bekhud Mohani: The heat of love in the heart is not something that anyone would be perturbed about. Rather, when the word wind [havaa] is constantly on our tongue, it's wrong to think that this means that we are perturbed about the heat of this fire. Rather, we need wind in order to make of this small ember a burning flame. (176)

Josh: It's a philosophical verse. By 'spark' is meant the vital spirit [;haraarat ((aziizii]. Because of this spirit perturbation is created. This perturbation seizes hold of wind. And the act of respiration is set in motion. Mirza says that the vital spirit is only a single spark. Why will anyone be perturbed by it? For its progress only wind is effective, and from respiration only wind increases its vitality. As if what they call 'wind' is in reality fire, which we constantly seek in order to establish life, so that more perturbation would be created and respiration would constantly continue. (172-73)

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Faruqi: [A related verse of Mir's, that might have been an influence:] afsurdagii-e so;xtah-jaanaa;N hai qahr miir daaman ko ;Tuk hilaa kih dilo;N kii bujhii hai aag [The sadness/coldness of the burnt-out ones is a calamity, Mir! just wave the garment-hem a bit, for the fire in the hearts has gone out].... A single spark is in the heart-- a state of confinement, a demand for wind. Because the intermediate state is not expressed, there's a feeling of illogic. A single spark took birth in the heart. Now the hope was that the spark, steadily growing, would bring first the heart, then the whole body, within its range. But it's confined; the spark is not finding the opportunity to grow and flourish. I call out, 'Wind! Wind!'. People think that I am anxious about my spark and am demanding wind so that it would extinguish it. Thus-- what the hell [bhalaa], is a spark anything to be anxious about? I am seeking wind so that it would give the spark more strength. A second point is that the coming and going of breath within the body becomes a means of vitality. This same breath, within the heart, will give more force. As if this very breath that helps to sustain life in reality also cuts off life, because if the spark burns the heart, then it will finish off the whole existence. In this way the eternity [baqaa] of the breath, which is a cause of length of life, in reality conducts it to the stage of mystical knowledge and eternity [baqaa] where the whole existence turns to fire. [As in this verse of Mir's:] aag-sii ik dil me;N sulge hai kabhuu ba;Rkii to miir degii merii ha;D;Diyo;N kaa ;Dher juu;N ii;Ndhan jalaa [a fire-like thing is kindled in the heart; if it ever flares up, Mir, it will burn up the heap of my bones like fuel].... Zafar Iqbal has adopted Ghalib's theme very excellently: aag bha;Rke to sahii taab-e tamaashaa hai bahut khol kar siinah havaa detaa huu;N chingaarii ko [so what if the fire would flare up! I have plenty of endurance for the spectacle-opening my breast, I give air to the ember]. (106-08)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This verse plays elegantly on the ambiguity of pointing to a spark, and calling for wind-- is the intention to extinguish the spark, or fan it into a flame? Knowing the lover as we do, we know it will be the latter-- even though the second half of the first line does sound just a bit hollow, just a bit full of false bravado. For we know that even a tiny spark has tremendous incendiary power, just as a tiny drop of a sigh that's left in the heart turns into a typhoon in {6,6}. The commentators offer various traditional physiological theories of the vital breath, the spark of life, etc. These are not very clearly presented. But it seems quite probable that Ghalib enjoyed invoking such concepts too. Why settle for fewer meanings, when you could have more? The verses of Mir's cited by Faruqi are also helpful, and the Zafar Iqbal one is indeed a worthy successor in the tradition. As we've seen in other verses, havaa is a very convenient word: it has not only the meaning of 'wind', but also that of 'desire', which here provides an excellent affinity with words like 'heart' and 'fire'. The word ma:tluub literally means 'sought' or 'desired'. Thus when we say 'wind', what is sought or desired by us is 'fire', so that the wind will be a means to an end, a fanner of the original spark.

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Moreover, the structure of the second line offers us an additional reading as well. The second line could be taken to suggest that when we say 'wind', we mean 'fire'-- as though it were a question of clarifying a definition, as for example when we mean 'airs and graces', but find it necessary when speaking simply to the uninitiated to say 'knife and dagger' instead, in {59,6}. Or it might be some kind of clever euphemism ('fire' might scare people, but 'wind' sounds more reassuring). Or it might be sheer obsession-other people say 'wind' and mean the spring breeze, but my world is such that even when I say 'wind' I mean 'fire'. (As in {15,7}, when from earth to sky my world is a mass of burning.) And in fact it's the second line that's the killer, isn't it? It almost glows in the dark. It's so punchy, so cryptic, so mysterious-sounding, so echoing. A contrast is set up: three of the first four words in the line are cut off abruptly by final consonants. All the remaining five words end in those sonorous, evocative long vowels. And right in the middle, the rhymed set of ko jo that both marks a semantic break, and helps to bridge it.

{86,8} dekhiye laatii hai us sho;x kii na;xvat kyaa rang us kii har baat pah ham naam-e ;xudaa kahte hai;N 1) (please) look at what mood/color that mischievous one’s pride/haughtiness displays! 2) at her every word we say 'in the Lord’s name!'

Notes: Nazm: That is, from our doing that, she knows that her every word is good, and her pride/haughtiness keeps increasing. (85)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at her every word we always say, 'in the Lord's name!' or 'God has willed it so!' [mashaa))allaah], 'the evil eye be far away!' [chashm-e bad duur]. As if her pride/haughtiness keeps making progress, through such phrases of ours. As a result of these words, let's see what becomes of her pride/haughtiness-- that is, there's no telling in what herd this camel would settle down [yih uu;N;T kis kul bai;The]. (136)

Josh: With rang, sho;x is fine. naam-e ;xudaa is an expression of praise. In just such circumstances they say sub;haanullaah [praise be to God!] etc., too. The meaning that at her every word we say, praise be to God! From this she's grown arrogant. Let's see what mood/color her arrogance displays, and what rose her pride/haughtiness causes to bloom [kyaa gul khilaatii hai]. (173)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY For this verse, the question is, in which order should the lines be read? All the commentators explicitly read (2) first, then (1). That is, it's our constant exclamations of awe and amazement that are expected to produce strange new (and deadly?) forms of behavior, since we know we are constantly reinforceing her arrogance. We invite you to stick around and see what astonishing wonders come of it. But it's also quite possible to read the lines in the order (1), then (2). In this case, the verse forms a kind of inexpressibility trope. We beg you to look for yourself at her behavior, at the mischievous, egregious, vivid forms her arrogance displays! You have to look for yourself because we can't possibly find words to describe it. Indeed, all we can do is marvel at her, and constantly, helplessly, exclaim 'in the Lord's name!' (Both because her behavior is so wonderful, and because it's so awful.) A verse as full of inshaa))iyah force as it's possible to get.

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{86,9} va;hshat-o-sheftah ab mar;siyah kahve;N shaayad mar gayaa ;Gaalib-e aashuftah-navaa kahte hai;N 1) 'Vahshat'/wildness/madness and 'Sheftah'/distracted/mad now might perhaps compose/say an elegy 2) Ghalib of the disordered/wretched voice/song has died, [they] say

Notes: kahve;N is a variant form of kahe;N.

Nazm: The theme of dying is extremely effective. For this reason the Preacher too colors his speech with this theme. And the poet too is pleased to do the same thing. Sheftah, author of the Anthology of Poets [ta;zkirah-e shu((araa], is a famous connoisseur of poetry. (85-86)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By 'Sheftah' is meant Navab Mustafa Khan Bahadur 'Sheftah', a noble of Jahangirabad. And by 'Vahshat' is probably meant Ghulam 'Ali Khan Sahib 'Vahshat'. They both were Mirza Sahib's shagirds, but more than shagirds, they were Mirza Sahib's loyal admirers. After the death of Momin Sahib, both those gentlemen used to obtain advice about poetry from Mirza Sahib alone. (136)

Josh: aashuftah-navaa = sayer of confused things. The reason he has used these words for his style is that they have a relationship and association with va;hshat and sheftah.... Vahshat and Sheftah were both poets, Mirza's contemporaries and his special friends and companions. (173)

FWP: SETS == POETRY What excellent use he makes of his friends' pen-names! Not only do 'Vahshat' and 'Sheftah' have a common association with wildness, madness, and so on, but they also have a fine affinity with aashuftah in the second line; in fact sheftah and aashuftah come from the same Persian root. So now that they 'say' that Ghalib of the disordered voice/song is dead, perhaps Madness and the Distracted One will 'say' or compose an elegy for him-- what could be more appropriate? Perhaps Distraction itself will compose the most fitting elegy to such a disordered poet. (Just as {57} is full of equally abstract and extravagant reactions to the lover's death.) Or, of course, perhaps two of Ghalib's close friends and shagirds will compose an elegy after his death. It is even possible to read the second line as being spoken by Vahshat and Sheftah, rather than by the usual generalized 'they'. Perhaps the two poets are beginning to plan out their elegy, and ;Gaalib-e aashuftah-navaa is one of the phrases they are thinking about including.

Ghazal 87

11 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: an me;N nahii;N composed after 1826; Hamid p.70; Arshi #102; Raza p. 270 {87,1} aabruu kyaa ;xaak us gul kii kih gulshan me;N nahii;N hai garebaa;N nang-e pairaahan jo daaman me;N nahii;N 1) what the hell honor is there of that rose that [is] not in the garden! 2) the collar is a disgrace to the robe, that [is] not in the {garment-hem / foothills}

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Notes: Nazm: The collar will be at the garment-hem when it will be ripped open. And having been ripped open, it will acquire similitude with a rose, and will make the garment-hem into a courtyard of the garden. (86)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the flower that has left the garden has no honor at all. As if for the flower to go into the market and be sold was for it to become a slave and lose all honor. But here, this theme has been used with a different sense. The collar that is not at the garment-hem is a disgrace to the robe. That is, when the collar will be torn into fragments and will go down to the garment-hem, then it will become a flower. (136)

Josh: The homeland [va:tan]-- that is, true place-- of the collar is the garment-hem. If it is ripped to shreds and falls to the garment-hem and remains there, then it will find honor. Otherwise, it will be a disgrace to the robe-- that is, a cause of shame to the kurta. The point of the utterance is that for everyone, only his own true proper home is a means to honor. (175-76)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; PARALLELISM CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} The parallelism of the two lines invites (and forces) us to decide for ourselves whether they represent similar cases or opposite ones. Here, it seems, the decision could go either way. If we decide that the cases are similar, as the commentators do, then we conclude that the 'real' home, the authentic and proper place, for the collar is the garment-hem; Josh even uses the word va:tan. As the commentators explain, this is because the collar is not truly itself until it has been ripped open in so many places that it sags down to the area of the garment-hem. (I can't help imagining the peeling of a banana.) Or, alternatively, the collar has been shredded into so many pieces by the lover's fingernails that it disintegrates, and its tattered remains drift down to the garment-hem. There's nothing implausible about this view, and in fact we know that the garment-hem often has a floral border like a garden-- and sometimes even one made by the lover himself. In {233,6}, for example, the eyelashes use drops of blood blood to trace out delicate decorations on it: chaman-:taraazii , 'garden-embroidery'. In the next verse, {87,2}, we see that the garment-hem has absorbed a good deal of the lover's blood, so that even if not actively decorated, at least it must be red like a rose-garden. Still, I find more piquant the other, oppositional reading. The rose only finds honor when it's at home (and what could be more manifestly at home than a gul in a gulshan?). By contrast, the collar is a disgrace unless it's as far from its original 'home' as it can possibly get-- all the way down from the neck to the ankles (in the case of a long robe), in the garment-hem, barely clinging there before falling to the ground completely. Thus the rose is queen in its own bower, like its human counterpart the beloved; and the collar is a wanderer, like its owner the lover. And in fact the collar perhaps wanders even beyond the bottom of the robe, for daaman also means the foothills of a mountain (Platts p.502). And of course there's plenty of wordplay-- the idiomatic kyaa ;xaak, for which I can't think of any better translation than something like 'what the hell', literally means 'what-- dust!', where the dust is a kind of emphatic, indignant swear-word. While of course 'dust' has a fine affinity with the dirt of a garden. Meanwhile, the lover has nang-- a word for disgrace and infamy that inevitably draws in its train the related nangaa, which means both 'naked'

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and, secondarily, 'shameless' (Platts p.1156). The mad lover who has ripped his collar down to his hemline is surely something close to naked. Nakedness is disgraceful to a normal person, but of course honorable in the eyes of a lover. This verse offers a number of small pleasures, but I don't find in it the sweeping Ghalibian awesomeness that I love best.

{87,2} .zu((f se ai giryah kuchh baaqii mire tan me;N nahii;N rang ho kar u;R gayaa jo ;xuu;N kih daaman me;N nahii;N 1) from weakness, oh Weeping, nothing [is] left in my body 2) [it] became color and fled away-- the blood that [is] not in the garmenthem

Notes: Nazm: From the word 'weeping' the meaning emerges that the blood that's in the garment-hem is bloody tears. But to address 'Weeping' is extremely artificial and a foolish formality. (86)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Weeping, the outcome of you was that no vitality remained in my body. You caused blood to flow by way of tears, and didn't leave even a single drop of blood in my body. And to whatever extent it remained, it was so little that became the portion of the garment-hem. (137)

Bekhud Mohani: If only Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i had thought of that time when every sandgrain in the world, and every aspect of the world, always used to speak to the poet, and the poet was the interpreter of the world. In addition, there is that state of weakness such that a person's heart wants to weep, but tears and sobs don't emerge, but remain strangled. If he had thought of these things, then there would have been no need for him to say [what he did]. (177)

Shadan: Janab Nazm says that to address 'Weeping' is extremely artificial and a foolish formality. Thus, we can make it like this: rote rote kuchh lahuu baaqii mire tan me;N nahii;N [weeping and weeping, no blood remained in my body]. (285)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH In castigating the address to 'Weeping', Nazm doesn't give Ghalib sufficient credit for the clever use he makes of inshaa))iyah speech. For when the lover addresses 'Weeping', he might be making a complaint ('All this is your fault!'); or an apology ('Sorry, I've got nothing left to weep with!'); or perhaps just a matter-of-fact report to one of the few companions he has left ('Well, it looks as if my end is approaching!'). As so often, it's left up to us to decide. And what is the content of the complaint, or apology, or report? A compressed but thorough litany of debilitation. Out of all the blood that used to be in my body, none is left. Some of it took the form of color. On one reading, this was the color in the face (that in fact comes from blood vessels under the skin). Not satisfied with that degree of attenuation (from blood to mere color), it then promptly 'fled'. (Fortunately for the translator, it's possible to say that someone's 'color fled' in English, just as in Urdu, to mean that the face became pale.) The wordplay that envisions color 'taking flight' from the lover's face is reminiscent of the clever {7,2}. Another reading is pointed out by Vasmi Abidi (May 2003): 'When the phrase rang u;Rnaa is applied to clothing, it refers to the fading of the color. Why would the color fade? Because the lover has been in this condition (of

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weeping and weakness) for so long. Thus all the blood that was in his body is now either on his garment-hem, or has faded from his garment-hem.' I like this alternate possibility as well. Ghalib surely enjoyed finding a phrasing that would admit of both readings. On either reading, the rest of the blood that has not turned into color (and fled or faded) is now reddening my garment-hem. Only by suggestion do we know that this means it has been shed in the form of tears of blood. And why are the tears on the garment-hem, instead of, say, the collar or the sleeve? Because the lover is so weak and depressed that he spends his time sitting slumped over, head on knees (as in {32,2}). This would be an amusing mushairah verse because of the deftness of that last half of the second line. The first half of the second line reports a rather minor, uncommon kind of blood loss-- blood turns to color and then flees or fades. Then we learn, in a casual, afterthought, by-the-by way, manner, that the blood that was lost in that fashion was (only) the blood that is not now located in the garment-hem. In other words, the real damage was done by the constant shedding of tears of blood. So only now, at the very end of the second line, can we really tell why 'Weeping' was the addressee in the first line. All this information is conveyed only by the word daaman, which is, in true mushairah style, withheld until the last possible moment.

{87,3} ho ga))e hai;N jam((a ajzaa-e nigaah-e aaftaab ;zarre us ke ghar kii diivaaro;N ke rauzan me;N nahii;N 1) the parts of the gaze of the sun have become collected 2a) [Those are] not dust-grains in the crevice-work of the walls of her house 2b) [There are] no dust-grains in the crevice-work of the walls of her house

Notes: Nazm: That is, even the sun has an ardor for staring at her. (86)

Hasrat: About the many dust-grains that can be seen in the light of the sun-rays that enter the beloved's house through the crevice-work in the wall, he says it's as if they are pieces of the sun's gaze that are ardent for a pilgrimage to the beloved's face. (78)

Bekhud Mohani: In the crevice-work of the beloved's walls, these are not glittering dustgrains; rather, they are pieces of the glance of the sun. That is, the sun wanted to look at the beloved's face, but his glances remained scattered, and he could not summon the strength for vision. The pleasure is that worldly people's gaze can't behold the sun, and becomes scattered. But the beloved is so beautiful that the sun's glances become scattered. As Ghalib says, {158,7}. It is also worth noticing that Mirza did not say 'wall of the house', but rather 'crevice-work of the walls of the house'. From this the sun's ardor for sight is manifest: wherever there was a hope of seeing her radiance/appearance, there the sun's rays, in their ardor for sight, arrived. (178)

Josh: A theme of just this kind is present in a verse of Hazrat Dagh. But the world of expression is absolutely different. He says: jam ga))ii hai aa;Nkh kii putlii kisii mushtaaq kii mai;N nah maanuu;Ngaa kih ((aariz par tumhaare ;xaal hai [the pupil of the eye of some ardent one has settled there-I won't agree that on your cheek is a mole]

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The theme of na:zar jamaa kar dekhnaa too is used with just such supremacy as in Mirza's verse. (176)

FWP: ZARRAH: {15,12} On the nuances of rauzan , 'crevice-work', see {64,4}; the word is also used in the following verse, {87,4}. The possibilities of this verse hinge on the subtleties of negation in the second line. Since (by no coincidence, of course) we can't tell whether it lacks a subject and verb, as in (1), or only a verb, as in (2), both readings are possible: 2a) Those things you see in the crevice-work of the walls of her house are not dust-motes. (You think you see dust-motes, but what you see are really fragments of the sun's gaze that have all united there.) 2b) There are no dust-motes in the crevice-work of the walls of her house. (You don't see any dust-motes, because all those bits of earthly dross have been burned away or otherwise displaced by the sun's concentrated gaze, which will brook not even the smallest interference. Or: you don't see any dust-motes because those small glittering points of light have now come together as a pure concentrated solar gaze.) So it's one or the other; in this case, unusually, it probably can't be both at once. Except for the clever grammar of the second line, I can't see much else going on in the verse.

{87,4} kyaa kahuu;N taariikii-e zindaan-e ;Gam andher hai punbah nuur-e .sub;h se kam jis ke rauzan me;N nahii;N 1) what can I say-- the darkness of the cell of grief is gloom/oppression! 2) in the crevice-work of which, cotton is not less than the light of dawn

Notes: andher : 'Darkness, gloom; violence, outrage, wrong, injustice, iniquity; tyranny, oppression'. (Platts p.91)

Nazm: Where the darkness is great, even a very little bit of light seems to be a lot. From this we should understand how great would be the darkness in a cell in which cotton in the crevice-work resembles the whiteness of dawn. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: In the extremity of grief, the world looks dark.... The darkness of the prisoncell of grief is a Doomsday! If cotton is put in its crevice-work, then it seems that the sun has come out. Where cotton would seem to be the sun, who can express the darkness of that place? (178)

Arshi: Compare {113,4}. (221, 227)

Naiyar Masud: [This verse resembles {113,4}]. In both verses there's mention of a house, darkness, cotton, and crevice-work, and in both verses the cotton is the cause of light.... In both of them the state of darkness has not been expressed straightforwardly (for example, 'you can't see your hand in front of your face', etc.) but rather, by contrasting light with darkness, one has been caused to guess the degree of darkness.... In both verses, the cotton acts in a way contrary to its normal action-- that is, instead of preventing light, it is the cause of light.... [The phrase] andher hai has not come in only for wordplay with 'darkness', or to convey the intensity of darkness. By saying andher hai, Ghalib has gestured toward the difficulty of expressing reality. The andher is that in the cell of grief, even cotton is not less than the light of dawn. That is, the glow of the cotton removes the darkness of the cell of

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grief. So how can it be conveyed that the cell of grief is very dark? Cotton is put into the crevice-work in order to prevent the outside light from coming inside. That is, if the cotton is removed from the crevice-work, even then the state of affairs will remain the same, because compared to the darkness of the cell of grief, the atmosphere outside is bright, and from the removal of the cotton the outside brightness will come into the cell of grief. Even so, the darkness of the cell of grief will not have been able to be expressed. This is more andher . (169-75)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY What exactly might be the relationship(s) between the cotton and the light of dawn? There seem to be three main possibilities: either (1) the white cotton impersonates the dawn; or (2) the white cotton rivals the light of day; or else (3) the cotton is as radically dark as the outside world. 1) It is night outside, but in the cell of grief it is much blacker. So black that even the tiniest bit of whiteness looks exaggeratedly bright. If I put cotton in the crevice-work, even the tiny glimmer it would pick up from the traces of ambient starlight outside would make it look as bright as the white light of dawn that I await with such longing. (And in fact, to darkness like mine dawn may never come at all, so perhaps the cotton in fact is my dawn-- all that dawn I'll ever get.) 2) It is day, and there's light outside, but in the cell of grief this light remains merely notional. So little of it penetrates the dimness of the cell that it hardly makes any difference whether I block the crevice-work with cotton or not. The cotton seems to give a feeble, false, unhelpful glimmer-- and so does the sun. In fact, it's impossible to distinguish the wretched amount of 'light' that each of them provides. 3) Night and day, the cell of grief is perpetually black; it generates its own darkness, and can never receive any 'light of dawn'. No moonlight or sunlight can penetrate into it, so the light of dawn has no effect on it whatsoever. It's so black that if you put cotton into the crevice-work-- which would normally prevent the dawn light from coming in-- it would make no difference at all, because the dawn light can't come in anyway. The lightblocking cotton is no darker than the equally dark dawn; both are powerless against the cruel, oppressive darkness of the cell of grief. As the commentators point out, {113,4} is a useful comparative case study. And the word andher is of course perfectly chosen-- an altogether powerful and suitable word, full of affinity with other words and thoughts in the verse. For another example of the same kind of wordplay, see {164,10}. For discussion of what a rauzan is, see {64,4}; the previous verse, {87,3}, also offers an example of its use.

{87,5} raunaq-e hastii hai ((ishq-e ;xaanah-viiraa;N-saaz se anjuman be-sham((a hai gar barq ;xirman me;N nahii;N 1) the radiance of existence is from house-wrecking passion 2) the gathering is without a candle if lightning [is] not in the harvest

Notes: Hali: That is to say, the radiance and hustle and bustle of the whole world is thanks to passion and love, whether it be the love of woman and children, or wealth and riches, or sovereignty and community, or some other thing. Thus if there’s no lightning in the harvest-- that is, love in hearts-- then the image for it is of a gathering without the radiance of a candle. (145)

Nazm: That is, if the lightning of passion would not be in the harvest of existence, then existence, like a gathering without a candle, is devoid of radiance. (86)

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Bekhud Mohani: Although passion levels worldly enjoyment and luxury to the dust, nevertheless without it there's nothing in the world. The phrase 'housewrecking' gestures toward this meaning. [Or:] until the lightning of passion falls on the harvest of worldly relationships, life is worthless. That is, only through passion can a person renounce worldly relationships. (178)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM CANDLE: {39,1} LIGHTNING: {10,6} This is another one of those verses in which the relationship(s) of the two lines are crucial-- and are not revealed to us by the poet. So we are left to figure them out for ourselves. The first, obvious question is whether the two lines refer to the same situation, or to two different ones. If the two lines refer to the same situation, then the 'radiance of existence' is equated with a 'gathering', and 'passion' with 'lightning'. The radiance of existence comes from 'house-wrecking' passion; the candle of the gathering comes from the harvest-destroying lightning. The verse thus maintains, broadly speaking, that what we value most in our lives is dependent on forces that destroy many (other?) things that we value. If the two lines refer to two different situations, then we should look at each line separately before we try to put them together. In the first line, raunaq is an especially appropriate word, for even today Urdu speakers use ghar kaa raunaq to refer to a situation in which a house is crowded with people and activity--full of comings and going, hustle and bustle. It took me a while to realize what a powerful traditional cultural value such a situation represents. And that situation is dependent on 'passion the house-desolate-maker', so that the paradox is pressed home (sorry, couldn't help it) as unignorably as possible. The glory of life is 'from' or 'with' or 'by means of' [se] passion. How does something as destructive as passion cause such glory? The little word se is not really enough to explain the situation. In the second line, it's clear that if there's no lightning in the harvest, there's no candle in the gathering. But what exactly is the nature of the connection? If it's cause-and-effect, then we might say that there's an implicit se involved: because the lightning strikes the harvest, the candle lights the gathering. (Again, as in the first verse, with no clear mechanism provided.) Or perhaps lightning and candle might be not cause and effect, but two effects of the same cause. That is, the force that causes lightning to strike the harvest-- the force of passion, we might guess-- also causes the candle to light the gathering, and it never does one without doing the other as well. For more discussion of parallel verses about lightning in the harvest, see {10,6}. Or perhaps lightning might itself be the candle. When we humans have our gatherings, what really illumines them is the blazing, lightning-struck harvest. For more exploration of the possible relationships between lightning and candles, see {81,1}. Since there are several possible readings of the second line, it is not clear how precisely it is meant to offer a parallel to the first line. Ghalib is leaving us in limbo again. So what else is new? But I love this verse for its air of mystery, especially in the second line. The more straightforwardly paradoxical first line is merely a setup for the enigmatically, elliptically paradoxical second line. That second line! The penumbra of possibilities gives the whole line a glow around it-- a glow like a nearby candle, or a faroff blazing harvest.

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87,6} za;xm silvaane se mujh par chaarah-juu))ii kaa hai ta((n ;Gair samjhaa hai kih la;z;zat za;xm-e sozan me;N nahii;N 1) from having had the wound stitched up, the taunt of 'cure-seeking' is upon me 2) the Other has considered that there's no pleasure in the wound of the needle

Notes: Nazm: That is, the use of a needle in the wound is not in order to to cure it, but in order to obtain the pleasure of the wound of the needle. The theme is that of a former verse, but the author has here doubled its beauty by giving it the simile of the Rival's misunderstanding. (86)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, because of the stitching up of the wound, the Other taunts me with seeking a cure. That fool doesn't realize that in the wound of the needle there's that same pain that is felt from the sword or arrow or other sharpedged weapon at the time of receiving the wound. The word 'pleasure' has been used in place of 'pain'. What doubt can there be of the excellence of the verse? (137)

Bekhud Mohani: Somebody's verse is-- and it's a fine verse-za;xmo;N me;N degaa ;Taa;Nke ai chaarah-gar kahaa;N tak sau za;xm kar diye hai;N ik za;xm ke rafuu ne [oh physician, to what extent will you stitch up the wounds? the repair of one wound has created a hundred wounds]. (179)

Arshi: Compare {171,2}. (228, 265).

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; MUSHAIRAH Well, this one is pretty clear, and the commentators explicate it well. Among the other qualities of a good mushairah verse that it displays, it withholds its 'punch' word, sozan, till the very end. As Bekhud Dihlavi observes, 'pleasure' [la;z;zat] has been used where we'd expect 'pain'. Which at once plunges us into the familiar vortex of the lover's pleasure-in-pain. In effect, he's accused by the Other of un-lover-like behavior: of seeking the 'pleasure' of relief from pain, of a 'cure' [chaarah] for his wound. But instead he claims to be seeking the 'pleasure' of more pain. This makes perfect sense to the lover, but the Other will never get it. This verse has a kind of fraternal twin in {171,2}. If you dwell on this verse too minutely, it becomes a candidate for my 'grotesquerie' category. Do we really need to imagine the process of stitching up a wound, in all its gory and painful detail? Does it really work, poetically, to make us consider the way the heavy needle is plunged again and again into the torn flesh, so that it creates, as Bekhud Dihlavi points out, what amounts to a whole series of fresh wounds with a sharp new dagger? To me, this verse is right on the borderline of being too graphic and grotesque to be fully effective.

{87,7} baskih hai;N ham ik bahaar-e naaz ke maare hu))e jalvah-e gul ke sivaa gard apne madfan me;N nahii;N 1a) we are slain to such an extent by a single flourishing/springtime of coquetry

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1b) although we are slain by a single flourishing/springtime of coquetry 2) beyond the glory/appearance of the rose, no dust is in our grave

Notes: Nazm: That is, in envisioning a single flourishing/springtime of coquetry, we died; and in the grave too, from that same vision, the radiance/appearance of the rose is before our eyes. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: We have died in passion for a single flourishing/springtime of coquetry (the beloved). Up till now, her image dwells in our heart. In our grave there's no dust; rather, there's a harvest of flowers. [Or:] we died of love for the True Beloved. (179)

Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii says:] Since we had become a martyr, because of this religious merit Paradise was present in our grave. (228)

Josh: Even in the grave, through the vision of her, the radiance of the rose can be seen in all directions. The meaning is that even the dust in the grave has become the radiance of the rose. (177)

Arshi: Compare {14,5}. (228)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH JALVAH: {7,4} The double meaning of baskih works well here, providing two relationships between the lines: we are so thoroughly devastated by her coquetry that there's nothing left of us in the grave (1a); or, although we are killed by her coquetry, there's no dead body in our grave (contrary to what you might expect) (1b). So what is in our grave instead? Nothing beyond jalvah-e gul, the radiance of the rose. This might mean that we ourselves have merged into the beloved (or Beloved). But short of full mystical absorption, there are many halfway houses. Arshi points to the obscure but thought-provoking {14,5}, which seems to give to the dead lover's thoughts of beauty a kind of active power and virtue. And this active power need not even be confined to the mental or mystical realm: consider {39,2}, in which the lover's longing to kiss the beloved's feet causes fields of henna to grow for miles around his grave. But there's something else piquant going on in the second line. The postposition ke sivaa actually means 'in addition to'. So a careful, literal reading of the second line would be, 'there's no dust in our grave except roseglory'. That is, jalvah-e gul is itself a kind of dust. Might this mean that of the mere garden rose, the flower, as opposed to the infinitely superior radiance of the beloved? Has the Rose has obliterated us so completely that our dust has vanished, and only the traces of a few withered flowers that were buried with us remain. Or have we reached such a state of mystical self-lessness that even the radiance of the Rose herself is as dust to us now? This verse recalls {7,4}, in which rose-glory and dust are similarly equated.

{87,8} qa:trah qa:trah ik hayuul;aa hai na))e naasuur kaa ;xuu;N bhii ;zauq-e dard se faari;G mire tan me;N nahii;N 1) every single drop is one essence of a new {running sore / ulcer} 2) blood too in my body [is] never finished with the relish of pain

Notes: hayuulaa: 'Matter; first principle (of everything material)'. (Platts p.1246)

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naasuur: 'Wounding --a running sore, an ulcer; a fistula'. (Platts p.1114)

Nazm: That is, every drop of blood assumes the form of a running sore. Just as from an essence when one form vanishes the next one replaces it, so every drop of blood in turn assumes the form of a drop, and losing the aspect of blood will take on the aspect of a running sore. And wherever in the body there is any trace of blood, there a running sore will develop. (87)

Bekhud Mohani: The whole body is becoming riddled with running sores. The crest-jewel of this is that even my blood is absorbed in the pleasure of pain. Whatever drop of blood has remained, it too is creating the effect of becoming a new running sore. (179)

Josh: That is, every drop of blood is assuming the shape of a running sore.... The point of the utterance is that I have become so mad for the pleasure of the pain of love that this madness has flowed through every vein and bloodvessel., and every single drop of blood longs to become a running sore. (177)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE I've never heard this one recited once in my whole life, and it's not hard to figure out why. It's Exhibit A for my 'grotesquerie' category. It's just gross. Undeniably, it follows the general logic of the ghazal in its extravagant but well-grounded wordplay. It makes clever use of the familiar pleasure/pain oscillation. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. There's a clever use of bhii (to imply that the blood's state of mind simply mirrored my own), and an interesting use of hayuulaa, an exotic word borrowed from the Greek. But it nevertheless is repugnant. Although I can't prove it, since such judgments are subjective, I bet you'll agree. It has that over-the-top, more than we really wanted to know quality. A running sore (ulcer, fistula) is just not going to be poetically enjoyable in the ghazal context. It's too graphic for its own good. It carries more baggage of physical disgustingness than it can manage to lift. However, let me also note that, as with the other verses in my 'grotesquerie' category, the commentators don't seem especially bothered about it, so it is perhaps a culturally-specific attitude that I'm expressing. But then let me also note that the commentators' silence may not be so significant, for they're rarely bothered about much of anything, once they can get an acceptable prose paraphrase for a verse.

{87,9} le ga))ii saaqii kii na;xvat qulzum-aashaamii mirii mauj-e mai kii aaj rag miinaa kii gardan me;N nahii;N 1a) my 'Red Sea'-drinking took away the Cupbearer's pride 1b) the Cupbearer's pride took away my 'Red Sea'-drinking 2) today the vein of the wave of wine is not in the neck of the flagon

Notes: na;xvat : 'Pride, haughtiness; consequential airs; pomp, magnificence'. (Platts p.1126) qulzum : '(for ba;hr-e qulzum ), the Red Sea'.

Nazm: He constructs pride as the neck-vein, and in this construction there is a kind of metaphor [majaaz-e mursal]. He says, as long as there was wine in the glass, the Cupbearer was very arrogant, but my ocean-drinkingness-- that is, my heavy wine-drinking-- erased all his pride. Now the neck-vein of the

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flagon is on the verge of vanishing-- that is, no wave of wine has remained in any glass. (87)

Hasrat: The Cupbearer used to show great arrogance in pouring out the wine, and was proud of it. But I was such an ocean-drinker that my devastating drinking erased the Cupbearer's pride, and all the wine in the glass was finished. (78)

Bekhud Mohani: The Cupbearer greatedly prided himself on the amount of wine in his winehouse. Wherever there was a flagon, in it the wave of wine had become a neck-vein and was expressing arrogance. Now there's no flagon in which a neck-vein can be detected-- that is, I emptied out the whole entire winehouse. There wasn't even a drop left in any bottle.... From the word 'today', the force of the verse has increased. And the narrative doesn't seem to be a mere story or long-ago tale-- rather, the mind of the listener becomes more attentive. The ruined wine-house and the empty glass begin to appear before the gaze. Just as Mirza has created more pleasure from the word in in this verse: {60,9}. (179-80)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY WINE: {49,1} Well, here's another clear-cut case. All the commentators that I've checked are willing to recognize only (1a). But just look at the structure of the first line-- a feminine singular verb, followed by two feminine singular nouns, na;xvat and aashaamii , each of which is capable of acting on the other. In view of the much greater flexibility of word order in Urdu (even prose, not to speak of the classical ghazal), how is it possible that Ghalib wouldn't have wanted us to examine both 'A took away B' and 'B took away A'? And once we do examine them, we immediately see how cleverly the second line is framed to connect to both readings. The commentators explain (1a): my ocean-drinking has destroyed the Cupbearer's pride so thoroughly that even the wine-flagons share his humiliation, for the vein of the wave of wine is not in the neck of the flagon. This of course means that the flagons are empty. But Nazm and Bekhud Mohani also maintain that since the flagons shared the Cupbearer's arrogance, now their emptied necks show that they share his humiliation as well. (A whole set of Urdu idioms depict pride as 'high-headedness'.) It makes for a nice example of wordplay. And now let's consider (1b). Today the Cupbearer is being (irresistibly, coquettishly) petulant and cruel; For some reason he is cross with me. In his arrogance he has stamped his little foot and denied me my usual oceanic flow of wine. For the Cupbearer to be derelict in his duty is no unusual thing; see for example {21,6}; or {30,1}; or {97,5}. Because today the Cupbearer is not constantly serving me wine, we should imagine the flagons as not being constantly tilted over and poured into glasses. The idea of a 'wave of wine' suggests redness, flow, and movement, like the idea of a 'neck-vein'. And when is the 'neck' of a flagon fuller of ruby-red 'blood' than when the wave of blood/wine is being rapidly poured out? This pattern of imagery suggests that the life of a flagon is a brief one, and that the flagon never has more vitality, or a richer flow of arterial blood (thus the 'Red Sea' image), than when it is in the act of being poured out-- or pouring itself out, if we credit the flagon with agency. Which is how the life of the rose presents itself as well: the heavy, fully-opened flower often bends on its stem, and its reddest, fullest bloom prepares it for death. And, of course, we know from {17,5} (and so many other examples) with what ecstasy the lover too prepares to bend his own neck, and shed the red blood

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from his own neck-vein. The mystical associations here are powerful and legitimate. Wouldn't the verse be sadly limited, if we only considered (1a)?

{87,10} ho fishaar-e .zu((f me;N kyaa naatavaanii kii namuud qad ke jhukne kii bhii gunjaa))ish mire tan me;N nahii;N 1a) in the pressure of weakness, what a display of feebleness there would be! 1b) in the pressure of weakness, what-- would there be a display of feebleness?! 1c) in the pressure of weakness, would there be a display of feebleness? 2) in my body there’s not even capacity for the stature to be bowed/bent

Notes: fishaar: 'Squeezing, pressing (with the hand); compression, constriction; --a scattering; diffusion'. (Platts p.781) namuud: 'The being or becoming apparent, visibleness; appearance; -prominence, conspicuousness; --show; --affectation; -- display; --pomp'. (Platts p.1154)

Nazm: The meaning is that weakness grinds me down from all directions-- if my stature is to be bowed/bent, then how is it to be so, and in which direction would it bend?

Hasrat: On the theme of weakness, a number of poets have made use of themes with extremely delicate and refined rhetorical taste. Momin says: ab to mar jaanaa bhii mushkil hai tire biimaar ko .zu((f ke baa((i;s kahaa;N dunyaa see u;T;Thaa jaa))egaa [now even to die is difficult for your sick one because of weakness, how can one move on from the world?] (78-79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, weakness is so wringing me out that I don't even get an occasion for the expression of feebleness. That is, the bowing/bending of the stature is a symbol of weakness, but weakness has crushed me from all directions. Now there's not even scope left for the bowing/bending of my stature in any direction. (138)

FWP: SETS == KYA This is a verse that takes excellent advantage of the inshaa))iyah rhetorical possibilities of kyaa. Whichever reading of the first line we adopt, it goes wittily and clever with the second line: (1a) In the pressure of weakness, what a display of feebleness there would be! Why, you'd see the astonishing spectacle of someone who was so utterly and symmetrically oppressed by weakness that his body, equally pushed from all sides, wouldn't even be able to become bent or stooped (in any one direction)! What greater display of feebleness could be imagined? (This is the meaning the commentators generally insist upon.) (1b) In the pressure of weakness, what-- would there be a display of feebleness?! Why of course not, there's not the slightest chance of it! (This is a negative rhetorical question.) Everybody knows that being bent or stooped is the classic sign of bodily feebleness. My feebleness is so extreme that it can't even be displayed, because since weakness pressures me so omnidirectionally, my body can't even bend. So how can there be such a display? There can't, of course!

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(1c) In the pressure of weakness, would there be a display of feebleness, or not? (This is a yes-or-no question.) I reflect on the matter judiciously, looking at the question from both sides, and find it hard to decide. I appeal for information from anybody with special insight. After all, it's not an easy question to answer. If the body isn't bent or bowed, what does that mean? My own favorite reading is (1c), the least showy and dramatic of the three. It's the one that invites us to consider the nature of the question itself. If a 'display' (or show, or manifestation) is normally something positive, a visible sign, can there be a 'display' that takes the form of the absence of such a visible sign? Should we just create a three-tiered structure-- strong people don't stoop, feeble people do stoop, really feeble people don't stoop? Or is there something more to it than that? It reminds me of Sherlock Holmes's observation of the importance of the dog that barked in the night. (When reminded that in fact the dog didn't bark in the night, Holmes replied that that was the important thing about it.) What's really at issue here is the nature of namuud. It's part of Ghalib's genius to be able to take perfectly simple traditional ingredients, and apparently straightforward traditional grammatical patterns, and make of them thorny, indigestible, astonishing little things that you can reflect about for the rest of your life.

{87,11} thii va:tan me;N shaan kyaa ;Gaalib kih ho ;Gurbat me;N qadr be-takalluf huu;N vuh musht-e ;xas kih gul;xan me;N nahii;N 1) what glory was there in the homeland, Ghalib, that there would be honor abroad? 2) {without formality/ to speak candidly}, I am that handful of straw that is not in the stove

Notes: be-takalluf : 'Without ceremony, unceremonious, frank'. (Platts p.202)

Hali: He has given as a simile for himself straw (that is, dried grass, etc.); and for his homeland, the stove. That is, the way when a straw is in the stove it burns, and when it is not in the stove it receives no honor-- that’s exactly my situation: when I was at home I burned, and now when abroad I receive no honor. (145-46).

Nazm: At home, vileness confronts him; and abroad, disgrace. For him, if there's radiance and glory, then it's in the stove. [There are complex mystical implications in this verse.] In this verse, the word be-takalluf is not devoid of takalluf [=care, elaborateness, taking pains]. (87)

Arshi: Compare {64,5}. (228)

Faruqi: Since Ghalib has used the theme of straw and furnace in another verse, {113,7}, it's undeniable that there's some connection of meaning too between the two verses.... [Most commentarial readings have the problem that a stove can't be called the 'homeland' of a handful of straw, but only its execution-ground.] Assume that it would be said like this: since in the homeland I received no honor, then abroad who will care about me? If only I were a handful of straw that would be thrown into the stove and lit. Now I'm like the handful of straw that people kick aside as they pass by. As if in the first line he has not considered himself a 'handful of straw', but rather in his individual capacity has said 'I receive no honor'. Then in the second line he has longed to be a handful of straw. In this way the interpretation emerges properly, but the images of

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'handful of straw' and 'stove' don't seem indispensable-- rather, they seem artificial and and contrived.... If the word 'stove' is taken in the sense not of 'stove, fireplace, grate', but of 'rubbish-heap', then the matter at once becomes clear, and the second line too becomes absolutely indispensable. The original and proper place of a bit of rubbish is the rubbish-heap; that is its homeland. A handful of straw receives no honor in the rubbish-heap, but at least it lives in its homeland. [Outside, it receives no honor either, but only ill-treatment.] (109-11)

FWP: HOME: {14,9} FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} Faruqi takes the verse purely negatively: I'm disdained at home and receive no respect abroad, so I'm like a handful of straw that is mere ignored rubbish when it's at home in the rubbish-heap, and also mere kicked-aside rubbish when it's anywhere else. For Faruqi, the advantage of this reading is that it gets over the problem present in Hali and many other commentators: that they say the 'homeland' [va:tan , with usually the sense of 'native land' or 'birthplace'] of a handful of straw is in the stove; but this is manifestly wrong, for only its execution-ground is there. But one could also say that a rubbish-heap is not the native 'homeland' of a handful of straw either, but only its cemetery (for the straw was 'born' in a grassy field). To bolster his reading, Faruqi specifically enjoins us to understand by gul;xan not its normal meaning of 'stove' (or furnace, or fireplace), but the purely metaphorical meaning of 'rubbish-heap'. I don't see any objection to such a metaphorical leap, but surely it should remain secondary; it shouldn't be allowed to supplant the primary meaning of an important word like 'stove'. As usual, our best source of interpretive material consists of other examples of Ghalib's use of flame and straw. In {21,5} the furo;G of a flame in straw is described as brief, but the very word furo;G makes the flame a source of 'illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. In {64,5}, the furo;G of the fortune of wood-chips depends on the gul;xan . In the verse that Faruqi himself cites, {113,7}, it's made clear that the straw belongs in the gul;xan exactly the way the rose belongs in the garden (that is, each is alienated when outside its proper environment). To reject the clear implication in gul;xan of burning as a glorious destiny, or at least as a moment of brilliant release from an intolerably alienated life, seems unduly arbitrary. After all, a stove may be a metaphorical rubbish-heap, but it's also far more clearly a stove. So how might we put the verse together? Everybody agrees on the wryness and negativity of the first line: I had no honor in the homeland, why would I have any honor abroad? (That is to say, I don't, of course.) I am out-of-place, alienated, dishonored, everywhere I go. No matter where I go, I am like a handful of straw that is not in the stove. In the stove, the handful of straw receives perhaps a kind of grudging 'honor' for its usefulness as kindling, but more to the point, it receives a glorious, furiously flaming destiny, a furo;G in its fortune that is infinitely more desirable to a continuation of its alienated, despised, useless life. The thought of the glory of the gul;xan is part of what makes life everywhere else so intolerable. As Nazm points out, the word be-takalluf is not devoid of takalluf . Idiomatically, when introducing a sentence, it means something like 'to tell you the truth', or 'just between you and me', or 'not to mince words'. (For more on the complexities of be-takalluf , see {65,1}.) So it's appropriate for introducing a line in which the speaker claims to be a handful of straw. But also, technically the word is an adjective, and nothing is more be-takalluf , more devoid of formality, ceremony, elegance, than a handful of straw, with the radical simplicity of its destiny. It either burns in the stove, or else it gets

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kicked around by every passerby until it finally rots away. These are the choices of a handful of straw, and how much better are they than the lover's own? (Remember {20,7}.)

Ghazal 88 4 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa kahu;N composed 1812; Hamid p. 71; Arshi #086; Raza p. 106

{88,1} ((uhde se mad;h-e naaz ke baahar nah aa sakaa gar ik adaa ho to use apnii qa.zaa kahuu;N 1a) I could not come beyond/outside the obligation/position of the praise of coquetry 1b) through obligation/position, I could not come beyond/outside the praise of coquetry 2) if there would be one blandishment/payment, then I would call it my fate/decree

Notes: ((uhdah : 'An engagement, obligation, agreement, a contract, bargain; responsibility, suretiship, becoming security (for); a commission; an office, business, employment, duty, occupation, appointment, post, trust, obligation'. (Platts p.767) adaa : (from Persian) 'Grace, beauty; elegance; gracefulmanner or carriage; charm, fascination; blandishment; amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'. (Platts p.31) adaa : (from Arabic) 'The act of bringing to completion, &c.; completion; perfection; performance; fulfilment; accomplishment; acquittance; payment or discharge of a debt, &c'. (Platts p.31) qa.zaa : 'Divine decree, predestination; fate, destiny; fatality, death; decree, mandate, judgment, order, charte, edict; office, or sentence (of a judge); judicature; jurisdiction, diocese; administration of justice; performance, fulfillment (of a duty, &c.)'. (Platts p.792)

Nazm: It's a clear verse. In the first line 'I' is omitted. (87)

Hasrat: That is, if there would be only one adaa, then I would call it my qa.zaa-- that is, I would praise her in that way. But here there are thousands of airs and graces. Between adaa and qa.zaa there is wordplay [ri((ayaat-e laf:zii]. (79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: I was not able to perform the praise of her airs and graces the way they deserved. And the reason is this: that if there were only one adaa, then I could call it qa.zaa and fulfill the duty of praiser. She is adaa from head to foot-- which ones should I praise? (139)

Bekhud Mohani: I was not able to praise your coquetry as I ought to have. If there had been one adaa, then I would have called it my qa.zaa . That is, one after another adaa keeps appearing, and there are hundreds of thousands of them for the praise of which there are no words at all. (181)

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Chishti: From the point of view of theme-creation, he has composed a verse of a very lofty standard. (496)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} When I disagree with the commentators, it's usually because I find them wedded to only one possible interpretation and ignoring all others. This time, I find that I actually think they're wrong. I exempt Nazm from my argument, since he thinks the verse is so 'clear' that he doesn't have to discuss it at all. But Hasrat and the two Bekhuds-- and I've translated every word they say about this verse-- represent a strong consensus: all the other commentators that I've read agree with them. Yet it's really hard to read ke baahar in any other way than as 'outside/beyond '. The obvious sense in the first line is that I couldn't move beyond the obligation/position of praise of coquetry-- I could only confine myself to praising coquetry. But the commentators read this, without any warrant, as a confession of my inability to praise coquetry properly. Then they combine this with a reading of the second line that relies on an imaginary hii after ik, and on mentally substituting the contrafactual for the future subjunctive. I think they have just all borrowed from Hasrat and, like him, have not devoted much attention to this verse. Which is a pity, because it's a very enjoyable verse, and really rather complex. We have of course to ask ourselves what the relationship is between the two lines; for as in so many verses, Ghalib has given us no indication. When we look carefully, here are a few possibilities: 1) The second line is an explanation of the role described in the first line. (I could never be more than a mere praiser of beauty; for if I would rashly aspire to be an actual lover, then even one bit of flirtation [adaa] would destroy me.) 2) The second line is an illustration of the praise of beauty described in the first line. (I'm a dutiful praiser of beauty, so whenever there's a single example of airs and graces [adaa], I respond by exclaiming 'I'm devastated!'.) 3) The second line is an illustration of the bureaucratic position [{((uhdah}] described in the first line. (Since it's my prerogative to arrange for the awarding of praise to beauty, whenever there's a payment of such a debt to beauty [adaa from Arabic], I declare that it's by my decree [qa.zaa].) Doesn't (3) provide a wonderful and unexpected fillip of pleasure? Check out the definitions of the relevant words (given above), and you'll see that Ghalib has carefully arranged for this alternative reading. All three of the relevant terms not only have a marked affinity, but are also perfectly placed within the semantic patterns of the verse to make this alternative reading unignorable. It could even be said that in an attenuated way, ((uhdah and adaa echo each other. But just in general, isn't this a verse full of cleverly arranged and brilliant wordplay?

{88,2} ;halqe hai;N chashmhaa-e kushaadah bah suu-e dil har taar-e zulf ko nigah-e surmah-saa kahuu;N 1) the circles are eyes opened in the direction of the heart-2) every strand of the curls [I] would call a collyrium-ish glance

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Notes: Nazm: That is, it’s as if the cirles of the curls are on the watch, guarding the heart; and when he called the circles of the curls eyes, then there ought to be a glance for these eyes also-- thus the author has made every strand of hair a collyrium-ish glance. (88)

Bekhud Mohani: The circles of your curls are opened eyes that are keeping watch for the heart. When the circles have been made into eyes, then every single strand of hair has been made into a glance-- and that too a glance that would emerge from a collyrium-adorned eye, and which would have an effect much greater than formerly. That is, when so many traps are laid, then it's impossible for the heart not to be captured. (181)

Josh: That is, however many curls you have, all of them are keeping watch in the direction of my heart, and are looking at me with great attention. Since the glances of your collyrium-adorned eyes too have this quality, it was proper to call every strand of your curls a collyrium-ish glance. With regard to the blackness of the curls, collyrium has been mentioned. (178)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH How much is there to say about a witty little mushairah verse like this one? Once we've been duly puzzled by the cryptic first line, then have duly waited for the second line and found the point of it, what more do we need? The only extra little clever, Ghalibian touch that I can find is the matter of the strands of hair being glances. If they are, they're certainly not directed at the heart! By definition, curly tresses are made up of twisting strands of hair that go this way and that, rather than aligning themselves in any one direction. Which of course is just how the beloved's glances do behave. So the curls/eyes may be looking toward the heart, but the hair-strand/glances are taking a much wider view. As an experienced hunter, the beloved will keep an eye on the immediate prey, but she will also be on the lookout for any future victims in the vicinity.

{88,3} mai;N aur .sad hazaar navaa-e jigar-;xaraash tuu aur ek vuh nashuniidan kih kyaa kahuu;N 1) I, and a hundred thousand liver-rending utterances 2) you, and that single non-hearing, [such] that-- 'what can I say?!'

Notes: Nazm: From this verse one ought not to wrongly think, 'A person like Ghalib-- and to make this kind of error in Urdu and Persian! One which the rawest of beginners, and the most rustic of rustics, would not consider correct!' In a context of sarcasm, the shortening of words seems good. Consider that the author has here said nah shuniidan -- but this interpretation is far-fetched, there's no doubt of that. (88) [See also his comment in the discussion of {194,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am, and hundreds of thousands of liver-rending laments. You are, and a single obliviousness [sunii an-sunii] that I cannot express. (139)

Bekhud Mohani: When 'in a context of sarcasm the shortening of words seems good', then what's the meaning of declaring this interpretation to be 'far-fetched'? Nor

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has any reason at all been presented [by Nazm] for declaring that nashuniidan is only Hindi. (181)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; YOU AND I JIGAR: {2,1} The clever hatched job done by Nazm, as he pretends to defend Ghalib against other critics, is amusing to read. As usual, it's duly objected to by Bekhud Mohani. The issue here is that Ghalib has converted the Persian naashuniidan, 'non-hearing', which begins with a long syllable, into his own invented form nashuniidan, which does not. This is the kind of obviously rule-breaking liberty that native speakers take when they feel playful or innovative. Since Ghalib always claimed for himself (and for no other Indian) the creative freedom of a native speaker of Persian, this kind of liberty is not surprising. This one would also make a good mushairah verse, since it packs such a terrific wallop right at the end. The two lines contrast each of their elements: I versus you; a hundred thousand versus one; powerful utterances versus a radical refusal to hear them. And all this extreme contrast yields a single conclusion, the inexpressibility trope: 'What can I say?' Literally, the phrase is kyaa kahuu;N, 'what would I say?', but it has the same idiomatic force and resonance as its English counterpart. And just as in English, the petrified idiomatic phrase 'What can I say?' can be applied to any kind of impossible, indescribable situation, so that our first impulse is to read it in that generalized way, as a marker of helplessness, a verbal counterpart of hand-wringing. But in another flash we also see how its literal meaning too is ideally relevant here-- because you refuse to hear me at all, how can I speak? What can I say? What can I say about the fact that I can say nothing? Such a simple, colloquial, ruefully amusing verse-- and such an elegant expression of inexpressibility.

{88,4} :zaalim mire gumaa;N se mujhe munfa((il nah chaah hay hay ;xudaa nah kardah tujhe bevafaa kahuu;N 1) cruel one, don't seek that I would be {confirmed in / afflicted by / ashamed before} my doubt-2) alas alas, the Lord forbid!-- that I would call you faithless!

Notes: munfa((il : 'Done, performed; made; --suffering or receiving the effect (of an act), affected (by); disturbed, afflicted; --abashed, ashamed'. (Platts p.1079)

Hasrat: Don't make me ashamed before my doubt. Dammit [bhalaa], I-- and to think you faithless!' (79)

Nazm: That is, my doubt calls you faithess, and I call you faithful. Don’t act in such a way that I will be forced to be confirmed in my suspicions. The meaning is, don’t act faithlessly-- God forbid that I too should be forced to call you faithless. (88)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh cruel one, don't act in such a way that I would be forced to be confirmed in my doubt. God forbid that I would call you faithless! The meaning is that my doubt calls you faithless, and I am calling you faithful. Don't act in such a way that I would be forced to be ashamed before my doubt-- that is don't act faithlessly. God forbid that I too would be obliged to call you faithless! (139)

Bekhud Mohani: Her faithlessnesses have begun to appear very clear. But even today the heart doesn't want to call her faithless. 'Alas, God forbid!' gives information about the heart's dilemma. (182)

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Arshi: Compare {141,4}. (260)

FWP: The first line requires a bit of care and thought, because of the complexity of its use of munfa((il (see definition above) and the versatility of se . (1) If munfa((il means 'done, made', then the first line urges the beloved not to cause the lover to be confirmed in his doubt. (2) If it means 'affected' or 'afflicted', then the line urges the beloved not to cause the lover to suffer as a result of his doubt. (3) If it means 'abashed, ashamed', then we have the situation imagined by Hasrat and by Bekhud Dihlavi, such that 'my doubt calls you faithless, and I am calling you faithful'; you thus shouldn't 'act in such a way that I would be forced to be ashamed before my doubt-- that is don't act faithlessly'. Compare the similarly complex use of munfa((il in {141,4}, to which Arshi rightly points. The complexity of the grammar of the first line is effectively contrasted with the exclamatory, inshaa))iyah vigor and idiomatic fluency of the second line. Alas, alas, God forbid! --that I would call you faithless! How intolerable, impossible, unbearable! The lover begs the beloved not to force such a fate upon him. The grammar makes it clear that the lover's fear is not so much that she actually would be faithless, as that he would have no choice but to realize that she was faithless. He dreads having to recognize her in his heart as faithless, and-- worst of all-- to actually call her so. According to the tone and emphasis, the reading of the second line can vary most effectively. Which is the real focus of grief? 1) that I myself would call you faithless (as opposed to someone else-- or everyone else-- doing so) 2) that I would actually call you faithless (as opposed to suppressing my doubts and constantly giving them the lie) 3) that I would call you faithless (as opposed to the countless other beloveds who are faithless, as I well know, but from whom I expect nothing better) So in fact the second line, in its own way, is fully as multivalent as the first. Ghalib can make subtlety out of even the simplest phrases.

Ghazal 89 3 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa bhii nah sakuu;N composed 1833; Hamid p. 72; Arshi #105; Raza pp. 277-78

{89,1} mihrbaa;N ho ke bulaa lo mujhe chaaho jis vaqt mai;N gayaa vaqt nahii;N huu;N kih phir aa bhii nah sakuu;N 1) become kind and call me, [at] whichever time you want, 2) I’m not passed/gone time, that I wouldn't even be able to come again

Notes: Nazm: In all three of these verses there is the verbal device of one verb participating in two meanings. For this reason similitude has been established, but here the cause of similitude is not, as in the case of 'Khizr' [which literally means 'green'] and 'greenery', a merely verbal participation. For this reason these verses are very eloquent [balii;G]. Momin Khan too has done a lot in this manner, and in a lament [vaaso;xt] has composed a stanza in this pattern. Atish also has a verse with this verbal device that is very famous. aisii va;hshat nahii;N dil ko kih sa;Nbhal jaa))uu;Ngaa .suurat-e pairahan-e tang nikal jaa))uu;Ngaa

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[the heart does not have a madness such that I will control myself I will burst at the seams like a tight garment]. (88)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, after a little bit of grief, don't consider that I have become vexed forever. No, it's not like this. Become kind, and call me at whichever time you want. I am not passed time, that I would not be able to come again. (139)

Bekhud Mohani: These verses are extremely refined and heart-stealing.... When you graciously call me, I am at your service. I am not passed time, the coming of which would be impossible. That is, it is still within my power; it's possible that in the future it might not remain in my power-- that is, after death. (182)

Arshi: [Arshi provides notes on this history of this ghazal, including other verses in manuscript form: pp. 411-14.]

Naim: It is worth noting that in the first line both mihrbaa;N and chaaho occur in related clauses and also share a common meaning, i.e., love. mihrbaa;N is derived from mihr, love; while caaho is from the verb chaahnaa which also means 'to love'. (Naim 1972, 20)

FWP: Bekhud Dihlavi labels this ghazal as a 'verse-set' (p. 139), but he's the only person to do so, and in fact it's not a persuasive candidate for the label. Still, his impulse is understandable. These three small verses share a remarkably long refrain, and also-- as Nazm points out-- a common rhetorical device. In all three verses, this device takes the form of suggesting a transference or 'sharing' of the verb in the second line. In this verse, the 'sharing' consists of the transference of 'would not be able to come again' to 'passed time'. Strictly speaking, the grammar of the line doesn't tell us that passed time can't come again. But the structure works so naturally and unforcedly that nobody can possibly read the line without making the connection. 'I'm not passed time (which can't come again), that I can't come again'. Just to emphasize the point about time, the word vaqt is used twice-- in the first line to describe the beloved's powerful access to time (she can summon the lover whenever she wishes), in the second line to make the contrast: he can come, past time can never come again. Or rather, for another clever example of affinity, 'gone' [gayaa] time can never 'come' again. And as Naim observes, chaahnaa strongly suggests not just your being invited to call me anytime you 'want', but also the hope that you will 'want' me. Doesn't this verse also somehow 'feel' unusually translatable?

{89,2} .zu((f me;N :ta((nah-e a;Gyaar kaa shikvah kyaa hai baat kuchh sar to nahii;N hai kih u;Thaa bhii nah sakuu;N 1) in weakness, what complaint is there of the Others’ taunts? 2) an utterance is not some head, that [I] wouldn't even be able to sustain/bear [it]

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the state of weakness, while I am complaining about the Others' taunts, why are you afraid? In the state of weakness, I can endure them. Your words are not my head, which because of weakness I can't lift up. (139-40)

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Bekhud Mohani: When I am in a state of weakness, let the Rivals make whatever taunts they might wish. I will endure them all. To lift up [u;Thaanaa] my head is impossible for me, but a remark can be borne/sustained [u;Thnaa]. This verse seems to tell us the extremity of the Rivals' baseness and pitilessness and enmity, that they throw taunts at such a weak and feeble and oppressed one. (182)

Shadan: sar nah u;Thaanaa: To be unable to lift the bowed head, out of shame; for the head to remain lowered under the burden of gratitude. Under the burden of shame, or gratitude, my head cannot be lifted. A taunt is only a word, which is not hard to endure-- especially since there is weakness also. (358)

FWP: Some general comments about this ghazal appear in {89,1}. The chief charm of this verse is the same trick described and illustrated in the discussion of the previous verse. 'A word is not some head (which I can't lift/sustain/bear), that [I] can’t sustain/bear it'. The line officially tells us that the speaker is able to sustain/bear [u;Thaanaa] words, even if they're abusive; in the interstices of the grammar, we learn that the speaker, in his weakness, can't hold up [u;Thaanaa] his head. We can't do quite he same trick in English in this particular case, but we can do it in many similar ones: 'A wineglass is not a heart, that it can't be lifted'. The idiomatic force of kuchh in the phrase baat kuchh sar to nahii;N hai is almost impossible to convey in translation; 'some head' was the best I could come up with. The absence of the possessive pronoun (in English we'd say 'my head') is not conspicuous in Urdu, though it certainly works well in this verse, as further showing the speaker's detachment and indifference. The lover's being too weak to hold his head up is no surprise; see {32,2} for an example. Very possibly this weakness is what the Others are taunting him about-- and he finds himself too weak to even resent their taunts. (Out of all the commentators, only Shadan misses the crucial role of weakness.)

{89,3} zahr miltaa hii nahii;N mujh ko sitamgar varnah kyaa qasam hai tire milne kii kih khaa bhii nah sakuu;N 1) I can't even get poison, tyrant, otherwise 2) is it a vow about/against meeting/getting you, that I wouldn't even be able to take/'eat' it?

Notes: Hali: When they say someone has taken a vow about doing something, it means that he refuses to do that thing. So how could the lover take a vow about meeting the beloved? Thus he says that poison is not a vow about meeting you, that I can’t take it; but because I can’t get it, for that reason I can’t take it. (146)

Nazm: In the last line there is a remarkable violation of decorum [;Ga.zab kaa tanaafur]-- three kaaf occurrences have been run right up against each other. (88)

Bekhud Mohani: It's clear that the beloved's tyranny and the lover's oppressedness have reached such a limit that he wants to take poison and give up his life. And at the same time it's also clear that despite this state, it's impossible for him to take a vow about meeting the beloved.

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[As for Nazm's complaint about the three k's:] Undoubtedly. But no Ustad is safe from this. (183)

Shadan: [In view of the flaw pointed out by Nazm,] in this way this defect can be removed: kyaa qasam hai tire milne kii jo khaa bhii nah sakuu;N. In the refrain of all three verses, there are two meanings. The aanaa of a person, and of time; the u;Thaanaa of words, and of a head; the khaanaa of poison, and of an oath. (258)

Josh: The meaning of the verse is, oh cruel one, you've kept me always deprived of a meeting, and thus encouraged me to die and take poison. I can't even get poison, otherwise-- it's not a vow about meeting you, that I won't be able to take it. That is, I don't get to meet you-- as though you've taken a vow about meeting me. (179)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Some general comments about this ghazal appear in {89,1}. This final verse is, to my mind, the cleverest of the lot, though all three work along the same lines. The second line gives us parenthetical knowledge as well as overt information: 'Is it [=poison] a vow about meeting you (which I could never take), that [I] can’t take [it]? Although in English we don't 'eat' vows or poison, we luckily 'take' both of them, so the effect of the shared verb can be pretty well recreated. And although in English a 'vow of meeting you' [tire milne kii qasam] has an affirmative feel, in Urdu in this case it's definitely to be taken negatively, as something like 'swearing off' an action. The presence of varnah means that the second line can be read either in the future subjunctive (which seems to be the primary meaning), or as a kind of implicit contrafactual (an explanation not of future possibilities, but of past actions). The 'flaw' [((aib] in the second line, of having three kaaf sounds in a row [kii kih khaa] could have easily been remedied, as Shadan notes. And when you realize that the first consonant in the line, and the last, are also both kaaf, and that that the second is the closely allied qaaf-- well, it's hard to believe that Ghalib isn't setting up this effect on purpose. The effect is not pretty, but rather seems bumpy and abrupt. Could we say that this is an effect appropriate to the harsh nature of the line? Josh points out an additional bit of cleverness-- that perhaps the tyrant's tyranny consists in refusing to meet the lover. The proper revenge would of course be for him to swear not to meet her either. But this he can't do-- just as he can't even get (literally, 'meet') the poison that would rescue him from his suffering. For other clever exploitations of the possibilities of qasam , see {123,6}, {136,2}, {167,3}, {170,7}, and {176,7}. And for an even greater similarly, take a way look at {20,3}, which plays with ba;Ndhnaa in the same literal vs. metaphorical way that this one plays with khaanaa .

Ghazal 90 5 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: astii ek din composed 1821; Hamid p. 73; Arshi #087; Raza p. 236

{90,1} ham se khul jaa))o bah vaqt-e mai-parastii ek din varnah ham chhe;Re;Nge rakh kar ((u;zr-e mastii ek din 1) be open with us when drinking wine, one day 2) otherwise, we’ll tease you, giving the excuse of drunkenness, one day

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Notes: Nazm: khul jaa))o-- that is, become informal [betakalluf]. (89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of wine-drinking someday, become informal with us. If you won't do this, then we will tease you someday. (140)

Bekhud Mohani: Someday, when drinking wine, become informal with us. That is, if you are ashamed or don't find any excuse, then we say, become informal when drinking wine. No one will have an occasion to object; people will say she was intoxicated. And to me too you can say, hey there [ajii], get hold of yourself. I too was intoxicated, that was the state of intoxication. If you won't do this, then someday, giving the excuse of intoxication, I will tease you and nobody at all will be able to blame me. (183)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; VARNAH WINE: {49,1} This is a wicked and amusing little verse, isn't it? It invokes in the first line wine as an intoxicant, an opener-up and looser of inhibitions, a liberator from rationality and conscious choice. And in the second line it invokes wine as an excuse, a means for trickery, a rationally, consciously chosen alibi for otherwise unacceptable behavior. The tone is light and witty-- this is less a serious proposition than a kind of joke. It is tongue-in-cheek, it is light banter. The beloved as we know her is too powerful to be blackmailed in this way, and too self-willed to require an excuse for any kind of behavior in which she chooses to indulge. In this verse I'm not sure varnah has its usual double sense, since the future tense seems to be a special case. And in this particular verse whatever timeframe varnah may permit is not too significant, because the whole plot of this verse is located in the vague and unspecified future-- 'one day'. This is part of what makes it feel like just a bit of teasing in the first place. We know perfectly well that the lover's plan is not going to work. And of course so does he.

{90,2} ;Garrah-e auj-e binaa-e ((aalam-e imkaa;N nah ho is bulandii ke na.siibo;N me;N hai pastii ek din 1a) don’t be proud of the summit of the foundation of the realm of possibility 1b) let there not be pride at the summit of the foundation of the world of possibilities 2) in the fortunes of this height is lowness, one day

Notes: ;Garrah: 'Deceived; haughty, proud; cross; --s.m. Pride, vanity'. (Platts p.770) auj: 'Highest point, top, summit, vertex; zenith; height, altitude, ascendancy'. (Platts p.103) binaa: 'Building, structure, edifice; foundation, basis, base; ground, footing, motive; root, source, origin; beginning, commencement'. (Platts p.168) imkaa;N: 'Possibility, practicability; power; contingent existence (in contrast to vujuub or necessary existence)'. (Platts p.82)

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Nazm: In this verse, the beauty of the refrain is that by 'one day' Doomsday is meant. (89)

Hasrat: Don't be proud of the lofty fortunes of the foundation of the realm of possibilities, because one day the realm of possibilities-- that is, the world-will assuredly attain oblivion. (80)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Don't be infatuated to such an extent by the progress of this world! In the destiny of this height, lowness is written. That is, one day Doomsday will come. (140)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY All the commentators agree on the obvious, simple, didactic prose meaning. But we know Ghalib, and he is not an obvious simple didactic prosifying kind of poet. So as always I ask myself, why would an audience, hearing this verse, have said 'vaah vaah!'? And at once the contrast of the two lines comes into focus. For the first line, there are two possible readings. They are grammatically different-- since (1a) takes ho as a familiar imperative, while (1b) takes it as an abstract future subjunctive-- and so perhaps offer slightly different approaches to the verse. But I don't think they are different enough to be of great significance. The airy elaboration of the first line, with its four i.zaafats, seems meant to overawe. The line is full of exotic words and lofty concepts. Outstanding among them is bina, which means 'building' in a sense, but far more commonly the base or foundation for a building. So we envision the 'summit', or highest point, of the 'foundation', the lowest point of an edifice. This edifice is apparently truly lofty, because the second line confirms that it's a bulandii, a 'height'. An edifice of which even the foundation is at a lofty height could intoxicate one with pride. But alas, the edifice is only that of the ((aalam-e imkaa;N, the 'realm of possibility' or 'realm of contingency'. How quickly possibilities leap in the imagination from lofty origins to even loftier summits! This realm exists lavishly in our minds, and even exists to some extent in this contingent, doomed world of ours. It's hard for us not to be at least wistfully and hopefully proud of it. But the second line, unlike the first, is punchy, concise, and colloquial. This 'height', however real is seems (or perhaps even is) right now, is doomed-- it is fated to experience 'lowness', one day. And that's the end of the story. For another elegant, evocative use of the word imkaa;N, see {4,8x}.

{90,3} qar.z kii piite the mai lekin samajhte the kih haa;N rang laavegii hamaarii faaqah-mastii ek din 1) we used to drink wine on borrowed money, but considered that, indeed 2) our 'cheerfulness in adversity' will {find resources / accomplish wonders / bring about a change}, one day

Notes: faaqah-mastii : 'Cheerfulness, &c., in want or adversity'. (Platts p.775) faaqah-mastii : 'Cheerfulness in want or adversity'. (Steingass p.904) rang laanaa : 'To flush up, to blush; to present a fine appearance or form, to bloom; to find resources; to accomplish wonders; to bring about a change'. (Platts p.601)

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Azad: An anecdote: One time Mirza became very much burdened by debt. The creditors took him to court. He was summoned to answer the charges. It was the Mufti [Azurdah] Sahib’s court. When he was brought before the court, he recited this verse: {90,3}. (506) ==Translation: Pritchett and Faruqi, p. 414

Nazm: That is, one day he will be disgraced by the wine-sellers in the public market. (89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Concerning this verse of Mirza Sahib's this anecdote is famous: that before 1857 some shopkeeper had instituted a case against Mirza Sahib for the cost of wine. The case was brought before the court of Mufti Sadr ud-Din Khan Sahib [Azurdah]. In answer to the complaint, Mirza Sahib extemporaneously composed this verse and recited it. The Mufti Sahib paid the plaintiff's money out of his own pocket, and freed Mirza Sahib from the court case. (140)

Bekhud Mohani: He was compelled by habit, and borrowed money to drink wine.... That is, in this state of poverty the result of wine-drinking is that one must confront humiliation. From this verse it also emerges that after becoming the slave of habit, a man cannot act on the commands of wisdom, and begins to endure humiliations. (183)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY WINE: {49,1} Oh pooh! to the commentators, one and all. Has there ever been a verse so amusing, and so mishandled by their pedantic moralism and naive (and fake) 'realism'? Don't they have any sense of humor? Don't they know how much Ghalib loves wordplay? In fact, there's not the slightest historical foundation for Azad's implausible anecdote, much less for Bekhud's even more radical version (in which the verse is not merely recited, but is composed impromptu just for that occasion). Yet the anecdote is so widespread that it's also told by Baqir (233) and Josh (180) in the more radical Bekhud version; and by Mihr (296) in the slightly milder Azad version. The anecdote is clearly some kind of backformation from the fact that Ghalib loved wine (though in fact he usually mixed it with rose-water) and always struggled with debts. And in Azad's case, the anecdote is part of his larger hatchet job on Ghalib, as any close reader of aab-e ;hayaat will have noticed. (For another such example, see {17,9}.) Nazm, to his (relative) credit, confines himself to a simple moralistic reading, avoiding the anecdote. He is followed by Shadan (259) and Chishti (500). Bekhud Mohani offers a more didactic expansion of the same reading. Not a single commentator that I've looked at recognizes for the verse any other possibility than the humiliating anecdote or the moralistic lesson. Yet in fact, this witty little gem is one of the world's ultimate mushairah verses. The first line sets us up for just the kind of repentant, moralizing verse that Nazm and company expect. The words 'but' and 'indeed' suggest an anticipation of change. 'I used to drink wine on borrowed money, but indeed I believed...' leads us to expect in the second line 'that one day I would suffer for it', or something to that effect (perhaps with some clever wordplay about 'paying the price'). In a mushairah setting, we have plenty of time before we're allowed to hear the second line, plenty of time to imagine the show of repentance to come.

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And what do we get instead? First, we don't get a verb of repentance or chastisement, but the multiple and often positive meanings of rang laanaa (see definition above). And then, what feminine singular thing will govern that verb rang laavegii ? In proper mushairah-verse style, the kicker is withheld until the last possible moment: it is our faaqah-mastii -- literally, our 'poverty-intoxication'; in a well-established idiom, our state of good cheer and gallantry even under dire conditions of need and deprivation. In short, it is a virtue! So instead of the verse the audience initially expected-- 'we did a bad thing (drinking wine on borrowed money), but always felt that we'd suffer for it'-what they actually get is, 'we underwent hardship (having to drink wine on borrowed money), but always felt that our cheerfulness in bad times would pay off somehow'! What an entirely different slant this gives to the verse! It turns out in retrospect that the first line was not repentant and apologetic after all, but in fact self-congratulatory: even when times were so bad that we had to borrow our drinking-money, we were still full of good cheer, gallantry, and grace under pressure. How would our 'cheerfulness in adversity' show its color/wonders? It might cause our cheeks to become rosy, or make us blush; or 'present a fine appearance or form, to bloom; to find resources; to accomplish wonders; to bring about a change'. These possibilities are favorable, though there are negative possibilities as well (we might blush at our indebtedness, or the 'change' it would bring about might have bad sides too). This is typical Ghalib-- lots of possibilities, lots of meanings, inextricably bound together in a very small space. As a final touch of subtle uncertainty, there's samajhte the . We always 'considered, felt, believed, supposed' that our cheerfulness in adversity would see us through in the end. (The future tense in the second line is because of the traditional preference of Urdu for direct over indirect discourse.) We could be making this remark at some joyous time in the future, savoring the thought that our faith had been vindicated and our virtue rewarded. Or we could be observing wryly that in fact our faith was misplaced and our 'cheerfulness in adversity' turned out to do us no good at all. Or we could be saying this verse as the beginning of a story far stranger and more complex. The lives of lovers, after all, are full of vicissitudes. Discussing this verse, S. R. Faruqi felt (Nov. 2005) that it might be faulted for failing to indicate what kind of effect the cheerfulness in adversity might be expected to have. But then he decided that a suitable response to any such criticism would be to cite {160,1}-- both the verse itself, and also Ghalib's own comment about it. And then, there's faaqah-mastii , the culmination of the verse, which remains an absolutely stunning example of wordplay-- and thus of meaning-play too, as Faruqi would insist. The faaqah recalls the poverty and want (literally, 'hunger, fasting') that caused us to borrow the money for wine, and the mastii evokes the intoxication of drinking it. But when put together, their idiomatic meaning is such a delight! It suddenly turns the whole verse around, and gives it a fresh, crisp, rakish slant. How could those at the mushairah not have burst out laughing with sheer pleasure? The commentators do somewhat similar things, though no doubt less egregious, to {70,3}, {189,2}, and {194,5}.

{90,4} na;Gmah'haa-e ;Gam ko bhii ay dil ;Ganiimat jaaniye be-.sadaa ho jaa))egaa yih saaz-e hastii ek din 1a) know the songs of grief too, oh heart, to be 'a piece of luck' 1b) know even the songs of grief, oh heart, to be 'a piece of luck'

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2) this instrument of existence will become voiceless, one day

Notes: ;Ganiimat : 'Plunder, spoil, booty; a prize; a boon, blessing, a God-send; a piece of good luck, good fortune'. (Platts p.773)

Nazm: From the word bhii the meaning emerges that the way we wish for the melody of joy, in the same way we ought to consider the song of grief too a piece of luck. (89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the world the song of joy and the song of grief are twins. If sometimes there's grief, sometimes there's joy; and these are both the sounds of the instrument of existence. Before the instrument of existence is erased, we ought to consider both of them a piece of luck. The meaning is that after grief, there is necessarily joy. (141)

Bekhud Mohani: bhii has no such meaning [as Nazm claims for it]. Rather, in this sutiation its meaning is that not to speak of the song of joy, consider the song of grief too a piece of luck. One day you will long even for it. (184)

Arshi: Compare {142,2}. (219, 261)

FWP: SETS == BHI; IZAFAT Both Nazm and Bekhud Mohani are occupied with the exact nuances of the little word bhii . I find myself occupied with it too, because I keep thinking of its double meaning, 'even' and 'too'. In many verses it makes no great difference which way we interpret it. In at least one, {36,9}, the two interpretations lead to two amusingly different readings. But what about this verse? I think (1a) suggests that the hearer already considers songs of joy, etc., to be a piece of luck, and is being urged simply to add songs of grief to that list, as another item in a set of similar ones. While (1b) suggests a difference in category: the hearer is being urged to make a radical, qualitative change: even songs of grief, counterintuitively, should be considered to be a piece of luck. And of course, how lucky is a ;Ganiimat , which I've translated as a 'piece of luck'? The related ;Ganiim means 'taker of spoils, plunderer; enemy, foe, adversary' (Platts p.773). The root meaning of ;Ganiimat is connected with battle and booty seized from an enemy, and thus by extension it can mean a sudden stroke of luck, something that one could not have counted on. This etymology suggests a wry, pessimistic reading of the verse: consider even songs of grief to be booty precariously wrested from an enemy. And who or what is yih saaz-e hastii , 'this instrument of existence'? The yih seems designed to give some immediateness and specificity to the concept. But thanks to the multivalence of the i.zaafat , it could be: 1) this instrument that belongs to existence-- the heart itself, which is being addressed in the first line? the spirit? the body? the speaker's own self? 2) this instrument that pertains to existence in some general way-- that generates it, the way a musical instrument produces a song? would this be the world itself, as a generator of songs of joy and grief? would this be the cycles of nature and time, that generator the tune of our lives? 3) this instrument that is existence-- an instrument played perhaps by the hand of God? In short, the yih is deceptive-- we are quite unable to pin down what kind of 'instrument of existence' is being evoked. Or perhaps it's even a little barb, to emphasize the undecideability before which we are helpless. If so, then this

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verse is reminiscent of the way we are taunted for our ignorance about the unfathomable cosmic instrument in {13,1}. No wonder we had better take any songs at all as a 'piece of luck', a bit of booty snatched by fortunate chance from an enemy. Not only can we not pick and choose among the songs we play, or hear, or are-- we can't even know their nature or source. All we can know is our own inevitable loss. As Arshi suggests, {142,2} is an excellent verse for comparison.

{90,5} dhaul-dhappaa us saraapaa-naaz kaa shevah nahii;N ham hii kar bai;The the ;Gaalib pesh-dastii ek din 1) 'slapping and cuffing' is not the practice/custom of that entirely coquettish one 2) we ourself/alone insisted on 'beating her to it', Ghalib, one day

Notes: dhaul dhappaa: 'Thumping and slapping, mutual cuffing, a fight, row'. (Platts p.551) pesh-dastii: 'Pre-eminence, precedency, excellence; anticipation, the being beforehand'. (Platts p.299) kar bai;The the: This compound verb conveys a sense of wilfulness, stubbornness, insistence in the doing of some action.

Nazm: That is, our own insolence alone has made her shameless. In place of ham hii and tum hii, the idiom is hamii;N and tumhii;N. Mir has said [a verse using tumhii;N].... The author has said ham hii because of the necessity of the verse. In prose, to speak this way is absolutely improper. (89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the jest of that informality, first it happened from our side. (141)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse seems to be by way of reply. Somebody has said, your beloved is not civilized. In reply to that he says, although she's coquettish from head to foot, she's not uncivilized. One day we ourselves did it first. For this reason her hand too was lifted.... [Contrary to Nazm's assertion,] the author has not done it out of the necessity of the verse. Rather, if the poetry of Mirza's contemporaries Momin, Zauq, Sheftah, and Zafar should be looked at, then it will be clear that they casually used both forms-- hamii;N and ham hii, and vuhii and vuh hii, and yihii and yih hii. (184)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} I like Bekhud Mohani's notion that the verse might be imagined as a reply to someone's sneer at the beloved's unrefined, unladylike behavior. The indignant lover defends her honor: 'Slapping and cuffing indeed! Why of course that's not her style! It was all my fault-- I slapped her first!' Which is doubly amusing because first, even if true it doesn't present the lady as a picture of refinement (if someone slaps her, she'll retaliate by involving herself in a vulgar slapping contest); and second, it might not even be true, and she might even have slapped him first, for we know the lover will bend over backwards to blame anybody else, including himself, rather than recognize imperfections in the beloved. The whole episode makes lover and beloved sound like two children squabbling in a vulgar and undignified way.

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But the most enjoyable part of the verse is pesh-dastii, which offers us several kinds of highly amusing wordplay. This phrase is the hinge on which the verse turns; as is proper for a good mushairah verse, it is withheld until the last possible moment, so that it suddenly illumines the whole verse with a great flash of pleasure. Its amusing features are several: 1) it literally means 'presenting-handness', so the image is perfect for someone preparing for a slapping match. 2) it means to 'anticipate', to 'be beforehand'-- so that she might have been ready for a slapping match anyway, but I, so to speak, 'beat her to it'. (I won't apologize for the English wordplay, since I think in some ways it actually works here.) 3) it also means to show 'preeminence' or take 'precedence' over someone-so it might be that I had outdone her in something, or shown myself greater than she in something, or demanded some kind of priority in something-which was a sufficient provocation in her eyes (and mine too) to justify her 'slapping and cuffing' me. One final delight of this verse is the unexpected and amusing sound effect with which the verse begins: dhaul-dhappaa us saraapaa-naaz. The term dhaul-dhappaa is a rustic, peasant-like, village-sounding phrase from the Indic side. By contrast, saraapaa-naaz is an elegant, formal, classic Persian ghazal epithet for the beloved, 'one who is coquetry from head to foot'. Naturally, they sit oddly and piquantly together. But even better is the harmony of sound: dhappaa and saraapaa are made to echo each other with a wonderfully humorous effect. The first metrical foot of the line ends with ap-paa, and the second metrical foot ends with aa-paa, so that the rhythm works to reinforce the parallelism.

Ghazal 91 12 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;N nahii;N composed 1847; Hamid p.74; Arshi #108; Raza p. 287

{91,1} ham par jafaa se tark-e vafaa kaa gumaa;N nahii;N ik chhe;R hai vagarnah muraad imti;haa;N nahii;N 1) we are not under suspicion of renunciation of faith because of oppression 2) [it] is a mere tease--otherwise, the goal/intention [is] not a test

Notes: Nazm: That is, she doesn't have the suspicion about us, that because of oppression we would renounce faithfulness. (89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she does not suspect us of renouncing faithfulness out of fear of oppression. In her oppression there's only the intention of teasing us. She doesn't intend a test of faithfulness. (141)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover says in answer to somebody, or to his own heart at the beloved's tyranny, that the beloved has confidence in our faith, and would absolutely never have such a thought as that because of her tyranny we would renounce being a lover. When she shows tyranny toward us, then it's not her intention to test us, but rather it's the coquetry of a beloved. (184)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH

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What exactly is the ik chhe;R, the 'mere tease' to which the lover refers? The first line offers two possibilities: it could be the beloved's jafaa, her 'oppression'; or her gumaa;N, her 'suspicion'. If it's her jafaa, then she oppresses me as a mere jest, not for any good reason. If it's her gumaa;N, then she coquettishly pretends to suspect me of 'renunciation of faith', not because she really does, but just as a form of cruelly flirtatious pleasantry. The very fact that there are two possibilities so ready to hand shows that the lover is in fact in pretty dire straits. And his insistence that she does not mean to test him sounds like whistling in the dark, doesn't it? He is desperately eager to prove to some listener-- and to himself-- that she does trust him, does value him, and doesn't need to test him further since his fidelity is already long since so well established. But the more he gropes for reassurance, the less reassured he sounds. This verse evokes {43,2}, which also hinges on the question of a test. In that verse, the lover is in an even worse position: he has to rationalize the beloved's choosing to become intoxicated in the gathering hosted by one of her other lovers. He decides that it's merely a test-- of herself, or of him. He doesn't persuade us, of course, and probably doesn't even persuade himself.

{91,2} kis mu;Nh se shukr kiijiye is lu:tf-e ;xaa.s kaa pursish hai aur paa-e su;xan darmiyaa;N nahii;N 1) with what mouth can on] express thanks for this special kindness/pleasure? 2) there is inquiry, and the 'foot of speech' is not in between

Notes: Nazm: It's the account of a coquetry of the beloved's-- she doesn't speak to me, but she always seeks to find out how I am. And this aspect too emerges, that the author may have composed this verse as a ;hamd . (89)s

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, with what mouth can one be grateful for her glance of kindness. That is, the glance of kindness inquires about my state, but my state is not asked about in words. (141)

Bekhud Mohani: She doesn't ask about my state, but her every coquetry shows that she is kindly disposed toward me.... [Or:] the Sustainer of the world never asks about the state of his servants. But in every way He informs himself. (185)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS A small mouth is a sign of beauty, so naturally the beloved's mouth is the smallest possible-- or impossible. In fact her mouth is vanishingly small, so that it hardly exists. This idea is played on to witty effect in {24,7}, and also just two verses along in this ghazal, in {91,4}. Thus 'with what mouth can one express thanks?', which idiomatically means something like, 'how can I ever thank express my thanks sufficiently?', but literally of course asks what mouth one should use to express thanks. As S. R. Faruqi points out (May 2003), it suggests that the speaker both does (because of the idiomatic force of the expression), and doesn't (because he doesn't seem to have a mouth available), express thanks. Similarly, the verse invites us to contemplate the beloved and her vanishingly small mouth. It seems that she asks after us, somehow-- yet she doesn't say anything, she doesn't use speech. To convey her non-speaking, the lover chooses an idiomatic phrase, paa-e su;xan darmiyaa;N nahii;N , that means 'nothing was said', or 'no conversation took place'. But if we take the elements of this phrase literally, they imply that mere speech is vulgar,

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bothersome, and intrusive. If the 'foot of speech' is not 'in between' her and me, we are alone together without barriers-- and what could be better than that? Except, of course, that she won't talk to me. This verse reminds me of {14,4}, in which the lover proudly boasts that even if he can't fathom her secrets and in fact can't understand a word she says, still, it's no small thing that she's 'opened up' to him. Or rather, he doesn't say it. He asks, is it a small thing? And here too, the lover doesn't assert the beloved's kindness, but asks, how can I express appropriate gratitude for this 'special kindness'? Ghalib is making his usual clever use of inshaa))iyah speech, such that what looks at first like a rhetorical question ('how can I thank her enough?') in fact, as we consider the verse, turns into a genuine question: well, for someone who won't ask about you in mere words, what is the appropriate way to express gratitude? Surely not with anything so vulgar as words, from anything so commonplace and useful as a mouth? (Especially since the speaker doesn't seem to have a mouth at hand.) Perhaps the thanks should be as ineffable (and suppositional) as the inquiry itself. It should be a mere look, floating in the air, or a slightly raised eyebrow? In short, it seems, sadly but not surprisingly, that the beloved has not inquired after the lover. The lover is-- just as in the previous verse, {91,1}, and so many others-- trying desperately to put the best face possible on the painful facts of the case. His convoluted rhetoric itself creates the implication; it is itself the very thing that lets us see behind it.

{91,3} ham ko sitam ((aziiz sitamgar ko ham ((aziiz naa-mihrbaa;N nahii;N hai agar mihrbaa;N nahii;N 1) tyranny is dear to us, we are dear to the tyrant 2) she is not unkind, if she is not kind

Notes: Nazm: The meaning of the first line is that my enduring tyranny, and her practicing tyranny, is because she is dear to me and I am dear to her. Or consider it differently, like this: that if she is dear to me, and for this reason her tyranny too is dear, and she practices a kind of tyranny on me that I desire, then I too am dear to her. Now it has the connection with the second line that her unkindness-- that is practicing tyranny-- is exactly kindness. That is, the thing that I want is exactly what she does. If she's not kind, then she's not unkind, and she's not unkind of she's not kind. (89-90)

Hasrat: Tyranny is dear to us, and she practices tyranny; thus it's proven that she holds us dear. Because she gives us that very thing that we hold dear. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we are dear to the tyrant because her tyranny is according to our power of endurance. She doesn't practice such cruelty that would leave us half-dead or kill us entirely. Thus we can say that if we too were not dear to this tyrant, then she would have taken our life. From this expression it has been proved that if that tyrant is not kind to us, then she is also [bhii] not unkind to us. (141)

Bekhud Mohani: If we can't call her kind, then we also [bhii] can't call her unkind. That is, if she didn't practice graciousness, then she did practuce cruelty. She didn't forget us entirely.... Janab Hasrat didn't reflect that on his view, the 'if she's not kind' part becomes useless. Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i too says something of that same sort as Janab Hasrat; thus this objection applies to his words as well. (185)

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Naim: An example of Ghalib's habit of finding a surprising aspect of something quite ordinary. Of course, a great deal of pleasure is derived from the repetition of words in their simple and compound forms and the ploy of the double negation in the second line. The second line may be read to imply an 'even if' rather than a simple 'if'. (8)

Faruqi: [In this verse] there are four parts. From the point of view of meaning, each part is complete. The first part of the first line is metrically identical to the first part of the second line; and the second part of the first line is metrically identical to the second part of the second line.... It's clear that such parallelism cannot be established easily, nor can it easily be noticed.... [Commentators are wrong to add a bhii to the second line and read it as 'even if' or the like.] Tyranny is dear to us; the meaning of this is that we are dear to the tyrant. If the tyrant is not kind, then the meaning of this is that she is not unkind. Now consider the explication: an important part of the personality of the tyrant is tyranny-practicing. This tyranny is lovable to us. That is, between tyranny and us there is a special connection. But tyranny is also an important of the personality of the tyrant. Accordingly, between tyranny and the tyrant there's a special connection. That is, between the tyrant and us is the shared quality that we both hold tyranny dear.... Thus the meaning of our holding tyranny dear is that the tyrant holds us dear. The tyrant's task is to practice tyranny-- that is, to be unkind. But we hold unkindness (=tyranny) dear. Accordingly, if she is unkind to us (practices tyranny), then please understand that she is showing us kindness. Her unkindness itself is kindness, because she is giving us that thing (tyranny) that we like. The first line has made it clear that the tyrant holds us dear. It's clear that she expresses her kindness in the guise of unkindness alone. This too is a proof that if she's not kind, then she's kind. (112-14)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; REPETITION; TRANSLATABLES SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Nazm, Hasrat and Faruqi seem to be broadly in agreement: they want to reinforce the paradoxical, but also paradoxically quite logical, quality of the verse. By contrast, the two Bekhuds and Naim seem to be concerned to offer a more pragmatic interpretation that breaks down the acutest paradoxes. The little word bhii becomes the symbolic crux of their disagreements. 'She is not kind, if she is not unkind' is starker and more radical than 'she is not kind, even if she is not unkind'. Naturally I too prefer the starker and more radical reading, the one that moves away from practical accommocation ('she doesn't torture us as much as she might have done') toward abstraction and the pleasures of major word/meaning play. Naim mentions these latter verbal pleasures, and Faruqi analyzes them in detail, pointing out their metrical dimensions as well. This is one of those brilliant verses like a jewel-- its four parts are perfectly organized into two lines, and all the parts and both the lines play off each other and resonate with each other in an astonishing number of ways. It's often said that in a great poet's work you couldn't change a word without ruining the effect, but in this verse it's entirely true. All the repetition and parallelism even, as a bonus, creates great sound effects in the verse, too. The second line in particular-- you enjoy it the first time you hear it, in its balance and rhythm and repetitions, and as you say it again you enjoy it more, and more variously. It's also so opaque to the mind, yet so invitingly sayable. No matter how elegantly the commentators dissect it, its punch, its shock, is reinforced by so many verbal devices that it's always freshly there. Any rational things you can say about it are always provisional and

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secondary compared to the line itself. And what more can we ask of great poetry?

{91,4} bosah nahii;N nah diijiye dushnaam hii sahii aa;xir zabaa;N to rakhte ho tum gar dahaa;N nahii;N 1) if not a kiss, then don't give it; [give] abuse at least 2) after all, you have a tongue, if not a mouth

Notes: Nazm: By kiss is intended a kiss of the mouth-- and when the beloved doesn't have even a mouth, then how could one kiss her or receive a kiss from her? But a tongue is still present to give abuse-- how could that be dispensed with? (90)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you are excused from giving a kiss of the mouth because you have no mouth, saying 'how can I give you a kiss?'-- well, so don't kiss me! I accept this excuse of yours. But give me abuse, because you do have a tongue. How can you find any excuse for not giving abuse? This is a case of 'if not a flower, at least a petal'. (141-42)

Bekhud Mohani: If you don't give a kiss of the mouth, then don't, because Nature didn't give you a mouth at all. But you have a tongue. Why don't you give me abuse? (185)

Josh: Nowadays nobody likes the theme of a kiss and abuse. But in Mirza's time, this kind of verses pleased the poetic taste of the elite. The narrowness of the mouth is a part of beauty. But the poets have used exaggeration and compared it to an 'imaginary dot' and 'nonexistence'.... [The verse has fine aspects] but the theme of the verse is absolutely vulgar [baazaarii]. (181)

FWP: Kisses and abuses, and paradox. Even if the beloved claims-- perhaps even legitimately-- that her virtually nonexistent mouth means that she can't give kisses, nothing will stop her from delivering abuse (says the lover wryly). But if she doesn't abuse us, we will beg her for it anyway. Abuse is, after all, almost part of her job description, and also a form of relationship between us, since anything is better than her indifference; for an absolutely straightforward statement of this fundamental truth, see {148,2}. But of course, how can a person without a mouth have a (fully operational) tongue? This is the paradoxical and amusing question, the one that makes it clear that the whole verse is tongue-in-cheek (sorry, sorry!) and part of an ongoing exchange of repartee. Josh's observation is intriguing. If this theme fell into disfavor over time, was it perhaps because of the increasing cult of 'natural poetry'? Obviously, the more you think of lover and beloved as real people, the more vulgar and distasteful is the idea of the beloved abusing the lover. For more on hii sahii , see {148,1}. BELOVED HAS NO MOUTH: Some other verses that play on the beloved's having no mouth: {24,7}; {91,2}; {91,4}; {101,8}; {183,8}. Just for the record, she also has no waist: see {99,4}.

{91,5} harchand jaa;N-gudaazii-e qahr-o-((ataab hai harchand pusht-garmii-e taab-o-tuvaa;N nahii;N 1) however much there is life-meltingness of/by anger and wrath 2) however much there's no support of/by fortitude and strength

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Notes: harchand: 'Although, even if, notwithstanding; --how-much-soever, howsoever; as often as'. (Platts p.1222) pusht-garmii: 'Warm support'. (Steingass p.252)

Nazm: Although [harchand] her anger and wrath are melting my life, although fortitude and endurance responded to it-- even so, the afflicted one is saying, 'if some cruelty is left, don't hold it back, and even now I'm not asking for a truce'. (90)

Hasrat: Although [harchand] her anger is life-melting, and there's no strength for endurance in us, even so we don't ask for a truce from the anger; rather, we seek more wrath. (81)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Although this anger and wrath is melting my life, despite this, the power of fortitude and strength has enabled me to respond [as in the next verse]. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: Although her anger is life-melting, and my strength too doesn't stay with me, nevertheless my courage rouses my enthusiasm. Even now my spirit says, if there are any troubles left, then bring them along too-- I still don't ask for respite! (185-86)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; WORD Isn't it striking that both lines begin with harchand? We can't really make grammatical sense of two 'although' clauses. Formally speaking, it's hard to see how this verse can be made to consist of a grammatically complete sentence. I've reflected this dubious situation by assigning the same vague meaning to harchand in both lines. Ghalib has presented us with a strange, oblique, suggestive sentence fragment. But not to worry. This is the first verse of a two-verse verse-set. All the commentators read the two verses together, as a single grammatical whole. It may be that we are meant to do so. If so, this is the first case of a 'compulsory verse-set' that I've seen. Usually the verses in a verse-set can fruitfully be read together, as parts of a larger whole, but each is also structurally complete on its own and makes sense independently. In this case, I am tempted to argue that Ghalib might also mean for us to reimagine one of the 'although's as a 'nevertheless'. In that case, of course, we'd have two possible readings: 'Although there's life-meltingness of anger and wrath, nevertheless there's no support of fortitude and strength'; and 'although there's no support of fortitude and strength, nevertheless there's life-meltingness of anger and wrath'. Both these readings make reasonable sense. Since Ghalib is capable of some wild and woolly grammatical inventions (see {230,5} for a fine example), we could declare that he's doing a kind of semantic riff on harchand if we wanted to. This feels arbitrary to me, but the autonomy of the individual verse in a ghazal is so fundamental that I hesitate to give it up entirely. Whether we read this verse independently at all costs, or as an integral part of the other verse in its verse-set, it's got excellent wordplay: pusht-garmii, or 'warm support', literally means 'back-heat', so that it resonates with 'meltingness' and taab, which has among its numerous meanings 'heat'. The sound effects of ((ataab and taab also work well together.

{91,6} jaa;N mu:trib-e taraanah-e hal-min-maziid hai lab pardah-sanj-e zamzamah-e al-amaa;N nahii;N

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1) the life is a singer of the song of 'anything more left?' 2) the lip [is] not a string-player of the melody of 'truce'

Notes: Nazm: [See his comments on the whole verse-set under {91,5}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, despite this, my suffering life is making a claim that if any cruelty and tyranny remain, they too should be brought into use. Even now, that is, even in this condition, I am not a seeker of a truce. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments on the whole verse-set under {91,5}.] hal min maziid: A verse from the glorious Qur'an: 'Is anything more left?' (185)

FWP: This is the final verse of a verse-set that began with {91,5}. This verse is much more typical of members of a verse-set, since unlike its predecessor it can be read quite easily as an independent unit. Though of course it is richer in depth when taken as the completion of {91,5}. Its pattern of musical imagery is also intriguing, since this musical response is directly evoked by (apparent) helplessness in the face of wrath and torment. We see the same process in {10,3}, in which the lover's apparent submission to the cruel beloved is belied by the fact that the straw he takes in his teeth turns into a reed flute. Musical utterances often seem to be in Arabic, too. In {21,8}, every drop of water has in its heart the melody an al-ba;hr, 'I am the sea'.

{91,7} ;xanjar se chiir siinah agar dil nah ho do-niim dil me;N chhurii chubho mizhah gar ;xuu;N-chakaa;N nahii;N 1) slash the breast with a knife, if the heart would not be split in two 2) thrust a dagger into the heart, if the eyelashes are not blood-dripping

Notes: Nazm: That is, in the split-open heart and the blood-dripping eyelashes is such pleasure that if the knife of passion has not split the heart in two, then pierce the heart with a dagger and split the heart in two. And plunge a knife into the heart to make the eyelashes blood-dripping. For of what value is that breast in which the heart doesn't burn, and of what use is the heart that is not firescattering? To [metrically] shorten the he of mizhah is permissible, but in Persian. (90)

Bekhud Mohani: He says to the beloved, or to the True Beloved, that if the heart has not become two pieces, then why do you hesitate? Take a dagger and cut the heart in two. If up to now tears of blood don't emerge, then plunge a knife into the heart. Tears of blood will spontaneously emerge. And if we link this with the next verse, then the meaning will be that the poet addresses his heart and is saying {91,8}. (186)

Faruqi: The beauty of parallelism I have already mentioned in discussing the previous verse [{91,3}]. Now, in the verse under discussion, please consider the arrangement of sound: ;xanjar, chiir, chhurii, chubho, ;xuu;N, chakaa;N. Through these words, an atmosphere of sound is created that is an evocation of the teeth-gritting effect of a knife deliberately being plunged, in cold blood, into one's own or another's body.... Now consider the aspect of meaning. If the heart is split open, then it's necessary to split open the breast, and if the eyelashes are not blooddripping, then plunge a knife into the heart. That is, in both cases the heart is

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victimized.... Who is addressed, and who is the speaker? That too has not been made clear. A number of aspects of the verse emerge. For example: 1) The speaker says to himself, if your heart is not split open, or would not yet have been able to be split open, then split your breast open with a dagger. And if blood doesn't drip from the eyelashes, or has not yet been able to drop, then plunge a knife into the heart, for it's necessary for the lover to have a split-open heart and blood-dripping eyelashes. 2) The speaker says to himself, if your heart hasn't become split open, and your eyelashes blood-dripping, then they haven't. A dagger and a knife are available, use them to cut open your breast and heart. 3) The speaker says to himself, if your heart isn't split open (that is, isn't pain-filled) and if your eyelashes aren't blood-dripping (that is, if the liver has not become blood), then give yourself this punishment: cut open your breast and heart. 4) The speaker says to the beloved, come look at the condition I'm in. If my heart isn't split in two and my eyelashes aren't blood-dripping, then split my breast with a dagger and plunge a knife into my heart. (That is, give me the punishment of a painful and tormenting death.) 5) The speaker says to the beloved, you have doubts about me, as to whether my heart is split open and my eyelashes are blood-dripping (and yet I still claim to be a lover). Come, split open my breast and take a look. You yourself will see that my heart is in fragments. And plunge a knife into my heart and look. (Because I no longer have a heart at all, it's all turned into blood and flowed away.) 6) The speaker says to the beloved, if your airs and graces and disdain have not yet split my heart in two, and if my eyelashes aren't blood-dripping, then so what? Split open my breast with a dagger, and plunge a knife into my heart. (I am ready in every way to die.) 7) The beloved sarcastically says to the lover, what! and you made a claim to be a lover! Neither is your heart split in two, nor are your eyelashes blooddripping. Lower your eyes to your robe and look. If I am speaking correctly, then use a knife, and put yourself into the state that a lover ought to be in. 8) The beloved sarcastically says to the lover, all your claims are false. Reflect on your condition. If neither is your heart split in half, nor are your eyelashes blood-dripping, then it's something over which you ought to die of shame. Get a dagger and knife, and take your own life. In the light of the above points, this can be declared a kind of 'miracle of expression' verse in which theme-creation, meaning-creation, the 'description of an affair', all have come together in one place. (115-17)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The wonderful array of meanings generated by Faruqi all depend on the permutations of whether the speaker is the lover or the beloved; and whether the use of knife and dagger to slash open breast and heart is considered a (normal or desperate) means to a desirable end, or a (fatal?) punishment for not having achieved that end. Nazm and some other commentators treat this verse and the next one, {91,8}, as a sort of undeclared verse-set, and comment on both together. Either that, or else perhaps they consider these two verses to be a continuation of the verse-set that begins with {91,5} and definitely includes {91,6}. Since by convention only the beginnings of verse-sets are marked, it is left for the reader to decide where the verse-set ends. I am treating {91,56} as a verse-set, and {91,7} and {91,8} as two verses that simply have a lot in common-- much more with each other than with {91,5-6}.

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It's a lovely verse, isn't it? I especially like not only the effortless-seeming multiplicity of meanings, but also the harshly powerful sound effects that Faruqi points out.

{91,8} hai nang-e siinah dil agar aatish-kadah nah ho hai ((aar-e dil nafas agar aa;zar-fishaa;N nahii;N 1) the heart is a disgrace to the breast, if [it] would not be a furnace/fireplace 2) the breath is a disgrace/shame to the heart, if [it is] not fire-scattering

Notes: Nazm: [See his comments on this verse together with those on {91,7}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, is it a breast at all, in which there isn't a burning heart? And is it a heart at all, of which the breath doesn't scatter fire? (142)

Bekhud Mohani: If a heart is not a fire-place because of the fire of love, then it's a cause of disgrace/shame to the breast; and if the sigh doesn't scatter sparks, then it's a cause of shame to the heart. That is, such a heart is not worthy of remaining in the breast, nor such a sigh in the heart. (186)

Josh: A verse of Zauq's is in this same theme and of this same style: jo chashm kih be-nam ho vuh ho kor to bahtar jo dil kih ho be-daa;G vuh jal jaa))e to achchhaa [that fountain that would be without moisture, it would be better for it to be unused that heart that would be without a wound, it would be good for it to burn up]. (182)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM This verse is treated by some commentators as the second half of a sort of unofficial verse-set that begins with the previous verse, {91,7}. Whether or not the two verses should really be considered so bound together, they have notable affinities of structure and theme. The fire imagery is carried downwards from the first line to the second: the non-fiery heart disgraces the breast, and the non-fiery breath disgraces the heart. On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6}. (In {91,7} too, we move from slashing open the breast to slashing open the heart.) The real incentive for treating this verse as a second part to {91,7}, however, is that it's not very inspiring on its own. If it were put into prose paraphrase, what would it lose? Not very much, as far as I can see. The poet who could do the wild, fruitful, almost inexhaustible multiplicity of {91,7}-- obviously he hasn't lost his touch between one verse and the next. So this must be one that he just didn't devote much thought to.

{91,9} nuq.saa;N nahii;N junuu;N me;N balaa se ho ghar ;xaraab sau gaz zamii;N ke badle bayaabaa;N giraa;N nahii;N 1) there's no loss/harm in madness-- so what if the house would be wrecked! 2a) in exchange for a hundred yards of ground, is the desert not [more] valuable? 2b) in exchange for a hundred yards of ground, the desert is not [more] grievous

Notes: giraa;N : 'Heavy, weighty, ponderous; great, important, momentous; difficult; burdensome, grievous; -- precious, valuable'. (Platts p.901)

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Nazm: That is, if in madness the house would be destroyed, then so be it. In the house there won't be more than a hundred yards of ground. In exchange for it, we get such a wide desert! How can there be any harm in that? If there isn't a house, we'll set our face toward the desert. (90)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, madness is not a thing productive of harm; if after one leaves the house the house becomes ruined, then what the hell, let it be ruined! In the house is, at most, a hundred yards of ground-- in exchange for it, such a big wilderness [jangal] comes to hand. Who could call that expensive? (142)

Bekhud Mohani: Answering his own heart, or some Advisor, he jestingly says that if in madness the house will be destroyed, then there's no harm. In exchange for a hundred yards of ground, such a big desert is obtained. (186)

Arshi: Compare {214,8}. (277)

Naim: junuu;N : sublime madness; a state of total devotion to, or submersion in, some cause, some object of desire, some state of mind.... for the poet-lover, the most heightened state of love. In this state, he seeks the side open spaces of wilderness, away from the narrowness of the city.... In this state he abhors rational thought, the logical of cause and effect, and discovers the powers and profundities of intuitive knowledge.... But he prefers to give for the benefit of his reader a more mundane reason as to why the adoption of junuu;N is worth-while. One's home may be destroyed but one would also get possession of something vaster than the narrow confines of home. (4445)

FWP: SETS == KYA COMMERCE: {3,3} HOME: {14,9} MADNESS: {14,3} See what a beautiful high-wire act-- kyaa is deftly exploited without its even being there! Literally, the second line says 'in exchange for a hundred yards of ground, the desert is not more valuable'. Yet the commentators rightly read it as though it had a kyaa in front of it-- for only that could turn it into a rhetorical question, 'is the desert not more valuable?' To which they at once answer, 'yes of course it is'. The secondary meaning of giraa;N as 'grievous' or 'difficult' also works well here-- and without the kyaa. The house is such a burden to me anyway-even the vast desert itself is not more grievous, when compared to the little space of my house. My house is thus more grievous, yard for yard, than the desert. Because my house reminds me of the past? Because it constricts my freedom? Because people come to call on me there and expect things from me? It's also a subtle and suggestive touch that the house is thought of only as sau gaz zamii;N, 'a hundred yards of ground'. Apparently nothing in the house differentiates it from the desert, except its smaller size. Who wouldn't trade a smaller plot of land for a larger one? There's no 'madness' in that! The house isn't spoken of in any of the terms we'd expect-- its holding comforts or souvenirs or loved ones, its providing shelter from the weather, etc. The comparison with {101,3} is especially apt. For more on the expression balaa se , see {58,1}.

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{91,10} kahte ho kyaa likhaa hai tirii sar-navisht me;N goyaa jabii;N pah sijdah-e but kaa nishaa;N nahii;N 1) you say, 'What is written in your {destiny / 'forehead-written'}?' 2a) as if on my forehead there is not the mark of idol-prostration! 2b) is the mark of idol-prostration on my forehead not speaking?

Notes: sar-navisht : 'Lit, 'written on the forehead'; destiny, fate, lot, fortune'. (Platts p.649) goyaa : 'Saying, speaking;... --a speaker... --adv. As you (or as one) would say, as it were, as though, so to speak; thus, in this manner'. (Platts p.928)s

Nazm: That is, why do you ask me my fate and autobiography [sar-gu;zisht]? The mark of prostration itself is describing my situation. (90)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that on my forehead the mark of idol-prostration can be seen, and this itself is my fate and destiny. (143)

Faruqi: [The inquirer/addressee is not the beloved, because then instead of 'idolprostration' he would have said something like 'prostration to you'.] From the word 'as if' [goyaa] it appears that in the verse there's not straightforward speech, but rather he's talking to himself. Because if it were straightforward speech, then instead of 'as if' he would have said some word (like 'look', 'what', etc.) that conveys straightforward address. Thus the probable [;Gaalib] likelihood is that although the speaker is addressing somebody else, in the second line what he's said he has spoken in his heart, or to himself, or under his breath.... The perfection of his eloquence [balaa;Gat] is that without mentioning the real answer [that will be given after this private parenthetical remark], he has only established the foundation for this answer, and left the rest of the matter to the reader/listener. The second point is that if we suppose there to be an iihaam in goyaa, then this meaning too can be brought out: 'isn't the sign of idol-prostration on my forehead saying that in my fate idol-prostration is written?' There's one more extremely important point. Whether the mark on the forehead be made by idol-prostration or prostration before God, the mark in both cases is basically the same. Thus a person who's not acquainted with the state of affairs can't decide, merely from seeing the mark, whether this is the mark of idol-prostration or prostration before God. Nevertheless, the speaker is sure that the moment people see the spot on his forehead, they'll realize that this is the mark of idol-prostration. That is, the speaker considers that apart from idols, there's no other being worthy of prostration. The very meaning of prostration is idol-prostration. (118-19)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; WORDPLAY IDOL: {8,1} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} One of the signs of an especially pious Muslim is supposed to to be doing so many prostrations that a sort of semi-permanent mark appears on his or her forehead where it has touched the ground so often. Here, the presence of that mark is put to wonderfully effective use: it's combined with the equally traditional idea that one's fate-- sar-navisht, literally 'head-written'-- has been inscribed on one's forehead at birth.

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The use of goyaa in the second line generates two interpretations: the more common 'as if' one, and the literal 'speaking' one. For another verse that takes advantage of the same multivalence, see {5,1}. Faruqi rightly points out that on either reading, the speaker's matter-of-fact assumption that 'the very meaning of prostration is idol-prostration' adds to the piquancy of the verse. Can the addressee not be the beloved, though? Faruqi feels not, but it seems to me that a lover might well speak abstractly or detachedly in such a situation, even to the beloved. All the more so since, as Faruqi also points out, the second line appears to be said under the lover's breath, as he mutters indignantly to himself. The result of all this is excellent wordplay, of course, but (as almost always with Ghalib) meaning-play as well. We have Indic/ Persianized pairs of words for speaking [kahte ho , goyaa], writing [likhaa , navisht]; we have the sar and the jabii;N . And in the second line we have some elegant sound echoes: jabii;N , nishaa;N , nahii;N . Isn't it a lovely, adroit verse? We have the spoken and the written-- and both are trumped by the unspoken and unwritten, by the very nishaa;N , 'mark', itself.

{91,11} paataa huu;N us se daad kuchh apne kalaam kii ruu;h ul-qudus agarchih miraa ham-zabaa;N nahii;N 1) I find from him some justice/praise for my speech/poetry 2) although the Pure Soul [the Angel Gabriel] is not my {language-sharer / fellow-speaker}

Notes: Hali: Here there is an iihaam in the word ham-zabaa;N. The apparent meaning is that the language of human and angel cannot be one, and concealed within this is an indication that the Pure Soul’s language is not as eloquent [fa.sii;h] as mine. (146)

Nazm: That is, not even the Pure Soul has attained the language that I've attained. But although he understands something of my speech/poetry, he understands that, and gives justice/praise. In short, my speech/poetry is entirely revelation. (90-91)

Bekhud Mohani: ruu;h ul-quduus: Hazrat Jibra'il, who used to bring the Lord's message to the prophets. Although my language has not been vouchsafed even to Jibra'il, is it a small thing that he understands my speech/poetry, gives it justice/praise? That is, my speech/poetry is revelation, it is mysteries. (187)

Josh: by ruu;h ul-quduus is meant the angel Jibra'il, who in the gathering of the angels is the highest in rank.... In the first line, the word 'some' is very enjoyable. From it there's the point that full justice/praise not even Jibra'il gives; I am entitled to even more praise than his. It's a boastful [fa;xriyah] verse. (183)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH; POETRY It's easy to imagine what a successful mushairah verse this one would be. The first line of course withholds the identity of the 'him', so that under mushairah performance conditions we'd have to wait a bit, in suspense, to find out whose opinion Ghalib, most unusually, cared about even enough to mention. And that 'some' [kuchh]-- it sounds as if the unknown person gives only moderate praise, or does only partial justice, to my poetry. Then in the beginning of the second line we know it is no less than the Angel Gabriel, the 'Pure Soul', who is the connoisseur in question. Then we learn

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there's some qualification-- 'although'. And only in the last possible slot, as the rhyme-word, do we get the irresistibly witty ham-zabaa;N. As the commentators observe, there are two ways to read ham-zabaa;N. The first is as 'language-sharer', which works very nicely-- naturally Gabriel speaks a lofty angelic language, and doesn't know our human speech, so it's very much to my credit that even though he doesn't design to really study my language, he still offers 'some' praise to my power of speech. But the second, and far more amusing reading, is to take it as 'fellowspeaker' more generally. Which yields the alternative suggestion that I have a level of literary speech, language excellence, poetic skill, that is decidedly beyond Gabriel's level of attainment. All he can do is grasp 'some' of my achievements, and do 'some' justice to my poetry, despite his finding it distinctly over his head. Underlying both readings is the witty effect of the poet's insouciance. Whereas most people would speak of the angel Gabriel only with great reverence, and would regard a single glance from him as the high point of a lifetime, Ghalib mentions him only offhandedly, and only incidentally, in the context of a literary discussion. Gabriel receives only lukewarm, almost grudging, praise, as a reader who can, despite his obvious limitations, do 'some' justice to my poetry. And that neatly and casually puts him in his place! When they heard this one for the first time, how could the whole audience not have burst out laughing?

{91,12} jaa;N hai bahaa-e bosah vale kyuu;N kahe abhii ;Gaalib ko jaantaa hai kih vuh niim-jaa;N nahii;N 1) a life is the price of a kiss-- but why would you say it right now? 2) you know Ghalib-- that he is not {half-dead / half-alive}

Notes: Nazm: That is, why has she now begun to say, 'give your life, take a kiss'? There's still life left in me. When I'll no longer have any life left, at that time she'll say 'give your life, take a kiss'. (91)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's agreed that the price of a kiss is a life. But why will she make this fact known now? She still knows that Ghalib is not half-alive. The meaning is that when she thinks that Ghalib has become half-alive, then she'll seek a life as the price of a kiss, so that Ghalib won't be able to give his life and buy a kiss. (143)

Naim: A kiss from the beloved can be obtained at the cost of one's life; this fact is known to the beloved and she is quite likely to make it known publicly in order to derive pleasure from seeing people lay down their lives for the sake of one kiss. But she also loves to torment Ghalib. That's why she is not making the price of her kiss known publicly yet. Ghalib, despite all his sufferings, is still not half-dead, and if he were to learn of the price of a kiss, he might be able to take advantage of this bargain. (9)

FWP: The commentators agree on a perfectly defensible reading. But in a cleverly organized verse like this, how could we think that Ghalib would settle for only one possible interpretation? So naturally I want to add another. Consider the second line. 'You know Ghalib-- that he's not niim-jaan !' To me that sounds like a boast, a vaunt, a claim. The commentators can't make any use of this fact. All they want is a resigned, hangdog report: 'you know that Ghalib isn't half-dead yet' (and that's why you won't proclaim the price

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of a kiss yet). But I think they are working against the tone, the rhetorical flavor of the line. If we take the second line as a boast or vaunt, then we can easily imagine a different context for the first line. Let's say the lover demands a kiss. The beloved says, oh but a life is the price of a kiss. The lover replies, 'why would you say this right now [abhii]?' You seem to think that knowing the price would deter me! Don't you know whom you're speaking to? 'You know me-- you know I'm not niim-jaan !' I'm not a coward, not a weakling, not half-dead, not half-alive, not a lover who fears to pay the final price for his passion. In short, it's almost insulting that you should insist on telling me the price before giving me the kiss. Much more worthy of you, and of me, would be to give me the kiss and then tell me the price afterwards, very casually even. (Think about super-luxury goods: 'if you have to ask what it costs, you can't afford it'.) To encourage us to perceive the complexity of the verse, Ghalib has elegantly fitted into it an evocative triple wordplay: jaa;N , jaantaa , niimjaa;N . Surely when we notice it, we are encouraged to reread the verse, and meditate about being alive (versus half-alive), and the implications of knowing (versus saying).

Ghazal 92 7 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: iir nahii;N composed 1821; Hamid p.75; Arshi #089; Raza p. 236

{92,1} maana((-e dasht-navardii ko))ii tadbiir nahii;N ek chakkar hai mire paa;Nv me;N zanjiir nahii;N 1) no scheme/plan is a forbidder of desert-{wandering / 'going round'} 2) a single circle/'round' is on my feet, not a chain Notes: Hali: The same meaning that has already been expressed in the first line-- how excellently he has expressed it in a new aspect in the second line.... it is perfect rhetoric [balaa;Gat]. (146) Nazm: That is, if they put chains on, then so what? Would I leave off desertwandering? The chains turned to 'rounds' on my feet. (91) Bekhud Mohani: In madness, I've come to have an ardor for wandering all over. No scheme can erase it. Friends put chains on me, thinking that now I would stay seated in a corner. But since the chains were put on my feet, I wander even somewhat more than before. If 'chain' is taken to represent physical and worldly relationships, then the verse's meaning will be that although Nature has tied down the spirit in such chains, its restlessness, its freedom, are in no way reduced. (187) Arshi: Compare to {7,6}. (220) FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY BONDAGE: {1,5} Consider {1,5}, which is such a similar verse: in that one too, the first line asserts a general fact-- the lover's incorrigible restlessness even when physically chained up-- and the second line makes a related word/meaning play. In {1,5} the basis is fire: I am 'hot-footed' with restlessness, so that each link of my chain is a burnt hair.

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In the present verse, the basis is sheer roundness: there's no way to prevent me from wandering or, literally, 'going round' in the desert. Because the round-linked chain on my feet that should fetter me is really nothing but a chakkar, a 'circle' or 'round' (as in 'making the rounds'). And it's only ek chakkar too, a 'single' or 'mere' round. The dismissiveness of the description adds to the pleasure. Both these verses are excellent, and very similar, examples of vintage Ghalibian wordplay. As you can see, there's nothing much else going on in them except a classic ghazal theme (almost identical in both verses) expressed in carefully chosen words that add conceptual richness. But in a two-line verse, isn't such wordplay enough? The lines have a strong and multivalent connection that is a great source of pleasure to the mind, the eye, and (if they're recited) to the ear as well.

{92,2} shauq us dasht me;N dau;Raa))e hai mujh ko kih jahaa;N jaadah ;Gair az nigah-e diidah-e ta.sviir nahii;N 1) ardor runs me around in that desert where 2) the path is not other than the gaze of the eye of a picture Notes: dau;Raa))e hai is a variant form of dau;Raataa hai. Nazm: That is, the ardor for mystical knowledge takes me away toward that desert where there's no path except for the gaze of the eye of a picture. Having set foot in this valley, every person is compelled to become amazement from head to foot. (91) Hasrat: That is, it [=the path] is nonexistent. The way the gaze of the eye of a picture is nonexistent. Or this: that ardor takes me away into that desert where everyone is, like a picture, absorbed in amazement. (82) Baqir: [The commentator Asi aasii] writes another meaning: the way the eye of a picture is amazed, in the same way if there's any path there, then it's the path of amazement, nothing else. (238) Naim: As a matter of fact, there is no path in that wilderness where the poet is wandering, prompted by the lashings of his shauq, but to establish that nonexistence of a path the poet creates an image of a nonexistent thing: the glance from the eye painted in a picture. (42) Faruqi: In the common interpretations, the theme is one of wildness and lostness from the path. But if we consider 'the gaze of the eye of a picture' to be not metaphorical but in reality some sort of a path, then a different and very interesting meaning appears. Suppose that the speaker is lost in contemplation of a picture of the beloved, such that he doesn't see anything else. But he feels that from the eye of the picture rays are radiating out that are acting as paths.... In this way 'the gaze of the eye of a picture' is not a metaphor for complete amazement or the nonexistence of a road, but rather the becomes a metaphor for the roads that open up by means of the beloved's gaze. The picture of the beloved alone is what really exists, it's the key to mysteries and the road to reaching the 'desired pearl'. (141) FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES This particular word for path, jaadah, is part of Ghalib's repertoire of highly abstract images; it is never used matter-of-factly, when a road is just a road.

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For more examples of its effectiveness, see {9,4}. Like the other verses that use the word jaadah, this verse too is haunting, suggestive, elliptical. (For another case in point, see the next verse, {92,3}.) In a way, the verse is easy to understand. It can be turned into prose, it can even be translated. We can easily put together the grammar; since it has enjambement, the two lines are even part of the same thought, which is a further help in constructing its meaning. Thus we can't even argue over different ways to put it together. And yet-- what does it really mean? Needless to say, that's where the opacity lies. The commentators offer us three basic possibilities for the second line: 1) The gaze of the eye in a picture is fixed forever in one direction. By extension, therefore, it's petrified with amazement (Nazm). 2) The gaze of the eye in a picture doesn't exist, because there's no eye there to gaze; thus it's an image of nonexistence (Hasrat, Naim). 3) The gaze of the eye in a picture is a path for the lover who is 'lost' in contemplation of the beloved's portrait. His ardor provides him with this path through the desert and may guide him toward the mysteries of selftranscendance that he seeks (Faruqi). Everybody is concerned to resolve the obviously obscure second line, and nobody has much to say about the first line. But there are a couple of points of interest in it too. The first is the vuh, 'that' desert. It's not just any old random desert, but a very particular one. (For a reminder of just how elaborately perverse the deserts of passion can be, see {16,4}.) Perverse, and even hellish. For my ardor doesn't just lead me into such a desert, or cause me to wander casually through it. It literally 'runs me around' [dau;Raa))e hai] in it. The suggestion is that whatever we choose to make of the second line, the lover's position is not a happy or easy one. He finds no rest, no tranquility, no assurance. Is he perhaps even getting-- from his own ardor, of course-- a kind of 'runaround'?

{92,3} ;hasrat-e la;z;zat-e aazaar rahii jaatii hai jaadah-e raah-e fanaa juz dam-e shamshiir nahii;N 1) the longing for the pleasure of pain 'stays as it goes' 2) a path of the road of oblivion, except the blade-edge of a sword, there's not Notes: Hali: For jaadah, that is, 'path', he has given the simile of the edge of a sword. The meaning of the verse is that there is such pleasure in the pain and trouble of passion that one wants to open the heart to it fully and enjoy it; but since the path to oblivion is entirely the blade of a sword, at the very first step death can be seen. Thus, it’s a pity that the longing for the pleasure of pain remains only within the heart. (146-47) Nazm: The poet regrets that the path of the road of faithfulness is nothing other than the blade of a sword. That is, this is that path that is crossed in a moment/breath [dam], and the pleasure of pain is not obtained to one's heart's content. (91) Bekhud Mohani: Alas, that the footpath of faithfulness is like the blade of a sword! If only it were an even more difficult and harsh road, then the longing for the pleasure of pain would not remain in the heart. We would be able to endure pain to our heart's content. (188) FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7}

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As in the previous verse, {92,2}, jaadah, 'path', is used in a context of extreme abstractness. This seems to be a pattern: for more examples, see {9,4}. The whole phrase jaadah-e raah-e fanaa has already occurred in {10,12}. I've translated the striking verb rahii jaatii hai as 'stays as it goes', to try to capture its paradoxical feel. This doesn't really do the job to my satisfaction, but it's the best I can come up with. Grammatically, I interpret the verb as rahii hu))ii jaatii hai, 'in a state of having stayed, goes'. In several ways, it provides a wonderful pivot around which the verse turns. First, its paradoxicalness goes well with the 'pleasure of pain' in the first line. Since the 'pleasure of pain' is complex and contradictory-looking anyway, it's not surprising that the longing for it should simultaneously stay and go. And equally conspicuously, there's a lovely wordplay between rahii and the raah, 'road', in the second line. One more bit of elegantly implicit wordplay can be seen operating, consciously or unconsciously, in Nazm's commentary. The word dam means the edge of a sword-blade. But it also means 'breath' and 'moment' (see Platts p. 525 for its remarkably extensive range of meanings). In a verse like this, about things that are all too short-lived, that we long to extend beyond their intolerably brief lifespan, how can we not also enjoy the penumbra of associations around dam? For Ghalib's own clearly multivalent use of dam as both 'sword-edge' and 'breath', see {1,3}. There's striking sound-play in the verse as well. Each line begins with a conspicuous sequence of three nouns joined by two i.zaafats. And these two long noun phrases both have no vowels except short a and long aa. By contrast, the second part of each line is dominated by long ii sounds. The effect is to create a sort of 'phonetic parallelism' between the lines that makes them somewhat echo each other and calls attention to the grammatical and semantic parallels between the two lines. And contrasts too-- the first line ends in almost too many verbs, while the second ends without one.

{92,4} ranj-e naumiidii-e jaaved gavaaraa rahyo ;xvush huu;N gar naalah zabuunii-kash-e taa;siir nahii;N 1) grief of eternal hopelessness, remain palatable/digestible/swallowing! 2) [I] am happy if the lament [is] not self-abasing before Effectiveness Notes: gavaaraa: 'Digesting; stomaching, swallowing, putting up with; --digestible; palatable; agreeable, pleasant'. (Platts p.921) rahyo is an archaic form of raho. zabuunii: 'Infirmity, weakness, helplessness;.... infamy, disgrace'. (Platts p.615) Nazm: The poet makes manifest that his grief is a friend. May despair and hopelessness alone remain allotted to me! May the Lord not bring to pass the humiliation and disgrace to my lament, that would bring it effectiveness and fulfill my hopes. (91) Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I accept the grief of hopelessness forever and ever. That is, I am very happy if my lament is not a pleader/petitioner before Effectiveness. (144) Bekhud Mohani: I accept grief and hopelessness forever. I am happy that my lament is not indebted to Effectiveness. I can't stand to see my lament be humbled/lowered. (188)

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Arshi: Compare {26,1}, {130,3}. (220, 254) FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} This is another of a surprisingly large and coherent body of verses that are organized around the idea that loss and despair should be seen as a twisted sort of triumph. The underlying notion is that one should never be indebted, or borrow things, or humiliate onself before a giver or lender. Rather than that, one should stick with what one already has, and stubbornly insist on preferring it-- thus a despair that is one's own is better than a derivative success acquired through self-abasement before 'Effectiveness'. But of course, this all sounds remarkably like a rationalization. What it really amounts to, after all, is a kind of sour-grapes admission of eternal defeat and despair, and the impossibility of changing them. The use of gavaaraa with its wide range of meanings, both active and passive, both grim ('swallowing, putting up with') and favorable ('agreeable, pleasant'), encourages us to reflect on such possibilities. Ultimately, the lover no doubt means it both ways at once. It's terrible to have to keep 'swallowing' one's suffering-- there's no getting around it. Yet the lover's unshakable stubbornness and grim determination are also, as always, sources of pride. He alone can mediate between those two wild abstractions, 'Grief of Eternal Hopelessness' (or 'Eternal Grief of Hopelessness', if we read one i.zaafat slightly differently) on the one hand, and 'Effectiveness' on the other. Isn't that a more thrilling and lofty concern than mere anxiety over, say, how to pay the rent? (After all, as we saw so clearly in {20,7}, there are no good alternatives-- the only choices are 'grief of passion' and 'grief of everydayness/livelihood'.)

{92,5} sar khujaataa hai jahaa;N za;xm-e sar achchhaa ho jaa))e la;z;zat-e sang bah andaazah-e taqriir nahii;N 1) the head itches where the head-wound would become well 2) the pleasure of the stone is not {within the range / in the style} of speech Notes: andaazah: 'Measure, measurement...; degree, amount; valuing, valuation, value; rough estimate; conjecture, guess; proportion, symmetry; elegance, grace; mode, manner, style, fashion, pattern'. (Platts p.90) Nazm: In this verse, 'where' has the meaning of 'at the time when'.... 'Not to be within the power of speech' means that to the extent that speech has scope/capacity, the pleasure of the stone is somewhat more than that. (91) Hasrat: That is, it's beyond expression, or it cannot be expressed. (82) Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when this head-wound becomes well, again an itch starts in the head. The pleasure of experiencing [khaanaa] a stone is beyond the scope of speech. The enjoyableness in this verse is that a wound always itches after it's healed. Mirza Sahib has constructed this as an ardor for experiencing a stone again. (144) FWP: SETS == BAH; GENERATORS; INEXPRESSIBILITY Why does the healing head-wound itch? 1) because all wounds itch when they're healing; this is a natural part of the pain of the wound, and of its healing-- and one which the lover thoroughly enjoys

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2) because the head is 'itching' (we happen to have exactly the right idiom in English) to experience another such thrilling, morbidly 'pleasurable' wound from another thrown stone 3) because the head yearns to talk but cannot, so the itching is an improvised substitute for speech-- it wants to compel the lover's attention, and to demand, through its bodily language, another such wound 4) because the head disdains to talk; it knows that mere speech is entirely incommensurate with the exquisite pain/pleasure of the wound, so the only remotely adequate expression of this pleasure/pain is the indescribable, wildly expressive, more-than-verbal itching These four possibilities obviously also make use of the complex meanings of both bah and andaazah in the second line. On one reading, the pleasure of the stone is not something that is with(in) the 'range' or 'measure' or 'power of conjecture' of speech-- that is, speech is inadequate to grasp and convey it, speech just can't wrap its mind around it. On another reading, it's not something that's 'in the style/manner' of speech, that's 'like' speech-- that is, its very nature is to be expressed not in words but through the direct physicality of itching. A small touch that I particularly enjoy is the future subjunctive verb at the end of the first line-- the head itches when the wound 'would become well' [achchhaa ho jaa))e]. Such a grammatical form signals an outcome that is in doubt; it doesn't affirm that the wound either 'is' or 'will be' healed. Thus it quietly reminds us that in fact the wound won't be healed-- it won't have time to be, before it's reopened, or a new wound is added to it. For if the lover isn't duly stoned as a madman by a pack of boys (see {35,10}), he won't hesitate for a moment to rip the wound open with his own fingernails (as in {19,1}).

92,6} jab karam ru;x.sat-e bebaakii-o-gustaa;xii de ko))ii taq.siir bah juz ;xajlat-e taq.siir nahii;N 1) when Kindness would give leave for shamelessness and mischief 2) there is no sin except shame for sin Notes: Nazm: When Kindness would give leave for sin, then except for shame at sins, no sin is a sin. (91) Hasrat: When Kindness would give permission for mischief, then at that time to hesitate is a very great sin. (82) Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when the friend's graciousness would give permission for mischief and shamelessness, then at that time no sin is greater than hesitating to commit a sin. (144) Bekhud Mohani: This verse can be considered to be in reply to the Preacher. [Or:] When the beloved's manner shows that she won't be angry at shamelessness, then to miss that time is folly: {188,2}. (188) FWP: SETS == REPETITION The verse seems to rely on the power of its slightly scandalous theology, and of its paradoxical-looking second line. To redefine 'sin' as 'shame for sin' is radical, no doubt, but in a sort of theologically inbred way. If God should give you permission to commit sins, then wouldn't it be sinful not to take Him up on it? But could God really convert sin into virtue by a wave of His hand, and a virtue (that is, a sense of shame) into a sin? If He could, then would He? The whole tangle of ideas reminds me of the early Christian

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theological debates over whether evil was evil only because God said it was, or whether God said evil was evil because it really already was evil. Of course, we could be talking about the beloved this whole time, or we could be, as Bekhud Mohani suggests, replying to the strictures of the Preacher. This verse would then be our Sufistic justification for winedrinking, ruining our (worldly) lives, pursuing the beloved, etc. If we take 'shamelessness and mischief' in a mild and rakish [rindaanah] way, they might refer to nothing more than pestering the beloved for a kiss. This verse doesn', however, invoke the 'blame-incurring' [malaamatiyah] orders of Sufis who deliberately did scandalous things: their theological justification was a desire to cut themselves off from all worldly approval, so that they could throw themselves boldly and trustingly on God's mercy alone. Here, the theology works the other way: God permits and even apparently requires sinfulness (since shame for sin becomes the only sin). In a way, that's an even more perplexing problem.

{92,7} ;Gaalib apnaa yih ((aqiidah hai bah qaul-e naasi;x aap be-bahrah hai jo mu((taqid-e miir nahii;N 1) Ghalib, this is my creed/belief, in the words of Nasikh 2) [he] himself is {destitute / cut off}, who [is] not a {believer in / follower of} Mir

Notes: be-bahrah: 'Having no share, part, or lot (in), without portion or profit; destitute, unfortunate'. (Platts p.202)

Nazm: Ghalib and Mir, both these elders, are from Akbarabad [=Agra]-- that is, at an age when they had already learned the language, they came to the royal capital [of Delhi]. [Evidence for this from various sources.] Now if you call Ghalib a Dihlavi, then it's necessary to call Mir a Lakhnavi. But the language of these two Ustads is saying that neither is the former a Dihlavi, nor is the latter a Dihlavi. And the state of the language can be learned from a single word; there is no need for further examination. In the late Mir's idiom, in all his divans, here and there is the word or with the meaning of :taraf, although this word was never in the language of Delhi. The late Mirza Ghalib says, ek dil tis pah yih naa-ummiidvaarii--haay haay. In a letter he writes, paarsalo;N kaa chha;Tvii;N saatvii;N din pahuu;Nchnaa ;xayaal kar rahaa huu;N. In one place he writes, palang par se khisal pa;Raa khaanaa khaa liyaa. Although among his contemporaries these words [tis, chha;Tvii;N, khisal] were on nobody's tongue in Delhi or Lucknow. It is fair to say that both these elders are a source of pride to the language of Akbarabad. [Merely] because two or three words are unfamiliar, their language cannot be called into question. In short, connoisseurship in his art, and love of his homeland, both required that Ghalib should join with Nasikh in the creed that the person is {destitute / cut off} who is not a {believer in / follower of} Mir. In the same way, Atish too has supported him: [example]. Mirza Rafi' Sauda, who is his contemporary-- he too supports the Ustad-ship of Mir: [example]. Among contemporaries it's rare that one should admire another, but Mir himself admired Sauda. He says: [two examples]. It's famous that Sauda is the Ustad in the ode, and Mir in the ghazal, and the former's ghazals are weak, and the latter's odes. This notion is not at all supported by investigation. Sauda's ghazals are absolutely not weak, although he composed fewer ghazals than Mir, and many odes. And to call Mir's odes weak is mistaken, because Mir didn't even want to compose odes- he composed only two or three odes, and those too were short.... Beyond

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doubt, the style that Mir achieved in the ghazal has not been granted to anybody else. Another point that here is not without literary advantage is that all the early and later poets have admired Mir and Sauda, and still do admire them. And merely because of their lofty themes, and by reason of the informality of their language, their image is seated within everyone's hearts, and no one doubts their Ustad-ship. [But] those matters that will now be established about their Ustad-ship, have violated the pages of [the handbooks of prosody and rhetoric] ((aruu.z-e saifii and ;Giya;s ul-lu;Gaat. Both these elders [Mir and Sauda] have neither cared about errors in idiom, nor bothered about rules of grammar. Azad wrote down some such verses, but for the most part his gaze didn't fall on them. Those errors are these: (1) [examples of unidiomatic usages]; (2) causing ((ain and h to [metrically] shorten: [examples]; (3) often there is vulgarity/obscenity [hazal] in the ghazal: [examples]; (4) they held wrong ideas about Urdu grammar: [examples]; (5) Mir Sahib is a meaning-making [ma((nii-band] poet and a theme-composing [ma.zmuun-go] Ustad, but when he inclines toward verbal affinities [tanaasub-e laf:zii] and .zil((a, then he rivals [the lesser poets] Amanat Lakhnavi and Shah Nasir Dihlavi: [examples]; (6) flaws in the refrain: [examples]; (7) wrong ideas about rhyme: [examples]; (8) constructions from which some shallow [rakiik] aspect would emerge; a poet ought certainly to avoid them as well. Mir says: daryaa thaa magar aag kaa daryaa-e ;Gam-e ((ishq / sab aabalah hai;N merii daruunii me;N .sadaf se. That is, there are blisters like pearls. (92-95)

Shadan: Ghalib and Mir were both Akbarabadis. They spent their language-learning time in Agra (Akbarabad). Then Mir came to Delhi. After that, he arrived in Lucknow, and passed his whole life there. To the point that he is even buried in Lucknow. (262)

Mihr: In the nas;xah-e ;hamiidiyah [manuscript] the first line of this verse is also like this: re;xte kaa vuh :zuhuurii hai bah qaul-e naasi;x [he is the Zuhuri of Rekhtah, in the words of Nasikh]. In this ground one more [unpublished] verse too has been composed by Ghalib: miir ke shi((r kaa a;hvaal kahuu;N kyaa ;Gaalib jis kaa diivaan kam az-gulshan-e kashmiir nahii;N [what can I say about the state of Mir's verse, Ghalib! whose divan is not less than a garden of Kashmir]. (306)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Most of the other commentators don't have much to say about this verse except the usual prose paraphrase, but Nazm launches into a sweeping fourpage discussion. His central point is duly repeated by his faithful follower, Shadan. As Shadan notes, the basic starting point of Nazm's critique is to show, with a barely concealed snideness, that neither Mir nor Ghalib was a 'real' Delhi person who spoke the 'real' language of Delhi-- so that it's not surprising that Ghalib praised Mir, since they were both provincials from the same homeland [va:tan], Agra. Nazm then goes on to explicate his own views about the virtues and flaws of Mir's (and Sauda's) ghazals. Since his discussion has a good deal of literary and historical interest of its own, I've translated almost all of it, omitting mostly the many examples. Nazm's views inspire me with many thoughts and observations, but I'll save them for another context, since his commentary doesn't have much to do with the verse itself.

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Mihr cites an early variant of the first line of Ghalib's verse, from a manuscript source, in which Mir is described as 'the [famous Persian poet] Zahuri of Rekhtah'. And he also quite appropriately mentions a verse from an early, unpublished, longer version of this same ghazal (Raza p. 236) that describes Mir's work as a 'garden of Kashmir'. The Mughal gardens of Kashmir not only have extensive grounds (thus playing on the literary term ground), but offer an astonishing mixture of lavish colors and varied forms, all disciplined into elaborate formal patterns. An excellent image for the six divans of Mir's poetry. I want to thank Mihr for pointing out this verse, and Raza for making the unpublished verses so excellently available-- because they have given me the title for the Mir website that I now know I must make. Thus there's no doubt of the depth of the admiration expressed (and surely really felt) by Ghalib for Mir. The most conspicuous feature of this verse is in fact the use of two words from the religious domain, both from the same root: ((aqiidah in the first line, and mu((taqid in the second. This not only sets up a verbal and phonetic resonance, but also emphasizes the degree to which the verse is presenting itself as a kind of quasi-religious statement of faith. The original verse by Nasikh has this first line: shub'hah naasi;x nahii;N kuchh miir kii ustaadii me;N [there's no doubt, Nasikh, about Mir's Ustadship], followed by the same second line that Ghalib has borrowed in the present verse. Source: rashiid ;hasan ;xaa;N, inti;xaab-e naasi;x (Delhi: Maktaba Jamia Ltd., 1972), p. 173.

{92,8}* miir ke shi((r kaa a;hvaal kaa a;hvaal kaa kahuu;N kyaa ;Gaalib jis kaa diivaan kam az gulshan-e kashmiir nahii;N

Ghazal 93 1 verse; meter G13; rhyming elements: aahe;N composed 1816; Hamid p. 76; Arshi #097; Raza pp. 152-53

{93,1} mat mardumak-e diidah me;N samjho yih nigaahe;N hai;N jam((a suvaidaa-e dil-e chashm me;N aahe;N 1) in the pupil of the eye, don’t consider these [to be] glances, 2) they are, collected in the suvaidaa of the heart of the eye-- sighs

Notes: suvaidaa: 'The black part or grain of the heart, the heart's core; --original sin. (Platts p.704)

Nazm: Just as there's a pupil in the eye, in the same way there's a black spot/point [nuq:tah] in the heart that's called suvaidaa . The meaning is that in the pupil of my eye these are not glances, but rather sighs in the heart of the eye. That is, my eye and glances are immersed in longing. In this verse is an extremity of artifice [ta.sannu((]. And here 'heart' has the meaning of 'middle'. (95-96)

Bekhud Dihlavi: suvaidaa is the name of that black spot that is on the heart in the form of a mole [;xaal]. The meaning of the verse is that these are not glances in the pupil of my eye; rather, in the heart of the eye there are sighs. That is, my eyes and glances are both immersed in longing. (145)

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Bekhud Mohani: [Contrary to what Nazm says,] in this verse there's no trace at all of artifice.... In every situation, the beauty of the beloved makes a claim that from the hearts of those who behold her, and those who don't behold her, a sigh would emerge. Information reaches the heart afterwards. First, the mood [kaifiyat] of a sigh passes over the eyes. Keeping this in view, the poet ought to receive due praise for his subtlety of vision. If anyone says that emotion is in the heart, not in the eye, then it will be said that this is poetry, not history. (189)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT The word suvaidaa is a ghazal term so esoteric that Sufi-minded commentators can go on and on about it with impunity-- nobody can disprove what anybody else says, because the whole thing is entirely invented anyway. Other than a small black spot in the heart it's not clear what it means, except that it aspires to mystical profundity. Amusingly but understandably, Platts identifies it with the Christian notion of 'original sin' (see definition above). For discussion of suvaidaa , see {3,2}. If we try to analyze this verse, we start by noticing a relatively straightforward set of metaphorical building blocks, where A = B. The eye is the heart (both are organs vital to life). The pupil of the eye is the suvaidaa in the heart (both are small central dark spots). The natural third step would be for Ghalib to say that the glances in the pupil of the eye are the sighs in the dark spot of the heart (both emerge from the center, and are of central importance to the function of the organ). But of course, the verse doesn't say that, but denies it: the verse says that those 'glances' are not glances at all, they are 'sighs'. Instead of A = B, we have nothing but B's, and no A on the scene at all, except as an error of understanding that must be emphatically corrected. There are no glances, only sighs. One side of the equation has been pulled out from under us, so we stop in perplexity and try to reimagine the verse. But it's not easy to do. If there are no glances, but only sighs, does this mean that similarly there is no pupil or eye, but only a black spot and a heart? Or might it mean that the heart sends up its sighs not just to the lips, but to the eye as well? The fact that the verse speaks of the suvaidaa-e dil-e chashm, the 'black spot of the heart of the eye', opens up plenty of room for many possibilities, thanks to clever use of the protean i.zaafat. Is it the 'heart that is an eye', or the 'heart that pertains to the eye'? And if it is the latter, is it just a metaphor-marker, or are we linking the real, bodily heart specifically to the eye? And is it-- another i.zaafat problem-- a 'black spot in the heart' of the eye, or a black spot in the 'heart of the eye'? Nazm apparently sees some of these complexities, so he rejects them by simply asserting that 'heart' here means only 'middle'. But if we don't take this easy way out of the dilemma, we're left with no way to resolve it. We can generate lots of possible heart/eye relationships, but they all remain uncertain, incomplete, and unsatisfying. (Just as they do in the real world, of course, so to accuse Ghalib of 'artifice' may not be entirely legitimate.) Not for the first time, Ghalib has deftly subverted his own metaphors. He has lured us into a metaphorical quagmire, and then abandoned us there. For other prime examples of such sneaky behavior, see {21,10} and {116,9}.

{93,3x} dair-o-;haram aa))iinah-e takraar-e tamannaa vaamaa;Ndagii-e shauq taraashe hai panaahe;N 1) idol-temple and Ka'bah are a mirror of the insistence/repetition of longing 2) the fatigue/lagging/exposure of ardor carves out shelters/refuges

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Notes: takraar : 'Repeating often; repetition; tautology; the chorus or burthen of a song; question, dispute; objection, controversy'. (Platts p.331) vaamaa;Ndagii : 'The remaining or lagging behind (esp. from fatigue); -openness; exposure'. (Platts p.1177) taraashe hai is an archaic form of taraashtaa hai . taraashnaa : 'To cut, hew, pare, clip, prune; to cut out, carve, shape, form, fashion'. (Platts p.315) panaah : 'Protection, defence, shelter, shade, asylum, refuge'. (Platts p.270)

Gyan Chand: The heart is in search of the True Beloved. It goes to a temple, seeking it. It discovers that this is not the desired destination. Then it goes to a mosque, and there too this same situation confronts it. Idol-temple and Ka'bah are signs of the insistence of longing. The ardor of passion sets out in search of the beloved; walking and walking, it grows tired, and seeks some place of shelter. After one place of shelter, another place of shelter. These places of shelter are temple and mosque. The point is that temple and mosque are not the goal, they are camps along the road, from which the intensity of ardor can be guessed. (273)

FWP: RELIGIONS: {60,2} This is another verse from Ghalib's unpublished early manuscripts; incomprehensibly, he never chose to include it in his published divan. For more discussion of such verses, see {4,8x}. [TO BE REWORKED] Naiyar Masud has used this verse in his discussion of {99,7}. The multivalent meanings of takraar have been elegantly deployed-- does it refer merely to 'insistence', or to theological disputes as well? The pairing of 'idol-house and Ka'bah' could mean that the two are to be either taken together as a unit (mirroring 'insistence'); or opposed to each other (mirroring 'dispute' or 'controversy'). And vaamaa;Ndagii works equally well-- is it the 'lagging', the 'fatigue', the 'openness', or the 'exposure' of ardor that actually digs out those various religious 'shelters'? Each reading works intriguingly with the possibilities in the first line. Compare another unpublished verse about the perils of fatigue: {12,6x}.

Ghazal 94 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aar-e chaman composed 1816; Hamid p.76; Arshi #093; Raza p. 160

{94,1} barshkaal-e giryah-e ((aashiq hai dekhaa chaahiye khil ga))ii maanind-e gul sau jaa se diivaar-e chaman 1) [it] is the rainy-season of the lover’s weeping-- it's worth seeing 2) [it] bloomed/opened like a rose in a hundred places, the wall of the garden

Notes: khilnaa : 'To open, expand (as a flower), to blow, bloom, flower; to open, crack, burst, swell (as a wall, or plaster, or parched grain, &c.; cf. khiil ); to

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break out, show itself or its effects (as intoxicating liquor, &c.); --to be set off (by), to show to advantage (on, - par ), to look well or becoming (as a dress or a person, or one colour upon another); --to expand or swell (with pleasure), to be exhilarated, be delighted; to rejoice, laugh'. (Platts p.878) khulnaa : ' To open, come open or undone; to open, expand, blow (as a flower; com. khilnā); to open out, unravel; to be opened (as a knot, or a road for traffic, &c.); to be disentangled, be unravelled; to be untied or unfastened; to be uncovered, be unfolded, be exposed, be laid bare; to be laid or cut open, be dissected, be analyzed;--to be expanded, be widened or enlarged; to be developed'. (Platts p.879)

Nazm: In place of hai , perhaps there was bhii . The calligrapher made an error. (96)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the rainy season of the lover's eye is worth seeing. Like a flower, the wall of the garden bloomed/opened (broke open). When the wall of the garden has bloomed/opened like the flowers, then because of the lover's weeping the abundance of flower-buds is worth seeing-- what a height it has reached. (145)

Bekhud Mohani: It's the rainy season of the lover's weeping. The wall of the garden, like a rose, has bloomed/opened in a hundred places. It's worth seeing-- what else will happen now? [Or:] The wall of the garden has itself become a garden. From the flood of the lover's tears, or from the effect of his weeping. [If bhii replaced hai as Nazm suggests,] then the meaning of surprise would emerge. Otherwise, the meaning of dekhaa chaahiye will be, 'let's see what else happens now'. (189-90)

FWP: SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} Here we have, most enjoyably, several combinations of possible causes and possible effects. It's a sight worth seeing, you ought to see it! It's the rainy season of the lover's weeping-- and we all know about the rainy season. In it everything that's growing grows impossibly fast and luxuriantly. And everything that's man-made tends to decay, or collapse, or fall apart. So now look at how cleverly both possibilities are allowed for in the second line, and the 'sight worth seeing' comment too is brought in. What does it mean that the garden wall bloomed/opened [khil ga))ii] in a hundred places? 1) that the wall was breached and knocked apart by the furious flood of the lover's weeping, so that it widened and 'opened' in a hundred places like the spreading petals of a flower in bloom. 2) that the wall was so fertilized by the lover's tears that it itself became a hundred-petalled flower, and naturally began to bloom the way everything does in the rainy season. 3) that since the wall has disintegrated in the tear-flood, you can now see inside the garden-- you can observe the flowers in bloom and the lover in his superhumanly passionate grief! It's a sight worth seeing! Underlying these readings is the semi-orthographical wordplay between khilnaa and khulnaa . As they are usually written in Urdu, without short vowel markers, the two are indistinguishable. (I follow Arshi, who clearly shows a zer .) And their meanings semi-overlap; see the definitions above. Basically, khilnaa means to open in the sense of 'to bloom, to expand, to burst', while khulnaa means to open in the sense of 'to be revealed, exposed, cut open'. Thus both readings have enjoyable affinities with the range of meanings established in the verse. I see echoes of this same wordplay

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(though only subliminally) in {108,5} as well. An example of its use by Mir: M{12,4}.

{94,2} ulfat-e gul se ;Gala:t hai da((v;aa-e vaarastagii sarv hai baa-va.sf-e aazaadii giriftaar-e chaman 1a) the claim of liberation from affection for/from the rose is mistaken 1b) because of affection for/from the rose, the claim of liberation is mistaken 1c) the claim of liberation by means of affection for/from the rose is mistaken 2) The cypress is, despite [its] freedom, held captive by the garden

Notes: ulfat: 'Familiarity, intimacy; attachment, affection, friendship'. (Platts p.76)

Hali: The meaning is that no matter how free and independent of disposition anyone may be, in the world he cannot escape from the snare of love and passion. (147)

Nazm: Among the kinds of cypress, one kind is the 'free cypress' [sarv-e aazaad]. (96)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, no matter how free and detached in temperament someone may be, having come into the world he cannot emerge from the snare of passion and love. And he presents as an example of this, that the 'free cypress', despite its freedom, is held captive by the garden. (145)

Bekhud Mohani: The cypress is in the garden, but the poet says that it's mistaken to call the cypress free. It's not the pride of free ones to stay bound in one place. The cypress always remains only in the garden, and why does it remain? Because it loves the rose. (190)

Josh: In 'affection for/from the rose', the mention of the rose has come in for wordplay with 'garden'. There's no special reference to the rose. (185)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS What a beautiful range complexities of thought can be generated just by the clever use of the little postposition se, with its meanings of 'from, with, by means of', and a well-placed i.zaafat! 1a) ulfat-e gul se vaarastagii kaa da((v;aa ;Gala:t hai -- The claim of liberation from affection for/from the rose is mistaken. One can't ever claim to be free from love for/from the rose. 1b) ulfat-e gul kii vajah se, vaarastagii kaa da((v;aa ;Gala:t hai -- Because of affection for/from the rose, the claim of liberation is mistaken. One can't claim to be (religiously) liberated, because there's always still affection for/from the rose. 1c) ulfat-e gul ke ;zarii((ah se vaarastagii kaa da((v;aa ;Gala:t hai -- The claim of liberation by means of affection for/from the rose is mistaken. Even love for/from the Rose itself can't liberate one from worldly ties. This love is 'for/from' the rose, either way, because the i.zaafat in ulfat-e gul fully admits of both readings. Naturally we think, in the ghazal world, of the 'for' reading as primary, but in this verse it's valuable to remember the 'from' possibility as well. Then when we look at the two lines together, we have to decide for ourselves what their relationship is. Do they describe the same situation? If so, then the

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cypress is the one whose claim of liberation is being considered in the first line. By contrast, if the two lines are independent, then the first states a general truth, while the second seems to provide an illustrative example. When we consider the second line in more detail, the questions only continue. Is the rose part of the garden as in (1a) and (1b), or is the rose a separate being and the garden a world distinct from her as in (1c)? And what is the nature of the captivity-- is it bondage or imprisonment in a literal sense (for a walled garden is a place in which one could be held captive), or merely a metaphor (since not even a free agent could bear to leave the garden)? And of course we must ask, why is the cypress aazaad, or 'free'? The commentators give only a most prosaic reason-- 'free cypress' is the name of a species of cypress. In this case, it's not so hard to do better. The cypress is an evergreen, immune to the cycle of the seasons, and thus part of its traditional identity in the ghazal universe is as a free, independent being; it's sometimes imagined as strolling around at its pleasure. It's also straight like the letter alif, which occurs twice in the word aazaad (and begins the word all;aah). See Nets of Awareness, Chapter 6, pp. 95-103, for analysis of a series of Persian and Urdu 'cypress' verses. In addition to its other pleasures, this verse has a smashing example of 'script-play' as well. For its first word, ulfat, begins with the three letters that spell out the word alif, which is so integral to the (sufistic) identity of the aazaad cypress in the ghazal tradition. (For more on 'script-play', see {33,7}. And the verse is full of conspicuous long aa sounds as well. In short, almost every word in this verse can be placed in more than one different grammatical and semantic relationship to its other words. It's finally impossible to decide with certainty who is holding the cypress captive, and in what sense, and whether the rose and the garden are one entity or two. Needless to say, Ghalib gloried in such verses. For another but much less complicated verse about a similar false claim, see {47,2}. For another intriguing 'cypress' verse, see {96,3}.

Ghazal 95 6 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: iid nahii;N composed 1826; Hamid p. 77; Arshi #098; Raza p. 262

{95,1} ((ishq taa;siir se naumiid nahii;N jaa;N-sipaarii shajar-e biid nahii;N 1) passion is not hopeless of effect 2) life-surrendering is not a willow-tree

Notes: sipaarii : 'Resigning, committing (to another;--used as last member of compounds)'. (Platts p.634) supaarii : 'Betel-nut, the nut of Areca catechu'. (Platts p.634) naumed and bed should be pronounced as naumiid and biid for the sake of the rhyme.

Ghalib: [1858:] I have one verse-set in this meter that I had composed in Calcutta [in 1826]. The occasion for it was that in a gathering, Maulvi Karam Husain, a friend of mine, placed on the palm of his hand a betel nut of very good quality, without any fiber, and asked me, 'Please compose something on this,

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with similes about it'. Even as I sat there, I composed a verse-set of nine or ten verses and gave it to him, and in return I took that betel nut from him. Now I am thinking-- those verses that come to mind, I will keep writing down. The verse-set: the betel nut that is in our friend’s hand however much you praise it, it is suitable for it the pen has its finger against its teeth [in amazement]: how to write of it? Speech has its head in its collar [with helplessness]: how to speak of it? compare it to the burnt-out star [of bad fortune] of Qais compare it to the dusky beauty spot on the charming face of Laila suppose it to be the black stone of the wall of the Ka'bah call it the scent-gland of the deer from the desert of Khitan if in a prayer cell you call it the tablet of prayer in a winehouse, call it the seal of the cask of wine describe it as the cosmetic-stained finger of the beautiful ones compare it to the breasts of a Parizad In short, there are twenty or twenty-two casual comparisons [phabtiyaa;N]. How could I remember all the verses? The final verse [bait] is this: suppose the palm of my master’s hand to be the heart and call this black betel nut [supaarii] the black spot [suvaidaa] on the heart. ==letter text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 714-15 ==Azad's retelling, pp. 501-502 ==Pritchett and Faruqi, Ab-e hayat, p. 409-410 [slightly modified here] ==full text of the poem itself (13 verses): Arshi pp. 131-32 ==full poem text: Hamid pp. 207-08

Nazm: That is, lover-ship and life-riskingness [jaan-baazii] are hardly a willowtree, that they would remain deprived of effect and fruit! (96)

Hasrat: He says that passion is not hopeless of effect, because life-riskingness [jaanbaazii] and life-surrenderingness [jaa;N-sipaarii] are not a willow-tree, which will never have fruit. The meaning is that in passion, life-riskingness and life-throwingawayness [jaa;N-fishaanii] will certainly have an effect sometime or other. (83)

Bekhud Mohani: jaa;N-sipaarii = to sacrifice [nis;aar karnaa ] one's life. A willow-tree bears no fruit. In passion there is effect. Life-surrenderingness [jaa;N-sipaarii] is not a willow-tree. That is, it is impossible that passion would not have an effect. (190)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; WORDPLAY In this ghazal, the rhyme-words are all intended to end in the syllable iid . In some cases this makes them sound odd, especially since the sound shift over time since Ghalib's day has been away from ii and toward e . But for recitation purposes, all the rhyme-words should be pronounced with iid . This is a 'short meter' [chho;Tii ba;hr] ghazal, so there's less room in each line for complex effects. As usual, the commentators seem to be satisfied with no effects at all, just a prosy paraphrase. As usual, I look for more. And in this case, the 'more' leaps to the eye-- the wordplay and 'script-play' of

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sipaarii , which in its normal written form, without short vowel markers, looks exactly like supaarii . (For more on such 'script-plays', see {33,7}.) Lest I be thought frivolous, note that Ghalib could easily have put the more common jaa;N-ni;saarii or jaa;N-fishaanii or jaan-baazii in exactly the same metrical space. (The latter would fit with a full nuun .) These are the words that the commentators use to explain (and in one case, actually to define) jaa;N-sipaarii , a word they obviously think may be unfamiliar to their readers. (When the word is used once more, in {164,7}, it's obviously there because it can form a rhyme-word.) Yet Ghalib chose instead to use jaa;N-sipaarii , and to plant (sorry, sorry!) the name of this tree-grown nut exactly beside the name of a tree that doesn't grow nuts-- in a line that declared that the 'nut' (or could jaa;N-supaarii be thought of as the 'betel-nut of one's life'?) was not the same as the tree. (And what has more 'effect' than betel-nut, the vital ingredient in paan ?) It might be argued that Ghalib had a lofty mind, and wouldn't even have noticed such a mere low-class frivolous pun in the first place. To which I say, hah! Is it likely that I, who started studying Hindi at the age of 20, and Urdu even later, could easily notice a bit of wordplay that would remain invisible to Ghalib? Ghalib could hardly have failed to see it (even if he didn't put it in on purpose, as I'm sure he did). If he didn't want his readers to experience it as part of the verse, he could easily have replaced it. As further evidence (if any is needed) of Ghalib's irreverence and sense of humor, consider his whole impromptu verse-set addressed to the betel-nut. (I'm glad to have had a chance to drag it in!) It pulls out all the stops of ghazal rhetoric. We find Majnun, Laila, the Ka'bah, the desert, the winecask, the Paris, the beloved, and even the wildly abstract suvaidaa itself (on this term see {3,2}), all pressed into service to praise the betel-nut-- which was a fine one, of course, with no fiber. So why can't this verse be allowed a touch of that same uninhibited sense of fun?

{95,2} sul:tanat dast bah dast aa))ii hai jaam-e mai ;xaatim-e jamshiid nahii;N 1) the kingship has come from hand to hand 2) the glass of wine [is] not the {signet-ring / seal} of Jamshid

Notes: ;xaatim: 'A signet-ring; a finger-ring; -- a seal, stamp, mark; --end, finish'. (Platts p.483)

Nazm: He says, the glass of wine is a kingship, which has come down, from hand to hand, from Jamshid to the rakish ones [rind]. This is not the ring [nagiin] of Jamshid, that his name alone would be engraved on it, and it would be reserved especially for him. (96)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that Jamshid had the Cup of Jamshid [jaam-e jam], in which wine was drunk. Nobody except rakish ones could establish a right to it. (146)

Bekhud Mohani: The kingship is like the Cup of Jamshid [jaam-e jam]. Or the Cup of Jamshid is like the kingship, in that it's kept on being received by one after another. (And this will keep on happening.) A cup of wine is not Jamshid's ring, which after his death was not received by anybody. (190)

Faruqi: The meaning of ;xaatim is 'ring' or 'seal' or the face of a ring that is used as a seal. The first meaning of dast bah dast aanaa is 'to be passed from one to another'. (In it the sense of 'inheritance' is also hidden.) If the meaning of

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dast is examined, then we learn that it is also used in the sense of 'victory', 'predominance', 'conquest', 'force', 'power', 'manner', 'path', and 'custom'.... If ;xaatim-e jamshiid is taken in the sense of 'seal'-- that is, the thing that is Jamshid's personal property-- then the interpretation becomes that the kingship comes down from hand to hand (through conquest and predominance and power). It's neither a glass of wine that comes to a suitable person, nor Jamshid's seal that is Jamshid's alone-- that is, the property of only one person. The kingship is a separate thing, the glass of wine is a separate thing, and the seal of Jamshid is a separate thing. Among sul:tanat, jaam, jamshiid, ;xaatim there is an affinity. A second interpretation can be that the kingship (the symbol of which is the seal of Jamshid) comes down from hand to hand, but the glass of wine comes to a suitable person. This is a greater thing than the kingship; the kingship can also come to unworthy people. On Ghalib's verse there certainly fell a ray of this verse of Dard's: sul:tanat par nahii;N hai kuchh mauquuf jis ke haath aave jaam so jam hai [nothing much hangs on the kingship-the one to whose hand the cup comes, is Jamshid]. (123)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS WINE: {49,1} In the first line, we learn that something is true of A. In the second line, we learn that B is not C. Given the complete grammatical and semantic independence of the two lines, how are we to arrange them-- which line is in the service of the other? Is wine like kingship, or is kingship like wine? And of course, what about the signet ring or seal of Jamshid? For at the center of the verse is the figure of Jamshid, famous both as a king and as the owner of the legendary Cup of Jamshid. He could look into the surface of the wine-filled Cup and see reflections of past, present, and future. Neither his own royal signet ring or seal, nor his own special Cup, have been passed down through the generations, but ordinary marks of kingship (every king has a seal) and ordinary wine-glasses (every drinker gets a glass) have 'made the rounds' many times over, as the 'revolving' of the wheel of fortune has exalted some and ruined others, and as the 'going round of the cup' [daur-e jaam, as in {97,5}] in the wine-house has opened the way to intoxication for drinker after drinker. So if we try to chart the possible relationships among kingship, wineglass, and seal, here are the possibilities, as best I can make them out: 1) the kingship and the wineglass are alike (they travel from hand to hand), and are unlike the seal of Jamshid (that belongs to him alone). But the wineglass is just an illustrative metaphor; the point is to illumine the nature of kingship-- it flows like wine. 2) the kingship and the wineglass are alike (they travel from hand to hand), and are unlike the seal of Jamshid (that belongs to him alone). But the kingship is just an illustrative metaphor; the point is to illumine the nature of wine-drinking-- it confers a superior, democratic, mystical form of kingship. 3) the kingship and the seal of Jamshid are alike (they both represent mere worldly power, which travels through mere brute force and conquest), and are unlike the glass of wine (which goes to a suitably sufistic, mystical, worthy person, and which is given freely and shared with fellow-drinkers, and which opens vast domains of intoxication that belong to the drinker alone). 4) The kingship (that travels through force), the seal of Jamshid (that belongs to Jamshid alone), and the glass of wine (that is shared among suitable, mystically inclined friends), are all different-- but the mystically inclined know which of them is the most desirable.

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Who would have thought this simple-looking little verse would open out into such a complex puzzle! I think I deserve to go and have a glass of wine.

{95,3} hai tajallii tirii saamaan-e vujuud ;zarrah be-partav-e ;xvurshiid nahii;N 1) your splendor is the means/equipment of manifestation/presence 2a) the sand-grain [is] not without the radiance of the sun 2b) there is no sand-grain {apart from / except for} the radiance of the sun

Notes: Nazm: That is, the radiance/manifestation of the Praised Exalted One is the cause of the presence of the world, the way the sun-rays are the cause of visibility for the sand-grains. The true form of the first line is like this: terii tajallii saamaan-e vujuud hai . Causing hai to vanish like this is a special feature of poetry. [In speech, it would not be correct.] (96)

Hasrat: The way sunlight is apparent in a sand-grain, in the same way everything present in the world is an expression of Your essence. (83)

Arshi: Compare {138,2}, {143,4}. (225, 257, 271)

Faruqi: While reading this verse, another verse of Ghalib's comes to mind: {138,2}.... If be is taken to mean [not 'without' but] 'other than' or 'except for', then the interpretation will be that the sand-grain has no existence at all, except that it's a sun-ray. 'Sand-grain' and 'sun-ray' are two names for the same thing. The existence of everything is in You, as if You alone are every existing thing. In this way the verse presents the theme of the 'oneness of creation' [va;hdat ul-vujuud]. It can also be said that a sand-grain doesn't come into existence at all until such time as a sun-ray falls on it. The sand-grain on which a sun-ray doesn't fall is dead, without existence. The thing on which Glory doesn't fall, is uncreated.... It can also be said that the Divine Power is like the sun, the rays of which fall on everything. So that even the lowliest sand-grain is not deprived of the grace of the sun-ray (divine spirit). (124-25)

FWP: ZARRAH: {15,12} As Arshi and Faruqi note, this isn't Ghalib's only verse involving sun and sand-grains. In fact he has quite a set of them, and often they're connected to mirrors too. (My own favorite sand-grain verse is the stark, eerie, almost terrifying {16,4}.) Conspicuously, the first line doesn't tell us whose presence we're talking about. If it's God's presence, then the glitter in the sand-grain tells us that He is behind it. If it's the presence of the sand-grain itself, then we have the two, or perhaps three, possibilities enumerated by Faruqi. This is a verse that feels very congenial if read sufistically, as addressed to God, but there's no reason it couldn't be addressed to a human beloved as well.

{95,4} raaz-e ma((shuuq nah rusvaa ho jaa))e varnah mar jaane me;N kuchh bhiid nahii;N

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1) the secret of the beloved ought not to become notorious/revealed 2) otherwise, there {is / would be} no bhed in dying

Notes: rusvaa : 'Dishonoured, disgraced, infamous, ignominious; humiliated; open, notorious; accused; one held up to public view, as an example to deter'. (Steingass, p. 576) bhed should be pronounced bhiid for the sake of the rhyme. bhed: 'Breaking, separation, disunion, difference, disagreement, interruption, disturbance; betrayal; breach, rupture, fracture; fissure, chasm, cleft; separation, difference, distinction, peculiarity; discrimination, discernment; kind, sort, species, variety; device; secrecy, secret, mystery; secret or hidden virtues or resources (of)'. (Platts p.199)

Hali: bhed means something hidden, whether it be something beneficial or harmful. Here something harmful is meant. If in place of mar jaane there had been nah marne, then the meaning of bhed would have become something beneficial. (147)

Nazm: That is, in dying, there's no further trouble about keeping the secret. But there's a concern that the beloved's secret might be revealed. Because usually the lover's giving up his life is a cause of the beloved's disgrace. (96)

Bekhud Mohani: There's no other hesitation about dying-- it's only because the secret of passion might then be revealed. May the beloved not become disreputable! [Or:] In death there's only this secret: that the secret of the True Beloved might not be revealed-- that is, that the human soul and the divine essence are not separate. But death has been decreed to be necessary for the human body because if there were no death, then mankind too would have been established, like the Lord, as undying, and the secret that had remained hiddened because of death, would be revealed. (The secret, that is, of the human spirit's oneness with the Divine Essence.) (191)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH; WORD How richly he has used the great old Indic word bhed, taking advantage of all its multiplicity of relevant meanings! (And all the while forcing it to be pronounced with a very Persian-sounding ii to accommodate the rhyme.) Because of the varnah, we already have two possible readings of the second line, present and contrafactual (though the presence of nahii;N rather than nah goes more toward the present). So if we take only the present as an illustration, just consider some of the possibilities for the second line: 1) Otherwise, there is no difficulty in dying-- I'd do it gladly, to escape my torment! I'm only deterred by fear of her secret becoming known. 2) Otherwise, there's no difference in dying-- no difference from the kind of wretched life I now lead-- except that her secret might become known. 3) Otherwise, there's no betrayal or disagreement in dying-- she doesn't care if I live or die, she would think it was a fine idea for me to die, except for the risk of disgrace to her. 4) Otherwise, there's no discernment or virtue in dying-- the important thing is not to die (because anyone can do that), but to die in such a way as to keep the beloved's secret from being known. 5) Otherwise, there's no secrecy or mystery about dying-- I'd gladly reveal my passion through a public death, except that then her secret would become known.

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Isn't that a remarkable feat? Virtually every meaning of bhed is beautifully apposite and perfectly suited to the environment of the verse. As far as I can judge, the only meaning that he omitted to use is 'kind, sort, species, variety'. But five out of six is not exactly a bad score.

{95,5} gardish-e rang-e :tarab se ;Dar hai ;Gam-e ma;hruumii-e jaaviid nahii;N 1) fear is [of] the revolving/revolution of the color/style of joy 2a) there is no grief of perpetual deprivation 2b) it is not the grief of perpetual deprivation

Notes: gardish: 'Going round, turning round, revolution; circulation; roll; course; period; turn, change; vicissitude; reversion; --adverse fortune, adversity; -wandering about, vagrancy'. (Platts p.903)

Nazm: In this verse 'for me' [mujh ko] or 'for you' [tujh ko] is omitted. If we consider mujh ko to be omitted, then the meaning is that after the attainment of joy, the decline of joy is so deadly that perpetual deprivation is better than it. And if we take tujh ko to be omitted, then the meaning is that you fear the decline of the fleeting pleasures that are available in the world, and give no thought to the perpetual deprivation that is finally to come. This verse is an illustration of how supporting two meanings, or more than that, is no cause of excellence for the verse. Excellence is born from abundance of meaning [ka;srat-e ma((nii]; don't consider it to consist in bearing a number of interpretations [a;hmaalaat-e ka;siir]. (97)

Hasrat: We don't grieve over perpetual deprivation, because this is better than joy-in which the fear of the revolving of color/style is always present. That is, since after ease, sorrow is extremely life-destroying, in this connection perpetual deprivation is better. (83)

Bekhud Mohani: I don't fear eternal deprivation or ill-fortune. Indeed, I fear the changing of the color/style of enjoyment-- that is, whatever state there might be, let it be for always! Why should it be one thing today, another thing tomorrow? [Or:] It's easy to endure eternal deprivation. But to endure suffering after enjoyment deprives one of life. [Or:] He gives advice: alas that you fear that the enjoyment of today might be erased, and don't grieve that in place of that enjoyment, in the Lord's house you will remain deprived of all mercies and pleasures. [Or:] You fear some disturbance in your enjoyment. But people who are deprived forever-- who are poor/strangers, who are in need-- you never think about. (191)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH The first line introduces the wonderful gardish, with its evocative set of meanings that center on the wheel of fortune and the wheel of time. The 'going round' of this wheel inexorably brings sorrow to the joyful, and drags the fortunate down into the dust. But can't we comfort ourselves a bit, when we're down at the bottom, with the thought that what goes down must come up? Sooner or later isn't the 'going round' of the wheel bound to bring us up again for another chance at joy? It would seem so, but somehow that's never on the lover's horizon. (Probably he knows he can't last that long.)

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The first line is unspecific; we can't tell who fears the 'revolving'. It could be someone else, or it could be the lover himself. When we come to the second line, the 'revolving' is markedly contrasted with the 'deprivation'-- but it's up to us, as usual, to decide exactly how. The commentators prefer the reading (2a), which indeed doesn't specify for whom-- 'for me' or 'for you'-- there is no grief of perpetual deprivation. (This is the first part-- and the only coherent part-- of Nazm's really bizarre complaint.) In general, the commentators get two meanings out of (2a): 1) You fear the 'revolving', you don't fear the 'deprivation' (it's no cause for grief). And based on human experience, this is quite proper and natural. I'm just offering a sage observation to you/myself about the nature of life. 2) You fear the 'revolving', and you don't fear the 'deprivation'? This is folly on your/my part-- you/I should (piously, or mystically) fear the latter, and not the former. But the third meaning, which relies on (2b), is my favorite. 3) You rightfully fear the 'revolving'-- it's not just something minor like the 'deprivation'! In other words, these two are superficially similar, but so different in degree that they are incommensurable. This kind of phrase has a vigorous colloquial punch: 'Watch out for that mastiff-- it's not a lapdog!' 'Be careful of that rifle-- it's not a BB gun!' In this reading, the amusing part is that the dismissive second term, 'grief of perpetual deprivation', is in fact something so terrible-sounding that anybody else would quail at the very thought of it. But the lover is so much at home with it that he actually uses it as a throwaway term to get across the much greater severity of the real danger. The rhetorical pleasure of this kind of verse would of course be enhanced by the delay in hearing the second line that would be part of mushairah performance conditions.

{95,6} kahte hai;N jiite hai;N ummiid pah log ham ko jiine kii bhii ummiid nahii;N 1) they say people live on hope 2) we have no hope even of living

Notes: Hali: This verse is 'simple and unattainable' [sahl-o-mumtana(( , though the usual term is sahl-e mumtana((]. In this ground, it would be difficult for a better verse than this to emerge. (147)

Nazm: That is, we don't have even this kind of hope for living-- so on what hope can we live? (97)

Josh: That is, life is established through hope. People live with the aid of hope. We don't even have hope of living-- on what hope would we remain living? In this verse, what pleasure the reversal of words gives! (187)

Arshi: Compare {189,8}. (225, 289)

Mihr: Khvajah Hali has said entirely rightly, 'This verse is unattainably simple'. That is, it is so simple that apparently it seems that to compose such a thing is not difficult at all. But when anyone sits down to compose, then he wouldn't be able to compose it. (312)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION; WORDPLAY == TRANSLATABLES LIFE/DEATH: {7,2}

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What a lovely verse! Doesn't it look alluringly easy and natural, beguilingly clear, and isn't it so completely colloquial in its language? And yet at the same time-- how hard it is to really explicate the relationship between the two lines! The verse sets up some kind of an unbreakable feedback loop-- living on hope, not hoping to live, and on and on from one to the other without end. If people live on hope, then since we're alive, we must have hope too. Yet we don't-- we're so far from having any hope, that we don't even hope to live. So with no hope of living, and no hope that we can live on, surely we must be dead? But we're not, because we can still say that we have no hope. So perhaps we're living on the hope of having hope to live? No, living on hope is for other people-- we don't even have any hope of living at all. But if people live on hope, then since we're alive, we must have hope too. And so on-- the whole rhetorical loop can be run through again and again, with no way out of it. The extreme simplicity of this verse makes it the kind people in the Urdu literary tradition describe as 'unattainably simple' [sahl-e mumtana((]. The normal meaning of mumtana(( is 'prohibited, forbidden; impossible' (Platts p.1068), and I've tried for a translation that reflects those ideas. Hali uses this term for the verse, though either he or his calligrapher gets it a bit askew; other commentators (Bekhud Dihlavi p. 146, Chishti p. 512) quote him approvingly, and use the standard form of the phrase. Mihr too quotes Hali, and adds the perfect definition: it's a verse that looks so easy that you think you can go right home and do one yourself. But of course, you can't. Perhaps because of this very simplicity, the verse is also remarkably translatable. Its wonderfully enjoyable wordplay helps: the repetion of ummiid, the two forms of jiinaa , the structural and rhythmic parallels of kahte hai;N jiite hai;N . For other verse that engage in similar kinds of wordplay about life and death, see Arshi's suggested {189,8}; it's an even darker verse, and {161,9} is grim as well. But as in the case of this verse, the charm of their style belies their bleakness of tone. There's also the logically argued {115,5}.

Ghazal 96

6 verses; meter G12; rhyming elements: am dekhte hai;N composed 1816; Hamid p. 78; Arshi #088; Raza p. 152 {96,1} jahaa;N teraa naqsh-e qadam dekhte hai;N ;xiyaabaa;N ;xiyaabaa;N iram dekhte hai;N 1a) where we see your footprint 1b) the world-- we see as your footprint 2a) in flowerbed upon flowerbed, we see paradise 2b) flowerbed upon flowerbed-- we see as paradise

Notes: Nazm: That is, every footprint is a flowerbed of paradise. (97)

Hasrat: ;xiyaabaa;N ;xiyaabaa;N means 'abundance'. (84)

Bekhud Mohani: Where we see your footprint, there, for miles around, we see the springtime/flourishing of Paradise [jannat].

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[Or:] It's not strange if this verse would be in praise [na((t] of the Prophet. In this case, the interpretation will be that with your footprint, Paradise was established. That is, whoever follows you will attain Paradise. (192)

Josh: He has called a footstep a flowerbed; this simile is absolutely novel. (187)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This is one of those verses that looks innocent and simple-- until you start to take it apart and try to put it together again. Then, just to continue the garden metaphor, it becomes a real can of worms. Let's consider (1a) and (2a) first, since all the commentators agree on them. 'Where we see your footstep, we see flowerbed-flowerbed-paradise', is more or less the structure. This amounts to 'Where we see A, we see B'. This can imply any of the following: (1) A is B; (2) A exists, but B does not; (3) A does not exist, but B does; (4) A and B always exist as a pair; (5) A and B are so much alike that we cannot tell them apart. Let's run the verse through these five logical possibilities: 1) A is B: The springlike radiance of paradise itself, with all its profusion of flowerbeds and verdure, is (merely?) your footprint. You are probably God, but if not then you are the divinely beautiful and powerful beloved. Your footprint exists, and so does paradise. 2) A exists, but B does not: There's no such thing as paradise; it too, like this world, is only a shadow of Your presence. When we see your footprint, we (foolishly? or crazily? or mystically?) think that this is the flowerbed-field of paradise. Your footprint exists; paradise does not exist. 3) A does not exist, but B does: In our longing and desperation for contact, we think we see the beloved's footprint. But this 'footprint' is really nothing but mere flowerbeds, mere paradise. We are tragically deceived. Gardens and paradises can be seen; your footprint cannot. 4) A and B always exist as a pair: Wherever you set foot, flowerbeds and paradises spring up all around your every footstep. That's why we always see them together. 5) A and B are so much alike that we cannot tell them apart: Even the smallest trace of you is so adorable that the very sight of your footprint is (or: is like) the sight of paradise. (Your footprint is shaped like an oval but slightly irregular flowerbed, and can perhaps be imagined to be very slightly reddened with rosy henna from your feet.) We have a choice of similes and metaphors here, and lots of ways to read this. Not content with even this much logical complexity, Ghalib has carefully provided another-- and even more open-ended-- way for us to read the verse. Look at (1b) and (2b). If jahaa;N is taken to mean 'world', then the two lines are strictly parallel, and it's very inviting to read them that way too-- in fact, how could we not? Now we have, 'We see the world as your footstep, we see flowerbeds as paradise.' Or, to highlight the logical structure, 'We see A as B; we see C as D'. Now each of these could be run through most (though perhaps not #4) of the five possibilities above, generating many fresh readings. And then, on this (1b) and (2b) reading, we would still have to answer the question, what is the relationship between the two lines? Do they refer to the same situation? To similar ones? To contrasting ones? Here we would end up with still more wildly ramifying branches on the permutation tree. I'm not sure the exercise of parsing them all out needs to be done, since many of the possibilities would resemble fancier-- since more complex, given the two independently varying lines-- forms of the five possibilities analyzed above. Besides, you get the idea. Imagine Ghalib's pleasure in setting up these little

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verbal torture-devices-- and imagine his frustration in realizing how many members of his audience either didn't get them, or didn't like them if they did. The commentators, on the whole, seem to continue that attitude. Because of the conspicuous repetition of the alif-filled;xiyaabaa;N ;xiyaabaa;N , the verse also has wonderful sound effects. Since it's such a short meter, fully one-fourth of the whole verse consists only of that hypnotic pair, 'flowerbed-flowerbed'. When we consider that it's an openingverse, and that the ghazal has the exceptionally long refrain of dekhte hai;N , we can see how brilliantly the amount of rhythm and sheer incantatory repetition have been built into the verse.

{96,2} dil aashuftagaa;N ;xaal-e kunj-e dahan ke suvaidaa me;N sair-e ((adam dekhte hai;N 1) the heart-distracted ones, in the beauty-spot-at-the-corner-of-the-mouth's 2) suvaidaa , see a show/spectacle of nonexistence

Notes: suvaidaa: 'The black part or grain of the heart, the heart's core; --original sin. (Platts p.704)

Nazm: The undetectable [i.e., vanishingly small] mouth's beauty spot, is the suvaidaa of people who have given away their hearts. They are taking a stroll through nothingness, in the heart. sair is an Arabic word, and in Arabic it's used with the meaning of 'moving, walking'. But in Persian and Urdu, it's used with the meaning of 'spectacle' [tamaashaa]. Here, he has versified it according to the taste of the people of Persia, and for this reason the i.zaafat on the word sair is correct. (97)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Poets construct the mouth and waist of the beloved as nonexistent. He says, those people who have become lovers of the sign of the mouth, in the suvaidaa of their heart see the spectacle of nonexistence. (147)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, those people who are her lovers, see their own death. Mirza Dagh says: maut mujh ko dikhaa))ii detii hai jab :tabii((at ko dekhtaa huu;N mai;N [death is visible to me when I see the temperament] (192)

Josh: The mention of 'nonexistence' has come in because of the 'mouth', and the mention of suvaidaa has come in because of the 'beauty spot'. From this kind of affinity the beauty of the verse comes into being. (187)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH TAMASHA: {8,1} I think there's some kind of affinity between aashuftah and suvaidaa, because they also occur together in {3,2}. But I can't quite fathom what it is. Even though Faruqi has commented extensively on {3,2}, it's such an obscure verse that the whole thing remains murky to me. For discussion, and more examples, of the use of suvaidaa, see {3,2}. This verse shows an unusually radical kind of enjambement-- a postposition has actually been separated from its object. The phrase at the end of the first line, ;xaal-e kunj-e dahan ke, modifies suvaidaa at the beginning of the second line. If we imagine the verse being performed under mushairah conditions, what a frustrating, tantalizing delay the listeners would be forced to endure! Not only would the first line be uninterpretable without the

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second, but the poet would be rubbing their noses in the linguistic angst they would be experiencing. That line-ending ke would simply be screaming loudly in their heads, furiously demanding its object. And when the object finally came, I think they would experience a pleasurable jolt of surprise. For 'the beauty spot at the corner of the mouth' suggests that the next thing coming will be some general term like charm, or blackness, or tyranny. Our minds have already seized on 'beauty spot' as the physical anchor for the imagery, and as we move to the corner, and then the mouth, we seem to be moving outward-- away from the beauty spot, and into larger and wider spaces. But then after that long wait, we are suddenly plunged without warning as far as possible in the other direction-- not just into the heart of the beauty spot, but into the suvaidaa in the center of the heart of the (barely visible) beauty spot (which itself is located at the corner of a vanishingly small mouth). And now we see the affinity of the 'heart' in 'heart-distracted ones'. Since the 'heart-distracted ones' have lost or abandoned their hearts, they no longer have the usual place for a suvaidaa. Instead, their tiny black suvaidaa is located in the tiny black heart of the beloved's tiny black beauty-spot. And in that (external) center of the center of their being, what do they see? Why, nonbeing, of course! The 'nonexistence' is so perfect, and so poetically overdetermined, that the audience must surely have laughed out loud. Why do they see nonexistence? Because the beloved's mouth is, by convention, (virtually) nonexistent; her beauty spot must be even smaller; the tiny heart of her beauty spot must contain a suvaidaa that is less than infinitesimal. And of course, the suvaidaa provides mystical connections of one or another kind, or various kinds, which lead directly to the lover's usual death-wish and death-bound condition, and the rapture of (mystical) love-indeath. And all this swooping around among invisibles and minutiae is, of course, a 'show' or 'spectacle' that is 'seen' by the lovers. But surely we aren't surprised. Lovers can also, after all, be 'lamp-displays in the bedchamber of the heart of the moth' ({81,3}).

{96,3} tire sarv-e qaamat se yak qadd-e aadam qiyaamat ke fitne ko kam dekhte hai;N 1a) one {Adam/man}-height, compared to your cypress of stature, 1b) one {Adam/man}-height, by means of your cypress of stature, 2) we see the turmoil of Doomsday [to be] less

Notes: qad has a tashdiid over the d because of the presence of an i.zaafat .

Hali: One meaning of it is this: that the turmoil of Doomsday is less than your cypress of stature. And there’s a second meaning too: that your stature has been made out of exactly this, so that it has become one man-height less. (132)

Nazm: That is, the cypress of stature is a whole [man-]height greater than the turmoil of Doomsday. It's an extremely refined [la:tiif] theme.

Bekhud Mohani: Your turmoil of stature shows one man-height beyond the turmoil of Doomsday. That is, the latter is that much less than it. [Or:] Your cypress of stature has been made out of the turmoil of Doomsday. So the turmoil of Doomsday has become one man-height less. (192)

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Arshi: Compare {38,4}. (176)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY QIYAMAT: {10,11} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Hali announces, maybe even with special flourish, that in this verse 'there's a second meaning too'. (As if it were something unusual!) Almost always, Hali is a 'one verse, one meaning' kind of commentator. I wonder whether some hint from Ghalib might be behind his remark, as in the case of {57,7}. See Nets of Awareness, Chapter 6, pp. 95-103, for analysis of a series of Persian and Urdu 'cypress' verses. This verse has some very fine wordplay-- qaamat and qiyaamat of course echo each other wonderfully closely in sound, even as the verse compares them to each other. (Parts of their sounds are also echoed in qad, aadam, kam.) Moreover, the literal meaning of qiyaamat is 'rising up' (since it's the day the dead will be recalled to life and judged by God), so it works well when juxtaposed to something as tall and straight as the beloved's 'cypress of stature'. The mention of Adam, the father of the human race, adds further subtle pleasures. It suggests that we're actually present on Doomsday, where all the dead are gathered, including Adam-- which is why we can use him as a convenient measuring-rod for comparing your height with the height of the Doomsday-turmoil. And, of course, it's amusing in itself that on a cataclysmic and terrifying day like that, all the lover thinks about is relishing the beauties of the beloved and comparing them favorably with everything else. And by comparing her height to the height of the 'turmoil of Doomsday', he also reminds us of her deadly mischievousness and irresponsible power. The 'cypress of stature' [sarv-e qaamat] feels backwards--the usual thing for someone to have would be 'the stature of a cypress' [qaamat-e sarv]. This way, he has firmly endowed the beloved with a large tree, and even the escape-hatch of metaphor can barely save her from having to haul one around with her. Perhaps this tree is meant to resonate with the 'height of Adam/man' [qadd-e aadam]. Adam himself is only a minor measuring-rod, while the beloved as a cypress tree stands so tall she's more than equal to Doomsday. For more on the beloved's tallness, see {38,4}.

{96,4} tamaashaa kih ai ma;hv-e aa))iinah-daarii tujhe kis tamannaa se ham dekhte hai;N 1) a spectacle-- oh you absorbed in mirror-holding, 2a) with what longing we look at you 2b) with what [kind of] longing do we look at you?

Notes: Nazm: According to that [Persian] taste the author has omitted the verb. The meaning is, why are you looking at your radiance in a mirror? Just take a look at this spectacle: with what longing we are looking at you. But in Urdu, to say only tamaashaa [without the verb karnaa] is not the idiom. (97)

Josh: A 'mirror-bearer' [aa))iinah-daar] is normally some kind of servant. But here he has called the beloved 'mirror-bearer'. Instead of 'bearing a mirror'

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[aa))iinah-daarii], to say 'looking in a mirror' [aa))iinah-biinii] seems more appropriate here. In the first line, where kih is, is the rightful place of kar. (188)

Faruqi: [Many commentators have considered that it should be tamaashaa kar instead of tamaashaa kih]. I give preference to tamaashaa kih because it's more meaningful, and also because Maulana Arshi has written it so. In tamaashaa kar there's no depth, while in tamaashaa kih the following aspects emerge: (1) tamaashaa kar ; (2) What a spectacle it is that...!; (3) The spectacle is this: that...; (4) This too is a spectacle: that.... The commentators have taken 'mirror-holding' [aa))iinah-daarii] in the sense of 'looking into a mirror' [aa))iinah-biinii], which is not incorrect. But if it's taken with the meaning of 'holding up a mirror' [aa))iinah dikhaanaa], then the interpretation it produces for the verse is a more subtle one.... Ghalib's beloved is a mirror of a kind in which [everything in earth and heaven] is mirrored.... To see her is as if to see the life of creation. To subdue her is as if to subdue the life of creation. The beloved is lost in herself, in her a world shines forth-- and the speaker isn't looking at this shining world, but is looking only at her, because he knows that everything is in the beloved. The beloved considers her own personality and the creation to be one, and doesn't distinguish among the three. Now 'with what longing we look at you' takes on the meaning that I'm not looking at you with the eye of a common lover, but rather my longing too, like you, is all creation. (126-27)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} The textual disagreement between tamaashaa kih and tamaashaa kar is a real one. The latter reading has some manuscript support and much commentarial approval-- it is adopted by Hasrat (p. 84); Bekhud Dihlavi (p. 147); Shadan (p. 265); Baqir (p. 243); Chishti (p. 514); Mihr (p. 312). But I'm glad to stand with Nazm, Bekhud Mohani (p. 192), Hamid, Faruqi, and-it goes without saying-- Arshi himself, my text authority. Faruqi has pointed to the superior ambiguity and multivalence of the kih reading; probably this is exactly what sets many commentators' teeth on edge. It's obvious that this is a verse entirely about sight-- about a spectacle, a mirror-holder, and a gazer. Faruqi notes that the 'mirror-holding' beloved may in fact be not just holding a mirror absorbedly to her own face, but also holding up a mirror to us-- a mirror that reflects everything, reflects life itself. The lover's transcendant passion turns the beloved into a cosmic principle.(After all, if the beloved regards the lover with favor, it's as if 'a whole age' will favor him, as we know from {25,5}.) This reading of Faruqi's greatly enriches the verse. When it comes to the equally inshaa))iyah second line, besides the obvious and lovely meaning of (2a), the grammar also clearly enables the interrogative reading of (2b). If the beloved is holding a mirror up to us, perhaps we see in it our own inner life? Are we then interrogating our own state of mind (and heart)? Is the lover wryly observing what a 'spectacle' he's making of himself, and asking why and how he longs for someone so utterly self-absorbed, or so cosmically unavailable?

{96,5} suraa;G-e taf-e naalah le daa;G-e dil se kih shab-rau kaa naqsh-e qadam dekhte hai;N 1) find the trace of the steam/heat of the lament, from the wound of the heart 2) for [they] look at the footprint of the night-prowler

Notes: taf: 'Vapour, exhalation, steam, mist'. (Platts p.328)

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shab-rau: 'One who walks or travels in the night; a night-watch; a thief'. (Platts p.720)

Nazm: The time for lamentation is always night. This is why he's called the lament a night-prowler. He says, the way in the morning they see the night-prowler's footprint and pick up his track-- he came from this side, and went from that side-- in the same way the track of the heat and warmth of the nighttime lament cam be picked up. (98)

Bekhud Mohani: taf = heat.... If you want to see what hot laments emerge from the heart, then look at the wound in the heart. From this you'll learn it-- that is, it was such a lament as to leave such a wound in the heart. (193)

Josh: Seeing the wound in the heart, we get a trace of how warm and heated our lament was, and realize how burning hot it was by night. For 'wound' he has given the simile of 'footprint'. (188)

Arshi: Compare {230,5}. (219, 283)

FWP: SETS == A,B; IZAFAT All the commentators I've looked at say more or less the above. This perplexed me. Why would we be worrying about how hot the nighttime lament was, or which way it entered and left the heart? No doubt the lament can damage the heart with its fieriness, but that's just in the nature of things-why would we bother about hunting it down the next day? By then, there's no 'it' to hunt down, anyway. A lament doesn't seem like a good analogy to a thief or other night-prowler. Then I realized that this is one of those 'A,B' verses, and the commentators had simply been reading it with what I think is excessive literalness. It's up to us to decide the relationship between the lines, since Ghalib has left us no 'trace' to tell us how to do so. The commentators decided that both lines were parallel and referred to exactly the same situation, so they spent their time explaining which of the four entities in the first line corresponded to the 'footprint', and which to the 'night-prowler'. This can't be called wrong, but I'm not convinced that it's the most interesting reading. For it's equally possible that the two lines are meant to be linked more loosely, and the sneaky multivalence of the i.zaafat constructions must be allowed for. So I have another and quite different reading to propose. In proper mushairah style, the first line is incomprehensible without the second; no surprise there, it's a pattern we see so often. When we finally are allowed to hear the second line, only then do we realize that we are probably searching for traces of a villain, a marauder, a dangerous intruder of some kind who is now long gone; we deduce this, since the second line seems to illustrate or justify a similar procedure. But then, surely the intruder, the 'thief in the night', is not present in the first line. The ambiguities of the i.zaafats can easily allow for this absence. 'Trace of the steam/heat of the lament' can just as easily mean 'trace which consists of...' (my reading) as it can 'trace left by...' (the commentators' reading). Everything in the first line is, on my reading, an elaborate description of the scene of the crime-- the trail of damage wrought by the marauder. Thus the lament, with its hot and steaming residue, is not a villain but a sign of victimization; like the wound in the heart, it is a casualty left behind by the marauder's passing through. That's why we need to cleverly find the track of the marauder by following his trail: all we can use to track him is 'the trace of the steam of the lament, from the wound of the heart'. This careful scene-

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of-the-crime work is comparable to the way people track the footprints of a (real, physical) night-prowler. And who is the night-prowler, the robber, the marauder? We know already. It's the beloved, of course, sneaking around and penetrating the lover's heart, damaging it irreparably, shooting her glance-arrows from afar. We already know that she comes to the lover in dreams-- consider how cruel she is to her dream-tormented lover in {10,10} and {97,3}.

{96,6} banaa kar faqiiro;N kaa ham-bhes ;Gaalib tamaashaa-e ahl-e karam dekhte hai;N 1) having put on the guise of the Faqirs, Ghalib 2) [we] see the spectacle of the people of generosity

Notes: Nazm: The meaning is that I don't have need of generosity, but I'm mad about the style of generosity, so in order to see it I've put on the guise of the Faqirs. (98)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, we put on the guise of Faqirs and test the virtue of the conduct of the people of generosity. We're not (God forbid!) in need of asking for things. (147)

Bekhud Mohani: We're not a Faqir. We're not in need. But we're mad about the style of generosity. For this reason, we've put on the guise of Faqirs. (193)

Josh: The meaning is that It's not our purpose to become a Faqir and ask for alms. We've adopted the guise in order to see who is generous, and how generous, and in whom there is no genuine feeling of generosity. tamaashaa means 'stroll' [sair]. (188)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR TAMASHA: {8,1} There might be several advantages in assuming the dress and guise of a Faqir, or religious mendicant. One advantage: that we are able to see the pious charity dispensed by the 'people of generosity', which pleases us as a show of their virtue. (And we wouldn't get to see it otherwise, since truly virtuous people do their good deeds privately rather than publicly.) We can admire their kindness and beneficence. A second advantage: that we can enjoy the 'spectacle', the tamaashaa, created by the people of generosity-- especially the more ostentatious and worldly ones. Do they gather a great crowd of Faqirs around them? Do they make self-congratulatory speeches? Do they present their gifts one by one, with a great flourish? We can watch, and inwardly laugh. A third advantage: that we are able to use it as a test, so that we can act as a kind of charity investigator. Who is truly generous, and who simply makes a show of it, and who doesn't give at all? Only now will we really know. A fourth advantage: that we are actually poor-- as in {26,5} or {10,7}-- but are too proud to admit it. By providing other reasons for assuming the role of a Faqir, we manage to obtain some alms, while also protecting our pride. And of course, these advantages aren't mutually exclusive, so many or even all of them might exist together. But then, the really amusing twist-- to what extent is the pious charity of the 'people of generosity' to be metaphorically converted into the way the powerful, well-endowed beloved treats her poor, needy lovers, as they crowd

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around her and beg for her attention? Can the lover urge her to be virtuously 'generous' in distributing her favors, just as she should be generous in distributing religious alms? Of course he can-- and quite shamelessly, he does. Consider for example {24,3}, in which he explicitly asks for 'religious alms' of beauty: zakaat-e ;husn de, he begs the beloved. And there's the witty {162,9}, in which he suggestively urges the beloved 'do good-- it will be good for you', and identifies this as 'the call of the Darvesh'. None of this conflation feels theologically problematical, of course, because the mischief level is so high, and it's all so clearly tongue-in-cheek. And the final escapehatch is always ready-- the beloved can always be God.

Ghazal 97 13 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aab me;N composed 1847; Hamid p. 79; Arshi #109; Raza pp. 287-88

{97,1} miltii hai ;xuu-e yaar se naar iltihaab me;N kaafir huu;N gar nah miltii ho raa;hat ((a;zaab me;N 1) (hell)fire approaches/resembles the beloved’s temperament in heat 2) [I] am an infidel if [I] wouldn’t find comfort in torment

Notes: naar: 'Fire; hell-fire; hell; --the mind; --counsel, advice'. (Platts p.1113) ((a;zaab: 'Punishment, chastisement; pain, torture, torment; martyrdom (met.); difficulty, painful or troublesome affair or event, distressing affair'. (Platts p.759)

Hali: After the Rebellion [of 1857], when his pension had been cut off and he hadn't received permission to attend the [British] darbar, Pandid Moti Lal...came to visit. There was some talk of the pension. Mirza Sahib said, 'In my whole life, if there's any day when I haven't drunk wine, then I'm an infidel [ek din sharaab nah pii ho to kaafir]; and if I've done the prayer one time, then I'm a sinner [ek daf((ah namaaz pa;Rhii ho to gunah-gaar]. So I don't know how the Government has counted me among the rebel Muslims!' (75-76)

Nazm: That is, to burn me and rain down fire on me was a trait of the beloved's too. Then why wouldn't I find pleasure in the torment of hellfire? The late Atish says, aasmaa;N shauq se talvaro;N kaa me;Nh barsaave maah-e nau ne kiyaa abrah kaa tire ;xam paidaa [the sky is welcome to rain down a shower of swords the new moon created the curve of your curls] (98)

Hasrat: Because of fire's quality of burningness, he has used it as a simile for the beloved's temperament. Thus only on the basis of this similarity I find comfort in the torment of hellfire. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: When fire flares up, then it creates the splendor of the beloved's blazing with wrath. If there would be no rest in the torment of hell, then consider me an infidel. That is, when the beloved's coquetry is in hellfire too, then what does it mean to say that the lover suffers from this? He finds comfort. He has shown the limit case of love. (193-94)

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FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS; WORDPLAY INFIDEL: {21,12} Above all, this verse is based on a cleverly inverted use of a common idiom. At the beginning of the second line, 'I'm an infidel if--' [kaafir huu;N gar] seems at first to be an ordinary kind of emphatic oath, like 'Damned if--' in English (which is actually short for 'I'm damned if', though many people may not even notice this bit of lost history). But as we take in the rest of the line, we realize that Ghalib has done one of his tricks. To swear that he would be comfortable in hell, he's said, essentially, 'I'm an infidel if I wouldn't be comfortable in hell'. But of course, an infidel is exactly the kind of person who wouldn't be comfortable in hell. So where does that leave him? He's made another of his feedback loops, and since we can't very well get out of it, all we can really do is enjoy it and relish his cleverness. Hali's anecdote shows Ghalib entertaining his friends with exactly the same twisted, paradoxical-sounding use of the same idiom, and the same kind of word/meaning play. He says that if he hasn't drunk wine, he's an infidel. But of course if he has drunk wine, this too is infidel behavior! And he says that if he's done the prayer even once, then he's a sinner. But of course if he hasn't done the prayer even once, then he's a much bigger sinner, or even an infidel! What fun it would have been to have known him. Two occurrences of milnaa, one in each line-- and each with a different meaning. Especially piquant is the direction of comparison in the first line. It's not that the beloved's temperament is hot like hell-- rather, hellfire is hot like her temperament! There are a number of verses that make witty use of such comparisons, which are fundamental to how the ghazal universe works. In the ghazal universe, the lover and beloved are always cosmically primary, and the mere forces of nature and history and the physical world are emphatically derived from lover and beloved alone. Perhaps {219,3} is the most amusing-- in it Adam's disgrace at being kicked out of Eden is compared (to its disadvantage) with the real disgrace of my being kicked out of your street. And there's the very appropriate {62,8}, in which every day one of the lover's blazing wounds appears as a (or the?) sun.

{97,2} kab se huu;N kyaa bataa))uu;N jahaan-e ;xaraab me;N shab'haa-e ;hijr ko bhii rakhuu;N gar ;hisaab me;N 1) how long have I been-- what can I say?-- in the wretched world 2) if I would put the nights of separation too into the account

Notes: Nazm: The poet, having grown disaffected with life, says, for how long an interval have I been living? Every single night has passed like thousands and thousands of years-- and I've kept on living. (98)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I can't give a correct estimate of my age. I've spent many nights of separation such that every single night was equal to thousands and thousands of years. If I bring into the count all those nights and do the addition, then I've lived so many years that they can't even be counted. (148)

Bekhud Mohani: In times of difficulty, time becomes like a mountain. Thus there are nights-and there are nights of separation. (194)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY == TRANSLATABLES

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We all know that the lover's nights of separation are endless, and hideously black with despair. Perhaps the consummate verse along these lines is the lovely, painfully evocative {1,2}, the second verse in the whole divan. What I like about this verse is the colloquial eruption of 'what can I say?' [kyaa bataa))uu;N] into the midst of the first line. Before and after it, the grammar makes up a coherent whole-- the grammar ignores the interruption, so to speak. This positioning makes the outburst doubly powerful, since it gives it an air of spontaneity, almost involuntariness. Right in the midst of his own calm, well-organized sentence, the speaker can't help but show his desperate state; right in the midst of expressing things, he complains of the inability to express things. Another verse that does the same trick is {5,5} (if we adopt meaning 2b). But in that verse, the inserted phrase is the verbal equivalent of a languid, skeptical shrug of the shoulders. In this one, it's the verbal equivalent of a cry of pain and helplessness. This verse is so simple and straightforward that it's even translatable. And like a good mushairah verse, it refuses to reveal its central thrust. The distracting 'what can I say?' suggests that the second line might take us in quite a different direction. Only at the last moment, with the rhyme-word ;hisaab, can we really know how to put it all together.

{97,3} taa phir nah inti:zaar me;N nii;Nd aa))e ((umr bhar aane kaa ((ahd kar ga))e aa))e jo ;xvaab me;N 1) so that, in waiting, sleep wouldn't come again/then for a lifetime 2) she left with a promise to come-- she who came in a dream

Notes: Nazm: In this verse he's described the mischievousness of the beloved, and many inventive ghazal composers run headlong in this direction. And the verse in which the beloved's mischievousness would emerge-- that verse is indeed a good ghazal verse. Here the author has rejected [=omitted] the word vuh , and through this rejection has produced the subtle meaning that everybody knows that I don't even mention anybody else except her. Or consider it this way: that it's as if while in his heart he's been conversing with the beloved, this remark emerged from his lips, and remained in the recesses of his mind. In the poetry of the eloquent ones, there are many reasons for the omission and rejection of utterances. But here, there can be both reasons that have been mentioned. (98)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, while in a state of waiting, we considered that she wouldn't come. Through ill fortune, our eyes closed. She came in a dream, and promised to come, and left. That is, she left after saying, 'wait for me, I'll certainly come'. And she made this promise so that for my whole life sleep would never come to me again. (148)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover is seeing the beloved in a dream. In the dream, she promised to come. After his eyes open, he is more restless and anxious. But there's no sign of the beloved anywhere. Sleep has fled-- now neither does she come, nor does sleep come. In passion, when does wisdom remain established? Now the heart is in such a state that it never at all occurs to him that to wait for the fulfillment of a promise made in a dream is folly. In this state he is saying, this promise was made not so that she would come, but in order to torment me-- so that I would long in vain for sleep. In short, when awake, he had no composure. If his eyes closed for a brief while, then he forgot his grief, but now he's been deprived even of this. (194)

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FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; PHIR; WORDPLAY As Nazm points out, there's no subject pronoun in the whole verse-- except jo, which of course should be accompanied by a vuh. Contrary to his usual habit of criticizing omitted grammatical items, Nazm gives Ghalib credit for the clever effect he has thus created. I think he's right to do so; it's clearly a deliberate strategy. Zauq uses the same device in one of his most famous verses-- a verse which is also completely devoid of a subject, and in a way that's at first even more (deliberately) confusing: laa))ii ;hayaat aa))e qa.zaa le chalii chale apnii ;xvushii nah aa))e nah apnii ;xvushii chale [life brought (us), (we) came; death took (us) away, (we) went (we) neither came at our pleasure, nor went at our pleasure] In Zauq's verse, the deliberate confusingness of the first line is resolved in the second; in Ghalib's verse, the first line is an opaque phrase that only whets the listener's curiosity, and the confusion then comes in a wild rush of wordplay in the second line. For the conspicuous wordplay in the second line, involving three separate uses of aanaa accompanied by one jaanaa , is really remarkable. It not only provides a pleasure of its own, but also combines with the word order and the lack of a subject to create additional confusion-- a kind of disordered, dreamlike state. The cruel beloved has appeared in the lover's dream, and promised to come (again), and then vanished. As a result, the lover expects sleep never to come to him for the rest of his life. Why might this be? 1) Sleep will never come because he'll be so excited with eagerness at the thought of going to sleep and seeing her again in another dream, that he'll be too overwrought to get to sleep. (In short, a catch-22 situation-- he so longs to receive her visit that he can't sleep, and because he can't sleep he'll never receive her visit.) 2) Sleep will never come because as a lover he's destined to ill-fortune in everything. Sleep was already a rare luxury (remember how endless the nights of separation are, as in {97,2}), and is now a thing radiant with the promise of another dream of her. Thus it's doubly guaranteed that sleep will never by even the remotest chance come near him. 3) Sleep will never come because he will force himself to stay awake, and will be too excited to sleep anyway, in case she actually intends to come to him in real life, and he could never risk missing such a once-in-a-lifetime event as that. Even beyond these undecideable possibilities, we're left with other questions as well. Did the beloved in any sense 'really' appear in his dream and make such a promise, or did the lover just invent it all out of his own longing and desperation? If she did make the promise, was it a cruel deception designed to torment him, or a brief flicker of genuine kindness, such that she might even actually fulfill it? And if she did make the promise at all, does it apply to the dream world, or to the actual waking world? Needless to say, there's no possibility of answering any of these questions. The only thing we can be sure of is that the lover thinks the beloved has arranged for him to be sleepless for the rest of his life. For a less sadistic take on the dream-beloved and the lover's sleep, see {193,1}. Since the beloved does visit at least in a dream, this verse is a kind of honorary member of the 'beloved visits the lover' set; for the full list, see {106,2}.

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{97,4} qaa.sid ke aate aate ;xa:t ik aur likh rakhuu;N mai;N jaantaa huu;N jo vuh likhe;Nge javaab me;N 1) while the Messenger is coming [I] might write and keep [ready] one more letter 2) I know what she’ll write in [her] reply

Notes: Nazm: This is a very eloquent [balii;G] verse. His being experienced in the affairs of love, and the fact that beloveds are temperamental, and the beloved's being false to her word and an excuse-seeker-- all these meanings are understood in the verse. (98-99)

Hasrat: [The second line means that] she'll write nothing. The meaning is that if I had had any hope of any letter coming from her, then I would have waited for it before writing another letter. But since I know very well that she won't write anything, it's useless to wait to write an answer to the letter. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: [Compare] {180,3}.... Whatever the beloved will write, I know. That is, I know her temperament. So whatever she writes, I ought to get an answer for it ready. (194)

Josh: In addition to these excellences, how worthy of praise is the clarity [.safaa))ii] of expression! (189)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES WRITING: {7,3} Isn't it refreshing to see a straightforward verse once in a while? The only open question seems to be whether the beloved will write nothing at all, as Hasrat opines, or whether the lover is ready for anything she might write. (Her writing nothing at all is a distinct possibility, as in {27,2}.) Either way, as Nazm observes, this simple little verse is the tip of a real iceberg of implication. We know that (1) this is one of a series of letters in a correspondence; (2) the speaker is obsessed with the correspondence and broods about it; (3) the speaker is confident that he knows the temperament and habits of his correspondent; (4) the speaker is sure that the reply will be unsatisfactory; (5) the speaker is undeterred, and is already planning the next installment; (6) the speaker seems to have no special hopes or grounds for optimism. This is a verse of tone or mood, and the tone is entirely matter-of-fact. A letter-writer simply debates with himself about the planning of a letter. No whining, no self-pity, no sentimentality. All the grief, passion, and doom are not in the flat, plain words, but in the implications.

{97,5} mujh tak kab un kii bazm me;N aataa thaa daur-e jaam saaqii ne kuchh milaa nah diyaa ho sharaab me;N 1) when did the going-round of the cup, in that one's gathering, come as far as me? 2a) may the Cupbearer not have mixed something into the wine! 2b) might the Cupbearer not have mixed something into the wine?

Notes: Ghalib: [Writing in 1854:] That is to say, 'Now that the rounds of the cup have come to me, I’m fearful'. This whole sentence is implied [muqaddar]. Anyone who looks at my Persian divan will realize that I leave sentence upon sentence

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implied. But [as Hafiz says] 'every utterance has a [suitable] time and every point has a [suitable] place' [har su;xan vaqte-o-har nukte makaane daarad]. This difference is indeed intuitively perceptible [vajdaanii], not expressible in words [bayaanii]. (Arshi p. 234) ==Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 262-63 ==(translated with interpretive help from S. R. Faruqi, Feb. 2000)

Hali: In this verse after the first line this much of a phrase is omitted: 'then today since contrary to custom the rounds of the cup have reached to me'. This omission has made the verse of a very high order. The kind of omission in which context provides the evidence, and the omitted words, without being mentioned, are speaking between the two lines-- this is counted among the beauties of a verse. (148)

Nazm: The un kii gathering-- that is, the Rival's. If the Cupbearer had mixed poison in, then it would hardly be strange. (99)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH WINE: {49,1} Apparently people asked for explanations of this verse, so that both Ghalib and Hali have dutifully provided them. I'm surprised, since to me it's not one of his difficult ones at all. The grammar of the first line itself colloquially implies a negative rhetorical question-- literally, 'when did the going-round of the cup used-to-come as far as me?' (It never did, of course, so I'm skeptical and suspicious of the change.) We have a similar form in English: 'Since when have they started passing me the wine?' (Only this once, of course, with strong overtones of skepticism and suspicion on my part.) Whose gathering is it? Nazm thinks it's the Rival's; I think that's an unduly literal-minded choice, but it can't be ruled out. Most other commentators don't say whose, but the obvious candidate is the beloved herself. To my mind, it doesn't really matter. I see this as a verse of implication, like the last one, {97,4}. Look at all the unstated things we known about the lover: (1) that he habitually attends someone's parties; (2) that he's always very rudely treated there; (3) that he accepts and expects this rude treatment; (4) that when he is suddenly treated properly, his first thought is of foul play. Either we have here a case of advanced paranoia, or we have someone subject to constant minor harassment, varied only with probable major persecution (perhaps to the point of death). Or both, of course ('paranoids have enemies too'). And they both sound like the lover, don't they? He is paranoid (think of {97,3}, in which he blames the beloved for his dreams), and he is persecuted too (as we know from all too many examples). This would have been a wonderful mushairah verse, too. The first line leaves us wondering where the poet is going with this. Maybe the lover is just reminiscing about the bad old days? ('When I went to her parties, she never even used to pass me the wine!') Maybe she's now asking for some extravagant favor? ('And after the way she treated me-- why, when I went, etc.'). Under mushairah performance conditions, we of course have to wait for some time, until the reciter is pleased to offer us the second line. And even then, not until we hear the word sharaab, at the end of the line, do we learn what all this anxiety is about. They've offered him a glass of wine! And the effect is to throw him into fits of anxiety and paranoia. How likely is it that a gentleman visitor at an elegant evening gathering will be poisoned by arsenic in the wine? Not likely at all, of course, even in the ghazal world; this is not a common trope. And yet the lover's whole life is uncommon--

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uncommonly wretched. The way some people are accident-prone, he's persecution-prone. Just think of {22,1}.

{97,6} jo munkar-e vafaa ho fareb us pah kyaa chale kyuu;N bad-gumaa;N huu;N dost se dushman ke baab me;N 1) [the one] who would be a denier of faithfulness-- what trick could work on that one? 2) why {would I be / am I} distrustful of a friend, with regard to an enemy?

Notes: Nazm: That is, the Rival can't use false expressions of faithfulness to deceive her. So why would I be suspicious of the beloved, who doesn't even believe at all in anyone's faithfulness? (99)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that my friend is a denier of faithfulness, the Other's pretense of faithfulness cannot work on her. Why would I be suspicious of a friend with regard to an enemy, thinking that she has been taken in by a pretense of faithfulness? (149)

Bekhud Mohani: With regard to the Rival, Mirza has not said, may his faithfulness not succeed in its task! Rather, he has made the enemy the source of a pretense of faithfulness. That is, he is neither a true lover, nor faithful. (195)

Arshi: Compare {42,1}. (234)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} There is someone in the first line who denies the very possibility or existence of faithfulness, so that a deceit couldn't work on him/her. This person seems to be the beloved, as the commentators assume; I agree with them. But then in the second line there's a 'friend' and an 'enemy'. The commentators assume that the beloved is the friend, and the Rival or Other is the enemy. I agree that that's a very plausible reading. But there can be another reading as well. It's not by accident that the line doesn't tell us who's who. For what if we read the 'enemy' as the beloved, and the 'friend' as one of the many Rivals or Others who flock around her? We know the beloved can (though rarely) be called an 'enemy', as she straightforwardly is in {4,3}. And we know the lover is on tolerable social terms with some of the Others. In at least one case ({43,1}), the lover's own friend and confidant [raazdaan] eventually succumbs to his constant talk of the beloved's charms, and almost involuntarily becomes a Rival. If this could happen with one of his friends, the lover must always wonder whether it could happen with others. Also consider {53,6-10}, a verse-set that explores the complex relationship among beloved, lover, and Other, which includes an appearance of friendship and concern shown by the Other toward the lover. In the previous verse,{97,5}, Nazm considers that the lover regular attends the Rival's social gatherings. And so on. In short, it's possible to make a case that the friend/enemy distinction can go both ways. Why should I quarrel with the faithless beloved, just because the faithless Other may be trying (vainly) to trick her (since he won't succeed)? Or-- why should I quarrel with the faithless Other, just because he may be trying (vainly) to trick the equally faithless beloved? In one sense, this 'Other as friend' idea can't be pushed too hard-- we all know the Other is radically treacherous, and so does the lover. But then, we also know the beloved herself is radically treacherous! And so does the lover, though he tries his best not to admit it. (The second line is framed as a question, after all-- one

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that the lover asks himself as he tries to rationalize his situation, to conceal from himself the depths of deceit all around him.) So the ultimate point of the verse, its real piquancy and bite, lies in our being led to realize the lover's dire plight. The only people available to him as 'friends' are both deeply treacherous and ultimately hostile. In the previous verse, {97,5}, we saw how easy it was for him to assume that they (the beloved? the Rival? both?) would move from denying him wine at parties, to poisoning him. The real shock of this verse is that the lover is willing to use the term 'friend' about either one of these faithless wretches. But of course, he has no choice. Through careful ambiguity and elegant implication, Ghalib has shown us the lover's whole terrible dilemma in the space of two lines.

{97,7} mai;N mu.z:tarib huu;N va.sl me;N ;xauf-e raqiib se ;Daalaa hai tum ko vahm ne kis pech-o-taab me;N 1) I might be uneasy, in union, from fear of a Rival?! 2) in what agitation has illusion put you?

Notes: huu;N is, for the commentators, the usual 'am'. In my reading, following Faruqi, it should be interpreted as the future subjunctive (from huu;Ngaa).

Nazm: That is, in union, I have the agitation of thinking, 'may the Rival not come and, seeing my anxiety, may the beloved not entertain the illusory idea that I have come to her after secretly meeting some beloved, and that that's why I'm anxious!' (99)

Hasrat: In union, I'm fearful that the Rival might come. This is the cause of my restlessness. But you have the illusion that I've come from secretly meeting some other beloved, and that's why I'm restless. (86)

Bekhud Mohani: I am anxious with fear that the Rival might come, and you, perceiving this, are agitated. After all, what false notion do you have at a time like this? That is, do you too fear the Rival, or that I love somebody else and have come from secretly meeting her? (195)

Faruqi: The fundamental thing is that the beloved's agitation is due to 'illusion'. That is, the beloved has an 'illusion' (a false idea, a groundless thought) because of which she is agitated. From the word 'what' [kis] it is clear that in the speaker’s opinion this agitation is unnecessary, or in fact even improper. For example we say, 'You think I’ll be afraid of the rain? What kind of idea have you gotten into your head?' In other words, your idea is false, it is groundless. In the second line, the inquiry is about agitation, not illusion. That is, the question is not, What illusion do you harbor now?; rather, the question is, What agitation are you in now? The reason for the agitation has become apparent of itself-- that the reason is illusion'. Accordingly, the verse's basic problem is, What illusion is it because of which the beloved is consumed with agitation?.... In fact, in the first line the inquiry is a negative one. At the time of union the lover is restless. The beloved considers that this restlessness is due to fear of a rival, and is agitated at the thought of the lover’s cowardice. The lover says, What the hell-- at the time of union, am I one to become restless with fear of a rival? You’re caught up in an illusion, and the illusion has put you into an extraordinary agitation.... In the second line, the inquiry is of a sarcastic type. (128-29).

FWP: 'UNION': {5,2}

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I find this verse somehow distasteful, and also really problematical. It's hard to envision the circumstances in which it would actually be said. The lover so rarely can even imagine obtaining the delights of 'union' with the beloved that the situation should be almost sacred to him. And are we to think that at such a moment he is offering some kind of boastful claim, and she is making snide remarks, so that the two are engaged in a kind of vulgar bickering? And why are they having, uh, 'union' under circumstances where a Rival could, it seems, walk in on them? Pfui, say I. Faruqi has explicated the verse, treating the huu;N in the first line as a future subjunctive, not a present tense, so that the first line becomes a sort of negative rhetorical exclamation. 'What-- me!? And you think I'd be afraid of a Rival?' And so on; it all makes sense in its way. I'll settle for his explanation. He doesn't seem to find the verse as irritating as I do. I think it's a travesty. Maybe this is just a personal reaction; I'll give it more thought. There's something in my vision of the ghazal world that doesn't admit of a verse like this, with its overtones (to me, at least) of pettiness, nagging, suspicion, and vulgarity. If the lover and the beloved are actually going to achieve their almost-impossible-to-imagine 'union', let it be worthy of all they've gone through to get to it! In this verse, it doesn't seem to be. One possibility that just occurred to me is that they are not actually having 'union', just contemplating or considering it (since the verb in the first verse can be read as a future subjunctive). But such a discussion still doesn't show either of their personalities in a very attractive light. Some people have argued that all ghazal verses can, in principle, be read as addressed to a Divine Beloved. This verse alone ought to be more than sufficient to discredit that idea. For more examples of such verses, see {20,3}. The next verse, {97,8}, is more in the classic ghazal style in its treatment of 'union'. And consider {98,5}, which also makes use of a vahm, a pech -otaab, and an Other-- but to such different effect. For more on Ghalib's erotic verses, see {99,4}.

{97,8} mai;N aur ;ha:z:z-e va.sl ;xudaa-saaz baat hai jaa;N na;zr denii bhuul gayaa i.z:tiraab me;N 1) I, and the joy of union? it's the handiwork of the Lord! 2) I forgot to offer up [my] life, in agitation

Notes: ;ha:z:z has its extra :z because of the following i.zaafat. na;zr : 'A vow; an offering, anything offered or dedicated; a gift or present (from an inferior to a superior)'. (Platts p. 1128) i.z:tiraab : 'Agitation, perturbation, restlessness, distraction, anxiety, anguish, trouble, chagrin; precipitation; flurry'. (Platts. p.59)

Nazm: That is, I-- and the joy of union would be obtained? It is said as an expression of surprise at such an improbable event. The omission of the verb is according to idiom. In this way on an occasion of rhetorical exaggeration too they leave the verb omitted [;ha;zaf karnaa]. (99)

Bekhud Dihlavi: A 'letter of union' [;xa:tt-e va.sl] is that letter in which a promise of union would be written. He says, It's my fortune that she would write and send to me a promise of union in a letter. It seems that God Most High accomplished my desire. Upon this letter, I ought to sacrifice my life. In the ebullience of happiness, I forgot to do so. (149)

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Bekhud Mohani: God, God!-- where am I, and where the pleasure of union! This is the Lord's power, and His handiwork alone. I was so agitated that I forgot to offer up my life. That is, union with the beloved is such a blessing that it's astonishing that I didn't die of happiness. (195)

Josh: What an extraordinary and unique theme it is! (190)

FWP: SETS == I AND Bekhud Dihlavi has misread the verse in a thoroughly understandable way. The only difference between the very common word 'letter' [;xa:t] and the very uncommon word 'joy' [;ha:z] is not even the presence or absence of a single dot, but the dot's placement a tiny bit to the left or right. And both words fit the situation (though undoubtedly the latter fits it better). I sympathize, because I originally misread the word that way too. It makes me feel better that even a native speaker like Bekhud could make such a mistake. The word na;zr is drawn directly from medieval Persianized court etiquette. When you appeared in the ruler's presence, you humbly presented [na;zr denaa], as 'from an inferior to a superior', an offering as elegant and valuable as you could provide. If the ruler deigned to accept it, he would in turn present you with something far more valuable, usually a 'robe of honor' [;xil((at] that ideally and in theory would contain among its many components some garment that the ruler himself had actually worn (or at least had caused to be momentarily draped over his shoulders). This symbolic incorporation would seal your loyalty to him as ruler, and his gracious protection of you as subject. This seems to be one of those paradoxical verses in which the most glorious gift of one's whole life is also felt as the bringer of death. Not that the lover even notices! After rapturizing in the first line, his only concern in the second line is that he has been (temporarily?) oblivious of the proprieties. He has received a gracious invitation from a superior, and he must make a proper return-- and in his judgment, when he is offered 'union' the only suitable response is to at once offer up his life, as a fitting gesture of appreciation. He feels himself remiss in not (yet) having done so. Will he therefore at once proceed to drop dead-- out of either bliss, or courtly etiquette? Maybe not. This verse reminds me of {20,2}, in which the lover says he has lived on the beloved's promise even though he knew it was false-- because wouldn't he have died of happiness, if he had really trusted it? Look at the range of meanings that i.z:tiraab can have-- within that general sense of 'agitation' there's scope for 'anxiety' and 'anguish' and 'trouble'. Did he fail to drop dead because he really, inwardly, knew the promise was false, so that his effusive delight could only be vain or chimerical? (Do we think he doth protest too much?) Does he plan to rectify his faux pas, or does he sadly realize that his heart's failure to stop beating shows a deeper knowledge than his mind can bring itself to accept? As usual, we're left with subtle and complex questions, and no way to answer them except out of our own intuition and our own experience of the world.

{97,9} hai tevarii cha;Rhii hu))ii andar naqaab ke hai ik shikan pa;Rii hu))ii :tarf-e naqaab me;N 1) the brow is wrinkled [in a frown] inside the veil 2) a single fold has appeared on the surface of the veil

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Notes: Nazm: [He has scanned tevarii in the Delhi style, not the Lucknow style.] The gist is, seeing a fold in the veil, the anxiety arises in the lover that perhaps her brow is wrinkled, she's angry about something. (99-100)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even inside the veil, her brow is wrinkled with anger, and her anger is so deadly that the effect of the anger has appeared on the veil too-- that is, at the point of the brow, a fold in the veil is situated. (149)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is before him. In her veil a fold can be seen. The lover, fearful, is saying in his heart-- alas, what a disaster, she's angry! From this verse it can be seen to what a degree the lover is attentive to the beloved's anger. In the language of the elders of Delhi, the word shikan was masculine. (196)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM VEIL: {6,1} We have two independent, parallel lines, and we have to decide for ourselves how they are related to each other. Here are a few possibilities: 1) I see a fold in her veil, and fearfully deduce that it's caused by her brow ominously wrinkled in anger. (How attentively I watch her, and how paranoid I am about her displeasure!) 2) I already know she's angry under her veil. And now-- her anger has actually caused a fold in her veil. (What power she has, so that her frown is even shared and obediently conveyed by her veil!) 3) When an earthquake or volcanic eruption happens, I know Who is, invisibly behind the veil of this material world, seriously displeased. This third reading might be called simply a mystical reading of the first one. I only mention it because I can't help but think of it when I read this verse. If this material world is a veil for God's presence, what a perfect expression of secret divine anger such ominous 'folds in the veil' would be! On a more human level, we can actually say that in this case the signalling system goes both ways. For we've seen in {34,1} that the beloved knows from the lover's wrinkled forehead about his hidden grief. Such studies in implication are one of Ghalib's ways of making multiple meanings out of minimal information. The tone in which the verse is read-- fearful, or fascinated, or calm and matter-of-fact-- will be able to shape its implications very substantially. And of course, the tone too is something we have to choose for ourselves. How carefully the verse is framed, to give us no clues.

{97,10} laakho;N lagaa))o ek churaanaa nigaah kaa laakho;N banaa))o ek biga;Rnaa ((ataab me;N 1) hundreds of thousands of affections, one averting of the glance 2) hundreds of thousands of adornments, one fit of anger

Notes: Hali: Here lagaa))o means lagaava;T [intimacy, attachment]; that is, the beloved's treating the lover in a way that would reveal her affection and inclination. The meaning of the verse is that on one side are the beloved's hundreds of thousands of intimacies, and on the other side one averting of the glance. And her hundreds of thousands of adornments and embellishments are on one side, and on the other side a single show of petulance in anger. This verse too is 'unattainably simple' [sahl-o-mumtana(( ; though the standard

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form of the term is sahl-e mumtana((]. If you look at the words, it’s surprising that two such equally balanced lines have come together, in which the fullest justice has been done to elegance of structure [;husn-e tar.sii((]. And if you look at the meaning, then in each line a situation has been incoporated that in truth always occurs between lover and beloved. The beloved’s intimacy is a very great thing for the lover, but her averting her glance, which is the opposite of intimacy, in the lover’s eyes is very much more heart-beguiling than intimacy. In the same way, from adornments and embellishments the beloved’s beauty is undoubtedly doubled; but her showing petulance in anger seems much more attractive and heart-stealing than her adornments. All these things that I’m writing about this verse are external and superficial; its true excellence is connected with mystical intuition [vajdaanii], which only possessors of taste can understand. One day somebody recited this verse in the presence of the late Maulana Azurdah. Since the Maulana liked extremely clear and easily understood verses, when he heard Mirza’s poetry he usually grew confused, and always disapproved of his style. But on this day, hearing this verse, he lost himself in rapture [vajd]. And he asked in astonishment, 'Whose verse is this?' He was told that it was Mirza Ghalib’s. Because he never used to praise any verse of Mirza's, and on this day, in ignorance, praise had uncontrollably emerged from his mouth, when he heard Ghalib’s name he said by way of a joke, as was his habit, 'What praise does Mirza deserve for this? This is a verse especially in my style!' But in reality in terms of meaning and words this verse too is of that peerless and unique kind such that Mirza's whole body of poetry can't be rivalled by anyone else’s poetry. As far as I am aware, up to the present this style has not been seen with such excellence in anyone else's poetry. (148-149)

Nazm: In the structure of the sentences, in the illustrations and 'seating' [nishist] of the words-- if there's to be elegance of comparison [;husn-e taqaabil], then this Quranic verse is famous as its ideal [structural] paradigm: [Qur'an 82:13-14]. But in Urdu, this verse too is a suitably adorning beloved [shaahid-e zebaa]. (102)

Bekhud Mohani: How he has juxtaposed two equal fragments! In a simple-seeming verse, there are hundreds of thousands of affections.... To the lover, every coquetry of the beloved is appealing. He says, in her averting her glance and remaining silent there is such style that thousands of affections would sacrifice themselves for it. And in her show of petulance in anger, thousands of adornments offer themselves up. That is, for her there's no need to express love in order to ravish away the heart, nor to adorn herself since her simplicity steals the heart. (196)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; PARALLELISM Oh talk about adorable and so sneakily simple-- as well as clever, witty, and inexhaustibly complicated! How can anybody not delight in this verse! It moves even the persnickety Nazm to effusiveness. It's so 'unattainably simple' that it has no verbs, just four phrases-- so it's like one of those puzzles that give you no guidance for how to assemble them. Here are some of the ways it could be put together. For convenience, let's call the four quarters of the verse A, B, C, and D: A = B, C = D -- her B and D are equal in charm to her A and C A = B, C = D -- her B and D are equal in charm to other, ordinary women's A and C A + B, C + D -- her numerous instances of A and C are accompanied by only a single instance of B and D, because she's so sweet-natured and lovable

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A -> B, C -> D -- she may lull you into complacency for a while with her A and C-- but then suddenly, without warning, you'll feel them all nullified by the full force of her terrifying B and D A -> B, C -> D -- all her great show of A and C merely goes into the making and reinforcing of her B and C Astonishing, isn't it? The very simplicity of the means makes the possibilities almost infinite. Its nearest counterpart is surely {4,4}, an equally remarkable tour de force (its first line consists of 'A and B and C and D'). This verse somehow feels all warm and fuzzy-- it must be the ratio of 'hundreds of thousands' (and notice the oblique plural that makes it 'all the hundreds of thousands') [laakho;N] of charming things to one single [ek] negative one. And yet when you think about it, the negative possibilities are just as possible, just as powerful. After all, this may still be the same beloved we just saw in {97,9} so ominously frowning beneath her veil, as her lover watched with helpless fear. But the sound effects are still friendly and comforting, with all those long aa sounds; the strong parallelism of structure between the two lines creates a soothing rhythm in its repetitiveness. But is the lover really being soothed? Or is he being lulled and gulled-- and set up for a single devastating show of cold aversion or hot anger?

{97,11} vuh naalah dil me;N ;xas ke baraabar jagah nah paa))e jis naale se shigaaf pa;Re aaftaab me;N 1) that lament, in the heart, would not find space equal to a blade of grass 2) the lament from which a slash would be cut in the sun

Notes: Nazm: Both [this and the following] verses are about extraordinary situations. And by 'heart' is meant the beloved's heart. (100)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, It's a cause for great surprise. That lament doesn't find in the beloved even as much space as a straw-- the lament by means of which a long [space] appears in the sun. (150)

Bekhud Mohani: With extreme surprise he says, that lament from which the sun would be split in fragments-- that lament wouldn't have the effect of even a hear's breadth in the beloved's heart. And those magically effective words through which a ship would begin to move in a mirage-- they wouldn't serve to achieve the purpose. It's a cause for astonishment. That is, that lament and those words through which impossible things would become possible-- they turned out to be so ineffective that they didn't achieve the smallest result. (196)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES A number of editors and commentators (including Hamid, Nazm, Bekhud Mohani, Shadan, and Mihr) treat this and the following verse as a verse-set. But others disagree; the dissenters include Bekhud Dihlavi, Baqir, Josh, and Chishti-- and Arshi, whose usage I follow as always. Even if it's not to be formally identified as a verse-set, it's easy to see why the idea could arise. The two verses are strikingly similar both formally and semantically. And they have a close (though less madly beautiful) cousin in {120,3}. They were two of my favorites, too, back in the days when I thought I could translate Ghalib. Because they could be translated! They could be made to sound good in English! What an all-too-rare pleasure it turned out to be, to find such verses.

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The verbs are both in the future subjunctive, so none of this has happened. The lover is not reporting real events, but only giving us his thoughts. Of course, his thoughts are based on long and painful experience with lesser laments and lesser refusals. So here is his cosmic conclusion, projecting his experience to the limit of imagination. And what a limit it is! The beauty and power of this verse lie in its second line, and its vivid image, both real and unreal. The 'lament that could slash a scar across the sun', was how I planned to put it in my translation.

{97,12} vuh si;hr mudda((aa-:talabii me;N nah kaam aa))e jis si;hr se safiinah ravaa;N ho saraab me;N 1) that enchantment would not work in attaining the goal 2) the enchantment from which a ship would move in a mirage

Notes: Nazm: And for a ship to move in a mirage is intended to mean, for an event outside of normal experience to take place. (100)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that magic doesn't achieve any purpose at all in the beloved's heart-the magic by means of which a ship moves in a mirage. (151)

Bekhud Mohani: [Comments on this verse are included in {97,11}.]

Josh: This verse too is in harmony [ham-aavaaz] with the previous one. (191)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES This verse is treated by many editors and commentators as the second half of a two-verse verse-set. For more on this, see {97,11}. An enchantment, or piece of sorcery, or other magic spell or action [si;hr], was a concept with which Ghalib's readers were thoroughly familiar. In {29,3} he refers to a more specific kind of enchanted world, a :tilism, and in {22,7} he names Amir Hamzah, the greatest hero of the magic-filled Urdu romance tradition. Hamzah's greatest enemies were powerful magicians, or saa;hir-- literally, those who performed si;hr. Like the previous verse, this one packs its punch in the second line, with its arresting image of the implausible, the dreamlike, the marvelous. And like the previous verse (and for the same reasons), this verse too is remarkably possible to capture in English. In the days when I wanted to translate Ghalib, I was planning to render the second line as 'the spell that could sail a ship in a mirage'.

{97,13} ;Gaalib chhu;Tii sharaab par ab bhii kabhii kabhii piitaa huu;N roz-e abr-o-shab-e maahtaab me;N 1) Ghalib, wine has been left behind [by me], but even now, from time to time 2) I drink on cloudy days and moonlit nights

Notes: Nazm: The meaning is that I've left off wine, but my state is still such that when I see clouds and moonlight I can't bear it-- I drink. (100)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They say that wine gives more pleasure on cloudy and rainy days, or on moonlit nights. Mirza Sahib says, even after giving up wine, on these two

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occasions-- that is, cloudy days and moonlit nights-- I can't do without drinking. (151)

Bekhud Mohani: I've given up wine. But even now, when in the daytime the clouds float by, or at night when the moon shines brightly, I can't bear it. I always drink. (196)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} WINE: {49,1} This verse is as lyrical, arresting, and beautifully translatable as the two immediately preceding ones. It has one clear, romantic,meaning, and its flowingness makes it pleasure to recite. Instead of leaving you perplexed and bemused, your mind ricocheting among a dozen unresolvable possibilities, it leaves you in a kind of Zen-like peace and calm-- with melancholy overtones, however. The sound effects are soothing, too-- par ab bhii kabhii kabhii ripples like waves in a pond. We also notice the set of ab, kabhii, abr, shab and the resonance of sharaab, mahtaab. Here's how simply and literally I planned to translate it, back in my translating days: Ghalib, I've given up wine, but even now sometimes I drink on cloudy days and moonlit nights. For another verse about clouds and moonlight and wine, see {107,2}. Some editions of the divan treat {98} as a continuation of this ghazal.

Ghazal 98 11 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aab me;N composed 1847; Hamid p. 80; Arshi #110; Raza p. 288

{98,1} kal ke liye kar aaj nah ;xissat sharaab me;N yih suu-e :zan hai saaqii-e kau;sar ke baab me;N 1) for the sake of tomorrow, don't stint the wine today! 2) this is an evil opinion with regard to the 'Cupbearer of Kausar'

Notes: Hali: That is, not to give wine today, out of fear that there might be none tomorrow, is to distrust the generosity of the Cupbearer of Kausar. (147)

Nazm: On the part of the poet, the 'tomorrow' [kal] that is to come is Doomsday, and the 'yesterday' [kal] that is past is alast ['Am I not (your Lord)?', Qur'an 7:172]. And when the word 'above' appears, the thought will reach the heaven beyond all heavens; and with the word 'below', the mind will turn toward the depths of the earth. With 'cup', he'll create a picture of Jamshid, and with the word 'curl, twist' [;xam], Plato will come to mind [WHY??]. If there was a 'staff', then it belonged to Moses alone [as in Qur'an 7:107]; if there is a 'coat of mail', then it is for David alone [as in Qur'an 21:80]. On a 'ring', only Solomon's name is engraved; and a 'mirror' [traditionally made for him by Aristotle] is placed before Alexander alone. If there is any 'wall' in the world, it is the Wall of Alexander [Qur'an 18:96]; and if there's a 'throne', then it's the Throne of Cyrus [of the Shah-namah]. In short, the poet's subject of speech/poetry should be what is very famous. (100)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for tomorrow-- that is, for Doomsday-- don't stint on pouring wine. (It's well-known that whoever drinks wine in the world, will remain deprived of heavenly wine in the afterlife.) He [who stints on the wine] considers that the Cupbearer of Kausar won't give heavenly wine. This is a discreditable thought about the generosity of the Cupbearer of Kausar. Such a thing can't be-- that is, there too wine will certainly be given. (151)

Bekhud Mohani: By 'the Cupbearer of Kausar' is meant Hazrat 'Ali. By 'today' is meant in this life in the world. This verse, in a rakish [rindaanah] taste, is peerless. And the foundation of this verse is on on this belief of Muslims: that 'the winedrinker is hell-bound' [sharaabii doza;xii hai]. He will not be replete with the wine of Kausar. As someone has said, 'If you drink today, you'll thirst there'. Or else the Cupbearer has said, 'Will you drink everything right here? Put some away for there as well!', and this verse is in reply to that. (197)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Some editions, especially older ones, treat this ghazal as a continuation of {97}; so do some (Nazm; Hasrat; Bekhud Dihlavi) among our commentators. But others (Bekhud Mohani; Baqir; Shadan; Josh; Chishti; Mihr) present them separately. As always, I follow Arshi. But they are certainly a kind of 'double ghazal' [do-;Gazalah], with the same meter and rhyming elements. The central meaning of the verse must surely be 'don't stint on wine in this world for fear of denial of wine in the heavenly Garden of Kausar', since this makes for the richest connections with the second line. Thus Hazrat 'Ali is invoked as a patron of wine-drinking, of enjoying life in the world. The whole 'rakish' [rindaanah] strand in the ghazal universe, with its glorification of wine and intoxication over sobriety and prudence, has always been taken mystically by those who disapprove of its theological unorthodoxy. And since 'Saqi of Kausar' is a common epithet referring to Hazrat 'Ali, the second line might be taken as invoking his help in a more general way. Which would permit two other interpretations to give us at least a nod in passing. First: 'don't stint on the wine today, for fear of scarcity tomorrow'. (Hazrat 'Ali will look out for you, with regard to wine just as to everything else; don't cast aspersions on his generosity.) And second: 'don't stint on the wine in this life, for fear of going to hell tomorrow'. (Hazrat 'Ali is not so petty-minded-- how could he be such a strict enforcer as to send you to hell just for a bit of wine? Don't think such an unworthy thing about him!) For a verse quite overtly in praise of Hazrat 'Ali, see {141,5}. This verse and the next one, {98,2}, form a nicely juxtaposed set, with each exploiting one meaning of kal. This verse is about today in relation to a cosmic 'tomorrow'. The next verse is about today in relation to a cosmic 'yesterday'.

{98,2} hai;N aaj kyuu;N ;zaliil kih kal tak nah thii pasand gustaa;xii-e farishtah hamaare janaab me;N 1) why are we despicable/insulted today, when up to yesterday not pleasing [to You/God] was 2) the insolence of {angels / an angel}, toward/concerning our majesty

Notes: ;zaliil : 'Base, mean, vile, wretched, contemptible, despicable, ignominious; brought low, abased, humbled, disgraced, insulted'. (Platts p.577)

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janaab : 'A place to which one repairs for refuge, &c. (hence, as a title of respect, in addressing, or speaking of, a great man) your honour, your excellency, your majesty; his honour, &c'. (Platts p.390)

Hali: One meaning of this is that once regard for us was so precious to the beloved that even supposing an angel had treated us insolently, she would not have been pleased; and now we have completely fallen from her view. And the second excellent meaning is that in this verse there’s an allusion to the story of Adam and the angels, which is mentioned in the Noble Qur'an [Qur'an 2:30-34]: that when the Lord Most High expressed an intention to create Adam, the angels said, 'Do you want to create in the world this individual-that is, this species-- who would create turmoil and bloodshed in it?' From there the command came, 'You do not know what I know'. And then through Adam he checked them, and ordered them to prostrate themselves before Adam. He [=Ghalib] says, why are we today lowly/vile in the world to such an extent, when up to yesterday we received such honor? (131-32)

Nazm: In this verse by 'yesterday' is meant that 'yesterday' when the angels had petitioned, 'if you create man, then he'll create turmoil and bloodshed', and this was not pleasing [to God]. The poet has here used a question not because he seeks an answer; rather, his purpose is only so that the listener will realize-- that is, to cause him to reflect that it is in his hands alone to confront his lowness/vileness. (100-01)

Bekhud Mohani: By 'yesterday' is intended the day of Adam's creation. When the Lord commanded the angels, 'I will create a creature, and make him my viceroy in the earth', then the angels had said, 'How will such a creature who will spill blood act as a viceroy?' On this some questions were posed. Beside Adam, no one was able to give the correct answers. In this verse, there is an allusion to this. (197)

Josh: In the previous verse, kal was for the future; here, it is for the past. And by this is meant the day of creation-- that is, that day when Adam was created out of dust, and the angels were given the order to prostrate themselves before him. On the grounds that he was a creature of dust, Azazil [((azaaziil] considered him petty and refused to prostrate himself. This insolence was considered to be disobedience; Azazil was punished. He was expelled from the Divine Court, and became famous by the name of Satan [shai:taan].... This verse contains the verbal device of 'reference to a famous past event' [talmii;h]. (191-92)

FWP: This verse and the previous one, {98,1}, form a nicely juxtaposed set, with each exploiting one meaning of kal. This verse is about today in relation to a cosmic 'yesterday'. The previous verse was about today in relation to a cosmic 'tomorrow'. One basic reference is clearly to Qur'an 2:30-34, as Hali and others observe. It contains the account of God's announced intention and the angels' reaction, followed by God's response. In verses 2:35-36, a brief reference to Satan as the cause of Adam and Eve's expulsion from the Garden appears. Since the grammar of the second line would permit farishtah to be not only a sort of collective noun but also a singular, Josh's claim that the verse can refer to the behavior of Azazil/Satan is also plausible. Nazm makes a thought-provoking point about the verse: the angels tell God that humans will turn out to be too bloody-minded and violence-prone to serve as His viceroys over the earth. The case could be made that our history has proved them right, and that our present 'lowness' is our own doing, and

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we should reflect on how we can improve our moral standing enough to regain our former status. And yet-- look at the cleverly wide range of meanings for ;zaliil. The first group of them suggest moral agency and personal iniquity ('despicable'), while the second group suggest victimization ('insulted'). Thus although it seems clear that 'up to yesterday' we were glorious and honored by direct Divine decree (though not without dissent from the angels), and it's clear that we no longer have that status, it's not clear what has caused our downfall. Are we sinned against, or sinning? Are we victims, or villains? (Or, surely most likely, both?) With his characteristically inshaa))iyah structure, Ghalib leaves the question open. He doesn't even clarify for us to whom the question is addressed. Is he asking God, in a reproachful tone, why He has abandoned the children of Adam whom he once delighted to honor? Or is he meditating aloud, asking himself (and all of us) why our species has fallen so low? (Or both, of course.) How skilful he is at presenting us with several possibilities in even the seemingly simplest verse.

{98,3} jaa;N kyuu;N nikalne lagtii hai tan se dam-e samaa(( gar vuh .sadaa samaa))ii hai chang-o-rabaab me;N 1) why does life begin to leave the body at the moment/breath of hearing 2) if that voice is contained in the lute and rebeck?

Notes: rebeck: (From French rebec, rabec, Old French rebebe, rubebe, ribibe; Arabic rabab). 'A medieval stringed instrument, having three strings and played with a bow; an early form of the fiddle'. --Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, vol. II, pp. 1758, 1828)

Azad: [The poet and Sufi Khvajah Mir Dard] was well skilled in music. Wellknown and accomplished singers used to sing their compositions before him, to receive his correction. A raag is a thing full of emotional effect. The Greek philosophers and the ancient learned men have determined it to be a branch of mathematics. It opens the heart and exalts the spirit. For this reason, some circles among the practitioners of Sufism have treated it as a form of worship. Thus on the second and the twenty-fourth of every month it was customary for the well-known masters of music, [the caste of musicians called] Doms, singers, accomplished persons, and people of taste to gather together and sing mystical pieces. These dates were the death anniversaries of certain of his elders. Muharram is the month of grief; thus on the second [day], instead of songs, there was elegy-recitation. == Azad, p. 178 ==Pritchett and Faruqi, pp. 175-76

Nazm: Here too [as in {98,2}], the interrogative form is only to alert the listener; the poet does not want an answer. The meaning is, reflect that when the voice of that immanent Authority is raised, then the lives of the music-listeners begin to be obliterated. That is, before His presence, everyone's existence is trivial. And He is the drawer-out of everyone, and everyone is drawn out. And He is the destination, and everyone is destined for Him. He has presented this theme in this way: that if it's true that His voice is contained in the lute and the rebeck, then why, when we listen to them, does our life leave us? In short, the listener should be alerted. (101)

Hasrat: He expresses surprise, that if that voice is life-giving, then why does it have this effect? (87)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when listening to songs, why does the life begin to emerge from the body-- that is, why does this state begin to prevail, that causes one to writhe? If that voice-- that is the voice of the True Beloved-- is contained in the lute and rebeck, then why does this not have the effect of life-bestowingness? (152)

Bekhud Mohani: He will have previously established from the lips of the Preacher himself that whatever is found in every substance is entirely due to the active power of the Lord. After this, he asks, when such is the case, then why, while listening to music, does the life leave the body? (198)

FWP: Like the previous verse, this one too, as Nazm notes, poses a rhetorical question. In both cases the question is a broad one with a mystical or cosmic scope. And in both cases the question is delicately balanced between an interrogation of God's treatment of humans, and an uncertainty about human responsiveness to God's presence and commands. As Azad's account of Mir Dard make clear, Sufis have sometimes had a favorable attitude toward samaa((, or listening to music-- though very often they have been opposed to it. Controversies have been vehement, and in some circles the issue remains contentious today. Some Sufi orders disapprove on principle of all religious uses of music, while others make a (carefully controlled) place for it in their practice. Mir Dard, as both a poet and a Sufi, is a particularly interesting case; for discussion of these controversies and his somewhat ambivalently expressed attitude toward music, see Annemarie Schimmel's Pain and Grace (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1976), especially pp. 53-57. Ghalib and his original audience would have been well aware that the mystical use of music, as an approach to the Divine, was a theological hot potato. Whatever else Ghalib is doing in this verse, he's also throwing a hot potato into a hornets' nest. Thus it's not surprising that the verse can be understood in ways that might well suit the predilections of different listeners. If you're opposed to the use of music for mystical experience, you can say, 'Good question! As this question shows, music is just another intoxicant like wine, and its power can knock you out or leave you swooning just as wine can. Like wine, music can wreck you; it can destroy your proper self-control and piety. So it's clear that 'that [divine] voice' is not present in the lute and rebeck.' And if you believe that music is a legitimate part of mystical experience, you can say, 'Why, that's an easy question to answer! Music transports you outside your petty this-worldly self, it renders you 'self-less' [be-;xvud] in the way that great mystics have always desired. Listening to music, you reach a higher state that is a close cousin to mystical oblivion [fanaa]. This 'selflessness' is the human response to the divine Presence. So the very fact that listening to music can transport you outside yourself is clear proof that 'that [divine] voice' is present in the lute and rebeck.' Needless to say, it's impossible to tell from this verse what Ghalib himself thought about the mystical use of music. All we can say is that he presents music as a powerful force that can sweep the listener away.

{98,4} rau me;N hai ra;xsh-e ((umr kahaa;N dekhiye thame ne haath baag par hai nah paa hai rakaab me;N 1a) the steed of lifetime/age is in motion-- let's see-- where might he halt? 1b) the steed of lifetime/age is in motion-- let's see where he might halt 1b) the steed of lifetime/age is in motion-- wait and see-- as if he would ever halt!

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2a) neither is the hand on the reins, nor is the foot in the stirrup 2b) there is no hand on the reins, nor is there a foot in the stirrup

Notes: ne is really nah, but is spelled that way so it can become the metrically long syllable needed in that position.

Hali: The rider’s lack of power, and the horse’s becoming out of his control-- in the language of whip-riders, there can be no better expression for this. And to give for lifetime/age the synonym of an uncontrolled horse fulfills the claims of excellent use of similes [;husn-e tashbiih]. (149)

Nazm: Lifetime/age is a steed-- and a steed that is not in the rider's control. Let's see how far it takes him before throwing him off its back. (101)

Faruqi: [Hali's words are the commentarial consensus; a few further points can however be added:] 1) 'The steed of lifetime/age is in motion' is a picture of the present. The next fragment points to the future's being uncertain-- kahaa;N dekhiye thame. But what was the state of affairs in the past?... There was perhaps a time when it was not like this, when life was in our control.... 2) The 'steed of lifetime/age' must have stayed quiet at some time, otherwise how could I have mounted upon him? 3) The word 'when' points toward a unity of time and space. 4) The second line also points toward the unity of time and space [with its imagery about reins and stirrups].... Looked at in a certain way, in the verse is the story of the decline of the eastern nations. There was a tine when the east controlled events-- and there's this time, in which events control the east. Despite all this, in the verse the power of movement and strength assumes an impressive aspect; to analyze and praise it sufficiently is impossible. It's not a verse-- it's the spirit of all the fine arts. (131-32)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN == TRANSLATABLES As Faruqi says, this verse has an implacability and force of its own. It's so transparent that it hardly needs to be explained, but Ghalib rarely misses the chance to create subtleties. In the first line, dekhiye has an idiomatic versatility that goes far beyond its official grammatical definition. Its nearest English counterpart is probably 'let's see', or sometimes 'wait and see'. Together with the multivalent kahaa;N, it ensures that the first line can be read in several different rhetorical modes-- all, needless to say, appropriate to the human condition. The second line too contains two possible images behind the grammar. One image, (2a), is of a person astride a runaway horse, desperately holding on, but unable to secure the stirrups or make use of the reins. The other, (2b), is a more eerie one: a riderless horse, a wild horse, running where it wishes. Related to these possibilities is another elegant (and elegantly unresolvable) ambiguity. Do we want the horse to pause, since it might mean a chance to reflect, to rest, even to grab the reins and get control of our life? Or do we dread the time when the horse will pause, since that will mean our death? You might have noticed the Wallace Stevens lines that I chose for the main Ghalib index page that introduces this site. The poem they come from is called 'The Pure Good of Theory', and these lines are from the first stanza, called 'All the Preludes to Felicity'. I can't refrain from putting the whole stanza here, where it so richly and beautifully belongs:

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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time. Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass. It is someone walking rapidly in the street. The reader by the window has finished his book And tells the hour by the lateness of the sounds. Even breathing is the beating of time, in kind: A retardation of its battering, A horse grotesquely taut, a walker like A shadow in mid-earth . . . If we propose A large-sculptured, platonic person, free from time, And imagine for him the speech he cannot speak, A form, then, protected from the battering, may Mature: A capable being may replace Dark horse and walker walking rapidly. Felicity, ah! Time is the hooded enemy, The inimical music, the enchantered space In which the enchanted preludes have their place.

{98,5} utnaa hii mujh ko apnii ;haqiiqat se bu((d hai jitnaa kih vahm-e ;Gair se huu;N pech-o-taab me;N 1) exactly that much distance do I have from my reality 2) as much as [I] am in agitation from the illusion of the Other

Notes: Hali: By 'Other' is here intended what exists besides Allah, which according to the Sufis is absolutely nonexistent. Because they consider everybody nonexistent except that Existent One. He says that to the extent that because of the illusion of existence besides Allah night and day I am restless, to exactly that extent I am distant from my reality, that is, my existence. (14950)

Nazm: That is, to the extent that I consider the Other to be Other, to that extent I am alienated from myself. Thus the mystical knower is one who sees in the mirror of the face of the Other, his own face. (101)

Faruqi: (1) I am in search of my own reality. (2) Through knowledge, I can attain understanding of reality when I place myself before others and seek out the points of comparison and difference. Because from the point of view of knowledge, I can only understand 'I' when a 'not-I' is present as well. (3) The meaning of this is that I can only place confidence in my own existence when I can place confidence in the existence of others as well. (4) Accordingly, my 'illusion' (assumption, opinion, doubt, mental error) is that others too are present, otherwise I would not be present. (5) But the difficulty is that the existence of others doesn't suit me, and it also doesn't please me that my existence should be dependent on them. I am in the 'agitation' [of wondering] who are those others? And why is my existence contingent? (6) As much as is my 'agitation' (controversy, argument, suspicion, restlessness, doubt), I am that much far off from my reality. Because (7) the real truth is that neither do I exist, nor do the others exist. We are creatures. Only that exists which is not created. (8) But the difficulty is that without the existence of the Other, I cannot prove my own existence.

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And since there is no existence of the Other at all, I too have no existence. For this reason my reality is nothing at all, only an 'illusion'. As long as I don't understand this, I will remain far from my reality. There can also be this interpretation: that the 'Other' doesn't exist at all, and I am caught up in the 'illusion' that I am something and the Other is something else. That is, I consider my existence to be separate from the existence of others. The real case is that it's only an 'illusion' that anything exists apart from me. In the world whatever is, is one existence alone; there is no Other. As long as I remain caught up in the illusion that I am separate and the not-I is separate, then I won't be able to understand my existence, and I'll remain ignorant of my reality. (134-35)

FWP: The commentators, and especially Faruqi, have analyzed this one quite helpfully. I don't have much to add. It's a verse of wildly abstract philosophizing, with no doubt a certain free-floating charm as it drifts through the void. But consider a suggestive case for comparison: {97,7}. {97,7} too has a vahm, a display of pech -o-taab, and a problematical Other lurking in the background. But in {97,7} the Other is the Rival, and the situation is not maximally abstract but maximally specific, since it directly concerns a 'union' that seems to be actually taking place. Ghalib's greatest verses lie between these two extremes. There should be enough specificity to give scope for not only wordplay (which both {97,7} and {98,5} do have) and preferably Ghalib's flashing wit (which neither has in its sharp and vintage form), but also, above all, some movement from the more specific to the more abstract, and back, and forth, and back again. These two verses, both bolted firmly into place on their respective ends of the spectrum, have hardly any scope for such movement. It makes me feel full of impatience and pech -o-taab to read them. I'll take the haunting, memorable {98,4} any day. The presence of a real horse (well, somewhat real, anyway), with his reins and stirrups flapping, running as he pleases, energizes that verse. Nothing energizes this verse. It is only estimably and complexly philosophical. From a poet like Ghalib, I want more.

{98,6} a.sl-e shuhuud-o-shaahid-o-mashhuud ek hai ;hairaa;N huu;N phir mashaahadah hai kis ;hisaab me;N 1) the source/essence of the seeing/witnessing and the seer/witness and the seen/witnessed is one 2) [I] am amazed-- 'then how [is] the [process of] sight/witnessing to be accounted for?'

Notes: a.sl: 'Bottom, root, origin, base, foundation; original, source; an essential, a fundamental principle; essence; element, principle'. (Platts p.59) shaahid: 'One who bears witness, a witness, deponent;... a sweetheart, a beloved object; a handsome man; a beautiful woman'. (Platts p.720) ;hisaab: 'A numbering, counting, reckoning, calculation, computation; arithmetic; account, accounts; bill (of charges); rate, price, charge; estimation, judgment, opinion; --condition, category'. (Platts p.477)

Nazm: When the whole world exists through the One Existent [bavujuud-e vaa;hid maujuud hai], then witness and witnessed become one, and except for the One, no other exists. And for His existence, no other creatures are needed as witnesses; rather, His existence is present by its own very nature. Because if

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there were a differentiation between existence and essence, then his essence would be in need of an existence, and his existence from all eternity, and to all eternity, and everlastingness, would not be proved. The gist is that the presence and the witnesses are exactly the witnessed and the witnessing. It is necessary for there to be a differentiation between witnessed and witnesses, and when here there's no differentiation at all, then what is the witnessing that people hope for in the afterlife? (101)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To the [mystical] traveler, in everything in the world only God and more God is visible-- this they call 'witnessing/presence'. The meaning of 'witness' is 'beholder', and they call 'witnessed' that which is seen. Mirza Sahib says, the origin/essence of witnessing and witness and witnessed is only one. I am amazed-- when all these three things are one, then in what account is the act of witnessing to be entered? (152)

Bekhud Mohani: When it's settled that the whole world is a ray from the True Presence (the Lord), and apart from him there's nobody-- when the seer and what is seen and the sight have been declared to be one, then I don't understand how the act of seeing can occur. Who sees? Whom does he see? In a legendary anecdote about the Prophet's life [;hadii;s qudsii] the reason for the creation of the world is revealed to be that the Lord commanded, 'I was a hidden treasure. I wanted people to recognize me. I created the world.' In reply to this he [=Ghalib] says, the world is You, you are You-- so who will observe? And what will he observe? (198)

FWP: SETS == WORD EXPLORATION; WORDPLAY You might expect that since I complained about the last verse on the grounds of inertness and excessive, unalloyed abstractness, I would continue the lament here. But in fact, this verse has a lot of charm (as well as depth), provided we look at it as poetry, rather than just a passage of heavy-duty philosophical prose. Structurally, it's a kind of a 'word exploration' verse centering on the word shaahid and its relatives. They all have to do with seeing or literally 'witnessing', in the sense both of seeing and of 'bearing witness', as in a legal proceding. (It's because the beautiful person's beauty 'bears witness' to God's creative power that the beloved is called a shaahid; it's because martyrs 'bear witness' to God's truth that they are called shahiid.) The energy comes from the speaker's reaction to the problem he's describing. He does a creditable imitation of a naive learner drowning in the strange depths of philosophical or theological language. Hey, he says-- if the 'seeing' and the 'seer' and the 'seen' are all basically one, then what kind of 'seeing' is going on here, anyway? He's surprised/ amazed/ stupefied [;hairaa;N], or at least professes to be. Perhaps he's sheepish-- he might be embarrassed by his inability to get it all straight? Or his tone might well be suspicious-- are they trying to put something over on me? Is this a shell game, or what? Or maybe he asks his (rhetorical?) question triumphantly-- ha ha, I've caught you in your tricky rhetoric, I've got you now! I imagine him as counting the key words off on his fingers as he lays out his argument-- to help keep them straight, and to make it clear that he's no sucker who can be easily bewildered by a fancy vocabulary. There are at least those three ways to read this verse with great enjoyment-- plaintively (the earnest, baffled beginner trying naively to figure out theology); or suspiciously (what kind of sneaky trick is all this, anyway?); or triumphantly (I've caught you now!). The word 'account' [;hisaab] lends color to my readings-- the speaker can be imagined as asking for a kind of reckoning;

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he's confronting one or more people, and demanding a better expanation, a less bewildering account. Even if we stress the enjoyably non-straightforward uses and possibilities of the verse's question, that doesn't at all deprive us of the chance to think of the question seriously as well. Just the way paranoids have enemies too, naive beginners and cynical skeptics are often the ones to put their finger on the most importan, unanswerable questions. If anything, I think the serious theological questions implied in the verse are much more engaging when combined with less serious readings into a wonderfully variegated braid of possible performance styles. As usual, Ghalib gives us no help in choosing any one privileged reading, so we are invited (or forced) to consider them all. This sophisticatedly fake naivete, as a rhetorical device, is called 'feigned ignorance'. As he does with every device he uses, Ghalib makes the most of it. My favorite parallel is the seemingly short and simple {162,4}-- 'when there's nothing there except You, what's all this fuss about?' It's both the most naive question in the world (in fact even quite funny), and one of the most sophisticated and unanswerable. It's like the proverbial boy who points out an astonishing fact about the Emperor's new clothes. (But what exactly is the astonishing fact?) The sound effects also work very well. The constant repeating of variations of the same Arabic root fills the verse with sh - h - d sounds. And if you recited cleverly, you could use them to create very nice effects of phonetic confusion that would add even further resonance to the predominant effect of semantic confusion.

{98,7} hai mushtamil numuud-e .suvar par vujuud-e ba;hr yaa;N kyaa dharaa hai qa:trah-o-mauj-o-;hubaab me;N 1) encompassing the appearance of forms/shapes is the existence of the sea 2a) here, of what value are drop and wave and bubble? 2b) here, what is grasped/held in drop and wave and bubble?

Notes: mushtamil : 'Comprehending, comprising, containing, including; enclosing, surrounding, encompassing; involving; extending (over)'. (Platts p.1038) numuud : 'The being or becoming apparent, visibleness; appearance; -prominence, conspicuousness; --show; --affectation; --display; --pomp; -honour, character, celebrity'. (Platts p.1154) .suvar is the plural of .suurat . (Platts p.747)

Hali: An allegory for the oneness of Being and the multiplicity of illusory forms is the triviality and worthlessness of drop and wave and bubble. In a common idiom it is put like this: yahaa;N kyaa dharaa hai [here, of what use are they?]. It is the height of rhetoric [balaa;Gat]. (150)

Nazm: That is, the drop and the wave and the bubble have no existence; their appearance and existence are comprised within the sea. In short, from this illustration [tam;siil] it appears that the existence of possibilities is comprised within a necessary existence [vujuud-e vaajib]; if this were not the intention, then the verse would remain meaningless. And this style of expression, in which he would mention only the illustration and reject [the mention of] that which is illustrated, is more eloquent [balii;Gtar] than one in which both the illustration and that which is illustrated would be mentioned. The way a metaphor is usually more eloquent than a simile. But the way in a metaphor the condition is that the

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mind ought quickly to turn toward its purport, in the same way the illustration too ought to be such that upon hearing it, the mind turns toward that which is illustrated. For example, if someone says 'as is the seed, so is the fruit you'll eat', then it's clear that you'll receive the results of your deeds. And the rejection [of mentioning] that which is illustrated is usually better, because a kind of uncertainty after which awareness at once dawns gives pleasure to the mind of the hearer. And this pleasure is greater than the pleasure that comes from mentioning that which is illustrated. (101-02)

Faruqi: Despite all its outward simplicity, this verse is extremely convoluted.... [Most commentators agree with Nazm about its meaning.] Although Shaukat Merathi has indeed produced a completely new meaning. He says that ultimately the sea has no existence, there are only forms/shapes one after another. If we keep on removing one thing after another from this collection, then finally nothing will be left. That is, the world is a thing based on belief, and is mortal. This meaning is very fine, but it doesn't do full justice to the word numuud (meaning 'scene, appearance'). In the verse it's clearly being said that the existence of the sea is dependent on those things through the appearance of which the guise of the sea is assumed. That is, those shapes/forms too are only an appearance. It's not necessary for them to be real. In order to understand the meaning of numuud, keep this verse of Ghalib's [from an ode, Hamid p. 198, Arshi p. 155] in mind: vuh bhii thii ik siimiya kii sii numuud .sub;h ko raaz-e mah-o-a;xtar khulaa [that too was a silvery-ish appearance in the morning, the secret of moon and stars was revealed]... The sea-- that is, all creation-- is nothing. These are only shapes/forms that we see and are deceived by. Sense-perceptions are nothing, there is only the gaze of the perceiver. If there would be no perceiver, then the senses are nothing. The action of the senses itself changes the reality of the thing observed, because sense-perceptions are dependent on the perceiver. You people consider the assemblage of drop and wave and bubble to be a sea, although the existence of drop and wave and bubble is dependent on your mind.... There's nothing anywhere. Whatever might exist, it would be you alone. [136-37)

FWP: DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} For Nazm and most of the other commentators, the elements (drop and wave and bubble) are meaningless, and only the whole (the sea) has meaning. For Faruqi, not only are the elements meaningless, but the whole that depends upon them is therefore meaningless too. I agree that these conclusions can indeed be drawn from the verse. But what I really enjoy about it is the back-and-forthness, the ambivalence of its perspective. Look at the range of meanings of mushtamil , and of numuud . What exactly is the relationship of the vast sea to the tiny drops, waves, bubbles? Putting everything together, here are some of the main possibilities I think the verse opens up. 1) The drop (and, by extension, the wave and the bubble) happily surrenders itself to the warm embrace of the sea, knowing its tiny personal 'self' is nothing apart from the great original whole. 'Here', in the sea, it joyously and mystically merges with its origin. Or perhaps it continues to have a limited and contingent life upon which it sets no value. This is the mood of {21,8}. 2) The drop and wave and bubble are remorselessly swallowed up by the omnipotent sea. They are deprived of their individuality and their very being, so that there's literally nothing left of them and their own desires, and only the sea exists, impersonally rolling on forever. 'Here', in the sea, all lesser phenomena have been obliterated-- in them, kyaa dharaa hai?

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3) The sea itself is the reverse of omnipotent. In fact, it's nothing-- it's just a name for a collection of drops, and waves, and bubbles. To avoid the trouble of having many names for the parts (and what use are such names anyway?), we just give them the collective name of 'sea'. 'Here'-- that is, as we in the human world observe the sea that surrounds us-- we don't need to use the specialized names of the parts. 4) The drop, wave, bubble, sea-- all are nothing, 'here' in the state of mystical transcendance in which we observe them. How foolish to worry about minor, evanescent concepts and entities! Of what use are any of them, anyway, compared to the worlds to which one has access as one approaches the divine presence? 5) When you try to grasp or pick up a drop, wave, bubble, it runs out of your fingers before you even have time to close your hand. What can your hand retain of any of these visible, fascinating, even powerful, entities? And if your hand can't grasp them, can your mind really grasp them either? Don't they all melt away into the sea, into sheer water? And of course, you can't grasp water either. So where does that leave us? In the usual Ghalibian mystical/ emotional/ intellectual quandary, ricocheting around among irreconcilable and unresolvable possibilities, savoring the mental pinball game. With wonder and admiration for what this poet can achieve. As Hali points out, the idiom of kyaa dharaa works beautifully here, both colloquially as its primary meaning (what value, what use?) and literally (what is grasped/held?). Although he likes waves and bubbles too, Ghalib is especially partial to drops.

{98,8} sharm ik adaa-e naaz hai apne hii se sahii hai;N kitne be-;hijaab kih yuu;N hai;N ;hijaab me;N 1) shame is a gesture of coquetry, even if toward oneself 2a) how unveiled/shameless they/we are, who [for no particular reason] happen to be in veils! 2b) how unveiled/shameless they/we are, who are like this in veils!

Notes: yuu;N: 'Thus, in this wise, in this mamnner; --just so, for no particular reason; without just ground, vainly, idly, causelessly, gratuitously; to please oneself'. (Platts p.1253)

Nazm: A number of verses of this ghazal are on themes of mysticism [ta.savvuf], and this verse too is of that kind. He says that her feeling shame and not appearing before us is a beloved-like coquettish glance. We agree that no one else is present here, and her coquettish glance is for herself alone. But when a coquettish glance and airs and graces are themselves a kind of unveiledness, then her remaining veiled has become mere unveiledness. (102)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, shame is a beloved-like gesture of coquetry. If it's for herself alone, even then it will be called a beloved-like gesture of coquetry. But its use will always be on occasions of unveiledness. That is, in a state of veiledness, a gesture of coquetry can't be used, and the state in which it can be used-- such a veiledness is mere unveiledness. This verse too is on mysticism [ta.savvuf]. The meaning of the verse is that the veiledness that is visible to us is such that the radiance/appearance of the Beloved can be seen. (153)

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Bekhud Mohani: Shame too is a gesture of coquetry, whether it be shown before an Other or before oneself. In the latter case, showing shame too is a kind of unveiledness and it's clear that a gesture of coquetry must be unveiledness. In the world, not to see the Lord's radiance/appearance is a beloved-like glance of coquetry; and since a gesture of coquetry is a form of unveiledness, this veiledness too is unveiledness. Although here too, in the manifestation of His power there is no Other. (199)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} VEIL: {6,1} Structurally speaking, this one reminds me of 98,10. Both verses show the same deliberate juxtaposing of paradoxical-seeming opposites in the second line, with repetition of the same key word, and almost parallel phrasing in the second line too. The commentators have explained the general sense clearly enough. The elegant little touch they've missed is the double sense in which yuu;N can be read. Idiomatically, it can mean, 'for no reason, vainly, casually, by happenstance'. On this reading (2a), the point is that the women are veiled by the merest happenstance, casually, uselessly, for no particular reason. Their being veiled is useless or irrelevant, a joke or a deception-- it doesn't prevent their 'unveiled' behavior toward themselves. Literally, however, yuu;N means 'like this, in this manner'. So on this reading (2b), the emphasis falls on the nature of the women's behavior-- what's the point of veiling women who behave 'like this' when they're veiled? The verse also makes me wonder how we are to interpret the basic premise sharm ik adaa-e naaz hai. Is all shame mere coquetry? If so, it is part of people's inevitable play-acting toward themselves, as they try to persuade their own consciences that they're not really the kind of person who does or thinks that kind of thing they were just doing or thinking. Thus the connection of shame with coquetry can be made: it involves the use of charm, and attempting to persuade an (inner) observer that one is a fine specimen. Or is it merely the so-called 'shame' of these flirtatious women that is a gesture of coquetry? If so, the indictment might be a narrower one and apply only to them. Why, they're such flirts that even their show of 'shame' is flirtatious-- and not only that, but they do it even when nobody is looking, so they actually end up flirting with themselves! For more on sahii , see {9,4}.

{98,9} aaraa))ish-e jamaal se faari;G nahii;N hanuuz pesh-e na:zar hai aa))inah daa))im naqaab me;N 1) [she/he] is not finished with adornment of beauty now/still 2) before the gaze is a mirror, always, within the veil

Notes: aa))iinah is here spelled aa))inah in order to permit it to be scanned longshort-short to fit the meter.

Nazm: 'Veil' is a metaphor for the Divine Veil, and in it is the knowledge of [Arabic] 'that which is, and that which is to come'. And 'to be finished with adornment of beauty' is a commentary on 'every day in new splendour doth he shine' (Qur'an 55:29). (102)

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Bekhud Mohani: Even now she is not finished with adornment of beauty. And even now, within the veil, a thumb-mirror [aarsii] is being used. That is, although she has finished adorning herself and a veil has been put over her face, to her, adornment is not finished. [Nazm is wrong in his latter point.] This commentary is incorrect. For the meaning of kul yaum huu fii shaan is that there will never be a change in His glory. And adornment demands that there be greater and lesser degrees. (199)

Josh: That is, even with in the veil she constantly keeps on looking in the mirror. As if she were still not finished adorning her beauty. By 'veil' is meant the screen of divine veiling and purity, and by 'mirror' is meant creation, in which He keeps polishing the radiance/appearance of His beauty. (193-94)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ MIRROR: {8,3} VEIL: {6,1} Everybody reads this one mystically, and it's easy to see why. Though of course we're under no compulsion to do so. If the beloved can frown inside the veil, as in {97,9}, why can't she look at her thumb-mirror? The two meanings of hanuuz , 'now' and 'still', provide suggestively different perspectives on the beloved's behavior. Are we to be elated because all this self-adornment is carried on for our benefit, or dismayed because we don't seem to be part of her concern at all? It's a little dismaying at first glance-- not only is the beloved veiled from our gaze, not only is the beloved paying no attention to us at all, but in fact the beloved's own gaze is 'always' fixed on a mirror, so that the beloved sees only his or her own face. There's a strong suggestion of solipsism here. But of course, all creation can be said to be a mirror of the Divine, so we may be part of the mirror into which the beloved gazes so intently. In which case we are not only outside the veil (as we know all too well), so that we can't see the beloved's face-- but actually inside the veil (though we don't realize it), so that in a sense we, as part of the mirror, see nothing but the beloved's face. And come to think of it, if all this is taking place inside her veil, how do we even know about it in the first place? Is the desperate lover just imagining it all? The metaphysical convolutions and possibilities are endless. Don't forget that all this comes from the creator of the even more extreme concept of the but-e aa))inah-siimaa , the 'idol with the mirror-face', who sits before the lover in {208,6}-- and who, in {22,3}, never sits before anyone. Mirrors are one of Ghalib's favorite images, and I've got to stop myself before I start trying to bring in more mirror verses and put them together in some clever new way. It's always possible to do that-- all too possible. Then the moment you put them together, you find that there are other pieces that you've left out of the puzzle, that can't at all be made to fit. From Ghalib, we'd surely expect no less.

{98,10} hai ;Gaib-e ;Gaib jis ko samajhte hai;N ham shuhuud hai;N ;xvaab me;N hanuuz jo jaage hai;N ;xvaab me;N 1) it is the 'hidden of the hidden', what we consider [to be] seeing/witnessing 2) we/they are in a dream still/now, who {have woken up / are awake} in a dream

Notes: ;Gaib : 'Absence; invisibility; concealment; anything that is absent, or invisible, or hidden (from sight or mental perception); a mystery, secret; an event of futurity; the invisible world, the future state'. (Platts p.774)

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Hali: If to the [spiritual] traveler everything present in the world should look like nothing but God, we call that seeing [shuhuud]. And by 'the hiddenmost of the hidden' is meant the stage of the unity of being, which is utterly beyond the intelligence and the senses and the eye and vision. He says that what we consider to be seeing is in reality the hiddenmost of the hidden, and we erroneously consider it to be seeing. The illustration for us is that of someone in a dream who dreams that he wakes up. Thus although he considers himself awake, in reality he’s still in a dream. This illustration is entirely new, and for this theme there can be no better example than this. (124)

Nazm: That is, if in a dream we are dreaming, then this is being 'hidden in the hidden'. (102)

Faruqi: The peerless beauty of the metaphor in the second line has so enraptured all the commentators that little attention has been given to the first line, and the interpretation of the line, and thus of the verse, has remained incomplete.... shuhuud itself is a metaphor for the Divine Presence. When creation is not seen in the form of creation, but rather would seem to be Divinity alone, then this is called shuhuud [as ibn ul-'Arabi hasindicated].... The meaning of ;Gaib-e ;Gaib cannot be [the divine] Presence. Its meaning can certainly be the original ;Gaib -- that is, only ;Gaib .... In this way the first line seems to be saying that what we are considering to be shuhuud is only the ;Gaib -- or, at the most, that appearance [:zuhuur]; that is, the curtain that has been spread over the ;Gaib . Thus in the first line it has been said that the state that we are considering to be shuhuud, is only the workings of appearance. But what is shuhuud itself? Even shuhuud doesn't take us very far [as ibn ul-'Arabi has said]. Thus even seeing things in the form of Divinity alone does not bestow knowledge about the true Essence; rather, it only gestures toward that knowledge. Now let's come to the second line. People who, in a dream, see themselves as awakened, are still in a dream (and asleep). When they consider that they have woken up, they are only in error. What kind of error is this? This error is not devoid of two aspects. The sleeping individual has not had the experience of awakening. When he thinks that he's had this experience, he's only in error. In this way, to consider appearance and shuhuud to be the experience of divine wisdom is an error.But this error is not entirely without reality. The way the experience of waking in a dream is a shadow of the real experience, in the same way knowledge of appearances is a shadow of knowledge of the Truth. The second aspect is that the person who is at that time absorbed in a dream, will sometime or other wake up. Just as nonexistence is a proof of existence, in the same way sleep/dream is a proof of wakefulness. Thus the error of thinking one has awakened in a dream, can be part of the earliest awakening that happens when the dawn is at hand. The waking of daybreak is that waking of the spirit when one was in the embrace of the Truth, and the present life is only a sleep of heedlessness. When the spirit saw the Truth in the form of appearance and shuhuud , then it was in error when it thought it had returned to the state of its primordial wakefulness, when it had knowledge of all things.... In this single verse the whole of Plato's philosophy has been contained. After all, even from Ghalib's youth there's a verse on this subject [unpublished, composed as part of {223}; see Raza p. 181]: bazm-e hastii vuh tamaashaa hai kih jis ko ham asad dekhte hai;N chashm az ;xvaab-e ((adam-nakushaadah se [the gathering of existence is a spectacle that we, Asad, see with eyes not open from the sleep/dream of nonbeing]. (138-40)

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FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; HANUZ; REPETITION This brilliant verse genuinely succeeds in expressing the metaphysical through the techniques of poetry-- an attempt that many of the verses in this ghazal make, though with varying degrees of fruitfulness. The exploration of shuhuud of course evokes {98,6}, and the rhythmic, punchy structure of the second line, with its powerful and strategically placed repetitions, is directly parallel to the second line of {98,8}. The second line not only captivates everybody who reads it, as Faruqi observes, but also has some elegant little touches of ambiguity that deserve to be noticed. The use of hanuuz, with its two meanings of 'still' and 'now', generates two possible time locations for the dream-state-- are we 'still' in a dream (as we have been all along), or are we 'now' in a dream (as perhaps we were not before)? Moreover, jaage hai;N, which of course is a present perfect and thus means 'have awakened' (indicating a change of state), could also be a past participle with the hu))e colloquially omitted-- and jaage hu))e hai;N would mean 'are in a state of having awakened' (not indicating a change of state). And what could be more appropriate for the world of a dream, than a texture of such uncertainties? And in the first line, what is ;Gaib-e ;Gaib? Does it mean the 'hidden'-est of all 'hidden' things? Does it mean something that is 'hidden' within the realm of the 'hidden' itself? Could it mean that the fact of the 'hiddenness' of something is itself what has been 'hidden'? And of course, 'hidden' is just a place-holder-- which of the meanings of ;Gaib should be invoked here? As can be seen from the definition above, the various meanings create considerably different readings for the first line. Which itself, needless to say, is all too appropriate for a verse about the confusion and uncertainty in which we humans live. Like most of Ghalib's best verses, this one shows us colors that shift constantly, depending on what light we're seeing it in. For a lighter, less threatening color, see {169,13}.

{98,11} ;Gaalib nadiim-e dost se aatii hai buu-e dost mash;Guul-e ;haq huu;N bandagii-e buu-turaab me;N 1) Ghalib, from the companion of a friend comes a whiff/trace [buu] of a friend 2) [I] am absorbed in Truth/God, in the service of Bu Turab

Notes: Nazm: On this theme a verse of Nasikh's is very famous: bai((t-e ;xudaa use hai mujhe vas:tah na.siib dast-e ;xudaa hai naam mire dast-giir kaa [in submission to the Lord I have been granted connection with that one the name of my supporter/hand-holder is 'Hand of the Lord'] In the first line, Nasikh has made a claim, and in the second line an explanation/illustration. And [by contrast] the author [=Ghalib] has situated the proof within the claim. But in the claim is an iihaam, and in the proof is a disclosure. For this reason, in literary etiquette [aadaab-e inshaa], to have the proof follow the claim is better, for after confusion, disclosure is more pleasurable. (102-03)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, from the companion of a friend the aroma of a friend always comes; for this reason I imagine love for Hazrat Ali, God's blessing be upon him, to constitute worship. (153)

Bekhud Mohani: Bu Tarab is a title of the Commander of the Faithful, Hazrat Ali, God's blessing be upon him. Oh Ghalib, if I follow and obey Hazrat Ali, then it's as

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if in reality I obey the Lord. Because the aroma of a friend is certaily present with the companion of the friend. That is, if Hazrat Ali is the Lord's friend, then obedience to him is obedience to the Lord. (200)

Shadan: On one occasion he lay sleeping on the ground in the Prophet's mosque, so that his clothes were dust-covered. Then His Excellency the Essence of Prophetship [=the Prophet] addressed him with this title. (271)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY What is the whole raison d'etre of this verse? What would have caused listeners to say vaah vaah and admire Ghalib's art? Not the piety of its expressed admiration for Hazrat Ali, surely, which even the most mediocre poet could achieve, but the enjoyable wordplay involving the word buu. As Nazm points out, the first line uses the word to create an example of iihaam, a rhetorical device that involves first misleading us, then forcing us to backtrack and revise our previous notion in a flash of amusement and delight. As we read-- or, ideally, hear-- the first verse, we think it's clear. The word buu, which literally means 'scent', is being used, we think, the way 'whiff' or 'trace' is in English. For another very straightforward example of such a use, see {20,10}. We read the first line as a bland general truth-- that a friend reminds us of the people he's friends with. Then in the second line-- but not till the last possible moment, of course, in proper mushairah style-- we learn that the buu is really a personal title, and thus an invocation of Hazrat Ali. This can't help but transform and enrich our understanding of the first line as well, as we see how Ghalib has been setting us up for such a trick. Nazm, to his credit, nails it: he points directly to this trick, and discusses it interestingly (though with a critical edge, but by now that can't surprise us). But then-- here's the remarkable part-- not one other commentator of those I've been working with so much as mentions this unmissably prominent feature of the verse (except Shadan, who quotes Nazm). Of those who comment on this verse, Bekhud Dihlavi, Bekhud Mohani, Baqir, Josh, Chishti, and Mihr all write prose paraphrases, as though this major piece of wordplay were not present at all. Since Nazm, whom most of them knew, had already pointed it out, they could hardly have failed to be aware that it existed. But for whatever reason(s), they don't think it worth mentioning. As a punishment, they are left with a verse that has only the poetically minor merit of pious verbiage. For the iihaam involving buu is basically all there is in the verse. There's nothing wrong with this, of course-- it's a little light relief after an exceptionally heavy ghazal full of mystical and philosophical rhetoric. It's a perfect 'mushairah verse'-- you 'get it' all at once, at the last possible minute, with a rush of pleasure, and once you get it you've got it, and there's no need for further thought. A piquant closing-verse for a ghazal like this one.

Ghazal 99 10 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar ko mai;N composed 1849; Hamid p. 81; Arshi #111; Raza p. 301

{99,1} ;hairaa;N huu;N dil ko ro))uu;N kih pii;Tuu;N jigar ko mai;N maqduur ho to saath rakhuu;N nau;hah-gar ko mai;N 1) [I] am bewildered/distracted-- would I weep for the heart, or beat [my breast] for the liver?

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2) [if] there would be capability [in me], then I would keep a mourner with [me]

Notes: ;hairaa;N: 'In a state of confusion or perplexity; perplexed, bewildered, distracted, confounded, astonished... , disturbed; harassed, plagued, worried, distressed'. (Platts pp. 482-83)

Nazm: We deduce the meaning that both heart and liver were such gentlemen of rank and glory that under any circumstances mourning for them must be performed. If I can't do it myself, then I ought to retain a mourner, so that I would grieve for one, and the mourner would grieve for the other. (103)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if for two esteemed dead ones only one person would be a mourner, then that's a diminution of the dead ones' glory. There's a lessening of their honor. Thus if I have the capability, then I would keep with me a mourner-that is I weep, saying, 'alas for the heart!' and he beats [his breast], saying, 'alas for the liver!'. Or I would recite an elegy for one, and he a lament for the other. (154)

Bekhud Mohani: It's intolerable that I wouldn't grieve for the heart; it's intolerable that I wouldn't grieve for the liver. Oh my God, I'm alone-- for which one would I grieve? If I had the resources, then I would keep a mourner, so that they could be mourned for. That is, neither among them is such that grieving for it wouldn't be necessary. (200)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR JIGAR: {2,1} The verse poses for itself a kind of finicking little problem-- the speaker is vexed over a social dilemma, on the order of 'which funeral should I go to, when two are happening at once?' The speaker's ruminations continue into the second line, which is also in the future subjunctive. Just as the speaker cudgels his brain in the first line about how to juggle the task of simultaneous mourning for the two different departed ones, in the second line he speculates about whether he might manage to hire a mourner (if his resources permit) to follow him around and assist him in his social duties. The tone of the whole verse is fidgety, punctilious, even perhaps slightly irritable. And what underlies it all? We know only by implication, but of course implication is a powerful tool for conveying knowledge. We know that the two late lamented are the Heart and the Liver. And we know all too well that in ghazal physiology it is the task of the passionate heart to export blood (through bleeding wounds, tears of blood, etc.) and of the reliable, enduring liver to manufacture and supply fresh blood. (For more on all this, see {30,2}.) If it's his own heart and liver that he's lost-- as it seems to be-- then the speaker is doomed, if not already half-dead. If they've both died at once, then it's all over. He's destroyed, he's done for, he might as well relax, lie down and die, and then let other people worry about how to mourn for him. Thus the enjoyableness of the verse. For this isn't how the lover sees it at all. The question of his own terrible suffering, his losses, his own imminent death, doesn't even seem to arise. Even the double bereavement he has suffered moves him not to a frenzy of grief, but to a minor fuss about the social niceties of mourning. The fact that he considers hiring a professional nau;hah-gar, who would mourn for money, makes this clear; and it seems that the main reason he wouldn't do so is that it might well cost more than he can afford: maqduur ho to. Is the lover completely mad, so that he no longer

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sees his own plight? Or is he so burned out that he no longer has the slightest interest in it? (After all, his heart is gone.) We are thus invited to see much more than the lover sees, and to feel for him more than he apparently feels for himself. And also, of course, to enjoy his completely absurd and disproportionate social anxieties. There's no reason the lover can't be funny, even as he's tragic. This is just one of the many subtleties Ghalib can pull off, in the crevices (and sometimes huge chasms) between the simple words of two small lines.

{99,2} chho;Raa nah rashk ne kih tire ghar kaa naam luu;N har yak se puuchhtaa huu;N kih jaa))uu;N kidhar ko mai;N 1) envy/jealousy didn't permit that I would take the name of your house 2a) I ask each and every one, 'which way would I go?' 2b) I inquire from each and every one; for-- which way would I go?

Notes: naam lenaa : 'To take the name (of); to call by name; to name, to mention; -to mention with praise, to praise; -- to repeat the name (of a deity); to tell one's beads; --to name (one) in connection with (a crime, &c.), to accuse (of), to charge (with)'. (Plats p.1118)

Nazm: In a state of restlessness and great agitation, he says, are kidhar jaa))u;N . The meaning is that there's no such place where he would find peace and distraction from grief. In this verse the place-- that is, the street of the beloved-- is decided, but before the passersby [raah chalto;N], he doesn't mention her name, because of jealousy. And because he can't find the address, he's begun to feel restlessness and agitation. Thus here jaa))uu;N kidhar ko mai;N has two meanings, and this is among the subtleties of the verse. (103)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, jealously has made me incapable of asking some Other the address of your house, and from not obtaining the address my restlessness and agitation have increased so much that I can't stand not to inquire. Thus I keep asking every passerby where I might go. It's possible that I might find another seeker of you, someone like me, and he might be acquainted with your house, and might become my fellow-traveler. (154)

Bekhud Mohani: Jealousy doesn't at all permit me to ask the address of your house. To everybody I am saying, which way is the road? That is, because of jealousy I don't mention your name in front of anybody. People are such that they consider me a madman. He's shown a picture of an extraordinary situation. (200)

Naim: I know your address but don't know how to get there; at the same time I can't think of asking someone, for I would only feel envious if he happens to know the way to your house. As a matter of fact, I fear that I am the only who does not know how to get there; the world knows, and this only overwhelms me with envy. (Naim 1972, 22)

FWP: SETS == KIH Envy and jealousy don't permit me to mention-- not just your name, but even the 'name', or address, of your house! Or rather, it doesn't permit me to 'take the name' [ naam lenaa ] of the house. This 'take the name' is a phrase we ought to notice, because it's much more highly charged in Urdu than in English. (We have an echo in phrases like 'to take the name of the Lord in

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vain'.) To 'take the name' of someone is to invoke, to praise, to accuse, even to worship. The lover's passion is so intense (and bizarre) that in front of ordinary mortals he is unable to sacrilegiously 'take the name' not only of the beloved, but even of the beloved's house. (For another example of such selfthwarting jealousy, see {152,7}.) And yet since the beloved is so radically inaccessible, he doesn't know where her house is. In traditional parts of South Asia, to this day, the normal way of finding addresses is to go into the general area and start asking people. This has the advantage and/or disadvantage of plugging you into the local gossip network-- who are you? who is that person to you [ aap kaa kaun hai ]? why do you want to go there? The local people become a mediating presence, a sort of supervisory system: if they choose to help, they can not only provide you with an exact address (or even an escort to the door), but can offer you other valuable information as well. If they don't choose to help, they can baffle and thwart you at every turn. The lover thus continues to try to use this system, since it's the only one he has. But of course, he can't use it effectively. He stops every passerby on the street and asks, quite fruitlessly of course, 'Where should I go?' This is the obvious reading, (2a), in which kih acts as a quotation introducer. But kih can also act as a general clause introducer, as in (2b). On this reading, 'in which direction might I go?' becomes a question the lover asks himself, or asks of the listener(s) as he reports on his plight. And once we've set up a question like 'in which direction might I go?' we can always read it not only straightforwardly but also as a negative rhetorical question, implying that there's nowhere I can go; this is what Nazm is describing when he speaks of the question having 'two meanings'. The ultimate case in point for all identity questions is surely {46,7}, which frames the act of inquiry [puuchhnaa] so cleverly that it elicits a bewildering variety of possible responses. The present verse doesn't want to go that far-kidhar ko is a more limited question than kyaa, and the grammar is not as intricately woven. But the comparison suggests some of the kinds of depth Ghalib builds into these open-ended future-subjunctive questions.

{99,3} jaanaa pa;Raa raqiib ke dar par hazaar baar ay kaash jaantaa nah tire rahguzar ko mai;N 1) I was compelled to go to the Rival's door a thousand times 2) alas-- if only I didn't know your road!

Notes: Nazm: He was forced to go to the Rival's door because the beloved's comings and goings were in that very one's house. (103)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, what an ill-fortuned day it was when I became acquainted with your street! Oh, if only I didn't know your street! That is, if only I hadn't become a lover of yours. I was forced to go to the Rival's door a thousand times. [Or:] You constantly stay in the Rival's house. Thus when we came to your door, then it was as if we came to the Rival's door. This meaning is certainly to some extent subtle, but that effect [as of the previous meaning] doesn't remain in it. Momin too has well said, us naqsh-e paa ke sijde ne kyaa kyaa kiyaa ;zaliil mai;N kuuchah-e raqiib me;N bhii sar ke bal gayaa [how my prostration before that footprint debased me! I went measuring my length on the ground, even in the street of the Rival] (200-01)

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Naim: 'Your road'-- implied meaning: your customary road; the path that you usually take. (Naim 1972, 23)

Faruqi: Consider 'door' and 'road'. The longing is, if only I didn't know your road! And the complaint is that it was necessary to go to the Rival's door a thousand times. In order to join these different things, the commentators have supposed that the beloved is constantly at the Rival's door. Or the Rival has made the beloved's house his home. But those explanations don't fully account for 'road'. Acquaintance with the beloved's road-- that is, street-doesn't logically imply that in order to meet the beloved he would have to go to the Rival's door. [Bekhud Mohani has rightly pointed out the symbolic meaning of 'knowing your street' as being your lover.] Bekhud [Mohani]'s commentary is fine, but in addition, other interpretations are possible. For example, if we don't take 'road' as 'street' [galii], we can take it as only 'path' [raastah]. Since the beloved passes along this path, on which the Rival's house is, and if access to the beloved's house itself is impossible, then the lover will be forced to go to the Rival's doorway and stand there, hoping to see the beloved. A second interpretation might be that the path to the beloved's house goes by the Rival's house. Thus in order to meet her or even to see her, he's forced to pass by the Rival's door. A third interpretation can be that every person in your street is my Rival; thus to pass through that street is as if being forced to pass by the Rival's doorsay. A fourth interpretation can be that in order to meet you, meeting the Rival is a condition-- as if the Rival is a middleman. Thus access to your door comes after going by his house. jaanaa [to go] and jaannaa [to know] have an interesting alliteration [tajniis] as well, and it creates between the two words a new kind of connection. The going took place because of the knowing. Thus both words are metaphors for each other. (141-42)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} We have to wait until Faruqi's commentary to encounter even a mention of the obvious, wonderful, complex, heavy-duty wordplay in this verse. A number of the commentators mention Momin's excellent verse, but not a single one of them-- that is, of the ones I'm using-- mentions jaanaa and jaannaa, despite the fact that they're so prominent, and are linked more closely than just by sound, as Faruqi points out. Even beyond those, other sounds effects haunt this verse as well, to quite an unusual degree. Of the twelve vowels in the first line, ten of them are short or long alif sounds, and only two are everything else. Then there are the mutually echoing pa;Raa and par, and the other re sounds: dar, hazaar, baar, tire, rahguzaar. The effect is rhythmic and stark, curtailing the phonetic range the way the lover's movements are curtailed. An especially good effect is created by dar par hazaar baar, with its two rhyming sets-and with its first and last words subliminally forming darbaar, which has among its meanings 'house, dwelling' (Platts p.510). In fact, I submit, the wordplay feels like the chief goal, the focal point of the verse. Otherwise, how are the two lines linked, if not by the powerful bonds of jaanaa and jaannaa? Worrying about why exactly the lover has to go by the Rival's door gets us ultimately nowhere, because we have no information on the subject, since we don't know how the two lines are meant to connect. It would be different if worrying about it yielded us some rewards in the form of wit or irony or an unexpected punch. But as far as I can see, it

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doesn't. It's just one of those fidgety, useless, unsatisfying questions like 'how many children had Lady Macbeth?'. The two lines, though not semantically well-linked, are sufficiently evocative for the purpose, especially the second. And the wordplay-- which is also meaning-play, as Faruqi points out-- carries the ball. What else is there in this verse that would induce an audience to say vaah vaah? The striking, unusual wordplay is necessary for the purpose, and is also sufficient to achieve it.

{99,4} hai kyaa jo kas ke baa;Ndhiye merii balaa ;Dare kyaa jaantaa nahii;N huu;N tumhaarii kamar ko mai;N 1) what's there, that you would bind/gird it up? -- what the hell!-- would I be afraid? 2) don't I know your waist?

Notes: Nazm: To 'tie the waist' [kamar kasnaa] and 'to bind the waist' [kamar baa;Ndhnaa] mean to prepare for some undertaking. And for the beloved, the great undertaking is to murder the lover. What is your waist at all, that you will bind it up? What the hell-- do I not know your waist? In this verse, the word 'I' should be pronounced in a slightly distinctive [mumtaaz] tone. And that will create the extra meaning that 'I am not some nobody'-- and then this meaning is in the service of another meaning, such that it's better to refrain from discussing it. (103)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you've 'bound up your waist' to murder me and are threatening me by saying that now you'll murder me. The hell I'll be afraid of this threat! Don't I know your waist-- that it won't be able to endure the weight of a dagger? (154)

Bekhud Mohani: You 'bind your waist' to murder me-- why would I be afraid? That is, you don't even have a waist-- what will you bind? (201)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS BELOVED-- NO WAIST: We already know that the beloved's delicate little rosebud mouth is so microscopic that she has no mouth at all: see {91,4}.) In the ghazal world, with its love of hyperbole and extravagance, the beloved is also so gracefully slender that she doesn't merely have a tiny waist [kamar], she has no waist at all. For another, more abstract use of this conceit, see {100,3}. When you set out to do something in English, you traditionally 'gird up your loins'. In Urdu, you idiomatically 'bind up your waist' [kamar baa;Ndhnaa] for action. But of course, since the beloved has no waist to bind up, this threat has no force. The combination of a stylized extravagance with a lively idiom creates a delightful verse. It's further energized by the untranslatable idiom merii balaa, which here means something like (in a tone of indignation) 'what the hell! as if I'd do that!' (The use of the third-person verb form-- ;Dare instead of ;Daruu;N -- serves to further distance the action from the speaker.) For more on the expression merii balaa , which is short for merii balaa se , see {58,1}. EROTIC SUGGESTION: Nazm rightly points to the erotic overtone of the second line-- don't I know your waist? Implying, of course, am I not your lover, have I not held you in my arms? (Though Nazm is too refined to actually say it.) Ghalib's erotic suggestions are almost all of this kind: they work, as this one does, through inshaa))iyah speech and the power of

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implication. The same pattern of subtle but unlimited erotic suggestion can be seen in {138,5}, in which 'there's a tongue in my mouth too', and in the clever wording of {116,1}, 'tell me with your mouth'. In {108,5}, the evocative image is that of an untied sash. In {111,3}, it's the star-maidens coming out at night, 'naked/unveiled'. (By contrast, how ineffective and unexciting is the more explicit {97,7}.) For two such elegantly suggestive verses in a single ghazal, see {116,1} and {116,9}. In {151,7}, the beloved has suddenly become free with her kisses. Compare also the Atish verse quoted in Nazm's commentary on {164,9}. In {172,2} we have things that happen 'while embracing'; in {194,5} we have a clear evocation of 'union'. And in {227,2} we have some markedly suggestive behavior as the spring breeze penetrates the rosebud.

{99,5} lo vuh bhii kahte hai;N kih yih be-nang-o-naam hai yih jaantaa agar to lu;Taataa nah ghar ko mai;N 1) look-- { she too / even she} says, 'this [one] is shameless/disgraced'! 2) if [I] had known this, I wouldn't have caused the house to be looted

Notes: Nazm: That is, the one for whose happiness I destroyed myself-- look at the spectacle, that she herself is displeased with my destroyed condition! (103)

Bekhud Mohani: If someone else said it, then fine. She too says, this is a disgraced wretch. If I had known it, then I wouldn't have caused my house to be looted. That is, the person for whose happiness I reduced myself to nothingness-- she too considers me vile! By 'look' [lo] the expression of amazement is intended. (201)

Shadan: 'Look' [lo] is for the expression of surprise and regret. (273)

FWP: SETS == BHI; DIALOGUE SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} As the commentators point out, to be condemned by everybody else is no more than the lover's normal experience. But to be condemned by her too, or even by her! The little word bhii is one that Ghalib used very cleverly; for more on this, see {36,9}. What she actually says is that 'this [one]' is a shameless, disgraced wretch. The use of yih instead of the more common vuh gives extra immediacy; it points directly at the wretch himself, who is present and listening. And it sets the lover up to begin the next line with the same word, almost throwing it back in her face-- if he had known this, he wouldn't have reduced himself, for love of her, to the very state she now condemns him for. For her he has reduced his house to ruin; the 'house' can be meant literally, as in {10,7}, or of course metaphorically as the physical house, the body, which is wrecked when the heart is broken, as in {5,2}. All this being said, it seems a minor verse, with nothing really exciting going on in it.

{99,6} chaltaa huu;N tho;Rii duur har ik tez-rau ke saath pahchaantaa nahii;N huu;N abhii raahbar ko mai;N 1) I go along a little way with every single swift walker 2) I do not now/yet recognize a/the guide

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Notes: pahchaananaa : 'To perceive, know, comprehend, understand; to recognize, identify; to distinguish, discern, discriminate'. (Platts p.284) ab : 'Now, presently, just now.... --ab-bhii , adv. Even now, yet, as yet, still'. (Platts p.1)

Hali: The situation that the seeker of the path of the Lord initially finds himself in has been given this illustration. The seeker at first decides to obtain initiation at the hands of whomever he sees to posses charisma or mystical attributes or passionate enthusiasm. And he goes along with him. Then when somebody more attractive comes into view, he follows him, and so on. And the reason for this agitation and movement is that he cannot recognize an accomplished one. (150)

Nazm: From the word abhii the meaning is created that the calamity of being out of the homeland the desolation of being a stranger have very newly fallen upon him. The gist is that I have freshly left the homeland and don't know the road to the destination.... The excellence of the verse is that he has created a picture of a restless wanderer who has lost his way. (103-04)

Bekhud Mohani: Seeking the road (the road to the Lord, or the road to the attainment of some goal, or the road of spiritual inquiry and investigation), I go along for a little way with every fast-mover, because he himself seems to be wandering. And he says that the reason is that now I don't recognize a guide. When I recognize a guide, this will no longer happen. (201)

Naim: The world is full of false leaders. I still do not know who the real leader is. I get deceived by every appearance of rapidity and movement. Every time I see someone proceeding with rapidity I think him to be the guide and walk after him a little way. But that little experience tells me that the man is not the guide I seek. Or is it that I am restless and get quickly dran to another rapid-mover? (Naim 1970, 41)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Oh the elegant ambiguities! This verse can be read as a grim, resolute claim of agnosticism, or a poignant plea for spiritual help, or simply the classic Ghalibian adjuration to use one's own resources under all circumstances, and never borrow from others. Just consider some of the remarkably many possibilities. =If I walk a little way with every swift-mover, is this good or bad, desirable or undesirable, something I choose or something I would change if I could? =Are the swift-movers swift because they do in fact know the path, or because they are are even more madly lost and desperate tham I am? =If I don't 'recognize' a guide, is that because there are no guides? Or because there are guides, but only in disguise, and I haven't yet penetrated the disguise and learned to recognize them? Or because there are selfprofessed 'guides' aplenty, but I don't acknowledge their specious claims? (The sense of 'recognize' as 'acknowledge' or 'accept' is familar to us from English as well.) =It requires only a little nudging to bring out in abhii the possibilities of ab bhii (see above definition). Which would give it precisely the versatility of hanuuz.

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=Since Urdu conveniently has no articles, is it a question of 'a' guide (that is, anybody with a bit of helpful local knowledge), such that there could be a number of them, or 'the' guide (that is, the unique, predestined mystical figure who will show me the truth path)? How much more fascinating, provocative, and suggestive this verse is than the previous one, {99,5}. What reader of this verse can fail to find in it some echo of his or her own experience of life?

{99,7} ;xvaahish ko a;hmaqo;N ne parastish diyaa qaraar kyaa puujtaa huu;N us but-e bedaad-gar ko mai;N 1) 'longing', fools have established to be 'adoration' 2a) do I 'worship' that cruel/unjust idol? 2b) as if I 'worship' that cruel/unjust idol! 2c) how I 'worship' that cruel/unjust idol!

Notes: parastish: 'Adoration, worship, devotion, observance'. (Platts p.248) puujnaa: 'Honour, worship, respect, reverence, veneration, homage (to superiors), adoration (of the gods); idol-worship, idolatry'. (Platts p.277)

Nazm: The subtle meaning of this verse is that the poet asks in amazement, do I worship her?-- as if he doesn't know whether going before the beloved and expressing his submission reaches the level of 'adoration', or remains within the limits of 'longing'. And in addition to amazement, another aspect is that of reproach as well. (104)

Bekhud Mohani: Fools have considered longing to be worship [((ibaadat]. I long for union with her. I don't consider her an object of worship. In this verse two words are worthy of attention: parastish and bedaad-gar.... If we consider kyaa puujtaa huu;N to be a question, then the sense will be that although his obedience and submission have reached such a limit that people have begun to consider it 'adoration', nevertheless he himself is unaware of his own state, and asks in amazement, do I worship her?.... Indeed, in this verse there are certainly these points: that 'worship' [((ibaadat] is that which is performed before a lord who is considered worthy of 'worship'. In it there should be no place for fear of hell or ardor for heaven. Thus the weakness and submission that are caused by longing cannot be called 'adoration'. Can a tyrant ever be worthy of 'worship'? (202)

Josh: From this style of expression it's clear that he himself doesn't know whether going before that cruel one and expressing submission reaches the level of 'adoration'. This thought in the verse is truly subtle. (196)

Naiyar Masud: [If we look closely at the first line,] a general statement has been made, that what is called 'worship' is not worship, but 'longing'. Doesn't the plain meaning emerge, that when people 'worship' their object of worship, it isn't worship but only a form of longing, which fools have called 'worship'? And Ghalib has said exactly this in another verse as well: {93,2x}. That is, idol-house and Ka'bah are not centers of worship, they are aspects of the insistence of longing.... The speaker is not trying to refute some charge that has been made against him; rather, he himself is making a charge against people.... The basic thing is longing, for the fulfilment-- or rather, even the expression-- of which, worship is one means....

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[In short,] I have enough intelligence to understand the difference between longing and worship, but people who, despite having my counterexample before them, consider that longing is worship-- what can we call them! In the verse, from what has been said about them it can be seen that they are not hypocritical/infidel [munaafiq] or deceitful, they are only deceived. (180-84)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA; WORD IDOL: {8,1} It's not surprising if the adorable 'idol' [but] receives adoration, or worship, or something of the sort. But with all the ambiguities and wordplay in this verse, anything she gets will be diluted by unresolvable question marks. If there was ever a verse about definitions of words, this is surely it. In the first line, we learn that 'fools' define 'longing' as 'adoration' [parastish]. Are the fools merely the ordinary 'people of the world', while the lover is not so foolish as they? Or does the lover mean to include himself, ruefully, among them? Or are we to conclude that the lover is indeed among them, although he himself doesn't realize it? Then of course, the second line drops 'adoration' entirely, replacing it with 'worship' [puujnaa]. But what distinction-- if any-- is being made? Is it relevant that parastish comes from the Persian (thus Islamic) side, while puujnaa comes from the Indic (thus Hindu) side, so that the former is offered to the true god while the latter is offered to an idol? Is it relevant to the distinction, as Bekhud Mohani maintains, that the beloved is cruel/unjust, or is that just one of her many normal epithets that happens to be applied here? Or of course it's possible that no real distinction is being made at all, and the lover just happens to use a different word for the same concept-- see the definitions above, to verify how largely the two words overlap. (My translating one as 'adoration' and the other as 'worship' is really just for convenience, so we can readily tell them apart in English.) Finally, as if we don't have enough meaning-creation already, there are the familiar but always powerful multivalences of kyaa. As usual, Ghalib leaves the reader twisting slowly in the wind-- and he makes sure the wind is blowing from as many directions as possible.

{99,8} phir be-;xvudii me;N bhuul gayaa raah-e kuu-e yaar jaataa vagarnah ek din apnii ;xabar ko mai;N 1) again/then, in self-lessness, I forgot the road to the street of the beloved 2) otherwise, I would have gone one day, to inquire about myself

Notes: Nazm: That is, since I have gone out of myself, I would hardly have gone anywhere else! A number of times I must have gone-- that very place is so heartattracting that anyone who goes there doesn't turn away again. I too am probably there; for this reason I'm not myself, and because I'm not myself I've forgotten even the road itself. Otherwise, I would have gone there one day to inquire about myself. (104)

Bekhud Mohani: Since leaving the street of the beloved, we haven't really been ourself. In a state of self-lessness, we wandered arounded, buffeted on all sides. Sometimes we became unconscious, sometimes we become conscious. We had the intention to go to the street of the beloved and inquire about our lost heart and our looted consciousness and senses. But what can we do? For in self-lessness, we forgot the road itself.... The word phir tells us that this today is no new thing; rather, we have often formed the intention, but in selflessness couldn't find the road of the street of the beloved. (202)

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Faruqi: In this verse phir doesn't mean 'again', but rather 'then' [tab].... [And 'one day'] hints at a kind of carelessness and lack of interest.... that I don't have any special need or worry about inquiring about myself.... The word 'selflessness' is central, because it is both an authorization for my not knowing about myself, and the cause of my losing information about myself. It's a fine verse. (143)

FWP: SETS == PHIR Bekhud Mohani tells us firmly that here phir means 'again', while Faruqi equally confidently announces that it means not 'again' but 'then'. As usual, I think it's meant to have both possibilities. After all, it's very appropriate for a verse like this, which is about a state of confusion and (self-)forgetfulness, to have things happen both ineluctably, one after the other, and also repeatedly, with the same ineluctable pattern recurring many times. For more on the versatility of phir, see {4,5}. The phrase raah-e kuu-e yaar -- literally, 'the road of the street of the beloved'-- is piquant as well. Why do we need both a road and a street? A simple, commonsense solution would be to read the phrase as meaning 'the way to the street'. Another reading would see the phrase as embodying a kind of confusion, to represent the voice of a self-less person who is entirely bewildered by maps and street directions. And of course the raah could also be abstract and mystical: the similarly doubled phrase 'path of the road of oblivion' [jaadah-e raah-e fanaa] occurs in both {10,12} and {92,3}. Could the 'road of the Beloved's Street' thus refer to the lover's own form of the mystical path? This one also reminds me of {161,8}, which is a simpler take on the same situation. I wanted to say the same 'plight', but it really doesn't seem to be a plight. As Faruqi points out, the use of 'one day' conveys a marked casualness and lack of urgency. The lover is used to the paradoxes and dilemmas of heart-lessness (as in {7,5}), so why should he be fazed by selflessness? In this verse at least, he clearly isn't. Which makes sense. If there's no 'self' around to be upset by it, then what's the harm of losing one's 'self'?

{99,9} apne pah kar rahaa huu;N qiyaas ahl-e dahr kaa samjhaa huu;N dil-pa;ziir mataa((-e hunar ko mai;N 1) [I] am estimating the people of the age on [the lines of] myself 2) I have considered the property/wealth of skill/art [to be] heart-captivating

Notes: Nazm: I consider that just as I am a friend of skill/art, so are all the people of the age. And through this error I have considered skill/art to be an attractive property. By revealing his error in judgment, the poet has expressed the meaning that in this age skill/art is unmarketable. 'Upon oneself' [apne uupar] is the idiom, and in Lucknow they don't say apne pah. (104)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I was considering the whole age to be a friend of skill/art as I was, and because of this error I consider the property/wealth of skill/art to be heart-attracting. Although the situation is just the reverse-- that is, in the present age skill/art people have judged skill/art to be unmarketable property. (155)

Bekhud Mohani I hold skill/art dear, but this is my error, to consider the whole world to be a connoisseur of skill/art. Where is there any respect for skill/art?

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[And as for what Nazm says about idiom,] the elders of Delhi were not bound by the idioms of Lucknow. (203)

Naim: I must be conjecturing the world to be like me in thinking that one's talents naturally draw the respect of the people. I look at myself and think that everyone is like me too, that they too open their hearts to anyone possessing talent. (Naim 1972, 24)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Obliquely but effectively, with the power of implication, Ghalib is talking here about his own 'skill/art' [hunar], poetry. In {60,7} he speaks more explicitly of the 'property/wealth of poetry' [mataa((-e su;xan], and emphasizes the intimacy of offering it for sale: he himself goes along with it- but only after seeing what the buyer is like. In the present verse, the problem is that there are no buyers, or at least no worthy ones. This is a theme commonly expressed in his letters, and a belief that he held-- sometimes bitterly, sometimes ruefully-- throughout most of his life. He knew he was a great poet, he knew he was achieving superb and unique effects-- yet he had to scramble for patronage in a most humiliating way that was entirely contrary to his own ideal self-image. And even when he scrambled his hardest, results were barely forthcoming. Time after time, the patrons on whom he placed his hopes let him down. The story of his life makes sad reading in this respect. Yet he too was not one to grovel before his patrons: see {99,10} for an example of his tone. In addition to seeking patrons closer to home, he even composed an ode (in Persian, of course) to Queen Victoria. As he himself described its contents in Dastanbu, 'In this petition it was requested that, as the kings of Rum, Iran and other countries had rewarded their poets and well-wishers by filling their mouths with pearls, weighing them in gold and granting them villages and recompense, the exalted queen should bestow upon Ghalib, the petitioner, the title of Mihr-Khwan, and present him with the robe of honour and a few crumbs from her bounteous table--that is, in English, a "pension"' (48). But fortune did not favor his plea. A few months later, the Rebellion of 1857 destroyed this hope along with many others. Since his death, however, Ghalib's star has shone brighter and brighter. I hope he would be pleased with this website.

{99,10} ;Gaalib ;xudaa kare kih savaar-e samand-e naaz dekhuu;N ((alii bahaadur-e ((aalii-guhar ko mai;N 1) Ghalib, may the Lord grant that, mounted on a steed of pride/coquetry, 2) I may see 'Ali Bahadur of lofty quality/essence

Notes: Nazm: By samand-e naaz is meant a steed who would move with pride/coquetry. For an i.zaafat, a minor relationship is sufficient. (104)

Bekhud Mohani: ((aalii-guhar means 'of lofty family'. (203)

Arshi: There is a reference to Navab 'Ali Bahadur, master of Bandah, who in the month of Ramzan A.H. 1260 (August 1839), on the death of Navab Zulfiqar ud-Daulah Bahadur, became the ruler of Bandah. (236)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The wordplay that energizes the verse-- to the mild extent that it can be said to be energized at all-- is of course that of ((alii and ((aalii.

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Grammatically, it could just as well (or even better) be the speaker who is on the proud, prancing steed. But of course in a meek, well-behaved verse like this we know it's the patron. To the patron himself, Navab 'Ali Bahadur, Ghalib wrote (in Persian) to recommend the study of Mir and Mirza [Sauda] as well as various Persian poets, and added, 'I speak the truth in hope that men will credit it....For the writing of Urdu verse I have long felt no inclination. I write in Persian, but since it is the pleasure of His Majesty the Shadow of God [=the Emperor Bahadur Shah] that I should from time to time bring verse of this kind as a gift into his exalted presence, I perforce write now and then in Urdu too. Thus I enclose in this letter of humble submission a few recent ghazals...which I have copied out. Be pleased to study them, and set your heart on winning for your pen this style of writing, and for your song this kind of melody.' (Russell and Islam, p. 94) For a person who deprecates his own Urdu poetry, Ghalib still is clearly considerably proud of his ghazals. This verse, with its very rare, overt, specific flattery of a patron, makes an intriguing follow-up to {99,9} with its resentful disdain of all patrons.

Ghazal 100 9 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: uur nahii;N composed after 1826; Hamid p. 82; Arshi #103; Raza pp. 270-71

{100,1} ;zikr meraa bah badii bhii use man:zuur nahii;N ;Gair kii baat biga;R jaa))e to kuchh duur nahii;N 1) mention of me, even with abuse, is not acceptable to her 2) that the Other’s plan/project/idea might be ruined-- well, it's not {far off / improbable}

Notes: Nazm: That is, she hates me so much that if anyone mentions my name before her, even to insult me, then it doesn't please her. And the Other has the habit of always abusing me. So it's not improbable that for this reason she and the Rival might have a falling-out. (105)

Hasrat: The Other is mentioning me 'with abuse', although it doesn't please the beloved to hear me mentioned even with abuse. (89)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is angry at me. But there's still enough effect of love remaining that if anyone abuses me, then she can't listen to it. And the Rival will certainly abuse me. From this there's the hope that his plan will fail. Such things sometimes do happen, and sometimes lovers comfort their hearts in this way. (203-04)

Arshi: Compare {189,6}. (228-29, 289)

FWP: I think Bekhud Mohani has the right idea-- the lover is desperately looking for hope in what seems to be a hopeless situation. He's grasping at straws. After all, if she hates me so much that she can't stand to hear the mention of my name, and the Other keeps mentioning it-- then he might vex her, and she

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might reject him and ultimately favor me instead! Who's to say it couldn't happen? It's at least 'not far off' that the Other might seriously anger her, and lose his own chances with her. And surely that would be a sign of hope? But we know how determined he is to delude himself. If the beloved so hates the lover that she can't stand even the mention of his name, even if it's accompanied by abuse, is there really much likelihood of her changing her mind and deciding to favor him? The lover seems to think that a break with the Other is imminent, or at least 'not far off'. But if she's so irascible as to break off with the Other on such slight grounds, doesn't that show that her temperament is wrathful and any chance of forgiveness or favor for the lover is minute? And if the lover is wrong, and she isn't about to break off with the Other, then his chances are equally dim (if not dimmer). The first line paints an entirely grim picture, and the second line seeks to give it a rosy color of hope, or at least a reddish tinge of the malicious pleasures of revenge. We see the lover's thought processes at work. And then, of course, we're invited to see through and beyond them. The lover's situation is so desperate that it's hard to begrudge him any vain shreds of hope he can salvage from the wreck.

{100,2} va((dah-e sair-e gulistaa;N hai ;xvushaa :taala((-e shauq muzhdah-e qatl muqaddar hai jo ma;zkuur nahii;N 1) there is a promise of a stroll in the garden-- bravo, {destiny / good fortune} of ardor! 2) the good news of slaying is destined/implied, which [is] not mentioned

Notes: :taala((: 'Rising, appearing (as the sun), arising; --s.m. Star, destiny, fate, lot, fortune; prosperity'. (Platts p.750) muqaddar: 'Decreed (by God), appointed, ordained, destined, predestined, predetermined; --understood, implied'. (Platts p.1055)

Nazm: That is, she promised to enjoy the spectacle of tulip and rose. From that I realized that she will slay me. How could it be vouchsafed to me that truly she would, in my presence, take a stroll through the garden? It's not strange that instead of the good news of slaying, she would have said the good news of union. (105)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that she will look at the flowers with an admiring gaze, and I, considering them Rivals, will be slain by envy. (156)

Bekhud Mohani: By 'a stroll in the garden' she doesn't mean a real walk in the garden. Rather, she's so bloodthirsty and cruel that she considers the sight of wounded ones writhing in blood to be a stroll through roses. Thus from her promise of 'a stroll in the garden' it ought to be understood that she gives me the good news of my being slain. He has said just such a thing in two other places, {8,3} and {136,4}. (204)

Josh: muqaddar is that [implied] word that comes before some utterance and would not be mentioned [ma;zkuur].... Some judge that in place of 'good news of slaying' there should be 'good news of union', but this opinion doesn't seem to be correct. The reason is that from sahing 'good news of union' the verse becomes superficial, and Mirza's special style of speech and tone of poetry is erased. (197)

Arshi: [Ghalib once quoted a somewhat altered form of the second line in a letter:] 'the longing for union is implied, which is not mentioned' [;xvaahish-e va.sl muqaddar hai jo ma;zkuur nahii;N]. (229)

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FWP: SETS == WORD What makes this a verse of 'word-exploration' is that both meanings of muqaddar are independently and conspicuously played upon. Here are the ways: 1) Its meaning of fate or destiny is strongly linked to :taala(( in the first line. 2) Its secondary meaning of 'implied, understood' makes it an exact opposite to 'mentioned' [ma;zkuur] in the second line. 3) It is actually defined in the second line: what else is something 'implied', but something 'that is not mentioned' [jo ma;zkuur nahii;N]? 4) It joins with 'mentioned' to form a pair that occupies the whole verse, which could well be called a verse of implication. After all, what does happen in the verse? The lover hears one thing that is 'mentioned' (a stroll in the garden), and instantly, confidently deduces another thing that is not mentioned but is 'implied' (his murder). A clear proof of all this impliedness and non-explicitness is how differently the commentators themselves interpret the 'implications' of the verse. For Nazm, the beloved is, by promising the lover a favor so huge it's unimaginable that she would grant it, implying that she will kill him instead; for Bekhud Dihlavi, it's her admiration for the flowers that will kill the lover with jealousy; for Bekhud Mohani, the beloved is announcing her plans to stage a spectacle of red blood and swaying, writhing forms by killing him, since that's what she means by a stroll in the garden. I like Bekhud Mohani's reading best, and he also supports it with two very apposite verses. But what I really like is the cleverness with which muqaddar and ma;zkuur deftly, unobtrusively, shape not only the affinity patterns in the verse, but even its semantic content, with the latter embedded in a definition of the former. In such a small space, Ghalib gives us several quite different forms of patterning to enjoy. What can you say of such a poet, except ;xvushaa ! Or maybe, shaa((ir ho to aisaa !

{100,3} shaahid-e hastii-e ma:tlaq kii kamar hai ((aalam log kahte hai;N kih hai par hame;N man:zuur nahii;N 1) the world is the waist of the Beloved of absolute/unconfined existence 2a) people say that [this] is [so], but [the claim] is not accepted by us 2b) people say that it exists, but it is not seen by us

Notes: ma:tlaq : 'Freed, free, unrestricted, unconfined; unconditional; indefinite; unrestrained, uncontrolled; not shackled; independent, absolute, entire, universal; principal, supreme'. (Platts p.1044) man:zuur : 'Seen, looked at; visible; admired; --chosen; approved of, admitted, accepted; sanctioned, granted; --agreeable, acceptable, admissible' (Platts p.1078)

Nazm: That is, the world has just such a relationship with being, as the waist does with the beloved-- we hear only its name, and it's not visible. The author has here used the word man:zuur in its meaning of 'seen', not in its idiomatic sense of 'favored'. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: People say that the world is the waist of the True Beloved, but let them go on saying it-- we don't agree. That is, they say that the existence of the world is postulated, and to be accepted. But we say that when something is not, then

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what's the point of saying 'it is' about it? The gist is that we don't believe in even the postulated existence of the world. [Nazm is wrong to restrict the meaning of man:zuur as he does.] When the meaning of man:zuur nahii;N as 'we don't agree' is present, then what's the need to take the meaning of 'it is not seen by us'? Indeed, from the word man:zuur the verbal device of iihaam has certainly been created. What's the connection of this with idiom? (104)

Arshi: Compare {141,7}, {196,4}, {208,3}. (229, 333)

Faruqi: The extremely intelligent, learned, and admiring commentator Maulana Bekhud Mohani [makes some excellent points. In fact,].... in man:zuur there's not only an iihaam [but much more besides].... It's clear that the beloved's waist (because of its delicacy and narrowness) is considered to be nonexistent. The beloved's waist of course exists, but the lover doesn't accept its existence. Now consider that absolute existence (that is, God most high) is the Beloved. If he is the Beloved, then he will have a waist as well. But this waist, for the lover, will be nonexistent. What is this world? It's the waist of the beloved of absolute existence. Ordinary people say that the world exists (the way ordinary people say that the beloved has a waist), but we don't believe it (the way in the lover's eyes, the beloved's waist is nonexistent).... Now three further points emerge. (1) we are lovers of the True Beloved. This fact is not explicit in the verse, but is conveyed through implication.... (2) The fact of the True Beloved's having no waist is proved by His being absolute/unconfined existence. A thing is unconfined when it is disconnected from all possible things.... (3) Both the waist's existence and its nonexistence are proofs of the existence of the True Beloved. Ordinary people believe the present world to be a proof of the Lord's existence, and we consider the world nonexistent, so that the Lord is present.... [In this verse] there's fine meaning-creation. (144-45)

FWP: SETS == WORD There's a marked disagreement over man:zuur , with Nazm insisting it has only its more literal meaning (2b), and Bekhud Mohani (with his usual desire to contradict Nazm) insisting it has only its more commonly used meaning (2a). The very controvery itself reveals the centrality of the word to the verse. Surely it's clear that the double meaning of the word is one of the chief pleasures of the verse, since the grammar of the second line is carefully arranged to elicit, and use, both meanings. (Thus, as Faruqi says, it's not an iihaam; its being so would imply that one meaning was intended and the other was not.) Faruqi does a good job of explicating the pro-waist view (held by 'ordinary people') and the anti-waist view (held by the true lover). (For more on the beloved's classic lack of a waist, see {99,4}.) As he points out, both views are consistent with the existence of God. Other word choices in the verse also work well with its mystical inclinations. The word used for 'beloved' is the philosophically fertile term shaahid (for a reminder of its resonances, see {98,6}). And the word ma:tlaq has both the sense of absoluteness proper to God, and the meaning of 'free, unconfined'-which at once calls into question the idea that such a God could ever have a 'waist', even (or especially?) one like the world. This is a verse in which there is clearly a divine, not a human, beloved; for other such verses, see {20,10}. In the first line, God is credited with absolute 'existence'. Then in the second line, people say the cleverly unqualified hai, meaning 'it is'-- or, of course, 'it

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exists' (or even 'He exists'), so that we are reminded of the first line. But then, what is the (unstated) 'it'? I see three possibilities: 1) the proposition expressed in the first line (which the 'people' are affirming); 2) the idea that the waist exists; and 3) as a corollary, the idea that the world exists. The three verses that Arshi suggests for comparisons are well-chosen, and show the lines along which Ghalib's poetic thought processes move when he's in these abstract domains. Needless to say, they don't resolve any questions. But surely we don't expect them to. A ghazal verse is not, after all, a philosophical disquisition. The idea that the world is God's tiny, almost invisible waist is so strange and fascinating that two piquant little lines seem hardly enough to pose and also complexly explore it. Yet here they are, and pose and explore it they do.

{100,4} qa:trah apnaa bhii ;haqiiqat me;N hai daryaa lekin ham ko taqliid-e tunuk-:zarfii-e man.suur nahii;N 1) our own drop too in reality is the/a sea, but 2) we don't intend to imitate Mansur's lack of capacity

Notes: :zarf : 'Ingenuity, skill, cleverness; ... --capacity, capability; a receptacle, vessel, vase'. (Platts p.755)

Nazm: That is, I too am that drop that would be obliterated in the sea. That is, I too have the special rank of being obliterated in the Self [of God]. But Mansur's capacity was small-- he overflowed. (105)

Bekhud Mohani: I too am that drop that in reality is an sea. That is, I too have already become obliterated in God, and have reached the rank of the limit of mystic knowledge. But I'm not a shallow one like Mansur, that I would start raising the cry, an al-;haq . (205)

Chishti: As long as we are ourselves-- that is, are imprisoned in ourselves-- we cannot say an al-;haq . He has presented this point in a poetic style in the second line. (536)

FWP: SETS == WORD DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} Ghalib is partial to drop/ocean imagery, for more on this series, see the discussion of{21,8}, a verse which itself echoes Mansur's words in a drop/ocean context. SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT FAMOUS LOVERS: And if this verse is part of a drop/ocean series, it can also be seen as part of a snide-remark-aboutfamous lovers series. Kohkan, poor conventional devil, was not able to die without an axe, as we learn in {3,6}; and it was beneath him to do such work in the first place, as {101,2} points out. His taking the easy, suicidal way out is deprecated in {204,3}. Majnun was a mere schoolboy when the lover was already mystically adept (at least, on the most common reading), as we learn in {61,3}. And now Mansur, the great mystic adorer of the divine Beloved, is held up for ridicule for his passionate excesses. A similar treatment is given to Majnun in {159,5}. In {194,5}, it's poor Zulaikha who comes in for a sneer at her naively unfulfilling dreams. The wonderfully versatile phrase tunuk-:zarfii , literally 'smallcapacitiedness', is the hinge on which the verse turns. The idea of 'capacity' can have a general sense, just as it does in English, of 'ability, skill, capability', and that's what we think of first. And rightly so, for that meaning is indeed relevant-- Mansur is too clumsy and inept to keep his mystical

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passion secret as a proper lover should. But on second thought we do a delighted double-take, for we realize that the literal meaning is even more relevant: :zarf is, literally, a quality possessed by a 'receptacle' or 'vessel', something that actually holds liquids-- like drops of water. ('Capacity' in English has the same literal meaning as well-- it measures the amount of liquid a vessel can hold.) Mansur is thus too small a vessel, and he overflows, as Nazm wittily expresses it. The speaker, by contrast, has more 'capacity', and can contain the mystical 'oceanic feeling' without letting it splash out over the edges and run into the streets. What is usually seen as a virtue (Mansur's wild, heedless, self-less passion) is turned into a slightly ridiculous defect, a cause for pity. How much superior it is to have all the same feelings, but keep them 'contained' within one's more capacious spirit! (Similarly, in the case of Kohkan, what is usually seen as a virtue-- his killing himself on hearing of Shirin's death-- becomes a defect, since the killing required an axe rather than, presumably, a mere act of will.) Of course, if that seems pompous or overblown, the verse can easily be read as tongue-in-cheek. The speaker is perhaps doing a sour-grapes spin on Mansur's feat, belittling it by arbitrarily changing the desired behavior from wildness to self-control. And indeed, doesn't the verse have a slightly defensive, protesting-too-much quality? The lover knows that he may never have the good fortune to die humiliatingly in public for his love (see {19,4}), however much he seeks this honor-- but Mansur achieved not only that, but eternal fame as well! Who would not be inclined to vent his feelings in the occasional snide remark? Think how much :zarf it would take to refrain.

100,5} ;hasrat ay ;zauq-e ;xaraabii kih vuh :taaqat nah rahii ((ishq-e pur-((arbadah kii guu;N tan-e ranjuur nahii;N 1) [vain] longing, oh relish for ruin, for that strength did not remain 2) the need/advantage of conflict-filled passion is not a grieved/sorrowful body

Notes: ((arbadah: 'Ill-nature, evil disposition; antipathy; dispute, conflict'. (760) guu;N: 'Opportunity, advantage, occasion; need'. (Platts p.926)

Nazm: 'That' is a gesture toward the struggles of an earlier time, when there was strength in him such that, in the capacity of a champion, he grapled again and again with passion. But at length he was defeated, and strength for the encounter did not remain. And over this very thing he expresses longing. (105)ew

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the burnings of the turmoil of passion and love, it's necessary to have a great deal of strength. And in our worn-out body strength and power has not remained. For this reason, we address '[vain] Longing' and express our longing and despair. (156)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, we had longed to depart from this world while constantly enduring the cruelties of passion, but what can we do? We simply don't have the strength to bear the pains of passion.... One elder says that guu;N is an Indic [hindii] word, and doesn't seem pleasing. A proper taste says that he has not placed a word, he has set a diamond. From the phrase 'relish for ruin' it's clear that destruction and ruination are the necessary results of passion. (205)

FWP: The lover seems to lament, though with entire resignation, his failure to 'die with his boots on' in the heat of the wild conflicts of passion. Instead, he's

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been left among the wounded, slowly bleeding to death from inner sorrows and sheer exhaustion. Ill-natured, hostile, advantage-seeking Passion has been left to stomp around the field unchallenged, searching for a worthy foe, and not deigning to put a wounded sufferer out of his misery. That being said, does this verse have a hinge, a pivot, a central organizing device? If so, I can't find it. It seems a rather uninteresting verse, with only a bit of exotic vocabulary-- ((arbadah, guu;N -- to catch our attention. But once our attention has been caught, what is done with it? Not much, as far as I can tell.

{100,6} mai;N jo kahtaa huu;N kih ham le;Nge qiyaamat me;N tumhe;N kis ra((uunat se vuh kahte hai;N kih ham ;huur nahii;N 1) when I say, 'we will take you on Doomsday' 2) with what haughtiness she says, 'we are not a Houri'

Notes: ra((uunat : 'Pride, haughtiness, arrogance'. (Platts p.595)

Nazm: This too is a major theme of the ghazal, that the beloved's repartee should be mentioned; and often such verses become the high point of the ghazal. (105)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the beloved's repartee creates an extraordinary pleasure. He says, when I said to her, here you hate us and remain very far from us; on Doomsday we will ask for you from God. Hearing this, with extreme pride that mischievous one said to us, we are not a Houri, that we would be given to you. (157)

Bekhud Mohani: In one [other] place, in the guise of longing too, he has said just the same kind of thing: {111,7}. (205)

Arshi: Compare {111,7}. (229)

Naim: Playfulness, so typical of a large number of Ghalib's couplets. Also hints at the poet-lover's belief that the beloved is actually far more beautiful than the most beautiful Houri. (Naim 1972, 9)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; MUSHAIRAH QIYAMAT: {10,11} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] Repartee [;haa.zir-javaabii] is indeed the great charm of this verse. It's a pleasure to hear how thoroughly the beloved deflates the lover's wistful and/or playful threat. While an ordinary woman would be flattered to be called a Houri [;huur] or a Pari-like one [parii-paikar], the beloved is not only not flattered, she is actually insulted: can she be likened to a mere celestial maiden of Paradise? She speaks with hauteur, even disdain. She's not one to get worked up over such trivial insults, things so impossible to take seriously for even a moment. Thus the effect of her repartee is doubled by her indifference. This one is also an almost perfect mushairah verse. The punch-word, ;huur , the single word that makes the whole verse comprehensible and also renders the whole joke amusing, is withheld until the last possible moment. It's hard to believe the original audience didn't burst out laughing when they heard it. The comparison with {111,7} proposed by Bekhud Mohani and Arshi is also, in thematic terms, very apt. But without the element of deadpan dialogue, it's less amusing than the present verse.

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{100,7} :zulm kar :zulm agar lu:tf dare;G aataa ho tuu ta;Gaaful me;N kisii rang se ma((;zuur nahii;N 1) cruelty, practice cruelty! if kindness/affection would be repugnant/vexatious; 2a) in indifference/negligence, you [are] not excused under any circumstances 2b) in indifference/negligence, you [are] not excused from [showing] any aspect/style

Notes: dare;G: 'Denial, refusal; repugnance, disinclination; regret, sorrow, vexation, grief'. (Platts p.515) ta;Gaaful: 'Unmindfulness, heedlessness, forgetfulness, neglect, negligence, inattention, inadvertence, indifference, listlessness'. (Platts p.328)

Nazm: That is, indifference/negligence is merely nonacquaintance; how would this be acceptable to me? (106)

Hasrat: That is, if you don't practice kindness, then practice cruelty! Under no circumstances practice indifference/negligence.... kisii rang se -- that is, your profession is tyranny, I don't like even indifference/negligence. (89

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you don't consider me worthy of kindness, then I insist that you practice cruelty on me, cruelty! Indifference/negligence would only be fitting in a case in which you were excused from cruelty. (157)

Bekhud Mohani: There are some other verses of this kind: {148,2}; {123,4}. (205-06)

FWP: The beloved is enjoined to practice cruelty, if kindness seems dare;G [dare;G aanaa] to her. But how and why would kindness seem repugnant or vexatious? A person who had such an attitude would surely be one already inclined to cruelty. So why urge such a cruelly-inclined person so forcefully (with a repetition of the operative word) onwards to cruelty? Isn't it unnecessary, and even undesirable? Not considering the alternative, which is indifference/negligence [ta;Gaaful]. The word also has a slightly stronger and more wilful overtone, more like the English 'heedlessness', which can be markedly deliberate. As the commentators point out, the lover can bear anything more readily than to be ignored. (Thus the truism that the opposite of love is not hate but indifference.) So he doesn't merely implore or urge, but actually commands the beloved to practice cruelty instead. All the commentators read the second line as (2a): the beloved is sternly warned that she will not be excused 'under any circumstances' [kisii rang se] if she insists on showing indifference. Instead, she must show cruelty. She is thus being warned sternly and even threateningly about her behavior-- the risk of 'not being excused' is held over her head, as if by someone with authority. Yet these intimidating words are being said by a person who obviously has no power over her, and who is in fact desperate to receive any reaction from her at all. Does the lover have some secret power that we don't know about? Or is he simply trying to goad her into a show of resentment, and thus into hostility and cruelty, so as to dislodge her from her indifference?

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But an even more enjoyable second reading is (2b): in her manifestation of indifference, the beloved won't be excused 'from any aspect/style' [kisii rang se] of the behavior. In other words, within the larger category of 'indifference', negligence is no doubt one aspect, while cruelty is another. And from the logical structure of the first line, it would seem that kindness is yet another. What a wonderful notion! Isn't the indifferent beloved's casual, random kindness really a highly refined form of cruelty, since it shows that the lover receives the kind of absent-minded smile that might be given to a stray animal. In either case, the beloved is being held to some obligation that we don't understand-- she must go through all the permutations of her proper belovedlike behavior. But why must she? This is the question that lingers. The lover's urgent, authoritative, peremptory tone is the real fascination of the verse.

{100,8} .saaf durdii-kash-e paimaanah-e jam hai;N ham log vaa))e vuh baadah kih afshardah-e anguur nahii;N 1) clearly/simply, we people are drinkers of the lees from Jamshid's winecup 2) alas-- that wine that is not pressed from grapes!

Notes: .saaf : 'Pure, clean, clear... plain, simple... ; -- adv. Clearly; plainly;... decidedly, flatly; thoroughly, entirely'. (Platts p.742) durd : 'Sediment, dregs, lees'. (Platts p.511) vaa : 'Oh! ah! alas! alas for!'. (Platts p.1171)

Nazm: That is, our wine-drinking too is of a lofty rank-- we haven't been vouchsafed that wine not made from grapes, so we can't touch our lips to it, because this is contrary to our imitation of Jamshid. Here Mirza Sahib has uttered a .zil((a -- that is, for the sake of durd he has brought .saaf into the verse. (106)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's contrary to the imitation of Jamshid that wine of a low rank should be drunk. The wine that is not made from grapes is ill-omened. That is, let it be pure wine [that we drink]. We people don't even touch our lips to such low-ranking wine. (157)

Bekhud Mohani: It's clear that we people (wine-drinkers) are drinkers of the leftover wine of Jamshid. We drink no small amount of wine made from grapes. Wine not made from grapes-- is that any wine at all? That is, we are not casual, commonplace wine-drinkers. (207)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; GENERATORS Nazm points to a fine example of wordplay: the contrast between .saaf -'clean, pure, clear'-- and durd -- 'dregs, lees, sediment'. Ghalib even contrived to juxtapose these two words, so that the 'clear, limpid, pure' and the 'murky, thick, impure' would be bumped up against each other as ostentatiously as possible. The commentators make it out to be an easy and straightforward verse, but it's obviously not. Consider the first line. It's clear that we are drinkers from the dregs or lees of Jamshid's wine-cup. But that's no ordinary wine-cup! As everybody in the ghazal world knows, the Cup of Jamshid was a magic one-when he filled it with wine and gazed into the still surface of the wine, he

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saw reflected the whole world, and events from the past and future. When the Cup had been emptied down to the lees, the magic reflecting surface would be gone, and this vision would no longer be apparent. So if we drink only the lees, isn't that a wretched state of affairs? Aren't we getting only the miserable residue, as the word 'dregs' itself suggests? Jamshid got the magic visions, and the wine-- and what do we get? Only the dregs! The commentators insist on taking the first line as a cheerful, deliberate choice on our part, but I can't see why. It could be that, but it could also, at least as plausibly, be a wry recognition of loss, or a complaint against injustice. That sweeping, absolute .saaf at the start of the line is perfect for the tone I'm thinking of-- it's clear, entirely and wholly, hopelessly clear. Then-- the ambiguities of the second line! Right away, we need to ask whether the wine from Jamshid's cup is to be considered 'that wine not pressed from grapes'. Since it's impregnated with magic power, the reference seems quite possible. After all, if Ghalib wanted an unproblematical contrast between 'grape' wine and 'non-grape' wine, he could have used as an example of the former any amount of other wine (as in fact he does all the time). By choosing the wine in the Cup of Jamshid, the only 'non-natural' magic-filled wine in the whole ghazal tradition, he has at the very least forced us to pause and consider what classifications of wine he might have in mind. If we decide that Jamshid's wine is to be considered 'not pressed from grapes', then the effect of the second line is to reinforce the tone of lament or complaint in the first line-- alas, that we're left vainly longing and thirsting for a kind of 'magic wine' of vision and insight! It's a wine that only Jamshid was actually able to drink, but we're hooked on the hope and the yearning, so we keep on swallowing even the lees left in that magic cup. Alas, for that wine-- it has enslaved us to a hopeless longing for vision, a hopeless reenactment of what once was a miraculous ritual of insight. If we decide that Jamshid's wine was indeed pressed from grapes, then the wine in the second line is some other wine, perhaps some intangible mystical wine of pure divine vision and transcendance. Or perhaps it is the wine of poetry, which has an intoxication like that of opium (see {33,4}). In either case, the lament is for the neglect of such non-physical wine-- we humans prefer wine that intoxicates our bodies, rather than our minds or spirits. Especially when it has a lingering flavor of magic, of supernatural powers. Marvelous powers, but alas! so long gone. Even so, we'd rather go on seeking for flavor in the dregs, than turn in any other direction. Is this stubbornness good or bad? Naturally, Ghalib being Ghalib as usual, it's impossible to say. The only other verse in the divan that talks about 'lees' is also a complex one: {232,2}.

Ghazal 101 10 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aad nahii;N composed after 1826; Hamid p. 83; Arshi #104; Raza p. 271

{101,1} naalah juz ;husn-e :talab ay sitam-iijaad nahii;N hai taqaa.zaa-e jafaa shikvah-e bedaad nahii;N 1a) there is no lament apart from 'beauty of seeking', oh Tyranny-invention 1b) a lament is nothing except 'beauty of seeking', oh Tyranny-invention 2a) there is a claim of/for cruelty, there is no complaint of injustice/oppression

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2b) it is a claim of/for cruelty, it is not a complaint of injustice/oppression 2c) a claim of/for cruelty is not a complaint of injustice/oppression

Notes: juz : 'Besides, except'. (Platts 381) :talab : 'Search, quest; wish, desire; inquiry, request, demand, application, solicitation; sending for, summons; an object of quest, or of desire'. (Platts p.753) iijaad : 'Creation, production; invention, contrivance'. (Platts p.112) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the longing for cruelty will not be accepted. Indeed, if she becomes angry at my lament and practices cruelty, then so be it. The gist is that lamentation is the 'beauty of seeking', not a complaint. (106)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my lament has no connection with a complaint of injustice. That is, I don't make a lament as a complaint about cruelty and tyranny. Rather, it is 'beauty of seeking', a claim for cruelty. The meaning is that you don't practice cruelty and tyranny on us casually; rather, you'll get annoyed at our laments and practice cruelty on us. (157)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, you inventor of ever-new cruelties! Our lament doesn't complain about your cruelties. Rather, we are so fond of suffering that the purpose of our lament is that you should practice more cruelty upon us, or become angry at our laments and treat us cruelly. (607)

FWP: SETS == A,B; DEFINITION The flexibility of juz is beautifully illustrated here: it's a contraction of the Persian judaa az , which literally means 'apart from'. Thus it can be used to mean 'apart from A, there is no B', so that A is a prerequisite for the existence of B (1a). Or, more narrowly, it can mean 'except for A, there is no B', so that A is the only B(1b). For another example of such flexibility, see {221,2}. 'Beauty of seeking' for ;husn-e :talab is the best translation I could come up with, but it doesn't do the job very well; ;husn seems to be a broader word here. I first encountered this difficulty with the technical poetic term ;husn-e ta((liil , for which I finally came up with 'elegance in assigning a cause'. In the case of the poetic term, attention is being called both to the act of assigning a (freshly imagined) cause to something, and also to the beauty, elegance, wit, and general praiseworthiness with which the act is done. Other usages, like 'the beauty of coincidence' [;husn-e ittifaaq], call attention not to deliberate acts, but to simple facts or events. With those two examples in mind, we could imagine either that the lover is showing conscious cleverness by doing his 'seeking' in an admirably ingenious or devious way, or else that the act of 'seeking' in itself sometimes produces fine, surprising effects (as in 'the beauty of coincidence'). The first line is literally addressed to an abstraction, 'tyranny-invention' [sitam-iijaad]. The commentators take it as an epithet for the beloved, and indeed it could be. But it might also be taken literally, as one of Ghalib's remarkable abstract personifications. What is the relationship between the two lines? The question is complicated by the cleverly framed grammar of the second line: 'A is, B is not' would become 'there is A, there is no B' (2a). But since the subject can be colloquially omitted in Urdu, a reading of 'it is A, it is not B' (2b), where 'it' is the omitted subject, is equally possible. (And then the 'it' could be either

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'lament' or 'beauty of seeking'.) Or with equal plausibility, the contrast could be an internal one: 'A is not B' (2c). And then, does one line describe a cause, and the other a result of it? (And if so, which way around?) Or do both lines describe the same situation? There seems to be a definition or description somewhere in all this, but it's got such a penumbra of alternatives floating around it that the contours are impossible to demarcate precisely. This verse itself is a pretty good mental 'tyrannyinvention'.

{101,2} ((ishq-o-mazduurii-e ((ishrat-gah-e ;xusrau kyaa ;xuub ham ko tasliim nikonaamii-e farhaad nahii;N 1) passion-- and labor for the pleasure-house of Khusrau? how fine! 2) we do not accept the good reputation of Farhad

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it is far from the rank of passion that he would consider labor to be the means of his success. That is, Farhad cut through the Pillarless Mountain so that a pleasure-house for Khusrau could be made from that stone. This was the task of a laborer. The glory of passion is much more lofty and exalted than this. For this reason, we have doubts about the good reputation of Farhad. We cannot enter his name in the list of lovers. (157-58)

Bekhud Mohani: Having become a lover, how fine it was to labor to build a pleasure-house for his Rival, Khusrau! We have doubts about Farhad's good reputation and esteem. That is, a person with proper pride cannot possibly perform labor when the beloved lives with the Rival. (207)

Mihr: He was given the order to cut a channel through the mountain, for Shirin's garden, and he was promised that upon completing the channel, Shirin would be his. Farhad completed the channel, but when he was given false news of Shirin's death, he was obliged to kill himself. This is the common story; it has no relation to history.... Mirza [Ghalib] has brought out a point in the story of Farhad that certainly cannot be considered to his credit.... If it is said that Farhad had set out to dig a channel for Shirin, then Shirin was the wife of Khusrau Parvez; the channel that was made for her palace and garden, was in any case for the pleasure-house of Khusrau Parvez himself. (344)

FWP: This verse is another in the series of snide remarks about famous lovers of the past; for more about such verses, see {100,4}. The story of Shirin and Farhad is told in various versions; see {1,2} for further discussion. The chief charm of this verse is surely its shock value. As Mihr points out, Ghalib has brought out a new and unexpected aspect of a traditional story-and has insulted, with a show of virtuous indignation, one of the great lovers of ghazal tradition. He's done a similar thing already in {3,6}, in which he sneers at Farhad for needing to use an axe to kill himself. All such snide remarks can of course also be taken as tongue-in-cheek. The later lover might well be jealous of his predecessor's fame, and could thus be reacting with a sour-grapes attitude. He might well jump at the chance to do, himself, what he accuses Farhad of doing. (In this connection, consider {99,3}.) For after all, isn't the beloved properly worth any sacrifice-including the sacrifice of pride, and self-respect, and one's good name?

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{101,3} kam nahii;N vuh bhii ;xaraabii me;N pah vus((at ma((luum dasht me;N hai mujhe vuh ((aish kih ghar yaad nahii;N 1) that too is not less in ruinedness, but scope/extensiveness? none at all! 2) in the desert I have such luxury/enjoyment that the house is not remembered

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the house itself is desolate like the desert, but how can it have as much scope? (107)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In desolation, my house too was not less than the desert, but how could it have the scope that would be available in the wilderness? (158)

Bekhud Mohani: Often poets who want to say something new, when they find some theme, they adorn it in various ways and present it. This theme Mirza has everywhere said in a new manner.... [Compare] {91,9}. (208)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR HOME: {14,9} In classical mushairah style, this verse presents a first line that is like a riddle. It can't be reliably interpreted without more information-- but it's enticing to guess at it, and a person who knew the tradition well would be likely to have a shrewd notion in this case where the second line might be going. (The colloquial use of ma((luum as a vigorous negative exclamatory marker is very common; see the grammar page for more examples.) When after a suitable interval of suspense, you finally get to hear the second line, what a great punch it carries! Just consider the levels of implication. The first line is a parody of the kind of thing people say when they are house-hunting. (For a verse with a similar thoughtfully comparative tone, see {101,9}.) 'Well, that one was just as nice as this one, but it had no closet space!' In proper comparative mode, the line mentions first a virtue, then a defect. But what is the virtue? Amusingly, as the lover is critically comparing possible dwelling places, he's analyzing their relative degrees of ruination. Yes, he says approvingly, the former one was just as ruined as my present one, there's nothing to choose between them in that regard. But when it comes to space, to scope, to spread-out-ness! My old house was terribly cramped, and this present one gives me all the amplitude that even I could desire. By implication, we see the lover's values: he prefers a dwelling as ruined as possible, and as spacious as possible-- so that he can roam freely in his restlessness, and behave oddly in solitude without being bothered by neighbors, no doubt. The final touch of wit is his praising the 'luxury' or 'enjoyment' [((aish] that he has in the desert. So far from finding the desert inconvenient in any way, he thinks it a five-star hotel. Which of course reminds us of his desperation and his mad passion; ultimately, he wants nothing at all from the world except to be out of it. He has so little regard for worldly comforts or luxuries that he declares the desert to embody them. But of course, what kind of vuh ((aish does he really have in the desert? A kind that causes him to forget his home entirely! We at first think of that as high praise, but then we think again. Is the desert perhaps not a paradise, but merely a place for amnesia and loss of self? Does he even remember what a home is? Could loss of memory be the reason he considers the desert life

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luxurious? The layers of implication and ambiguity are rich, but the idiomatic, colloquial punch of the verse keeps it lively and amusing. This verse has a beautiful, perfect, irresistible companion verse in {35,8}. They orbit each other like twin stars.

{101,4} ahl-e biinish ko hai :tuufaan-e ;havaadi;s maktab la:tmah-e mauj kam az siilii-e ustaad nahii;N 1) to people of insight, the typhoon of events/calamities is a school 2) the buffet of the wave [is] not less than the slap of an Ustad

Notes: ;havaadi;s: 'Accidents, occurrences; misfortunes, calamities'. (Platts p.482) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'wave', the wave of the typhoon of events is meant. The meaning is that instruction in good counsel comes from events. (107)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that for people of insight, the typhoon of events has the authority of a school. The blow of the wave is not less than the slap of an Ustad, for the obtaining of the lesson of good counsel. (158)

Bekhud Mohani: In the eyes of the wise, the typhoon of events is a school. They consider the slaps of the waves to be not less than the slaps of an Ustad. That is, unlike fools, they don't fear difficulties, nor do they sit stupefied and helpless. Rather, they take a lesson in good counsel. (208)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH == TRANSLATABLES This one is a classic mushairah verse-- you can't see where the first line is going until (after a suitably tantalizing interval) you get to hear the second. Even in the second, you don't get to the punch-word until the last possible moment: out of all this impersonal typhooning and waving and buffeting suddenly emerges the SLAP-- of the Ustad. And then, also in true 'mushairah verse' style, the verse is effective, powerful, and complete all at once, even as it's over. The mention of the Ustad introduces a human note into all that impersonal wildness. But of course, your human Ustad slaps you because he cares about you and wants to prepare you for the future as best he can. Are we meant to see God's hand behind the typhoon of events? If so, we'll have to do it on our own authority, because the verse itself presents as the Ustad-figure only the 'wave of events/calamities'. Thus in the guise of cheerful, straightforward moral instruction, it's a grim and somewhat terrifying verse. It reminds me of {208,12}, in which the speaker not only confronts 'an ocean of blood', but fears that something even worse might be looming in the future. For after all, a 'typhoon' [:tuufaan] is a deadly storm: it can wreck everything you have, it can carry away your loved ones, it can kill you in an instant. Its 'waves' can be dozens of feet high. So if the 'typhoon of events/calamities' is a school, and its huge 'wave' buffets you like an Ustad's slap, it would seem to be a kind of Dickensian nightmare-school. What lessons are being imparted? Well, what do you learn from being hit by a typhoon? Both to take every precaution, and to realize that no amount of precautions may be enough. You are to learn how to live in an ominous, insecure world, in which suffering is sure to come often, with little or no warning, and from unexpected directions. 'Insight' into such a world is bought at the price of sorrow.

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{101,5} vaa))e ma;hruumii-e tasliim-o-badaa ;haal-e vafaa jaantaa hai kih hame;N :taaqat-e faryaad nahii;N 1) alas, deprivation/ill-fortune of obedience/acceptance! and woe to the state of faithfulness! 2) she considers/knows that we don’t have the strength to complain

Notes: ma;hruum [from which ma;hruumii comes]: 'Forbidden, prohibited; debarred, excluded (from hope, or favour); frustrated, disappointed, repulsed; denied, or refused (a gift, or good, or prosperity); deprived (of), plundered (of); deprived of the support of life; unlucky, unfortunate, wretched'. (Platts p.1008) tasliim : 'Saluting, greeting; salutation, obeisance, homage... health, security;... surrender, resignation;... to concede, acknowledge, grant; to assent to, to accept'. (Platts p.324) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the patience/endurance that we practice, out of regard for contentment and faithfulness-- you consider that we don't have the strength to complain. (107)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, because of our habit of acceptance and faithfulness, we refrain from lament and complaint. But our beloved considers that we don't have the strength. For this reason, we have adopted a policy of silence. It's a pity that justice is not even done to our self-control. (158)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas! What respect for acceptance and obedience and faithfulness! We show the mettle of acceptance and faithfulness on receiving her cruelty. And that cruel one considers that we are simply unable to complain. (208)

Josh: A verse of Hazrat Dagh's is in the same tone as thie verse: hu))e ma;Gruur vuh jab aah merii be-a;sar dekhii kisii kaa is :tara;h yaa rab nah dunyaa me;N bharam nikle [she became arrogant when she saw my ineffective sighs oh Lord, may nobody in the world have his illusions turn out this way!] (199)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT This verse, with its doubly inshaa))iyah first line, is a wonderfully complex display of i.zaafat pyrotechnics. For more on the i.zaafat, see {16,1}. Both ma;hruumii (which can be something we experience, or something she imposes on us) and tasliim (which can be something we do toward her, or something she does to us) have a remarkable range of meanings (see definitions above). When combined with the various possible i.zaafat uses, the possible meanings include these (and more, if we are willing to become more and more finicky about small subtleties of difference): =Alas, for our being debarred from her acceptance! =Alas, for our being denied the chance to humbly salute her! =Alas, for our being deprived of well-being and security! =Alas, for the wretchedness of our condition of humble submission! =Alas, for the deprivation which is caused by our obedience! =Alas, for the deprivation which is the essence of obedience! Then of course, ;haal-e vafaa has two major possibilities of its own:

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=Woe to the state/condition of faithfulness! =Woe to the state/situation in which faithfulness finds itself! When we come to the second line, the double meaning of jaannaa as either 'to know [accurately]' or 'to consider, believe [perhaps wrongly]' provides the final touch of complexity. (For more on the possibilities of jaannaa, see {16,5}.) Depending on how we read the first line, one or the other of these two possibilities will connect with it perfectly: =Alas, that she thinks we have no strength to complain (so she gives us no credit for our submission, patience, etc.)! =Alas, that she knows we have no strength to complain (so she feels free to maltreat and reject us)! Counting all the permutations and combinations, that's really a staggering number of possible readings to generate with a mere thirteen words. Once again we see 'meaning-creation' operating at full power.

{101,6} rang-e tamkiin-e gul-o-laalah pareshaa;N kyuu;N hai gar chiraa;Gaan-e sar-e rahguzar-e baad nahii;N 1) why is the style/color of the dignity/establishedness of the rose and tulip disturbed/scattered 2) if they are not lamps at the edge of the wind's roadway?

Notes: tamkiin : 'Establishing, confirming; investing with authority, giving power, enabling, affording opportunity; majesty, dignity, authority, power; sedateness'. (Steingass p.325) pareshaa;N : 'Dispersed, scattered; disordered, confused; dishevelled, tossed (as hair); amazed, distracted, perplexed, bewildered, deranged; troubled, distressed, wretched; ruined'. (Platts p.259) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if the glory/appearance of the rose and tulip is not a lamp of the wind's road, then why is it so unstable/transient? (107)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that if a lamp is lit and put in a windy place, then it is quickly extinguished; and the rose and tulip too are unstable/transient. That is, flowers don't last longer than one or two days. (158)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the way the flames of lamps flutter in the face of the wind, and are quickly extinguished, in the same way the tulip and rose too quickly wither and vanish. For opened tulips and roses he has given the simile of flickering lamps. (208)

FWP: Roses and tulips in full bloom are lamp-like. They have the rounded bowl shape of an oil lamp. They are dazzlingly radiant in their redness, like a flame. They have a limited lifespan at best, and will soon lose their brilliance. They sway back and forth in the wind, the way a lamp-flame flutters in the wind. And of course, once they are 'blown' (this is actually the term used for roses that have shed their petals) they and their radiance are destroyed, the way a lamp-flame is blown out by the wind. There's an obvious wordplay with rang , which means literally 'color', and by extension 'style, aspect, mood'. Then there's the elegantly multivalent opposition between tamkiin , which has a basic meaning of 'establishedness' or 'dignity' (such as the aristocratic rose and tulip, rulers and beloveds of the garden, ought to have), and pareshaa;N , which literally means 'disordered,

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scattered' (as by the wind), and by metaphorical extention 'distracted, anxious' (as at the approach of death). The classic, melancholy ghazal meditation on the transience of the rose's beauty is well presented here. It has a lyrical appeal. It also has ominous overtones: when our short-lived summer rose-lamps go out, what can we look forward to except to be left in darkness, with only the cold autumn wind blowing? In {105,2}, the sun itself becomes a lamp in the wind's road.

{101,7} sabad-e gul ke tale band kare hai gul-chiin muzhdah ai mur;G kih gulzaar me;N .sayyaad nahii;N 1) the Flower-picker binds/imprisons beneath the rose-basket-2) good news, oh Bird! that in the garden [it's] not the Hunter

Notes: kare hai is a variant form of kartaa hai . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Poets have acquired a habit of using only the rose and Nightingale and candle and Moth, etc., as themes for composing verses. And in imitation of them, the author has composed this verse. Otherwise, to the extent that you reflect carefully, there's nothing to be gotten out of it. (107) [See also his reference to this verse when discussing {199,3}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: sabad-e gul is the basket in which the flower-picker picks flowers and collects them. He says, the Flower-picker has tied you underneath the rosebasket. Oh captured Bird, congratulations! -- for there's no Hunter in the garden. If that cruel one were there, then the Bird of the garden would not have attained such nearness to the rose. (158)

Bekhud Mohani: [Nazm's objection is directed not just against Ghalib, but against all the ancient poets, and it's unjust.] He didn't reflect about why this habit came to be. When the poet was declared to be the 'interpreter of the world' [tarjumaan-e ((aalam], then authority was bestowed on him to compose about everything-- his own autobiography, and happenings in the world as well. When metaphor, implication, supposition [majaaz], simile, etc. were declared to be his treasury, then why shouldn't he use them? Mirza himself has already given an answer to this long ago. Consider this verse-set of Mirza's: {59,7}. (209)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH The first line certainly looks to be describing a disaster. Someone (unspecified) has been grabbed and tied up or imprisoned by a Flower-picker beneath a rose-basket. Is the someone a flower? a bird? And what's the significance of the whole dire event? In proper mushairah performance style, we would have to wait to find out. Then when we finally heard the second line, we'd learn several things. First, that the imprisoned creature is a Bird, and that both lines seem to be addressed directly to him by a sympathetic bystander. Then we'd learn that the first line is not (contrary to what we had supposed) a lament. Instead, it's the beginning of an attempt at consolation. For the emphasis in the first line turns out, in retrospect, to be meant to fall not on the painful fact of captivity (and the probability of being sold in the bazaar to some bird-fancier), but on the good fortune of being destined for capture by the Flower-picker, who sells flowers in the bazaar, and who probably would grab the bird as a casual piece of good fortune. For the

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Flower-picker casually ties his captives into the basket full of his alreadygathered roses. Thus the Bird will be able to be bound to the side of the Rose, the beloved of the garden. The Bird should consider himself fortunate that it wasn't the Hunter in the garden that day, who might indeed have slaughtered him (though this hardly seems to deserve mention), but above all would never have confined him in such a spectacularly desirable place. The power of implication-- one of the ghazal poet's great tools, as Bekhud Mohani points out-- then helps us notice that the possibilities the speaker (who is surely the lover) presents to the Bird don't seem to include retaining his freedom. It seems that whoever appeared in the garden, Flower-picker or Hunter, would inevitably have captured him, and it's just his good fortune that it was to be the former. This tells us a lot about the grimness of the lover's own sense of fatality. We also realize that the lover actually calls his observation to the Bird a piece of 'good news' [muzhdah]. You feel like exclaiming, 'That's the good news?!' (Or else maybe 'that's the good news?!) Using only the most indirect, subterranean means, the verse has conveyed the lover's deep, irrevocable wretchedness. He speaks to the captured Bird as to a friend and equal. And he offers what surely means to be consolation. And who knows? Maybe the Bird is the Nightingale, the great lover of the Rose-- maybe the Bird even shares his point of view. Maybe the Bird would agree that to be tightly bound to the Beloved's side is an astonishing stroke of good fortune-- one that makes the loss of freedom hardly worth mentioning by comparison.

{101,8} nafii se kartii hai i;sbaat taraavish goyaa dii hai jaa-e dahan us ko dam-e iijaad nahii;N 1) {as if / speaking} through negation, affirmation/proof drips/oozes 2) at the moment/breath of creation {[He] has given her / she has been given}, in place of a mouth, 'no'

Notes: taraavish: 'Dripping, sprinkling, sprinkle; trickle; oozing; distillation, exudation'. (Platts p.315) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if her mouth is present, it's only out of necessity, it's only in the imagination. Otherwise, externally, she has been given, in place of a mouth, 'no'. The word i;sbaat the author has here used as feminine [contrary to the usage of Mir]. The author himself used it as masculine in {131,6}. Here the nearness of [the feminine noun] taraavish has deceived him. Those people who like .zil((a must find much pleasure from the word goyaa. But this word has become trite. (107)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's as if [goyaa] from 'no' there drips 'yes' (that is, here the intent of the word 'negation' is 'no' and by 'affirmation' is meant 'yes'). 'Yes' [haa;N] is feminine, thus Mirza Sahib used 'affirmation' too as feminine. Here, the meaning of taraavish is 'to be manifest'.... Poets always treat the beloved's mouth as nonexistent. And on the day of creation instead of [ke bajaa))e] a mouth, the word 'no' was bestowed on the beloved. That is, to everything the beloved says 'no', and from saying 'no' there is proof of her having a mouth. (159)

Bekhud Mohani: To everything the beloved replies 'no'. From this it can be known that she has a mouth. If she didn't say 'no', nobody would know at all that she had a mouth. As if [goyaa] from 'no' emerges 'yes'. That is, it's learned that it has been present since creation. The Lord has given her 'no' in place of [kii jagah] a mouth. (209)

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FWP: SETS == HUMOR; OPPOSITES; WORDPLAY Among other things, the word order may be a bit confusing in this one, so here's the prose order: goyaa nafii se i;sbaat taraavish kartii hai dam-e iijaad us ko jaa-e dahan nahii;N dii hai The second line can be read as having either a perfect participle [dii hu))ii hai], as Bekhud Dihlavi reads it; or a ne construction with subject omitted [;xudaa ne dii hai], as Bekhud Mohani reads it; in this verse it doesn't seem to make much difference. We know that the beloved has no mouth; for further discussion of this fascinating piece of ghazal biology, see {91,4}. This verse plays on that basic truth with exceptional complexity. Consider the paradoxical thrust of the first line: through negation, affirmation drips. Its wild abstraction is energized by the weird idea of affirmation/proof as something that can 'drip' or 'ooze'. It's impossible to figure it out until we know the second line (which of course, under mushairah conditions, would be only after a tantalizing delay). Even when we do hear the second line, it's not easy to put the whole thing together. Here are two wonderfully contradictory possibilities: =Even as she negates everything, that affirms/proves that she has 'no' instead of a mouth =Even as she says 'no' to everything, that affirms/proves that she has (some kind of) a mouth Moreover, there's lovely wordplay. Despite Nazm's snide remark, the classic double meaning of goyaa -- both 'speaking' and 'as if'-- has surely never been used to better advantage; for more on this, see {5,1}. The word taraavish is also amusingly apt: what better way for something to 'come from' from a mouth than to drip, exude, etc? And if that something is as abstract as 'affirmation/proof', the effect is still more piquant. (It reminds me of the even more extreme {17,2}, in which 'desertness' drips.) There's also the small clever pleasure of jaa-e -- literally, 'in the place of'-where we would expect the usual bajaa))e, 'instead of'. The beloved doesn't just have 'no' instead of a mouth in some abstract sense, she literally has a 'no' on her face in the place where a mouth would be. And the 'no' issues itself forth as a (constantly repeated) word, so doesn't that mean the 'no' acts as a kind of mouth? There's an extra degree of realness here-- our imaginations are pushed closer to somehow envisioning her ravishing little face, with its rosy cheeks and that blank space of the nonexistent mouth between them, which of course isn't really empty because it contains 'no' where the mouth would be. Abstractness, multivalence, wordplay, humor-- all in very high degrees, all mixed into a creative, spicy stew (and not blended into a vague porridge). What more can two small lines of poetry offer?

{101,9} kam nahii;N jalvah-garii me;N tire kuuche se bihisht yihii naqshah hai vale is qadar aabaad nahii;N 1) it's not less in splendor-possession than your street, paradise-2) there is this very same design/layout, but it's not populous/flourishing to this extent

Notes: naqshah: 'A delineation; a portrait; a picture; --a design; a plan; a model, pattern, an exemplar; --a map, chart'. (Platts p.1145) aabaad: 'Inhabited, populated, peopled; full of buildings and inhabitants, populous; settled (as a colony or town); cultivated; stored; full; occupied;... -flourishing, prosperous; pleasant; happy'. (Platts p.2)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, here there's always a crowd of lovers. (108)

Bekhud Mohani: In paradise too, there's a flourishing/springtime like that of your street. The difference is only that here there's a great population because of lovers. (209)

Arshi: Compare {35,9}. (176, 231)

Faruqi: (1) People can have access to the beloved's street only while alive. In order to arrive in paradise, it's necessary to die.... Finding the beloved's street easier of access than paradise, people keep gathering in the beloved's street. (2) Paradise seems comparatively desolate because it's a big place, and those who go there are few. (3) Those who long for paradise, and those who enter it-- the poor things are dried-out Ascetics. Little do they know that paradise is present in the world itself. Only a handful of fools follow them on the road to paradise. The axis of the people is the beloved's street. (4) Among the dwellers in paradise there's not such a pain and burning as would make them cry out or lament. They lie there quietly. How would there be turmoil or commotion there? The dwellers in your street are full of pain and burning and intoxication. Here, there's constantly a commotion going on. (147)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR JALVAH: {7,4} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] Earlier in this ghazal we had {101,3}, and now this one. The same judiciously comparative tone, mentioning virtues and defects in different living situations. That one compared the desert favorably with the lover's house, for its breadth; this one compares the beloved's street favorably with paradise, for its quality of being more populous/flourishing [aabaad]. The rhetorical possibilities of this comparison are well presented by Faruqi. But it's the tone that's delightful-- the ruthlessly pragmatic, firmly focused, house-hunting tone. The speaker almost sounds as if he has a floor plan at hand, to compare the layouts. (Do we want to live in a crowded, lively urban area, or in the ritzy but boring suburbs?) This verse is also part of a line of thought that makes invidious comparisons between things earthly and things heavenly, to the disadvantage of the latter. For more examples, see {35,9}. It's clear that the speaker has been to paradise, since he knows it well enough for close and judicious comparison. It's also clear that he judges paradise with reference to the beloved's street, since he says takes the beloved's street as the norm and refers to paradise as having 'this very same design' [yihii naqshah]. And even more strikingly, it's clear that he has come back from paradise and has taken up residence (again?) in the beloved's street. In fact he, the returnee from paradise, is standing on the beloved's street even as he speaks, as 'to this extent' [is qadar] shows. This whole wonderful extra layer of 'mischievousness' [sho;xii] is added to the verse simply by a yihii and an is. Economy of means can't get much more perfect.

{101,10} karte kis mu;Nh se ho ;Gurbat kii shikaayat ;Gaalib tum ko be-mihrii-e yaaraan-e va:tan yaad nahii;N 1) how do you have the 'face'/nerve to complain of living abroad, Ghalib? 2a) don't you remember the unkindness of friends in the homeland? 2b) you don't remember the unkindness of friends in the homeland!

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Among the difficulties of Urdu grammar one problem is [the grammar of yaad honaa and its relationship with direct and indirect objects]. [This problem is discussed at length, with examples.] (108-09)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, with what 'face' to you complain of being in a foreign country? Don't you remember the unkindness of friends in the homeland? That is, if while traveling nobody inquires about your welfare, then in the homeland who cared about you? (159)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse so many words are full of meaning. (1) 'with what face?'. (2) the complaint of living abroad, from which it is learned that he experienced trouble when abroad. (3) He said 'friends of the homeland'; he didn't say 'people of the homeland'. That is, while there friends were faithless, here everyone is a stranger-- if they don't show kindness, then how is it strange? In this verse it necessarily emerges that no matter how much trouble may have occurred in the homeland, still a person certainly remembers the homeland. (210)

FWP: HOME: {14,9} In addition to the home/abroad dichotomy, this verse plays on the friends/strangers one too. It's not just Ghalib's compatriots in general who were unkind, but specifically his close friends or companions. As Bekhud Mohani points out, it's not surprising if strangers are not kind, but for one's own close friends at home to be unkind is much more wounding to the sensibilities. Yet as Bekhud Mohani also observes, the memory of home-even if it's a wistful or false one-- never seems to be entirely given up as a yardstick for judging everything else. If there's anything notable going on in this verse, it eludes me. I think it's just behaving as a good resonant closing-verse. A strong note of bitterness and alienation is a fine one on which to end. As an even stronger instance consider {111,16}, in which the poet doesn't just express resentment, but threatens to wipe out the world if it keeps on maltreating him. There's also the more complex case of {149,1}, which also imagines the lover as receiving contempt from the homeland.

Ghazal 102 3 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar kyaa kare;N composed 1852; Hamid p. 84; Arshi #113; Raza p. 312

{102,1} dono;N jahaan de ke vuh samjhe yih ;xvush rahaa yaa;N aa pa;Rii yih sharm kih takraar kyaa kare;N 1) having given both worlds, he/she thought: this one would remain happy 2) here, shame came upon us: how would we insist/object?!

Notes: The use of the perfect rahaa instead of the future subjunctive rahe is an example of a common idiomatic pattern in situations like this. takraar : 'Repeating often; repetition;... question, dispute; objection, controversy, contention, altercation, wrangling, wrangle, cavil'. (Platts p.331)

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Hali: It's an expression of the loftiness of his spirits and, with that, his refinement of temperament. That is to say, if I took both worlds and remained silent, the reason is not that I am content with them; rather, I felt shame at asking for more and insisting, so I chose silence. (150)

Nazm: That is, having bestowed on us this world and the world to come, He thought that we were content. We said, how would we insist/object? Otherwise, our sole claim was that we should not be separated from Him, and would not want all the rest of this. (109)

Naim: God gave Man two worlds and thought His munificence made Man content. Man's powers actually demanded many more worlds to conquer, but Man remained quiet in order not to embarrass God. (Naim 1970, 36)

Faruqi: vuh samjhe cannot apply to God, unless it's assumed that Ghalib wrote contrary to the idiom [because in Urdu usage only the proper name of God can be used with a plural verb, while vuh when used for God requires a singular].... [Also, the usual reading of the first line is a slur on God's omniscience, since it attributes to him an incorrect judgment.].... The beloved too possesses two worlds, the outer (that is, her body) and the inner (that is, her heart). The beloved bestowed everything, outer and inner, and considered that I would be content. But I was not content; I only remained silent because how would I do takraar (meaning 'disputation', or meaning 'repetition')-- to be more greedy is contrary to courtesy [aadaab]. Now the question is, beyond the outer and inner, what can there be that I was in search of? The answer is, the lover in reality was in search of the beloved's essential self [;zaat]; that is, he wanted to lose himself in the beloved's existence, not have control or use of her.... If it be supposed that vuh refers to some praiseworthy person-- for example, that he is in the service of some venerable elder or pir-- then too the interpretation can be established. The phrase 'both worlds' can also now refer to this world and the next, or can also be taken as 'an uncommon gift or endowment'. There's a famous story that one time Khvajah Bakhtyar Kaki [;xvaajah ba;xtyaar kaakii], overcome by some uncommon spiritual mood, said to those present in the gathering, 'Whatever you want, ask it of me'. Somebody asked for paradise, somebody for mystic knowledge, somebody for the world. But Baba Farid said, 'I ask only for you'. It's possible that at the time of composing the verse a dim effect of this event, or some such event, may have been in Ghalib's mind. (148-50)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} I was initially surprised by Faruqi's contention that the 'he' can't be God, because I'd taken it that way without the slightest hesitation, just as the commentators do. And I was ready with great satisfaction to compare the verse to {4,8x}. (It's still hard to avoid the temptation.) I haven't given Faruqi's detailed account of the idiomatic examples that bolster his claim; his full commentary is (in this case as in others) well worth reading in the original. In any case, to me the more fascinating line is the second. From the first line we get an impression of lavishness, grandiloquence, a donor highly content with his/her generosity-- a one-sided social transaction to which the response can only by an overjoyed gratitude. When a highly-placed, well-meaning benefactor, whether human or divine, gives what s/he quite plausibly thinks

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is a lavish gift-- well, isn't it only proper that a courteous, well-bred recipient should accept it gratefully, rather than vulgarly, greedily arguing about the amount of the gift, or demanding more? But then in the second line we learn that in fact, quite the reverse is the case. The well-meaning benefactor has unknowingly given a clumsy, inadequate, quite unsuitable gift-- one that we'd never have considered sufficient in any case, and perhaps one that (as Nazm claims) we didn't even want at all. Thus we are forced to show grace under pressure-- we must act pleased and grateful, while suppressing all signs of our disappointment and pain. Our frustration is all the greater because courtesy requires us, now that we've received such an ostensibly lavish gift, to make no further requests. We are the ones who are the real benefactors in this verse! To avoid hurting the donor's feelings, to avoid a shameful appearance of vulgarity and greed, we suppress our true feelings and accept forever, irrevocably, a gift we don't want, knowing that it precludes forever any chance of our even asking for-much less receiving-- the gift that we really do want. We are the gracious ones, and the giver is the one receiving our grace. How deftly, economically, and inconspicuously the second line turns the first one on its head! And how proper, too, for a classic mushairah verse like this one.

{102,2} thak thak ke har maqaam pah do chaar rah gaye teraa pataa nah paa))e;N to naachaar kyaa kare;N 1) having grown tired, at every place/station three or four stayed behind 2) [if we/they] don’t find your trace/address, then, helpless, what can [we/they] do?

Notes: maqaam: 'Place of residence, or of encamping or halting; residence, abode, dwelling, mansion; station; place, site; position, situation; ground, or basis... state, condition'. (Platts p.1054) pataa: 'Sign, mark, signal, symptom, token, trace, clue, hint, direction, specification, particular mention; address (of a person)'. (Platts p.223) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By maqaam is meant stages in the mystical path [maqaamaat-e saluuk-oma((rifat]. In this verse there is a .zil((a of do chaar and naachaar. (109)

Bekhud Mohani: Somebody has grown tired at one stage of mystical knowledge, somebody at another. When we don't have your trace/address, then what can we do? That is, there's no lack of searchers. If there's no access to you, then so be it. This was beyond their strength to achieve. From this verse it can be learned that it's impossible to traverse the path of mystical knowledge. (210)

Chishti: Although this verse can be taken as worldly [majaaz], it seems better to take it as mystical [;haqiiqat]. He says, oh Ghalib! since You are not visible anywhere, anybody at all who sets out to search for You grows tired and stops before reaching the goal. (543)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY The word maqaam is conveniently multivalent: it can refer to a house, a camp, a situation, and as the commentators especially emphasize, a state of being-- a stage on the great mystical path that the Sufi orders so systematically delineate.

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Because the subject is omitted from the second line, it could apply to a 'we' (all the lovers, including the speaker), or to a 'they' (as the speaker, from some vantage point, compassionately watches the weak stragglers). But what this really is is a verse of wordplay; and for once Nazm at least, and some of the other commentators (probably following him) agree. The relationship between do chaar and naachar is conspicuously and unarguably present. And the cleverness even goes beyond a semantic echo. For if you start out with do chaar (literally, 'two [or] four'), and they gradually one by one drop out through fatigue, you end up with what could perhaps be thought of as naachaar-- which, whatever else it may be, is certainly and amusingly also 'not-four'. The fact that the first line is opaque until the second is heard; and that the punch-word, naachaar, is withheld until the last possible moment; and that then the verse suddenly explodes into full meaning-- these qualities make this a fine mushairah verse too.

{102,3} kyaa sham((a ke nahii;N hai;N havaa-;xvaah ahl-e bazm ho ;Gam hii jaa;N-gudaaz to ;Gam-;xvaar kyaa kare;N 1) are the people of the gathering not friends/lovers of the candle? 2) if grief itself would be life-melting, then what would/can sympathizers do?

Notes: havaa-;xvaah : 'Desirous of vanities; vain; ambitious; fond of pleasure; --a vain, or an ambitious, man; one who is fond of pleasure; --a well-wisher, friend; lover'. (Platts p.1239) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The mention of the candle is only an illustration [tam;siil]; the intention has to do with his own situation. (109)

Bekhud Mohani: The people of the gathering sympathize with the candle, but they are helpless-- the candle's grief itself is such that it can't be cured by anyone. That is, what fate decides for anybody, that very thing happens. An illustration of this should be considered: if there's some such an invalid who's the life of the home and family, and is burning with fever. Not only the family members, but even Others want the sick person to be cured. But no one can do a thing, nothing can be accomplished. Here, the candle has been mentioned as an illustration. Otherwise, the intention is to reveal his own situation. (210-11)

Faruqi: 1) The first line could be the illustration [tam;siil], and the second the exposition [bayaan].... [Thus, as in the common interpretation, the verse would move from the particular to the general] 2) The candle keeps burning and melting all night; thus its grief has been described as life-burning. But there's an easy cure for its burning and melting: that it should be extinguished-- that is, that its life should be ended. As the night draws to a close, it will have to burn down and die anyway, so why is it obliged to endure pain and suffering all night?.... [This introduces the whole question of 'euthanasia' and 'mercy killing'.].... Ghalib has elucidated this problem with very great excellence. 3) If the candle's head is cut off, then its suffering will be over. The candle's being extinguished will be very much in its own interest. But when the candle is extinguished, it will be dark. Then the people of the gathering, who claim to be well-wishers of the candle, will remain in darkness. The people of the gathering want light; to accomplish their purposes they keep the

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candle lit all night. Otherwise, with one gesture of theirs the candle can be saved from this long bath of fire. Thus the people of the gathering are not, in reality, well-wishers of the candle-- rather, they are its selfish enemies. 4) Grief is so life-melting that its result can only be death. But this very death is the cure for this grief. That is, the cure is worse than the disease. Mankind's destiny is so ill-omened that he must either endure unimaginable grief, or accept the terrifying ministrations of the physician of Death. 5) The first line is not a negative rhetorical question, only a question. Seeing the candle's bad state, somebody asks, are the people of the gathering not its well-wishers, that they see it in such trouble but don't do anything? [The second line answers the question.] 6) For 'candle', 'life-melting' [jaa;N-gudaaz] is very fine. The gesture toward havaa meaning 'breeze/air' is fine. If the breeze is sharp, then the candle will be blown out, and will be freed from burning. But if there's no 'air', then too the candle can't burn, because oxygen is necessary for burning. Thus in havaa-;xvaah [literally in one sense, 'air-desirer'] Ghalib's special paradox [qaul-e mu;haal] is present as well. It's a brilliant verse. (151-53)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM; WORDPLAY CANDLE: {39,1} What an elegant tribute to the powers of inshaa))iyah speech-- both lines contain parallel questions that, in both cases, may or may not be rhetorical. As Faruqi has rightly pointed out, it's not necessarily obvious that the people of the gathering are friends of the candle (they deliberately keep it alive in its suffering so that they can exploit it for light). Nor is it obvious that they can do nothing for the candle-- Faruqi describes this question as encapsulating the various sides of the question of euthanasia. Faruqi also points out the wordplay involving havaa-;xvaah-- does it mean well-wisher, or 'air'-wisher, or 'lust/desire'-wisher (as in the Platts definition)? There's a similar wordplay in the second line as well. When 'grief' [;Gam] itself is 'life-melting', then what can a 'grief-eater' [;Gam;xvaar] do? Just as in English 'sym-pathy' literally means 'feeling-with', in Urdu a sympathizer is a 'grief-eater' who takes in a share of your sorrow. But when the grief is so deadly, can even the most dedicated 'grief-eater' really ingest it? The question echoes the larger question of whether the people of the gathering really are, or aren't, well-wishers of the candle; and what sympathizers can, or can't, do for the candle in its mortal agony. All these questions, unanswered and starkly unanswerable, remain hovering around the verse, and there's no way to lay them to rest.

Ghazal 103 1 verse; meter G1; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1826; Hamid p. 84; Arshi #099; Raza p. 262

{103,1} ho ga))ii hai ;Gair kii shiirii;N-bayaanii kaar-gar ((ishq kaa us ko gumaa;N ham be-zabaano;N par nahii;N 1) the Other’s sweetness of {explanation/description} has taken effect 2) she/he does not suspect us tongueless ones of passion

Notes: bayaan (source of bayaanii): 'Declaration, assertion, affirmation; explanation, exposition, description, relation, disclosure, unfolding, circumstantial indication or evidence; perspicuity, clearness' (Platts p.205)

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gumaan: 'Doubt, distrust, suspicion; surmise, conjecture... --opinion, fancy, notion, supposition, imagination; --conceit, pride, haughtiness'. (Platts p.914) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the Other's sweetness of explanation/description has done its work on her, and she's begun to consider the Other her lover. And we who are tongueless-- for this reason she doesn't believe in our love. (109)

Bekhud Dihlavi: From the Other's trickery she has considered, this person loves me, and all his claims are true and proper. We are tongueless; that is, taciturn. She doesn't believe in our love. (160)

Bekhud Mohani: The Rival's magic has worked on the beloved. And we people who, through respect for courtesy, and patience, and submission, always remain silent-not only does she not believe in our passion, but she doesn't even have a suspicion of it. (211)

FWP: SETS == SUBJECT? Here are some possibilities that the commentators perhaps envision: =The Other has told her with honeyed words about his love, and she thinks that's what love is like; so she doesn't look for anything of the kind from us silent ones. =The Other has told her that he loves her and that we don't, and because of his honeyed words she believes him; and we tongueless ones can't offer any refutation. =The beloved was angry at our presumption in daring to love her, but the Other has told her with honeyed words that we're innocent of the charge, so she no longer suspects us. And we must add at least one more, because the subject in the second line could equally well be the Other himself: =The Other has fallen victim to his own eloquent propaganda, and thus no longer considers us a serious competitor; perhaps his error will improve our chances in the future. Many of these readings are made possible by the various meanings of the cleverly chosen word gumaan -- which can range from a hostile 'suspicion' to a neutral 'opinion' (and always with subtle overtones of 'arrogance'). Above all, this verse offers some lovely wordplay (and meaning-play too) between 'sweetness of explanation/description' [shirii;N-bayaanii] and 'tongueless' [be-zabaan]. In particular, an intriguing question arises: if we are 'tongueless', is it expository speech itself that we chiefly lack, or is it 'sweetness' of speech? The verse deliberately leaves it unclear which of the Other's assets is most effective. But the elaborate discursive and polemical range of bayaanii, combined with the 'sweetness', makes a verbal package that anybody might envy. No wonder the Other is so persuasive. Anybody would find him convincing. Anybody, that is, except the true lover, whose passion is beyond the level of pleasant rhetoric-- and indeed, beyond speech itself. The tone of this verse is so deadpan that we can't even tell if the lover is glad or sorry to be misunderstood in such a way. (And of course, the fact that the lover can 'speak' this verse gives the lie to his claim to be 'tongueless'.)

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Ghazal 104 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aane me;N composed 1821; Hamid p. 85; Arshi #090; Raza p. 236 {104,1} qiyaamat hai kih sun lail;aa kaa dasht-e qais me;N aanaa ta((ajjub se vuh bolaa yuu;N bhii hotaa hai zamaane me;N 1) it's a disaster/amazement-- on hearing of Laila's coming into the desert of Qais 2) with surprise she said, 'Does this kind of thing really happen in the world?'

Notes: qiyaamat : 'Anything extraordinary; a scene of trouble or distress; a great calamity; excess; --adj. & adv. Wonderful; excessive, very great; heavy, grievous, oppressive'. (Platts p.796) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, she expressed surprise at this deed of Laila's. And the meaning of her expressing surprise necessarily is that she considered it contrary to shame and modesty [sharm-o-;hayaa]. And from this deed's being considered contrary to modesty and propriety, the meaning is necessarily that she reproached Laila. And from her reproaching Laila it necessarily follows that she herself is prevented by shame and modesty from going to inquire about her lover. In short, in this verse the cause of eloquence [balaa;Gat] is this necessary sequence. The gist is that it's a disaster-- she is prevented by modesty [;hijaab] from even going to inquire about her lover. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: She was surprised by this because in her opinion this deed is contrary to the glory of belovedness [shaan-e ma((shuuqii] and to shame. In her opinion Laila is blameworthy, and to go to inquire about lovers is contrary to the glory of belovedship. In this verse one further pleasure is that the kind of amazement that came to the beloved upon hearing about Laila's coming into the desert-- exactly that kind of amazement came to the lover, at the beloved's amazement. (211)

Shadan: Instead of [merely] sun , now they say sun kar . I also have trouble describing the meaning of qiyaamat hai .... The verse can become clear and straightforward like this: sunaa majnuu;N ne jab lail;aa kaa aanaa apne .sa;hraa me;N ta((ajjub se kahaa aisaa bhii hotaa hai zamaane me;N [when Majnun heard Laila coming into his desert he said in surprise, 'do such things really happen in the world?'] (281)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; HUMOR == TRANSLATABLES QIYAMAT: {10,11} Nazm reads the verse as expressing the beloved's extremely shy, refined, modest disapproval of Laila's wild, shameless behavior-- a well-bred lady doesn't go traipsing off alone into the desert, especially on such a dubious errand. Bekhud Mohani maintains that the beloved disapproves of Laila's behavior because it's contrary to the proper standards and 'glory of belovedness'. It's unprofessional behavior, so to speak. To take trouble for one's lovers, to concern oneself with them-- what kind of unseemly sentimentality is this? The beloved should be imperious and disdainful. Laila should have known better!

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Shadan, who so often rewrites Ghalib's verses to 'clarify' and simplify them, this time rewrites the verse into something all his own (and very problematical of course): he takes the vuh in the second line to refer to Majnun. The range of interpretation reveals the versatility and evocativeness of one of Ghalib's favorite tools, inshaa))iyah speech, especially in the interrogative and exclamatory. The real charm of the verse, however, is surely the 'surprise' the beloved shows. Not only does she herself routinely treat her lovers with disdain, not only do all the beloveds she knows of treat their lovers with disdain-- but it comes as a surprise to her that any other course of action is even conceivable. When she hears of Laila's loving behavior toward Majnun, she literally can't wrap her mind around it; she exclaims in sheer astonishment at such incomprehensible carryings-on. (Her expression of surprise is idiomatic rather than literal, so I've translated the effect of it.) For another example of her radical unawareness of any such behavior, see {162,8}. The lover's reaction to her surprise is expressed in the cleverly versatile exclamation qiyaamat hai -- literally, it's a Doomsday! This can convey amazement, wonder, horror, appalledness, shock. All of which are appropriate to his hearing the beloved's exclamation-- and at once grasping the implications for his own future prospects.

{104,2} dil-e naazuk pah us ke ra;hm aataa hai mujhe ;Gaalib nah kar sar-garm us kaafir ko ulfa:t aazmaane me;N 1) I feel pity for her delicate heart, Ghalib 2) don’t make that infidel enthusiastic/hot-headed in testing love

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, may it not happen that after you give your life, her heart would fail. (110)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she's a tender-hearted person; that is, she has a soft heart. Oh Ghalib! I feel pity for her/it. If you incite her to a test of love, then-- may it not happen that after your sacrificing your life, her heart should endure some trouble from this shock. (160)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, don't incite her to a test of love. I feel pity for her delicate heart. That is, if she is incited, then in this line God knows what tyranny she might perform, and you would have to endure it patiently. (211)

FWP: INFIDEL: {21,12} This verse operates by implication. Why might her 'delicate heart' suffer if she became unduly enthusiastic in testing my love? The reasons are only implicit, but here are several possibilities: =she might become frustrated because I was more able to endure torment than she was to inflict it, and this would cause her pain. =she might get so enthused in the process of tormenting me that she would actually overtax and damage her heart =even as her enthusiastic, sar-garm 'head' and her 'infidel'-like mischievousness were eager to torment me more and more cruelly, her delicate heart might feel that enough was enough, and this inner conflict might cause her pain.

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=she might kill me, and then suffer regret when it was too late, which would cause pain to her delicate heart. (This possibility is also invoked in the brilliantly nuanced {17,8}.) The really clever and enjoyable part of the verse is its tone of protectiveness and gallantry. The lover speaks as one who is stronger and more powerful, whose duty it is to be chivalrous. 'Poor thing, she has a delicate heart-- she should take care of herself, she should avoid over-stimulation, frustration, and aggravation of all kinds. At all costs, I don't want to let her get involved in the (frustrating, aggravating, dangerous) business of tormenting somebody like me! And I know I could goad her into it, so let me be careful not to do so.' The lover is worried not about the effect on himself of being tormented or tested, but only about the effect on her of tormenting or testing him. He's thus either entirely confident of his own powers (of endurance? of selfsacrifice?), or entirely indifferent to his fate. Or of course, in the classic Ghalibian style, both.

Ghazal 105 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aad yaa;N composed after 1821; Hamid p. 85; Arshi #095; Raza p. 253

{105,1} dil lagaa kar lag gayaa un ko bhii tanhaa bai;Thnaa baare apnii bekasii kii ham ne paa))ii daad yaa;N 1) having attached her heart, it {fell / 'became attached'} to her too to sit alone 2) {all at once / at last} we received justice/revenge for our forlornness/friendlessness, here

Notes: baare: 'Once, one time, all at once; at last, at length'. (Platts p.121) bekasii: 'Forlorn state, friendlessness, destitution'. (Platts p.203) daad: 'Statute, law; equity; justice; crying out for justice, complaint; revenge'. (Platts p.499) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, our patience during forlornness and loneliness received justice/revenge in this world. (110)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He said, having fallen in love with someone, she too became lonelinessloving. We found justice/revenge for our forlornness and loneliness in the world. That is, our patience during forlornness has now fallen to her. The state we were in through love of her-- she's now in that state through love of the Other. (160-61)

Bekhud Mohani: We're grateful that we've found justice/revenge for our forlornness, in this world itself. The way we, in separation from her, used to avoid the company of our friends and sit in loneliness-- now she too, having fallen in love with someone, is living exactly our life. (211)

Arshi: Compare {131,2}. (223)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY

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The lover can rarely expect any justice/revenge [daad], even in the next world, even through divine intervention-- although he can hope, as in {111,7}, and fantasize, as in {100,6}. Yet amazingly enough, he now has justice 'here' [yaa;N] in this world itself, and with no help from God at all. The beloved herself, or perhaps her fate, has been more than sufficient for the task. She has rashly gone and fallen in love with somebody else. Either 'all at once' or 'at last' [baare] (or both, of course), the tables are turned. Now she knows what it is to be in the receiving end of the kind of treatment she's meted out to her own lovers. Now it's now fallen to her to sit alone, pining, miserable, and mired in the same 'forlornness, friendlessness' [bekasii] that the lover himself knows so well. For more on the beloved's falling in love herself, see {13,2}. There's a nice wordplay (and meaning-play) between 'sitting alone' and 'forlornness, friendlessness'. The natural behaviorof suffering lovers is, for all kinds of reasons, to deliberately choose and seek solitude. And yet solitude itself is also a sign of abandonment, misery, forlornness, friendlessness. It straddles the boundary between the voluntary and the involuntary. As, of course, does passionate love itself. But the best and most fundamental example of wordplay, cleverly positioned for maximum impact, is lagaa kar lag gayaa. The relationship between lagaanaa and lagnaa (or between banaanaa and bannaa, as in {191,1} or {191,8}) is roughly that of transitive and intransitive. If somebody lagaanaaes something, it would be reasonable to expect it to become lagnaa-ed. As with pakaanaa / paknaa: if somebody cooks food, the food becomes cooked; as with pahu;Nchaanaa / pahu;Nchnaa: if somebody conveys a person somewhere, the person arrives there. So there's a strong expectation that says that if you 'apply, attach, cause to adhere' [lagaanaa] a heart, the heart might very well then 'adhere, stick' [lagnaa]. The first half of the first line is perfectly calculated to arouse our expectations of something as coherent, punchy, and colloquial as that. But then, of course, we discover just the opposite: when the beloved 'applied, attached' her heart, what 'adhered, stuck' was-- not a heart, but an abstraction, 'sitting alone'. She gives her heart, and receives in return a habit of melancholy solitude. And of course, the little bhii reminds us how well the lover knows whereof he speaks.

{105,2} hai;N zavaal-aamaadah ajzaa aafiriinish ke tamaam mihr-e garduu;N hai chiraa;G-e rahguzaar-e baad yaa;N 1) all the parts of creation are {inclined toward / ready for} decay 2) the celestial/revolving sun is a lamp of the wind’s roadway, here

Notes: zavaal : 'Decline, wane, decay; fall; cessation; defect, deficiency, failure; harm, loss, injury'. (Platts p.618) aamaadah : 'Prepared, ready, alert; disposed (to)'. (Platts p.79) garduun : 'A wheel; the heavens, the firmament, the celestial globe or sphere; chance, fortune'. (Platts p.903) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: 'Here' refers to the sun, in the sense that it too is one of the parts of the world and all the parts of the world are moving toward an arrival at decline. He has used the simile of 'a lamp in the wind’s path', which is an entirely new simile. (127)

Nazmi:

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'Wind' is a metaphor for the changes in the times. He has given a familiar simile for something unfamiliar. And then the cause for similitude is movement; for this reason the metaphor is extremely rare/novel/fine [badii((]. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: All the parts of creation are inclined toward decay. Although the sun is a very splendid and magnificent creation, and is connected with the cultivation of all life, even it can have as an illustration, that it's as if a lamp were placed in the face of the wind, and there would be constant fear of its being extinguished. (212)

Naim: Everything is set to decline. Destruction and death is inherent to everything. Even the high and mighty sun is in truth nothing but a mere lamp set in the path of wind, that is likely to be blown out any moment. (Naim 1970, 46)

Faruqi: Because of its unparalleled excellence of metaphor and imagery, this verse shines even within the poetry of Ghalib-- although in the divan of Ghalib there is such radiance of metaphor and imagery that it resembles what the sun would create in a field of dew [as in {10,5}].... [Although it can be seen from glimpses in his letters that Ghalib knew a lot about Sufism, this verse is founded not on Sufism, but on the discoveries of modern astronomy.] [Another point is that the flexibility of the i.zaafat constructions in chiraa;Ge rahguzaar-e baad could suggest an additional reading.] Thus its prose could be: that lamp of the roadway of which the name is 'wind'.... Now the interpretation emerges that the sun in the sky here is like that lamp of the roadway that they call 'wind'. Having called the sun 'inclined toward decay', to give an illustration for it as a lamp of the roadway, and the lamp of the roadway itself as the wind, is an extremely refined and subtle and suitable metaphor for being death-bound. But the question might arise as to why he can give for a lamp the simile of wind. Apparently between wind and a lamp there's no affinity. But Ghalib's own verse is: {49,8}; it's clear that the 'wave of rose' and the wind are one single substance. The wind has made the roadway into a lamp-display [chiraa;Gaa;N]; thus the wind and the lamp have an affinity. In answer, it can be said that he gives the lamp as a simile for the rose; thus from the 'wave of rose' a 'lamp-display' is possible. But what's the affinity between merely the word 'wind' and the lamp? Here again Ghalib's creative knowledge comes into use. [The concept of the 'solar wind' is very appropriate here.]... Another affinity is that the flame of a lamp, under the influence of the wind, flares up-- as if the wind itself had become fire, to brighten the lamp and keep it alight.... Another point is worth considering. The phrase mihr-e garduu;N [can be read as] 'revolving sun'. The sun revolves on its axis. This constant rotation causes its flames to flare up. As quickly as the flames burn, so quickly does the sun become extinguished as well. [The meaning of aafiriinish as something which is brought into being from nothingness is also suggestive here. The very process that makes the sun burn, makes it burn out and revert to nothingness.]... Thus creation in its own nature is moving toward decay. One final point: [instead of 'the sun is a lamp', the second line can be read as 'the lamp is the sun'.]... Now the interpretation emerges that here, the illustration [mi;saal] for the lamp of the wind's roadway is the sun in the sky. A lamp burning in the wind flares up. Thus the illusion can be created that the lamp's light is increasing. But in reality its situation is like that of the sun, which even as it burns more perfectly is moving toward decay....

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This verse is a masterpiece of vividness, structure, and style [rang sang ;Dhang]. Not even a poet like Ghalib was easily able to create its equal. (154-57)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES The lyrical beauty and semantic power of the imagery are irresistible. Though it sounds so much more wonderful in Urdu, even in English it can be at least a little evocative. I think it should be made stark. Here's my best shot: All creation is decay-bound, The sun is a lamp in the wind's path. Faruqi has analyzed the verse at length, and I only want to add one point. The lamp may be on the roadway or highway [rahguzaar] of the wind only by happenstance, of course, in the sense that the wind passes by wherever the lamp happens to be. But in a dark night, a light on the path can also be a valuable help to the wanderer. Perhaps the sun has deliberately placed itself (or has been placed) beside the wind's roadway, in order to illumine it, to guide or assist the wind? This would make the sun a collaborator in its own extinction, and perhaps also in that of other created things like the rose (which loses its petals to the wind). It would add a measure of choice, of self-sacrifice, to the idea that everything in creation is disposed toward decay/decline. It would pick up on the meaning of aamaadah as 'prepared for, alert for'. Needless to say, all this doomedness takes place 'here' [yaa;N], so we can always imagine a decay-proof, incorruptible realm of mystical possibility that lies before, after, and beyond this one. For another gorgeous example of 'lamps in the wind's roadway', see {101,6}. Here's an attempt at translation (1985).

Ghazal 106 4 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aar ko dekhte hai;N composed 1833; Hamid p. 86; Arshi #106; Raza p. 278

{106,1} yih ham jo hijr me;N diivaar-o-dar ko dekhte hai;N kabhii .sabaa ko kabhii naamah-bar ko dekhte hai;N 1) in separation we see these walls and doors, 2) sometimes [we] see the breeze, sometimes the Messenger

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The breeze comes and goes everywhere, and has access everywhere without hindrance. For this reason, among poets the messenger-ship of the breeze is famous; there's no better Messenger than the breeze. The meaning is that we are waiting: when will the Messenger appear in the doorway, and when will the breeze blow in? (110)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in separation we have to wait for the Messenger. Perhaps some much-desired message will come from her, or an answer to our message. By looking at the wall the meaning is that perhaps the breeze will come, bringing a message, and it will come through the [crevices in the] wall. And

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by looking at the door the meaning is that if the Messenger comes, bearing a reply, then he'll come through the door. (161)

Bekhud Mohani: In separation from the beloved, when our gaze time after time is lifted toward the walls and doors, the reason is so that we would see when the breeze comes, and when the Messenger comes. (212)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS The commentators offer the basic, 'normal' interpretation. But the verse has a whole additional, and very piquant, level of complexity that they ignore. Walls and doors are at once barriers (when we look at them we can't see any further) and points of access (the breeze and the Messenger would come through them). When we look at them, we want instead to look through and beyond them. This is complex in itself, but more layers of possibility are built into the very grammar of seeing. The difference we make in English between 'look at' and 'see' can't be expressed in Urdu (any more than can 'listen' and 'hear'). So dekhnaa can be taken either way. And there's also the sense of 'see' as 'see as' ('when I look at you, I see Doomsday'). So in short, it's far from clear-- as far as Ghalib can make it, in fact-- what is being looked at, and what is being seen, and what is being seen as what. Essentially, we 'see' A and B, C, D. Here are some of the possibilities: =we look at a door and see it as the entry point for a Messenger =we look at a door and see it as a Messenger (since we're desperate and halfmad) =we look at walls and see them as the entry point for the breeze =we look at walls and see them, because of their crevice-work, as the breeze itself (since we're desperate and half-mad) =we look at the breeze, and see it as a Messenger =we look at the Messenger, and see him as the breeze (which is also a messenger) =we look at the breeze, and see it in visible form as a wall (with crevicework through which messages can come) =we look at the Messenger, and see him as a door (providing access to the beloved) And so on, into increasingly bizarre possibilities. Of course this is a slightly insane degree of mutability, but then, the lover in separation is at least slightly insane himself. And it's a clever touch for the verse to provide both a 'normal' meaning (such as the commentators explain), and a wild breakdown of meaning into hallucinatory confusion (such as the grammar of the verse undeniably facilitates). On the nature of crevice-work in walls, see {64,4}.

{106,2} vuh aa))e ghar me;N hamaare ;xudaa kii qudrat hai kabhii ham un ko kabhii apne ghar ko dekhte hai;N 1) she came into our house-- it's the power of the Lord! 2) sometimes we look at her, sometimes at our house

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: The surprise and amazement at the beloved's coming into his house-- in the second line, what an excellent picture of it he has drawn! That is, sometimes he looks at the beloved, and sometimes he looks at his house: in this house, and the coming of such a beloved! (151)

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Nazm: The reason for looking at her is that every time he doubts that she has come. And the reason for looking at his house is that when he believes that she has come, he doubts that it's really his house. (110)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved has some. The lover regards the loftiness of her rank, and the lowness of his own, and looks again and again at the beloved, to see whether it is she or someone else-- that is, how could she be here? He looks at the house because again and again he begins to doubt-- if the beloved has come, then this must not be my house, otherwise she would not have come. It's not a verse, it's a tour de force. The state the lover may be in on seeing the beloved-- it's unlikely that anybody else has ever captured such a picture. (212)

FWP: The commentators capture the mood of helpless amazement with which the lover contemplates the situation. The poor lover! Who could fail to feel for him? Perhaps the beloved expects extreme formality and a show of abasement; perhaps she expects lavish hospitality; perhaps she merely expects a few amusing anecdotes and some witty repartee. Whatever she expects, she's out of luck. The lover stands gawking at her with a stupefied expression on his face, occasionally varying his pose to look around and gawk at his own house. Is this not a colossal social disaster in the making? I always feel this verse as wonderfully funny, but since its effect is all in the tone, it could also be read seriously, and treated as evoking a reverent, lowered-voice, beyond-words kind of mystical experience. THE BELOVED'S VISIT TO THE LOVER: On the extremely rare occasions when the beloved visits the lover, it always seems to be a token of some kind of disaster. Compared to the occasion of the present verse, her other visits are even more inauspicious. She brings death with her, as in {2,1}; or she comes (or at least, is expected) just when the lover hasn't even got a straw mat available, as in {26,5}; or she finally turns up just as the lover is on the point of death, as in {52,1} and {72,3}; or she might come in a dream, as in {97,3}; or she might briefly drop by late at night, intoxicated, with the Rival in tow, as in {116,3}; or is it all a dream, as in {121,7}? In {199,4}, she's begged to come to the dying lover's bedside-- but does she really do it? And in {202,7} and {204,10}, the question is once again left open.

{106,3} na:zar lage nah kahii;N us ke dast-o-baazuu ko yih log kyuu;N mire za;xm-e jigar ko dekhte hai;N 1) may the evil eye not attach itself to her arm and shoulder! 2) why do these people stare at my liver-wound?

Notes: na:zar lagnaa: 'To fall under the gaze of a malignant eye; to be influenced by an evil eye'. (Platts p.1143) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: Whether it be Divine love [((ishq-e ;haqiiqii] or creaturely love [((ishq-e majaazii], the depth of his wound can’t be expressed in any better manner than this. (124)

Nazm: That is, may the evil eye not attach itself to her subtle wounding and skilful marksmanship! And the excellence of this verse is beyond expression; in the divans of many great and famous poets its equal cannot be found. (110)

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Bekhud Mohani: This verse is incomparable. If people wouldn't look at the wound in my liver, it would be a good thing. May the evil eye not attach itself to her arm and shoulder! In this verse the meaning emerges that the wound is so deep that there's a fear of the evil eye attaching itself to her. It also emerges what a longing there was for that wound, so that no thought of saving oneself remained. Even now the thought is, may the evil eye not attach itself to her. (212-13)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} Even under normal circumstances, the lover in his jealousy hates to attract attention to the beloved. In {159,2} he requests not to be buried in the beloved's street after he's been killed (presumably by her), so that people won't thus learn where she lives. So naturally when he fears she might be put at risk of the evil eye, his paranoia is extreme. Why are people looking at the wound in his liver? The lover catches on at once: they're looking at it with admiration for the excellent marksmanship and/or swordsmanship that made it. And admiration is what, even accidentally, can cause the admired one to be afflicted by the evil eye. The notion of the dangerous effects of a hostile 'evil eye' caused by envy goes back at least to the Greeks (who sometimes imagine not only human but also divine jealousy of the too-successful mortal). Belief in the 'evil eye' is widespread in South Asia. Three-wheeled scooters sometimes even have signs on their rear bumpers like 'may the evil eye be far off!' [chashm-e bad duur] or 'evil-eyed one, may your face be blackened!' [burii na:zar vaalaa teraa mu;N kaalaa]. Foreigners like me are sometimes reminded in whispers not to over-praise children or express too much admiration in general. Some security can be had by explicitly invoking God's agency ('your child is so lovely, maashaa)) allaah '), but that still doesn't seem enough for perfect reassurance. So why are people in fact staring at the wound in the lover's liver? Perhaps they aren't doing so at all, and the lover only imagines it. But if they are, it's probably, we guess, because they feel horror, shock, and pity at how deep and dreadful it is. The difference between what bystanders would actually feel, and what the lover thinks they would feel, is the difference between the lover and normal human attitudes. Far from complaining of his wound, the lover is proud of it; far from expecting pity, he expects envy; far from worrying about his own dire situation, he worries only that some harm might come to the beloved from those jealous of her superior deadliness. The whole verse rests on implication; even the basic fact that it's the beloved who has caused the wound in the liver is not stated, but can only be deduced or guessed. Just as others might stare at the lover's wound and speculate, we too, confronted with a carefully cryptic and doubly inshaa))iyah verse like this, are reduced to speculation.

{106,4} tire javaahir-e :tarf-e kulah ko kyaa dekhe;N ham auj-e :taala((-e la((l-o-guhar ko dekhte hai;N 1) as if we would see jewels in the border of your cap! 2) we see the height/ascendance of the fortune of ruby and pearl

Notes: :taala((: 'Rising, appearing (as the sun), arising; -- s.m. Star, destiny, fate, lot, fortune; prosperity'. (Platts p.750) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is clear, and there's freshness in the construction. (111)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, as if we would see those jewels that are attached to her cap! We see the loftiness of the fortune of ruby and pearl, that those bits of rock and drops of water, by good fortune, have attained this elevation. (161-62)

Bekhud Mohani: The jewels that are attached to her cap-- we don't see them. We are expressing surprise at their good fortune-- my God, my God, their fate is such that they would ascent to your head! That is, they do not adorn you, but rather their honor comes from you. (213)

Shadan: In this pattern, please listen to some of my little herbs and greens too: ;Gala:t hai yih mire za;xm-e jigar ko dekhte hai;N sab is bahaane se uun kii na:zar ko dekhte hai;N [it's incorrect that these look at the wound in my liver they all, with this excuse, look at her glance] sab us kii turrush-e te;G-e na:zar ko dekhte hai;N yih log kyuu;N nahii;N mere jigar ko dekhte hai;N [they all look at the harshness of the sword of her glance why do these people not look at my liver?]... [and three more verses]... The readers should please absolutely not form the opinion that, God forbid, I am presenting these verses as worthy. Where is a complete poet like Ghalib, and where is a petty versifier like me! Can the ground ever be equal to the sky? I only feel that if this commentary finds approval, then thanks to it, these few verses-- or rather these few versified lines-- will remain as memorials of my foolishness. Because I didn't preserve even my brief poems. I remember thirty or forty verses, and that's all. Since the time when I understood that I don't have a nature suited to poetry, I've ceased to compose verse. (282)

Arshi: Compare {169,4}. (232, 303)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH This verse, like {106,1}, plays with paradoxes of seeing. The first line, in proper mushairah-verse style, is strange and puzzling. Even as the lover is obviously seeing, or at least looking at (a distinction impossible to make in Urdu), the jewels in the beloved's elaborate cap, he indignantly denies that he's doing so. Then after duly waiting in suspense for the second line, we discover that what he's really looking at, or seeing, is the height of the fortune of ruby and pearl. As the commentators note, the lover doesn't see the jewels as adornments (and thus in some sense as 'jewels'), but as unworthy recipients of a lofty destiny. Instead of their adorning you, you adorn them. Surely it's a loftier destiny than they deserve! They are allowed to be close to your lovely head, and to remain in intimate contact with you-- which is far more access than we, your true lover, are ever allowed to have. Thus we look at them not as jewels but almost as Rivals, and we can't help but feel jealous of their nearness to you. An equally clever meaning, one that the commentators ignore, is a complimentary allusion to the beloved's tall, graceful stature. By being placed atop the beloved's head, the jewels are raised to a literal as well as a figurative 'height' of fortune. (The word :taala(( plays on this idea too.) For more on the beloved's tall stature, see {38,4}. The verse cited by Arshi, {169,4}, is in fact very similar; it contains the word auj and the same cleverness about 'heights' of fortune, but it applies to flowers and flower-sellers rather than jewels.

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Ghazal 107 7 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aad nahii;N composed 1855; Hamid p. 87; Arshi #115; Raza pp. 337-38

{107,1} nahii;N kih mujh ko qiyaamat kaa i((tiqaad nahii;N shab-e firaaq se roz-e jazaa ziyaad nahii;N 1) it's not that I don't have a belief in Doomsday 2) the Day of Requital is not more than the night of separation

Notes: ziyaad : contraction for ziyaadat : 'Increase, augmentation, addition, surplus... --excess, force, violence, oppression, tyranny'. (Platts p.619) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I'm convinced of the coming of Doomsday, but I'm not convinced that the terror and dread of that day will be more than the intensity of this night. (111)

Hasrat: In this verse the structure/arrangement of words is excellent. (92)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's not that I don't believe in the coming of Doomsday. But I will certainly say that its difficulties will not be more than the troubles of the night of separation. (162)

Bekhud Mohani: The person who's immersed in the difficulties of the night of separation is saying, it's not that I don't believe in Doomsday. Doomsday is powerful. But I'll certainly say-- as if Doomsday would be more terrifying than that night! (213)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} QIYAMAT: {10,11} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] The first line might purport to be a claim of some sort of orthodoxy, though it's phrased in an oddly negative way. Apparently someone has been reproaching the lover with lack of proper religious belief. The lover replies indignantly; he phrases his reply in negative terms, with three separate appearances of nahii;N . His claim is, basically, that he knows Doomsday when he sees it. The second line can, very cleverly, go in any of three directions. ==The first direction is the one the commentators choose: You're asking if I believe in Doomsday? How could I doubt it? I experience nights of separation all the time, and I know how unbearable they are. I expect that Doomsday will be fully this bad! So how could I fail to have a healthy level of fear and respect for the coming Day of Requital? This reading makes for the kind of reverse comparison developed in the 'snide remarks about paradise' verses, in which the direction of comparison is to the disadvantage of the divine. In the present case, the unstated putdown is that I compare the Day of Requital to the night of separation, and not the other way around. ==The second direction is: You're asking if I believe in Doomsday? Don't I live with it every day? Why, the nights of separation I constantly endure are

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a real Doomsday! They're so unbearable that the Day of Requital itself could hardly be any worse. Here, the verse would be playing with the metaphorical meaning of Doomsday; see {10,11} for a definition and examples. The lover's attitude is so far from pious that when someone asks him about Doomsday, he thinks at once of his own private 'doomsday' of separation from the beloved, and introduces the Day of Requital only to emphasize the dreadfulness of the real 'doomsday' he constantly experiences in this life. ==The third direction is: You're asking if I believe in Doomsday? Well, it's not that I don't, but perhaps not the way you're expecting. To tell you the truth, the 'Day of Requital' is no more than (another name for) the night of separation. I already know all about heaven and hell, because I experience them right here in this life, in my dealings with the beloved. (Then the Sufistic possibilities open up very richly.) Not bad for such a stark, simple-looking little verse, is it? There's also the enjoyable juxtaposition of a 'day' with a 'night'. And the secondary meaning of ziyaad as 'tyranny, oppression' (by extension from 'excess') adds another elegant touch of affinity.

{107,2} ko))ii kahe kih shab-e mah me;N kyaa buraa))ii hai balaa se aaj agar din ko abr-o-baad nahii;N 1) let someone say what's wrong with a moonlit night! 2) so what if, today, the day doesn’t have clouds and wind?!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if because there are no clouds and breeze in the daytime the gathering for wine-drinking is suspended, then why shouldn't this gathering take place at night, in the moonlight? That is, just as much as the clouds' not coming made the day unenjoyable, so much the moon will shine clearly in the night. (111)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if today no clouds showed in the sky, and the breezes didn't blow, and a wine-drinking party wasn't able to take place, then tonight the moon will shine, and then the wine-cup will make its rounds. Mirza has dressed his already-used theme in a new attire: {97,13}. (213)

Faruqi: The relish and ardor of the first line, its implication-based style (such that directly, it hasn't said a single word about wine-drinking, but has made it clear that wine is being referred to)-- this is the extreme of eloquence [balaa;Gat]. And instead of an informative [;xabariyah], an inshaa))iyah style-- all this is very fine. But no commentator has made it clear why the nonexistence of cloud and wind proves that the night too will be moonlit.... The situation in reality is that there's no likelihood of the night's being moonlit, no clear probability. The speaker, to comfort his spirit, is giving himself childish reassurance.... In this childish reassurance is a kind of melancholy, or rather desperate, innocence, which only habitual winedrinkers can understand. (158)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} In proper mushairah style, the first line of the verse, heard in isolation, is baffling. The speaker indignantly challenges, 'Let somebody say what's wrong with a moonlit night!' What could possibly occasion such a

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challenge? It's hard to imagine, since moonlit nights are valued, and nobody has any cause to disparage them. After an appropriate (and appropriately suspenseful) interval, we are allowed to hear the second line. Even then, we have to put the whole thing together carefully, since, as Faruqi notes, the verse is a sort of ultimate peak of implication. Although it's about wine-drinking parties, there's not the slightest reference in it to wine, or drinking, or parties. And the connection of wine-drinking parties with clouds, wind, and moonlit nights is simply something we have to know beforehand, as a feature of the ghazal universe. For another verse about clouds and moonlight and wine, see {97,13}, as Bekhud Mohani rightly suggests. The similarities are striking. For more on the expression balaa se , see {58,1}. Since the first line has buraa))ii almost at its end, and the second line has balaa right at its beginning, I am tempted to see, despite the spelling change, a hint of a 'bad/good' [ buraa - bhalaa ] affinity.

{107,3} jo aa))uu;N saamne un ke to mar;habaa nah kahe;N jo jaa))uu;N vaa;N se kahii;N ko to ;xair-baad nahii;N 1) if I would come before her, then she wouldn't say, 'welcome!' 2) if I would go from there to somewhere [else], then no 'take care!'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It's a complaint about unkindness. And ko has the meaning of 'direction', and it ought not to be considered redundant [zaa))id]. The poets of this [=Nazm's own] era are often in error about this: in udhar ko and kidhar ko and kahii;N ko they consider ko to be redundant, and avoid using it. Thus when they write is :tar;h se they declare the se to be redundant, and have abandoned it; and this opinion itself is erroneous. (111)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib complains of the beloved's unkindness and indifference. The meaning is that when I go to meet her, when she sees me she's not happy, and when I take my leave, she doesn't say 'take care'. On both occasions she shows carelessness. (162)

Bekhud Mohani: When somebody comes, then the Iranis say 'welcome!' and when he goes, then they say 'take care!'. Whether they have any acquaintance or relationship with that person or not. (213)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; TRANSLATABLES The verse feels like the first half of a small informal verse-set that might include this one and the next one, {107,4}. Both of these verses, simple and transparent, non-multivalent, nonambiguous, seem like 'translatables', and yet in another sense they also don't. There's a lot of 'ghazal world' knowledge that the reader must have in order to understand the relationship of lover and beloved that could give rise to these verses. Can they really be made into anything in English?

{107,4} kabhii jo yaad bhii aataa huu;N mai;N to kahte hai;N kih aaj bazm me;N kuchh fitnah-o-fasaad nahii;N 1) even if sometime I happen to come to mind, then she says, 2) that 'today in the gathering there's no turmoil and commotion'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: In this verse the word bazm has fallen below the claim of the situation. Because the line is spoken by the beloved, and is an imitation of her idiom. And the word bazm is not a word from her idiom. But the truth is that nobody takes that much care about idiom. (111)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if ever sometime the thought of me occurs to her, then she addresses herself to the people of the gathering and says, 'Today in our gathering there's no turmoil and commotion. That is, Hazrat Ghalib has not come-- who, because of jealousy, quarrels and argues with the people of the gathering over every single thing'. (162)

Bekhud Mohani: He complains of his fortune.... that is, even if she remembers me, then it's like this. [Nazm's complaint is ill-founded.] There's no telling what social class of beloved is meant. And what would be the word in her idiom for this occasion. If some information had been given, then something could be said. Mirza's beloved is such that she speaks in metaphors-- [for example,] {100,2} and {136,4}. (214)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; TRANSLATABLES The verse feels like the second half of an informal verse-set that might include this one and the previous one, {107,3}. The same kind of translatability question that arises for the previous verse is also apparent here. Can the English reader be made to intuit the necessary information about the 'gathering', and the roles of lover and beloved and others in such an occasion?

{107,5} ((alaavah ((iid ke miltii hai aur din bhii sharaab gadaa-e kuuchah-e mai-;xaanah naa-muraad nahii;N 1) in addition to 'Id, wine is available on other days too 2) the beggar in the street of the winehouse is not disappointed

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the world the only real desire and goal is wine; the unsuccessful person is the one who would not obtain wine. The first line is in the tone of a Faqir: 'my friend [bha))ii], not just Thursday, but other days too, something can be had there'. (111)

Bekhud Dihlavi: On the day of 'Id, more charity is given to the poor and needy, and is given most especially. He says, in the winehouse no special regard is paid to 'Id, the generosity of the winehouse-keeper [piir-e mu;Gaa;N] continues every day. (162)

Bekhud Mohani: The Faqirs of the street of the winehouse never wander around emptyhanded. It's not at all dependent on 'Id. Wine is available every day. He shows the open-heartedness [literally, 'ocean-heartedness', daryaa-dilii] of the rakish ones [rind], and the narrow-heartedness [tang-dilii] of the pious ones [zuhd]. That is, there [among the pious ones] gifts are given on 'Id alone. Here [among the rakish ones] charity is given every day. It's possible that by 'beggar in the street of the winehouse' he might refer to himself. (214)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS WINE: {49,1}

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Like a mushairah verse, this one sets up a piquant, uninterpretable first line. But even when, after a duly suspense-building pause, we get to hear the second line, we still can't put together a single meaning. It's clear that a strong contrast is intended between the fortunate, non-disappointed beggars of the wineshop street, and all other, ordinary beggars. But what exactly is the nature of the contrast? Here are some possibilities: =Ordinary beggars receive gifts only on 'Id. =Ordinary beggars receive wine only on 'Id. =Ordinary beggars are disappointed because they receive gifts only on 'Id. =Ordinary beggars are disappointed because the gifts they receive on 'Id don't include wine. =Ordinary beggars are disappointed because they receive wine only on 'Id. Isn't this a real tour de force of structure? Such a simple-looking verse, and yet it effortlessly generates-- in fact, it can't be prevented from generating-so many possible readings. All the meanings are 'rakish' [rindaanah] and full of 'mischievousness' [sho;xii], because they all contrast the virtue and generosity of the winehouse-keeper favorably with that of the pious, dutiful 'Id-observers. Some meanings even have the additional fillip of implying that wine is given in charity on 'Id (which of course it is not, since it is forbidden).

{107,6} jahaa;N me;N ho ;Gam-o-shaadii baham hame;N kyaa kaam diyaa hai ham ko ;xudaa ne vuh dil kih shaad nahii;N 1) in the world grief and joy may be together-- what’s that to us? 2) the Lord has given us a [kind of] heart that [is] not joyous

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: They mention the coexistence of grief and joy in the world, where they wish to express contempt for the delight and pleasure of the world. In this verse, the author has created the freshness of expressing a vain longing for the coexistence of grief and joy. He says hame;N kyaa kaam-- that is, we are deprived, we've never experienced even that happiness that is mixed with grief. And by expressing a vain longing for grief-mixed happiness, the meaning emerges that the poet feels extreme grief, such that he expresses a longing for such contemptible and useless happiness, and this is the cause of eloquence [balaa;Gat] in this verse. (112)

Bekhud Mohani: In the world if grief and joy occur together, then let them. Our heart is never happy. Why do people grieve because the world's happiness is unworthy, since after it grief always occurs, so that sorrow and happiness appear together? We are so deprived of joy that we've never experienced, in addition to sorrow, any happiness at all. (214)

Faruqi: In the first line, the repetition of nasal [nuun ;Gunnah] and miim sounds adds to its musicality. To the extent that it's a question of a commentary, [Nazm] Tabataba'i has written a very fine one. [It is quoted.] But there's another aspect as well. The coexistence of grief and joy is the law of nature. In the Qur'an it's been said [94:5-6], 'So, verily, with every difficulty, there is relief: verily, with every difficulty there is relief'. If there's grief, then there's also happiness, and if there's happiness then there's also grief. But our melancholy is not such that in our heart there's nothing but grief. The expression in the second line is the limit of eloquence. If he had said, 'the Lord has given us a heart that is entirely devoted to grief', then it would have been another matter entirely. He has said, our heart is that heart that is not joyous. By the logic of the reading, it emerges that the heart is

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utterly empty; there's not even grief in it. Because if the Lord had given us grief, then He would have bestowed happiness as well. When He didn't give grief, then it's as if He gave nothing.... [Consider one of Ghalib's Persian verses, which can be translated as:] 'I am not even an autumn-stricken tree, because the tree to which autumn comes is one to which spring also sometimes comes, and it sometimes prides itself on its flourishingness. I am that tree upon which autumn has not come, and which remained utterly deprived.' The Urdu verse is more eloquent [balii;Gtar], because its second line is an example of perfect negation. (16061)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} You might think this verse would be relatively translatable, but it's not. The sound effects are of course uncapturable-- look at how well ba-ham hame;N works in the first line. But it's the second line that's the real killer, as Faruqi observes. The combination of the flowing, alliterative sounds and the effortless, fluid, yet stark dignity of the phrasing simply can't be captured in English. ' diyaa hai ham ko ;xudaa ne vuh dil kih shaad nahii;N ', although it looks so straightforward, loses painfully much no matter what you do with it. I think part of the loss is the untranslatability of vuh dil. You can't really say in English, 'the Lord has given us that heart that is not joyous' (and even if you could somehow finagle it, it wouldn't convey the same meaning). But in Urdu, the effect is that he's given us not just 'a' heart, but emphatically a special, particular heart with a unique quality of its own: it simply, flatly, once-and-for-all is 'not joyous'. But there's also an equally untranslatable undertone of familiarity, of acceptance, of exasperated indulgence-- 'oh, that heart!' This verse always reminds me of the two urns of the gods from the last book of the Iliad. Here's the passage in the wonderful Lattimore translation (The Iliad of Homer, trans. Richmond Lattimore, University of Chicago Press, 1951, p. 489). Achilleus says comfortingly (?) to Priam, There are two urns that stand on the door-sill of Zeus. They are unlike for the gifts they bestow: an urn of evils, an urn of blessings. If Zeus who delights in thunder mingles these and bestows them on man, he shifts, and moves now in evil, again in good fortune. But when Zeus bestows from the urn of sorrows, he makes a failure of man, and the evil hunger drives him over the shining earth, and he wanders respected neither of gods nor mortals. The source of the trouble, in Homer as well as in this verse, is not in the luckless individual but in the divine power that has created his perverse destiny. The 'man of sorrow' has a fate, or a heart, so unrelievedly bleak that he longs-- vainly, of course-- for the very (trumpery, transient) mixture of joys and sorrows that the rest of us complain about and seek to escape.

Ghazal 108 8 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: aa baa;Ndhte hai;N composed 1821; Hamid p. 88; Arshi #092; Raza p. 234

{108,1} tere tausan ko .sabaa baa;Ndhte hai;N ham bhii ma.zmuu;N kii havaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) [we] versify/'bind' your steed as the breeze 2a) [we] too {boast of / invent} a theme 2b) [we] too versify/'bind' the wind/love/desire of a theme

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Notes: baa;Ndhnaa: 'To fasten together, put together, join, connect, conglomerate, unite, gather, pack, set... e.g. ma.zmuun baa;Ndhnaa...; to build, construct (dam, bridge, &c.); to compose (verses). havaa: 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth; --air, wind, gentle gale; --a gas; --flight; ...rumour, report; --credit, good name; -affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire'. (Platts p. 1239) havaa baa;Ndhnaa: 'To make a name; --to boast, brag; --to invent; to romance'. (Platts p.1239) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, giving for the steed the simile of the breeze, we {boast of / invent} elegance of expression. (112)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having given for your steed the simile of the breeze, we {boast of / invent} our theme-writing. Otherwise, your steed is swifter than the breeze. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: By calling your steed the breeze, its honor is not increased. Rather, in that way we establish the coin of our elegance of expression. (215)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY Because of its refrain, this whole ghazal plays on the verb baa;Ndhnaa, literally 'to bind', which counts among its numerous derived meanings that of 'to compose', as in to compose verses. For another such striking example, see {29}, which has the refrain of baa;Ndhaa. When poets versify/'bind' something, they incorporate it both into poetic language (usually through metaphor or simile) and into a line of verse. The only verses that don't use this poetic meaning at all are {108,7} and {108,8}. And then, look at all the secondary wordplay as well! People 'tie' (or 'bind') a horse with a tether-- but we also 'tie' your horse in the sense of 'binding' or incorporating it into a verse. The horse is versified or 'bound' as the breeze-and who can bind the breeze? Then we have the two words for breeze, .sabaa in the first line and havaa in the second. The word havaa, with its related meanings of wind and love and desire, is surely the pivot around which the verse turns. (For very similar patterns of wordplay, see the next verse, {108,2}.) The idiomatic sense of havaa baa;Ndhnaa works perfectly for the poet's purposes: we boast of our poetic theme, we invent our poetic theme. But if we read the words literally, we also versify/'bind' the wind, or the desire, of a theme. And is it the desire 'of' a theme in the sense of 'the desire belonging to a theme', or in the sense of the poet's desire 'for' a theme? Thus the juxtaposition of havaa baa;Ndhnaa becomes so complex and enjoyable-- who can 'bind' the wind, or love, or desire? who can versify the wind, or love, or desire? And yet that's exactly what we, the poet, do. We invent our themes, and we boast of them. And if we're Ghalib, don't we have a right to?

{108,2} aah kaa kis ne a;sar dekhaa hai ham bhii ek apnii havaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) who has seen an effect of a sigh?

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2a) we too {boast about / invent/ show off} something 2b) we too versify/'bind' one love/desire/breeze of our own

Notes: baa;Ndhnaa : 'To fasten together, put together, join, connect, conglomerate, unite, gather, pack, set... e.g. ma.zmuun baa;Ndhnaa...; to build, construct (dam, bridge, &c.); to compose (verses). havaa : 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth; --air, wind, gentle gale; --a gas; --flight; ...rumour, report; --credit, good name; -affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire'. (Platts p. 1239) havaa baa;Ndhnaa : 'To make a name; --to boast, brag; --to invent; to romance'. (Platts p.1239) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: havaa baa;Ndhnaa is used to mean 'to inspire with awe' [ru((b bi;Thaanaa]. (112)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we don't sigh because we hope for effect; nor do we believe that sighs normally have an effect. We only inspire her heart with awe of us. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: In a sigh there's no effect at all. We only intimidate [;Daraanaa] the beloved, so that perhaps in this way something might get accomplished. (215)

Arshi: Compare {145,3}. (222, 285)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; POETRY; WORDPLAY In general, the commentators take havaa baa;Ndhnaa to mean something like 'to show off, to demonstrate one's power'. Some of them think this display is aimed at the beloved, and might even achieve something. Others leave its intention vague. Here are some possible readings of the verse: =We falsely boast that our sighs have an effect (while privately recognizing that, alas, they don't). =We sigh loudly and publicly, so people will be impressed by our lover-like prowess (even though we know all sighs are vain). =We incorporate our sighs into poetry, although even then we doubt that they'll accomplish much. (For more on this use of baa;Ndhnaa, see {108,1}.) =We don't sigh, since sighs are ineffective; instead, while other lovers sigh, we versify our own desires and our own 'breeze', just to show a better alternative. The wordplay, however, is surely the real point. The word aah both means 'sigh', and makes the sound of a sigh; and what is a sigh if not a miniature version of a breeze or wind [havaa]? The pair aah and havaa are also partial anagrams of each other (the latter is made out of the former plus one more letter). In the previous verse, {108,1}, the poet provided the 'wind' in the first line by comparing the beloved's steed to it; in this verse, the 'wind' is provided by a sigh. In both cases, the wind is needed for word-and-meaning-play with havaa in the second line. The multiple meanings of havaa (breeze/love/desire), and then the double meaning of baa;Ndhnaa (versify/tie), and then the additional idiomatic meanings that they acquire when put together-- the effect is as complex and (ultimately) unresolvable as it is enjoyable.

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{108,3} terii fur.sat ke muqaabil ai ((umr barq ko paa bah-;hinaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) compared to your leisure, oh Lifetime 2) [we/they] versify/'bind' lightning as a hennaed foot

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if you compare the length of a lifetime with something, then it's as if henna has been applied to the feet of lightning. That is, in its coming and going the lifetime is somewhat greater in speed than lightning. (112)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Lifetime, in comparison to your swiftness of movement, we versify lightning as a hennaed foot. A hennaed foot is a metaphor for being unable to walk. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the lifetime passes faster than lightning. And it's clear because lightning sometimes flashes, sometimes vanishes. But the lifetime never by any chance pauses for a moment. (215)

FWP: SETS == POETRY LIGHTNING: {10,6} The verse is lovely in its wild metaphorical exuberance. As Bekhud Dihlavi makes clear, a hennaed foot is a slowed-down foot. While the elaborate henna pattern is drying, the owner of the feet can't walk at all without ruining all that work. And even after it's dried, the owner seeks to keep the design unmarred and show it off, since hennaed feet are for festive occasions. So the owner of the feet walks more fastidiously and delicately than usual, which means more slowly. The first line could well prepare us for the obvious 'a lifetime is as fast as a lightning-flash.' But that turns out not to be the case at all. On the contrary: a lifetime is not as fast as lightning. It's so much faster that compared to a lifetime, lightning itself is constructed or depicted-- is 'versified', incorporated into poetic diction-- as a hennaed foot. (For more on this use of baa;Ndhnaa, see {108,1}.) Lightning itself-- the unimaginably swift, darting, forceful, instantaneous-- is no better than a halting, careful, fastidiously placed foot, compared to your pace, oh Lifetime. (For another use of a hennaed foot, see {108,7}.) And then-- just look at the radical shift of thought in the next verse, {108,4}.

{108,4} qaid-e hastii se rihaa))ii ma((luum ashk ko be sar-o-paa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) as if there’s any release from the prison of existence! 2a) [we/they] versify tears as '{helpless, futile / head-and-foot-less}' 2b) [they] bind {helpless, futile / head-and-foot-less} tears

Notes: be sar-o-paa: 'Utterly without resources, very poor and wretched'. (Platts p.202) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The pleasure is that if nonexistence preceded existence, and nonexistence is also powerless, then like a tear, mankind too is be sar-o-paa. And despite a tear's being {helpless, futile / 'without head and foot'}, we/they 'bind' it. And from binding something, its being bound presupposes its existence. The gist

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is that we will certainly remain in the prison of existence, and will not attain the rank of oblivion, which is freedom itself. (112)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, man can become released and free from the prison of the world, and all other prisons, but not from the prison of existence. Even though a teardrop is 'without head and foot', we/they 'bind' it, and it is bound; and man too, like a tear, is be sar-o-paa. Thus we will certainly remain in the prison of existence, and will not attain the rank of oblivion, which is freedom itself. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: Release from the prison of existence is in no way possible. Just look-they've confined tears in the prison of be sar -o-paa))ii. Before existence, there is nonexistence; afterwards, nonexistence. For this reason it's been declared to be {helplessness, futility}. Now there is a test: when despite their being 'without head and foot' tears have been bound, how can man, who is similar to them in {helplessness, futility}, be free? (215)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; POETRY; WORDPLAY What a contrast with {108,3}, the previous verse! Both passionate, both inshaa))iyah (the first vocative, the second exclamatory). But the first implicitly laments the inconceivable briefness of life, while the second deplores its excruciating length and inescapability. Verses for two temperaments, or two moods-- juxtaposed accidentally, or on purpose? The first line indignantly rejects the idea that there could possibly be any release from the prison of existence. This colloquial use of ma((luum as a vigorous negative exclamatory marker is very common; see the grammar page for more examples. We expect that the second line will provide either the evidence that has generated this strong reaction, or a secondary effect of it. And, as so often in Ghalib, the second line opens up a number of available, and ultimately unresolveable, interpretive possibilities. Here are some of the main ones: =because of [line 1], in our poetry we depict and describe tears as 'helpless, futile', since it's clear that lamenting our plight will do no good. (For more on this use of baa;Ndhnaa, see {108,1}.) (2a) =even our tears, which are 'without head and foot' and thus completely helpless, end up getting 'bound' for fear they might somehow escape from the prison-- so how much chance of escape do we have? =even our tears, which being 'without head and foot' have literally nothing that can be 'bound', are somehow 'bound' or tied up by the unnamed 'they'-will jailers who can pull off a feat like that ever allow us who have heads and feet to escape? =just as tears have no top/beginning (head) or bottom/end (foot), so we humans have no access to the origin or end of our existence; we come from nonexistence, and return to it. Thus as long as we exist at all, we can't escape the 'prison of our existence', and thus can't know the true freedom of oblivion. (This is Nazm's reading, followed more or less by everybody else.) There's also the elegant wordplay of 'release' [rihaa))ii] and 'to bind' [baa;Ndhnaa], set off of course by the double meaning of the latter. But above all, the word-and-meaning-play of be sar-o-paa honaa, especially when combined with baa;Ndhnaa, energizes the verse.

{108,5} nashshah-e rang se hai vaashud-e gul mast kab band-e qabaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) from the intoxication of color/mood is the opening of the rose

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2a) when do intoxicated ones bind/tie the sash/tie of the robe?! 2b) when do intoxicated ones versify a sash/tie for the robe?

Notes: vaashud : 'Opening; expansion; dispersion, or vanishing (of sorrow, &c.); clearance (of clouds, &c.); --deliverance. (Platts p.1175) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, it is intoxicated with color/mood; for this reason the rose's closed robe becomes open. (113)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, because of the intoxication of color/mood, the flowers bloom [khilnaa]. And when they bloom, then the intoxication of color/moor becomes even more intense. And drunkards never tie the sash of their robes. For this reason, the roses' ties too are opened [khulnaa].

Bekhud Mohani: The roses opened their tied robes because they are intoxicated with the color/mood of spring. The color of the rose and the color of wine are of exactly the same kind. (215)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; POETRY; WORDPLAY In proper mushairah-verse style, the first line is broad and vague, making it clear that the punch will not come until the second line-- which of course we will have to wait for. Then the second line takes the form of a rhetorical question, with the key word 'tie, bind' [baa;Ndhnaa] left until the last possible moment, to maximize its effect. Only at the end of the line do we realize that 'opening' in the first line was not just a general term, but was meant to invoke the opening of a robe. The rose loosens its robe because it is intoxicated, and of course there are unstated sexual overtones as well. If we adopt (2a), the second line lets us know that drunkards (like the rose) never do tie the sash of their robe. But why? The verse gives us no information. Because they're too drunk to notice, or to tie a proper knot? Because they want to breathe freely (which is why madmen rip open their collars)? Because they like the informality and casualness? Because they want to convey their openness and generosity of mood? Because they want to advertise their charms and availability? And of course, the rhetorical question can also be asked literally. When, in fact, do the rose and other drunkards tie the sash of their robe? In the rose's case, the answer is 'never'-- and not for reasons of intoxication, either. The 'tight' or 'closed' [band] bud opens up to reveal the rich red sensuous petals of the blooming flower, which spread out like a loosened robe. But the opening is irreversible: the petals will never again be tied or bound up. Soon they will fade, die, and fall to the ground; the withered rose-stem will be left naked in the autumn air. (Although of course, mystically speaking, this immediacy of oblivion [fanaa] might be the supreme joy for the rose, and even the source of its intoxication.) If we take (2b), we have the amused (and rueful?) observation that drunken poets never in fact versify/'bind' into their lines of poetry a tie or sash on the robe. (For more on this use of baa;Ndhnaa , see {108,1}.) They much prefer a robe that opens out invitingly, free of any binding or restraint. Their intoxication causes them to write into their poems only an open, blooming, accessible rose. The wordplay is lovely too, centering on vaashud [opening], band [sash, tie], and-- the final clincher that unifies all the verse's imagery, and as such withheld until the last possible moment-- baa;Ndhnaa [to bind, tie].

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I also sense in this verse an echo of the wordplay/scriptplay of 'to bloom' [khilnaa] and 'to open' [khulnaa]. Although neither word is used, I see the pair hovering right in the background. Apparently Bekhud Dihlavi sees them too, since in his commentary he uses both words. But of course they are not invoked within the verse itself, as they are in {94,1}.

{108,6} ;Gala:tiihaa-e ma.zaamii;N mat puuchh log naale ko rasaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) don’t ask about the errors of themes! 2) people versify/'bind' laments as 'successful'

Notes: rasaa: 'Arriving, attaining;... quick of apprehension, acute, sharp, penetrating, skilful, capable, clever; --mixing or mingling (with); amiable; well-received, welcome'. (Platts p.591) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we have learned by experience that a lament never attains access [rasaa))ii]. This is the apparent meaning, and there is an iihaam of the meaning that if it had been 'arrived/successful' [rasaa], then who would have 'bound' [baa;Ndhnaa] it? Its being 'bound' is itself a proof of its laggingness and non-access [naarasaa))ii]. (113)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, people-- that is, poets-- versify a lament as 'successful', and are even convinced of its success. This is an error of their themes. Our experience is that a lament never attains success. But if a lament were successful, then till Doomsday it wouldn't be able to be 'bound'/versified. Its being 'bound' is proof of its non-access. (164)

Bekhud Mohani: A person who has always been unsuccessful, and in whose heart the idea has settled that prayer is not answered, and that laments are ineffective-- he is surprised at the state of the people of the world: these people call laments 'successful', and what greater error than this can there be? (216)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; POETRY The veteran Ustad rolls his eyes, as he shares a gossip session with his colleagues. They all agree that their pupils are a dull lot, and they join condemning the poetry of everybody except themselves. 'What awful mistakes people make in their themes!' the Ustad says pedantically. 'Why, the things they say, the nonsense they babble-- it's too horrible, I can't even describe it. You don't want to know-- just don't even ask!' But of course, after a suitable period of suspense in the mushairah, he goes on to tell us anyway. Can you imagine-- the fools actually versify laments as 'successful'! Here is a wonderfully light and amusing treatment of what otherwise might be a mournful theme: the ineffectiveness of laments in moving the beloved's heart, or even reaching her ears. It's presented not as a wretched emotional experience of prolonged suffering, but as a technical flaw in a poet's versification. The word baa;Ndhnaa would suffice in itself to establish the literary contex; for more on this, see {108,1}. But the addition of the common literary term 'theme' [ma.zmuun] entirely clinches the matter. The unsuccessfulness of laments is so universal and inescapable a truth that to ignore it is not an accidental error in some particular thought or expression, but a deeper problem of impossible wrongness, like declaring that the sky is orange, or omitting a syllable from the meter.

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To present the theme in this way displaces it from melancholy into humor, and from despairing personal confession into a finicky technical objection, the professional stock in trade of the Ustad. It also underlines the radicalness and irrevocableness of the laments' failure, in a way that no amount of handwringing could. Nazm's iihaam argument is somehow not very compelling. (Bekhud Dihlavi often follows Nazm in cases like this, so he's not necessarily an independent witness.) I can see what Nazm means, but it feels weak and forced. He presents a similar argument in {108,4}-- that the very fact of being bound tells us something about the weakness of what is bound-- but there I think it works better with the grammar and vocabulary of the verse. In this verse, I think the real pleasure comes from the 'shop talk' quality of the first line, which leads us to expect something different-- we are prepared for a genuine technical argument, something about meter or idiom, and instead we have a mixture of blood and tears, disguised as (or diluted into?) into mere ink, and made amusingly picky. Or perhaps the lover's despair is so deep that it's beyond blood and tears. Perhaps he so accepts his despair that the seemingly technical argument is the only one he now notices. The verse is genuinely amusing, but also manages to be, in its implications, unrelievedly bleak.

{108,7} ahl-e tadbiir kii vaamaa;Ndagiyaa;N aabalo;N par bhii ;hinaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) the fatigues/delays/opennesses of the people of contrivance! 2) they apply/'bind' henna even on blisters

Notes: tadbiir: 'Forethought, judgment; deliberation, counsel; opinion, advice; expedient, contrivance, plan, device; provision, management, arrangement... skill'. (Platts p.314) vaamaa;Ndagii: 'The remaining or lagging behind (esp. from fatigue); -openness; exposure'. (Platts p.1177) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This is a sneer at the 'people of wisdom', that if there is a blister on their foot, then they apply henna to it. That is, for one thing the blister itself would be a cause of lagging, and on top of that they also apply henna, and became fatigued and 'excused'. By comparison to this, praise of the 'people of madness' is intended: that with their blister-filled feet they run around in the thorn-filled desert. (113)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, first of all a man with blisters on his feet becomes 'excused' from walking and moving about. And on top of this, by way of medicine, to put henna on them makes the feet absolutely useless. By comparison to this, look at the 'people of madness': even with blistered feet, they traverse the thornfilled desert. (164)

Bekhud Mohani: He expresses the virtue of madness: the people of madness, running over thorns, burst their blisters. They don't, like the people of wisdom, apply henna to their blisters. (216)

FWP: SETS == BHI; GROTESQUERIE For another, and much more graceful, use in this ghazal of a hennaed foot to indicate slowness, see {108,3}. By contrast, the present verse hovers on the edge of what I call grotesquerie. Bekhud Mohani explains the image that he

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feels underlies this verse: that of mad lovers with blistered feet, running over thorny paths-- until the blisters burst on the thorns. I say, ugh. Here's where my own taste parts company with the ghazal world. But of course, the verse deserves the benefit of the doubt. For its actual words concern not mad blister-footed lovers, but persons of contrivance or invention or forethought-- clever persons who so arrange things that they are doubly excused from putting their blistered feet to the ground. Playing it safe, they put henna on their blisters, perhaps just with the excuse of festivity, or perhaps by way of medicine, as Bekhud Dihlavi maintains. Thus they are doubly able to avoid hard work, danger, and running around even on smooth paths, much less on thorns. To the mad lover, such shows of languour, fastidiousness, and self-regard are ludicrous, or even contemptible. So he exclaims sarcastically about them. This is the general commentarial opinion. But since the verse is so openended, I want to take a different direction. The 'people of contrivance' are, by definition, clever enough to present themselves always in a good light, and to make everything of theirs desirable. Thus they are ready to decorate, gloss over, henna-adorn, everything they possibly can. In the process, they distract attention from their worse features by diverting the eye to beautifications instead. Since they do this so habitually, if they have blisters on their feet, such that the feet would be unattractive and one wouldn't normally call attention to them, they go right ahead and put henna on them too, just as they do on everything else. This is a resourceful attempt at concealment-- which invokes the secondary meaning of vaamaa;Ndagii, 'openness, exposure'. The speaker then exclaims sarcastically at the 'openness' of the people of contrivance-- which is really, and very cleverly, a concealment. Or one could ask, if the lazy 'people of contrivance' are so clever at avoiding toil and trouble, how would they come to have blisters on their feet in the first place? Perhaps lovers themselves are, in their own way, 'people of contrivance'. They are joyous in the midst of their sufferings. When the time comes for festivity and celebration, even their blistered feet will not stop them. They are ready to put henna on right over the blisters, as a way of affirming that the blisters are natural to their feet, that they accept the pain, that they are ready to cope with whatever eventualities come their way. Thus one may exclaim at their 'fatigues' or 'delays' which are not really due to henna, as a bystander would think, but to pain; or at their 'openness', their rejoicing in their wretched condition. And why the plural abstraction? Just to emphasize the complexity and multifariousness of their behavior? For more on such pluralized abstractions, see {1,2}.

{108,8} saadah purkaar hai;N ;xuubaa;N ;Gaalib ham se paimaan-e vafaa baa;Ndhte hai;N 1) simple-clever are the lovely ones, Ghalib 2) [they] make/'bind' promises of faithfulness-- to us

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: ham ought to be read in a special tone, which will give rise to the meaning, 'not somebody else, but us'. And this is the reason for saying 'simple', that they think [jaante hai;N] that we will be taken in by their deceit. And he's said 'clever' because they seek to create a deceit. ;xuubaan is the plural of ;xuub, and nowadays in Urdu to make the plural of every word with alif nuun is not proper. In this connection, it is very prominent in the idiom of the Dakan, and these people make the plural of every word in this way. (11314)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The word ham ought to be read with emphasis-- that is, they deceive us, not somebody else! He says, this is there foolishness, that they think [jaante hai;N] that we will be taken in by their deceit. (164)

Bekhud Mohani: At the same time how simple, and how tricky, the beautiful ones are, that they make promises of faithfulness to one as experienced as we! (216)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS Perhaps, as the commentators generally agree, the beautiful ones may be 'simple' because they think their 'clever' tricks (of falsely promising faithfulness) will work on the likes of us, the veteran lover. But equally possibly, the beautiful ones may be'clever' because they pretend to be 'simple' in promising us faithfulness. Perhaps they are clever because they don't really expect us to believe them, but they know that we must keep up appearances, so they will thus effectively put us off for the present. Or perhaps they are clever because they know we will believe them-- their making promises of faithfulness 'to us' can just as well be a sign of cleverness as of simplicity, since the verse gives us know way of deciding. Are they simple in their cleverness, or clever in their simplicity? Or clever in their (show of) 'simplicity', or simple in their (show of) 'cleverness'? We can't tell from the verse itself how many levels of (accidental or deliberate) fakery and (self-)deception are involved. Similarly, the commentators are convinced, following Nazm, that the emphasis in the second line must be on 'to us'. But this is because they all recognize only one reading. The emphasis could equally well fall on 'promises' (promises that we do, or don't, know that they won't fulfill); or on 'faithfulness' (a quality that we do, or don't, know that they entirely lack). For an even more complex exploration of saadagii -o-purkaarii, see {4,4}.

Ghazal 109 1 verse; meter G9; rhyming elements: aadah rakhte hai;N composed 1816; Hamid p. 88; Arshi #094; Raza p. 155

{109,1} zamaanah sa;xt kam-aazaar hai bah jaan-e asad vagarnah ham to tavaqqu(( ziyaadah rakhte hai;N 1) the age is severely/violently torment-lacking, {by / with, toward} the life of Asad 2) otherwise, well, we do hope for more

Notes: sa;xt: 'Very, intensely, violently, severely, excessively, extremely'. (Platts p.644) tavaqqu(( rakhnaa: 'To entertain or have hope, to hope; to expect, to look (for); to desire'. (Platts p.343) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has sworn an oath: he says that the extent of torment that comes to him at the hands of the age is extremely little-- otherwise, we long to endure more tyranny. The use of sa;xt with the meaning of 'very much' is a Persian idiom; in Urdu it is very little used. (114)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the extent to which the age delivers torment to me is extremely little. Swearing by the life of Asad, he says that we long to endure from it more tyranny than this. (165)

Bekhud Mohani: We swear by the life of Asad, that the age torments us very little. Otherwise, we hope to endure from it much more tyranny than this. That is, the age does not torment us as it ought to. We are ready for even more. (216)

FWP: SETS == BAH; OPPOSITES; VARNAH; WORDPLAY As so often, the commentators go in for a lowest-common-denominator prose paraphrase; but in a verse like this one, that approach is particularly damaging. This verse is crammed and jammed with wordplay, and the commentators notice (or at least acknowledge) absolutely none of it. In the first line, the phrase sa;xt kam-aazaar is a treat in itself. It has the flavor of something like 'painfully torment-free'. This weird sequence glows in the dark, it absolutely demands your attention and further thought (as does 'simple-clever' in {108,8}). And then of course we have bah jaan-e asad, with the double meaning of an oath ('[we swear] by the life of Asad'), and the prepositional meaning of 'with' or 'toward' (the age is painfully tormentfree {toward / with regard to} the life of Asad'). This latter meaning is especially apt, since the complaint is being made that the torment is insufficient-- it's not deadly enough to threaten Asad's life. Then the second line, in addition to providing a 'more' [ziyaadah] to evoke the 'less' [kam] in the first line, has an amusing colloquial charm of its own. There's an untranslatable delicate suggestiveness in it, a polite hint of benefits expected; it's what the courteous but slightly aggrieved supplicant says to a possibly dilatory benefactor, as a reminder-- 'well, uh, we do have hopes for more'. The word 'more', like 'better' (as in 'I expected better from you'), acts as an all-purpose evocation of good things. Automatically the audience will find themselves hearing or reading the line in just this way. But then, of course, they do (literally) a double-take, and realize that here the 'more' refers to more torment, more violence, more suffering. The speaker wants 'more' of what has been 'lacking' ('less') in his life so far. We can call all this wordplay, but we need to call it meaning-play as well. And what would the verse be without it? As you can see from the commentators' accounts (all translated in their entirety), the answer is, dullsville.

Ghazal 110 8 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar nahii;N huu;N mai;N composed 1850; Hamid p. 89; Arshi #112; Raza pp. 301-02

{110,1} daa))im pa;Raa hu))aa tire dar par nahii;N huu;N mai;N ;xaak aisii zindagii pah kih patthar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1a) I am not always lying/fallen at your door 1b) am I not always lying/fallen at your door? 2) {woe to / dust upon} such a life!-- that/since I am not stone

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib:

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[1866:] When the King of Delhi retained me as a servant, and gave me a title, and assigned me the duty of writing chronograms for the Sultans of the House of Timur, then I wrote a ghazal in a fresh style [:tarz-e taazah]. [He quotes all the verses in order, but omits the closing-verse, {110,8}.] (Arshi p. 237) ==text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p. 1226-27

Nazm: That is, it would have been better for this life not to exist-- for perhaps I could have been your doorsill. And the gesture toward this idea is that I always remain lying like a stone, but am far from your door. I am not a stone, that I would be pleased to remain lying like this. (114-15)

Bekhud Mohani: If only I were of stone, so that I could become a doorsill and remain always lying at your door! That is, that stone is more fortunate than I, for it always kisses her feet. [Or:] Don't I always remain lying at your door? That is, I always remain at the door, and cannot obtain access to the inner chamber of coquetry. Woe to such a life! I am a human, not a stone, that to remain lying on your doorsill would be enough. (217)

Faruqi: This verse is outwardly as simple, as inwardly it is full of meaning.... [Bekhud Mohani has obtained his] subtle meaning through attention to the word 'door'; most commentators have made the word 'stone' the center of attention. A third word that has a right to attention and investigation is 'always'.... If we connect the word 'always' to the word 'life', then what aspect develops?.... If only I were a being made of stone, then for hundreds of years I could have the auspicious fortune of remaining lying at your door. And then, in stone is the excellence that when it falls, then it remains lying there. It doesn't have to move and get up, the way men do. If instead of this human life I had come into the world with the life of a stone, then it would have been better.... [And the sparks of passion and longing within me would have lasted far longer than the duration of a mere brief human life.] In the course of the discussion, I also want to call attention to the wordplay of 'dust' and 'stone'. This point too has escaped the eye of most of the commentators. (162-63)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KIH Is lying always at the beloved's door something the lover fails to achieve (1a) or achieves (1b)? Is it something desirable (as the lover's supreme goal), or undesirable (as a sign of neglect and rejection)? Does the lover wish (1) to be a stone doorsill for the beloved; or (2) to have a stony heart himself; or (3) simply to express his human suffering (since he's not made of stone)? Here are only a few of the many possible permutations, in this wonderfully 'simple-clever' (see {108,8}) verse: =Am I not always lying at your door? (I am, of course.) 'Dust upon such a life', in which I'm not a stone! (What I want is to be a stone, and your doorsill.) =Am I not always lying at your door? (I am, of course.) 'Dust upon' such a life, because after all I'm not made of stone! (What I want is better treatment from you.) =I'm not always lying at your door. (Sometimes I'm driven or forced away, and have to return later.) 'Dust upon such a life', in which I'm not a stone! (What I want is to be a stone, and your doorsill.) =I'm not always lying at your door. (Sometimes my restlessness overpowers me, and forces me to wander.) 'Dust upon' such a life-- after all, I'm not made of stone! (What I want is better treatment from you.) See the next

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verse, {110,2}, for a similar thought about restlessness and constant movement. As Faruqi, alone among the commentators, points out, the wordplay of 'dust' and 'stone' is also powerfully effective and enjoyable-- especially since the primary meaning of 'dust [be] upon such a life' [;xaak aisii zindagii pah] is as a form of malediction or curse. So a life that is not 'stone' is cursed to be 'dust'. Could there be a bleaker summary of human choices? For more verses of 'stone' wordplay, see {62,5}.

{110,2} kyuu;N gardish-e mudaam se ghabraa nah jaa))e dil insaan huu;N piyaalah-o-saa;Gar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) why wouldn't the heart be worried/distressed by perpetual 'circling'? 2) I'm a human, I'm not a glass and flagon!

Notes: gardish : 'Going round, turning round, revolution; circulation;... turn, change; vicissitude; reversion; --adverse fortune, adversity; --wandering about, vagrancy'. (Platts p.903) mudaam : 'Continuous; continual, lasting; perpetual; eternal... --wine; spirits'. (Platts p.1014) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, those people who have eternal wine, their flagon always keeps circulating. That is the basis on which he says, I am a human-- for me, why this perpetual circling? (114-15)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, like the wineglass and flagon, circling day and night is destined for me. It's a lifeless thing. If it remains circling day and night because of eternal wine, then what difficulty does it experience thereby?.... I'm human, for how long can I remain ensnared in such circling? Why wouldn't my heart be worried/distressed? (165)

Bekhud Mohani: Being human, why wouldn't my heart be worried/distressed by this perpetual circling? I'm not a wineglass and flagon that would not feel trouble or ease. (217)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR; WORD In fine mushairah-verse style, the first line is indignant, vivid, and somewhat opaque. We wonder where where the poet will go from here. What sort of 'circling' or 'going around' is being referred to? Only after a suitably suspenseful delay are we allowed to hear the answer; and even then it's only a suggestion of a reply: 'I'm a human, not a wineglass and flagon!' And it's uttered in a tone of indignation that surely verges on the comic. We're left to realize only by implication that a wineglass and flagon are not disturbed by perpetual circling or circulating among the drinkers in the winehouse. (And the 'perpetual' [mudaam] itself has a secondary meaning of 'wine', making for a lovely wordplay, as Zaff Syed points out.) So if they are not disturbed by such 'going round', we can well imagine the reasons: it is the proper, natural destiny for which they were born. But as for us, what kind of gardish do we experience, and why does it trouble our hearts? Just look at the possibilities, all fully available through the many extended senses of the word: =the endless cycling of night and day and night and day troubles us and makes us dizzy

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=our little world careens wildly around the sun like an eternal merry-goround (for more on Ghalib's scientific knowledge about the sun, see {105,2}) =seeing the constant 'revolutions' of the wheel of time and fate arouses anxiety and distress =our own fortune so often 'turns' on us-- and so often the new turn is for the worse =our own wanderings and restless desert-roamings seem to have no end The wineglass and flagon were born for their own kind of 'circling'; but we are not born for ours. There are too many kinds, all happening at once, and nothing about their movement that warrants confidence or serene acceptance on our part. Although this verse has a light touch, its deeper layer is one of serious complaint. For another, more ominous verse about perpetual gardish, see {46,2}.

{110,3} yaa rab zamaanah mujh ko mi;Taataa hai kisliye lau;h-e jahaa;N pah ;harf-e mukarrar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) oh Lord, why does the age erase me? 2) on the tablet of the world I am not a 'repeated letter'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The theme is that he has given to his own erasure the simile of a mistaken letter. But if he had said 'the age erases me like a mistaken letter', then it wouldn't have been as eloquent [balii;G] as it is now. And the reason for eloquence is intensity of meaning; that is, now the meanings are being further increased: since I am not a 'repeated letter', there's no other reason for my erasure. Still, the age is erasing me. From this verse can be understood what are the means of giving rise to intensity of meaning from one single excellently-bestowed simile, and then, to what extent intensity of meaning increases eloquence. (115)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for what reason does the age erase me? Besides the fact that I'm not a 'repeated letter', there's no other reason adduced for my erasure. It's considered necessary to erase a 'repeated letter'; I am not that. (165)

Bekhud Mohani: ;harf-e mukarrar: that letter that in error would be written two times, and would be scraped off.... That is, I'm not something to be erased. In the world there's great necessity for me, and there's also the point that up till now no one like me has appeared. I am not like anyone else. So I ought to have received respect. Why are the people of the world bent on erasing me? (217)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH WRITING: {7,3} A lovely, classic 'mushairah verse'. The first line sounds broad, vague, and conventional: the image of time 'erasing' us is as established in Urdu as it is in English. Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait for a suspense-building interval until we're allowed to hear the second line. Then when we do get to hear it, in proper mushairah-verse style we have to wait for the zinger until the last possible moment. The phrase 'repeated letter' [;harf-e mukarrar] is positioned as close to the end as it can be. And, also in classic mushairah-verse style, we 'get it' with a sudden burst of revelation and pleasure-- and once we've gotten it, there's nothing more there to 'get'; it's a verse that doesn't demand further study or long reflection. A 'repeated letter' is, as the commentators make clear, one that's accidently written twice. It's a common error in calligraphy, and when it's discovered,

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the obvious thing to do is to erase the undesired duplicate letter. But I, the speaker, can claim to be a unique letter on the 'tablet of the world'-- no 'letter' like me precedes me, nor will another such 'letter' ever be born. So why am I erased? Obviously, erasing me represents a real loss of data from the tablet of the world, and shouldn't be done! Yet of course this erasure is ineluctably going to happen; the verb tense makes its happening habitual and irresistible [mi;Taataa hai]. Appealing to the Lord is not a real remedy, but merely a gesture of protest and unreconciledness. We may be doomed, but we reject the injustice of our fate. This, and the rest of the verses in this ghazal ({110,3-7}) right up until the very different closing-verse, seem clearly to be addressed to a divine beloved rather than a human one. For other such examples, see {20,10}.

{110,4} ;had chaahiye sazaa me;N ((uquubat ke vaas:te aa;xir gunaahgaar huu;N kaafar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) there ought to be a limit in punishment, with regard to torment 2) after all, I'm a sinner, I am not an infidel

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the word kaafir, expert language-knowers [ahl-e zabaan] read the fe with a zer [making it kaafir]. But in the colloquial idiom of Persia, there's a zabar [making it kaafar]. For this reason, he uses it as a rhyme with saa;Gar.... The meanings of sazaa and ((uquubat are exactly the same; because of this repetition, the first line has become limp/loose [sust]. (115)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for infidels, the torment of hell will continue forever; and for Muslim sinners, the measure of punishment will be decided. So why have I always been immersed in torment, and why do I find no release? (165)

Bekhud Mohani: [Nazm is wrong about the first line:] here, ((uquubat means 'torment', and sazaa means 'vengeance'. (217)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH INFIDEL: {21,12} Like the previous verse, {110,3}, this one too is a classic mushairah verse. The first line is broad and vague, giving us listeners little clue of what is to come. What kind of a limit? Why should there be one? What kind of punishment? Only after a suitably suspense-building interval do we get to hear the 'mischievous' [sho;x] second line. We learn that the speaker is negotiating with God about, it seems, the fires of hell. There ought to be some kind of limit to his torment, he is urging, because after all he's only a sinner, not an infidel. This is one of those verses of theological vocabulary, such that it does seem to be addressed wholly or chiefly to God, not to a human beloved. It seems that the speaker is already enduring the torments of hell. Or else he is quite sure that he will endure them, and already knows what they will like, and has sufficient foreknowledge and status to have bargaining power with God. He presses his case with energy and wit (though perhaps with an underlying alarm). After all, a mere sinner is not nearly as evil and culpable a creature as an infidel! He seems to use the privileged position of an intimate, to urge God to reconsider, to urge Him to be reasonable. The tone is everything. And the punch-word kaafir -- here spelled kaafar for the sake of the rhyme-- is withheld, in true mushairah-verse style, until the last possible moment.

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{110,5} kis vaas:te ((aziiz nahii;N jaante mujhe la((l-o-zumurrud-o-zar-o-gauhar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) for what reason do You not consider me precious? 2a) I am not ruby and emerald and gold and pearl 2b) am I not ruby and emerald and gold and pearl?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It is an address to Hazrat [the Prophet], and the meaning is that you didn't consider gold and pearl and wealth and the world to be precious. If you consider me too like that-- well, I am not gold and pearl. (115-16)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is a praise of the Prophet [na((t]. At the Court of Prophethood Mirza Sahib petitions, Hazrat, why do you not consider me precious? I am not some ruby and pearl and emerald. That is, I am not the worldly wealth, which you didn't hold as precious. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: I am something to hold as precious. I am ruby, I am emerald, I am gold and pearl. That is, I'm a treasury of the whole world. [Or:] Why don't you hold me as precious? I'm not worthless like those things; rather, my glory is considerably greater than theirs. (218)

Mihr: All these three verses [that is, this one and the next two] are considered to be verses in praise of the Prophet [na((tiyah shi((r]. And certainly they can't be taken to have any other meaning. (366)

FWP: Along among the commentators I've looked at, only Bekhud Dihlavi formally identifies this verse and the next two as a qi:t((ah na((tiyah, a verse-set in praise of the Prophet (165). But almost all the commentators consider them to be some kind of a group, unified by their address to the Prophet. In addition to the examples given above, Josh describes them as 'in praise of the Prophet' [na((tiyah] (208), and Chishti calls them a 'stanza' in praise of the Prophet [na((tiyah band] (554). In the first line of this verse, the subject is omitted. The masculine plural verb [jaante] would permit the subject to be: (1) 'you' (polite singular); (2) 'you' (informal); (3) 'he' (polite singular); (4) 'they' (plural). When put together with the reading (2b)-- attested to by Bekhud Mohani-- the range of possible meaning becomes considerable. Any one of a number of entities (including public opinion, or indifferent patrons of poetry) could be seen as being chastised for failing to value the speaker properly, in view of the fact that he is not (2a)-- or is (2b)-- one of the precious jewels valued by the worldly. So this verse, read in isolation, is intriguingly (and amusingly) multivalent. However, the commentarial consensus has a valid point. It's impossible to read this verse together with the next two and not feel that they're a group or set of some kind, conceived along the same lines. And they strike such a wildly cosmic note (especially the latter two), that they seem to demand a religious context. I see them as direct, if slightly crazy, addresses to God, whereas the commentators feel that they are addressed to the Prophet. But they're so outlandish that the general effect is the same in either case.So if we read this verse in the context of the following two, we conclude that the the addressee is 'you' in the familiar, since in the following two verses that's made clear.

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All three of these verses are querulous, reproachful, injured-sounding claims for greater rank. The speaker claims superiority over precious jewels, over the sun and moon, over the sky. What he wants is greater access to the addressee. And he's not submissive about it, either; he sounds distinctly aggrieved. The nominally humble things he claims in the two latter verses (to have the addressee's feet upon his eyes, to be allowed to kiss the addressee's footsteps) register not as supplications, but as demands. The contrast is bizarre, piquant, ultimately unfathomable. How does one dare to speak so peremptorily to a power so manifestly overwhelming and cosmic, even while making such (ostensibly) humble demands? Surely this is more than just the usual 'mischievousness' [sho;xii], but how much more, and more in what way? On jaannaa to mean 'consider' (rather than reliably 'know') see {16,5}.

{110,6} rakhte ho tum qadam mirii aa;Nkho;N se kyuu;N dare;G ratbe me;N mihr-o-maah se kamtar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) why do you hold your footstep away from my eyes? 2) in rank, I am not less than the sun and moon

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In both these verses [this and {110,7}] he has addressed the Lord of the Ascent to Heaven [the Prophet]. (116)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, why don't you put your foot on my eyes? In rank, I am not less than the sun and moon. In the night of the Ascent [mi((raaj], you had bestowed on both sun and moon the opportunity for foot-kissing. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: Why do you hesitate to place your foot on my eyes? I'm not less than the sun and moon. In this verse he's praised both himself and his beloved. He says, you're of such a rank that if you place your foot on the sun and moon, then their honor is increased. And I too am of a rank comparable to theirs. And this is the situation of the next verse also. There can also be in them a gesture toward the story of the Ascent. (218)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES For fuller discussion of this verse as part of an informal three-verse set, see {110,5}. The implication is, as Bekhud Mohani says, that you, the beloved, are of such a rank that the sun and moon are grateful and proud to have your foot placed on them. And in relation to you, am I not of a rank equal to theirs? However we read this verse, it's wonderfully grandiloquent and sweeping. The vision of it captures the imagination at once.

{110,7} karte ho mujh ko man((-e qadam-bos kisliye kyaa aasmaan ke bhii baraabar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) why do you forbid me to kiss your footsteps? 2) am I not equal even to the sky?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See comment in {110,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: Why am I forbidden to kiss your feet? His Excellency's footsteps went upon the sky-- is my rank even less than that of the sky? (166)

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Bekhud Mohani: [See comment about {110,6}.]

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES For fuller discussion of this verse as part of an informal three-verse set, see {110,5}. The effect of the bhii in the second line is wonderfully evocative. What a tone of insult it conveys! Not to speak of being equal to truly great and impressive entities-- am I not even equally to minor ones? What an indignity! Am I not even equal to the sky?

{110,8} ;Gaalib va:ziifah-;xvaar ho do shaah ko du((aa vuh din ga))e kih kahte the naukar nahii;N huu;N mai;N 1) Ghalib, you're a pension-{receiver/'eater'}, give blessings to the King! 2) those days are gone when you used to say, 'I am not a servant'

Notes: du((aa : 'Prayer, supplication (to God); an invocation of good, a blessing, benediction; wish; congratulation, salutation'. (Platts p.518) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Look-- this too is one aspect of the expression of gratitude. (116)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This is a new aspect of the expression of gratitude. A salary that is given regularly without fixed work is called a va:ziifah . The rest of the verse's meaning is clear. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, now you are a pension-receiver from the Shah-- give blessings to the Shah! Formerly you always used to say, 'I am not the King's servant, I'm not obliged to express blessings to the king.' Now to give blessings is incumbent upon you. (218)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES The versatile ho , which I've translated as 'you are' (in the familiar), could also be the familiar imperative, 'be!'; or it could be short for ho kar , 'having become'. In any case, once Ghalib has been reminded-- by someone else admonishing him, or by his own inner voice-- of his duties, there are two possible readings of the first line: 1) Ghalib, you're a pension-receiver, so give thanks and blessings to the King for the financial support he's providing for you. 2) Ghalib, you're a pension-receiver, so do what you've been commissioned to do, and compose verses in praise and honor of the King. When writing in 1866 to his last major patron, Navab Kalb-e Ali Khan of Rampur, Ghalib proudly copied out in his letter all the verses of the present ghazal-- except this one (see {110,1}). They were all in order, so it's clear he had a written text before him rather than working casually from memory. So his omission of this very striking closing-verse can scarcely have been accidental. It's not hard to think of reasons for him to leave it out. This is surely one of the bitterest verses he ever wrote. Actually, he lived his whole life on a patchwork of small pensions, from the British and from Indian princes and nobles. But he seemed to find his service in the Red Fort particularly galling, perhaps because it was clear that in Bahadur Shah's opinion his poetry was decidedly inferior to Zauq's. For a more general reflection on the relationship between poet and patron-- or beggar and giver-- see {167,10}.

790

Ghazal 111 16 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa;N ho ga))ii;N composed 1852; Hamid p. 90; Arshi #114; Raza pp. 312-13

{111,1} sab kahaa;N kuchh laalah-o-gul me;N numaayaa;N ho ga))ii;N ;xaak me;N kyaa .suurate;N ho;Ngii kih pinhaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1a) not by any means all! some became manifest in tulip and rose 1b) where [did they] all [become manifest]? some became manifest in tulip and rose 2a) what faces/aspects there will be, that became hidden in the dust! 2b) will there be faces/aspects that became hidden in the dust? 2c) what faces/aspects will there be, that became hidden in the dust? 2d) in the dust, what faces and aspects there will be, that became hidden! 2e) in the dust, will there be faces/aspects that became hidden? 2f) in the dust, what faces/aspects will there be, that became hidden?

Notes: The form ho;Ngii is both the future and the 'presumptive' of honaa . Presumptives express judgments of probability, without affirming something as a fact. Counterpart forms in English: 'You should have gone-- now they will be feeling offended'; 'I think he'll be in Denver now, if you want to reach him'. pinhaa;N : 'Hid, concealed; secret, private; occult, latent, clandestine'. (Platts p.1162) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1852:] Brother! For the Lord’s sake, do this ghazal justice. If this is Rekhtah, then what did Mir and Mirza [Sauda] compose? And if that was Rekhtah, then what is this? The circumstances of it are that one gentleman among the princes of the House of Timur brought this ground from Lucknow, and Huzur [Bahadur Shah Zafar] himself composed a ghazal in it, and commanded me also [to compose one]. Thus I carried out the order, and wrote a ghazal. (Arshi 239) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1113-15 ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 83

Ghalib: [1861:] I am not worthy of any praise; I am one who sits in a corner, griefstricken and voiceless. Hazrat Yaqub, peace be upon him! who was not only a Prophet, but also had a tranquil spirit, wept so much in separation from a single son that he became blind. In the sedition/excess of an ocean of blood [:tu;Gyaan-e qulzum-e ;xuu;N] [of 1857], a thousand of my beloveds [ma((shuuq] were drowned in such a way that no trace can be found of what has become of them. I'm in mourning for a thousand people. Many friends of forty and fifty years' standing have been taken away from me. Someone used to call me 'father', someone used to consider me a teacher [murshid]. [He then quotes two verses, {111,1} and {111,2}. However, the second line of {111,1} is misquoted as: .suurate;N kyaa ;xaak me;N ho;Ngii kih pinhaa;N ho ga))ii;N] ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 733

Arshi: This ghazal was published in the Dihli Urdu Akhbar [dihlii urduu a;xbaar] vol. 14, no. 32 (28th August 1852), with this introduction: 'During this past week at the mushairah [series] held by Janab Mirza Nur ud-Din Bahadur

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(may his auspicious fortune ever endure!), with the pen-name Shahi, grandson of the late Janab Mirza Sulaiman Shikoh Bahadur, who has come from Lucknow, ghazals by a number of poets were read. And the Prince of lofty lineage often showed himself in splendor at the mushairah gathering. One ghazal of the admired Mirza, that is to say, the chief of the gathering, and a ghazal of Janab Najm ud-Daulah Muhammad Asadullah Khan Bahadur with the pen-name of Ghalib, have come into the hands of the writer of the newspaper; accordingly, they are entered into the newspaper.' (238)

Nazm: The second line is really like this: kyaa .suurate;N ho;Ngii kih ;xaak me;N pinhaa;N ho ga))ii;N. For the necessity of the verse [he has rearranged it]. The meaning is that the tulip and rose are the dust of those same beautiful ones who have mingled in the dust. (116)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse is an allusion to the beliefs of the Hindus about reincarnation. He says, not all, but rather only a few of the faces of those who have been erased have become manifest in tulip and rose. Otherwise, many great beauties have become food for the dust. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning of kyaa is kitnii and kaisii kaisii ; he says it in a tone of surprise and sorrow. The gaze has fallen on a garden of tulips and roses, and the mind wanders toward the thought that these are not tulips and roses, but rather this is the dust of beloveds buried in the dust, which is showing its glory in the guise of tulips and roses. Then he feels sorrow, that the tulips and roses which have been manifested from their dust are so flourishing-- how many lovely ones must there have been! That is, from merely looking at the tulips and roses neither can the number of lovely ones be estimated, nor can their loveliness. (218-19)

Baqir: It is believed that flowers are born from the dust of beautiful ones; thus according to how beautiful they were, that's how beautiful are the flowers that spring from their dust. Thus, seeing the tulips and roses, in a regretful tone he says, the Lord knows what kind of beautiful ones have mingled with the dust and turned to dust-- from among them some few beautiful ones have become manifest in the form of tulips and roses; we don't know what's become of the rest. It's a supremely good verse. (280)

Shadan: In the second line, the words' being out of order has created a convolutedness, because these words were not able to be arranged in their own places. But Ghalib himself always composes Persian-mixed Urdu. So the arrangement can be like this: .suurate;N kyaa thii;N jo zer-e ;xaak pinha;N ho ga))ii;N . Those beautiful ones who have mingled with the dust take birth as tulips and roses. (290)

Josh: Here the word kyaa is by way of astonishment: it means something strange and extraordinary. In the first line, read the first two words separately. That is, not all faces, but indeed to some extent they have become manifest in the shape of tulips and roses. And looking at the glory/appearance of tulips and roses, their beauty can be guessed. In addition we can also judge how many extraordinary and heart-stealing shapes have already mingled with the dust; in the shape of tulips and roses only a small part have become apparent. (209)

Chishti: The poet has used 'elegance in assigning a cause' and has proved that in the tulip and rose being so beautiful and attractive, the cause is that the beautiful

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ones of the world, who have been buried in the earth after death, are becoming manifest in the shape of those flowers. (556)

Mihr: Ghalib says only that in the shape of tulip and rose not all the beautiful ones were able to become manifest-- from among them some have become manifest. Then, seeing the beauty of tulip and rose, he says, the Lord knows what faces there must be, that have already gone into the earth. From the whole scene he has made a philosophical point about the instability of the world, and has presented it in an extremely moving and heart-affecting style. (370)

Faruqi: [There are earlier uses of this theme, including a Persian verse by Khusrau. But especially worthy of comparison are the following two verses:] hai;N musta;hiil ;xaak se ajzaa-e nau-;xa:taa;N kyaa sahl hai zamii;N se nikalnaa nabaat kaa [they are changed with the dust, the parts of the newly-downy-cheeked ones what a simple thing is the emerging of greenery from the earth] -- Mir ho ga))e dafn hazaaro;N hii gul-andaam us me;N is liye ;xaak se hote hai;N gulistaa;N paidaa [thousands of rose-bodied ones were buried in it for this reason gardens are born from the dust] -- Nasikh ...For the beautiful ones, Nasikh has used the superficial and conventional gul-andaam . Mir, saying nau-;xa:taa;N , has given proof of youthfulness and early age, and has also created an affinity with nabaat . Ghalib, saying kyaa .suurate;N , has created possibilities upon possibilities. For example, consider these: 1) what faces will there be? (inquiry, reflection) 2) what (wonderful) faces there will be (for which beautiful flowers are the return) (wonder) 3) what faces there will be! (praise) 4) what faces will there be? (which ones? of which people?) (reflection) 5) well, what faces will there be? (of what kind will they be?) (ignorance) 6) no telling what kind of faces there will be, for they've become hidden (thought) This is the height of the inshaa))iyah style of expression. [But putting the two lines together creates even richer possibilities:] 1) Where did they all become manifest? Only some faces were able to become manifest in the form of tulips and roses. 2) Only some are tulips and roses-- among them, all faces could hardly have [kahaa;N] become manifest! 3) What faces there will be that became hidden in the dust! 4) What faces there will be in the dust, that became hidden! The interpretation of the second reading of the second line is that the dust too has its faces. Some faces were able to become manifest in the form of tulips and roses, but God knows how many more faces there must be that became hidden (that is, were concealed). As if in this aspect the intention emerges that dust, which outwardly is dead, in reality is full of life. Tulips and roses are its manifestations. There are in addition thousands more of just such manifestations, that have not become evident to us.... From 'became manifest' another thought also arises: that the appearance of beautiful faces in the form of tulips and roses is only coincidental and contingent. The intention of tulips and roses has no part in this, nor do those beautiful ones who have become symbolically evident in tulips and roses have any part. The gesture toward coincidental appearance even further clarifies the verse's central meaning-- that life, or its beauty, is transitory; it

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is a vulnerable prey to time or death. Another verse of Ghalib's confirms this interpretation: {151,5}. (164-67)

Sarfaraz Niazi: The beauty of tulips and roses illustrates the attractive objects earth produces. Beneath the earth, there are countless hidden and beautiful possibilities that have not yet become evident to us. This verse refers to the many faces of dust and dirt and not the faces of buried ones, as often interpreted. One way we know that dirt exists is from its characteristic of supporting flowers and greenery, but there may be many more forms of it that remain hidden from us. We cannot know the many ways God can reveal Himself. Our ability to see things limits us from knowing the reality. A bat cannot see flowers. Does that mean that bat's worldview is at fault? There are hundreds of ways that God reveals Himself to us but we are not capable of appreciating them. --Sarfaraz Khan Niazi, Love Sonnets of Ghalib: Translations & Explications (Lahore: Ferozsons, 2002), p. 411

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KAHAN; KYA SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Well, here's the great mother of all ghazals. It's probably his most famous, and it's certainly one of the two ghazals (along with {20}) that are most commonly translated; thus it comes equipped with a special anthology of translations. His own opinion of it was, at least at the time he wrote the above letter, extremely high-- he apparently thought it had reached a completely new level. Not all the verses are equally superb, but there's no need for them to be, since a ghazal is chiefly a storage and display case for individual verses. And this particular verse is one of his all-time marvels. Thus I've provided an unusual depth of commentary, to illustrate the interpretive consensus. Faruqi has done an exposition that's unusually elegant even for him-- and is well worth reading in full in the original, if you know Urdu. To it I'd like to add only a few thoughts. Although it's far too complex and subtle to be what I call a 'mushairah verse', this verse shares the classic oral-performance poetics: the first line is deliberately, piquantly, opaque until we are able to hear the second. The great tension is the word (and meaning) play between 'manifest' and 'hidden'. Both terms embrace many possibilities. If things are manifest [numaayaa;N], are they manifest permanently, or intermittently, or only temporarily? At their own pleasure, or helplessly? Inevitably, or contingently? And if things are hidden [pinhaa;N], then are they destined someday to be manifest, or are they hidden forever? Were they ever manifest, or have they always been merely latent? Are they findable, or have they been they lost and dissolved? Is their hidden presence verifiable in any way, or only a subject for speculation? Appropriately, even the 'dust' imagery is complex: 'to mingle with the dust' [;xaak me;N milnaa] is a common idiom for 'to die'. 'To become hidden in the dust' could be taken as a mere paraphrase, with the same meaning. Or else, of course, it could retain the possibilities of 'hidden'-- someone can hide in something without necessarily melting down and vanishing into it. When in a distraught letter Ghalib misquotes the second line of his own verse (see above), he even adds an echo of the powerful, bitter idiom kyaa ;xaak ; for an example of its use, see {87,1}. For another, somewhat parallel verse in which the dust is addressed directly, see {151,5}. And as for the 'faces' that are hidden in the dust, they are also 'aspects' [.suurate;N], with the same possibilities for abstraction as that translation would suggest; for an example of this abstract use see {10,6}. On this reading, the verse would not be about beautiful dead faces in particular, but about potentials for life and beauty in the universe, both realized and realized.

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Moreover, in the verse we might be interested in the faces/aspects, and inquiring about their possible whereabouts, as in the first three readings given above (and in the commentarial consensus). But we might equally well be interested in the dust itself, and inquiring about its contents and their knowability and manifestations, as in the second three readings given above. The more I look at the verse, the more these two basic foci appear quite distinct to me. Furthermore, the verse takes care to set up additional complexities, so that we have plenty of room to think and wonder. The first line emphasizes the partialness of its information: not all, only some, are in flowers, and we don't seem to know where the rest are. The second line has a presumptive verb [ho;Ngii], to emphasize the uncertainty of its speculation. And of course kahaa;N and kyaa multiply the possible meanings several times over. The translations I've given above are by no means exhaustive; they merely illustrate some of the main lines of thought. Yet with all these baroque philosophical and mystical strands of thought hovering in a cloud around it, it's still a very clean, flowing, sharp verse; in particular, it uses its long vowels and nasals to good effect. It has fully nine nasalized long vowels, four in the first line and five in the second. And aren't they lovely to recite! Above all, the word-and-meaning echo effect of numaayaa;N ho ga))ii;N and pinhaa;N ho ga))ii;N could hardly be improved upon.

{111,2} yaad thii;N ham ko bhii rangaarang bazm-aaraa))iyaa;N lekin ab naqsh-o-nigaar-e :taaq-e nisyaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) we too remembered colorful party-adornings 2) but now they have become bric-a-brac in the niche of forgetfulness

Notes: aaraa : 'Adorning, gracing (used in comp.), e.g. jahaan-aaraa , 'worldadorning'. (Platts p.37) aaraa))ii : The abstract noun formed from the present participle aaraa . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse the word 'too' [bhii] is worth noticing. If this two-letter word were removed from the verse, then how much the meaning of the verse would be reduced! And from this one word, how many additional meanings are gestured toward! One additional meaning is this: that the way you people always arrange colorful parties, at one time we too had an ardor for such gatherings. But now, look at our state, which ought to be a lesson for you: youth does not last. (116)

Hasrat: The words of this verse are extremely refined [la:tiif] and colorful, and this whole ghazal is an example of Rekhtah of a high standard. (94)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse 'too' is a gesture toward the contemporaries. He says, we too, like you people, had ardor for arranging colorful gatherings, but after the season of youth has passed, now our state has become a lesson. That ardor and those gatherings have become bric-a-brac in the niche of oblivion. Look at us, and learn a lesson. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: But now, our heart itself has been extinguished. Now we don't remember anything. Now our state is a source of instruction (that is, youth and enjoyment of the world don't last). And as full of instruction as the theme is, equally beautiful are the words too that Mirza has selected. (219)

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Josh: Mirza has the habit of taking simple things and mixing them in his temperament to make them convoluted. (209)

Faruqi: [The common interpretation of this verse does it no favor, because it makes it repetitive:] in the first line it's said, at some time I remembered some things; in the second line it's being said, but now I've forgotten them. [This kind of casual redundancy is common in ordinary speech.] But in the world of the verse, in which every single letter ought to be valuable and meaningful, to give entry to such repetition is to destroy craftsmanship. [So let's rethink the interpretation.] The axis of this verse is 'niche of forgetfulness'. If it had simply been said, 'have been forgotten', then the accusation of repetition would have become unavoidable. But for something to change into bric-a-brac in the niche of forgetfulness doesn't imply its being forgotten. [The Persian use of this idiom proves] that a thing doesn't spontaneously arrive in the niche of forgetfulness; rather, it's put there deliberately. Those party-adornings that have become bric-a-brac in the niche of forgetfulness didn't arrive there by themselves. I put them in the niche of forgetfulness; that is, I deliberately forgot them. But the matter isn't finished yet. Those party-adornings are not now present in the niche of forgetfulness. In their place, only bric-a-brac have remained. The meaning of this is that formerly I had put party-adornings in the niche of forgetfulness, then afterwards such a long time passed, or I put them out of my mind so forcefully, that those memories no longer existed even in the world of forgetfulness, but only remained in the form of some bric-a-brac. To decorate the niche, in it or around it bric-a-brac are placed. It's obvious that these bric-a-brac are not real things, but representations of them. Thus the bric-a-brac of the niche of forgetfulness are not memories of past partyadornings, but rather memories of memories of them. That is, now there's only the memory that there was a memory. What was remembered, is now no longer remembered.... The last point is that with 'niche of forgetfulness' the affinity of 'bric-a-brac' is obvious. But the affinity of 'colorful' and 'bric-a-brac' too should be noted. (169-71)

FWP: On the 'niche of forgetfulness', compare {10,1}. That verse suggests a larger parallel as well: the diminishing, fading, withering of what is put into the niche. In {10,1}, the whole Garden of Rizvan is a 'single bouquet' in our 'niche of forgetfulness'. In the present verse, the 'party-adornments' turn into mere 'bric-a-brac', as Faruqi points out in his illuminating discussion of the second line. Ah but in the first line, those 'party-adornings' [bazm-aaraa))iyaa;N] have never ceased to fascinate and perplex me. They are one more in the list of pluralized abstractions that I'm collecting (see {1,2} for more examples). As in Platts's example above, women are often named things like Jahan-ara, 'world-adorning'. Presumably this is meant to suggest that the woman herself is an adornment to the world, rather than that she goes around adorning the world the way one would decorate a room (or a party). From jahaan-aaraa to jahaan-aaraa))ii , the abstract noun, is a short step: from 'world-adorning' to 'world-adorningness', the state or quality that such a beautiful woman would have. Similarly a women who was an ornament to any gathering might be described as 'party-adorning' [bazm-aaraa]. And her quality would be 'party-adorningness' [bazm-aaraa))ii]. But what would we make of 'party-adornings' or even 'party-adorningnesses' [bazm-aaraa))iyaa;N]? Plainly, we're forced into a realm of abstraction.

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Whatever they are, they are 'colorful' or 'variegated' [rangaarang]. So could they be the appearances of many beautiful beloveds at many parties, over time? Or perhaps we should, more suggestively, shift into the transitive mode: 'party-adorning' [bazm-aaraa))ii] could be what a host or organizer does to arrange and decorate the scene of a party. (For another effort to push the suffix aaraa a bit further, toward something active like 'creating', see {189,7}.) So if we remembered 'party-adornings' [bazm-aaraa))iyaa;N], were we remembering the settings or scenes of many parties? Were we ourselves the party-arrangers, or did we just remember how elegant the decorations appeared? Either way, a party-decorator would surely have attractive and memorable bric-a-brac placed in all available niches. So an affinity between the 'party-adornings' and the 'bric-a-brac' and the 'niche' should surely be added to Faruqi's list. Any other poet would just remember parties. Only Ghalib would remember 'party-adornings', giving us not only the parties, but also all the extra overtones of will, desire, forethought, control. We who remembered the party-adornings are also just the ones able and willing, if we so choose, to shrink the memories and pack them off, shrunken, diminished, transformed, into the niche of forgetfulness. For another complex use of 'party-adornings', see {153,7}. The commentators, as usual, choose a lugubriously moralistic tone: 'Look at wretched me, you young things! I'm an object lesson in helplessness and the passing of youth!' Why shouldn't the tone be friendly but firm, maybe with a politely assumed overtone of regret, the way someone who has business elsewhere might decline an invitation to share in some undesired activity: 'Well, I used to be interested in such things, but now they no longer hold any appeal for me. You do the party-arranging, and I'll decline with thanks.' This is, after all, very much the tone of {10,1}, in which the Ascetic with his Garden of Rizvan is politely but firmly put in his (very minor) place.

{111,3} thii;N banaat ul-na((sh-e garduu;N din ko parde me;N nihaa;N shab ko un ke jii me;N kyaa aa))ii kih ((uryaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) the Daughters of the Bier of the heavens were hidden, by day, in pardah 2) at night, what came into their mind, that they became naked/unveiled?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He expresses the mood of the stars' coming out; he has constructed it as 'becoming naked'. The Daughters of the Bier are seven stars visible in the north. Four stars among them are the bier, and three are the bearers of it. (116)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The Arabs consider [these stars] 'girls', and the women of Hindustan call them a group of 'seven girlfriends' [saat saheliyaa;N].... He says, by day, they remain hidden in the pardah of the heavens, and by night, they emerge from pardah-- that is, they become naked. (167)

Bekhud Mohani: The truth is that from the apparent form of the words ['Daughters of the Bier'] he found occasion to pull out a delicate theme, and on it he has laid the foundation of the verse. Just as in the verse {153,7} he has composed the verse only on the basis of bai;Thnaa . (219)

Josh: But what occurs to them at night, that they come before everyone unveiled? ( ((uryaa;N can mean either 'naked' or 'unveiled'.) (209)

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FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY VEIL: {6,1} As Bekhud Mohani observes, this is a verse built almost entirely on wordplay. It's also what I would call a classic 'mushairah verse'. From the first line, the listener can't tell what's coming next, and must wait during the mushairah's suitably suspenseful oral-performance interval between lines. Even when the second line is vouchsafed, the punch-word doesn't appear until the last possible moment. (For a discussion of the uses-- and positioning-- of the word 'naked' [((uryaa;N], see {6,1}.) And then, when you suddenly 'get' it, you've got it entirely, and surely with a laugh. This is not the kind of verse that demands, or rewards, further study or reflection. The second line is in Ghalib's favorite interrogative form of his favorite inshaa))iyah mode of speech. We immediately recognize it as a rhetorical question, however. What came into their mind? Well, we all know, don't we! This is one of Ghalib's elegantly indirect erotic verses; for others, see {99,4}. What other poet could make something so witty and sexy from such seemingly mild material as the idea of the stars coming out?

{111,4} qaid me;N ya((quub ne lii go nah yuusuf kii ;xabar lekin aa;Nkhe;N rauzan-e diivaar-e zindaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) although Jacob didn't get news of Joseph in prison 2) still, his eyes became crevice-work in the wall of the prison cell

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: He has declared Jacob’s eyes to be crevice-work in the wall of the prison cell, because just as the crevice-work in the prison cell remained constantly open, similarly Jacob’s eyes, night and day, watched over Joseph. (151-52)

Nazm: That is, they became lightless like the crevice-work. (117)

Bekhud Mohani: Although Hazrat Jacob couldn't help Hazrat Joseph in the time of his imprisonment, his eyes, as he wept and wept, became crevice-work in the wall. That is, they kept leaving him. The gist is that in his love there was no occasion for doubt. It's possible that the lover might not be able to save the beloved from some difficulty, but it's not possible that he wouldn't be restless. (219)

FWP: Hali explains the basic reading: Jacob's eyes became the crevice-work in Joseph's cell in the sense that they were always open and always (somehow, mystically or implicitly) looking down upon him, watching over him. There's also a physical basis for the comparison: by ghazal convention, blind eyes are entirely white, since the pupil is believed to vanish or roll back in the head; and from inside a dark prison cell, the crevice-work (which is usually placed high up toward the ceiling for better ventilation) will admit enough daylight to look light or even white by contrast. For further discussion of the nature of this 'crevice-work', see {64,4}. To me, this seems to be preeminently a verse of mood. It's such a haunting image, the old man blind with weeping, denied all knowledge of his beloved son-- and still, somehow, watching over the beloved captive from afar. Can he really protect him? Surely not-- except in the sense that knowing you are loved like that is itself protection against some of the worst kinds of lostness.

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Doesn't this verse, in its eerie, evocative, way, celebrate the mystery of how parents love their children? In the second letter quoted in {111,1}, Ghalib surely has this verse in mind. He likens his sufferings in the aftermath of 1857 to those of Jacob: not only were his losses more terrible than Jacob's, but he too was forced to live in painful anxiety and suspense: many of his loved ones were lost 'in such a way that no trace can be found of what has become of them'.

{111,5} sab raqiibo;N se ho;N naa-;xvush par zanaan-e mi.sr se hai zulai;xaa ;xvush kih ma;hv-e maah-e kan((aa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) all may be unhappy with Rivals, but with the women of Egypt 2) Zulaikha is happy, in that they became absorbed in the Moon of Canaan [Joseph]

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: sab doesn't mean all the Rivals, but rather, all lovers. That is, all lovers may be unhappy with Rivals, but Zulakiha is happy with the love of the women of Egypt: 'They used to taunt me-- they themselves, absorbed in the Moon of Canaan, have ended up cutting their hands'. (117)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This is a reference to the story that when Zulaikha's love for Hazrat Joseph became known, then the women of Egypt used to taunt Zulaikha for becoming a lover. Zulaikha selected a hundred from among those women, and gave each one a lemon [leman] and a knife, and said, 'When you see Hazrat Joseph, then peel the lemon with the knife'. When Hazrat Joseph was sent for and appeared, then those women, instead of peeling the lemons, cut their own fingers. Zulaikha was happy, and said to those women, 'You see? And you were taunting me!'. (167)

Bekhud Mohani: The reason for Zulaikha's happiness was not only that now those women, since they were madly in love with Joseph, would not taunt her. Rather, the greatest reason for her happiness was the pleasure of seeing the uniqueness of her beloved accepted. (220)

FWP: The verse presents us with a contrast: all (other?) lovers may be unhappy with their Rivals, but Zulaikha is pleased with hers. Her unusual attitude is not explained-- but of course, we're expected to recognize it as based on the finger-cutting incident from Qur'an 12:23-32, which is explained by Bekhud Dihlavi. That's in fact where the verse gets its punch: while seeming to express wonder or even admiration at the mellow goodwell of Zulaikha toward her rivals, what it's really doing is reminding us of her bloody-mindedness. The reason she's happy with the women of Egypt is that they're in the act of cutting into their own fingers with sharp knives, and inflicting on themselves the further wounds of social embarrassment and humiliation as well. Zulaikha is now a winner, and a vengeful one at that. So the verse turns right around, and we realize that she was after all no exception to the rule. She too was quite unhappy with her gossippy, sneering (potential, yet predestined) Rivals, so that she now takes a real (and perhaps sadistic?) delight in ensnaring and punishing them. Just for pleasure, here's *a depiction of this scene* by Albert Racinet (Firmin Didot, Paris, 1888); it's based on a miniature painting, and is a masterpiece of lithography.

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{111,6} juu-e ;xuu;N aa;Nkho;N se bahne do kih hai shaam-e firaaq mai;N yih samjhuu;Ngaa kih sham((e;N do firozaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) let a stream of blood flow from the eyes, since it's the night of separation 2) I will consider that two candles have become radiant

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the black night of separation, when the blood begins to drop from my eyes, I will consider that two lamps have been lit in the darkness, and this will be a source of comfort to me. (117)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the black night of separation, when blood flows from my eyes, I will consider that two wax candles have become lit in the darkness, and this will become a cause of comfort to me. (167)

Bekhud Mohani: The point is that a night of separation can be passed only in weeping. When the tears fall like rain, then a person can't see anything out of his eyes. When the tears are flowing, then the terrifying darkness of the night of separation will become visible. And when that happens, then the eyes will be suitably established as the wicks of candles. (220)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} Here is a beautiful deployment of classic ghazal imagery. A stream of bloody tears from the eyes is seen as the melting flow of wax from two candles that have been lit. Look at the affinities: =the candle's 'tears' of melting wax are self-consuming, as are the desperate lover's tears of blood =the candle's hot 'tears' are generated by a flaming wick that burns at its center, just as the lover's tears issue from his burning heart =the candle will be burnt-out and 'dead' by morning, just as the lover can hardly hope to outlive the endless night of separation =the bright blood-red tears will be imagined by the lover to glow like lighted candles in the darkness of the night of separation Of course, the lover knows his tears won't really bring him any light-- he will only 'consider' [samajhnaa] that they do, by imagining them as candles. We glimpse the depth of his darkness, in which the only light is a deliberately, self-deceivingly imagined one-- and a doomed one, since by imagining his eyes as candles he imagines them as burnt-out and blind by morning. But does that even matter? In such a night, can he even imagine morning at all? (Compare {169,1}.) As a final touch, the lover is seeking to illumine a shaam-e , 'night of', with sham((e;N , 'candles'. This isn't exactly a rhyme, but surely it counts as an evocation.

{111,7} in pariizaado;N se le;Nge ;xuld me;N ham intiqaam qudrat-e ;haq se yihii ;huure;N agar vaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) in Paradise we will take revenge on these Pari-born ones 2) if through the power of Justice/right/God they become Houris there

Notes: ho ga))ii;N is in the perfect, but this tense is often used in place of the subjunctive in the if-clauses of if-then constructions, as it is here

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;haq : 'Justice, rectitude, equity; --right, title, privilege, claim... --the Truth, the true God'. (Platts p.479) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse the verb ho ga))ii;N applies to the Pari-born ones. From this it's clear that by Pari-born ones women are meant. (118)

Bekhud Dihlavi: These beloveds who, in the world, cause us to burn with jealousy-- in Paradise, we will take our vengeance upon them, if through the Power, they become Houris and are given to us. (168)

Bekhud Mohani: In brief, only this much needs to be said [about gender references in the ghazal]: that the beloved is the one whom the heart desires, and this is the basic principle. Many verses are such as to present praise of a male [beloved], and many are such as to present praise of a woman; and the largest number of verses are such that both man and woman can be used on appropriate occasions [as the beloved], and both aspects, human [majaazii] and divine [;haqiiqii] [love], can emerge. Thus it is that in Persian and Urdu poetry the beloved has been kept indeterminate [mub'ham], and ought indeed to be kept just so. (221)

Arshi: Compare {100,6}. (229)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] As Arshi notes, an ideal counterpart verse for comparison is {100,6}. Here (though less amusingly because we miss the hauteur in the beloved's voice) we find the same basic notion: that it would be a comedown for the beloved to become a 'mere' Houri, or celestial damsel of Paradise. Her present status, obviously, is much more lofty. Thus the lover invokes the power of the protean term ;haq against these arrogant beloveds. This excellently chosen word gives at least three possible grounds for his claim: =as justice in the sense of requital for injury: since the beloveds have so tormented and wronged the lover in this world, they owe him a recompense in the next =as the lover's right, fate, share: his bond with the beloveds is so strong, so indissoluble, and so legitimated by his sufferings for their sake, that he is entitled to be united with them in Paradise =through a direct appeal to God, who oversees all destinies and all requitals: since God controls Paradise, who but God could arrange for the beloveds this entirely appropriate fate? The suggestion that it can be a punishment, an occasion for revenge, for the beloved to become a mere Houri, is one of a string of what might be called 'snide remarks about Paradise'; see {35,9} for others.

{111,8} niind us kii hai dimaa;G us kaa hai raate;N us kii hai;N terii zulfe;N jis ke baazuu par pareshaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) sleep is his, pride is his, the nights are his 2) on whose shoulder your curls became scattered/tangled

Notes: dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance; intoxication; high spirits'. (Platts p.526)

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pareshaa;N : 'Dispersed, scattered; disordered, confused; dishevelled, tossed (as hair); amazed, distracted, perplexed, bewildered, deranged; troubled distressed, wretched; ruined'. (Platts p.259) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By the curls' being scattered/tangled he has created an implication of the fervor of lovemaking and the excess of kissing and embracing. There's no doubt that this verse is the high point of the ghazal, and a masterpiece [kaarnaamah]. (118)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is a 'razor' [=sharply cutting masterpiece] among Mirza Sahib's 'razors'. Its praise and commentary are beyond expression. People of taste, according to their own ideas, can obtain pleasure from it. (168)

Bekhud Mohani: People of vision know-- [from this verse] there must have been an increase in enthusiasm, a rush of emotion, an intoxication in the glances, a smile on the lips. This is not a verse-- it is a created-universe [kaa))inaat] of poetry. It is difficult to capture such a heart-captivating picture. (221)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY How grateful I was to this verse, long ago! It was the first verse of Ghalib's that I truly and entirely understood, all by myself. My students still enjoy it in the same way, with a sigh of relief and pleasure, and a touch of selfcongratulation. It's no small thing to understand a verse of Ghalib all by yourself, for the first time-- including the wordplay. The commentators mostly just go into raptures over this verse, rather than explicating it. Fortunately, we have the explanatory tools right at hand. In its general structure, it's a classic 'mushairah verse'. The first line is piquant but deliberately uninterpretable, so that we have to wait with suspense (under mushairah performance conditions) for the second line. Even then, the 'punch-word' is withheld until the very last moment: not until we hear pareshaa;N are we able to go back and grasp the verse. Grasp it, and savor it. For the absolutely perfect meaning-range of pareshaa;N permits the verse to have simple, intelligible, colloquial kinds of subtlety and sophistication. (This elusive combination is surely why everybody loves it so much.) The literal meaning of pareshaa;N of course applies perfectly to the beloved's hair. But the great prominence in Urdu of its metaphorical meanings simply compels us (though without a word of explicit instruction from the verse itself) to notice their applicability to the lover's condition in the first line. The beloved's curls are scattered, tangled, disordered-- and just for this reason, so are the lover's thoughts. Thus the lover says: sleep is his (and knowing this makes me too pareshaa;N to sleep); conceit and delight of mind are his (and knowing this makes me too pareshaa;N to think straight); the nights are his (and knowing this makes my nights wild with pareshaanii ). Thus your blissfully and erotically pareshaa;N curls, since they lie disordered on somebody else's shoulder, make me utterly and helplessly pareshaa;N . It's wordplay so simple that a beginning student of the language can grasp it, yet so elegant and complex that it can delight the connoisseur. All the more so since it's only available to us through the vast and lovely power of implication. Then there's the wordplay: the curls, being black, are evoked by the 'nights'; the multivalent word dimaa;G can also mean 'head', thus creating an affinity with the shoulder and the curls. The verse also feels wonderfully flowing, with its rhythmic repetitions in the first line, and all its long vowels. The first line is about as semantically and

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syntactically simple as it can be, full of words of one syllable; and the second line itself isn't much more complex. In the second line, the juxtaposition par pareshaa;N also creates a kind of stuttering effect, that further suggests the lover's disordered state of mind. For another, and very different, verse about the beloved's curls and the lover's thoughts, see {71,2}. Another case in point is {176,5}, which also plays on pareshaanii . For an elegant and amusing play on pareshaanii that doesn't involve curls at all, see {133,2}. Is this verse really the 'high point of the ghazal', as Nazm maintains? In this particular ghazal, it has a lot of competition.

{111,9} mai;N chaman me;N kyaa gayaa goyaa dabistaa;N khul gayaa bulbule;N sun kar mire naale ;Gazal-;xvaa;N ho ga))i;N 1) I hardly went into the garden!-- [rather], so to speak, a {school / school of letters} opened 2) the Nightingales, having heard my laments, became ghazal-reciters

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the Nightingales began to recite ghazals in the way that [pupils] recite lessons in a school. It's the Nightingale's habit, when he hears a fine voice, to imitate it. (119)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when I went into the garden, the Nightingales began reciting ghazals the way pupils in a school recite lessons. (168)

Bekhud Mohani: The moment I went into the garden, the Nightingales began to recite, the way the moment the Ustad arrives, the pupils begin to recite their lessons. By 'garden' the gathering of poets can be intended; and by Nightingales, the poets; that is, the mushairah doesn't begin until I arrive. (221)

Faruqi: If we juxtapose the word dabistaa;N to the word 'ghazal-reciters', then the thought occurs that in reality dabistaa;N is short for adabistaa;N .... that is, it is that place where poetry and literature [adab] are discussed. My lamenting was so beautiful and melodious that thanks to its effect, or in imitation of it, or through envy of it, the Nightingales were compelled to become ghazalreciters. Here the word ;Gazal-;xvaa;N has special importance. Because the Nightingale sings laments, or melodies, anyway. Now when he heard my rhythmic [mauzuu;N] lament, he felt that in reply to it ordinary tune-singing is not enough; rather, 'ghazal-recitation' is required. In one place [in an unpublished verse] Ghalib gave to laments that arise from the heart, preference over metrical compositions and music [Raza p.247]: mauzuunii-e do-((aalam qurbaan-e saaz-e yak dard mi.sraa((-e naalah-e nai saktah hazaar jaa hai [the metricalness of two worlds sacrifices itself for the melody of one grief the lines of the lament of the flute have a pause in a thousand places] In the verse under discussion, he is giving preference to his own lament not only over the Nightingale's lament, but over his ghazal-recitation as well.... Indeed, Nasikh too, in his own special style, has composed an enjoyable verse on this theme: ((andaliibe;N kahtii hai;N sun kar .sariir-e kalk-e fikr to;Re;N minqaaro;N ko ab us daa;G kii minqaar par [the Nightingales say, having heard the scratching of the reed-pen of thought, now we would rend our beaks at the pen-point of that scar/wound] (173-74)

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FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} As we head into the first line, what an enjoyable little shock it is to run up against the striking juxtaposition kyaa gayaa goyaa; just to round things out, the line ends with another gayaa . (In Urdu script, kyaa and gayaa not only sound similar but also look almost alike.) The possibilities of goyaa, which literally means 'speaking, speaker', and thus metaphorically means, 'as if, so to speak', are beautifully exploited; for more on this, see {5,1}.The verse thus offers us speaking [goyaa], hearing [sun kar], and reciting [;xvaa;N]. What more does poetry require? So powerful is the speaker that he has barely entered the garden when things start to happen; indeed, grammatically, he doesn't enter it at all-- instead of his entering the garden, a metaphorical dabistaa;N opens. And as in any school or literary gathering, the presence of a master or Ustad immediately evokes a reaction. In this case, as Faruqi observes, the speaker doesn't even provide the finished product, but only raw material: it's his laments that inspire or instruct or goad-- we can't determine the exact mechanism-- the Nightingales into producing ghazals. Our inability to tell exactly what's going on between the teacher and the pupils is also lovely in its way. Isn't that what learning is like in the real world? Inspiring and instructing and goading-- who can ultimately tease them apart?

{111,10} vuh nigaahe;N kyuu;N hu))ii jaatii hai;N yaa rab dil ke paar jo mirii kotaahii-e qismat se mizhgaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) why do those glances, oh Lord, keep going through/beyond the heart? 2) [those glances] which, through my short-fall of fortune, became eyelashes

Notes: kotaahii : 'Smallness, shortness; brevity, deficiency, failure... narrowness.... kotaahii karnaa (me;N), To fail, fall short (of)'. (Platts p.858 *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: By the glances becoming eyelashes is meant that through shame and modesty they are not lifted up; rather, like eyelashes, they remain constantly bowed downwards. (152)

Nazm: By 'becoming eyelashes' is meant that her glances in my direction are short/brief to such an extent that it's as if they'd become eyelashes. But despite this shortness, they still go through/beyond the heart. (119)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Provider, those glances that because of my ill-fortune have become eyelashes-- that is, that reach only up to the screen of the eyelashes, or that view me only in sidelong glances, that never shamelessly fall on me-- why do they overpower the heart? Why do fragments of my heart fly all around? The gist is that she never looked fully at me, the way she looks at others; but still, my heart is in this state! If she had ever looked me in the eye, then what state would the heart be in? Mirza Dagh says, sharm se aa;Nkh milaate nahii;N dekhaa un ko ho ga))ii;N paar kaleje ke nigaahe;N kyuu;Nkar [out of shame, she was unable to meet my eyes how did her glances reach beyond the liver?] (222)

Josh: In surprise he asks, those glances that, because of the shortness of my fortune, have out of shame turned into eyelashes and remained so-- despite

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so much smallness and shortness, how are they reaching beyond my heart? (211)

Faruqi: By a 'small fortune' is meant that its reach was limited... The point is that the fortune was so small that her glances turned into eyelashes. That is, whereas ordinarily glances are used (that is, glances are sent out from the eye), there the beloved used eyelashes.... The intent of the glances' becoming eyelashes is that the glances retained no existence at all. A glance emerges from the eye. The quality of a glance is length. But my fortune is so small ('non-reaching' [naa-rasaa]) that in proportion to it the beloved's glance too remained small-- so small that it didn't leave the eye. In its place only the action of eyelashes came into play. That is, when she turned her face toward me, then she didn't see me, I received only the attention of her eyelashes, not her glances. Ghalib has taken this theme from Mir: ba;Rhtii;N nahii;N palak se taa ham talak bhii pahu;Nche;N phirtii hai;N vuh nigaahe;N palko;N ke saa))e saa))e [they do not advance from the eyelashes, so that they would reach to us too those glances wander in the shade of the eyelashes] (175-76)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse is founded on the kind of wordplay that, very enjoyably, is also meaning-play. Because my fortune falls short, its deficiencies cause her glances too to fall short. They remain so tiny and averted that they are (like) eyelashes. That being so, then, why is their penetrating power, their flight, so long? Eyelashes are like small arrows, shot from the bow of the eyebrow-- if the eyes are lowered, the eyelash-arrows will even be shot at a very unpromising downward angle. How do they travel so far, and so powerfully, as to go completely through my heart, or even overshoot it and end up beyond it? And then, how does the lover feel about these miraculous, paradoxical, short-and-long arrow-glances? He invokes the Lord, thus showing a strong degree of emotion, but his utterance is a question-- more of Ghalib's famous inshaa))iyah speech. There are at least two possible feeling-tones for his question. The lover might marvel delightedly at the arrows' deadliness, since despite his ill-fortune, and against all odds, he's not missing out on the mysteriously potent experience of passion. Or alternatively, the lover might ruefully exclaim at his talent for ending up with the worst of all worlds: he doesn't get a single real glance from the beloved's beautiful eyes, and yet his heart is repeatedly lacerated by deadly, impossible arrows-- or, even worse, overshot by them as they sail past it and land uselessly somewhere on the far side.

{111,11} baskih rokaa mai;N ne aur siine me;N ubhrii;N pai bah pai merii aahe;N ba;xyah-e chaak-e garebaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1a) although I stopped them, more/others welled up one after another in the breast 1b) I stopped them to such an extent-- and they welled up one after another in the breast 2) my sighs became the stitching-up of the tearing of the collar

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse, he has given for the welling up of sighs again and again, and their suppression again and again, the simile of stitching; that is, a moving

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thing is the simile of a moving thing, and the cause of similitude is movement. But for a sigh, such movement is only a poetic supposition. For this reason, this simile is not really eloquent [badii((] the way other such verses are that have passed by. And with regard to theme, the verse is meaningless. Persian and Urdu poets compose such themes with their eyes closed. Here, the .zil((a he has said of ba;xyah and siinah is not devoid of pleasure. (119)

Bekhud Mohani: The tearing of the collar is done to allow air to reach the heart. The poet says that the result of sighs constantly welling up, and my suppressing them, was that they became the stitching for the torn collar. That is, tearing the collar became the same thing as not tearing the collar, and the breath began to be choked. How sighs welled up, and how they were suppressed-- this mood was not apparent to the eyes. But Mirza, having given a simile for the stitching up of the torn collar, has made the imperceptible perceptible, and shown it to us. (222-23)

Faruqi: [Some points that emerge from the various commentators' explications:] 1) Because the sighs that repeatedly well up are stopped, something like a chain of sighs was created. 2) Because of the sighs' welling up and being suppressed, the tearing-open of the collar (which is a means for bringing air to the heart) became useless, and the breath began to be suffocated. 3) He suppressed the sighs, as if he stitched up the torn-open collar. All this is very well in its place, but there's still much more remaining in the verse. Consider the following points: = Despite the suppression of the sighs, they couldn't be suppressed (they welled up one after another)-- the sighs welling up one after another in this way, and their suppression, assumed the form of the stitching-up of a rip. The subtlety in this is that the stitching-up of the tear in the collar outwardly shows that madness is diminished (because the madman consented to the stitching-up, or came into the power of the stitchers-up), but in reality it is the prelude to an increase in madness, because when the sighs were suppressed, then they welled up again and again-- that is, they became even swifter. Because-- consider the first line of {62,10}.... = ....A sigh is heart-lacerating; thus it can be sharp-tipped like a needle. Thus the sigh has been called 'liver-piercing'. And because of this sharppointedness, they give for it the simile of dagger, arrow, dart, etc. From the affinity with sewing, they also give for the sigh a simile of 'thread' (meaning sewing thread).... = The tearing of the collar is a symbol of wildness and madness. To suppress sighs is a symbol of calm and awareness. When the wildness was upon us, then we tore open our collar. When we entered a state of calm and awareness, we suppressed the sighs. They kept on welling up, and we kept on suppressing them. In this way the sighs became stitching, and stitched up our torn collar. We no longer needed a tailor.... This is Ghalib's special style of paradox. As if to suppress sighs is to suppress madness and distraction, and the symbol of this is the stitching-up of the collar. But Ghalib tells us that the stitching-up of the collar is a result of the sighs' welling up again and again. And in this way, as is his custom, he shows that for something not to exist is the proof of its existence. (177-79)

FWP: SETS == AUR; BASKIH; WORDPLAY CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} In line one, as so often, the use of baskih generates the two meanings of 'although' and 'to such an extent', both of which are relied upon by the

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commentators. The positioning of aur also conveniently means that it can be used to suggest 'more', or 'other[s]', or 'and'. The wordplay in this verse is a treat: 'sewing' [ba;xyah] and 'tearing' [chaak] are bumped up right against each other; as Faruqi notes, sighs too are often poetically constructed as either sharp like needles, or connected like a thread. Above all, as Nazm points out, the punning on 'to sew'-- siinaa , suggested by siinah or 'breast'-- is marvelous icing on the cake. As the commentators make clear, there's such a range of readings possible! Does the 'sewing-up of the rip in the collar' by the sighs constitute an actual sewing-up, or merely a warped parody of it that in fact worsens the situation? Does the lover seek out, or control, or desire this special form of 'sewing-up', or does he suffer under its onslaughts? Does this 'sewing-up' increase the lover's madness, or diminish it, or merely show its steady-state endlessness? However we view the implications of the process, it seems to be one that, in principle, can go on forever. In that sense the verse evokes {19,1}, in which the fingernails gouge out a wound, they are then forcibly trimmed, the wound heals, the fingernails grow back, and the whole cycle starts again. But the ambiguous 'sewing-up' makes this verse more complex. Do my sighs, and my suppression of them, really constitute any kind of 'repair' of my torn collar? It could also be that this process is the 'stitching-up' of the the collar only in the sense that the collar won’t get any other stitching-up than this. Think of {17,9}, after all; and of another, more despairing verse about stitching things up, {113,1}.

{111,12} vaa;N gayaa bhii mai;N to un kii gaaliyo;N kaa kyaa javaab yaad thii;N jitnii du((aa))e;N .sarf-e darbaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) even if I would go there, then what answer for her insults? 2) as many blessings as I remembered, became expended on the Doorkeeper

Notes: gayaa is used in place of jaa))uu;N , in a common colloquial pattern. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: That is to say, now there’s no new blessing left in the mind; and those already-used blessings that have already been given to the doorkeeper-- he doesn’t want to use them in connection with the beloved. In this verse the true excellence and refinement is that he treats the giving of blessings in return for insults as such a commonplace and necessary thing that it's as if everyone considers it to be necessary; because in perplexity he asks everyone: Tell me, what reply shall I give to her insults, since the blessings have all been consumed? (152)

Nazm: That is, however many blessings occurred to me to give, I already gave them all to the Doorkeeper. (119)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is a peerless example of lofty emotions, an extremely complete and captivating picture of a sequence of events.... Those blessings which had already been given to the Doorkeeper can't be given to the beloved. The pride/shame and discrimination of lover-ship make it impermissible to use those same blessings for the beloved, that have already been given to somebody else. Because now those blessings have become false/polluted [jhuu;Tii]. (224)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH

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Hali does a good job on this one: he points to the wonderfully amusing effect of the lover's basic assumptions. Just think of all the things the lover is not worried about. The lover is not worried that the beloved's Doorkeeper, a menial servant, has rudely denied him admission; he's not worried that he's been forced to overlook such a slight; he's not worried that he has, most humiliatingly, lavished on the Doorkeeper all the wheedling and blessings he could think of (compare {43,4}); he's not worried that he still might not actually get to see the beloved; he's not worried that even if he does get to see her, she will abuse him roundly; he's not worried that in that case he will have to endure her abuse in humble submissiveness, and even reply with blessings. All these are the kinds of things that any of the rest of us, any of the 'people of the world', would worry about. Instead, the only worry that preoccupies him is that if he actually sees her, he won't have enough-- and fresh and unpolluted enough-- blessings to offer in reply to her abuse. And of course, in proper mushairah-verse style, the kicker, the actual word 'Doorkeeper', is withheld until the last possible moment. How could this verse not have been a delight in the mushairah? The lover's intense, nutty scrupulousness (he must offer the beloved, in reply to her curses, not just blessings, but only the freshest and purest blessings) is so wildly disproportionate to his awful situation (abused, humiliated, in line only for further humiliation and abuse) that it creates a wonderfully comic effect. Compare {234,1}, in which styles of cruelty too seem to become 'used up', and thus show the same zero-sum economy that operates here for blessings.

{111,13} jaa;N-fizaa hai baadah jis ke haath me;N jaam aa gayaa sab lakiire;N haath kii goyaa rag-e jaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) wine is life-{increasing/enhancing}; in whomever's hand the glass came 2) all the lines of the hand became, so to speak, {life-veins / major arteries}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word goyaa is constantly used by many poets as padding [bhartii], but such is not the case in this verse. If this were were removed from here, then the exaggeration would transgress the bounds of possibility, and the meaning would be that in real fact the lines became arteries. And in the rules of eloquence [balaa;Gat], exaggeration that would go beyond the bounds of possibility is not considered praiseworthy. But a number of poets in this age constantly and freely say such exaggerations and hyperbole-- rather, they consider it a verbal device. Here, in order to reduce the exaggeration, the author has used the word goyaa . (119)

Bekhud Mohani: Through wine, the spirit is made expansive. The one in whose hand the glass would come, because of expansiveness of spirit we ought to consider that all the lines of his hand have become arteries [shahrag]. (224)

Faruqi: [As for Nazm's view,] I don't believe that Ghalib would even have given a thought to whether exaggeration was transgressing the limits or not. Exaggeration and theme-creation go together like a blouse-and-skirt [cholii daaman], because a theme is made through metaphor, and the root of metaphor is exaggeration. Thus in this verse the word goyaa is not there in order to reduce the exaggeration, but for some other purpose. I have reflected at lengh on the meaning of this apparently simple verse. The commentators have wrapped it up in two sentences: if the glass of wine comes into the hand, then the spirit is expansive, because the lines of the

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hand have become arteries. But [according to this reading] in the verse there's no proof [;subuut] of wine's being life-giving.... Now let's look again at the verse. The glass is full of red wine. The glass is in the hand; the redness of the wine, glimmering from the glass onto the hand, causes the lines of the hand to appear red, as if every line resembles an artery full of living blood. And when even the hand's dry lines appear to be full of flowing blood, then it won't be incorrect to say that in wine is the power of giving life. In the light of this commentary, all the words of the verse appear as operative. And the proof for the claim in the first line also becomes available. One more aspect is this: the phrase 'for the glass to come into the hand' gestures toward chance and happenstance. That is, the receiving of the glass is a matter of coincidence: if it happens it happens; if it doesn't happen it doesn't happen. If it happens, then there's life in abundance; and if it doesn't happen, there's nothing but death. (Because when the glass isn't in the hand, then the lines of the hand won't appear full of blood, like arteries, but rather will look dry; and if the dryness of the arteries isn't death, then what else is it?) The lines of the hand also gesture toward the 'line of the glass' [;xa:t:t-e jaam]. To the extent that there's wine in the glass, to that same extent the glass is alive; and to the extent that the lines of the hand are illumined by wine, to that extent the hand-- that is, the owner of the hand-- is alive. The repetition of 'hand' in both lines seems apparently to be undesirable. But in reality, without it the interpretation of the verse is not established. In the first line, by means of 'glass came into the hand' the drinker's grip on the glass, and that too a coincidental grip, is proved. In the second line, if 'hand' is not mentioned then the lines of the hand becoming arteries becomes meaningless. (181)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} This verse has provoked unusually interesting commentary, especially Nazm's analysis of the use of goyaa , and Faruqi's pithy and effective rejoinder. Ghalib, after all, claimed to show every day a scar that people mistook for the rising sun (see {62,8}); and matter-of-factly planned to buy a new heart and life in the bazaar (see {62,4}); and produced literally dozens of other equally extravagant conceits. It's hard to believe that such a poet ever devoted one single moment to worrying about problems of exaggeration or hyperbole. As Faruqi rightly notes, the root of metaphor is exaggeration, and the ghazal world in general-- not to speak of Ghalib's inventive genius in particular-- is founded on metaphor. Nazm would almost agree about the ubiquity of such hyperbole-- except that with part of his mind he thinks it's deplorable (the other part knows better). In general, Faruqi does a brilliant job on this verse. I don't have much to add to his commentary. But one thought does occur. Nazm says that goyaa is saved from being mere 'padding' by its use in reducing the effect of hyperbole. Faruqi rejects this idea and says that it must be there for 'some other purpose'. But what might this other purpose be? In this verse, unlike so many others (see {5,1} for examples), the double meanings of goyaa are not exploited. If we imagine its absence, I don't see any harm to the verse, other than of course unmetricalness. So have we actually caught Ghalib here in a case of (oh the horror!) padding? This verse also reminds me of {208,13}, in which not even physical contact is needed: the speaker, too drunk to even lift a hand, finds something he craves (vitality? delight? intoxication? life?) in the very sight of the wineglass and flagon.

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111,14} ham muva;h;hid hai;N hamaaraa kesh hai tark-e rusuum millate;N jab mi;T ga))ii;N ajzaa-e iimaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) we are {a monotheist / monotheists}, our practice is the renunciation of customs 2) when the communities were erased, they became parts of the faith

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: He declares all communities and sects [ma;zhab] to be collections of different customs, the renunciation and erasing of which is the true religion [ma;zhab] of oneness. And he says that these very communities, when they are erased, become parts of the faith. (152)

Nazm: 'We are a monotheist', that is, we are convinced of the original Oneness and consider his/its essence to be unique. And that thing is unique in which there would be no necessary parts [whatsoever]. Knowledge about him/it is obtained only by means of contraries: as, he has no partners, he has no body, [etc. Since all groups represent a partial and thus false perspective,] all communities [millate;N] are false/vain, and when they become absorbed, then they are parts of monotheism [tau;hiid]. (119-20)

Bekhud Mohani: We believe that the Lord is one, and our religion [ma;zhab] is to renounce customs. The sects [millate;N] will be erased. Faith will become communitywide [qaumii]. That is, in our eyes the beliefs and rituals of the different sects [ma;zhab] have no more force than customs which are the result of the imitation of ancestors or unacceptable thought. The gist is that to become possessed of faith, it's enough merely to know the Lord as one. All the rest is mere padding [;Dhakoslaa]. (224)

Faruqi: In the verse it has been said, we are a monotheist, and our path is that we renounce customs (that is, outward sectarian [ma;zhabii] behavior). It's obvious that here 'monotheist' has been used in its technical meaning-- that is, a person who believes in the oneness of the Lord, but doesn't believe in any sect [ma;zhab]. In the light of this interpretation the second line, instead of expressing some principle or point, expresses a personal belief and action: that in our capacity as monotheist we know that the only true religion [ma;zhab] is not to have a religion [ma;zhab]. In this way this verse too displays Ghalib's special style of paradox, and the second line has the rank of personal inquiry, more than that of some historical truth. Another interesting point is that the condition for erasing or abandoning a religion [ma;zhab] is that it first be acquired; otherwise, a thing that's not in the heart at all-- what meaning can it have to erase it? (183)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS RELIGIONS: {60,2} The terms here are a wild conceptual jungle, and surely deliberately framed to be so. All of them are notably broad and highly flexible-- 'monotheist' [muva;h;hid], 'customs' [rusuum], 'religious community' [millat], and 'faith' [iimaa;N]. Then of course the commentators generally favor the term ma;zhab , which itself they use in varying ways, as can be seen. So the verse could easily be taken to mean, in order of increasing radicalism: =We don't recognize divisive and archaic customs; all petty factionalism and disputes about ritual, etc., must cease, as religious groups purge themselves of particularisms.

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=We don't recognize Shi'as, Sunnis, etc.; these groups must merge into a greater Muslim whole. =We don't recognize Muslims, Christians, Jews; these groups must vanish into a greater 'People of the Book' whole. =We don't recognize any special religious groups whatsoever; all religions must ultimately be absorbed into some greater 'faith'. My private intuition is that Ghalib put this verse together just to drive his more literal-minded critics mad. I have seen critics quote this verse with great confidence to 'prove' all kinds of things about Ghalib's own religious views. If he is anywhere where he can hear them, I know he must be snickering. But in general, Faruqi's interpretation surely makes for the richest reading of this enjoyably-- and, it seems to me, playfully-- enigmatic verse. An excellent verse for comparison is {208,9}.

{111,15} ranj se ;xuugar hu))aa insaa;N to mi;T jaataa hai ranj mushkile;N mujh par pa;Rii;N itnii kih aasaa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) when/if a person becomes accustomed to grief, then grief is erased 2) so many difficulties fell upon me, that they became easy

Notes: hu))aa is used in place of ho jaa))e , in a common colloquial substitution. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This idea is absolutely novel, and it is not only an idea but rather a fact [fek;T]. And it has been expressed so excellently that nothing better can be imagined. To give a notion of the numerousness of difficulties by the total opposite, that is, by their becoming easy-- in reality, this is the height of 'elegance of exaggeration' [;husn-e mubaali;Gah], the equal of which has not been seen to this day. (124)

Nazm: That is, so many difficulties fell upon me that I became accustomed to them; then a difficulty no longer seemed a difficulty to me. (120)

Bekhud Mohani: There are two kinds of cure-- the opposite and the similar. The opposite cure for heat is cold; the similar cure for heat is heat. So many difficulties fell upon me that now a difficulty doesn't seem to be a difficulty. It's true that when a person becomes habituated to grief, then afterwards no grief seems to him to be a grief. (225)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; PARALLELISM DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5} I would call this a sophisticated kind of 'mushairah verse', one that uses the parallelism of the two lines both to fulfill and to violate the hearers' expectations. As in many mushairah verses, the first line is broad, vague, abstract. Its two poles are 'grief' [ranj] and 'erasure of grief'. Yet, in a piquant effect available to both ear and eye, the 'grief' doesn't really seem to get erased-- it pops up again at the last moment. For the line is framed by two separate occurrences of the word, one at the very beginning and the other at the very end. They work like bookends, giving the line a feeling of symmetry and also emphasizing the single quality of 'grief' that is the pivot on which the line turns. Where will the poet go from here? Naturally, in a mushairah performance context, we have to wait in suspense to find out. Then the first part of the second line sounds as if it could be preparing for a replay of the first line: so many difficulties fell on me that-- I no longer found them difficult; or, I no longer knew what difficulty was; or, 'difficulty'

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became erased; or some other such abstract formulation. As usual, we don't get the real punch until the very last moment-- and then we get it in a great, exultant rush. So many difficulties fell upon me-- kih aasaa;N ho ga))ii;N , that they became easy! The word aasaa;N itself sounds easy, fluent, prolongable, triumphant, amused, inviting to the ear. Its long vowels and nasalization lead elegantly into the refrain, ho ga))ii;N . And the word 'easy' also enacts the real vanishing of the difficulties; they don't recur the way ranj does in the first line, but are gone for good. Isn't this an exhilarating verse? No doubt it can be recited in a rueful tone, and there's an underlying ruefulness to it anyway ('been down so long it looks like up to me'). But there's nothing lugubrious or morbid about it. It demands to be memorized and recited aloud. What a pleasure it would have been to be in the first mushairah that heard this whole remarkable ghazal-- a ghazal which in fact is unusually full of lovely, lively 'mushairah verses' like this one.

{111,16} yuu;N hii gar rotaa rahaa ;Gaalib to ay ahl-e jahaa;N dekhnaa in bastiyo;N ko tum kih viiraa;N ho ga))ii;N 1) if Ghalib would keep on weeping {like this / for no reason}, then, oh people of the world 2) you just look at these towns-- that they've become desolate

Notes: yuu;N hii : 'In this very manner, exactly thus; --without any apparent cause or reason, causelessly, &c'. (Platts p.1253) rotaa rahaa is used, in a common colloquial substitution, in place of the subjunctive rotaa rahe, 'would keep on weeping'. dekhnaa , the infinitive, is used as a neutral imperative. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Either consider that from the [emotional] effect [taa;siir] of weeping desolation happened, or consider that the flood of tears made them desolate. But this second aspect is a limited theme, and is commonplace. (120)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this closing-verse two meanings have been created. One is that from the effect of weeping, populated areas will be destroyed; and the other meaning is that the flood of tears, destroying houses, will make towns desolate. (169)

Bekhud Mohani: The reason for eloquence [balaa;Gat]: in yuu;N hii alone are so many interpretations. (1) That the pain, the intensity with which he is now weeping-- in this is the subtle aspect too that a person can't weep like this for very long. (2) People can't hear him. (3) yuu;N hii also means in a commonplace way, or in the way that the neighbors have given him leave to weep. In the interpretation of 'people of the world' there's a great scope. That is, the effect of this weeping will be world-conquering. By 'towns' is meant the towns of the whole world. (225)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS Bekhud Mohani is right on target-- the idiomatic multivalence of yuu;N hii provides the central pleasure of the verse. Literally the phrase means 'just like this' (so that it could mean 'just the way Ghalib is weeping now'); but metaphorically and idiomatically, how rich it is, and how untranslatable in its relaxed perfection.

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The phrase can mean 'casually, for no special reason, by happenstance'; or, as Platts proposes, 'causelessly'. And its clever placement at the beginning of the first line opens two possibilities for its application. It might describe the nature of his 'going on weeping': 'if Ghalib just happens, for no particular reason, to go on weeping'. Alternatively, it might describe the nature of his weeping itself: 'if Ghalib goes on weeping in a casual way, for no particular reason'. (Compare the use of aisii hii in {161,5}.) For another, even more elegant use of yuu;N hii , see {168,3}. Bekhud suggests other possible nuances as well: that his present weeping might be so intense as to be unsustainable; and/or that his weeping might be unheard or ignored by his neighbors, so that he has to warn them specifically about its effects. In short, we have a wide range of possibilities about the nature, cause, and future prospects of the weeping. We don't know whether the Ghalibpersona's weeping is caused by some special thing that the 'people of the world' are being warned to fix before their towns are destroyed; or whether it's completely causeless, and he's just warning them to evacuate their houses because of the high risk of uncontrollable flooding or other disasters. If the weeping is causeless, we don't know whether it's due to his own whim (such that he can control the weeping if he happens to choose to do so); or to the devastating effects of passion (such that weeping may overpower him at any time against his will). Nazm maintains that we shouldn't consider weeping as a mere source of tears, since that's narrow and trite; rather, we should consider that it's the emotional effect of his weeping on human hearts, rather than the physical effect of his tears on buildings, that may devastate whole towns. But Nazm's preferred meaning lacks a clear 'objective correlative': by what mechanism will a mere display of emotion devastate whole towns? (Whereas it's easy to see that a huge tear-generated flood would do so.) It has the further problem that the people who can hear this warning can presumably hear his weeping already, and it doesn't move them; so why should it move them so powerfully in the future? (Whereas we all know that huge floods can start with small inconspicuous streams.) Nazm is perhaps just showing his (sporadic) 'modern' hostility to stylized themes in the ghazal. This verse also reminds me of {233,17}, which plays more directly with the various possibilities of control versus lack of control over weeping. In that verse, he doesn't want to be teased, because 'again', through the turmoil of tears, he has 'prepared a typhoon'. It's impossible to tell whether he's threatening to unleash it, or warning that any stress might cause it to burst out beyond his control.

Ghazal 112 10 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar bhii nahii;N composed 1826; Hamid p. 91; Arshi #100; Raza pp. 262-63

{112,1} diivaanagii se dosh pah zunnaar bhii nahii;N ya((nii hamaare jeb me;N ik taar bhii nahii;N 1) from madness, there’s not even a sacred thread on [our] shoulder 2) that is, in our collar there's not even a single thread

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says, the style of my madness is that I didn't leave even one thread remaining in my collar [garebaa;N], such that it would have been in place of

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a sacred thread and would not have been contrary to my practice of idolworship. (120)b

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, this is a new madness, that has not left a single thread in our collar! If even two or three threads had been spared at the hands of madness, then we would have considered them a sacred thread, because in the religion of idol-worship it was necessary to have a sacred thread. (169)

Bekhud Mohani: Is there any limit to this madness? In the collar, not even one thread has remained, which would have been a symbol of idol-worship. That is, in love madness occurred, and reached the limit that not even the signs of idolworship remained. (225)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} MADNESS: {14,3} RELIGIONS: {60,2} The first line is piquant and even a little shocking: because of our madness, we don't even have on our shoulder a 'sacred thread' [zunnaar] such as Brahmins wear. The clear implication is that if we were not so extremely mad, we certainly would have such a sacred thread on our shoulder. Such a thread, of course, would mark us as an infidel, an idolater, a Brahmin. (In the ghazal world, no other Hindu caste groups exist except Brahmins, since they alone are needed for symbolic purposes like this.) Under mushairah performance conditions, we'd have to contain our curiosity for a while before we were allowed to hear the second line. At the beginning of the second line, 'that is' [ya((nii] instructs us to treat the second line as a paraphrase or explanation of the first one. 'That is', not a single thread remained in our collar-opening. The word jeb also means 'pocket', as in a slash pocket, but here refers to the vertical 'slash' neckline of a kurta. We've done such an exhaustive job of collar-ripping [chaak-e garebaa;N] that not even a single thread remains. (For more on this concept, see the discussion of {111,11}.) When we put the two lines together, what is striking is the strength of the equation: the presence (or absence) of a(remaining thread or two of our torn collar is completely identified with the presence (or absence) of a sacred thread. If there were even a single thread left of our collar, it would be a Brahminical sacred thread; and its absence seems astonishing-- note the double use of 'even' [bhii]. In short, there's no gap at all between the lover's practice and the Brahminical practice. But, in true mushairah-verse style, we don't learn that until the last possible moment: until we hear the crucial word 'thread' [taar], we can't make any sense of the verse-- and that word is deferred until the very end, which enhances its 'punch'. This conflation of the lover's worship of the beloved, the 'idol' [but, .sanam], with the worship practices of other, (Islamically speaking) 'idolatrous', religions, is a commonplace of the ghazal world. It can always be taken mystically, as well: it can suggest that the lover's passion transcends the mere external rituals of conventional religious practice, and brings him directly into the real presence of the one God.

{112,2} dil ko niyaaz-e ;hasrat-e diidaar kar chuke dekhaa to ham me;N :taaqat-e diidaar bhii nahii;N 1) [we had] already made the heart an offering to the longing for (a) vision 2a) [when we] looked, then in us [was] not even the strength for (the) vision 2b) [when she] looked, then in us [was] not even the strength for (the) vision

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Notes: diidaar: 'Sight, vision...; look, appearance; face, countenance, cheek; interview'. (Platts p.556) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when in pursuit of the longing for sight we'd already erased the heart, after that when we reflected, then we found that the strength and endurance for sight didn't remain in us. [Here the word] dekhaa is connected with both actions. (120)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when in the longing for sight we'd already mingled the heart with the dust, after that the thought of my test came to me. Reflection showed me that the erasing of the heart had also erased the strength and endurance for sight. Now even if she shows herself, we no longer have the capability for sight, and the strength for endurance. (169-70)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, that the heart's whole strength was finished off in the longing for sight. It's our ill fortune that now if sight is possible, then the heart doesn't even have enough strength left for sight: [consider] {48,3}. (226)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 The chief pleasure of the verse is in the wordplay (and meaning-play) with dekhaa. The semantic range of dekhnaa is even greater than 'to look' in English, since it also includes 'to see'. '[When we] looked' [dekhaa] thus applies broadly to almost any action like inspection, checking, reviewing, assessing. This use and positioning of dekhaa to is so common that the first time through, it seems thoroughly unremarkable: 'when we looked, we found that he was not injured'; 'when we looked, we found that the tank was empty', etc. In this case, 'when we looked-- when we inspected it-- we found that the heart was too weak for vision'. For another use of this structure, see {16,5}. Only on the second go-round do we realize that the phrase also applies, even more powerfully and effectively, to the primal act of looking itself: 'when we looked-- or rather, tried to look-- we realized that we no longer had the strength to behold (the) sight/vision'. And only on the third go-round (at least, in my case) do we realize that the person who 'looked' could also be the beloved, since the subject is omitted (and since Urdu offers us the morbid wonders of the ergative construction). In that case, our realization of radical, hopeless weakness comes not upon our inspection, and not upon our (attempt at) looking, but upon her looking at us-- or at least, her looking in our general direction, her showing herself to us. The other enjoyable bit of wordplay comes through diidaar, which can mean the act of sight itself; or something that is looked at-- an (irresistibly beautiful) appearance or face. The distinction is more or less that between longing for 'vision', and longing for 'a vision'. Needless to say, both meanings work excellently in this verse. In its 'catch-22' quality (we sacrifice our heart for sight; the sacrifice makes us too weak to see) this verse reminds me of {25,4} (we sacrifice our heart in the test itself; the sacrifice leaves us with nothing left to offer later).

{112,3} milnaa tiraa agar nahii;N aasaa;N to sahl hai dushvaar to yihii hai kih dushvaar bhii nahii;N 1a) if meeting you [is] not easy, then ['it'] is simple 1b) if meeting you [is] not easy, then [meeting you] is simple

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2a) this then is difficult, that [meeting you is] also not difficult 2b) this then is difficult-- which [is] also not difficult

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1864:] That is to say, if to get to you is not easy, then this task is easy for me. Well, to get to you is not easy: so be it. Neither will we be able to get to you, nor will anyone else be able to get to you. The difficulty then is that that same getting to you is not difficult either. Whomever you want, you can meet with. We had thought separation to be a simple thing, but we can’t make jealousy an easy burden to endure. (Arshi 226) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1514 ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 301 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 267-68

Hali: While explaining a fact [faik;T], to have such appropriate idioms come to hand is an extraordinary coincidence. Whether one takes this theme toward the divine [;haqiiqat], or turns it toward the human [majaaz], in both cases the meaning is that if getting to you were not easy, that is if it were dfficult, then there would have been no problem, because I would have lost hope and just sat there, and would have been free of the itching pain of ardor and suffering. But the difficulty is that just as it is not easy, in the same way it is not difficult, and thus there’s no escaping in any way from the itching pain of ardor and suffering. (124-25)

Nazm: He declares the same thing to be both easy and difficult, which might in fact be possible. But for something to both not be easy and also not be difficult-that is contradictory and in fact impossible. (120)

Bekhud Mohani: If meeting with you were not easy, then it would be difficult. In some way or other, by means of effort, it would be possible. The disaster is that it is impossible. (226)

FWP: SETS == KIH; OPPOSITES; REPETITION; SUBJECT? DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5} Here Ghalib is playing with one of his favorite special devices, the creation of paradox. As can be seen, he's certainly confused some of the commentators. Even though he's discussed the verse in one of his letters, access to his letters was not always as easy as it is today, so it's not surprising that interpretations vary. Ghalib's own interpretation is straightforward-- or at least, that's how he made it sound. But remember that he wrote the above letter almost forty years after composing the verse, and that he was explaining some of his verses to a confused reader, so that simplicity would have been appropriate to the occasion. Much the most striking thing about the verse is not any ostensible meaning, but the way it's flagrantly rigged for maximum confusingness and paradoxicalness. Consider the first line: 'If meeting you is not easy, then [X] is simple' (1a). In Urdu, the 'X' is (permissibly) omitted, so that we have a choice of guesses as to what it might be. The grammatically and commonsensically obvious first choice is to guess that the same subject as in in the first clause: 'if meeting you is not easy, then [meeting you] is simple' (1b). But since this results in a mini-paradox of its own, we'll need to wait and look for a subject in, or through, the second line. (Under mushairah

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performance conditions, of course, there would be a genuine and inescapable wait.) Then when we look at (or hear) the second line, we find a fresh set of interlocked obscurities. 'this then is difficult, that [X] is also not difficult'. For just as in the first line, the subject of the second clause is (permissibly) omitted. Surely we must guess that X is the same as the subject of the first clause, since we're running out of subject possibilities here. But the subject of the first clause is merely 'this'-- in the emphatic form, something like 'this very thing, just this'. In which case we have 'this then is difficult, that [this is] also not difficult'. The other possibility, of course, is 'this then is difficult, which [is] also not difficult' (2b), since kih can be used in place of jo. Either way, we are absolutely forced to return to the first line for possible interpretations of 'this'. There, the only possible candidate for 'this' is 'meeting you', which yields (2a). In short, if we work at it, we are eventually able to come up with the rather prosaic meaning that Ghalib himself has provided for his questioner. But the point of the verse, the enjoyableness of it, the thing that would make a hearer say vaah vaah, would surely never be just that prosaic paraphrase; rather, it would be the flashy pyrotechnics of 'easy' and 'difficult' that surround the alleged 'meaning' and make it a matter of some mental labor to discern-even after we know what we're supposed to be looking for. The verse not only describes difficulty, but also enacts it. The complexities are so carefully engineered that the reading provided by Ghalib requires four different subjects: meeting you; [the lover's attitude]; ['this']; and [meeting you], of which all except the first must be extrapolated or interpreted or both. Not bad, for a little two-line verse without any obscure words or complex grammar. Verses about 'easy' and 'difficult' seem to bring out Ghalib's taste for abstraction and paradox; see {6,5} for more examples.

{112,4} be-((ishq ((umr ka;T nahii;N saktii hai aur yaa;N :taaqat bah qadr-e la;z;zat-e aazaar bhii nahii;N 1) without passion a lifetime can’t be spent-- and here 2) strength [is] not even proportional to the delight/relish of torment

Notes: la;z;zat: 'Pleasure, delight, enjoyment; sweetness, deliciousness; taste, flavour, relish, savour'. (Platts p.955) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in passion there is certainly torment, and I don't have the strength and power to support the delight of torment. (120)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, without passion, life can't even pass-- and for enduring the difficulties of passion, there's not even enough strength in the heart. The meaning is that in order to pass one's life, one is compelled to established relationships with the world as well, and the heart becomes tired of the 'grief of daily life' as well. (170)

Bekhud Mohani: I have fallen into a great disaster, for without passion it's difficult to pass one's life, and my state is such that I don't even have the strength needed to support the troubles of passion. (226)

FWP: Here's a real 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' verse. If you don't have passion, the sheer day-to-day-ness of a lifetime can't be endured. If you do have passion, its torments will kill you. Either way, your goose is cooked.

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Another, and even bleaker, statement of such a dilemma appears in {20,7}: although grief is fatal, nobody with a heart can escape it: the difference is only between being killed by either the 'grief of passion', or else by the 'grief of {dailiness / livelihood / the world}' [rozgaar]. This verse seems a little more cheerful than that one, because of the word 'delight/relish' [la;z;zat]. Yet when we look, la;z;zat seems to be a morbidly inclined word: so far, every single time Ghalib has used it has been with reference to the 'pleasure' of something painful: {6,4}; {15,8}; {17,7}; {53,10}*; {60,6}*; {87,6}; {92,3}*; {92,5}. The three verses with the asterisks even feature the exact phrase, la;z;zat-e aazaar, that occurs in the present verse. The effect is to make passion sound like a life-occupying device of great efficiency: it offers you everything you could need to keep boredom and the quotidian at bay. You have delight, you have torment-- and long before they have time to pall, you'll be dead, because you're too weak to endure that much pleasure/pain, and so your worries about how to pass your life will become moot. Your only regret, as you leave us a few last thoughts, is that you couldn't hold out a little longer and enjoy a bit more of the la;z;zat-e aazaar before it finally did you in. In fact la;z;zat-e aazaar is not only a piquant yoking of opposites, but also a wonderfully palindrome-like phrase, offering us first a;z;za and then aazaa, two sound-sequences that are not only internally symmetrical but also echo each other remarkably. No wonder Ghalib used the phrase again and again.

{112,5} shoriidagii ke haath se hai sar vabaal-e dosh .sa;hraa me;N ai ;xudaa ko))ii diivaar bhii nahii;N 1) at the hands of disturbance/madness, the head is a burden to the shoulders 2) in the desert, oh Lord, there's not even any wall!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If there were a wall, then he would smash his head open and find liberation from this burden. (121)

Bekhud Mohani: From the turmoil of madness, the head is a burden to the body. My God, what shall I do? In the wilderness there's no wall of the beloved, such that I would have smashed my head against it and given up my life. That is, there's pleasure in dying by smashing the head against that door. (226)

Baqir: Compare {166,5}. (289)

Faruqi: In this verse are two points to which people have not paid attention. One is that in the first line there's an affinity among 'hand', 'head', and 'shoulder'. The second point is that the usual understanding of the verse is devoid of pleasure [lu:tf se ((aarii].... In addition, if this is the interpretation, then coming into the desert by reason of an excess of madness becomes meaningless. The madness is so much that the head is a burden to the shoulders. It's a matter of smashing it. But if that's how things were, then what's the point of leaving home and coming into the desert? In the house there are walls upon walls; he could have smashed his head right there.... There's no need for restrictions about desert or walls: {126,4}. Accordingly, the emotion of the second line is not longing, but surprise and distractedness.... As if someone would say, 'Oh Lord, in the sea there's nothing but water! There's no dry land-- where can I build a house?' Rather, it's that level of madness in which there's no longer any distinction made

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between the expected and unexpected, the accustomed and the unaccustomed, the logical and the illogical. (184-85)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION MADNESS: {14,3} Faruqi cites two points neglected by the commentators; both are typical of what the commentators usually do neglect. The first involves wordplay and verbal affinity; as any reader of this commentary will have noticed, the commentators rarely remark on wordplay at all. The second involves the commentators' settling for a prosaic meaning that is 'devoid of pleasure'; this situation too is all too familiar. Faruqi's suggestion that the second line be read with 'not longing, but surprise and distractedness' greatly increases the charm, complexity, and liveliness of the verse. For other verses featuring wordplay, a head filled with shor , and the search for a wall, see {15,5} and {166,5}.

{112,6} gunjaa))ish-e ((adaavat-e a;Gyaar yak :taraf yaa;N dil me;N .zu((f se havas-e yaar bhii nahii 1) leaving aside the scope/capacity for enmity toward the Others 2) here, in the heart, because of weakness, there’s not even desire for the beloved/friend

Notes: gunjaa))ish: 'Holding, containing; room, capacity; room to contain, stowage'. (Platts 917) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, from the weakness, the heart feels such sadness that, not to mention scope for enmity toward the Others, it can't contain even desire for the beloved. (121)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, not to mention scope for enmity toward the Others, after the passing of the era of passion and desire, here there's no longer even a heartfelt attraction to the beloved. (170)

Bekhud Mohani: How can hostility toward the Rivals and enemies remain in my heart? When because of weakness, I'm entering a state in which even the longing to meet the beloved no longer remains in the heart. (226)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Some of the wordplay consists of striking pairs of opposites: 'enmity' versus 'desire', 'Others' vs. 'beloved/friend'. They're even grouped into two i.zaafat phrases: 'enmity for Others' vs. 'desire for beloved/friend'. But more subtly and enjoyably, the first line begins with 'scope, capacity' [gunjaa))ish] and ends with '[to] one side' [yak :taraf]. Just as in English, 'scope' is a broadly metaphorical term; just as in English, 'leaving aside X' is normally read merely sas a metaphor for exclusion. So both seem unremarkable. But when we encounter the strongly situated 'here, in the heart' [yaa;N dil me;N], we realize that all along we've indeed been talking about actual space, scope, capacity. And, by extension (sorry!), it becomes clear that 'enmity toward the Others' should actually be thought of as '[pushed to] one side'. 'Here in the heart', weakness has caused a general contraction and collapse: not only have all extraneous things been shoved off to the side, but the center itself cannot hold. Desire for the beloved, that ultimate value of

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the ghazal world, has itself collapsed, leaving behind it an almost unimaginable emptiness. This verse reminds me of {5,2}, in which the heart is similarly stripped of all its deepest contents; but in that verse, the image is of the burnt-out shell of a house after a conflagration; in this verse, it's something like a terrible, shrunken void after an implosion.

{112,7} ;Dar naalah'haa-e zaar se mere ;xudaa ko maan aa;xir navaa-e mur;G-e giriftaar bhii nahii;N 1) fear my wailing/groaning laments! respect the Lord! 2a) after all, [I have] not even the voice/melody/prosperity of a captive Bird 2b) after all, a captured Bird too has no voice/melody/prosperity

Notes: zaar: 'Groan, plaint, lamentation, wailing... ; desire, wish; collection, multitude, crowd'. (Platts p.614) navaa: 'Voice, sound; modulation; song; air;... riches, opulence, wealth, plenty; subsistence; --prosperity; goodness or splendour of circumstance'. (Platts p. 1157) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, after all, this lament is a lament-- it's hardly the mourning of birds, that it would have no effect! (121)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, respect the Lord, and don't cause pain to my heart. Fear my laments; my complaint is not the voice of a captured bird, which will prove to be without effect. The Lord will certainly make it effective. (171)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh cruel one, respect the Lord! Fear the laments that emerge from my heart. My laments are not those of a captured bird. That is, they will not remain without effect. Don't become ensnared in difficulties. (226)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The commentators' almost unanimous view suffers from the same problem that Faruqi complained about in {112,5}: it's 'devoid of pleasure'. In addition, it basically ignores the powerful little word bhii. The cure for such limited interpretations is not far to seek: pay closer attention to every word, every nuance, every grammatical possibility of the verse; and ask yourself why Ghalib would have expected a hearer to say vaah vaah. Here, the central axis of the verse is surely the contrast between a groaning, wailing, suffering cry [zaar]; and a beautiful, melodious, fortunate voice [navaa]. In the first line, the beloved is enjoined to fear (the moral power of) her tormented lover's lament, and to 'respect the Lord' by fearing divine punishment and treating her lover less harshly. In addition to threatening her with God's justice in the first line, the lover goes on in the second line to take a new tack: he seeks to cajole the beloved and beg her compassion. And here, in true Ghalibian style, we have two rueful, all-too-appropriate readings to choose from. For (2a), we insert an implicit mujhe: after all, you ought to pity me, because I'm more wretched even than a captive bird. I have only groans and wails and vain cries for justice, while a captive bird has a melodious voice [navaa], and may sing very sweetly and even be loved for its song. A captive bird may enjoy a luxurious life in its cage, while I live in constant torment. And a captive bird may have the supreme joy of being near you, perhaps of

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being fed dainty tidbits by your own fingers, while you deny me everything and cast me into the outer darkness of separation. By contrast (2b), paints a very different picture of the captive bird. After all, you ought to pity me and treat me kindly. You ought to show compassion for my misery, just as you would for that of a captured bird. 'Captive' [giriftaar] can equally well be read as 'captured', so that the bird can be imagined as newly captured. You can't expect me to sing sweetly, just as a newly captured bird has no 'song' to express his misery and suffering. You should pity me for my inarticulate wretchedness. A captured bird has no navaa in the sense of prosperity or good fortune either; nor, God knows, do I. Just as it would be cruel and unworthy of you to torment a helpless, bewildered, newly captured bird, for all the same reasons you should sympathize with me.

{112,8} dil me;N hai yaar kii .saf-e mizhgaa;N se ruu-kashii ;haalaa;Nkih :taaqat-e ;xalish-e ;xaar bhii nahii;N 1) in the heart is {rivalry / 'face-presenting'} toward the beloved's rank of eyelashes 2) although there's not even strength for the irritation of a thorn

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: My state is that I don't even have strength for the irritation of a thorn, and still there's enthusiasm in the heart for confronting the rank of eyelashes. (121)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my intention is that I would confront the army of the beloved's eyelashes-- and my state is that in the heart there's not even enough strength to be able to endure the pain of the irritation of a thorn. (171)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the enthusiasm is so lofty, the endurance so small.... If only when I had no strength, I had no enthusiasm! Then this constant spiritual pain would not exist. (227)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT; WORDPLAY What complexities of wordplay swarm inside this simple-looking verse! At the heart of them, wrapping them all up, is ruu-kashii , literally 'face-lifting'. When paired with 'in the heart' [dil me;N], the concealing nuances of 'facepresenting' at once become impossibly strange. What does it mean to 'present a face' within the heart, when the heart is the deepest depth of the inner self? To 'present a face' to one's inner self, so as to fool oneself into a false confidence? To present it to the beloved, who is (or at least, whose rank of eyelashes is) there in the heart too? To imagine, or fantasize, or long for, such 'face-presenting'? And then, this ambiguous 'face-presenting' is directed toward the beloved's 'rank of eyelashes'. While .saf can mean 'row' in general, it has a particularly military sound, just as 'rank' does in English. It's easy to imagine those exquisitely sharp eyelashes as a row of arrows controlled by an expert archer. 'Face-presenting' toward them could be purely defensive (making a pretense of invulnerability), or it could be offensive as well (boldly making a feint of counterattack); it could even be masochistic (seeking to present an inviting target to as to induce them to attack, and thus to procure the pleasure of pain). All these swarms of possible meanings develop in the first line alone.

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When we look at the second line, we find a seeming simplicity that in fact is complicated by a crucial i.zaafat . 'Strength for the irritation of a thorn' can mean either 'strength to endure the irritation of a thorn' (as the commentators read it), or 'strength to create the irritation of a thorn'. This second possibility works well with the vision of two armies arrayed in the heart, the serried rank of sharp eyelashes on one side, the desperately gallant 'face-presenting' lover on the other, as he attempts to flourish a weapon that isn't even as irritating as a thorn. The verse also offers some clever sound effects. yaar in the first line is echoed by ;xaar in the second. The phrase ;xalish-e ;xaar , with its two raspy initial ;x sounds, also nicely suggests the abrasion or irritation it describes. The military metaphor is continued in the next verse.

{112,9} is saadagii pah kaun nah mar jaa))e ay ;xudaa la;Rte hai;N aur haath me;N talvaar bhii nahii;N 1) who would not die for/over this simplicity, oh Lord! 2a) she fights, and in her hand-- not even a sword 2b) we fight, and in our hand-- not even a sword

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse aur is contemporarily descriptive [;haaliyah]. And in 'fighting' [la;Rnaa] is meant the mixing-up of hand-to-hand scuffling. (121)

Bekhud Mohani: One wants to give up his life at this simplicity-- she sets out to fight, and empty-handed. The meaning is that she doesn't use airs and graces, which are the attack-weapons of beloveds. That is, this is her glory, this is her murderous innocence. (227)

Faruqi: An amusing interpretation is that in the verse is mention of the 'hand-to-hand scuffling' of the night of union. Nasikh: va.sl kii shab palang ke uupar mi;sl chiite ke vuh machalte hai;N [in the night of union, upon the bed, she scratches like a cheetah] .... Since in the verse there's no sign of the occasion of union, we'll reject the 'hand-to-hand scuffle' and direct attention to the points below.... There are two meanings of 'simplicity': (1) to be without; and (2) innocence. Ghalib himself has a verse: {157,1}.... Now if we examine the verse under discussion, it becomes apparent that here too 'simplicity' is used in the meaning of 'to be without'.... Accordingly, the meaning of 'to fight' is not the usual one of making war or battle, but rather, the murder of the lover. The beloved's task is to murder the lover. And the means of the murder is 'to fight'. Ghalib has also used this metaphor [in an unpublished verse from {93}, Raza p. 153]: kis dil pah hai ((azm-e .saf-e mizhgaan-e ;xvud-aaraa aa))iine kii paa-yaab se utrii hai;N sipaahe;N [toward which heart is the resolve of the rank of self-adorning eyelashes? the soldiers have crossed at the ford of the mirror] Accordingly, 'sword' too is not real and physical, but rather metaphorical; that is, self-adornment and ornament and decoration. Now the situation has developed that the beloved has come before us ( = is coming for battle). But she is devoid of self-adornment; that is, she is not

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equipped with the equipment for battle. Her not being equipped is her simplicity, in both meanings. That is, she is devoid of ornament and adornment; and this too, that she is so innocent that she is unacquainted with the arts of attack and combat. But what is the result? Her simplicity (devoidness) itself is deadly. (Or her innocence itself is deadly.) 'Die for' [mar jaa))e] is both idiomatic and literal. The beloved's purpose has been fulfilled without attack and combat. As if the beloved's simplicity (that is, devoidness) is not due to simple-naturedness or guilelessness, but rather is caused by cleverness [purkaarii]. (186-87)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION This verse continues the military metaphor from the previous verse, {112,8}. Faruqi has made most of the points that I wanted to make. Since Nasikh's verse quoted in Faruqi's commentary may look too simple, I can't resist pointing out its wonderfully clever wordplay: palang means not only 'bed', but also 'panther'; see {63,2} for an example. The beloved is 'simple' because she does not carry any weapons, and/or because she doesn't know that she needs them. But as it turns out, she doesn't in fact need them, since who wouldn't (metaphorically) 'die for' and/or (literally) 'die over' this simplicity? So, as Faruqi asks, isn't her simplicity rather like 'cleverness'? Compare the wonderfully apposite {4,4}, in which 'simplicity' and 'cleverness' are put through all kinds of permutations. There's also the broader {21,13}, in which everything about her is a 'mortal disaster'-- every word, every gesture, all her airs and graces. And there's {36,9}, another verse of what might be called military technology: does she, or doesn't she, have an arrow in her quiver? But particularly close in its imagery and approach is {157,1}. Everybody recognizes (2a), and nobody considers (2b). But the masculine plural verb, so suitable for ham , makes the grammar perfectly possible. If love is a mortal combat, the lover has need of every weapon he can get; in {7,1}, he's specifically required to be a champion of the battlefield. And here the lover enters into 'combat' with the deadly beloved, and in his hands-nothing; no weapon of either offense or defense. Any observer, or maybe even the Lord himself, might be moved to 'die' of sympathy and compassionate admiration for this heroic, naive folly. If no one else 'dies' because of it, the lover himself certainly will. He'll martyr himself to preserve his own submissive 'simplicity'-- exactly the possibility envisioned in the first line. Why not open the door a little, and enjoy this meaning as well? Note for script fans: The first word could of course be read as us , and the meaning of the verse would hardly change. When in doubt, I always go for us , as one should in view of the general statistical usage of the language. But Arshi makes a point of providing a zer , and as always I follow his careful textual research.

{112,10} dekhaa asad ko ;xalvat-o-jalvat me;N baar-haa diivaanah gar nahii;N hai to hushyaar bhii nahii;N 1) [I/we] saw Asad in private and public a number of times 2) if [he] is not mad, then [he is] also not sane

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The occasion for this speech is as if the addressee is not convinced of his being mad; this speaker refutes that idea. (121)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we have seen Asad in private and public, we have met with him, we have conversed with him. If he is not, as you say, completely mad, then he's also not perfectly sane. (171)

Bekhud Mohani: We have seen Asad in solitude, and also in company. That is, we are well acquainted with him. In our opinion, if we cannot call him insane, then we also can't call him sane. (227)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; OPPOSITES The speaker's acquaintance with Asad is not all that great-- it's based on 'seeing' him rather than on any close knowledge or real intimacy with him. But still, it's enough for the purpose. The speaker has seen him repeatedly in both private and public situations. He has enough information to be ready to report his conclusions. In the second line, the speaker seems to be making a concession, he seems to be accepting what some unseen companion has just said. What might that have been? According to Nazm, that Asad is not mad; according to Bekhud Dihlavi, that Asad is mad. With his usual wit and cleverness, Ghalib has framed the speaker's reply to work perfectly in response to either statement. On Nazm's reading: 'You say he's not mad? Well, maybe not, but he's not sane either.' On Bekhud Dihlavi's reading: 'You say he's mad? Well, I may not quite agree that he's mad, but certainly he's not exactly sane.' So what does the speaker conclude? That Asad is betwixt and between; the only thing that can confidently be said about him is that neither condition, madness or sanity, adequately describes him. How evocatively the double opposites work-- private and public (the rhyming pair ;xalvat -o-jalvat), mad and sane. They give an air of assumed rationality to what is really a clueless performance. The speaker pontificates, but gets nowhere. As in {20,11}, he seems just not to get it. How could he? He's dealing with a lover. Lovers are never really alone (because the beloved is always with them), nor are they ever genuinely in society (because they are oblivious to the mere 'people of the world'). Lovers are neither fish nor fowl, neither alive nor dead (see {219,8}), neither mad nor sane. But they can, and do, have the last laugh at the silly and pompous people who try to judge them.

Ghazal 113 9 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: an me;N composed 1816; Hamid p. 92; Arshi #091; Raza p. 156

{113,1} nahii;N hai za;xm ko))ii ba;xye ke dar-;xvur mire tan me;N hu))aa hai taar-e ashk-e yaas rishtah chashm-e sozan me;N 1) no wound in my body is suitable/fit for stitching up 2a) the thread in the eye of the needle has become a string of tears of despair 2b) the string of tears of despair has become the 'thread' in the eye of a needle

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when the needle despaired of the stitching up of the wound, then its thread became the string of tears of despair. (121)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in my body no wound is worth stitching up-- that is, there are such big and deep wounds that a needle can't be used in them. For this reason, the thread in the eye of the needle has, out of despair, become a string of tears. (171)

Bekhud Mohani: In my body no wound is such that it can be stitched up. That is, every wound is incurable. This is the reason that the thread that was in the needle became a string of tears of vain longing. That is, even the eye of the needle weeps at my situation. That is, the helper wanted to to stitch up the wound, but seeing that the wounds were incurable, he gave up. (227)

FWP: SETS ==A,B; WORDPLAY It's startling and evocative wordplay, isn't it? My wounds are so deep, so incurable, so un-close-uppable, that from the 'eye' of the needle flows a long 'string' of tears, expressing both its sympathy with my pain, and its sorrow at its own inability to be of any help. Thus far (2a), which the commentators insist upon. But also possible is (2b). None of my wounds needs stitching up any more, because I've already used my endless 'string' of tears to thread the 'eye' of a needle and have thus been able, after my own preferred fashion, to attend to them. Between the sting of the tears and the burning [soz] and piercing of the needle [sozan], I've made sure that the wounds are in exactly the state they should be in. Which means either that they're no longer fit for being stitched up because I've already given myself over to 'despair', and thus have so hopelessly deepened and irritated them; or else that they're no longer in need of being stitched up, since in my madness I've already 'fixed them' to my (fatal) satisfaction with stitches made from tears of 'despair'. In short, a 'thread' made from tears of despair is all the stitching-up they'll ever get (or will ever need?). Compare {111,11}, in which the rips in my torn collar are 'stitched up' by my suppressed-but-constantly-recurring sighs.

113,2} hu))ii hai maana((-e ;zauq-e tamaashaa ;xaanah-viiraanii kaf-e sailaab baaqii hai bah rang-e punbah rauzan me;N 1) house-desolation has become a forbidder of the relish for spectacle 2) the foam of the flood is left, with the color/aspect of cotton, in the crevicework

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The existence of cotton in the crevice-work forbids the glance. And this cotton is the foam of that flood through which the house became desolate. For this reason, house-desolation is a forbidder of spectacle. That is, he has declared an effect to be a cause. And the eloquent often do such things. (121)

Bekhud Mohani: 1) The destruction of my house doesn't even let me look around my house at my leisure, because the foam of the flood has remained in the crevice-work, because of which it is closed up. 2) If some wayfarer even wants to look at the condition (destruction) of my house, then how can he see it? The foam of the flood has become cotton in the crevice-work.... From the 'relish for spectacle' it is learned that despite this destruction, the 'relish for spectacle' remains. And from the second line it can be seen to what extent the flood was, and to where the water had risen, that the foam of the

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flood has become cotton in the crevice-work. And from this it's clear that the house in which such a flood had come-- how to describe its destruction? Another pleasure too is that his love of the house, or the compulsion of the homeowner, becomes clear, since even in such a state he can't abandon his house. (228)

Faruqi: In truth all these problems [with the disconnectedness and vagueness of the conventional interpretation] arise from taking the word ;xaanah-viiraanii in its dictionary sense. It's not necessary to suppose that ;xaanah means 'house'. By ;xaanah-viiraanii the desolation of a prison cell can also be meant. It's clear that for a madman (that is, one imprisoned for madness) his prison cell itself is a house. Another point is that sailaab can also be taken to mean merely 'flood'; it's not necessary to restrict it to a 'flood of tears'. In the light of these points the commentary on the verse can be as follows: I am imprisoned in a cell without windows or doors, such that there's not even any crevice-work. Or else say that I'm in a prison, and all the doors and windows are closed. There's not even any crevice-work, through which I would be able to behold the scene outside-- not to speak of coming out of the cell. So how would I have satisfied my relish for spectacle? Thus I let fall a flood of tears, so that the walls would fall, or at least some openings in them would be created. (Or, it was my good fortune that a flood claimed the prison cell. I had hopes that now the walls would fall, or would open up here and there.) And in this way I would be able to satisfy my relish for spectacle. But just look at my ill-fortune: that very flood which was the cause of ;xaanahviiraanii became a cause for the forbidding of spectacle. That is, because of the flood, crevice-work was certainly created in the walls, but the foam of the flood had remained in that crevice-work, so that seeing the spectacle outside could not be possible. For a flood to be mottled with foam is a common observation, especially then the water of the flood has come through grass and straw. In comparison to the flood water, the foam is also slower-moving, and has the characteristic of congealing here and there. The image is not only eloquent [badii((], but also founded on everyday observation. (189-90)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} This verse feels like one of the 'worst of all worlds' kind. Just consider the state of things. My house (or prison cell) has endured the hugest possible flood. (That flood may well have been caused by my weeping, which would add an extra layer of prior misery to the scenario.) The proof of the magnitude of this flood is that the waters reached up as high as the 'crevicework'; crevice-work is, for privacy and improved ventilation, located right up near the ceiling. (Or, the flood may have been so devastating as to create its own 'crevice-work' openings in the wall.) A flood so destructive ought to have had at least the 'advantage' of clearing away all obstacles (like intact walls) that hindered a free view. Surely now, amidst the ruins, I will be able to indulge my 'relish for spectacle'? Alas, no-I am so peculiarly ill-fortuned that congealed, left-over foam from the flood has blocked the openings in the walls, so that I can't even have the satisfaction of sight. The foam has blocked the openings the way cotton does; as Naiyar Masud, observes in {87,4}, cotton was used to block the 'crevice-work', in order to create a darkened, inaccessible chamber. My complaint is not of the wreckage and desolation itself, but only of this thwarting of the 'relish for spectacle'. (For a manifesto about the importance of vision, see {48,9}.) For more on the nature of 'crevice-work', see {64,4}. When Ghalib thinks of crevice-work, he seems to think of it repeatedly: in this ghazal we have the present verse, and {113,4}, and {113,6}, with the rhyming elements 'in the

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crevice-work'; see also {87,3} and {87,4}, with the rhyming elements 'not in the crevice-work'. Am I detached and philosophical, and thus seeking to take a larger view? Am I numb with shock, and trying to reorient myself? Am I indifferent to the fate of my house or cell, and interested only in the possible sight of the beloved in the world outside? Do I actively enjoy the spectacle of ruin and devastation, since it makes the outer world resemble my own heart? Any or all of these, of course, with other possibilities as well. This verse reminds me of {111,12}, in which the speaker's obsessive worry about an extremely minor aspect of a awful situation creates a genuinely humorous effect. Here the effect is not so much humorous as-- well, opaque. We lack information. We can't really gauge the speaker's mood. We see the verse as though we were trying to look at some 'spectacle' through a screen of cottony foam.

{113,3} vadii((at-;xaanah-e bedaad-e kaavish'haa-e mizhgaa;N huu;N nagiin-e naam-e shaahid hai mire har qa:trah ;xuu;N tan me;N 1) I am the trust-room of the cruelty of the movements of the eyelashes 2) every drop of my blood in the body is a {precious stone / signet} with the name of the {beautiful one / witness}

Notes: nagiin: 'A precious stone; --a precious stone set in a ring; --a ring, (esp.) a signet-ring; -- what fits or sits well'. (Platts p.1152) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, every drop of blood in my body is a jewel/signet on which the needles of the eyelashes have engraved the beloved's name, and I am a treasure-house of all those jewels/signets, for on every drop her seal has been made. (121-22)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that I am a trust-holder of the movements of the eyelashes of the beloved. The way a seal is placed upon a trust, in the same way on my drops of blood the seals of the movement of bhe beloved's eyelashes have been placed. (172)

Bekhud Mohani: Every drop of blood in my body is a jewel/signet of the beloved's name. That is, on every drop her name is written. So it's as if I'm a trust-chamber of the beloved's eyelashes. That is, the trust of the beloved's eyelashes is in every drop of blood, and all this blood will turn into tears and flow out in remembering her. This verse shares the meaning of the following verse; only the style of expression has been changed: {16,1}. (228)

Arshi: Compare {16,1}. (221)

FWP: This verse offers an enjoyably clever deployment of the legal imagery of trust, safeguarding, labelling, witnessing. I myself am the bank vault in which the cruelty of the movements of the beloved's eyelashes is preserved. How? Because the cruelly irresistible movements of her eyelashes have worked like engraving tools, engraving her name into every single drop of my blood the way one would carve letters on a precious stone, a signet ring, or a personal seal. And further to assure my reliability, the beloved is identified as a shaahid, which is also a legal term for a 'witness'; for more on this term, see {98,6}. Since I hold in trust countless blood-drops that are indelibly marked as belonging to someone else, my behavior is controlled by that legal obligation: my life is emphatically not my own.

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The piercing power of the eyelashes is a ghazal commonplace. The beloved's eyelashes sometimes pierce the blood-drops completely through, to make a set of coral prayer-beads, as in {10,2}; this is an aspect of their general nature as spears or arrows. As arrows, they are shot from the bow of the eyebrow, as are (piercing) glance-arrows; for discussion see {62,3}. For the notion of glances as eyelashes, see {111,10}. Bekhud Mohani and Arshi are right to point to {16,1} for comparison, since it works with the same basic imagery: each drop of blood as individually, accountably, held in trust for the beloved's eyelashes. Yet the present verse goes beyond it, and performs an elegant twist of its own: here, the delicate up-and-down movements of the fluttering eyelashes don't pierce, but engrave. A whole new domain of metaphor is thus opened up for exploration.

{113,4} bayaa;N kis se ho :zulmat-gustarii mere shabistaa;N kii shab-e mah ho jo rakh duu;N punbah diivaaro;N ke rauzan me;N 1) {how/ to whom} would be expressed, the darkness-diffusing of my bedchamber! 2) it would be a moonlit night if I would put cotton in the crevice-work of the walls

Notes: gustarii: 'Spreading, scattering, strewing; diffusing; dispensing'. (Platts p. 910) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in my black room a bit of cotton would seem to be the moon. (122)

Bekhud Mohani: The night of difficulty in my house is so dark that no one can express it. In short, if cotton would be put in the crevice-work, then it would seem that the moon had come out. The word :zulmat-gustarii is worthy of praise. That is, darkness has spread around, has pervaded. Crevice-work is closed with cotton so that light would not come in. The thing through which darkness occurs, here it itself is giving light, and that too, such light-- as if the moon had come out. (229)

Arshi: Compare {87,4}. (221)

Naiyar Masud: [See also his comments about this verse in conjunction with {87,4}.] In the verse it's not merely the pervasive darkness in the house that is being mentioned; rather, it's being said that my house is diffusing darkness.... From my house darkness is emerging and keeps spreading all around outside. This outward-spreading darkness is emerging from the crevice-work of my walls. If the crevice-work were closed up with cotton, then the darkness wouldn't spread outward from my house and make the atmosphere outside dark. When the spreading outward of darkness from my house through the crevice-work is stopped, then outside will be the state of a moonlit night. Outside-- not in my bedchamber.... It's clear that in this situation, who can tell from where this darkness is coming? And if anyone would even want to tell, then to whom would he tell it? Who would believe that there can be a fountain of darkness, and darkness too, like light, can emerge from one place and spread for long distances? [The only way to prove it would be by putting cotton into the crevice-work and observing the results.] (170-73)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY

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For more on 'crevice-work' and the general themes of this verse, see {113,2} (and {64,4}). For the closest possible parallel verse, see {87,4}. In his wonderful analysis, Naiyar Masud has provided the real key to the verse. The commentators all agree that the verse describes the darkness within my 'bedchamber'-- which in Urdu is literally, and very appropriately, a 'night-place' [shabistaa;N]. But only Naiyar Masud takes the necessary further step-- a step not only warranted, but even in fact required, by the phrase 'darkness-diffusing' [:zulmat-gustarii]. (Consider the definition above; if we don't adopt Naiyar Masud's reading, we have no use for the word gustarii.) His analysis is so persuasive, it makes such a rich and excellent meaning, that the moment we grasp it, we can't not read the verse through its lens. His reading turns what might otherwise appear (as it does to Nazm and the other commentators) a straightforward, rather conventional verse, into a fresh, powerful, vivid, and astonishing one. He envisions the bedchamber as the opposite of a lamp: something that actually diffuses darkness beyond its own walls and into the whole outer world. Thus we can read 'it would be a moonlit night' literally (as describing the outside world) as well as metaphorically (as describing my bedchamber). Closing up the crevice-work with cotton would then become a gesture of protection toward the larger world. Although, as Naiyar Masud points out, who would believe it? The inexpressibility trope itself works perfectly here.

{113,5} nikohish maana((-e berab:tii-e shor-e junuu;N aa))ii hu))aa hai ;xandah-e a;hbaab ba;xyah jeb-o-daaman me;N 1) contempt forbade the irregularity/disorder of the tumult of madness 2) the companions' smile has become the stitching in neck-opening and garment-hem

Notes: nikohish : 'Spurning, rejecting, despising; chiding; reproach, blame; scorn, contempt; rejection'. (Platts p.1149) be-rab:t : 'Irregular, contrary to rule'. (Platts p.203) shor : 'Cry, noise, outcry, exclamation, din, clamour, uproar, tumult, disturbance'. (Platts p.736) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The blame of companions forbade the tumult, as if the companions' smile became the stitching of the collar [garebaa;N]. But by 'smile' is meant 'teethbaring smile' [;xandah-e dandaan-numaa], so that it would acquire a similitude with stitching. (122)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my companions' blame has proved to be a halting force for the tumult of madness, and their teeth-baring smile has become the stitching of my torn collar [chaak-e garebaa;N]. The meaning is that the taunts of friends have prevented me from wandering. (172)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, when from fear that the companions would laugh at my desperate condition, I didn't rip the collar and garment-hem into shreds, then it was as if blame had halted the anxious state of the tumult of madness. [Or:] The tumult of madness did not become less because of companions' blame. That is, every time they laughed, my madness increased, so that it was as if the stitching of collar and hem had become the companions' smiles. That is, on the one hand their lips opened, on the other hand the stitching of my collar was taken out. (229)

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FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} MADNESS: {14,3} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} The commentators assume that the contempt is felt by the companions for the lover; but it's also possible that the reference is to the contempt or rejection he feels toward them; perhaps they aren't worthy of the sight of the full effects of his passion. Consider {19,1} and {7,6}, in which the lover seems to take a patronizing, superior attitude toward his naive and incompetent friends: what a lot of things he knows that they don't! In the present verse too, he is perhaps secretly glorying in their fatuous unawareness of his future collar-ripping plans. (Mutual contempt between him and them, of course, would be the most piquant solution of all.) Why did the companions' smiles become stitching in the collar and garmenthem? Possibly because they were 'teeth-baring smiles' of contempt, as Nazm says, so that the rows of white teeth were like stitches; and the intimidated lover thought it better to hide his madness. Or possibly because the lover's patronizing, disdainful desire to keep his naive companions happy and smiling caused him to temporarily, outwardly, restrain his madness. But above all, because his companions' smiles, like the stitches in the lover's collar, are doomed to last only a very short time. Just as the lover persistently and incorrigibly rips open his collar, so will he persistently and incorrigibly (and disdainfully?) disappoint and baffle his friends, turning their shortlived, hopeful smiles to frowns of frustration. If their smiles are later renewed, so will be their frustration, since the lover's fate is ineluctable. Their smiles, like his own sighs (as in {111,11}), can only make a vain show of 'stitching up' the constantly renewed rips in his garments. This verse gave me the urge to check back on occurrences of 'smile'; so far, every single one has been in a context of hostility, pity, contempt, or some other kind of negative emotion. (I've added 'smile' to the SETS list.) Smiles join people together, they sew up or mend any rips in the social fabric; as stitching-up and covering-over devices, they are the opposite of 'disorder' or 'irregularity' [be-rab:tii]. As symbols of decorous, compliant self-presentation in public, smiles are also the opposite of 'tumult' and 'madness'. They achieve something-- a limited something, for a limited time. Then they are doomed, like the stitches in the lover's collar with which they are identified. The tumult of madness, and also the presence of real (and maybe even mutual?) contempt, will soon undermine any show of cheerful social conformity. 'Contempt' [nikohish] is, after all, a remarkably strong and stark word.

{113,6} hu))e us mihr-vash ke jalvah-e tim;saal ke aage par-afshaa;N jauhar aa))iine me;N mi;sl-e ;zarrah rauzan me;N 1) before that sun-faced one's glory/appearance of/for resemblance, became 2) the polish-lines in the mirror wing-fluttering, like/resembling dust-grains in crevice-work

Notes: tim;saal : 'Resemblance, likeness, picture, portrait, image, effigy'. (Platts p.336) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The subject of 'became' is 'polish-lines', and 'wing-fluttering' is adjectival. The gist is that the way when a ray of sunlight falls, the dust-grains in the crevice-work are wing-fluttering, in the same way from the reflection [((aks] of that sun-faced one, the polish-lines in the mirror are wing-fluttering. (122)

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Bekhud Mohani: The way when rays of sunlight fall on them, dust-grains in the crevice-work writhe around, in the same way the polish-lines in the mirror, when the reflection fell on them, became restless or began to dance. That is, the radiance/appearance of the beloved has an effect on everything-- so much so that it even affects a metal [faulaadii] mirror (because polish lines are only in a metal mirror). (229)

Faruqi: The beloved's beauty has a magnet-like pull [and on an iron mirror, too]. When the radiance falls on the mirror, the grains in the polish-lines, fluttering their wings, try to emerge and move toward the beloved. In the same way a ray of sun too has a pull. When it falls on the dust-grains in the crevice-work, the dust-grains can be seen to move, as if they are being drawn toward the sun.... The nearness of beauty makes the heart restless. This testimony is common in eastern and western poetry. The way the nearness of a ray of sun makes the dust-grains restless and quivering, and they are seen fluttering and taking flight, in the same way the nearness of the beloved's beauty has made the polish-lines on the mirror moving and restless: {29,2}.... The mirror has to the beloved the same relationship that the crevice-work has to the sun. That is, a ray of the sun, passing through the crevice-work, illumines the whole chamber. The beloved's glory brings the mirror to life.... [Another meaning can be elicited that somewhat resembles that of {87,3}.] (191-93)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} JAUHAR: {5,4} MIRROR: {8,3} ZARRAH: {15,12} Well, this one is complexly put together, with all the appropriate imagery marshalled and every hair in place, but somehow (for this very reason?) just a little mechanical in feeling. It's not open-ended; it's solvable like a puzzle. Faruqi suggests comparison to {87,3}. I would add {17,4}, in which the polish-marks want to become eyelashes, which also flutter like wings. Dust-motes in bright sunlight appear to dance; this would be especially the case in the openings in the crevice-work [rauzan], which would put the dustmotes in a series of small 'spotlights' surrounded by the darker inner wall of the room. Dust-motes are lively, insubstantial, casual, quivering, hovering, darting here and there with every tiny breath of air. They are the very essence of unattached, delicate, floating responsiveness. On the nuances of rauzan , 'crevice-work', see {64,4}, and the earlier references in this ghazal. Polish-marks [jauhar] on a metal mirror are the complete opposite of dustmotes in crevice-work: they are static, metallic, incised, confined, linear, immutable, produced deliberately by hard scrubbing. They are the very essence of durability, stolidness, rigidity, one-dimensionality. Crevice-work in a wall is open, transparent, and in no danger of degradation in quality; a metal mirror is closed, opaque, and subject to verdigris that requires constant scrubbing to keep it at bay. Yet Ghalib has shown us affinities between dust-motes and polish-marks, crevice-work and mirrors-- because of further, more fundamental affinities between the beloved and the sun. The commentators have explained these, and it's clear how it all fits together: in their mutual relationships the beloved's likeness to the sun endows the polish-marks on the mirror with a likeness to the dust-motes in the crevice-work. Which brings us to my favorite feature of the verse: its wordplay about wordplay. In the first line, we have tim;saal as a quality of the beloved's; in

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the second line, from the same root we have mi;sl. To say that something is mi;sl-e something else is so common an expression for 'like' or 'resembling' that it's normally almost invisible. But here, it is foregrounded by the prominence of its cousin tim;saal in the first line. The beloved's glory/appearance of or for 'likeness' or 'resemblance' is what sets all lesser likenesses or resemblances going. Thanks to the multivalence of the i.zaafat, she has either a glory 'of' resemblance (to the brilliance of the sun); or a glory 'for' resemblance, a power to generate or invite or compel in the polishmarks resemblance to dancing dust-motes-- that is, to some of the least plausible simile-material that could possibly be adduced for them. Or, even more radically, the beloved might be 'sun-faced' [mihr-vash] not as a resemblance at all, but in the most literal sense: her face might act as the sun, or even be the sun; perhaps there is no other sun than her face. So her glorious power of inducing resemblance might be the only life-force in the universe, as her beauty transmits life and elicits life-like behavior from everything within its range.

{113,7} nah jaanuu;N nek huu;N yaa bad huu;N par .su;hbat mu;xaalif hai jo gul huu;N to huu;N gul;xan me;N jo ;xas huu;N to huu;N gulshan me;N 1) I wouldn't know if I'm virtuous or evil, but the company [around me] is contrary-2) if I'm a rose, than I'm in the furnace; if I'm straw, then I'm in the garden

Notes: mu;xaalif: 'Contrary, opposite, adverse; unfavourable, unsuitable, uncongenial; repugnant, dissentient [=dissenting]; contradictory'. (Platts p.1011) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The rose finds its springtime by remaining in the garden, and the straw finds its show of glory in the furnace. If the rose is in the furnace, then it's useless; and if the straw is in the garden, then it's a burden. And my state too is that of 'contrary company'. (122)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I can't tell at all whether I'm good or bad, but I've been destined for the company of contrary men. That is, if I'm a flower, then I'm in the oven; and if I'm dry grass, then I'm in the garden. (172)

Bekhud Mohani: It wouldn't be strange if Mirza had composed this verse in Calcutta, when he was quarreling with Qatil's pupils.... I don't know whether in the eyes of God I'm good or bad, but I certainly know that if I'm good, then this world is a hell for me... and if I'm bad, then this world to me is Paradise. Because in comparison to the pain of Hell, the pain of the world is better than the repose of Paradise. (230)

Faruqi: [See reference in {87,11}.]

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES; WORDPLAY == TRANSLATABLES FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Bekhud Mohani makes a stab at a biographical explanation, but unfortunately for his intuitions, the verse dates from more than ten years earlier than the Calcutta trip. (These problems are common with such wistful but vain attempts to take a 'natural poetry' approach to the classical ghazal.)

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For a brief survey of the Calcutta trip and the quarrels over Qatil, see Russell and Islam, pp. 45-50. In fact, Ghalib has a number of verses expressing more or less alienation from his surroundings; see {62,2} for a prominent example. But surely the real charm of this verse is its lovely wordplay. Look at the pairs he offers us: gul and gulshan, gul and gul;xan, the obviously spectacular set gulshan and gul;xan, and even ;xas and gul;xan. When we consider that all these are achieved without any sacrifice of meaning or fluency, how could we fail to enjoy such artistry? Moreover, if we consider the larger structure of the verse, it's clearly framed to be repetitive, rhythmic, and also reflective of a kind of confusion. The first line sets up a radical uncertainty-- I wouldn't know if I'm good or bad. The only thing I'm really able to say is that I'm in the wrong place. Then, in true mushairah style, we have to wait to hear more about this intriguing notion. In the second line, we find the speaker's situation presented with the plodding explicitness of somebody trying to make sense of a riddle. The line falls into two halves with identical grammatical structures. And what structures! Ghalib has contrived to use 'am' [huu;N] no fewer than four times in the line (and two more times in the first line), although he could easily have reduced the number. The effect of all this repetition is laborious and, paradoxically, uncertain. The speaker doesn't at all know what he is (good? bad? rose? straw?), or where (furnace? garden?), and the more times he tries to explain his dilemma, the more confused he sounds. He almost sounds like somebody with amnesia, or somebody waking up from a coma. Everything around him is confusing, and he feels thoroughly bewildered. The only thing that emerges with clarity, and that only needs to be firmly stated once, is that he's in the wrong place, the wrong company-everybody around him is hostile and/or repugnant and/or contrary. He's woken up into a kind of nightmare society. Is it his fault (is he 'evil'?), or theirs? Is he better than they, or worse? It hardly matters. Either way, in such society he'll always be alone-- as every passionate, intransigent lover in every society is always alone.

{113,8} hazaaro;N dil diye josh-e junuun-e ((ishq ne mujh ko siyah ho kar suvaidaa ho gayaa har qa:trah ;xuu;N tan me;N 1) the turmoil of the madness of passion gave me all the thousands of hearts 2) every drop of blood in [my] body, having become black, became a suvaidaa

Notes: suvaidaa: '(dim. of saudaa)...The black part or grain of the heart, the heart's core; --original sin. (Platts p.704) saudaa: 'The black bile (one of the four humours of the body);... melancholy; hypochondria; frenzy, madness, insanity; love'. (Platts p.695) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Every drop of blood became a suvaidaa; and since the suvaidaa is in the heart, then it's as if thanks to the turmoil of madness, I've received all the thousands of hearts. (122)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the turmoil of madness has bestowed upon us all the thousands of hearts. That is, since because of madness the blood became black, every drop of it has become a suvaidaa. The suvaidaa is always a black spot in the heart. (172)

Bekhud Mohani: Every drop of blood, because of the turmoil of madness [saudaa], turned black and became a suvaidaa. And the suvaidaa is in the heart. So it's as if

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every drop of my blood is a heart, which is filled with the madness [saudaa] of passion. (230)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY MADNESS: {14,3} For general discussion and examples of suvaidaa, see {3,2}. Despite (or perhaps because of) traditional location of the suvaidaa in the very center of the heart, Ghalib enjoys moving it around: in {93,1} there's a suvaidaa-e dil-e chashm, in the 'heart of the eye'. And in {96,2}, the xaal-e kunj-e dahan, the 'beauty-spot at the corner of the mouth', has its own suvaidaa. In the present verse, as a sort of limit case, every drop of blood in the speaker's body turns into a suvaidaa. How? By first turning into black bile [saudaa], as a symptom of madness or melancholia. In the classic Greek medical system, when this humour is dominant one suffers from 'melancholy' (literally, 'black bile'). In Urdu, however, the chief meaning of this (Arabic-derived) saudaa is 'madness'. (There's another saudaa, from the Persian, that has to do with mercantile activity; that's entirely separate and has no connection with the Arabic sense.) So once every drop of blood has become 'black' from the madness of passion-- and Ghalib carefully uses siyah, so as to keep the wordplay suggestive rather than explicit-- the body is full of tiny black spots, each of which can be construed as a suvaidaa, with presumably its accompanying heart. The use of hazaaro;N (rather than merely hazaar) emphasizes the totality of the transformation. This verse, like so many, relies on the oral poetics so characteristic of mushairah performance. The first line is piquant and strange; but it can go nowhere until we hear the second. Only after a properly suspenseful delay are we provided in the second line with the actual physical process, the objective correlative that underlies the conclusion in the first line.

{113,9} asad zindaanii-e taa;siir-e ulfa:t'haa-e ;xuubaa;N huu;N ;xam-e dast-e navaazish ho gayaa hai :tauq gardan me;N 1) Asad, I am a prisoner of the impressions/effects of the kindnesses/intimacies of beautiful ones 2a) the curve of the hand of graciousness has become a neck-ring on [my] neck 2b) the noose in the hand of graciousness has become a neck-ring on [my] neck

Notes: ;xam: 'A bend, curve, crook; a curl, knot, ringlet; a coil, fold, ply; crookedness, curvature; bending, flexure; --the part of a noose which encircles the neck; a noose; --the upper arm'. (Platts p.493) :tauq: 'A neck-ring; a collar (of gold, &c., for ornament; or of iron, &c., for punishment; or worn as a badge of servitude); a necklace; a yoke'. (Platts p. 754) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when the beloveds, out of graciousness and kindness, placed their arms around my neck, they became a neck-collar for me, and placed me in bondage. And the impressions of their graciousness became a prison cell for me. And in reality there is neither prison cell, nor neck-collar. (122)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says: oh Asad, the impression of the love of beautiful ones has become a prison for me, and in that the beloveds out of graciousness have put their arms around my neck, that is acting as a neck-ring around the throat. The meaning is that I am a captive of love. (173)

Bekhud Mohani: I am not in the control of beautiful ones because of the compulsion of the heart. Rather, they have put their arms lovingly around my neck. This very putting of the arms has become a neck-ring around my neck. That is, the beautiful ones themselves want me; otherwise, I'm not in anyone's power. (230)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY What a marvelously ambiguous verse! The double meanings of ;xam, added to the double meanings of :tauq (see above for definitions), combine to produce some wonderful permutations. Here are only some of them: = the beloveds' graciously extended hands have placed me under such a heavy burden of gratitude that their very curve has become like a neck-ring such as chained prisoners wear = the beloveds' graciously extended hands have so captivated me that I feel their very curve as a proud ornamental necklace, a token admitting me to their service; it is an honor to be one of their retainers and wear their livery = the beloveds' show of kindnesses and intimacies have set a trap for me; I have been lured close, and now those gracious (?) hands have placed a noose of captivity around my neck = the beloveds are inherently tricky, crooked, convoluted, 'bent': they have cold-bloodedly ensnared me with a show of kindnesses and intimacies and extended hands, and thus their trickery has resulted in my bondage For more on :tauq, see {54,1}. Unlike the commentators, I'm not convinced that the beloveds actually place their arms around the lover's neck. That seems like overkill, and indeed almost vulgar, especially since they are in the plural. It is more true to their tyrannical elegance that they would merely crook a finger to beckon from a distance, or give a vague benevolent wave of the hand, or make an affirmative gesture of some lofty kind. For an equally complex verse along similar lines, based on the imprisoning effects of the beloved's curls, see {19,6}.

Ghazal 114 7 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: ar me;N ;xaak nahii;N composed 1826; Hamid p. 93; Arshi #101; Raza p. 263

{114,1} maze jahaan ke apnii na:zar me;N ;xaak nahii;N sivaa-e ;xuun-e jigar so jigar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) the pleasures of the world, in my own view, are {nothing at all / not 'dust'} 2a) except for [drinking] the blood of the liver-- and then, in the liver there’s '{nothing at all / not 'dust'} 2b) except for the blood of the liver, well, in the liver there's {nothing at all / not 'dust'} 2c) except for the blood of the liver, well, there's {no / not even} dust in the liver

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Notes: ;xaak : 'Dust, earth; ashes; --little, precious little, none at all, nothing whatever'. (Platts p.484) sivaa : (postposition) 'Except, save, but, besides, other than, over and above, further than'. (Platts p.690) ;xuun-e jigar piinaa : 'To suppress (one's) feelings, restrain (one's) emotion, or anger, or grief, &c.; --to consume (one's own) life-blood; to vex or worry (oneself) to death'. (Platts p.497) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: There's no pleasure at all [;xaak bhii mazah nahii;N] in the world's eating and drinking. Indeed, although there's relish in drinking the blood of the liver [;xuun-e jigar piinaa], there's no blood at all in the liver. The use of 'thus' [so] is now being abandoned. (122)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the enjoyment of the world's eating and drinking is, in my eyes, nothing [;xaak bhii nahii;N]. That is, I don't get any pleasure [;xaak mazaa] at all. Although in drinking the blood of the liver, there was always pleasure; but now there's nothing at all [;xaak bhii nahii;N] in the liver. That is, in the liver there's no blood left. I've devoured it all. (173)

Bekhud Mohani: Besides drinking the blood of the liver, all the world's pleasures are trifling, in my eyes. But it's a pity that now in the liver there's not even a trace of blood. That is, in our view only experiencing disasters and tests, and enduring them, was an enjoyable task. But now there's no strength left for enduring cruelty. Now our life is useless. (230)

Arshi: Compare {166,5}. (226)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS FOOD: {6,4} (?) (just for fun) JIGAR: {2,1} This ghazal uses one of the longest, most demanding sets of rhyming elements that Ghalib ever adopted: it has a rhyme of ar , followed by a refrain of me;N ;xaak nahii;N ; the two together take up, most unusually for Ghalib, almost half of the metrical line (7 syllables out of 15). The commentators read the verse with enjambement: as a statement one and a half lines long, followed by a statement half a line long. I despise all the world's pleasures except 'the blood of the liver'; and I have no 'blood of the liver'. This, (2a), is a fine reading, and very Ghalibian. Yet since most verses avoid enjambement, we should surely also consider (2b). Ghalib has so many verses in which the two lines make independent statements, and the relationship between them has to be determined by the reader. If we read the two lines separately, then there would be two independent statements: in my eyes the pleasures of the world are nothing; and, my liver is good for nothing except producing 'blood of the liver' (for me to weep away, or bleed away, or 'drink'). Perhaps it's because my liver is shot that I look with a jaundiced (sorry!) eye on the world's pleasures? And then, the reading (2b) inevitably provides another, literal sense: 'in the liver, there's no dust except the blood of the liver' (2c). The liver would be empty, without even dust in it, except for the blood of the liver-- which, in my state of disaffection, counts as dust? which has turned into dust through my weakness? Blood and dust are compared and contrasted in {7,4} as well.

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There are the usual Ghalibian subtleties: is producing and consuming the 'blood of the liver' to be ranked among the pleasures of the world (as the only one of them with any value)? Or is it to be contrasted to them (it has value, they do not)? But surely the real enjoyment of the verse is in its idiom-play. The idiom ;xaak (see definition above), or kyaa ;xaak (as in {87,1}), or ;xaak bhii nahii;N (as in {67,3}), is also evocative on a literal level-- worldly pleasures are as useless as dust (a vivid reminder of mortality); the blood of the liver is dust, or as worthless as dust; or the liver is so empty and incapable of fortitude by now, or so generally worthless to a world-despiser like me, that there's nothing to it except a doomed little clot of blood. Then there is the second, latent idiom: 'to drink the blood of the liver' [;xuune jigar piinaa] (or sometimes khaanaa ), with the range of meanings given above, including both the suffering of intense vexation, anger, frustration-and the extra suffering of suppressing such emotions. Rather than enjoying worldly food and drink, I 'drink the blood of the liver'-- or rather, did when I could get it, since now I apparently can't (2a). As we in the ghazal world know, the manufacture of the 'blood of the liver' is all that keeps the heart in business; on this see {30,2}. The speaker's liver is a nonstop blood-producer, bringing him the only joy he knows: the joy of suffering, and of morbidly suppressing that suffering. Is this a worldly, or an anti-worldly, joy? Is it part of his living, or part of his dying? His liver contains and provides absolutely nothing else except blood. As a rule, 'possession of a liver' [jigar-daarii] is a measure of dignity, control, selfcommand (for an example, see {21,11})-- but not, of course, in this case, since the liver in question is, if not solely devoted to blood-production, either full of blood/'dust', or full of nothing at all. ('Oh, the liver? There's nothing in that.') Not a bad range of possibilities for this opening-verse to extract! Once room has been made for two such restrictive, challenging sets of rhyming elements, a mere sixteen syllables remain for actual use.

{114,2} magar ;Gubaar hu))e par havaa u;Raa le jaa))e vagarnah taab-o-tavaa;N baal-o-par me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) perhaps upon [their/my] having turned into dirt/dust, wind/desire might carry [them/me] away 2) otherwise, strength and power in wing and feather-- {nothing at all / not 'dust'}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: magar means 'perhaps'. The affinity of ;Gubaar and ;xaak is providing beauty. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: In our wing and feathers no strength at all has remained. Now if we would arrive at the garden, or the nest, then it would be perhaps after dying and turning to dust, if the breeze had pity on us. This is the limit of ardor for arriving in the garden, that when in life no hope remains, then to comfort his heart he says, it won't be strange if after dying, my dust would reach the garden. The word 'perhaps' [magar] tells us that he's not confident even of that. (231)

Faruqi: First of all, please consider the verbal wordplay [ri((aayat-e laf:zii]. There is a .zil((a and an affinity. In the first line, there is the connection of .zil((a between par and u;Raa . Among ;Gubaar , havaa , u;Raa , and ;xaak there

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is the connection of affinity. Now let's come to the meaning. The apparent interpretation is absolutely clear.... But the question is, why such a longing for flight? It can be assumed that the speaker of the verse is the traditional bird of Urdu poetry who is pining in a cage, but in the verse there's no hint of a cage, only the mention of there being no strength in wing and feather. Thus we can say that the speaker is a bird, and the bird is a metaphor for man. For a bird, flight is a metaphor for freedom and perfection. For man, flight is a metaphor for being free of the bonds of creation and the narrowness of life. So then, what is meant by there being no strength in wing and feather? It's clear that what's meant are those coercions and subjections that are man's fate. If this is so, then in flight (that is, being free of those coercions), what thing can be of help? It's clear that this freedom can only be obtained through death. Thus the matter arrives again at the same place: when I die and become dust, that is when I am free of the prison of existence, only then will the perfection of life be possible. Now here the verse adopts an absolutely new metaphorical style. What is the goal of life? To fly like dust. Not simply to fly, but rather to fly the way grains of dust scatter and spread in every direction. This because there's no other aspect of freedom. The goal of perfection of life is possible only when life would not remain. Thus now to turn to dust and fly is the perfection of madness-- that is, a symbol for the perfection of life. To turn to dust or dirt and fly, is the final state of the perfection of indivuality. Because dust is completely free, and is spread everywhere. Having become nonexistent, the 'handful of dust' becomes present everywhere, because it spreads in the world through all the four directions. But in becoming dust and being carried away by the breeze is an expression of this paradox and this creative melancholy: that I was not able to fly like this, nor to reach the beloved's street, nor to become free of the restrictions of time and place. The only thing possible is that when I die, the wind might carry me away, and perfect me. To live in the true sense is certainly to die. (194-95)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Faruqi has done a lovely job on this one, enhancing the mystery and depth of a verse that's already remarkable for its truly exceptional wordplay. Faruqi mentions some of it, but I'd like to add a bit more. In the first line we have hu))e and havaa (which is written exactly like hu))aa ). In the first line we have par as 'upon', and in the second par as 'wing'. Notice too that the verb u;Raa le jaana , which I've had to translate as 'to carry away', literally means 'to cause to fly and bear away', thus echoing the wing and feather imagery perfectly. And as Faruqi notes, ;Gubaar and ;xaak both mean 'dust', though the latter here has chiefly its idiomatic meaning (on this see {114,1}. In its hauntingness and strange vision of dust-flight this verse reminds me of {61,7}. But that one is much brighter and less melancholy. Another good verse for comparison is {158,4}.

{114,3} yih kis bihisht-shamaa))il kii aamad aamad hai kih ;Gair-e jalvah-e gul rah-guzar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) of which paradise-qualities-possessor is this the imminent-arrival? 2a) that other than the glory/appearance of the rose, in the roadway -{nothing at all / not 'dust'} 2b) that other than the glory/appearance of the rose, there’s no dust in the roadway

Notes: shamaa))il: 'Excellences, virtues, talents, abilities; dispositions; qualities; customs; --northerly winds'. (Platts p.733)

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jalvah: 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the roadway there is no dust, there is the glory/appearance of the rose. (123)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, which possessor of paradise-qualities is on the way, such that except for the glory/appearance of the rose, there's no dust in the roadway? The meaning is that in paradise there will not be dust. From the wordplay of 'paradise-qualities', for there to be no dust in the world either except the glory/appearance of the rose, is not devoid of pleasure. (173)

Bekhud Mohani: The Lord knows which possessor of paradise-qualities is coming, such that in the road flowers have been strewn. [Or:] To the one ardent for sight, in imagining the paradise-qualitiespossessor the whole road seems to be dressed in roses. (231)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY JALVAH: {7,4} This verse, in Ghalib's favorite interrogative inshaa))iyah style, cleverly asks a question-- which it then even more cleverly doesn't answer, but leaves us to wonder and speculate about. On the idiom ;xaak nahii;N, see {114,1}. The speaker notices that the roadway is, most unusually, free of dust; instead, it's full of the jalvah of the rose. Is this the same as being full of roses? Surely not. Rather than a stretch of roadway physically piled with flowers (and thus perhaps even impassible), lots of other possibilities are easier to imagine. The 'glory' of the rose could be an 'appearance' or public display of-- something overpoweringly roselike. A radiance resembling that of roses? An appearance like that of roses? A roseate mood, or scent, or shimmer in the air, or vibration in the atmosphere? Scattered petals on the ground, where dust would normally be? Whatever its exact nature, this rose-glory either replaces the usual dust (2a), or itself is the dust (2b), thus doubly emphasizing the 'red-carpet' treatment being prepared. And the presence of the glory/appearance of the rose, and the absence of (other) dust, cause the speaker to conclude that some possessor of 'paradise-qualities' [bihisht-shamaa))il] is arriving, and to wonder who it might be. The operative word here is surely the unusual, arresting shamaa))il. In its more obvious sense, it helps generate the implication that in paradise there's no dust, only roses, so when we notice that condition on earth we can guess that an emissary is arriving. But in its secondary meaning of 'northerly winds', it could be a flow of 'paradise-winds', which would be exactly suited to blow all the dust away and replace it with rose-glory, so that the speaker would be noticing the arrival of an unusual, divinely delightful wind rather than a literal heavenly being. My favorite possibility, though, is that the rose-glory itself isthe arriver. After all, what is the essence of the (human or even divine) beloved except the glory/appearance of an ultimate Rose? This radiance fills up the roadway completely, as it fills up heaven and earth, as it fills the lover's heart and mind. In its presence nothing at all [;xaak nahii;N] can exist-- not even dust. Is this radiance all we can see, so that we have to wonder at the rest of its identity? Ghalib has a number of 'dust' vs. 'glory/appearance' oppositions: see {7,4}.

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{114,4} bhalaa use nah sahii kuchh mujhii ko ra;hm aataa a;sar mire nafas-e be-a;sar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) what the hell-- if not she, then so be it; at least I myself would have felt some pity! 2) effect/sound, in my ineffective/soundless breath/lament-- nothing at all!

Notes: a;sar : 'Footprint; sign, mark, token, trace, track, vestige, shadow; impress, impression, influence; effect; result, consequence'. (Platts p.22) nafas : 'Breath (of life), animal life; --soul; spirit, self, person; substance, essence... --mind, thought; will, pleasure, desire'. (Platts p.1144) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To call the nafas ineffective and then say that it has no effect is, from the point of view of meaning, mere repetition. But in the idiom it's good. As in [the Arabic] 'He who kills the killed one, his is the killed one's dress' [man qatala qutailah falahu salbihi]. Turning this theme into a line, the author has made it fresh. (123)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if she didn't feel pity, then so be it-- at least I myself would have felt pity at my dire condition, in which I can't refrain from lamenting! But it's become clear that in my ineffective lament there's no effect at all. (173)

Bekhud Mohani: In my sighs there's not the least bit of effectiveness. If the beloved had no pity for my situation, then at least I would have had pity! That is, I myself would not have looked on my dire situation and lamented. Because if that lamentation continued, then one day it would be the end of me. (231)

Naim: How conceitful a conceit! I can understand if the beloved does not respond to my cries, she is acknowledged to be heartless and cruel; I cannot expect my cries to make any effect on such a person. But what about me, I don't respond to these pitiful cries either; I keep torturing myself by pursuing hopeless love. Indeed, my cries are ineffective. (Of course, the argument can now continue as follows: my cries are ineffective; I must make them effective; I must suffer more.) Note the fact that no such word as 'cry' or 'lament' has actually been used. The poet shows his disdain for his 'ineffective cry' by calling it simply 'ineffective breath'. (1972, pp. 10-11)

Faruqi: In the word be-a;sar there is an iihaam. Take a;sar to mean 'trace' [nishaan], and be-a;sar to mean 'without a trace'; now see what the verse says. nafas means 'breath'; its metaphorical [majaazii] meanings are 'melody' [na;Gmah], 'lament' [naalah], 'mourning' [shevan]. Breath is a silent action, so it makes the interpretation of nafas as a 'melody' or 'mourning' that is 'without a trace' well-grounded. Thus nafas-e be-a;sar comes to mean 'silent melody' or 'voiceless lament, silent lament'.... 'I had no pity' can have two meanings. One is that there was no effect on me myself, that is, I felt no sympathy for myself. The other meaning is that I myself had no pity on the dire condition of my heart; seeing it shattered, I would have ceased lamenting.... If it be viewed in this way, then this verse presents the theme of the denigrating of silent laments, and the praising of loud laments. After this, the stage comes in which: {6,6}. (197)

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FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; REPETITION Faruqi points out the multivalence of a;sar as suggesting not only 'effect' but also 'trace' or 'sound', so that the verse can also have a sort of 'objective correlative' for the lament's futility-- its inaudibility. (On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6}.) As he also observes, in the first line mujhii ko ra;hm aataa can mean either that 'I would have had pity for myself' (in a general way); or that 'I would have felt sorry for my heart, and stopped those (literally) heart-rending laments'. Putting ra;hm aataa in the contrafactual is a clever touch, because it forces us to decide for ourselves how the two lines connect; nothing in the grammar itself tells us. (Why would/should I have felt pity? If there had been effect/sound in the lament, which there unfortunately wasn't, then the lament would have moved me to pity.) The real pleasure of the verse as a listening experience is surely its wonderful colloquialness and naturalness. It manages to fit in three different idiomatic expressions: bhalaa (for more on this see {21,11}; nah sahii (on this see {9,4}); and ;xaak nahii;N (on its idiomatic sense see {114,1}). Yet they don't at all feel contrived or awkward. On the contrary: the verse has such a sense of gusto! It is energized by the vigor born of sheer exasperation and the explosive relief of venting one's feelings. Isn't it only right that the lover should have at least this much satisfaction? Nazm's point, which he doesn't make very clear, seems to be about the rhetorical uses of repetition, with the Arabic example cited not for its meaning but for its use of repetition.

{114,5} ;xayaal-e jalvah-e gul se ;xaraab hai;N maikash sharaab-;xaane ke diivaar-o-dar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) from the thought of the glory/appearance of the rose the wine-drinkers are 'wrecked' 2) in the door and walls of the wine-house-- nothing at all!

Notes: ;xaraab : 'Ruined, spoiled, depopulated, wasted, deserted, desolate; abandoned, lost, miserable, wretched; bad, worthless, vitiated, corrupt, reprobrate, noxious, vicious, depraved'. (Platts p.487) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, from the miraculous power of intoxication, a mustard flower has blomed [sarson phuulii hai] in the eyes. Otherwise, what is there in a winehouse? (123)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the thought of the glory/appearance of the rose means that thanks to intoxication, the wine-drinkers are becoming very drunk.... The meaning of the verse is that the thing that makes life enjoyable is love of God; otherwise, what good is this unstable world? (174)

Bekhud Mohani: To the wine-drinkers, in their intoxication, nothing but springtime is visible everywhere; otherwise, what good is a wine-house? [Or:] It's a praise of springtime, that nowadays the rakish drinkers are intoxicated only with the thought of the glory/appearance of the rose. Their intoxication is not due to wine. (231)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; WORDPLAY JALVAH: {7,4} WINE: {49,1}

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This verse is one of his marvels. Just consider some of the possibilities. In the first line, what is the status of the 'wine-drinkers' who are 'wrecked'-- or, idiomatically, extremely drunk? Here are some possibilities: =they are 'wine-drinkers' because they have already drunk a great deal of wine (thus their wild visions) =they are 'wine-drinkers' because they used to frequent the wine-house in former times (though now they no longer need it) =they are only 'wine'-drinkers metaphorically; the real 'wine' they drink is different And what is the nature of their intoxication? Here are some possibilities: =the drinkers are intoxicated from the mere process of thought itself =the drinkers are intoxicated from visualizing a particular kind of glory/manifestation of the beloved =the drinkers are intoxicated because of the Rose itself, even if it's present only in thought Then when we try to put the two independent lines together, that too we have to do on our own, with no grammatical guidance from the verse itself. If we read (1) as prior to (2), we deduce that the winehouse is empty because the fickle (former) drinkers have now abandoned it in favor of a different form of intoxication. If we read (2) as prior to (1), we find that the winehouse is so worthless (there's nothing there for us!) that the drinkers have been forced to look elsewhere. Thus the second line can have all these senses, and surely a few more besides: =the physical wine-house is now empty of customers and of wine =the physical wine-house is now desolate, ruined, shut down =the physical wine-house is contemptible and worthless =the 'door and walls' of the wine-house are worthless (only what is within them has value) =the wine-house is not necessary for intoxication ('there's nothing in it!') =wine itself, its stock in trade, is not necessary for intoxication The radical undecideability of this verse comes from the unknown relationships among several multivalent notions. The first line invokes both 'wine-drinkers' and a form of intoxication apparently quite independent of wine. The second line perhaps merely describes a condition of (physical) emptiness, or even ruin, of the wine-house door and walls; or perhaps it strongly disparages the wine-house door and walls, or the whole wine-house itself, or even wine itself. We, the readers, get to choose-- and in fact have to choose, since as usual Ghalib has cleverly denied us any guidance. How better to turn a little two-line verse into almost an encyclopedia of possible thoughts about drunkenness and wine? And all this before we even consider the particularly complex, fascinating wordplay! At the heart of it is ;xaraab . If we pair it with sharaab in the second line, we get two almost identical-looking words with close associations. If we pair it with diivar-o-dar and ;xaak and the colloquial ;xaak nahii;N (for more on this idiomatic usage see {114,1}), we get images of ruins and utter physical destruction. Then just as a perfect finishing touch, we can't help but think of its plural form ;xaraabaat , meaning literally 'ruins, desolate place', but commonly, in Urdu, 'tavern' (Platts p.488). For an example of its use in this latter sense, see {131,1}. Ghalib has a special fondness for juxtaposing dust and jalvah ; for examples, see {7,4}. This verse reminds me of {169,5}, which is a more explicit (and therefore less piquant) treatment of the idea that 'thought' is a (or even 'the'?) supreme intoxication.

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{114,6} hu))aa huu;N ((ishq kii ;Gaarat-garii se sharmindah sivaa-e ;hasrat-e ta((miir ghar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) I’ve become ashamed before the devastation-wreaking of passion! 2) except for the (vain) longing for construction, in the house there’s {nothing at all / not 'dust'}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The cause for shame is that when there's nothing, on what will passion wreak destruction? (123)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, passion is a disaster of the age. Any house in which it sets foot, it's as if it destroys and devastates it. I'm ashamed before the destructionwreakingness of passion, because in my house, except for the (vain) longing for construction, there's nothing at all more. (174)

Bekhud Mohani: Passion has come to loot. But in the house (heart) dust is flying around. Here, it will find nothing. Indeed, in my heart there is certainly the longing, 'if only the heart were full of clamors and longings, then today I wouldn't be shamed before passion!' (232)

Arshi: Compare {135,1}. (227)

FWP: SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} This is one of those verses in which the lover's concern is devoted to a seemingly peculiar, minor aspect of what is indirectly revealed to be a sweepingly awful situation. A similar case occurs in {111,12}, in which the lover worries only about having a sufficient supply of blessings for use in reply to the beloved's abuses. And in {26,5}, we see an even more direct example of what might be called 'entertainment anxiety': as a host he is worried not because his house is an empty ruin, but only because he won't be able to offer the beloved a mat to sit on if she happens to visit. Here, as a host he is worried not because his house is an empty ruin, but because Passion is expected (and is no doubt a regular visitor), and by now he's run out of Passion's favorite source of social entertainment: the chance to wreck some new part of his house (and heart, and life). What a source of social embarrassment and shame for a host, to be unable properly to entertain a guest! (For any host, but for a traditional aristocratic Indo-Muslim host very particularly, since hospitality or 'care of the guest', mihmaannavaazii , is such a cherished cultural value.) When the host dismissively mentions that all he has in the house is the '(vain) longing for construction' [;hasrat-e ta((miir], he makes it sound like some small stale commonplace item unworthy of being offered to a guest. This may indeed be so, but there could be another reason that he considers it unsuitable as an offering: it may be beyond Passion's power to destroy it. This toughness or resilience is suggested more clearly in {135,1}, another verse about the '(vain) longing for construction'; Arshi rightly suggests it for comparison, since it's particularly apt. If all you have in a destroyed house is a vain longing to rebuild it, does that count as having 'something' (because it is, after all, a genuine and persistent 'longing'), or does that merely redouble the sense of having 'nothing' (because the longing is clearly seen to be utterly vain, and inhabits only the ruined house that is its own contradiction)? Either way, it's not much to offer to a vigorous and demanding guest like Passion.

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For more on the idiomatic force of ;xaak nahii;N see {114,1}; in both literal and idiomatic senses it works excellently with the idea of a ruined, empty house.

{114,7} hamaare shi((r hai;N ab .sirf dillagii ke asad khulaa kih faa))idah ((ar.z-e hunar me;N ;xaak nahii;N 1) our verses are now only for amusement, Asad 2) it {was revealed / 'opened out'} that the profit in the presenting/petition/breadth of art-- nothing at all

Notes: .sirf : 'Purely, merely, only'. (Platts p.744) .sarf : 'Use, employment; expending; expenditure; cost'. (Platts 744) faa))idah : 'Profit, advantage, benefit, good, avail, utility, use; gain; yield; interest; value'. (Platts p. 776) ((ar.z : 'Presenting or representing; representation, petition, request, address;...Breadth, width'. (Platts p.760) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, now we compose verses only to divert the heart. We've learned that in the expression of accomplishment there's no profit at all. The meaning is that now neither do people value fine composition, nor can they understand the excellence of verses. (174)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Asad, now we only compose poetry to divert the heart. Because it has been confirmed by experience that in the expression of art there's no profit. That is, there is no one to do justice to it, or to esteem it. (232)

Baqir: People consider our verses mere casual diversions, and things with which to divert the heart. This makes it clear that there's no profit in our composing verses and expressing our art. (296)

Josh: That is, now whatever we compose, its theme is one of diversion of the heart, or a popular [((aamiyaanah] one. From this it's clear that there's no profit in composing artfully crafted verses. If there were any benefit, then why would we have renounced our style, in which our poetry arrived at the level of art? (217)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORD SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} WRITING: {7,3} Such an astonishing verse-- it looks so straightforward at first, and then opens up beyond all expectation. In the first line, we don't know for whose amusement the verses are now meant-- the poet's? the patron's? the general public's? And as Baqir's reading suggests, the judgment that the verses are only for amusement could also be taken not as one that the poet himself is making, but as one that the poet is quoting sarcastically-- one that he resents and doesn't share. In the second line, we see the elegant use that's been made of the various senses of ((ar.z : 1) there's no profit in 'presenting' one's art, in general (to the public? to anybody?) 2) there's no profit in 'humbly presenting' one's art or in any 'petitioning' (to a

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powerful patron) about one's art 3) there's no profit in creating a 'breadth' or 'scope' in one's art Meaning (3) resonates perfectly with the use of khulaa -- literally, [it] 'opened' or 'opened out'-- to mean, idiomatically, 'it was revealed, it became clear'. (On the idiomatic sense of ;xaak nahii;N , see {114,1}.) And then, if we emphasize meaning (2), the purpose of making one's art a 'petition' or offering (to a patron) is of course to obtain 'profit' [faa))idah] from his acceptance; this can mean any kind of benefit, but has at its heart a commercial sense (just as is true of 'profit' in English). The opposite of a financial 'profit' is an 'expenditure' or 'loss'-- which is a central meaning of .sarf (see above). And although the primary sense here is certainly .sirf with a zer rather than .sarf with a zabar , the wordplay is, in such a context, impossible to miss. If we don't miss it, how could Ghalib have missed it? And if he didn't want us to experience it as part of the verse, he could easily have substituted some other word for 'only'. Finally, what is the tone of this verse? Bitter? Rueful? Sarcastic? Amused? Resigned? Indifferent and dismissive? Neutral and factual? Nothing at all in the verse tells us. We have to choose a tone every time we read it, even in our own minds; and each tone reinvents the force and pleasure of the verse.

Ghazal 115 9 verses; meter G15; rhyming elements: aa))e kyuu;N composed 1853; Hamid p. 94; Arshi #116; Raza pp. 320-21

{115,1} dil hii to hai nah sang-o-;xisht dard se bhar nah aa))e kyuu;N ro))e;Nge ham hazaar baar ko))ii hame;N sataa))e kyuu;N 1) it's only/exactly a heart after all, not stone and brick-- why wouldn’t it fill up with pain? 2) we will weep a thousand times; why would anyone torment us?

Notes: hii : 'Just, very, exactly, indeed, truly, only, alone, merely, solely, altogether, outright'. (Platts p.1243) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1861:] This city [of Delhi] is very much devastated. Neither people remain, nor buildings. I will tell the booksellers, and if they find any portion [risaalah] from my poetry or prose, it will be bought and presented before Your Excellency. dil hii to hai nah sang-o-;xisht -- a friend has in his possession some remnants of my poetry that have survived from the devastation. I will get him to write out this ghazal, and will send it in the morning. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 4 p. 1498

Nazm: It's as if there's some tyranny-oppressed one, and the beloved says to him, 'If we practice tyranny, then don't moan and groan!' [and this is his reply]. And the word 'anyone' proves that in anger, he doesn't consider her worthy of being directly addressed. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: When you address somebody directly and scold him, he dislikes it more. And if you say it in an oblique way, then in addition to his understanding that he is the one addressed, it doesn't seem as bad to him. This too is a secret of human nature. (232)

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Josh: And this [indirection] is completely in accord with colloquial speech. In such situations, that's exactly how people always do talk. (218)

Arshi: This ghazal too was published in the Dihlii urduu a;xbaar, volume 15 number 7, February 13, 1853...with this introduction: A mu;xammas by Janab Sahib-e Alam Murshidzadah Bahadur Mirza Nur ud-Din with the penname 'Shahi' of whom the noble qualities have been recorded in previous newspapers: Inquiry has brought word that at the command of the servants of His Majesty, Janab Najm ud-Daulah Asadullah Khan 'Ghalib' of enchanting speech had written a ghazal this week. And that ghazal had been composed for the sake of 'joining lines', which here would be difficult, or rather impossible. The esteemed Sahib-e Alam Bahadur, with very slight reflection or hesitation, with extreme speed, prepared the mu;xammas and recited it. His Majesty caused the mu;xammas to be read five times, and was very much delighted. (240-41)

FWP: SETS == A,B; HI You can easily hear, and feel, and see, how in this verse the lines break both rhythmically and semantically right down the middle. Most of the lines in this ghazal do so (except for 5b and 9a). Note for meter fans: this meter is unusually long, and is the 'foot A / foot B // foot A / foot B' kind; both these qualities incline it to fall easily into two halves and to have a kind of quasicaesura in the middle, where an extra short 'cheat-syllable' is permitted at the end of the first half. In this verse, the cheat-syllable is present in both lines. This meter, for obvious formal reasons, lends itself very well to internal rhyme, including the fancy triple kind as in {115,3} and {116,3}. The commentators are determined to bring the beloved in, and that's undoubtedly a perfectly good way to read the verse. It can be the middle part of a quarrel; it can be direct address (to the beloved) posing as indirect address. It can be the kind of thing you mutter to yourself-- but loudly enough for the other party to hear you. But of course, it can be a lot of other things too, since there's no reference to any such context (or any context at all) in the verse itself. The first line begins by offering the ambiguities of dil hii to hai . It might be a a dismissive hii (after all, it's nothing but a heart!); but it could equally well be an emphatic or even cautionary hii (after all, it's most particularly a heart!). Naturally, there's no way of telling. Here are two readings that result: =after all, it's only a heart!-- something weak and helpless, not strong and durable like stone and brick. Naturally it would fill up with pain, being the pathetic, vulnerable, passion-wracked thing that it is. (For another such use of the phrase, see {151,2}.) =after all, it's a heart! -- something uniquely intense and mystically tuned in, not dull and soulless like stone and brick. Naturally it would experience the travails of passion; what else is the meaning of its special destiny, its power to be sensitive and empathic [narm]? Then when we consider the two halves of the second line, another two possibilities open up: = (A,B): we're already planning to weep a thousand times-- why would anybody torment us? There's no need for anybody even to take the trouble, since the same result is already guaranteed anyway. = (B,A): why would anybody torment us?-- if they do, they'll be sorry! We'll weep a thousandfold, we'll weep up such a storm that they'll rue the day they tormented us! (In this regard, consider {111,16}.) Naturally (since this is Ghalib), either reading of the first line works excellently with either reading of the second line. We are free-- or else,

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depending on your point of view, forced-- to mix and match them on our own. The anecdote Arshi tells is about how this ghazal was used as a sort of skeleton for the addition of extra lines to create a mukhammas, a longer poem in five-line stanzas. The story seems to claim that the ghazal was composed especially to make this sort of transformation difficult; but since the main point of the story is to glorify a royal relative, that claim can be taken with a grain of salt.

{115,2} dair nahii;N ;haram nahii;N dar nahii;N aastaa;N nahii;N bai;The hai;N rah-guzar pah ham ;Gair hame;N u;Thaa))e kyuu;N 1) not a temple, not {the Ka'bah / a holy place}, not a door, not a doorsill-2) we've sat down by the roadway-- why would the Other make us get up?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: For this verse, sufficient words of praise cannot be found. (123)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is a 'razor' [=sharply cutting masterpiece] among a hundred thousand razors. Every possessor of taste can find enjoyment in this, according to his taste. (174)

Bekhud Mohani: This is not the Ka'bah, it's not an idol-temple, it's nobody's door, it's nobody's doorsill. We've sat down by the roadway-- what right does the Other have to make us get up? (232)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH RELIGIONS: {60,2} In good mushairah-verse style, the first line is completely useless until (after a suitable delay, under oral performance conditions) we hear the second. But it's very piquant, isn't it? Simply the negations of four places, the first two overtly religious, the second two ambiguous (whose door? whose doorsill?). Then in the second line, we finally learn what those negations mean: they are places where the lover has not sat down. He's sat down beside the roadway instead. Such a Ghalibian choice! The roadway both is, and isn't, a 'place' in its own right. It's not comfortable or inviting, it's not designed for shelter; but it connects all those four places, and many more. The roadway keeps all the lover's options open-- if he has any. It's a symbol either of choice (perhaps he refuses to settle in any of those places), or of desperation (perhaps he has been kicked out already from all those places). And of course, the roadway is designed for movement-- what does it mean to 'sit down by' it? Is it a sign of future movement (the lover is about to get up and set out); or past movement (the lover has come this far and has halted); or continuing movement (the lover is only taking a brief rest on his journey)? Or, equally possibly, the lover may have sat himself down and decided to camp there till he dies, refusing to move anywhere at all. Why indeed would the Other make him get up? Has the Other caused him to be expelled from those four places already, and he has now found one to which he can stake a real claim? Has he deliberately avoided those four places because he knows they belong to the Other, and thus chosen the public roadway as his own domain? Is the Other a competitor in love (as he usually is), or a vengeful persecutor of some kind-- or some other, ultimate Other (nature unspecified)? And finally, does the Other in fact threaten to make him get up? The lover's question might be purely rhetorical (here on the roadway, of course he

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wouldn't make me get up!); or a sign of anxiety or premonition (does he intend to persecute me even here?); or a response to a real threat (why is he now demanding that I move on?). Consider also {15,11}, another verse about the ambiguities of sitting in a seemingly humble place.

{115,3} jab vuh jamaal-e dil-furoz .suurat-e mihr-e niim-roz aap hii ho na:zaarah-soz parde me;N mu;Nh chhupaa))e kyuu;N 1) when that heart-{illumining/inflaming} beauty, {like / with the aspect/face of} the midday sun, 2) would, its very self, be sight-melting, why would [s/he] hide [his/her] face in a veil?

Notes: furoz : 'Illumining, enlightening, kindling, inflaming'. (Platts p.780) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This can be applied to divine and human love both. (152)

Nazm: That is, she is not hidden in pardah; rather, thought and vision cannot endure her revelation and its extremity of manifestation, the way from the sun's extremity of light, the vision is weak. (123)

Bekhud Mohani: What need does the Lord have of hiding himself in pardah? Even if he should come before us, no one can endure his glory/appearance (of which the story of Mount Tur and Moses is a witness). (233)

Shadan: To bring in three rhymes other than the rhyme of the ghazal or ode, increases the rhythmic effect [tarannum]. In the third verse of the ghazal, he has brought in firoz roz soz , three rhymes other than the rhyme of the ghazal. (301)

Arshi: Compare {158,7}. (307)

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} VEIL: {6,1} As Shadan (alone, alas, among the commentators I've read) rightly points out, the rhythmic power of this verse is immediately apparent-- sonorous, hypnotic, building up beautifully to its concluding question. What a feat! Ghalib has created no fewer than three identical internal rhymes-- and none of them feels awkward or forced in any way, and their whole effect is both fluent and lofty. (For another example of such triple internal rhyme, see {116,3}.) And all these rhymes build up to that great question, in which Ghalib's trademark inshaa))iyah speech-mode is used as brilliantly as ever. In view of its innate, overpowering dazzlingness, why would the divine or human beloved hide his/her face in a veil? Here are some possible frames for the question: = we notice that the beloved is veiled, and we wonder why, since it's so unnecessary = we notice that the beloved is unveiled, and we're not surprised, since no veil is necessary = we can't tell whether the beloved is veiled or unveiled, and we meditate about the probabilities either way The first line sets up some subtle ambiguities that help to prepare us for the great question in the second line. The adjective dil-furoz can meaning 'heart-

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illumining' (something entirely desirable) or 'heart-inflaming' (something with painful and destructive as well as desirable possibilities). Then there's the elegant wordplay, really an iihaam, with .suurat-e , which is often used to mean merely that something is 'like' something. (See {53,3} for an example of this use.) That's the least-marked reading, the first time through; but of course, after we see the second line, we are struck afresh by the literal meaning of 'face', and also by the more abstract meaning of 'aspect'; both of these work to wonderful effect.

{115,4} dashnah-e ;Gamzah jaa;N-sitaa;N naavuk-e naaz be-panaah teraa hii ((aks-e ru;x sahii saamne tere aa))e kyuu;N 1a) the dagger of the glance is life-stealing, the arrow of coquetry is uneludable 1b) the life-stealing dagger of the glance, the un-eludable arrow of coquetry! 2) even the reflection of your own face-- why/how would it come before you?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is that nobody is able to come before you, whether it be some other, or your own reflection. Even if in a mirror your dagger and arrow come before you, then what state will you be in? (123-24)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, with such a face in which the dagger of the glance is life-stealing, and the arrow of coquetry is un-eludable, it's not good for anybody to come face-to-face with you. That is, whoever comes will be slain. Now if the mirror comes before you, and in it your reflection bearing dagger and arrow confronts you, then tell me, what state will you be in? (175)

Bekhud Mohani: The dagger of your glance is life-taking, and the arrows of coquetry are uneludable. Nobody should come before you; and even if the reflection of your own face comes before you, then it won't be well for it. (233)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH MIRROR: {8,3} Here is a beautiful twist on the old puzzler about the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. Your glance is a fatal dagger; your airs and graces are un-eludable; anyone or anything rash enough to come before you and look you in the eye is done for. (In fact, this makes the beloved sound like the proverbial basilisk.) So what happens if what comes before you is a mirror, bearing your own image? When the dagger of your glance duels with the reflected dagger of your glance, can there be a winner? Can there even be a survivor of such a collision-- might they not explode each other, like matter and anti-matter? Why would the reflection take such a risk and come before you? Why would you take such a risk and let the reflection come before you? This is a classic mushairah verse, ideal for oral presentation-- the first line is uninterpretable until we hear the second, and the second is uninterpretable until the 'punch' at the very end. On the colloquial sahii , see {9,4}. As for the awkward 'un-eludable', I made it up because 'inescapable', the obvious choice, is too fossilized as a general adjective in English; it has lost the sense of the chase. The literal meaning of be-panaah is 'without refuge'-- something from which there is no refuge, something that hunts you down no matter how desperately you flee.

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{115,5} qaid-e ;hayaat-o-band-e ;Gam a.sl me;N dono;N ek hai;N maut se pahle aadmii ;Gam se nijaat paa))e kyuu;N 1) the prison of life and the bondage of grief-- in essence/origin both are one 2) before death, why/how would a man find escape/release from grief?

Notes: a.sl : 'Bottom, root, origin, base, foundation; original, source; an essential, a fundamental principle; essence; element, principle; chief thing, main point, original or old state or condition; original or primary signification'. (Platts p.59) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, life and grief are the names of one single thing. Thus in life, the diminishing of grief is in principle absolutely impossible. (124)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way the prison of life causes suffering, in the same way the bondage of grief gives trouble. The root of both of these is identical. (175)

Bekhud Mohani: The reality is that 'life' is another name for 'grief'. So while we're alive, the longing to find escape/release from grief is vain. (234)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} At the heart of the verse is an iihaam involving the word a.sl . The common role of a.sl me;N in spoken Urdu is like that of 'in reality' or 'in fact' or 'in truth'; it's a sort of filler phrase that's thrown into sentences to give them convenient shape and balance. It's one that you take chiefly as the speaker's claim of seriousness and honesty. And it does work perfectly well that way in the verse. But we gradually realize that in this verse it also needs to be taken with absolute literalness. The 'prison of life' and the 'bondage of grief' are not just one, but inherently and indissolubly one. They are one in their origin, their essence, their root, their original condition (see definition above). It is their common a.sl that makes the hope of separating them so vain, so misconceived. The question in the second line serves to point out the logical error of even forming such a hope. And yet ultimately it's a verse of mood. The two fused images of captivity and helplessness turn the prospect of death into nijaat , into an 'escape' or a 'release'. It's a verse of powerful bleakness, but it wastes not the slightest energy on emotion. It's really about reasoning-- about mutually implicated entities and the logical error of trying to separate them. The sadness, fatalism, resignation in the verse are deep enough not even to rise to the surface. But they're there, and we can feel them. Compare {95,6}, another simple and bleak study of life and death.

{115,6} ;husn aur us pah ;husn-e :zann rah ga))ii buu'l-havas kii sharm apne pah i((timaad hai aur ko aazmaa))e kyuu;N 1a) beauty, and on top of it 'beauty of thought'-- the lecher’s honor was saved 1b) beauty and, based on it, 'beauty of thought'-- the lecher’s honor was saved 1c) beauty, and about him, 'beauty of thought'-- the lecher’s honor was saved 2) about herself, she has confidence-- why would she test Another?

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Notes: ;husn : 'Goodness, goodliness; comeliness, beauty, pleasingness'. (Platts p.477) ;husn-e :zann : 'A good opinion, a favourable judgment'. (Platts p.477) :zann : 'Thought, opinion, notion, idea, supposition, conjecture; suspicion, evil opinion; jealousy'. (Platts p.756) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1864:] Maulvi Sahib, what a subtle/delicate [la:tiif] meaning it has-- do it justice! Beauty of body and 'beauty of thought'-- both qualities are combined in the beloved. That is, her face is good [achchhii] and her thought [gumaan] is correct [.sa;hii;h]; she never misses the mark [kabhii ;xa:taa nahii;N kartaa]. And accordingly she thinks about herself, that 'anyone I strike never recovers, and the arrow of my sidelong glance does not miss'. Thus when she has such trust in herself, why would she test the Rival? And 'beauty of thought' has saved the Rival’s honor. Otherwise, for her part the beloved had been led into error [mu;Gaala:tah khaayaa thaa]. The Rival was not a true lover, he was a lustful man. If it had come to the point of a test, then the truth would have been revealed. (Arshi 241-42) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4 p. 1514 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar p. 268 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam p. 301

Nazm: That is, when the lustful Rival expressed passion, then without testing him she believed him. Because for one thing, the Lord had given her beauty; for another, she has 'beauty of thought' as well. That is, she considers, 'who will there be who will not desire me?'. The gist is that she has confidence in her own beauty, so why would she start testing the Rival? In this way his honor was saved. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: ;husn-e :zan : to consider everything good.... The Lord has made the beloved beautiful, and she also considers all others good in the way that she is. The beloved trusts in her own virtuousness; for this reason, she doesn't test the Rival's love. (234)

FWP: SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} Many editions have ;Gair instead of aur ; as always, I follow Arshi. In the first line, there's an astonishing tour de force: a most enjoyable tripleness to 'on that' [us pah] which can be only somewhat captured in English. One sense is 'on top of that', in addition to that, added to that (1a). Another sense is 'based on that', resting on that, relying on that (1b). Either the beloved has 'beauty of thought' simply as an add-on to her beauty of form, because she was endowed with both qualities at birth (1a); or else she has 'beauty of thought' because of her beauty of form: her own beauty and charm cause her to display 'beauty of thought' (1b). Then the third sense, which we can't capture at all in English: us pah in the first line can be taken as 'on that one', parallel to apne pah , 'on herself', in the second (1c). 'About him', she has 'beauty of thought'-- because 'about herself', she has confidence. And what exactly is this 'beauty of thought' [;husn-e :zann]? To Bekhud Mohani, it's a naive Pollyanna-ish view of goodness in the world that doesn't sound at all like the beloved as we know her. To Nazm, it seems to be an

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arrogant confidence in her own beauty. To Platts, it's 'a good opinion, a favourable judgment'. Fortunately (and all too exceptionally), we have Ghalib's own explanation: 'beauty of thought' means that her thought is correct, true, right [gumaan us kaa .sa;hii;h hai]-- so much so that she never 'errs', never 'misses the mark' [kabhii ;xa:taa nahii;N kartaa]. Thus here 'beauty' becomes a general term for 'correctness, excellence'. (For an example of this sense, consider the technical literary term ;husn-e ta((liil , literally 'beauty of causeassignment'.) But then, Ghalib also goes on to say that in this case she does err: she has been 'led into error' [mu;Gaala:tah khaayaa thaa], because she didn't test the lustful (false) lover when she should have-- and would have, if she weren't so (over)confident in her own beauty. How can it be that she never errs, yet in this case she errs? Is Ghalib just explaining casually in a letter, and would otherwise qualify one or the other of the statements? (For example, perhaps 'she never errs' should be construed to mean 'normally, she never errs'.) Or perhaps Ghalib is creating one of his (in)famous paradoxes? We have all the evidence before us, and we're forced to decide for ourselves. As ghazal readers, and especially as Ghalib readers, we have to work hard for the marvels we get. We have to develop our own 'beauty of thought'.

{115,7} vaa;N vuh ;Guruur-e ((izz-o-naaz yaa;N yih ;hijaab-e paas-e va.z((a raah me;N ham mile;N kahaa;N bazm me;N vuh bulaa))e kyuu;N 1) there, that pride in grandeur and coquetry; here, this shame/modesty of regard for character/dignity 2) in the road, where/how would we meet? in a gathering, why/how would she invite me?

Notes: ;hijaab : 'A veil; a curtain; --concealment; --modesty, bashfulness, shame'. (Platts p.474) va.z((a : 'Placing, fixing, laying, laying down.... --situation, position; disposition; nature, tenour; description, character, complexion; --condition, state'. (Platts p.1196) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Azad: It was the custom then [in Shah Hatim's time] among the ancient elders of Delhi, that once they had adopted something, they kept it up till their dying breath. And they called this 'maintaining one's consistency of style' [va.z((adaarii] or 'regard for style' [paas-e va.z((a]. This was a law that went right up there alongside the Shariat. Such self-imposed rules in some matters took on the character of strength of mind, and are a source of proper pride. (109) ==Eng. trans.: Pritchett and Faruqi, p. 125

Nazm: The 'collecting and scattering' is disorderly [;Gair-murattib]. (124)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, here, there is such regard for character that we are ashamed when meeting her in the street; and there, she's so proud of her greatness and coquetry, that she is ashamed to invite us to her gathering. (175)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, what a difficulty we have fallen into! The beloved is proud of her honor and glory; we respect our character. To meet in the road is contrary to our glory. For her to invite me to her gathering is contrary to her glory. Note:

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in this verse is a picture of the situation of the beginning of love, when respect for character still remains. (234)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE; KAHAN INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} VEIL: {6,1} The first line juxtaposes, without comment, a picture of things 'there' and a picture of things 'here'. There, all is 'pride' [;Guruur]-- pride in grandeur, pride in coquetry. Here, all is 'shame' or modesty [;hijaab]-- the shame born of one's respect for 'character', for personal style and dignity [va.z((a]. If the first line offers us 'there' with the beloved, versus 'here' with the lover, the second line offers 'in the road' versus 'in the gathering'. Just as 'there' and 'here' are opposites in every way, so both the road and the gathering prove equally, though oppositely, impossible as meeting places. Why can't the lover arrange to encounter his beloved 'by chance' on the public road? Perhaps because he is ashamed to play such vulgar and transparent tricks. Or perhaps because he feels that his own personal dignity won't permit such a public and one-sided pursuit of her. Or, just possibly, perhaps because he knows that her lofty sense of her personal dignity wouldn't permit her to speak to him in such a commonplace setting. Azad's account emphasizes the cultural value attached to dignity and consistency of personal style. For another treatment of the concept, see {116,8}. And why can't the beloved invite the lover to one of her evening gatherings? Perhaps because she's too arrogant to invite such a humble person to a lofty social occasion. Or perhaps because she's too proud to admit that she actually craves his company. What an elegant symmetry of opposites! He's too modestly dignified to shame himself by contriving to meet her on the road. She's too haughtily proud to shame herself by inviting him to a gathering. Thus they'll end up never seeing each other-- as the lover obviously realizes. Is he resigned? Is he despairing but determined? Does he find the whole contretemps ruefully amusing? Ghalib leaves us to decide for ourselves. For another verse with a similar wry twist, see {126,2}; and compare also {205,4}.

{115,8} haa;N vuh nahii;N ;xudaa-parast jaa))o vuh bevafaa sahii jis ko ho diin-o-dil ((aziiz us kii galii me;N jaa))e kyuu;N 1) sure, she's got no fear of the Lord! all right, granted-- she's faithless! 2) whoever values religion and heart-- why would he go into her street?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has taken the beloved's side: come on, if she has no fear of the Lord, then so be it; if you consider her faithless, then very good, let her be faithless! So why would you go into her street? This verse alone is the 'high point of the ghazal' in this ground. It gestures toward the fact that people are expostulating with him, and he is cutting off their words. (124)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Since the Advisor has described the evils of passion and the beloved's irreligiousness and faithlessness, in reply to this Mirza Sahib, in a tone of anger, says... oh benevolent Advisor, please don't take the trouble of going there. We can neither leave her, nor refrain from going to her street. (175-76)

Bekhud Mohani: From this it necessarily also follows that she is so beautiful that if anyone goes before her, neither can his heart remain within his control, nor can his

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faith remain secure. Before the excellence of this verse, Purity [va.zaa;hat] prostrates itself. (234)

FWP: What a ravishing verse! I can see why the commentators adore it, and I join them. Yet this time I can't blame them too much for not being very analytical, because it's all in the tone; it's an example of the perfect pitch for idiom and colloquial speech that Ghalib had when he wanted to. The lover's friend, or the Advisor, is concerned for the welfare of the lover, who is rashly throwing himself away for an unworthy beloved. The friend points out, offering ample proof, the beloved's tricky, untrustworthy, faithless behavior. He then pauses, waiting with satisfaction for his irrefutable arguments to sink in. He knows the lover can't deny the evidence. The verse is the lover's reply. The tone of the first line is unmistakable: it's a careless, throwaway concession. The speaker is almost laughing at the anxious concerns that have been urged upon him. Far from denying the truth of the charges, he's indulgently and amusedly conceding them all. The little idiomatic touches-- that 'sure' [haa;N], the 'all right' [jaa))o], the 'granted' [sahii] (for more on this see {9,4})-- establish a tone that's impossible to capture fully in translation. He's heard it all before; he's a bit bored; he's amused that anyone could take such reasoning seriously. (For another such careless, casual use of haa;N , see {188,2}.) And the effect of his indulgent concession works delightfully with the inshaa))iyah second line. When we put the two together, and allow for their rich power of implication, here are some of the possibilities. Since we all know what she's like, the lover says, = then if I enter her street, I accept the risk to my faith and heart = then if I enter her street, I've thrown my faith and heart away already = then you, as a prudent person, would be foolish to enter her street = then nobody with any prudence would enter her street = then why in fact might a (formerly) prudent person enter her street? The question can be either rhetorical (and even an implied insult) or genuine (meditative and thoughtful); it can apply to the speaker, the listener, or some generalized other(s). The underlying effect is to say, I'm a daredevil, and probably you're not. The lover here seems to be an old soldier of fortune, briefly returned from his constant venturing into terrible battles of passion (remember {7,1}), indulgently listening as a friend lectures him on the folly and rashness of his life. But the very evils he lists (danger, trickery, unpredictability, constant threat) are exactly what the adventurer long ago learned to live with. By now, he's utterly inured to them; or perhaps he even craves them. This is a verse in which the beloved seems not to be God; for more such examples, see {20,3}.

{115,9} ;Gaalib-e ;xastah ke ba;Gair kaun-se kaam band hai;N ro))iye zaar zaar kyaa kiijiye haay haay kyuu;N 1a) without broken-down Ghalib, which tasks are ended? 1b) without broken-down Ghalib, which desires are restrained? 2) why do you weep bitterly? why do you lament?

Notes: ;xastah : 'Wounded, hurt; broken; infirm; sick, sorrowful'. (Platts p.490) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: After dying, the poet comforts his companions, using the present tense. (124)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: Finding his friends grieved and sorrowful after his death, Mirza Sahib counsels them in these words to show fortitude. (176)

Bekhud Mohani: The deceased Ghalib, using the present tense, is comforting his companions. Why do you weep bitterly? All the tasks of the world are moving along. (234)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN In this verse, the dead lover speaks from beyond the grave; for other such examples, see {57,1}. And what he says, though very simple, still plays on the double meaning of kaam as both 'work' and 'desire'; for more on this, see {22,6}. While band , of course, can be both 'closed, shut down' (as suits the former meaning) and 'bound, restrained' (as suits the latter one). On a cynical reading, Ghalib is soothing his friends with a rhetorical question: what harm have they suffered from the loss of a broken-down, useless person like him? All their projects in the world continue unaffected, all their desires can still be pursued. The implication is that people genuinely grieve only over selfish (or at least personal) losses. So why make a big show of sorrow, when they haven't sustained any? And yet, the question can well be a genuine one too. Someone-- maybe an Advisor-like someone-- notices that after Ghalib's death, his friends are in deep grief. He remonstrates with them: what have you really lost? what are you really weeping for? As a serious question, it invites us to reflect on the answer. Having lost Ghalib, what in fact have we lost? Is there some work now forever uncompleted, some desire now forever unfulfilled? Does his loss signify or evoke other losses? A lovely companion poem for it is 'Spring and Fall' (1880), in which Gerard Manley Hopkins interrogates a young girl's grief over a leafless autumn tree. Regardless of the outward occasion, 'sorrow's springs are the same', he says. In the end, her grief is really for herself: 'It is the blight man was born for, / It is Margaret you mourn for'.

Ghazal 116 10 verses; meter G15; rhyming elements: aa kih yuu;N composed after 1821; Hamid p. 95; Arshi #085; Raza p. 254

116,1} ;Gunchah-e naa-shiguftah ko duur se mat dikhaa kih yuu;N bose ko puuchhtaa huu;N mai;N mu;Nh se mujhe bataa kih yuu;N 1) don't show from afar an unopened bud-- 'like this' 2) I ask about/for a kiss-- tell me with [your] mouth: 'like this'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when I asked, 'how do people kiss?', you showed me from afar an unopened bud: 'look, this is the way to kiss'. Not like this! Come near, and tell me with your mouth how people kiss. (124)

Bekhud Mohani: I asked how people kiss. You fell silent. Although silent lips too are the image of a kiss, I don't want only this much. Tell me with your lips. (235)

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Naim: Note that in the first line the complaint contains two elements: ;Gunchah-e naa-shiguftah and duur se ; both of them have been neatly taken care of in the second line by the phrase muu;N se . (1972, p. 13)

Faruqi: The meaning of bose ko puuchhtaa huu;N can also be 'I ask for a kiss'. Then in the first line the meaning of yuu;N can be, 'We give an answer to your command, like this: we show a bud, or turn our mouth aside'. (199)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; HUMOR This verse was constantly recited to me by ordinary people in Lahore, when they learned that I was studying Ghalib-- it was always recited with at least a big smile, and usually with laughter. And the verse well deserves it, because it's enjoyable on so many levels. 'CUTE' VERSES: This ghazal contains the largest concentration of 'cute' or 'coy', comically and haplessly flirtatious, verses in the whole divan. And even here, there are only four: {116,1}; {116,3}; {116,4}; {116,6}. Just take a look at them and see if they don't stand out a mile from his usual style. They're not of course really grouped together, and in fact are combined with some rather heavy-duty mystical ones. Perhaps it's the effect of the refrain: kih yuu;N might well push one's imagination toward non-verbal effects, either humorous (sitcom situations) or transcendent (forms of beyond-wordsness or inexpressibility). Since this verse is an opening-verse, it has two occurrences of kih yuu;N to play with. Ghalib has carefully arranged the verse so that each occurrence may represent an unspoken gesture (do it like this), or may be put in the mouth of either the lover or the beloved ('Like this!'). And how cleverly the first line has been contrived! The speaker objects to something in it, but there are a number of things his objection might apply to, so that the range of meanings becomes considerable. Here are the main possibilities: = don't show a pursed little 'unopened bud', show me an 'open' or blooming flower, by smiling or laughing (or kissing me) = don't show me an unopened bud (or pursed lips) from 'afar', show it to me from very near = don't just 'show' me a kiss, demonstrate it with your mouth (this could perhaps be called ostensive osculation) = don't just show me things by gestures, 'tell' me them in words ('like this!') His preferred alternative, the fix for all these problems, is mu;Nh se mujhe bataa kih yuu;N . Among its multiple possibilities are all the lover's desires: an opened mouth; direct physical contact; a kiss itself; words about kisses. This is one of Ghalib's rare verses of genuinely erotic suggestion; for others, see {99,4}. The lover may be witty and clever in his presentation of his faux-naif demand for a kiss, but the verse shows us clearly that the beloved is even more so: she has used a deft little pursed-lips gesture either to implicitly define a kiss, or to mimic the giving of a kiss. She has thus contrived to frustrate the lover's desires, even while amusingly pretending to fulfill them. An enjoyable verse for comparison is {193,3}, which also obsesses over the movements of the beloved's lips.

{116,2} pursish-e :tarz-e dil-barii kiijiye kyaa kih bin kahe us ke har ek ishaare se nikle hai yih adaa kih yuu;N

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1) what-- would you make inquiry about the style of heart-stealing, when, without saying, 2) from her every gesture emerges this coquetry: 'like this!'

Notes: nikle hai is a variant form of, here, nikaltii hai . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: What-- would I ask her about the style of steaking a heart, when her every gesture is saying, 'look, we steal hearts like this'? (124-25)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how would the style of heart-stealing be asked from her? From her every coquetry the gesture is created-- look, it's stolen like this. (176)

Bekhud Mohani: The point is that other beautiful ones are forced to take the trouble and pains of airs and graces in order to steal hearts. But my beloved's every gesture is heart-stealing. (235)

FWP: In the previous verse, {116,1}, her pursed-lips gesture both answered a question about a kiss, and enacted a kiss. Here, her every gesture both answers a question about heart-stealing, and performs the act of heartstealing. What need has she to answer a question in words, when she can so easily by a gesture-- a gesture which is also an ostensive definition-- convey 'like this'? The lover is in fact indignantly rejecting the idea that the question could even be asked. Would it not be vulgar, and a sign of stupidity or intrusiveness, for someone to even need to ask? The inquirer should just watch in silence, and learn from a single gesture of hers how heart-stealing is done by an expert-- and with the same gesture, feel it being done to his own heart.

{116,3} raat ke vaqt mai piye saath raqiib ko liye aa))e vuh yaa;N ;xudaa kare par nah kare ;xudaa kih yuu;N 1) at night, having drunk wine, having brought the Rival along-2) may the Lord grant that she come here, but may the Lord not grant-- like this!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: May the Lord grant that she would come, but may the Lord not grant that she would come like this: at night, having drunk wine, etc. In this verse there is convolutedness [ta((qiid] in the structure [bandish]-- but this ground is conducive to that. (125)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's our heartfelt longing that that mischievous one would set foot in our house. But may the Lord not cause her to come like this! (176)

Bekhud Mohani: May the Lord bring her here, but not in that way-- that she would have drunk wine, and that the Rival would be with her. (235)

Naim: The lover's problem is twofold: (1) the beloved pays scarce attention to his entreaties and never pays him a visit; (2) the beloved prefers the company of the rival and enjoys torturing the lover. The lover finds a solution to this dilemma by first asking God for something which is most likely to be granted, and then adding a second wish (an afterthought, as if), hoping that if

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the first wish is granted then the second is also likely to be granted, or at least should be granted. (1972, p. 15)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} WINE: {49,1} This is one of the 'cute' verses discussed in {116,1}. It also has the kind of triple internal rhyme present in {115,3}; by no coincidence, the meter is the same as that of {115}, and it's the kind of meter that lends itself especially well to internal rhyme (on this see {115,1}). In addition to offering this metrical and rhythmic grace, the verse is a tripleplated platinum classic mushairah verse. Hearing the first line, you realize that the scene has been set for some smashingly lurid drama, and you're consumed with curiosity-- a curiosity which, under mushairah performance conditions, will be tantalized for a suitable time before finally being satisfied. And like a true mushairah verse, this one withholds its punch-word, yuu;N , until so much the last second that it itself is the refrain. And then, also like a true mushairah verse, when it's over it's over all at once, with nothing left-- no need to go back and think about it for even a single moment more. What a crowd-pleaser it must have been! And still is, for that matter.

{116,4} ;Gair se raat kyaa banii yih jo kahaa to dekhiye saamne aan bai;Thnaa aur yih dekhnaa kih yuu;N 1) 'how did things go with the Other last night?' --when [I] said this, then just look: 2) [her] coming and seating herself before me-- and look-- 'like this'

Notes: kyaa banii is a colloquial shorthand for kyaa baat banii , or baat kyaa banii . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the word yuu;N the author has placed two meanings. One is, upon that question of mine, her seating herself before me and looking toward me with a glance of anger: 'Look, you've begun to make mischief like this!' And the other meaning is that upon that question of mine, just please look at her seating herself before me, and just please look at the insolence with which she seated herself before me like this! (125)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I had asked her how things went with the Other last night. In answer to that, she came and sat before me, and with this coquetry she made clear, 'Look-- like this!'. That is, 'I remained seated far from him like this'. (176-77)

Bekhud Mohani: When I asked how things went with the Rival last night, that cruel one showed no shame. She seated herself before me-- and seated herself with such insolence! The lover says to his confidant, 'It was the limit! Now she's got not even the slightest hint of shame left'. (235)

FWP: SETS == KIH This is one of the 'cute' verses discussed in {116,1}. In addition, though, it's really astonishingly complex. Its short phrases are sketchy, half-gestural, and capable of being strung together in a variety of ways. For there are three personae involved in it: the lover, who is speaking; the listener, to whom he is vividly describing the beloved's behavior; and the beloved herself, who may even speak the last word in the verse. Here are some of the possibilities:

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When I asked how things had gone with the Other last night-- you should have seen her coming and seating herself before me, = and [saying], 'Look at this-- like this!' = and [her] looking [at me in a way that said], 'Like this!' = and you should have seen [how she said], 'Like this!' = and you should have seen [how she acted-- as if to say], 'Like this!' There may be more permutations, but these are the basic set. Apart from the convenient multivalences of kih and yuu;N , the yih dekhnaa is also a great complexifier: it could be a parenthetical remark addressed to the listener, parallel to dekhiye but simply in the neutral rather than the polite imperative; or it could be words spoken or implied by the beloved; or it could be a description of the beloved's looking at the lover ('this looking [of hers]!'). The extra complexities become possible because the lover is trying to evoke a past scene before the listener's eyes, in the present. Thus the lover adjures him to 'please look!', even though the listener can see only a picture in his mind-- or else perhaps a scene that the lover is acting out for him. And of course, with all this, we still have no idea what the beloved actually meant by whatever she did and/or said. If she flounced into a chair facing him, was she mocking him? Defying him? Tantalizing him? Illustrating her behavior with the Other? Preparing for a major argument? Even though we're onlookers (after a fashion), we're left to invent the rest of the scene for ourselves.

{116,5} bazm me;N us ke ruubaruu kyuu;N nah ;xamosh bai;Thiye us kii to ;xaamushii me;N bhii hai yihii mudda((aa kih yuu;N 1) in the gathering, facing her, why would one not sit silently? 2a) in her silence, too, is this very same intent/purpose-- 'like this' 2b) even in her silence is this very same intent/purpose-- 'like this'

Notes: The spellings ;xamosh and ;xaamushii are permissible variations, governed by the needs of the meter. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, you too should sit silently. (125)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, before her, in the gathering, how would one not sit silently? In her silence too the purpose emerges: 'you too should sit silently, as I do'. (177)

Bekhud Mohani: For the beloved's gathering, and for a royal court, exactly this is the etiquette [aadaab]. In her gathering one is compelled to sit silently. Because she herself remains silent. The meaning of which is that no one should open his lips before us, he should remain seated silently, according to etiquette. (23536)

FWP: SETS == BHI This is a beautiful verse of mood -- quiet, subtle, thoughtful, evocative. It's the first of a set of three in this ghazal that seem to belong together in their mysterious mood and mystical tone: {116,5}; {116,7}; {116,8}. The first line asks a rhetorical question, why wouldn't one sit silently in her presence, facing her? The clear implication is, of course one would! Even this line by itself strongly enforces that sense of sense of necessary behavior, of what Bekhud Mohani calls the 'etiquette' [aadaab] of the situation. The second line plays creatively with the wonderful word bhii . If we read it as 'too, in addition' (2a), then of course we ask, in addition to what? And

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here three meanings emerge. First, her silence too, in addition to your natural sense of etiquette invoked in the first line, enjoins silence. Second, her silence too, in addition to your own silence as envisioned in the first line, enjoins silence. And third, her silence too, in addition to her spoken command, enjoins silence. And if we read bhii as 'even' (2b), then we find that her own silence is not just one more item in a parallel series, but a limit case: not to speak of all the other reasons for silence, even her own silence, which perhaps might be expected not to 'speak' at all, enjoins silence on your part. Then there's the wonderful flexibility of yuu;N . Is her silence a command to be silent 'like this'-- that is, the way she herself is silent? Or is it, taking kih as a speech-introducer, a way of paradoxically, silently, conveying the words 'like this'? And what is the full subtlety of yihii mudda((aa -- 'this very' intention/purpose, or 'only this' intention/purpose? Does it apply merely to the silence, or does it go deeper? Is there some more intangible form of imitation that is also implicitly demanded? This verse surely invites a mystical reading, though it doesn't require one. After all, if you ever did have a chance to sit down face to face with God, you'd probably be inclined to keep silent! But the beloved too is fully as awe-inspiring and ineffable in her own say-- she's an 'idol', after all. Compare the piquant {208,6}, in which the lover is seated facing not a silent 'idol' but an even more provocatively opaque one: an 'idol with a mirrorforehead'.

{116,6} mai;N ne kahaa kih bazm-e naaz chaahiye ;Gair se tihii sun ke sitam-:zariif ne mujh ko u;Thaa diyaa kih yuu;N 1) I said, 'the gathering of coquetry needs to be devoid of [any] stranger/Other' 2) having heard [this], the {tyranny/extreme}-{jester/refiner} caused me to get up-- 'Like this?'

Notes: :zariif : 'Clever, ingenious; elegant, polite, gallant; excellent, good; --witty, facetious, jocose, arch, comical, waggish'. (Platts p.755) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: A 'tyranny-jester' is that jester in whose humor tyranny too is blended. The meaning of the verse is that considering the Rival a stranger/other [;Gair], I had said, 'Your gathering ought to be free of strangers'. Hearing this, she had me sent away from the gathering--that is, 'You are the only stranger to be seen here'. (151)

Nazm: That is, 'There-- now the gathering has become empty [of Others]!' (125)

Bekhud Mohani: A 'tyranny-jester' is that person who outwardly would make a joke, but its purpose would be cruelty.... From this one more secret was revealed. He had thought that if he had obtained entry to the beloved's gathering, then the beloved must hold him dear. But today he learned that she considers nobody else an Other except him. (236)

Naim: sitam-:zariif -- Master jester; quite a card; master of irony. This compound consists of two words: sitam , which literally means 'cruelty; torture' but which in such compounds or as a modifier to an adjective simply means 'extreme; utmost'; and the adjective :zariif , which means 'comedian; joker'. Thus the compound should mean 'master jester' but in fact carries a strong

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connotation of irony and twist of fate, of ruefulness on the part of the speaker. (1972, pp. 16-17)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH This is the fourth and final of the 'cute' verses referred to in {116,1}. Perhaps it's the most self-consciously 'cute' of them all. In {116,3} the situation is equally humiliating, but at least it's only hypothetical; while this one is reported verbatim by the victim. Both situations, however, would be completely at home in a sitcom. What a radical contrast to the previous verse, {116,5}, with its brooding, mysterious silences! Anybody who thought that ghazals were single, unified poems would surely have to abandon the idea when confronted with juxtapositions like this one. And what a winner of a mushairah verse this one must have been!

{116,7} mujh se kahaa jo yaar ne jaate hai;N hosh kis :tara;h dekh ke merii be-;xvudii chalne lagii havaa kih yuu;N 1) when the beloved said to me, 'How do the senses depart?' 2) seeing my self-lessness, the wind began to blow-- 'like this'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, 'the senses fly away in this way'. (125)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the beloved had inquired from me, how do the senses fly away? Having seen my self-lessness, the wind began to blow. The meaning of this was that 'look, the senses fly away in this way'. (177)

Bekhud Mohani: The wind began to blow, 'in this way'. That is, in the way that a gust of wind issues forth, in the same way, before the beloved, the lover's senses too keep leaving him in the blink of an eye. That is, the wind had pity on my selflessness, and saved me from the fault of not responding to a question. (236)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This is the second in the set of three 'mystical' verses referred to in {116,5}. And what a lovely one it is! It has what are surely the most elegant sound effects in the whole divan, with the wind saying (or at least miming) yuuuuuuuuu;N -- a perfect wind-soughing sound if I ever heard one. The beloved's question is, needless to say, multivalent. It could be general: 'what kind of phenomenon is this mystical self-lessness, anyway?' (Naturally she wouldn't know, being the center of her own universe as she is.) Or it could be specific and technical: 'what does it feel like when you lose your senses and go into that trance state?' Or it could be personal and emotional: 'what causes you to lose your senses and go into that trance state?' (In which case either it's sincere and naive, or else she's just fishing for compliments.) And of course, I can't reply, because I'm in the exact state she's inquiring about. Either I was already in it and she didn't notice; or else I just fell into it from one moment to the next, perhaps even at the sound of her voice. So the wind replies on my behalf. Perhaps it simply blows, and thus illustrates the fugitive, uncontrollable, 'natural-force' quality of the selflessness that I experience. Or perhaps it even courteously blows the words 'like this', or some windy equivalent of them, in order to properly answer the question.

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But what is the wind doing participating in our conversation, anyway? Am I so mystically into it (or out of it) that my spirit now dwells among the cosmic forces, and the very winds themselves come and socialize with me? Am I such a dire or extreme case of self-lessness that even the wind compassionately wants to come to my rescue (as the animals in the desert cared for the helplessly mad Majnun)? Is the beloved such a 'force of nature' herself that even the winds hasten to provide information when she asks for it? As so often, Ghalib permits us (or forces us) to invent much of the verse's context for ourselves.

{116,8} kab mujhe kuu-e yaar me;N rahne kii va.z((a yaad thii aa))inah-daar ban ga))ii ;hairat-e naqsh-e paa kih yuu;N 1) when did I remember the style/character/state of staying in the beloved's street? 2) the amazement of the footprint became a mirror-possessor-- 'like this'

Notes: va.z((a : 'Placing, fixing, laying, laying down.... --situation, position; disposition; nature, tenour; description, character, complexion; --condition, state'. (Platts p.1196) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The footprint showed me that in this way, mingled with the dust, and struck with amazement at the glory/appearance of beauty, is the way one ought to live in the beloved's street. (125-26)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I didn't remember the character/state of remaining in the beloved's street. The footprint taught me that one remains in the beloved's street by mingling with the dust and becoming struck with amazement at the glory/appearance of the beloved. (177)

Bekhud Mohani: I didn't know the manner of remaining in the beloved's lane. But the amazement of the footprint showed me, 'the way I remain amazed, in the same way one ought to remain amazed'. (136)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} I translate rahnaa as 'remain', rather than 'live', because it's not clear how long he'll be allowed to stay in the beloved's street. But what can account for the odd rhetorical question in that first line? The speaker seems to be rejecting, perhaps even indignantly, someone's suggestion that he remembered how to remain in the beloved's street. Because he'd never been there before, and thus couldn't possibly remember it? Or because of his selflessness, which rendered him oblivious (as in the previous verse, {116,7}) to all merely formal details? Or is he just generally emphasizing his cluelessness, his haplessness, his need for guidance? In addition, what kind of thing is the style/character/state [va.z((a] that he doesn't remember? The term often suggests a kind of personal dignity or style that must be upheld at all costs; see the discussion of it in {115,7}. In that verse, paas-e va.z((a is something that prevents me from falling below a certain standard of dignity merely to meet the beloved on the street. Here, va.z((a is something to be (re)learned afresh, with no preconceived notions, and it seems to have no (overt) connection with dignity. It is to be learned from the footprint. In the ghazal world the footprint, by virtue of its shape, resembles (and thus becomes) a mouth perpetually open in amazement; as Nazm and others also point out, the footprint lies flat in the dust, as humbly as it possibly can. In both these respects it presents a model

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for the lover, showing him the 'style' he must adopt. The footprint could very well be his own footprint: the very first step he takes into the beloved's street perhaps already teaches him the local protocol (or survival tactics). It's easy to see why the footprint could be a 'mirror'-- by virtue of its shape, and also because the mirror too is often full of amazement (as in {63,1}). But why is the footprint a 'mirror-possessor' [aa))inah-daar], rather than simply a 'mirror'? At the very least, the vision of the footprint urgently and helpfully waving a mirror up at us is one well worth having. But surely there must be more to it than this? There must be something going on here, but I haven't managed to figure it out. For another perspective on the footstep as model for behavior in the beloved's street, see {123,1).

{116,9} gar tire dil me;N ho ;xayaal va.sl me;N shauq kaa zavaal mauj mu;hii:t-e aab me;N maare hai dast-o-paa kih yuu;N 1) if in your heart might be the thought [that] in union is the decline of ardor 2) the wave in the confluence/embrace of water {swims / flails hand and foot}-- 'like this'

Notes: mu;hii:t : 'Surrounding, encompassing, enclosing, encircling... embracing, comprehending'. (Platts p.1011) maare hai is a variant form of, here, maartii hai . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if you have the thought, 'having reached the True Source, why would ardor decline, and how would oneness be created?', then look at the wave in the sea: it is telling you, 'in this way, flailing with hand and foot, finally oneness comes about, which is a state of assurance and peace'. (126)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in your heart might be the thought, 'having attained union, how would ardor decline, and how can the lover and beloved achieve oneness?', then look at the wave in the confluence of water: it is telling you, 'like this, flailing with hand and food, the desired result of unity is created, from which the form of assurance and peace emerges'. (177)

Bekhud Mohani: Ardor is not erased by union. Haven't you seen the wave, in the embrace [aa;Gosh] of the waters? But the wave's restlessness is not erased. (236)

FWP: 'UNION': {5,2} Well-brought-up young women used to be urged by their mothers to remember that men only wanted One Thing-- and if they got it, they wouldn't Respect You Any More! In this verse, the lover fears that his beloved may have some such notion-- that 'union' would lead to the decline or lessening of ardor. Fortunately, he has a truly smashing disproof to offer, to disabuse her forever of that foolish fear. Just look, he urges, at how the wave behaves in the confluence or embrace of the water-- the mu;hii:t-e aab , which is also specifically used for the mouth of a river. In the more general sense, we notice that waves don't by any means stop 'waving' just because they're embraced by, and merged with, the sea. And in the specific sense, we notice that the mouth of a river, where the river empties into the sea and two currents converge, is the choppiest, most tumultuous, 'waviest' part of the coastal waters. Naturally, the lover argues, 'union' would be like this. An excellent metaphor-- appropriate, lyrical, perfectly chosen, even amusing. Just what we would expect from a fine poet.

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But then, Ghalib goes a step further. He deliberately disrupts his own metaphor. Instead of saying the wave in the sea's embrace goes right on 'waving' [lahraanaa], or 'moving', or something of the sort, he deliberately translates from the Persian an idiomatic phrase that applies only to human swimming-- dast-o-paa maarnaa , literally, 'to strike [out] with hand and foot'. Why does he do this? Why does he suddenly turn the innocently illustrative waves into human-like swimmers? Perhaps because the shock of his suddenly giving the waves human bodies intensifies the subtle but marvelous erotic charge of the verse. (For more on his erotically suggestive verses, see {99,4}.) Nor is this the only time he practices such metaphor disruption; for further discussion of this device, see {21,10}. And doesn't it make the verse far more piquant, far more likely to linger in the memory and demand further attention? Nazm conveniently (and prudishly?) misreads the verse by imagining a question-word of some sort in the first line. This sets him up for a dutifully Sufistic answer to the 'question', with no uncomfortable sexual overtones. He has a surprising number of followers in this view: not only Bekhud Dihlavi, but also Baqir (302), Shadan (304), and Josh (221). Bekhud Mohani also has supporters, however, including Hasrat (99), Asi (quoted in Baqir 303), Chishti (580), and Mihr (401). For a much grimmer reading of the waves' agitated behavior, see {165,2}.

{116,10} jo yih kahe kih re;xtah kyuu;Nkih ho rashk-e faarsii guftah-e ;Gaalib ek baar pa;Rh ke use sunaa kih yuu;N 1) if [anyone] would say this: 'How could Rekhtah be the envy of Persian?!' 2) read to him, a single time, the speech of Ghalib-- 'like this!'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The use of kyuu;Nkih in place of kyuu;Nkar has [now] been rejected. (126)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They call verse composition in Urdu 'Rekhtah'. He says, if anyone would ask, how could Rekhtah be the envy of Persian, then read them Ghalib's verses a single time: 'it's like this'. (177-78)

Bekhud Mohani: Whoever might doubt that Urdu poetry can be better than Persian poetry, recite Ghalib's poetry to him and say, 'look-- it comes out ahead like this!' That is, my Urdu poetry is better than Persian poetry. (237)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; POETRY This is a handy verse to have on the tip of your tongue if you run into Persian fans who point out snidely that Ghalib valued his Persian poetry more highly than his Urdu. He did, of course. Persian was the high literary language of his day; he wanted to be part of that great tradition, and he was. Urdu was still only a young upstart-- but it was a strong one, full of hybrid vigor. If it's easy to show that Ghalib valued his Persian ghazals, it's also easy to show that he valued his Urdu ghazals. (Not surprisingly, since they really aren't very different.)

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Ghazal 117 3 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa ho composed 1816; Hamid p. 96; Arshi #117; Raza pp. 161-62 {117,1} ;hasad se dil agar afsurdah hai garm-e tamaashaa ho kih chashm-e tang shaayad ka;srat-e na:z:zaarah se vaa ho 1) if the heart is cold/burnt-out from envy, become hot/enthusiastic for spectacle 2) for perhaps the narrow/little-seeing eye, from abundance of sights, might open [wide]

Notes: afsurdah : 'Frozen, frigid, benumbed; withered, faded; dispirited, dejected, low-spirited, melancholy'. (Platts p.62) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This is not merely an imaginary theme; rather, he has expressed actual reality in an extremely fine form. In fact, when a person is confined within the four walls of a home, unacquainted with the circumstances of the world, and ignorant of the causes of people’s progress or decline, then from his limited range of experience he can't bear to see someone in fine circumstances. But to the extent that his circle of acquaintance keeps widening, he gradually realizes that prosperity of the people he envies is not merely coincidental, but is a result of their labor and planning. Thus a sense of justice and benevolence is born in his heart, and he himself too is influenced toward effort and planning. And instead of feeling envy and malice, he turns his attention toward following in their footsteps. He expresses this wise thought in a sensory example: 'perhaps the narrow eye, from abundance of seeing, may open wide'. Just as the poet has called the avaricious person’s heart narrow, in the same way he has characterized the envious person’s eye as narrow. (153)

Nazm: A narrow eye is among the qualities of envy. And garm-e tamaashaa ho , that is, look at the world. The result is that after experience you'll learn that envy is inappropriate. In the world, no reason for wealth is necessary. Things are like this everywhere. (126)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, when you see many well-off people, you won't be able to decide whom to envy. And this bad habit will leave you. Or else you'll also see people who are in a worse state than you, and will be grateful for your situation... [Also compare:] {3,1}. (237)

Faruqi: For the sake of its affinity with afsurdah in its meaning of 'extinguished' and thus 'cold', the phrase garm-e tamaashaa has been used. The affinity of 'hot' with the opening of a narrow eye is also fine, because when things get hot they expand.... The affinity of 'heart' with 'eye' is also worthy of note, because the eye is the window of the heart. With 'envy', 'to burn' is also used- or rather, one meaning of 'to burn' is 'to envy' as well. In this regard to have afsurdagii (to born, then to be extinguished) because of envy, and then to become garm-e tamaashaa , offers a remarkable pleasure. For their affinity with tamaasha , both 'abundance' and 'sight' are very fine....

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For chashm-e tang to have the meaning of 'an eye that sees little', one proof is that the early poets called the beloved tang-chashm and her eye chashm-e tang .... The reason is that the beloved, because of her shame or her burden of pride, doesn't even look at anybody. In the verse under discussion, to take chashm-e tang as meaning chashm-e ;hasuud is to fling unnecessary mudspots on Ghalib's accomplishment. When in the first line he has already mentioned envy and the afsurdagii that results from it, then in the second line to write chashm-e tang with the meaning of chashm-e ;hasuud would be mere repetition. (200-01)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY TAMASHA: {8,1} This is a splendid verse for wordplay, and Faruqi has pulled it all together very clearly. Narrow eyes are indeed a sign of envy (or jealousy, as in {3,1}); but, as Faruqi argues, to think that that's all they are would be to accuse Ghalib of 'mere repetition'. Instead, we need the pairing of the narrow versus the wide-open eyes to add even more enjoyment to the pairing of the cold versus the hot heart. And of course, since the eyes are the window of the heart, narrow vs. wide ones will have no end of metaphorical and mystical resonances. I would add to Faruqi's inventory one more bit of 'meaning'-play: the contrast between 'envy' and 'spectacle' in the first line. To look with envy is to to look with a cold, narrow eye-- to fixate on a few particular things, to crave to own and monopolize them. To see the world as a tamaashaa is a distancing project-- it requires wide-open eyes, some patience and tolerance, and a kind of disciplined detachment. But there really isn't a meaningful choice. The eye should, no matter what, become open, as Ghalib has said with an effect of complete straightforwardness in {48,9}.

{117,2} bah qadr-e ;hasrat-e dil chaahiye ;zauq-e ma((aa.sii bhii bharuu;N yak goshah-e daaman gar aab-e haft daryaa ho 1) according to the longing/regret of the heart ought to be the relish for sin too 2) I would fill a single corner of my garment-hem, if there would be the water of seven seas

Notes: ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It's a term in Persian, that they call a sinner a 'wet-skirted one' [tar-daaman]. And 'the water of seven seas' he has made a metaphor for an abundance of sin. (126)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The relish for sin too ought to be equal to the longing/regret of the heart. I would wet one corner of my garment-hem, if I would have the water of seven seas. (178)

Bekhud Mohani: However many sins I vainly long for, in exactly that many sins there is a relish too.... That is, however many kinds of sins there are, they can't satisfy the longing/regret of my heart. (234)

Arshi: Compare {38,6}. (176, 243)

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FWP: As Arshi points out, {38,6} is indeed a perfect companion piece for this one. But this one is the more complex of the two, because it also introduces a kind of balancing between sins and longings that plays no part in {38,6} (which is however, in its own terms, a real gem). This verse in fact has a first line that seems to encapsulate the thought of {79,2}. There too, the number of vain longings [;hasrat] is correlated with the number of sins. But that one is talking specifically to the Lord, and this one seems to be a soliloquy on the 'longings = sins' equation. Which raises the question of why this equation should be made in the first place. Are my longings perhaps sins in themselves, or for sinful things? That would make the equation very tidy. Otherwise, the only reason for the equation is an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation with God, the kind in which Iqbal specializes-- and the kind laid out in {79,2}. 'God, you've caused me X amount of sufferings, I've commit X amount of sins; shall we call it even?' In any case, I ought to commit-- and relish committing-- as many sins as I have longings. And if I converted all these longings, sorrows, regrets directly into an equal amount of sinning, I would sin so much that all the water in all the seven seas could barely do more than wet the corner of my garment-hem. It wouldn't even suffice for actual 'sinfulness'-- tar-daamanii , literally 'wetskirtedness'-- at all. Underneath it all, the verse is not really about sins at all; the sins are just pressed into service as a colorful, eye-catching metaphor. The verse, like the lover's life, is about longings, and their inexhaustibility, insatiability, incommensurability with anything else we can find to measure them against. Really the one that wraps it all up is {219,1}.

{117,3} agar vuh sarv-qad garm-e ;xaraam-e naaz aa jaave kaf-e har ;xaak-e gulshan shakl-e qumrii naalah-farsaa ho 1) if that cypress-statured one would become warm/enthusiastic for a coquettish walk 2) every handful of dust in the garden, in the likeness of a turtledove, would lament

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Every handful of dust [har kaf-e ;xaak] would become a turtledove, for the reason that the turtledove is ash-colored [;xaakistarii]. (126)

Bekhud Mohani: If the beloved, whose stature is like that of a cypress, would happen, out of coquetry, to pass through the garden, then every handful of dust in the garden would begin to lament like a turtledove. That is, the effect of her beauty would make every dust-grain into the hem of a lover's garment. (238)

Faruqi: The interpretation is entirely clear, but some wordplay demands attention. All [the commentators] have said that with respect to 'turtledove', 'handful of dust' is fine, because the turtledove is considered to be dust-colored. Now look beyond: (1) sarv , gulshan , qumrii ; (2) garm and ;xaak (to burn up and become dust), are first of all an affinity, and second a .zil((a . In the light of this, another interpretation arises: that the heat of the beloved's gait will burn up the dust of the garden, and as a result of this a lament will arise from the breast of the dust. The word naaz is not a filler. The point is that when the beloved walks with a 'coquettish gait', only then does the dust of the garden raise a lament like a turtledove's. That is, if she walked with an ordinary gait with no coquetry in

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it, then she wouldn't create this effect. The meaning of kaf-e har ;xaak-e gulshan can be, in addition to gulshan kii har kaf-e ;xaak , har gulshan kii kaf-e ;xaak as well. In this case, the heat of the coquettish gait not only affects one garden, but can be seen in all gardens. Consider these other examples of wordplay: (3) ;xaak , shakl (because all forms are made of dust); (4) sarv , ;xiraam (because the cyprus is [here] considered to be motionless); (5) the affinity between naalah and garm is plain. (202)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This is the kind of verse that makes me especially grateful for Faruqi's commentary, which I've translated here in its entirety. The verse shows off Ghalib's power of extravagant wordplay, and Faruqi is uniquely skilled in recognizing it all, and then laying it all out analytically. Still, other than major wordplay, there's nothing much going on in this verse, as far as I can tell. It's not the kind (of which there are so many) in which wordplay and meaning-play form an irresistibly enticing network that goes on ramifying forever. And the wordplay itself feels a bit awkward and forced: it's easier even to imagine every dust-grain having a tiny heart tied onto it (as in the equally extravagant {29,1}) than to imagine the dust as collecting itself into handfuls, then the handfuls all forming themselves into turtledoves, then the turtledoves all starting to lament. Where's the real 'objective correlative' for all that? For that matter, why is it the dustturtledoves who lament? Why isn't it the cypresses who lament (out of envy, despair, and adoration), since it's her stature that's at issue? Turtledoves seem to bring out the abstraction in Ghalib: for an even more over-the-top example, see {230,4}. Note for grammar fans: the ordering of the words in kaf-e har ;xaak , though Hamid complains about it (96), is unusual but not against the rules of i.zaafat usage. For another such instance, see {214,6}, with its rag-e har ;xaar .

Ghazal 118 4 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: isht ko composed 1855; Hamid p. 97; Arshi #124; Raza p. 338

{118,1} ka((be me;N jaa rahaa to nah do :ta((nah kyaa kahii;N bhuulaa huu;N ;haqq-e .su;hbat-e ahl-e kunisht ko 1) if I went and stayed in the Ka'bah, then don’t taunt me! in any way, ever, 2) have I forgotten the right/claim of the companionship of the people of the fire-temple?

Notes: kunisht : 'A temple of idolaters, or fire-worshippers; a Christian church; a Jewish synagogue'. (Platts p.854) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If I went to the Ka'bah, then so what? Am I one ever to forget the idoltemple [butkadah]? (126)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if I went from Hindustan to make the Hijrah, and remained at the Ka'bah, then why do you taunt me? I am not a man to forget the companioniships of the idol-temple [butkadah]. (179)

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Bekhud Mohani: So what if I'm staying here? Have I forgotten the right to companionship of those who stay in idol-temples [but;xaanah]? That is, no difference has been made in my and your relationships. (238)

FWP: SETS == KYA RELIGIONS: {60,2} This is an energetic, aggrieved, yet defensive, utterance. Thanks to the wonders of kyaa , it can be read in several ways: (1) as an indignant, challenging rhetorical question ('Have I ever done so? Of course I haven't!'); (2) as a serious, informal appeal to fairness ('Come on, you know me-- have I ever once done anything like that?'); or (3) as a genuine expression of uncertainty, possibly a private moment of self-doubt ('Is it possible that I've in fact somehow done such a thing?') The speaker insists, in the face of 'taunts' that are probably (but not necessarily) from his former companions, that his staying in the Ka'bah will have no effect on his former allegiances-- it just won't make any difference. This is a piquant notion in its own right-- that someone would not only semiapologize for staying in the Ka'bah, but would also insist that it really wouldn't make any difference at all! (In this connection, consider {124,5}.) But the 'taunts' add another dimension as well. What kind of attack might they represent? = the 'taunts' might be accusations that he's slumming-- that he's lowering himself by leaving a higher, more exacting allegiance for an inferior, commonplace, more convenient one. = the 'taunts' might be accusations that he now thinks he's superior-- he's gone all smug and 'orthodox' on us, he's narrowed his worldview into that of the Shaikh. = the 'taunts' might be accusations of sheer fickleness-- he doesn't know his own mind, he's shallow and idle, he's just in search of novelty and fresh thrills. The commentators tend to read kunisht unselfconsciously as 'idol-temple', which seems an understandable South Asian reaction. But in fact it's more general (see definition above), and this verse thus belongs to Ghalib's set of 'in between religions' verses. Do the old companions have a 'right to companionship', or a 'right given by companionship'? The i.zaafat can easily go both ways. Either way, the right belongs not to the kunisht , but to the 'people' of it. Perhaps the ahl-e kunisht are simply the visible representatives of the kunisht itself, and have their right in that capacity. But the verse feels more personal: it feels as though it is about the privileging of friendship and personal loyalty above all outward religious affiliations. There's one more small but very clever effect: something like an (imitation of an) iihaam at the end of the first line. If we read the first line as endstopped, which the great majority of ghazal lines are, then it is almost impossible not to read the last two words as kyaa kahe;N , which is as common a helpless, self-exculpatory phrase in Urdu as 'what can I say?' is in English-- and thus is completely appropriate to the content of the line. Although the first part of the line uses mai;N instead of ham , one could imagine a change in form, or a petrified phrase. The second line of course makes it clear not only that the mai;N remains in force, but that there's enjambement, so that the grammar of the two lines flows together. Still, under mushairah conditions, there would be quite a wait before the second line came along and taught us to revise our notions. So here, as so often, Ghalib has stuck some small extra pleasures into the crevices.

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{118,2} :taa((at me;N taa rahe nah mai-o-angabii;N kii laag doza;x me;N ;Daal do ko))ii le kar bihisht ko 1) so that, in obedience, the attachment/desire of wine and honey would not remain 2) let someone take Paradise, and cast it into Hell

Notes: doza;x : 'Hell; --(met.) the belly; --doza;x bharnaa : to fill the belly'. (Platts p.533) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: That is, as long as Paradise is in existence, people worship in hopes of receiving honey and heavenly wine, etc. Thus Paradise ought to be flung into Hell, so that this greed would not remain, and people would worship God purely. (125)

Nazm: That is, the streams of honey and wine that are available in Paradise-- in coveting them, where is the obedience? Throw such a Paradise into Hell! (126)

Bekhud Mohani: If somebody would put Paradise in Hell, it would be a good thing. Then the Lord would be worshipped with a true heart, and the greed for wine and honey would diminish. (238)

Arshi: Compare {232,4}. (248, 327)

Naim: The key word, and a rather troublesome one, is laag , which primarily means 'enmity; conflict; antagonism', but which can also mean 'longing; lust'. In either case, however, the notion of a conflict remains.... Paradise has never been of much interest to the poet-lover-sufi anyway; he seeks a more intimate relationship. Paradise is for the Mullah, who threatens others with the tortures of Hell but himself drools over the promised delights of Paradise. Thus, the bravado of the poet is essentially a sly attack on the Mullah. He, in fact, does not have any doubt about the sincerity of his own obedience and love. (1970, pp. 37-38)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH FOOD: {6,4} WINE: {49,1} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] Well, this one certainly belongs in the 'snide remarks about Paradise' category, with a vengeance. It's not just that Paradise is something that can be casually picked up and disdainfully flung away. It's also that Hell is so much bigger and more spacious than Paradise, that Paradise can just easily be cast into it, with no further ado. It would also be a grand, resonant, melodramatic mushairah verse, in a way that I can't really capture in translation. The first line is of course uninterpretable until we hear the second. And then the first half of the second sounds like a typical 'let it go to hell!' remark. Only at the very last moment do we finally get to hear what is being so casually consigned to Hell-- and we learn that it's Paradise itself. This verse must have been great fun to hear for the first time, under mushairah performance conditions. What 'mischievousness', and what fun! There's a wonderful bit of subliminal wordplay in the secondary, metaphorical meaning of doza;x as 'stomach'. Hunger torments one like

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hellfire, and an empty stomach is like the pit of Hell, ceaselessly demanding to be filled-- and also, for the poor, tormentingly unfillable. So that if Paradise, with its wine and honey, were to be flung right into one's empty, hellishly demanding stomach, it might indeed be possible to cease worrying about (worldly or heavenly) food, and to obey the Lord with a pure heart.

{118,3} huu;N mun;harif nah kyuu;N rah-o-rasm-e ;savaab se ;Te;Rhaa lagaa hai qa:t qalam-e sarnavisht ko 1) why would I not be turned aside from the path and custom of religious merit? 2) the nib has been cut/attached crooked, to the pen of destiny

Notes: mun;harif : 'Turned, or altered (from); changed; inverted; turning or departing from allegiance, turning aside (from), disaffected; --crooked; oblique'. (Platts p.1073) rasm : 'Marking out, delineating, designing; --sketch, outline, model, plan; way followed (in respect of doctrine and practices of religion, &c.)'. (Platts p.592) qa:t : 'Cutting (a thing) transversely, sideways, or across; cutting or making a pen, cutting the nib of a pen; --the nib of a pen'. (Platts p.792) qalam : 'A reed; reed-pen, pen; a pencil; a painter's brush; --an engraving tool; --a mode of writing, character, hand-writing'. (Platts p.794) sar-navisht : 'Written on the forehead'; destiny, fate, lot, fortune'. (Platts p.649) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in my very destiny is that I would remain turned aside from the path of religious merit. (126)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why would I not remain turned away from the path and way of religious merit? The pen with which the writer [kaatib] of destiny write, its nib was crooked. (179)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse can be understood as a rakish [rindaanah] joke. (239)

Arshi: Compare {161,4}. (248)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY WRITING: {7,3} This verse is an encyclopedic collection of wordplay of all kinds about writing. The word mun;harif comes from the same root as ;harf , which can mean 'nib of a pen' and 'letter of the alphabet' (Platts p.476). Then rasm means not only the usual 'custom', but also 'sketch' or 'outline'; most centrally, qa:t means the nib of a pen; the cutting of the nib of a pen; and a sideways cut. In addition, not only does qalam mean 'pen', etc., but qalam honaa means 'to be cut off'. And then the final major effect: sar-navisht , 'destiny, is that which is 'written on the forehead'. For 'writing' wordplay, probably the only real rival to this verse is {1,1}. They are similar in their general line of thought as well: both maintain that we humans are like lines (of words or figures) on paper, helplessly 'drawn' or 'written' by a casual, careless someone with a crooked pen and a taste for

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mischief. If we are badly drawn, not only do we acknowledge no guilt-- we firmly lay the responsibility where it belongs: on the pen-wielder. For after all, it's we who suffer the consequences; remember {110,3}.

{118,4} ;Gaalib kuchh apnii sa((ii se lahnaa nahii;N mujhe ;xirman jale agar nah mala;x khaa))e kisht ko 1a) Ghalib, from my effort there's no benefit/profit to me 1b) Ghalib, my fate/destiny is not determined by my own effort 2) the harvest would burn-- if the locust wouldn’t eat the crop

Notes: sa((ii : 'Endeavour, attempt; exertion, effort; enterprise, essay; purpose'. (Platts p.661) lahnaa : 'To find, get, experience; --v.n. To get on well, to prosper, flourish; --to accrue; to avail... [to] signify; --s.m. Profit, gain... --lot, portion, fortune, fate, destiny'. (Platts p.973) lahnaa : ' na.siib , qismat , bhaag '. (Farhang, vol. 4, p. 231 ) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: On an occasion of complaint, he calls the fruit of the harvest lahnaa. (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He said, oh Ghalib, it wasn't written in my destiny to obtain benefit from my efforts. If the locusts don't eat my crop, then the harvest of grain would catch fire. (179)

Bekhud Mohani: We cannot receive any benefit from our own efforts. This matter is in the power of the Lord. (239)

Arshi: Compare {31,1}, {120,7}, {234,6}. (184, 248, 250, 311)

FWP: SETS == WORD This is a verse in which tone is everything-- and yet it gives no hint of what the tone should be. Is it a general lament over the sheer perversity of things? A show of wry, rueful humor? A fatalistic statement renouncing all future endeavors? A despairing rejection of life itself? A clinical report, with a neutral observation of the facts? By now it comes as no surprise to see that Ghalib is using one of his classic ways to force us to create multiple meanings out of two small lines. The center of the verse is the relatively uncommon word lahnaa . Platts gives a wide range of meanings for it centering on 'benefit' or 'profit', but the Farhang-e Asifiyah focuses the term on a sense of 'fate, destiny' which to Platts is only secondary. The result is two distinct readings for the first line: either 'benefit, profit' doesn't come to me from my effort (1a), or 'fate, destiny' doesn't come to me from my own effort. On the first reading, the emphasis is on a complaint about particular results: if anything can go wrong with my harvest, it will! There's even a kind of humor in the catalogue of problems-- the locusts and the fire (presumably caused by lightning) are lined up, competing to be the first to ruin the harvest. On the second reading, the level of abstraction is higher: my fate doesn't come to me from my own efforts. As proof, just look at the intervention of outside entities in shaping my fate: the lightning, the locusts-- and of course numerous other intervenors of which they are only representative-- lie in wait for me, no matter what I do. And, as all the evidence chillingly

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suggests, their intervention takes the essential form of thwarting my efforts. They shape my destiny to some large and hostile purpose-- one that I can perhaps discern, but can never hope to escape. Arshi suggests several verses for comparison, but I have my own favorite: take a look at {10,6}, which gives a slightly different twist to what is basically the same problem.

Ghazal 119 10 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: at hii kyuu;N nah ho composed after 1821; Hamid p. 98; Arshi #118; Raza p. 255

{119,1} vaarastah is se hai;N kih mu;habbat hii kyuu;N nah ho kiije hamaare saath ((adaavat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) [we/you] are saved/freed from this [thought]: 'why wouldn't it be love [alone]?' 2) let it be done with us-- even if it would be enmity [alone]

Notes: vaarastah : 'Delivered, saved; escaped; --humble'. (Platts p.1174) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we are free from this thought: that we would insist that you should do with us only love. Even if you don't do love with us, then do enmity with us, but do it with me alone-- I don't want the Other to have a share even in enmity. (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that from between these two things, friendship and enmity, do with us the one that wouldn't be done with the Enemy. (179)

Bekhud Mohani: We don't say, do love with us. Do enmity with us instead. But don't remain without a relationship to us. (239)

Arshi: Compare {148,2}. (243) (285)

FWP: Nazm, and various other commentators following him, emphasize a demand for something from the beloved that is not shared with any competitor. But plainly there's nothing in the verse itself that requires, or even invites, such a reading. I think Bekhud Mohani is on the right track, backed up by Arshi who cites an absolutely perfect parallel verse to prove the point. The key word in the verse is obviously the striking vaarastah , with its conspicuous past-participial sense. It suggests that the lover has reached a late stage on the road of love: he is no longer so importunate, he has learned to separate what is really necessary from what is merely desirable. The lover has been 'liberated' from the need to demand love-- love emphatically or love alone, depending on how we read the hii . Now he demands, all the more urgently, only connection-- any sort of connection, but some sort there must be. For his purposes, enmity will do very well. Is it because he's learned that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference? Is it because he dreads above all else the thought that he might just fall off her radar screen entirely? For another verse about the indifference that the lover so dreads, compare {230,6}.

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119,2} chho;Raa nah mujh me;N .zu((f ne rang i;xtilaa:t kaa hai dil pah baar naqsh-e mu;habbat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) weakness didn’t leave in me the color/mood/style of mingling/intimacy 2) it’s a burden/weight on the heart, even if it be the stamp/imprint/image of love

Notes: rang : 'Colour, tint, hue, complexion;...appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method'. (Platts p.601) i;xtilaa:t : 'Mixture; union; amalgamation; intercourse, familiarity, intimacy, friendship, warm attachment'. (Platts p.30) naqsh : 'A picture; portrait; drawing; a print; a carving; an engraving... --an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Platts p.1145) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: From excessive weakness, the strength for mingling/intimacy did not remain in me-- so much so that the stamp/imprint of love is a burden on the heart. The word rang is only for its affinity with 'picture'. (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, weakness has so dried me out that in my body no blood is left; and because there's no blood left, the 'color of intimacy' too has been erased. Now on my heart even the stamp/imprint of love is a burden. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: Now, because of weakness, not even so much as a hint (shadow) of warmth has remained in me. Now even the stamp/imprint of love is a burden; that is, now I have no mind even for love itself-- so why even speak of any other matter? (239)

Faruqi: The truth is that [Nazm] Tabataba'i's objection to this verse is not at all admissible. Muhammad Husain Tabrizi has given in [his Persian dictionary] burhaan-e qaa:ti(( thirty-three meanings for rang . From among them, the following are of interest for our purposes: (3) fate, destiny, fortune; (5) force, power, strength; (8) wealth, gold, property; (11) style, manner, habit, rule, law; (16) fineness, refinement; (17) wellbeing and health; (19) blood; (20) custom, practice; (21) a small or minimal amount. It's clear that with 'weakness' and 'burden' the wordplay of rang as 'force, power, strength' is extremely fine. There's also a point in naqsh . Because one meaning of naqsh itself is 'power'.... The wordplay of 'blood' is legitimated by Bekhud Dihlavi's interpretation.... According to Bekhud Mohani's commentary, rang meaning 'trace' is justified from meaning (21). The enjoyable thing is that both Bekhud Sahibs were probably unacquainted with these meanings of rang . But their right taste led them to virtually the correct place. (No telling why the old commentators didn't use dictionaries; perhaps they might have considered it beneath their dignity.) (203-04)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY For another such surprisingly ill-conceived objection by Nazm, in a very similar context, see {6,1}. Faruqi's observation that the traditional commentators didn't use dictionaries seems all too accurate; it's not their only problem, but it's certainly a symptom. From the first line alone, it's not clear which of the many senses of rang is going to be appropriate for this verse, or of i;xtilaa:t either. The verse might even be about sexual intimacy. The range is so wide that a great many

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possibilities are open. In true mushairah performance style, we have to wait for the second line before we can properly interpret the very broad first one. And in the second line, we get a surprise: the basic image seems to be that of a seal or stamp, something that could never have been predicted from the first line alone. The stamp of love on the heart (perhaps the beloved's seal of possession) is the defining mark of the lover; the design is stamped with colored ink, and the joining of the stamp to the heart is a form of 'mixture' or 'intimacy'. The worn-out lover is now in such a dire state of weakness that even this once-ardently-desired stamp of love is a 'burden' almost too heavy for the frail heart to bear. People in Ghalib's world constantly used their personal seals on letters and other documents; Ghalib had his own seals too. Faruqi points out some of the other patterns of wordplay in the verse, and wordplay is certainly its chief charm. But the idea of a seal or stamp is surely at the center of the wordplay. For it makes the best sense of the wonderful 'it's a burden on the heart' [hai dil pah baar]. What an image of extremity! The lover is so weak that a single seal-mark (or shape, or image) stamped on his heart in colored ink is a huge, wearisome weight to bear.

{119,3} hai mujh ko tujh se ta;zkirah-e ;Gair kaa gilah har-chand bar-sabiil-e shikaayat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) I have a grievance against you about the memoir/mention of the Other 2) although it might even/only be by way of complaint/lamentation

Notes: ta;zkirah : 'Memory, remembrance... a memorandum, note; a biographical memoir, biography' (Platts p.314) shikaayat : 'Complaint, accusation; lamentation, moaning'. (Platts p.729) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says, although you complained about the Other, why did you mention him at all? (127)

Bekhud Mohani: You said bad things about the Rival. But I have a grievance against you. Why did you mention him at all, in my presence? (239)

Faruqi: It's more enjoyable to assume that the speaker heard somewhere that the beloved had mentioned the Rival. Having heard this, the speaker (the lover) grew jealous, and sent a written message to the beloved to say, 'I have a grievance against you, because you mentioned the Rival'. In this there's also the point that when somebody mentions someone, the one who is mentioned begins to remember the mentioner [as is implied in a verse of the Qur'an]. (205)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT This verse elegantly opens up at least two possibilities in the first line. Thanks to the multivalence of the i.zaafat construction, ta;zkirah-e ;Gair can mean the memoir/mention either 'of' the Other (by someone else), or 'by' the Other. Then with the second line, since the subject is left unspecified, either possibility works perfectly. The lover thus says (or writes, as Faruqi maintains) to the beloved: ='You've told (to unspecified hearers) a story about the Other; even though the story might be by way of complaint (about his bad behavior), it still causes me to have a grievance against you (for even mentioning him).' ='The Other has told (to unspecified hearers) a story about his relationship with you; even though the story might be by way of complaint (about your

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ill-treatment), it still causes me to have a grievance against you (for even bothering to persecute him).' This reminds me of a similar but even more multivalent example by Momin: ;zikr-e a;Gyaar se hu))aa ma((luum ;harf-e naa.si;h buraa nahii;N hotaa [from the 'mention of the Others' it was learned that the reproach of the Advisor is not bad] Momin's clever use of ;zikr-e a;Gyaar could refer to: things said by the Others; or things said about the Others by anybody; or by the beloved; or by the Advisor. But Ghalib too has another twist to offer, in the second line. The 'it' that is the subject, since it's not specified, might refer not to the ta;zkirah , but to the gilah , the 'grievance'. Then the verse would have the sense of, 'I have a grievance about such-and-such against you-- although really it's only 'by way of lamentation', it's only for the record, it's only to give me the satisfaction of lovingly scolding you, even if only in my own mind'.

{119,4} paidaa hu))ii hai kahte hai;N har dard kii davaa yuu;N ho to chaarah-e ;Gam-e ulfat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) there has come into being, they say, a cure for every pain 2a) if that's so, then why wouldn’t there be a remedy even for the grief of love? 2b) if that's so, then why would there be no remedy for the grief of love alone?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: yuu;N ho -- that is, if what people say is true, then why wouldn't there be a cure for the disease of passion? But there's no cure for our passion. So how would I believe that a cure has been created for every pain? (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's a saying that a cure has been created for every pain in the world. If this would be true, then why wouldn't our passion become well? (180)

Bekhud Mohani: We're disgusted with our passion. But the famous saying came to mind, that the Lord has created a cure for every pain. From this, we hoped that a cure for our disease of passion must certainly have been created; we ought not to despair. (239-40)

FWP: SETS == HI The first line is vague and abstract, forcing us to wait for the second line before we can even begin to interpret it. (When 'they say' this, are 'they' to be considered right, or wrong?) Under mushairah performance conditions, we will have to wait a while for the answer. Then when we finally hear it, we realize that Ghalib has cleverly arranged for the second line to express both hope and hopelessness, both wistful belief and radical cynicism. The two meanings of hii ('even' or 'only') are the key to the line's multivalence. The reading (2a) rests on 'even', and suggests that one might argue through to a hopeful conclusion (as Bekhud Mohani does). The reading (2b) rests on 'alone', and suggests a negation of all hope: there may be a medicine for everything else, but why then is love alone left devoid of any cure? (This is Nazm's interpretation.) While Bekhud Dihlavi, in what amounts to a third reading, takes the question as a genuine expression of uncertainty-- would there be a cure for passion, or would there not be?

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Maybe there would be an ambivalent 'cure' of some kind, that both did and didn't work-- see {4,2} for a perfect description of the form it might take.

{119,5} ;Daalaa nah bekasii ne kisii se mu((aamilah apne se khe;Nchtaa huu;N ;xajaalat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) friendlessness did not enter into dealings with anyone 2a) I experience [it] toward myself, even if it would be shame 2b) I draw [it] out of myself, even if it would be shame

Notes: bekasii : 'Forlorn state, friendlessness, destitution'. (Platts p.203) kas : 'Someone, somebody, anyone, one; a person, a man, an individual'. (Platts p.832) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the kindness of friendlessness is that it has prevented everybody's [show of] kindness. If no other advantage is gained from others, then shame is felt toward them. Now if I feel shame at all, then it is toward myself. (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I'm thankful that my friendlessness didn't put my affairs before any other. No other individual showed kindness toward me. If I didn't gain any benefit from others, then I would certainly have felt ashamed. Now even if I am ashamed, then it's only before myself. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: He who accepts benefits from somebody remains ashamed. Thanks be to God, and thanks be to friendlessness, that because of their grace I was not forced to humble myself before anybody. Now even if I am ashamed, then it is of my own strength of arm. (240)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} The commentators don't even mention what is surely the most conspicuous feature of the verse: the spelling/meaning wordplay between ( be ) kasii and kisii , which are placed as close together as is grammatically possible. Since they are normally written without short vowel markers, kasii and kisii look absolutely identical on the page. Amusingly, the line thus could be read as saying that kasii -lessness held itself aloof from kasii -- a perfectly plausible state of affairs, when you think about it. And there's also a connection of meaning, even though it's indirect. As can be seen from the definitions above, bekasii means 'friendlessness', etc., because it literally means a state of being without any kas ; and a kas , in Persian, is a person, 'somebody' or 'anybody'. In Urdu, kisii is the oblique form of ko))ii , meaning 'somebody, anybody'. So the effect is wonderfully clever semantically, as well as orthographically. The verb khe;Nchnaa literally means 'to pull, draw, pull out', and metaphorically means 'to experience'. Colloquially, kisii se ;xajaalat khe;Nchnaa would certainly mean 'to feel shame before somebody'; this is (2a), the sense that the commentators all rely on. But literally, the meaning of ;xajaalat khe;Nchnaa could quite well be 'to grasp, to draw, to draw out', so that the line might also be read as asserting that I obtain, grasp, draw out everything only from within myself, even if it's shame that's in question (2b). Radical self-reliance and self-exploration is one of the most striking pieces

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of advice that Ghalib's ghazals seem to enjoin; for more on this tendency in his verses, see {9,1}. (And see, later in this ghazal, {119,7}.) To make the point clearer, consider {71,5}, which longs for the day that naaz khe;Nchuu;N bajaa-e ;hasrat-e naaz . Here, naaz khe;Nchnaa seems to involve the 'drawing out' of coquetry from the beloved, since she does the naaz and I do the khe;Nchnaa . By contrast ;hasrat-e naaz khe;Nchnaa , 'to experience a (vain) longing for coquetry', is done entirely by me. (It's true that the commentators tend to disapprove of all this, but that doesn't affect what Ghalib has in mind.) Although the first line of the present verse seems to be reporting a single past event, this event may be the initiation of a deliberate policy, rather than some kind of passive or helpless reaction to rejection. For the second line is in the present habitual, and is simple and strong-- not 'this is what I'm forced to do' or 'this is what I'm reduced to doing', but 'this is what I do', period. If there's any sentimentality in the atmosphere, it's been laid on by the reader. The verse may be stoical, or even triumphantly solipsistic.

{119,6} hai aadmii bajaa-e ;xvud ik ma;hshar-e ;xayaal ham anjuman samajhte hai;N ;xalvat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) a man is, {in his own right / instead of himself}, a single assembly/doomsday of thought 2) we consider it a gathering, even if it be solitude

Notes: ma;hshar : 'A place of assembly or congregation;... the day of the place of congregation, the day of judgment'. (Platts p.1009) anjuman : 'Assembly, meeting, company, society, institution; party, banquet'. (Platts p.89) ;xalvat : 'Loneliness, solitude; seclusion, retirement, privacy; a vacant place, a private place or apartment'. (Platts p.493) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, even in solitude the turmoil of imagination and thought remains warm. Is that any less than a gathering? The gist is that shaping the spirit is difficult, and to attain mastery over the thoughts of the heart is very hard. It's a mystical verse. (127)

Bekhud Mohani: For control of the spirit, sitting off in a corner is of no benefit. Because just the way there's no privacy in a gathering, even in solitude thousands of thoughts remain clustered in man's heart and mind. So what difference would there be between solitude, and a gathering! That is, it's very difficult to escape the thoughts of the heart and desires of the spirit. Man ought to turn his attention toward the Lord. (240)

Faruqi: Then the word aadmii demands attention. By saying [the second line of {17,1}], he's made a difference between aadmii and insaan . Here too, that difference must have been in his mind.... The meaning is that the essence of all men is such that thoughts keep arising in their minds. A man's mind is never silent, never empty-- not even in madness or sleep. The nature of man is that thoughts always surround him. But these thoughts don't surround him the way, for example, water surrounds an island. Here things are in such a state that a man is a ma;hshar , in which dead thoughts-- that is forgotten, lost things-- or things that were never in the mind before, keep coming to live and appearing. Or having appeared, they move, and begin to collect

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themselves together. Like the field of Judgment Day [;hashr], in a man's mind good, bad, commonplace, great, foolish, insightful, philosophical, etc., thoughts keep crowding in, troop after troop. (206-07)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS QIYAMAT: {10,11} A grandly Ghalibian verse, with resonances that reach all over the cosmos and back. Ghalib is not only such a humanist, but also such a lover and champion of the powers of the imagination-- no wonder he is irresistible to many of us westerners. Another verse along (some of) the same lines: {169,5}. Everybody takes bajaa-e ;xvud to mean something like 'in his own right' or 'in himself', which is perfectly plausible. But there also surely lurks in the background the normal meaning for bajaa-e , 'instead of', 'in place of', as in {71,5}. On this more radical reading, a man is not 'himself' (or even perhaps 'a self') at all. What is he instead? Something framed for maximum contrariness and paradox: a single [ik] multiplicity-- a single gathering-place [ma;hshar], of thought. Is it this 'singleness' that makes him believe that he is, or has, a 'self'? Is it his 'gathering-place of thought' nature that makes his belief false? And of course, ma;hshar as the 'gathering' of Judgement Day or Doomsday emphasizes the dire, chaotic, dangerous, uncontrollable nature of all these convergent thoughts. Instead of resolving such questions, the second line merely adds new ones. Who is the 'we'? Is it the poet speaking of himself in the plural as he often does, and expressing a view uniquely his own? Or is it the species-- the group of all humans referred to in the first line, who all share this view? Then, of course, if we 'consider' [samajhte hai;N] something to be so, are we right or wrong? ('We' often do 'consider' wrongly, as in {98,10}.) And what exactly is it that we 'consider'? We consider that we are-- or are in?-- an anjuman , even if we are alone. And the clever thing is the wide range of meanings that anjuman can have. At bottom, it shares a domain with ma;hshar , since both can refer, somewhat neutrally, to an assembly or gathering. But in tone, their paths diverge considerably: ma;hshar has ominous overtones of crowding, uncontrollableness, doom, even Doomsday, while an anjuman can be a delightful evening party of great formality, sophistication, and desirability. So if we emphasize the root meanings of ma;hshar and anjuman , we have a neutral-seeming recognition of the (more or less radical) complexity of man's inner life, such that there's always a 'gathering' going on in our heads, even in solitude. But if we emphasize the divergent nuances of the two words, things look much bleaker. Each of us is basically a wild, uncontrollable, almost 'doomsday'-like tangle of jostling thoughts, but we don't fully know or acknowledge it. Instead, we consider that we're at a party. Are we naive? Vain? Or is it a desperate form of 'self'-deception?

{119,7} hangaamah-e zabuunii-e himmat hai infa((aal ;haa.sil nah kiije dahr se ((ibrat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1a) a gathering/meeting of lowness/disgrace of spirit/courage is [a cause for] shame 1b) shame is a tumult/confusion of lowness/disgrace of spirit/courage 2) nothing is [to be] obtained from the world/age, even if it be instruction/advice

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Notes: hangaamah : 'A convention, an assembly, a meeting; a crowd; --noise, tumult, commotion, confusion, uproar; sedition, disturbance, disorder'. (Platts p.1238) zabuunii : 'Infirmity, weakness, helplessness; vileness, badness, ill, faultiness, wickedness, vice, depravity; infamy, disgrace'. (Platts p.615) himmat : 'Mind, thought; anxious thought, solicitude; attention, care; -inclination, desire, intention, resolution, purpose, design; --magnanimity; lofty aspiration; ambition; --liberality; --enterprise; spirit, courage, bravery; -power, strength, ability; --auspices, grace, favour'. (Platts p.1235) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, to obtain anything from anybody, and accept anybody's kindness, is a cause for shame. Such shame is pure lowness/disgrace of spirit/courage. It follows from this that if to take anything from anybody is a cause of lowness of spirit/courage, then one ought to take nothing from the world/age-nothing, even if it be instruction/advice. (127)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to obtain something from anybody-- that is, to accept his kindness-is a cause for shame. And to incur shame is an act of a lack of spirit/courage. So much so that even instruction/advice ought not to be taken from the age. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: To accept anybody's influence, and not to be the agent oneself, is a proof of lowness of spirit/courage. Even something like instruction/advice ought not to be obtained from the world. (240)

FWP: SETS == A,B INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} The commentators are content to make a bit of prose-paraphrasable (though weird) moral advice out of the verse, and the verse certainly is a classic example of Ghalib's poetic advocacy of radical autonomy at all costs (for more examples see {9,1}). But the verse can't of course be disposed of so simplistically and boringly. The first line is so broad and abstract that, in good mushairah style, the verse remains uninterpretable until we hear the second line. Even then, the first line, combining as it does multivalent words like hangaamah and zabuunii and himmat with the multivalence of the i.zaafat constructions, demands to be gnawed on for a while by the mind. If we read A=B, as in (1a), we discover a radically disdainful reason for taking nothing from the world. For what is the world, or at least the age we live in? It is a bunch of cowardly, spiritless conformists: a 'gathering' or 'crowd' or collective mass of 'lowness/vileness of courage/spirit'. A gathering of such a kind is a disgrace, a 'shame', in itself; and it would be even more shameful for a proud, thoughtful person to lend his countenance to such an ignominious display. Better to leave the mob to themselves, sharing their lowness and spiritlessness with each other; God forbid that one would take anything at all from such a useless crew! Even taking something as minimal as their advice or instruction would be shameful: it's probably worthless anyway, and even if by some accident it might have a bit of value, it's hopelessly polluted by its disgraceful source.

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If we read B=A, as in (1b), we discover that shame itself is the problem. What is shame but a collection of fears and anxieties, a 'tumult' or 'confusion' that is full of 'lowness of spirit' and 'disgrace of courage'? If such an undesirable state is to be endured at all, it must come from one's own best self alone, and one must wrestle with it privately. Why would a proud, thoughtful person let the 'advice' or 'instruction' of the people of the world be a cause of such a humiliation? On the contrary: he should ignore the world entirely, should take nothing from it. He should cultivate a stoic 'friendlessness' and a radical moral autonomy. This is exactly what is also enjoined in {119,5}.

{119,8} vaarastagii bahaanah-e begaanagii nahii;N apne se kar nah ;Gair se va;hshat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) liberatedness/freedom is not an excuse for strangeness/alienness 2a) do it toward yourself, not toward an Other, even if it be wildness

Notes: begaanah : [Source of begaanagii]: 'Strange, foreign, another, not related, not domestic, not an acquaintance or friend, alien, unknown'. (Platts p.210) va;hshat : 'Loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; -wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism; --timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror; --distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, liberatedness and freedom are not a name that can be used as an excuse for strangeness/alienness and wildness, and for considering that we are free from the world. Well [are], even if you show strangeness/alienness and wildness, then show them toward your own spirit, not toward an Other. (128)

Bekhud Mohani: If you've become free of connections with the world, then this doesn't mean that you would remain far off from the Lord's creatures. If you have to show wildness, then do it toward your own self. That is, the selfhood that has remained in you-- erase it. Because after renouncing relationship with the world, you ought to help the Lord's creatures, not show madness. (240-41)

Faruqi: The meaning of apne se kar nah ;Gair se can also be, show wildness 'neither toward yourself nor toward an Other' [nah apne se nah ;Gair se].... Now the question is, what is intended by the instruction about not showing wildness toward yourself either? The meaning of showing wildness toward others is to avoid contact with all the Lord's creatures. Accordingly, showing wildness toward oneself means to flee from oneself. Now the meaning of the verse becomes: well, wildness is a fine thing, but don't use liberatedness (which is the state of being wild) as an occasion to abandon the creatures of God, and your own very self. The renunciation of attachments is a good thing, but to renounce love for the creatures of God (among whom you yourself are included too) is not right.... It's as if you would negate human responsibility. Of what use is such liberatedness? (209-10)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} MADNESS: {14,3} Faruqi maintains that the initial nah is often colloquially dropped in the 'neither/nor' construction, and thus may be taken as implicit there, giving rise to a second meaning of 'do it neither toward yourself, nor toward an Other'. He's perfectly right about the grammatical possibility, of course. But then to

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make sense of this alternative meaning he's obliged to interpret the second line as though it ended simply in va;hshat . But instead it ends in va;hshat hii kyuu;N nah ho , 'even if it be va;hshat ', where the hii emphasizes the special extremity and uniqueness of va;hshat within the large category of things it might be. So we surely need to ask, what are the other things the 'it' might be-- the things of which va;hshat is obviously not typical? Love? Hatred? Grief? Disdain? Any other strong emotion? For any of these other possibilities, the injunction to do 'it' with neither yourself nor another would clash with the clear sense of the first line. The first line of the verse sets us up for some kind of movement beyond alienation, strangeness, strangerness, estrangement [begaanagii]. Since the first line denies us an 'excuse' for alienation, we expect to receive a moral injunction in the second line. We expect the second line to say something like 'keep in friendly touch with others', or words to that effect. Or at least it might be expected to say 'keep in friendly touch with yourself, if you can't do so with others'. However, the second line-- in proper mushairah performance style-- doesn't say anything of the sort. It simply adjures us to do some 'it' toward ourselves- and not toward others. The shock of this sudden surprise forces us to think much more deeply about the verse. If the 'it' is taken to be some bad, alienating feeling (like, say, va;hshat ), then it might seem that we should show 'it' toward ourselves, not toward others, as a form of courtesy and kindness. By treating others thoughtfully we would avoid displaying a culpable begaanagii toward them. This argument represents, however, only a special case. For the 'it' can clearly also be some other, and quite different feeling, as the grammar of the second line emphatically envisions-- some kind of feeling of which va;hshat is not at all representative. In that case, the sense of the line turns right around and moves off into Ghalib's famous domain of exhortations to radical 'independence' (see {9,1} for more on this). The verse then urges us to behave, basically, in the manner described in {119,5}. In {119,5} it's 'friendlessness' that induces us to choose radical self-reliance, and here it's 'liberatedness'; in {119,5} it's 'shame' that is in question, and here it's any emotion whatsoever. But the general thrust of the meaning is the same: whatever (good or bad) emotions we feel-- and in Urdu to 'do' a feeling is quite normal grammar-- we should feel them toward or before ourselves, not toward or before other people. It turns out in any case, therefore, that avoiding 'strangeness' and 'alienness' is a matter entirely of one's relation with oneself. Other people are very explicitly irrelevant. The sound sequence gii bahaanah-e be-gaanagii has a fine rhythm, too.

{119,9} mi;Ttaa hai faut-e fur.sat-e hastii kaa ;Gam ko))ii ((umr-e ((aziiz .sarf-e ((ibaadat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) as if the grief of the death of the interval/respite of life/existence ever gets erased! 2a) even if the precious lifetime would be expended in worship alone 2b) why would the precious lifetime not be expended in worship alone?

Notes: fur.sat : 'A time, opportunity, occasion; freedom (from), leisure; convenience; relief, recovery; respite, reprieve; rest, ease'. (Platts p.779) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, what can man obtain that is beyond the fruit of worship? So if the period of life is spent only in worship, then why will there be sadness over

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it? This 'interval/respite of life' is an extraordinary occasion, one that won't come again. (128)

Bekhud Mohani: If the whole lifetime be passed in worship alone, even then grief about the loss of the life will remain. That is, higher than worship is the level of mystic knowledge. The lifetime that has been spent in worship-- if it had been spent in an attempt to encounter the Lord, then mystical knowledge could have been attained. [Or:] He says that life is so precious to man that despite the whole lifetime's being spent in such an excellent pursuit as worship, still he doesn't wish to die. In this verse it has been shown to what an extent life is precious to man. (241)

Faruqi: = ... faut-e fur.sat-e hastii can mean (1) the finishing, or becoming nonexistent, of that interval which they call 'existence'; (2) the departure, or being wasted, of that interval which they call 'existence'. Ghalib has used fur.sat with ((umr or hastii elsewhere too: in {148,6}; and in (Raza 272, an unpublished verse from {123}): abr rotaa hai kih bazm-e :tarab aamaadah karo barq hanstii hai kih fur.sat ko))ii dam hai ham ko [the cloud weeps: inaugurate a musical gathering! the lightning laughs: we have an interval/leisure of some moments] = Life has a thousand occupations, but the most pleasureless is worship, because worships deprives man of all pleasure and music, pastimes, amusements, and enjoyable things. But even though a life passed in worship is merely savorless and colorless, man loves life so much that he grieves over the passing of even such a colorless life..... = The meaning of spending one's life in worship is the renunciation of the world and thus the renunciation of life. The claim or attempt of renouncing life through worship alone is merely vain, because when death comes, then the worshipper and the pious man too grieve at the loss of life. (211-12)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} The first line, with its colloquial ko))ii , is an exclamation-- emphatic, edgy, impatient. It sounds like something that might be said in reply to a clumsy attempt at consolation. The would-be consoler has said something like, 'be patient, time heals all wounds'. The speaker is unable even to listen to such obvious nonsense: he contemptuously dismisses even the idea that the grief of death can ever be lifted from the heart. It's grief over someone's death, anyone's death-- and especially, over everyone's death. For grammatically speaking, it's grief over the death of the lifetime itself. The grief is over the faut-e fur.sat of life-- the death of the 'interval', the 'respite', that life provides. For more on this colloquial, emphatically negative use of ko))ii , see {7,5}. Then, as so often, we have to decide for ourselves how the two lines should be connected. Colloquially, the second line looks like an adverbial clause that is part of the first (2a). But grammatically, it can also be read as completely independent (2b). If the two lines are grammatically one, as in (2a), then we have all the possibilities raised by the commentators. 'Even if' the lifetime is spent in worship, grief at its death remains. Does the 'even if' imply that worship is the best possible use of our time, since we thus seek to procure an afterlife? Or, as Bekhud Mohani says, that outward worship is an inferior choice when compared with the pursuit of mystical awareness? Or, as Faruqi suggests,

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that even though a lifetime of unalloyed worship is deadly dull, we still regret its ending? If the two lines are taken separately, as in (2b), then a new set of questions arises. Realizing that the grief of the death of life can never be erased, why wouldn't we decide to spend that precious, brief life in worship? Perhaps we so decide because this constant awareness of the brevity of life turns our thoughts to the eternity of the Divine. Or perhaps it's a counsel of despair: life is so brief and pain-filled anyway, why even bother to try to enjoy it or make something of it-- why not just go ahead and use it up in some obvious, mechanically virtuous fashion? Or, even more literally, the second line can actually be taken as a non-rhetorical question: why would the precious life in fact not be spent in worship? Perhaps there could be some reason, after all, why it would not be; we, the readers, will have to do our own reflecting on the whole question. It's a marvelous verse, isn't it? The tone of the first line is so sharp, so edgy, so frustrated with complexities and yet so complex-- it can hardly be read with the eyes alone, it demands a tongue and a voice. We're compelled to provide that voice ourselves.

{119,10} us fitnah-;xuu ke dar se ab u;Thte nahii;N asad us me;N hamaare sar pah qiyaamat hii kyuu;N nah ho 1) [we] do/will not rise now from the door of that {mischief/calamity}tempered one, Asad 2) even if, in that, Doomsday itself would come upon our head

Notes: fitnah : 'Trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment, plague, pest (applied to persons as well as things)'. (Platts p.776) qiyaamat: 'The resurrection, the last day; --confusion, commotion, tumult, uproar, extraordinary to-do; anything extraordinary; a scene of trouble or distress; a great calamity; excess'. (Platts p.796) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Although on Doomsday everyone certainly has to rise up, still now we will not rise. [The future form u;The;Nge and the present u;Thte hai;N ] here have the same meaning. But from the latter verb emerges an insistence too, that is not in the former. (128)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The pleasure in this verse is that on the day of Doomsday, all will rise up; but we won't rise up even then. (181)

Bekhud Mohani: Now we've sat down at her door; anything at all may happen, we do/will not rise. The word fitnah-;xuu tells us that we know that fitne will arise, and disasters will arise; but what the hell [balaa se], let them come! (241)

Arshi: Compare {46,5}. (244)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; WORDPLAY QIYAMAT: {10,11} Here is a lovely, amusing little verse of wordplay. The wordplay is so manifest, and so fundamental to the charm of the verse, that the commentators themselves actually point it out with delight. As Nazm observes, the verb in the first line, though grammatically only a present habitual ('we do not rise'), idiomatically has the force of firm resolve ('we will not rise!').

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The word qiyaamat comes ultimately from an Arabic root meaning 'to stand', and is derived from qiyaam , meaning 'standing upright; rising up' (Platts p.796). Theologically speaking, it's really Judgment Day, when all the dead will be summoned to arise and face the divine tribunal. But I translate it as 'Doomsday' because it also has the sense of turmoil, confusion, disaster. So, as the commentators point out, the lover plants himself by the beloved's door, vowing that now he won't arise even if 'Doomsday' comes upon his head. The lesser doomsday-calamities-- being beaten by her Doorkeeper, being scolded by her, maybe being deluged with dirty water from a window above, and so on-- can no doubt be expected, but apparently he firmly plans to sit there forever. Even God may have trouble budging him when it's time for the real Doomsday-- an amusing thing to imagine. Moreover, the beloved herself is a fitnah-;xuu and, as Bekhud Mohani suggests, a major amount of fitnah is one of the expected features of Doomsday. So we also have the vision of the beloved herself as a source of Doomsday, as she inflicts her wrath on the stubbornly unmoving lover seated by her door. Sitting by someone's door is normally a display of humble submission, so that the lover's stubborn, flatly non-humble refusal to budge becomes a further source of amusement. Ultimately, can the lover even tell the difference-- or would he even want to?-- between the beloved's version of Doomsday, and the divine one? Of course, mystically speaking, they can always be imagined as one.

Ghazal 120 12 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: an ko composed 1853; Hamid p. 99; Arshi #126; Raza pp. 322-23

{120,1} qafas me;N huu;N gar achchhaa bhii nah jaane;N mere shevan ko miraa honaa buraa kyaa hai navaa-sanjaan-e gulshan ko 1) I’m in a cage; even if they might not consider my lamentation good 2) what harm/'bad' is my being/existence, to the singers/'song-weighers' of the garden?!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Arshi: In the 'Dihli Urdu Akhbar', vol. 10, no. 19 (8 May 1853) this ghazal appears, along with a number of other ghazals from the mushairah. (249)

Nazm: That is, seeing me imprisoned and absorbed in grief and lamentation, why do people who are happily placed despise me? What harm do I do them? (128)

Naiyar Masud: [Quotes commentary by Nazm, Hasrat, Asi, Bekhud Mohani, Natiq, Chishti.] In all these commentaries the same thing, with just a change of wording, is being repeated in prose, that has been said within the constraints of meter in the verse.... It's assumed that they don't consider my lamentation good; but now, after my being captured, they've been freed from my lamentation as well; so that neither am I in the garden, nor is my lamentation.... After all, what can be the reason for this displeasure?.... The second line makes no mention of lamentation, but rather says that to the singers of the garden my existence-that is, my being-- is displeasing, even if that existence be in a cage.... My captivity is the proof that in the opinion of the capturers, I was the best singer in the garden and my lamentation was the most affecting....

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'Lamentation' [shevan] is a natural and melodious sound of which the moving spirit is grief; in 'lamentation' there's no room for artifice, it's a voice that emerges from the heart. 'Song-measuring' [navaa-sanjii] means 'to weigh melodies'; that is, in contrast to a natural lament, it is the singing of a tune created through effort. The effect [taa;siir] of 'lamentation' is greater than that of 'song-weighing'. In short, it can be considered that the difference between 'lamentation' and 'song-weighing' is that between the natural [aamad] and the artificial [avard]. [This explains the other birds' initial jealousy of the speaker; and when he was the one chosen for capture and was borne off to a cage, their feelings of inferiority remained unresolved and are now unassuageable. The speaker might not understand all this himself; but no doubt the grief of captivity has even improved his 'lamentation'.] (192201)

Faruqi: But the difficulty is that no proof [daliil] has been given that the existence of the cage-bound lamenter is displeasing to the song-weighers of the garden. An assumption has merely been made [to this effect]. It can't even be called a poetic claim [iddi((aa-e shaa((iraanah], because the condition of a poetic claim is that there be no apparent objection against it. For example, this is a poetic claim: 'Today there's some extra pain in my heart'. Such a claim requires no proof. [Two other situations in which no proof is necessary are discussed.] In the verse under discussion, why is there no proof? In order to resolve this difficulty, the verse ought to be read not in a metaphorical but in an allegorical [tam;siilii] sense. Metaphorical meanings are public, and multivalent. The meaning of an allegory is special and limited. From this point of view, the speaker of the verse will be considered to be some specific person. Here the speaker is not some skilled person, some sensitive person, some stranger, but rather the poet (that is, Ghalib himself). By the 'cage' is meant Delhi, or Hindustan, which Ghalib considers inauspicious for him. By 'lament' is meant his own poetry, and by 'song-weighers of the garden' is meant the poets who were his contemporaries. Thus the meaning of the verse is, 'Granted that people don't consider my poetry good, but they should also keep in view the fact that I'm imprisoned in this city (or country). Why does my existence displease them to such an extent that they keep on abusing me?' Ghalib has expressed in various places this theme-- that he is imprisoned, or is in a strange environment. [Some Persian and Urdu examples are cited, including {83,1}; and this unpublished one (Raza p. 157): huu;N garmii-e nishaa:t-e ta.savvur se na;Gmah-sanj mai;N ((andaliib-e gulshan-e naa-aafariidah huu;N [I am song-weighing from the heat of the joy of imagination I am a nightingale of the uncreated garden]; and a quatrain (Hamid p. 218; Arshi p. 339): mushkil hai za-bas kalaam meraa ay dil sun sun ke use su;xan-varaan-e kaamil aasaa;N kahne kii karte hai;N farmaa))ish goyam mushkil vagarnah goyam mushkil [my poetry is so difficult, oh heart having heard it, the accomplished poets make a request for me to compose easy [verse] I compose the difficult; otherwise, I have difficulty composing]] As we go along, please also consider the affinities also: 'cage' and 'lament'; 'good' and 'bad'; 'singers', 'garden'. (213-17)

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FWP: SETS == KYA; POETRY GOOD/BAD: {22,4} This verse has been so well and extensively discussed by Naiyar Masud and Faruqi, that I'm only sorry I can't reproduce their whole commentaries without adding undue length. People who know Urdu well would be foolish not to consult the originals. I'd only point out the excellent multivalence of the second line: it can be taken as a genuine inquiry (I'm naively curious: what harm is it?); or a rhetorical question (what harm does it do them?); or even an indignant negative assertion (as if it did them any harm!). In addition, we are left to decide for ourselves what it is about the situation described in the first line that might displease the 'song-weighers of the garden'. My lamenting in itself? My lamenting without sufficient skill and 'song-weighing'? My lamenting in some other way that they don't care for? My lamenting from within a cage? My continuing to lament after being captured and caged? And of course, my lamenting might not displease them at all, since the grammar cleverly leaves this possibility open as well. (My question might reflect my own ignorance, isolation, and desperate anxiety.)

{120,2} nahii;N gar hamdamii aasaa;N nah ho yih rashk kyaa kam hai nah dii hotii ;xudaa yaa aarzuu-e dost dushman ko 1a) if familiarity/intimacy is not easy, then it's not; is this envy/jealousy less? 1b) if familiarity/intimacy is not easy, then it's not; this envy/jealousy is hardly a small thing! 2) oh Lord, if only you had not given to the friend a longing for the enemy!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, although it's difficult for the enemy to be my companion [hamsar], or the beloved's intimate companion [hamdam], is the envy/jealousy any the less for me? Since he too longs for the friend. (128)

Bekhud Mohani: Although it's difficult for the Rival to be my peer in passion, or to become an informal friend [dost] and confidant of the beloved's, still I am slain by envy/jealousy, for the Rival too loves the one whom I love. (241-42)

Faruqi: By putting dost before [the rhyme-word] dushman , Ghalib has created a new atmosphere.... It can also be said that it's as if it's not an easy thing for my myself to achieve nearness to the beloved; and when this nearness is not in my destiny, then what control do I have over whether anybody else achieves it or not? But still, I can't endure that anybody else would desire the one whom I desire.... Please look at another aspect: yih rashk kyaa kam hai can also mean 'this envy/jealousy itself is enough'. That is, if familiarity/intimacy is not easy, then so be it; but this envy/jealousy is enough for us to die over: that our envy too longs for the one whom we are dying for. To die is destined in any case. If wehad died of despair, that would have been one thing; now the situation is that we're dying of envy/jealousy. It's also possible that 'enemy' can be taken to mean 'beloved'. That is, the beloved too now longs to have some beloved. Now the envy/jealousy is over this person who will be the beloved's beloved. Obviously, who will be a greater Rival than the one of whom the beloved herself would be a lover? In

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one other place as well Ghalib has depicted the beloved as a lover: {105,1}. To call the beloved an enemy is also part of poetic custom. Ghalib's own verse is: {4,3}.... If one reflects on the point that the Lord has put in the heart of the enemy (Rival or beloved) the longing for a beloved, then the interpretation also emerges that all this is the marvelous doing of the Divine workshop and the power of God, that people are enmeshed in passion and die of passion or envy/jealousy. (219-20)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} Faruqi's commentary makes the important points. I especially endorse his citing of {4,3} as a provocative example of how the friend/enemy dichotomy can be played with. For another such complex use of kyaa kam hai , see {14,4}.

{120,3} nah niklaa aa;Nkh se terii ik aa;Nsuu us jaraa;hat par kiyaa siine me;N jis ne ;xuu;N-chakaa;N mizhgaan-e sozan ko 1) not a single tear fell from your eye over that wound 2) which, in the stitching/breast, made the eyelashes of the needle blooddripping

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'needle' is meant the 'needle of grief', the place of which is inside the breast. And if we don't take 'needle' as this metaphor, then the verse will become commonplace [((aamiyaanah], the way unintelligent poets versify unreal [;Gair-vaaqi((ii] things. Here, if in place of 'breast' [siinah] you consider it to be 'stitching' [siinaa], then there's no need of a metaphor. (128)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having heard the state of those wounds, not even a single teardrop fell from your eye-- the wounds in my heart that caused blood to flow from the eyes of the needle of grief. (181-82)

Bekhud Mohani: How pitiless you are! You're human, yet you didn't weep over a wound over which the eye of the needle, which is soulless, wept blood. (242)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY What a clever, enjoyable verse of wordplay! And in classic mushairah-verse style, it not only refuses to yield its full meaning until the very last moment, but actually misdirects the reader or hearer: the first line speaks of what is obviously a grievous wound, then the second line seems at first simply to locate it: it's found, naturally, 'in the breast' [siine me;N], where the lover's mortal wound must always be. Not until we hear the last possible moment, with the word 'needle' [sozan], do we realize that we need to go back and revise our reading. And not substitutionally revise, but expand into two separate readings. For the best part of the verse is siine me;N , which is the oblique of both siinah , 'breast, chest', and siinaa , 'to stitch, to sew'. Since both nouns look the same in the oblique, they aren't even homonyms as they normally are, but must be undecideably both present at once, like the properties of light. And since both nouns would yield a completely, equally, fine and appropriate meaning in that position in that sentence, neither can be at all preferred over the other. Either 'in the breast' (where the wound is located), or 'in stitching' (while the process of sewing up the wound was under way), the wound made the eyelashes of the needle 'blood-dripping'. It did this either by (1) bleeding so

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grievously that the needle's eye became physically saturated with blood; or by (2) offering such a melancholy sight that the eye of the needle actually wept tears of deep emotion and compassion-- the proverbial 'tears of blood' such as lovers constantly weep-- at the sight of it. Equipping the needle not only with an 'eye'-- which it always has, in Urdu just as primally as in English-- is supplemented by equipping the needle's eye with 'eyelashes', which it normally doesn't have in Urdu any more than in English. That might seem at first glance (so to speak) to work in favor of the 'pathetic fallacy' meaning (2); but the matter is not so simple. The polishmarks on a mirror can seek to be metallic 'eyelashes' too, as in {17,4}, in response to the beloved's radiance, but without any such quivering, emotional anthropomorphism. Nazm seems, if I interpret him correctly, to be endorsing a reading even more metaphorical than (2), by insisting that not a real needle at all, but only a 'needle of grief' should be understood. Since the 'grief' could only be the wounded lover's, this doesn't make much sense: why should he weep selfpityingly over his own wound? Nazm does (sporadically ) reject actual 'objective correlatives' on what seem to be 'natural poetry' grounds; within the world of ghazal poetics, however, this risks turning verses into mush. This verse has two beautiful cousins {97,11} and {97,12} whose greater glory might seem to overshadow it; but if they have glory, this one has wit.

{120,4} ;xudaa sharmaa))e haatho;N ko kih rakhte hai;N kashaakash me;N kabhii mere garebaa;N ko kabhii jaanaa;N ke daaman ko 1) may the Lord bring shame upon the hands-- that keep in {tug-of-war / distraction / difficulty} 2) sometimes my collar, sometimes the beloved's garment-hem!

Notes: kashaakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; jostling, hustling;... great unpleasantness, or grief, or pain; distraction, dilemma, perplexity, difficulty, struggle, contention, wrangle, squabble; attraction, allurement'. (Platts p.835) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, at the time of leave-taking, her garment-hem; and in the state of separation, my collar. (128)

Hasrat: Although jaanaa;N ke daaman is an accurate translation of daaman-e jaanaa;N , it is not eloquent [fa.sii;h]; it's surprising that Ghalib considered its usage permissible. (102)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has accomplished this full measure of mischievousness: that he has placed the blame for his turmoil of passion and tumult of ardor, upon the innocent hands. (182)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh God, give these hands a sense of shame! Because at the time of leavetaking they keep in kashaakash the beloved's garment-hem; and in separation, my collar. (242)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} As Bekhud Dihlavi observes, it's amusing how virtuously the speaker denounces the shamelessness of those evil hands! (Just as though he were not hopelessly attached to them.) May the Lord bring shame upon them, he

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exclaims. Which is a self-fulfilling prophecy, since they're engaged in scandalous behavior that will bring shame upon them in the normal course of events, even without any divine intervention. Is the Lord being asked to bring shame upon them in the eyes of others-finger-pointing, gossip, a humiliating public scandal-- to punish them? Or should they be subject to shame in their own eyes-- giving them a 'sense of shame'-- so that they'd be moved to behave better? And what exactly is the shameful part? Tugging on the collar? Tugging on the beloved's garment-hem? Tugging on both in turn? Or keeping on tugging (on any or all of these), when the limits of propriety have already been exceeded? Or maybe 'tugging' itself isn't the real issue, or is only part of the problem: consider the other possible, and mostly all too relevant, meanings of kashaakash . Verses for comparison: {106,1} and {106,2}.

{120,5} abhii ham qatl-gah kaa dekhnaa aasaa;N samajhte hai;N nahii;N dekhaa shinaavar juu-e ;xuu;N me;N tere tausan ko 1) now/still we consider it easy to {look at / see} the slaughter-ground 2) we haven’t seen your steed swimming in a river of blood

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The beloved's blood-shedding has drowned everything, beyond all customary limits. (129) [See also his remarks in the commentary on {195,2}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that we consider that our murderer will select one fortunate lover from the group of lovers and martyr him with the dagger of coquetry and the sword of sidelong glances. We don't realize that after this spectacle so many men will cut their throats out of envy that a river of blood will flow. (182)

Bekhud Mohani: As yet we haven't seen your steed swimming in a stream of blood. This is the reason that we consider going to the slaughter-ground and giving our life to be easy. That is, when that time comes, we'll see whether our senses remain to us. (242-43)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH This is an excellent mushairah verse: the first line is thrillingly ominous, but completely abstract. We must wait-- and under mushairah performance conditions, that wait can feel like forever-- for the second line. And even then, the second line is uninterpretable until the last possible moment, when we finally get to the steed; we thus experience the whole verse in a single shock of pleasure. There are also two possibilities inherent in dekhnaa that in English are subdivided into two separate verbs. The more obvious is to interpret dekhnaa as 'look at'-- because the slaughter-ground will be such a horrific river of blood, we will be in danger of losing our nerve; it will not be easy to summon up the will to 'look at' it. The second possibility is that we literally won't be able to 'see' the slaughter-ground-- it, like all other landmarks and everything else in the vicinity, will be submerged in a sea of blood.

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{120,6} hu))aa charchaa jo mere paa;Nv kii zanjiir banne kaa kiyaa betaab kaa;N me;N junbish-e jauhar ne aahan ko 1) when there was mention of the making of chains for my feet 2a) the movement of essence/excellence/temperedness made the iron restless/eager in the mine 2b) the trembling of the temper-lines in its ear made the iron restless/eager

Notes: kaan : [Indic] 'The ear; --hearing; heed, regard'. (Platts p.805) kaan : [Persian] 'A mine; a quarry; --source'. (Platts p.806) junbish : 'Moving, movement, motion; shake, vibration, trembling; agitation; gesture'. (Platts p.391) jauhar : 'A gem, jewel; a pearl; essence, matter, substance... accomplishment, art; excellence...;-- the diversified wavy marks, streaks, or grain of a well-tempered sword' (Platts p.399). *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, my madness is of such an order that iron itself longs to become chains and be honored by nearness to me. Here, the nasalization of the full nuun in kaan seems displeasing. (129)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the rank of my madness is proved by this statement: that hearing mention of the making of chains for my feet, the jauhar of the iron made the iron restless in the mine. That is, it wanted to somehow emerge from the mine and become chains for the feet of this madman. (182)

Bekhud Mohani: My madness is of such a rank that even iron (which is lifeless) is becoming restless to kiss my feet. And the jauhar of the iron has become, for the iron, a thorn in its garment. (243)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY JAUHAR: {5,4} MADNESS: {14,3} The special enjoyableness of this verse rests on what is surely a form of iihaam or deliberate poetic misdirection. In classic mushairah-verse style, the first line piques our curiosity but is tantalizingly incomplete. Such enjambement is not too common in ghazal lines, but it's not all that rare either. When after a suitably suspenseful delay we're allowed to hear the second line, we of course hear kaa;N me;N as 'in the ear', since the first line has made us expect to be told what happens when a 'mention' [charchaa] occurs. Not until the last possible moment are we told that the subject of all this action is 'iron'. Then with a shock of amusement and pleasure we go back and revise our understanding of kaa;N me;N to mean first of all 'in the mine', since whether or not the iron may also have an 'ear', it's much more plausibly and surely located in a 'mine'. Since kaan meaning 'ear' is an Indicside word, it actually can't, or at least shouldn't, be shortened through nasalization in such a way; but even the hearer who knows this will surely take a minute, under the evocative circumstances of the verse, to actually remember the fact. So in practice, the effect of misdirection will be achieved. If we read only or chiefly 'mine', as in (2a), then the iron in the mine, even before it's smelted and forged, somehow longs and quivers to become chains

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for my feet. And of course, the reason my feet need chains in the first place is because in the betaabii of my madness I can't be still; now this very betaabii is transferred to the future chains themselves. By jauhar we might then understand 'excellence' or 'essence' (with wordplay involving 'gem' or 'jewel'), since the truest and highest future destiny of the iron (chaining an unchainable madman? approaching a lover of such lofty destiny?) is calling out to it and evoking a response. If we read 'ear' as well, as in (2b), then we imagine that the iron is already forged; it now has little temper-lines that resemble the tiny cilia in the ear, and quiver when a sound reaches them. Thus the bar of iron, having already been through the experience of forging, has a primitive anthropomorphic identity, and 'listens' to words through its 'ear', and can react appropriately. But does the iron also in fact have an 'ear'? If we consider that it doesn't have an ear, then the verse has an iihaam in the full classic sense: the meaning we're led to expect is not applicable, while only a more uncommon meaning is applicable. If we consider that it does have an ear, then the verse rests on the wordplay of the two meanings of kaa;N me;N . Not only can that question be argued at length, but there are also such a number of possibly relevant meanings of jauhar (see definition above). An excellent verse for comparison: {1,3}.

{120,7} ;xvushii kyaa khet par mere agar sau baar abr aave samajhtaa huu;N kih ;Dhuu;N;Dhe hai abhii se barq ;xirman ko 1) what's the [cause for] happiness, if the cloud would come a hundred times over my field? 2) I consider that the lightning searches, {already / from now on}, for the harvest

Notes: aave is a variant form of aa))e . ;Dhuu;N;Dhe hai is an archaic form for, here, ;Dhuu;N;Dhtii hai . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, before success comes, the equipment for failure appears. (129)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a cloud's coming again and again over my field is no proof that it comes as a means for my advantage. The truth is that the lightning is already/now searching for my harvest, and runs all around in pursuit of it.The meaning is that I'm such an unsuccessful person that all my attempts prove useless. (182)

Bekhud Mohani: I myself have seen that when someone has lost a grown child, then when he sees signs around him of a child being expected, the fear of that child's growing up and then dying comes over him, and for there's no sign of happiness in him anywhere. (243)

Arshi: Compare {118,4}, {234,6}. (248, 250, 311)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} Beyond the obviously wonderful 'want to hear how unlucky I am?' effect, with all its rueful wit and wry humor, there's more going on. We don't know whether the cloud ever does rain in any of these hundred times, or always just passes over the field without effect, or whether the 'hundred times' are just a rhetorical bit of hyperbole. We also don't know whether the cloud has

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any intention of ever raining, or of sending down lightning, since the syntax leaves plenty of room for error on the speaker's part. For after all, he's said 'I consider' [samajhtaa huu;N], which not only admits the possibility of error, but is elsewhere deliberately used for consciously imposed metaphors, as in {111,6}. Thus it's possible that the gloom and doom is only in the speaker's mind, and the cloud is just rolling around as clouds do, so frustratingly, before finally settling down and turning into the monsoon. What a complex position that puts the speaker in! Everybody longs for the clouds to come, bringing rain; if the clouds come to him, even possibly 'a hundred times', he's not the slightest bit interested in whether they bring rain or not; he doesn't even tell us whether they do or don't. He's only obsessed with the idea that they're planning to bring lightning and burn down his harvest. If the harvest isn't even there, that only proves the clouds are spying on him in advance, marking their prey. He sounds wildly paranoid-but then, as we know, paranoids have enemies too. For further discussion see {10,6}, which lists a cluster of specially relevant lightning-and-harvest verses.

{120,8} vafaadaarii bah shar:t-e ustuvaarii a.sl-e iimaa;N hai mare but-;xaane me;N to ka((be me;N gaa;Rho barahman ko 1) faithfulness, on the condition of firmness, is the root/principle/origin of faith/religion 2) if he would die in the idol-house, then bury the Brahmin in the Ka'bah

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: That is, when a Brahmin spends his whole life in the idol-house, and dies there, then he has a right to be buried in the Ka'bah, because he entirely fulfilled the claim of fidelity, and this is the root of faith. (125)

Nazm: That is, faithfulness and steadfastness in every state-- so much so that it's worthy of respect even in an infidel. (129)

Bekhud Mohani: If someone remains fixed in faithfulness, then this alone is the root of faith. In my opinion, if some Brahmin should stay faithfully in an idol-house and die there, then he's worthy to be buried in the Ka'bah. (243)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} RELIGIONS: {60,2} The first line is so abstract, so orotund, so pontificating-- it cries out not just to be illustrated or concretized, but to be punctured with a small sharp object, so that all that hot air can be vented. And the second line provides a small sharp object indeed-- it's so specific, so hard-hitting, so inescapable. No flimflammery, no waffling, just a familiar imperative (with tum ). It's a strong, simple, forceful command: if a Brahmin dies in the idol-house, in pursuit of duty and faithfulness, then bury him in the Ka'bah, and no two ways about it! The obvious verse for comparison is {204,7}. Some editors modernize and/or 'Urduize' gaa;Rho into gaa;Ro . As always, I follow Arshi.

{120,9} shahaadat thii mirii qismat me;N jo dii thii yih ;xuu mujh ko jahaa;N talvaar ko dekhaa jhukaa detaa thaa gardan ko

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1) martyrdom was in my destiny, since it/he had given me such a temperament-2) wherever I saw a sword, I used to bow my neck

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The sword is a metaphor for airs and graces and oppression and cruelty, and 'to bow the neck' is a suggestion of accepting, and by 'martyrdom' is meant the shedding of blood. And if these words are taken in a mystical [;haqiiqii] sense, then no conclusion [mu;ha.s.sil] remains to the verse. (129)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In my destiny the rank of martyrdom had been written. Accordingly, the habit had been bestowed on me that wherever I used to see a sword, I used to bow my neck. As if the sword in my eyes was acting as the niche for worship. It's an extremely eloquent and enjoyable verse. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: Mystical [;haqiiqii] martyrdom can also be intended. Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i's statement that if it is taken in a mystical manner, then the verse no longer has any conclusion-- God knows on what experience it's based! People who will be accomplished in any special art usually display traits right from their childhood that insightful people understand. (243-44)

FWP: Here the jo means something like 'since' or 'in that, and the subject of 'had given' is 'X ne '. The structure of Urdu grammar means that we can know nothing about the number or gender of the X in this construction. (Note for any grammar fans: linguists call the ' ne ' construction the 'ergative'.) The verse makes clever use of this ambiguity, for who or what is it who has given the speaker such a temperament? It could be, most obviously, one of the antecedent nouns in the first line, either 'martyrdom' itself, or 'destiny'. Or it could be considered to be some unexpressed but implied entity like 'God' or 'He' or 'Nature'. Then in the second line, we're also left to interpret the meaning of that bowing of the head. Complete submission to fate? Worship, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests? Readiness or even eagerness for slaughter, so that the bowed head will encourage the sword to do its work? It also occurred to me that the bowed head might also suggest the bend of a scimitar or curved sword, as in {17,5}, but on the whole I don't think this works, for a talvaar seems to be a straight sword. It also occurred to me that jahaa;N talvaar ko dekhaa might just possibly be stretched and pummeled into yielding either 'I saw the world as a sword' or 'I saw the sword as a world'. But I had my doubts, and when I consulted Faruqi, he said absolutely not, though he gave me credit for ingenuity.

{120,10} nah lu;Ttaa din ko to kab raat ko yuu;N be;xabar sotaa rahaa kha;Tkaa nah chorii kaa du((aa detaa huu;N rahzan ko 1) if I hadn’t been looted in the day, how/when would I have slept carelessly/ignorantly like this at night? 2) there remained no alarm/knock of theft-- I bless the highway-robber!

Notes: kha;Tkaa : 'Knock, rap, rattling sound or noise, clatter; sound of footsteps;... misgiving, doubt, suspicion, suspense; perturbation, anxiety, care, concern; apprehension, fear, dread'. (Platts p.871) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm:

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That is, worldly relationships are not free of trouble and anxiety/suspicion. Separation from them is unpleasant, but in this alone lies peace. (129)

Bekhud Mohani: The words 'highway-robber' [rahzan] and 'thief' [chor] are meaningful. The highway-robber was that beloved who snatched the heart by violence. The thief, by comparison, is another beloved who can attract people to herself by trickery. (244)

Arshi: Compare {154,4}. (251, 288)

Faruqi: A number of commentators have declared this to be the high point of the ghazal.... There's no doubt that this verse's simplicity and pithiness are such, and its excellence in trying to rejoice in one's own harm, and proving that harm is a benefit, make this verse worthy of being counted among the best verses of Persian and Urdu.... First, the speaker was looted by a highway-robber while on the road. Stripped and possession-less, the speaker arrives at some halting-place or resting-place. If he had had goods and property, then out of fear of theft he wouldn't have been able to sleep. Now when he's without all that wealth and property, he has no fear. What does he even have, concern for which would keep him awaye? But to sleep peacefully because goods and property have been looted is only innocence and ignorance of the outcome. Because the property is gone, but life remains. It's possible that en route to the next halting-place, he might be forced to wash his hands of his life as well. This confidence is premature, and this peaceful sleep is the sleep of ignorance. This innocence of the speaker lifts the verse to the extreme level of dramatic irony [;Draamaa))ii :tanz].... With regard to the freshness of its theme, this verse is a superb sample of theme-creation; and with regard to the depth of its meaning, it's a peerless example of meaning-creation.... In short, it's hardly a verse-- it's a miracle. (221-23)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} I want to systematize and extend some of the points that Faruqi makes in his analysis (not all of which I've translated). The verse evokes a series of stark contrasts: property and propertylessness; highway-robbery and theft; day and night (in general); today and tonight (in particular); traveling and halting; looting and blessing. Depending on how we arrange our emphases, here are some of the possibilities: =it's fortunate that my property is already gone, because otherwise, how could I avoid feeling anxious about it? (property vs. propertylessness) =it was fortunate that I was looted by a highway-robber, because otherwise, how could I have escaped the fear of a thief? (highway-robber vs. thief) =it was fortunate that I was looted in the day, because otherwise, with so much anxiety about theft, when would I ever have been able to sleep peacefully at night? (day vs. night) =it was fortunate that I was looted today and the whole thing is over with, because otherwise, how would I have been able to sleep peacefully like this tonight? (today vs. tonight) =it was fortunate that I was looted on the road, because otherwise, when would I have escaped from fear and anxiety while I was in a dwelling? (traveling vs. halting) =it was a blessing that I was looted, so in return I send my blessing to the looter (looting vs. blessing) Isn't this a wonderfully compressed, complex, truly Ghalibian set of variations? And who's to rule any of them out? One's mind is bound to focus

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first on one, then on another, then on another, on around and back, with no closure anywhere to be found. The wordplay is also excellent, as Faruqi points out: the punning double meaning of kha;Tkaa as both 'anxiety' and the literal 'knock' on the door, evoking the alarm and fear of theft that might come to someone dwelling in a house; and of course be-;xabar to mean both 'carelessly, heedlessly' and 'ignorantly, without awareness' (of other vulnerabilities). For another perspective on the highway-robber and the looted goods, consider {64,3}.

{120,11} su;xan kyaa kah nahii;N sakte kih juuyaa ho;N javaahir ke jigar kyaa ham nahii;N rakhte kih khode;N jaa ke ma((dan ko 1a) can we not compose/say poetry-- that we would be a seeker of jewels? 1b) what's the idea?! you can't say that we would be a seeker of jewels! 1c) it's hardly [mere] poetry!-- can we not say that we would would be a seeker of jewels? 2a) don’t we have a liver-- that we would go and dig in a mine/quarry? 2b) don't we have the guts/courage to go and dig in a mine/quarry?

Notes: su;xan : 'Speech, language, discourse, word, words; --thing, business affair (syn. baat )'. (Platts p.645) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, to abrade the liver and bring out damp/fresh [tar] verse is better than to dig in a mine and bring out jewels. (129)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to make metrical verses through trouble/anxiety [jigar-kaarii] is of a higher rank than to dig in a mine and bring out jewels. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: He has beautifully said that verses are better than jewels and trouble/anxiety [jigar-kaarii] is better than digging in a mine. (244)

FWP: SETS == KYA; PARALLELISM; POETRY; SUBJECT? JIGAR: {2,1} The parallelism of structure suggests the obvious meanings (1a) and (2a), two indignant rhetorical questions that are hard to translate both accurately and lucidly in English. Can't we compose poetry?! (Of course we can!) So why would we do an inferior thing like seeking jewels? Don't we have a liver?! (Of course we do!) So why would we do an inferior thing like digging in a mine? The commentators all paraphrase the implication: that composing poetry is better than seeking jewels, and digging into one's liver (for poetic emotions or effects) is better than digging in a mine (for jewels). But surely no one who knows Ghalib expects the verse to stop with anything so one-dimensional. The first line begins after all with the doubly multivalent su;xan kyaa , which is open to at least a couple of alternative readings. If the expression is taken to be like kyaa baat [hai] (1b), then it marks an exclamation of astonishment or even indignation. And it's then very plausible to imagine the rest of the utterance addressed to someone else, since no subject is present in the verse, and the masculine plural verb could easily apply to some aap -- someone who has insulted us, perhaps, by suggesting that we were mere jewel-miners. Alternatively, the phrase can suggest that what you call 'poetry' is really hardly just a form of words at all (1c), but something much more valuable-- something like jewels, mined with trouble and pain from deep within. (For a comparable usage see {20,6}.)

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Similarly, in the second line the obvious first interpretation can be reimagined so as to yield another possibility: jigar rakhnaa can mean 'to have heart/courage/guts' (for something). So we might also be indignantly refuting the idea that we didn't have the guts to go dig in a mine (2b), perhaps in order to wrest from the depths the real 'jewels' of poetry (1c). In short, the search for poetry either isn't, or is, like the search for jewels. (And even if it is, the search for jewels itself at once becomes a metaphor for the search for poetry.) More permutations could be devised, but the ones I've outlined at least suffice to show the complexity of the possibilities.

{120,12} mire shaah-e sulaimaa;N-jaah se nisbat nahii;N ;Gaalib fariiduun-o-jam-o-kai;xusrav-o-daaraab-o-bahman ko 1) for my King with the glory of Solomon, there's no comparison, Ghalib 2) to Faridun and Jam and Kaikhusrau and Darab and Bahman

Notes: The vaa))o at the end of kai;xusrau changes from a vowel 'au' to a consonant 'v' before the 'o'. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, all these are among the infidels [kaafir]. (129)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In saying 'King with the glory of Solomon' Mirza's meaning is that the King was Solomon, and was extremely religious. All these kings whom he has mentioned in the second line were infidels. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: No one has had, or ever will have, a kingship like that of Hazrat Solomon. He was king over all the creatures in the world.... There seems to be no need for this explication [by Nazm]. The author himself has told us the cause of similitude-- that is, he has 'the glory of Solomon'. (244-45)

FWP: Solomon was an Islamically-sanctioned king who is described in many places in the Qur'an; by tradition he also had a special ring of power that enabled him to command the Jinns; and he knew the language of animals, so that he could use them as messengers. Thus he was superior in several points to ordinary kings. The second line is really nothing but a name list of such 'ordinary' kings, in this case a set from the Shah-namah. They are not Islamically-sanctioned, and their magic (e.g., the Cup of Jamshid) does not come from (officially) divine sources. The pleasure of the verse is the rush of names in the second line-- a line that consists of literally nothing but a string of names. But what names! They are among the great names of Persian (and Urdu) story tradition. Their appearing in such a crowd can't help but evoke the world of the Shah-namah-- a wellknown, compelling, cherished world of story, song, and poetry. Can such a world really be so easily devalued? Or is Ghalib simply being mischievous here, and pretending to compliment his own king while actually poking fun at him? For Bahadur Shah is of course an elderly British pensioner, with a domain hardly larger than the Red Fort itself; his only source of power and wealth is the good pleasure of the British Resident. This ghazal was composed in 1853, when Zauq was still the royal Ustad (a position Ghalib didn't acquire until Zauq's death in 1854), so Ghalib had good cause both to flatter the king, and to needle him a bit (why not a deft little thorn or two among the roses?). For in the verse the King is declared to have no points of comparison to all the 'ordinary' kings (the ones with whom he could most plausibly be

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compared). Any hearer of this verse in 1853 would realize that beneath the hyperbole, he indeed couldn't be compared to them-- because they were powerful reigning monarchs, while Bahadur Shah was a helpless puppet. But the verse's official reason for rejecting the comparison is that he's so far superior to them that he's like Solomon in his glory-- a simile so extravagant and so richly ironic that surely the tongue-in-cheek-ness of it couldn't be missed. Ghalib has depicted Bahadur Shah as either Solomon, or no king at all. It's a witty and almost cruelly clever tactic. For it's also irreproachable-on what grounds could the King object? For another double-edged verse of ostensible 'praise' to the King, see {121,8}.

Ghazal 121 8 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: an ke paa;Nv composed 1838; Hamid p. 100; Arshi #122; Raza p. 283

{121,1} dhotaa huu;N jab mai;N piine ko us siim-tan ke paa;Nv rakhtaa hai .zid se khe;Nch ke baahar lagan ke paa;Nv 1) when I wash the feet of that silver-bodied one, for drinking 2) out of stubbornness, she draws back her feet and keeps them out of {contact, touch / the brass basin}

Notes: lagan : 'A brazen or copper pan (in which the hands are washed, or in which bread, &c. is baked'. (Platts p.961) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The author has taken this theme from the women's idiom: they say, 'May the Lord grant that your husband again and again wash your feet, and again and again drink the water'-- that is, may he love you very much. Otherwise, in reality to wash the feet and drink the water is no style of love. And the origin of this idiom seems to be that among the Hindus, they worship the feet of Brahmins, and one of the acts of worship is to wash the feet and drink the water. (129-30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To wash the feet and drink the water is a metaphor for the ardor of love. The rest of the meaning of the verse is clear. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: When it's looked at, this verse seems somewhat strange. But the truth is that even here Mirza has not abandoned his style. From this it emerges that Mirza's love has arrived almost at the limit of worship, so that he longs to drink the charanaamrit ['foot-nectar', as in a Hindu ritual of worship]. The beloved, considering this to be insanity, becomes anxious; and this seems to the lover to be stubbornness. (245)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY What a lovely verse of wordplay-- and a classic mushairah verse too. The first verse, a relative clause, is tantalizingly incomplete. Under mushairah performance conditions, we are forced to wait in suspense for the second line-- and even then, not until the very end does the ideal, perfect word suddenly explode in our minds with a burst of sheer pleasure, suddenly bringing the whole verse to several kinds of life:

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= lagan means 'contact, touch'; the beloved, out of sheer perversity, seeks to thwart the lover's desire to touch her feet, even if he approaches her in the humblest possible manner. = lagan refers to a vessel used for washing hands or feet; in her perversity the beloved draws her feet back from the basin in which the lover seeks to wash them. = lagan refers to a vessel made of copper or brass, while the beloved is 'silver-bodied'; she is thus made of a much more precious metal, and seeks to avoid contact with an inferior one. Not one single commentator whom I've read even mentions this one word that focuses and activates the whole charm of the verse. Go figure!

{121,2} dii saadagii se jaan pa;Ruu;N kohkan ke paa;Nv haihaat kyuu;N nah ;Tuu;T gaye piir-zan ke paa;Nv 1) he gave his life out of simplicity-- I would 'fall at the feet' of Kohkan! 2) {alas! / for shame!}, why didn’t the old woman 'wear out her legs in vain'?

Notes: haihaat : 'Far is it from the truth! away! begone! --alas! alack-a-day!' (Platts p.1246) paa;Nv to;Rnaa (transitive of paa;Nv ;Tuu;Tnaa ): 'To wear out one's legs in vain; to be marched or trotted about in vain; to be tired; to desist from visiting (a person); to run vainly after (a person)'. (Platts p.221) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: At someone's difficulty, in an ardor of love they say, 'alas! I would fall at his/her feet!' [hai hai mai;N us ke paa;Nv pa;Ruu;N], and this is a very idiomatic phrase. And it's a well-known thing that people fall at someone's feet when pleading. In this verse Mirza used the word haihaat as a .zil((a , but what choice did he have? The line was one syllable short. (130)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that Farhad, out of stupidity, came within the power of a trickster [((ayyaar] who had assumed the guise of an old woman, and gave his life. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: Farhad, out of great simplicity, gave his life only because the procuress told a lie, that Shirin was dead. At this I feel great love. If only the old woman had 'worn out her legs in vain'! (245)

Baqir: Khusrau had promised Farhad that if he would dig a channel and bring it to his palace, then Shirin would be handed over to him. Farhad dug the channel and brought it to the palace. Khusrau became very worried-- now what could be done? He had set a condition that was impossible to fulfill! Finally, seeing Khusrau's anxiety, one of his companions thought of a scheme. Assuming the guise of an old woman, he went to Farhad and, on seeing him, began to weep and wail. Farhad said, 'Ma'm, why do you weep?' At this question she wept even more, and after much questioning said, 'I am Shirin's nursemaid. I brought her up. Today she suddenly died-- and here you are, completely immersed in the thought of her!' On hearing this, Farhad became mad, and with the very same axe he was using to cut through the mountain, he struck his head, and collapsed. (316)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS

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Formally speaking, this is a second opening-verse to the ghazal. It is thus a kind of showing off, since the poet does twice the more difficult task (of using the rhyming elements at the end of both lines) that he's only expected to do once. And appropriately to the occasion, this is a self-consciously 'clever' verse, one based on two different idioms involving feet. The one in the first line suggests protective love and compassion, as Nazm suggests; the one in the second line is equally apposite. Once you've 'got' them, I can't see anything else going on in the verse. Vasmi Abidi would also add the wordplay between 'foot' and the haat of haihaat , which is almost the haath of 'hand'. For more perspectives on Farhad, see {3,6}.

{121,3} bhaage the ham bahut so usii kii sazaa hai yih ho kar asiir daabte hai;N raah-zan ke paa;Nv 1) we fled urgently/swiftly; thus the punishment for that is this: 2) having become chained, we press/massage the highway-robber’s feet

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If the meaning of this verse is religious [;haqiiqii], then it doesn't seem to be the poet's speech. But indeed, if we consider all these things to be metaphors, even then it's not clear. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, with great difficulty we were ensnared in the beloved's clutches; thus now she practices on us, as compared to other lovers, a great deal of cruelty. She greatly debases us. Probably we claimed that we couldn't be captured in anyone's snare. As he has said in another place: {83,2}. [Contrary to Nazm's complaint], the metaphor of the highway-robber for the beloved is as clear as the shining sun. (245)

Faruqi: Why should the 'highway-robber' be understood as a metaphor for the beloved, or the verse as about cruelty and oppression? Why should it not simply be said that its theme is the 'cruelty-enjoyment' [sitam-:zariifii] of fate, or the stony-hearted pleasantries of the working of destiny and fortune?.... In the first line is a reference to running very fast; that is, the speaker prided himself greatly on his swiftness of movement, or he was very independent and free-spirited, he wandered this way and that. He didn't like captivity (to be ensnared in anything, not only prison). Swift running and wandering tired out his feet. The necessary result of the feet becoming tired is being captured. If we flee swiftly from something, and then it comes and seizes us; this is a common belief (or rather, observation too). When we are captured (have been forced to become ensnared in the thing we were fleeing), we end up belonging to it entirely.... The captive is assigned the task of pressing the feet of the captor. The speaker was the needy one, but what he needed has been made a need for another; the needy one himself has been assigned to to fulfill the other's need.... In this way the verse is not based on separate metaphors, but rather the whole thing is a metaphor. The point of the verse is that the deeds of divine destiny are strange.... We can call this a verse of amusement, or of mischievousness, or of sarcasm/irony. In every case, it is revealed as poking fun at the human condition, and testifying to human oppressedness. (224-25)

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FWP: Doesn't Faruqi do a brilliant job on this one? I really don't have anything to add. The following verse, {121,4}, has the same 'can't win for losing' tone.

{121,4} marham kii justajuu me;N phiraa huu;N jo duur duur tan se sivaa figaar hai;N is ;xastah-tan ke paa;Nv 1) since I’ve wandered far distances, in search of ointment, 2) more than the body, the feet of this {wounded/broken}-bodied one are wounded/sore

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse, and in the verse before it, the meaning is that the thing he flees from, confronts him; and the disaster for which he seeks a remedy is the very one in which he becomes ensnared. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: In the search of ointment there was more trouble than from the wound itself. That is, in attempting to achieve union with the beloved he endured such suffering that it was even greater than the longing for union. (246)

Faruqi: The commentators' opinion that in this verse is the same idea as in the verse before, is incorrect. The previous verse, as has been made clear, is a pleasantry or witticism or humorous sarcasm about the 'tyranny-enjoyment' [sitam-:zariifii] of fate, and is a metaphor in its entirety. In the present verse there's not any 'tyranny-enjoyment' of fate, but rather an anthology [ta;zkirah] of its tyranny.... I did so much searching, so much running around, that my feet became more wounded than the wound in my body. From this two conclusions emerge: (1) the attempt at a cure created a disease that was worse than the original disease; (2) now my feet have become useless, so that it's no longer possible for me even to run around in search of ointment.... In this way this is a verse in Ghalib's special style-- that is, one of paradox. The attempt at a cure creates a disease that is itself incurable.... On the theme of the powerlessness of contrivance when confronted by fate, and mankind's helplessness and complete lack of recourse, this is an incomparable verse. Instead of directly calling the body 'wounded', he has called himself 'wounded-bodied'; such a style is called 'implicational' [kinaayaatii]. (22627)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; REPETITION This verse shares the complex, clear-sighted, even wryly amused tone of {121,3}; Nazm rightly points out their similarity. But Faruqi also analyzes the differences. It's a kind of 'catch-22' verse. If you're wounded, you need ointment. But if you look for ointment, your wounds worsen. But the verse is also even beyond a catch-22 situation, because there's no assurance that the ointment even exists. After all, the speaker has wandered so far and long looking for it that he's ruined his feet. He will never find it now. But even more bleakly, the verse offers us no smallest glimmer of a hope that he would ever have found it in any case.

{121,5} all;aah re ;zauq-e dasht-navardii kih ba((d-e marg hilte hai;N ;xvud bah ;xvud mire andar kafan ke paa;Nv

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1) oh God, the relish of/for desert-wandering! that after death 2) they move/stir by themselves within the shroud, my feet

Notes: hilnaa : 'To shake, move, stir; to heave; to go (or to sway) to and fro, to rock; to vibrate; to tremble; --to be moved, to be agitated'. (Platts p.1233) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: For the feet to move by themselves in a state of relish and ardor is a common and natural thing, and the author was the first to versify it. (130)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even after dying, the ardor for desert-wandering is with me. In life, I wandered around the wildernesses of the world. After death, I am moving through fields of nonexistence. It's a completely unheard-of thought. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover's corpse is saying, in the language of its situation, that there's no limit-- even in the shroud, my feet move by themselves.... This verse is peerless. (246)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The feet are moving somehow within the shroud, but the range of hilnaa is wide-- are the feet actually attempting to walk? (This is the obvious first reading, but it's a bit zombie-like and grotesque.) Or are the feet merely quivering with memory or desire? Or simply expressing some more abstract anxiety or restlessness? In any case, the speaker doesn't necessarily share their relish. They are moving spontaneously, not by his will, and perhaps the longing for desertwandering is theirs alone. Just as the speaker seems to have no choice in the matter now that he's dead, perhaps things were similar when he was alive. He may be lamenting not the loss of the chance to go desert-wandering, but the aggravating persistence of his feet in still wishing to do so. Consider for example {31,2} or {107,6}, in which the lover laments the incurably vexatious behavior of his heart. Perhaps here he's finding his feet to be equally exasperating. As so often, the simple exclamation itself forces us to choose our own tone in which to read it.

{121,6} hai josh-e gul bahaar me;N yaa;N tak kih har :taraf u;Rte hu))e ulajhte hai;N mur;G-e chaman ke paa;Nv 1) the tumult/excitement of roses is in flourishingness/glory to {this extent / 'here'}-- that on every side 2) while flying, the feet of the birds of the garden 'become entangled'

Notes: josh : 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal'. (Platts p.397) bahaar : 'Spring, prime, bloom, flourishing state; beauty, glory, splendour, elegance; beautiful scene or prospect, fine landscape; charm, delight, enjoyment, the pleasures of sense, taste, or culture'. (Platts p.178) ulajhnaa : 'To be entangled, ravelled, twisted, entwined; to be complicated, made intricate; to be perplexed; to be involved (in difficulties, &c.), to be at a loss... to have the heart set or fixed (on).... to have a liaison (with), form an illicit connection (with).... to carp or cavil (at)'. (Platts p.75) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm:

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That is, there's so much growth and flourishing that the verdant atmosphere entangles the feet of the birds in the veins of the roses. And 'for the feet to be entangled' is also an implication that whichever bird passes over the garden doesn't wish to go onwards, and is forced to remain there. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has used an extraordinary subtlety of meaning. The meaning is that with this spring, spring has come to the garden such that whatever birds fly over the garden, see the spectacle of rose and tulip, and their hearts become captured, and they're forced to abandon any intention of going onward and stay right there. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: In the spring, flowers are so abundant that the heart of the birds of the garden doesn't want to go and fly off to anywhere else, but rather, helplessly, they descend right there. (246)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The special pleasure of this verse is in the multivalence of ulajhnaa . Consider some of the possibilities: = as they fly past, the birds' feet literally become entangled-- in roses, we think, though literally in the 'ardor' or 'ebullience' of roses = as they fly past, the birds' feet have some sort of sexual contact, some liaison, with the erotically lush and steamy roses = as they fly past, the birds' feet quarrel with, or complain against, the proliferating roses that obstruct their path = the birds are unable to fly past, but are dragged down into the garden by the enmeshing rose-vines. = the birds who live in or visit the garden are unable to take off to leave the garden, since their flight is hindered by the enmeshing rose-vines. And all the time, it's not the birds that are experiencing these things, but literally their 'feet'. When was the last time a foot fell in love, or had an affair, or quarreled with somebody? I find this a weakness in the verse, almost a minor form of grotesquerie. But the verse is helped by the richness of josh (effervescence, or lust), and bahaar (flourishingness, or springtime) and yaa;N tak ('up to here', literally; 'to such an extent', metaphorically) and har :taraf ('in every direction', literally; 'everywhere', metaphorically). The mind can't finally settle on either a literal, physical reading (bird feet entangled in rose tendrils) or a metaphorical reading (birds captivated with passion for the wild glory of the roses). Still, even on the friendliest reading, it's not one of his great ones.

{121,7} shab ko kisii ke ;xvaab me;N aayaa nah ho kahii;N dukhte hai;N aaj us but-e naazuk-badan ke paa;Nv 1) may she not have come into somebody’s dream last night! 2) today, the feet of that delicate-bodied idol are painful

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It is immersed in the description of delicacy, that from going into somebody's dream her feet hurt. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: With the thought of her going, jealousy/envy did not permit any mention of her going in a waking state. Thus the idea was created that perhaps she might have gone to somebody's place in a dream. (184)

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Bekhud Mohani: [Contrary to Nazm's view,] being a lover and being jealous have an inherent [cholii daaman] relationship. Jealousy and illusion have an abundantly established relationship. Here there's no description of 'immersion in delicacy'. Rather, there's the expression of the activity of illusion. That is, because of jealousy illusion has increased to such an extent that the idea can't for a moment be entertained that her feet may hurt because of going somewhere. (246)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR IDOL: {8,1} It's a sly, funny little verse, replete with lovely Ghalibian possibilities, isn't it? Like so many, it does its work indirectly. Just consider some of the implications: = the lover is so jealous that he can't stand the thought that she would visit anyone, so he attributes her sore feet to a dream visit (Bekhud Dihlavi's interpretation) = the beloved is so cruel and indifferent that she'd never visit a lover in reality, so any such foot-tiring visit could be only a dream = the beloved is so delicate that even if she went somewhere in a dream, her feet would be sore (Nazm's interpretation) = even if the beloved visited some lover in a dream, only her feet could be sore, not her 'delicate body', because she's an 'idol' whom the lover wouldn't dare to touch even in his dreams = if the beloved visited some lover in a dream, her feet might well hurt from the effort of walking all over him, stomping on his heart, treading him underfoot, avoiding the touch of his hands on her feet, etc. And of course the question remains, whose dream? It might well be the lover's dream, for what lover wouldn't dream of such a visit? (See {97,3} for an example.) Yet surely no lover's dream could have the nerve (or the power) to cause her feet to hurt? Did she then travel somewhere in her own dream, for her own purposes? In any case, we know the beloved has strange powers over the dream world. For an intriguing, almost mysterious counterpoint verse, see {25,3}. For more verses on the beloved's visit to the lover, see {106,2}.

{121,8} ;Gaalib mire kalaam me;N kyuu;Nkar mazah nah ho piitaa huu;N dho ke ;xusrav-e shiirii;N-su;xan ke paa;Nv 1) Ghalib, how would there not be relish in my speech/poetry? 2) I drink-- having washed the feet of the {sweet/Shirin}-speeched King/Khusrau

Notes: ;xusrav : 'Famous or great king; a royal surname; the celebrated king Cyrus or Chosroes'. (Platts p.490) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [Writing in 1865:] Of the people of India, except for Khusrau Dihlavi there's no one truly authoritative [musallam u;s-;subuut]. Even Miyan Faizi slips up occasionally. And the dictionary-makers work at a level of guessing-whatever each of them in his own opinion considers correct, he writes. If dictionaries had been written by Nizami and Sa'idi, etc., then we would accept them. How can we consider Indians [hindii] truly authoritative?! ==Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p, 352

Nazm: The word 'Shirin of speech' is a .zil((a for Khusrau. (131)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The 'king of sweet speech' is an allusion to Bahadur Shah II, with the penname 'Zafar', the last king of Delhi. The rest of the verse is clear. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, in my poetry there indeed ought to be relish! I wash the King's feet, and drink. That is, I remain in that king's service, who himself is sweetspeeched. (246)

Mihr: In the second line ;xusrau can refer both to the king and to Amir Khusrau. Both were poets, although there was a great difference in the level of their poetry. This ghazal was printed in the divan of 1841, that is to say, from before his relationship as a courtier at the Fort. Accordingly, my guess is that Amir Khusrau was in Mirza's mind. But commonly it has been considered to refer to Bahadur Shah. There is an affinity among ;xusrau , shiirii;N , and mazah . (421-22)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY Arshi dates this ghazal to 1838; as Mihr points out, that's before Ghalib had a formal relationship with the Red Fort. But of course it's after his return from Calcutta-- a time in his life when he was in dire straits financially and was casting about everywhere for a reliable patron. Is Ghalib attempting to flatter the then king, Bahadur Shah's predecessor, Akbar Shah II (r.1806-37), who was himself a poet? If so, the flattery contains more than a little ambiguity too. After all, the 'Khusrau' who is linked with Shirin was a loser in love, because his clever words and exploitative temperament got him in over his head. He's the treacherous, outwitted husband; in the story his role is dishonorable and humiliating. It really isn't much of a compliment to be linked to him, rather than to Farhad. For a similarly equivocal verse of 'praise' for the King, see {120,12}. Mihr proposes another reading: that Ghalib is thinking of Amir Khusrau (1253-1325), the famous Indo-Persian poet, and claiming him as an admired model or source of inspiration. An anecdote from Siyar al-Awliya (1302), by Muhammad Mubarak Kirmani Amir Khurd (Lahore: Markaz-e Tahqiqate Farsi-e Iran o Pakistan, Mu'assasah-e Intisharat-e Islami, 1978, pp. 31112), provides strong ammunition for Mihr's reading. The anecdote is that one day Khusrau recited verse praising Hazrat Nizamuddin, who as a reward asked him what he wished for. He said he wanted sweetness of speech/poetry [shiiriinii-e su;xan]. Hazrat Nizamuddin directed him to bring out a container of sugar from under the cot, and to pour some over his head, and to eat some. As a result he acquired sweetness of speech/poetry, and universal fame. I thank Janabs Zia Inayat-Khan and Mat Ansari for suggesting and locating this material. The anecdote is perfect for the occasion, isn't it? Sweetness of poetry, and a sense of pouring sugar over one's head and thus 'bathing' in sugar, works well with the image of the washing of Khusrau's feet. On this reading, the verse implies that Ghalib too has had his poetry sweetened not just by Khusrau's influence, but by the sugar-bath blessing, the barakat , of Hazrat Nizamuddin himself. I don't see how anybody who knew of this anecdote could deny that this was a very plausible background against which to read the verse. Of course, we can't prove that Ghalib had (more probably) heard or (less probably) read the anecdote; but the nature of his cultural background, and of the anecdote, and of the verse itself, surely combine to make it very likely.

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As for Ghalib's reference to Khusrau in the letter cited above, the context makes it clear that he refers to authoritativeness of Persian usage, not poetic excellence. Faruqi, referring to that letter, goes on to point out that it is in fact no Indo-Persian poet at all but rather 'Urfi who is, for Ghalib, 'the obeyed one; we are his obeyers and followers' (Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1543). For more on this, see Faruqi, 'A Stranger in the City', especially p. 38. But after all, in order for Ghalib to intend a reference to Amir Khusrau as one possible reading of this verse, he doesn't have to admire Khusrau the way he admires, say, Bedil. He just has to admire him in general-- as he clearly does-- and also relish the wonderful multiple wordplay of a (real-life) king, a (literary) king, and a famous ancestral poet, all evoked and forced to rub shoulders within a few words of his own (bitter-)sweetness of speech. I had written this much when I heard from S. R. Faruqi on the subject. He authorizes me to put his email (March 24, 2004) online: "Here the reference cannot be to the poet Khusrau. It is extremely improbable, not to say inappropriate, to pay a tribute to a dead person in these terms. Washing someone's feet and drinking the wash water has an immediacy and a physicality that can never apply to a dead person. Mihr...says that this ghazal appears in the 1841 divan, & Ghalib's employment at Court dates from a decade later, so the shi'r could not have about the King. Ghalib wasn't a servant of the King in 1841 so why should he...etc., etc. Well, the King was the most important cultural & iconic personage in Delhi and it was quite proper for poets to pay tributes to him even if they weren't directly employed at court. Kali Das Gupta Riza dates this ghazal to sometime after 1838. I think we can be a bit more specific than this. Bahadur Shah ascended the throne in the early morning of 30 September, 1837. It is possible that there was a musha'ira or some such gathering soon after the King's ascension, maybe even to celebrate the event. So what more appropriate than to insert a nice, apposite shi'r about the King, about his literary status, and about the fact that the benefit of his personality and presence extends to all and sundry? There's a mss selection of Ghalib's, dated 1838-1839. The ghazal's first appearance is in that selection. So we can assume that Ghalib wrote the ghazal sometime early in 1838 and the occasion for the khusrau shi'r would have been Bahadur Shah's ascension." I'm out of my depth here, since I don't really have a good sense of the IndoMuslim cultural etiquette of foot-washing and wash-water-drinking. So I'll just present the material and leave the question open.

Ghazal 121 8 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: an ke paa;Nv composed 1838; Hamid p. 100; Arshi #122; Raza p. 283

{121,1} dhotaa huu;N jab mai;N piine ko us siim-tan ke paa;Nv rakhtaa hai .zid se khe;Nch ke baahar lagan ke paa;Nv 1) when I wash the feet of that silver-bodied one, for drinking 2) out of stubbornness, she draws back her feet and keeps them out of {contact, touch / the brass basin}

Notes: lagan : 'A brazen or copper pan (in which the hands are washed, or in which bread, &c. is baked'. (Platts p.961) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: The author has taken this theme from the women's idiom: they say, 'May the Lord grant that your husband again and again wash your feet, and again and again drink the water'-- that is, may he love you very much. Otherwise, in reality to wash the feet and drink the water is no style of love. And the origin of this idiom seems to be that among the Hindus, they worship the feet of Brahmins, and one of the acts of worship is to wash the feet and drink the water. (129-30)

Bekhud Dihlavi: To wash the feet and drink the water is a metaphor for the ardor of love. The rest of the meaning of the verse is clear. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: When it's looked at, this verse seems somewhat strange. But the truth is that even here Mirza has not abandoned his style. From this it emerges that Mirza's love has arrived almost at the limit of worship, so that he longs to drink the charanaamrit ['foot-nectar', as in a Hindu ritual of worship]. The beloved, considering this to be insanity, becomes anxious; and this seems to the lover to be stubbornness. (245)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY What a lovely verse of wordplay-- and a classic mushairah verse too. The first verse, a relative clause, is tantalizingly incomplete. Under mushairah performance conditions, we are forced to wait in suspense for the second line-- and even then, not until the very end does the ideal, perfect word suddenly explode in our minds with a burst of sheer pleasure, suddenly bringing the whole verse to several kinds of life: = lagan means 'contact, touch'; the beloved, out of sheer perversity, seeks to thwart the lover's desire to touch her feet, even if he approaches her in the humblest possible manner. = lagan refers to a vessel used for washing hands or feet; in her perversity the beloved draws her feet back from the basin in which the lover seeks to wash them. = lagan refers to a vessel made of copper or brass, while the beloved is 'silver-bodied'; she is thus made of a much more precious metal, and seeks to avoid contact with an inferior one. Not one single commentator whom I've read even mentions this one word that focuses and activates the whole charm of the verse. Go figure!

{121,2} dii saadagii se jaan pa;Ruu;N kohkan ke paa;Nv haihaat kyuu;N nah ;Tuu;T gaye piir-zan ke paa;Nv 1) he gave his life out of simplicity-- I would 'fall at the feet' of Kohkan! 2) {alas! / for shame!}, why didn’t the old woman 'wear out her legs in vain'?

Notes: haihaat : 'Far is it from the truth! away! begone! --alas! alack-a-day!' (Platts p.1246) paa;Nv to;Rnaa (transitive of paa;Nv ;Tuu;Tnaa ): 'To wear out one's legs in vain; to be marched or trotted about in vain; to be tired; to desist from visiting (a person); to run vainly after (a person)'. (Platts p.221) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: At someone's difficulty, in an ardor of love they say, 'alas! I would fall at his/her feet!' [hai hai mai;N us ke paa;Nv pa;Ruu;N], and this is a very idiomatic phrase. And it's a well-known thing that people fall at someone's

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feet when pleading. In this verse Mirza used the word haihaat as a .zil((a , but what choice did he have? The line was one syllable short. (130)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of the verse is that Farhad, out of stupidity, came within the power of a trickster [((ayyaar] who had assumed the guise of an old woman, and gave his life. (183)

Bekhud Mohani: Farhad, out of great simplicity, gave his life only because the procuress told a lie, that Shirin was dead. At this I feel great love. If only the old woman had 'worn out her legs in vain'! (245)

Baqir: Khusrau had promised Farhad that if he would dig a channel and bring it to his palace, then Shirin would be handed over to him. Farhad dug the channel and brought it to the palace. Khusrau became very worried-- now what could be done? He had set a condition that was impossible to fulfill! Finally, seeing Khusrau's anxiety, one of his companions thought of a scheme. Assuming the guise of an old woman, he went to Farhad and, on seeing him, began to weep and wail. Farhad said, 'Ma'm, why do you weep?' At this question she wept even more, and after much questioning said, 'I am Shirin's nursemaid. I brought her up. Today she suddenly died-- and here you are, completely immersed in the thought of her!' On hearing this, Farhad became mad, and with the very same axe he was using to cut through the mountain, he struck his head, and collapsed. (316)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS Formally speaking, this is a second opening-verse to the ghazal. It is thus a kind of showing off, since the poet does twice the more difficult task (of using the rhyming elements at the end of both lines) that he's only expected to do once. And appropriately to the occasion, this is a self-consciously 'clever' verse, one based on two different idioms involving feet. The one in the first line suggests protective love and compassion, as Nazm suggests; the one in the second line is equally apposite. Once you've 'got' them, I can't see anything else going on in the verse. Vasmi Abidi would also add the wordplay between 'foot' and the haat of haihaat , which is almost the haath of 'hand'. For more perspectives on Farhad, see {3,6}.

{121,3} bhaage the ham bahut so usii kii sazaa hai yih ho kar asiir daabte hai;N raah-zan ke paa;Nv 1) we fled urgently/swiftly; thus the punishment for that is this: 2) having become chained, we press/massage the highway-robber’s feet

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If the meaning of this verse is religious [;haqiiqii], then it doesn't seem to be the poet's speech. But indeed, if we consider all these things to be metaphors, even then it's not clear. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, with great difficulty we were ensnared in the beloved's clutches; thus now she practices on us, as compared to other lovers, a great deal of cruelty. She greatly debases us. Probably we claimed that we couldn't be captured in anyone's snare. As he has said in another place: {83,2}. [Contrary to Nazm's complaint], the metaphor of the highway-robber for the beloved is as clear as the shining sun. (245)

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Faruqi: Why should the 'highway-robber' be understood as a metaphor for the beloved, or the verse as about cruelty and oppression? Why should it not simply be said that its theme is the 'cruelty-enjoyment' [sitam-:zariifii] of fate, or the stony-hearted pleasantries of the working of destiny and fortune?.... In the first line is a reference to running very fast; that is, the speaker prided himself greatly on his swiftness of movement, or he was very independent and free-spirited, he wandered this way and that. He didn't like captivity (to be ensnared in anything, not only prison). Swift running and wandering tired out his feet. The necessary result of the feet becoming tired is being captured. If we flee swiftly from something, and then it comes and seizes us; this is a common belief (or rather, observation too). When we are captured (have been forced to become ensnared in the thing we were fleeing), we end up belonging to it entirely.... The captive is assigned the task of pressing the feet of the captor. The speaker was the needy one, but what he needed has been made a need for another; the needy one himself has been assigned to to fulfill the other's need.... In this way the verse is not based on separate metaphors, but rather the whole thing is a metaphor. The point of the verse is that the deeds of divine destiny are strange.... We can call this a verse of amusement, or of mischievousness, or of sarcasm/irony. In every case, it is revealed as poking fun at the human condition, and testifying to human oppressedness. (224-25)

FWP: Doesn't Faruqi do a brilliant job on this one? I really don't have anything to add. The following verse, {121,4}, has the same 'can't win for losing' tone.

{121,4} marham kii justajuu me;N phiraa huu;N jo duur duur tan se sivaa figaar hai;N is ;xastah-tan ke paa;Nv 1) since I’ve wandered far distances, in search of ointment, 2) more than the body, the feet of this {wounded/broken}-bodied one are wounded/sore

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse, and in the verse before it, the meaning is that the thing he flees from, confronts him; and the disaster for which he seeks a remedy is the very one in which he becomes ensnared. (130)

Bekhud Mohani: In the search of ointment there was more trouble than from the wound itself. That is, in attempting to achieve union with the beloved he endured such suffering that it was even greater than the longing for union. (246)

Faruqi: The commentators' opinion that in this verse is the same idea as in the verse before, is incorrect. The previous verse, as has been made clear, is a pleasantry or witticism or humorous sarcasm about the 'tyranny-enjoyment' [sitam-:zariifii] of fate, and is a metaphor in its entirety. In the present verse there's not any 'tyranny-enjoyment' of fate, but rather an anthology [ta;zkirah] of its tyranny.... I did so much searching, so much running around, that my feet became more wounded than the wound in my body. From this two conclusions emerge: (1) the attempt at a cure created a disease that was worse than the original disease; (2) now my feet have become useless, so that it's no longer possible for me even to run around in search of ointment....

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In this way this is a verse in Ghalib's special style-- that is, one of paradox. The attempt at a cure creates a disease that is itself incurable.... On the theme of the powerlessness of contrivance when confronted by fate, and mankind's helplessness and complete lack of recourse, this is an incomparable verse. Instead of directly calling the body 'wounded', he has called himself 'wounded-bodied'; such a style is called 'implicational' [kinaayaatii]. (22627)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; REPETITION This verse shares the complex, clear-sighted, even wryly amused tone of {121,3}; Nazm rightly points out their similarity. But Faruqi also analyzes the differences. It's a kind of 'catch-22' verse. If you're wounded, you need ointment. But if you look for ointment, your wounds worsen. But the verse is also even beyond a catch-22 situation, because there's no assurance that the ointment even exists. After all, the speaker has wandered so far and long looking for it that he's ruined his feet. He will never find it now. But even more bleakly, the verse offers us no smallest glimmer of a hope that he would ever have found it in any case.

{121,5} all;aah re ;zauq-e dasht-navardii kih ba((d-e marg hilte hai;N ;xvud bah ;xvud mire andar kafan ke paa;Nv 1) oh God, the relish of/for desert-wandering! that after death 2) they move/stir by themselves within the shroud, my feet

Notes: hilnaa : 'To shake, move, stir; to heave; to go (or to sway) to and fro, to rock; to vibrate; to tremble; --to be moved, to be agitated'. (Platts p.1233) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: For the feet to move by themselves in a state of relish and ardor is a common and natural thing, and the author was the first to versify it. (130)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even after dying, the ardor for desert-wandering is with me. In life, I wandered around the wildernesses of the world. After death, I am moving through fields of nonexistence. It's a completely unheard-of thought. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover's corpse is saying, in the language of its situation, that there's no limit-- even in the shroud, my feet move by themselves.... This verse is peerless. (246)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The feet are moving somehow within the shroud, but the range of hilnaa is wide-- are the feet actually attempting to walk? (This is the obvious first reading, but it's a bit zombie-like and grotesque.) Or are the feet merely quivering with memory or desire? Or simply expressing some more abstract anxiety or restlessness? In any case, the speaker doesn't necessarily share their relish. They are moving spontaneously, not by his will, and perhaps the longing for desertwandering is theirs alone. Just as the speaker seems to have no choice in the matter now that he's dead, perhaps things were similar when he was alive. He may be lamenting not the loss of the chance to go desert-wandering, but the aggravating persistence of his feet in still wishing to do so. Consider for example {31,2} or {107,6}, in which the lover laments the incurably vexatious behavior of his heart. Perhaps here he's finding his feet to be

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equally exasperating. As so often, the simple exclamation itself forces us to choose our own tone in which to read it.

{121,6} hai josh-e gul bahaar me;N yaa;N tak kih har :taraf u;Rte hu))e ulajhte hai;N mur;G-e chaman ke paa;Nv 1) the tumult/excitement of roses is in flourishingness/glory to {this extent / 'here'}-- that on every side 2) while flying, the feet of the birds of the garden 'become entangled'

Notes: josh : 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal'. (Platts p.397) bahaar : 'Spring, prime, bloom, flourishing state; beauty, glory, splendour, elegance; beautiful scene or prospect, fine landscape; charm, delight, enjoyment, the pleasures of sense, taste, or culture'. (Platts p.178) ulajhnaa : 'To be entangled, ravelled, twisted, entwined; to be complicated, made intricate; to be perplexed; to be involved (in difficulties, &c.), to be at a loss... to have the heart set or fixed (on).... to have a liaison (with), form an illicit connection (with).... to carp or cavil (at)'. (Platts p.75) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, there's so much growth and flourishing that the verdant atmosphere entangles the feet of the birds in the veins of the roses. And 'for the feet to be entangled' is also an implication that whichever bird passes over the garden doesn't wish to go onwards, and is forced to remain there. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has used an extraordinary subtlety of meaning. The meaning is that with this spring, spring has come to the garden such that whatever birds fly over the garden, see the spectacle of rose and tulip, and their hearts become captured, and they're forced to abandon any intention of going onward and stay right there. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: In the spring, flowers are so abundant that the heart of the birds of the garden doesn't want to go and fly off to anywhere else, but rather, helplessly, they descend right there. (246)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The special pleasure of this verse is in the multivalence of ulajhnaa . Consider some of the possibilities: = as they fly past, the birds' feet literally become entangled-- in roses, we think, though literally in the 'ardor' or 'ebullience' of roses = as they fly past, the birds' feet have some sort of sexual contact, some liaison, with the erotically lush and steamy roses = as they fly past, the birds' feet quarrel with, or complain against, the proliferating roses that obstruct their path = the birds are unable to fly past, but are dragged down into the garden by the enmeshing rose-vines. = the birds who live in or visit the garden are unable to take off to leave the garden, since their flight is hindered by the enmeshing rose-vines. And all the time, it's not the birds that are experiencing these things, but literally their 'feet'. When was the last time a foot fell in love, or had an affair, or quarreled with somebody? I find this a weakness in the verse, almost a minor form of grotesquerie.

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But the verse is helped by the richness of josh (effervescence, or lust), and bahaar (flourishingness, or springtime) and yaa;N tak ('up to here', literally; 'to such an extent', metaphorically) and har :taraf ('in every direction', literally; 'everywhere', metaphorically). The mind can't finally settle on either a literal, physical reading (bird feet entangled in rose tendrils) or a metaphorical reading (birds captivated with passion for the wild glory of the roses). Still, even on the friendliest reading, it's not one of his great ones.

{121,7} shab ko kisii ke ;xvaab me;N aayaa nah ho kahii;N dukhte hai;N aaj us but-e naazuk-badan ke paa;Nv 1) may she not have come into somebody’s dream last night! 2) today, the feet of that delicate-bodied idol are painful

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It is immersed in the description of delicacy, that from going into somebody's dream her feet hurt. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: With the thought of her going, jealousy/envy did not permit any mention of her going in a waking state. Thus the idea was created that perhaps she might have gone to somebody's place in a dream. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: [Contrary to Nazm's view,] being a lover and being jealous have an inherent [cholii daaman] relationship. Jealousy and illusion have an abundantly established relationship. Here there's no description of 'immersion in delicacy'. Rather, there's the expression of the activity of illusion. That is, because of jealousy illusion has increased to such an extent that the idea can't for a moment be entertained that her feet may hurt because of going somewhere. (246)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR IDOL: {8,1} It's a sly, funny little verse, replete with lovely Ghalibian possibilities, isn't it? Like so many, it does its work indirectly. Just consider some of the implications: = the lover is so jealous that he can't stand the thought that she would visit anyone, so he attributes her sore feet to a dream visit (Bekhud Dihlavi's interpretation) = the beloved is so cruel and indifferent that she'd never visit a lover in reality, so any such foot-tiring visit could be only a dream = the beloved is so delicate that even if she went somewhere in a dream, her feet would be sore (Nazm's interpretation) = even if the beloved visited some lover in a dream, only her feet could be sore, not her 'delicate body', because she's an 'idol' whom the lover wouldn't dare to touch even in his dreams = if the beloved visited some lover in a dream, her feet might well hurt from the effort of walking all over him, stomping on his heart, treading him underfoot, avoiding the touch of his hands on her feet, etc. And of course the question remains, whose dream? It might well be the lover's dream, for what lover wouldn't dream of such a visit? (See {97,3} for an example.) Yet surely no lover's dream could have the nerve (or the power) to cause her feet to hurt? Did she then travel somewhere in her own dream, for her own purposes?

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In any case, we know the beloved has strange powers over the dream world. For an intriguing, almost mysterious counterpoint verse, see {25,3}. For more verses on the beloved's visit to the lover, see {106,2}.

{121,8} ;Gaalib mire kalaam me;N kyuu;Nkar mazah nah ho piitaa huu;N dho ke ;xusrav-e shiirii;N-su;xan ke paa;Nv 1) Ghalib, how would there not be relish in my speech/poetry? 2) I drink-- having washed the feet of the {sweet/Shirin}-speeched King/Khusrau

Notes: ;xusrav : 'Famous or great king; a royal surname; the celebrated king Cyrus or Chosroes'. (Platts p.490)

Ghalib: [Writing in 1865:] Of the people of India, except for Khusrau Dihlavi there's no one truly authoritative [musallam u;s-;subuut]. Even Miyan Faizi slips up occasionally. And the dictionary-makers work at a level of guessing-whatever each of them in his own opinion considers correct, he writes. If dictionaries had been written by Nizami and Sa'idi, etc., then we would accept them. How can we consider Indians [hindii] truly authoritative?! ==Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p, 352

Nazm: The word 'Shirin of speech' is a .zil((a for Khusrau. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The 'king of sweet speech' is an allusion to Bahadur Shah II, with the penname 'Zafar', the last king of Delhi. The rest of the verse is clear. (184)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, in my poetry there indeed ought to be relish! I wash the King's feet, and drink. That is, I remain in that king's service, who himself is sweetspeeched. (246)

Mihr: In the second line ;xusrau can refer both to the king and to Amir Khusrau. Both were poets, although there was a great difference in the level of their poetry. This ghazal was printed in the divan of 1841, that is to say, from before his relationship as a courtier at the Fort. Accordingly, my guess is that Amir Khusrau was in Mirza's mind. But commonly it has been considered to refer to Bahadur Shah. There is an affinity among ;xusrau , shiirii;N , and mazah . (421-22)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY Arshi dates this ghazal to 1838; as Mihr points out, that's before Ghalib had a formal relationship with the Red Fort. But of course it's after his return from Calcutta-- a time in his life when he was in dire straits financially and was casting about everywhere for a reliable patron. Is Ghalib attempting to flatter the then king, Bahadur Shah's predecessor, Akbar Shah II (r.1806-37), who was himself a poet? If so, the flattery contains more than a little ambiguity too. After all, the 'Khusrau' who is linked with Shirin was a loser in love, because his clever words and exploitative temperament got him in over his head. He's the treacherous, outwitted husband; in the story his role is dishonorable and humiliating. It really isn't much of a compliment to be linked to him, rather than to Farhad. For a similarly equivocal verse of 'praise' for the King, see {120,12}. Mihr proposes another reading: that Ghalib is thinking of Amir Khusrau (1253-1325), the famous Indo-Persian poet, and claiming him as an admired

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model or source of inspiration. An anecdote from Siyar al-Awliya (1302), by Muhammad Mubarak Kirmani Amir Khurd (Lahore: Markaz-e Tahqiqate Farsi-e Iran o Pakistan, Mu'assasah-e Intisharat-e Islami, 1978, pp. 31112), provides strong ammunition for Mihr's reading. The anecdote is that one day Khusrau recited verse praising Hazrat Nizamuddin, who as a reward asked him what he wished for. He said he wanted sweetness of speech/poetry [shiiriinii-e su;xan]. Hazrat Nizamuddin directed him to bring out a container of sugar from under the cot, and to pour some over his head, and to eat some. As a result he acquired sweetness of speech/poetry, and universal fame. I thank Janabs Zia Inayat-Khan and Mat Ansari for suggesting and locating this material. The anecdote is perfect for the occasion, isn't it? Sweetness of poetry, and a sense of pouring sugar over one's head and thus 'bathing' in sugar, works well with the image of the washing of Khusrau's feet. On this reading, the verse implies that Ghalib too has had his poetry sweetened not just by Khusrau's influence, but by the sugar-bath blessing, the barakat , of Hazrat Nizamuddin himself. I don't see how anybody who knew of this anecdote could deny that this was a very plausible background against which to read the verse. Of course, we can't prove that Ghalib had (more probably) heard or (less probably) read the anecdote; but the nature of his cultural background, and of the anecdote, and of the verse itself, surely combine to make it very likely. As for Ghalib's reference to Khusrau in the letter cited above, the context makes it clear that he refers to authoritativeness of Persian usage, not poetic excellence. Faruqi, referring to that letter, goes on to point out that it is in fact no Indo-Persian poet at all but rather 'Urfi who is, for Ghalib, 'the obeyed one; we are his obeyers and followers' (Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1543). For more on this, see Faruqi, 'A Stranger in the City', especially p. 38. But after all, in order for Ghalib to intend a reference to Amir Khusrau as one possible reading of this verse, he doesn't have to admire Khusrau the way he admires, say, Bedil. He just has to admire him in general-- as he clearly does-- and also relish the wonderful multiple wordplay of a (real-life) king, a (literary) king, and a famous ancestral poet, all evoked and forced to rub shoulders within a few words of his own (bitter-)sweetness of speech. I had written this much when I heard from S. R. Faruqi on the subject. He authorizes me to put his email (March 24, 2004) online: "Here the reference cannot be to the poet Khusrau. It is extremely improbable, not to say inappropriate, to pay a tribute to a dead person in these terms. Washing someone's feet and drinking the wash water has an immediacy and a physicality that can never apply to a dead person. Mihr...says that this ghazal appears in the 1841 divan, & Ghalib's employment at Court dates from a decade later, so the shi'r could not have about the King. Ghalib wasn't a servant of the King in 1841 so why should he...etc., etc. Well, the King was the most important cultural & iconic personage in Delhi and it was quite proper for poets to pay tributes to him even if they weren't directly employed at court. Kali Das Gupta Riza dates this ghazal to sometime after 1838. I think we can be a bit more specific than this. Bahadur Shah ascended the throne in the early morning of 30 September, 1837. It is possible that there was a musha'ira or some such gathering soon after the King's ascension, maybe even to celebrate the event. So what more appropriate than to insert a nice, apposite shi'r about the King, about his literary status, and about the fact that the benefit of his personality and presence extends to all and sundry? There's a mss selection of Ghalib's, dated 1838-1839. The ghazal's first appearance is in that selection. So we can assume that Ghalib wrote the

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ghazal sometime early in 1838 and the occasion for the khusrau shi'r would have been Bahadur Shah's ascension." I'm out of my depth here, since I don't really have a good sense of the IndoMuslim cultural etiquette of foot-washing and wash-water-drinking. So I'll just present the material and leave the question open.

Ghazal 122 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: iir se nah ho composed 1833; Hamid p. 100; Arshi #120; Raza p. 278

{122,1} vaa;N us ko haul-e dil hai to yaa;N mai;N huu;N sharmsaar ya((nii yih merii aah kii taa;siir se nah ho 1) if there, she feels terror in/of the heart, then here, I am ashamed/abashed 2) that is, may this not be from the effect/impression of my sigh!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To be apprehensive and distraught is one of the airs of the beloved. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: What a fine picture he's captured of the enthusiasm of love! If the beloved experiences any trouble or sickness, then the lover always considers this to be the effect of his sigh or prayer or the emotion of his heart. (184-85)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, he feels shame: may the beloved not be troubled-- and then, because of me! He speaks of his condition: if there's no effect on her, then he would remain anxious; now that she's experiencing difficulty, then he is ashamed: may it not be because of my sigh! No matter what, there's no way he has any peace. (247)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE; HUMOR For the lover it's a 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' situation, as Bekhud Mohani points out. If the lover is in the classic situation of helplessness-- sighing in vain, unable to move the beloved's stony heart-then he suffers. And if he sees even the slightest chance that he really has moved her, then he feels guilty and ashamed at causing her such trouble and vexation. From the verse, of course, we have no reason to believe that his fear of upsetting her has any any basis, other than his own desperate wishful thinking. The poor lover-- in his excessive scrupulousness he's contrived a way to be miserable no matter what happens. His casuistry is so ludicrous that the effect is both exasperating (oh, get a life!) and genuinely amusing. After all, he's the misery-experiencing subject-- but then, isn't he also the wry voice ruefully observing and reporting his own misery? There's also an enjoyable ambiguity in haul-e dil -- the beloved feels some kind of fear or terror 'in' or 'of' or 'pertaining to' the heart. Does she simply feel it 'in' her heart, so that we know only its location? Or is it a terror 'of' the heart? In the latter case, it might be some alarm over her own heart (what if she might actually succumb to passion herself?); or else over the lover's heart (what might that wild madman be capable of?). However we read it, the only guaranteed outcome is the lover's wild, self-generated, self-renewing misery.

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122,2} apne ko dekhtaa nahii;N ;zauq-e sitam ko dekh aa))iinah taakih diidah-e na;xchiir se nah ho 1) she doesn’t look at herself-- look at the relish of/for tyranny! 2) as long as the mirror would not be from/with/like the eye of a hunted beast

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: As long as the mirror would not be the eye of a hunted beast, that tyrant doesn't adorn herself and doesn't look at her appearance. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, until the mirror of the eye of the prey is before her, that tyrannyadorner doesn't look at her face. (185)

Bekhud Mohani: God, God, what a relish she has for cruelty, that if she doesn't have the mirror of the eye of the prey, then she doesn't look at her face! That is, she has so much relish for prey-killing that she's not aware even of her adornment. If she ever looks at her face, then it's in the stupefied eye of the prey, at the time of slaughter. (247)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} All the wordplay of seeing, and 'look at!' (or 'having seen'), and the mirror, and the eye, makes for an enjoyable extra layer of complexity.

Ghazal 123 11 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: am hai ham ko composed after 1826; Hamid p. 101; Arshi #119; Raza pp. 271-72

{123,1} vaa;N pahu;Nch kar jo ;Gash aataa paa))e ham hai ham ko .sad rah aahang-e zamii;N bos-e qadam hai ham ko 1) having arrived there, since we constantly/sorrowfully/deliberately faint-2a) a hundred times, we have the design/manner of ground-kissing of the footstep 2b) a hundred times, the design/manner of ground-kissing is a footstep, to us

Notes: ham : [Arabic] 'Anxious thought, anxiety, solicitude, grief, care; --purpose, design'. (Platts p.1234) ham : [Arabic] 'Melting (fat); causing (one) to melt or waste away (as disease); hushing (an infant) to sleep; grief, care, solicitude; purpose, design'. (Steingass, p.1507) aahang : 'Design, purpose, intention; method, manner'. (Platts p.111) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, seeing the behavior of the foot-- that it would carry me into the street of the beloved, in order to kiss it-- I constantly faint, and there are a hundred aspects of the faint. The gist is that my inner self wants in a hundred ways to perform the ground-kissing of the footstep. The word paiham is correct

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either with or without an i.zaafat , but the Urdu idiom is that they say this word without the i.zaafat . However many words of Persian and Arabic are adopted, it is necessary in them to follow the idiom of Urdu; otherwise it will be a disruption of eloquence. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the faint that always overtakes us when we arrive in the beloved's street-- the reason for it is that in our weakness and feebleness, our feet have brought us here. In gratitude for this kindness, with an intention of kissing the feet, we fall down-- at which we assume the form of a footstep. (185)

Bekhud Mohani: When, having arrived in the street of the beloved, we begin to faint over and over again, then is not a faint but rather, we want to kiss the feet again and again to express our gratitude for their having brought us to her street. That is, in the happiness of arriving there, we don't remember anything. But the heart, in order to fulfill our obligation, in the guise of fainting expresses gratitude to the feet. (247)

Arshi: [A note about how this ghazal was probably composed in early 1827, during his stay in Lucknow]. (244)

Faruqi: They have all ignored the point that here ham can also mean 'grief and sorrow'. In this way pa))e ham can mean 'because of grief and sorrow'. ham can also mean 'to melt away, from sickness or some other cause'.... The defect in this interpretation [of the speaker kissing his own footsteps] is that both the emotion and act of kissing one's own footsteps are particularly uncouth and artificial and unrealistic. And then, in the verse there's no mention of gratitude-- only of fainting and footstep-kissing.... The best meaning of the verse is that having arrived in the beloved's street we faint again and again, because of grief and sorrow, or continuously; and time after time we arise from the ground and fall, fall and arise. This, for us, has the effect of kissing the beloved's footsteps. How could we attain such fortune as to be able to kiss the beloved's feet-- perhaps we aren't even privileged enough to be able to kiss the earth of her street. We only faint and fall again and again, and this for us is sufficient, for in this way we kiss its ground. For us, ground-kissing is equal to kissing the beloved's feet. But there's even one more aspect-- in it the meaning becomes even more refined/enjoyable [la:tiif].... If we take aahang-e zamii;N bos to be a phrase, and qadam to be separate, then an extraordinary pleasure is created.... Now the interpretation of the verse will be that we have somehow or other arrived at the beloved's street, but have no strength to go on. We are constantly fainting; now we can't even lift a foot. A hundred times we rise, and fall. This alone is our 'footstep', this alone is our journey. It's clear that this meaning is better because in this way force is created in the word 'footstep', and the theme becomes broad.... In the verse there are many materials for .zil((a and wordplay which the commentators have not noticed. 'Arrive' and 'comes'. pe (meaning 'foot') and 'footstep'. 'Arrive' and rah (from rahnaa). 'Ground' and 'footstep'. 'We' [ham] and ham (meaning 'grief and sorrow'). paiham (meaning 'continuously') and .sad rah (meaning 'again and again').... 'Arrive' and 'footstep'. To make the words act as 'hand and collar' like this, and make them seem suitable in so many ways, or to use words that will be suitable in many ways, was Ghalib's special accomplishment. (228-30)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT; WORDPLAY Faruqi has done another lovely job on this one; his reading is very persuasive. And of course he's right that the wordplay in this verse is simply

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extraordinary. So many words are meshed with so many other words that the effect is an astonishingly complex network. And that great Ghalibian depth and ambiguity of meaning doesn't get lost in the shuffle, either. For another vision of the use of the footstep, or footprint, as role model in the beloved's street, see {116,8}.

{123,2} dil ko mai;N aur mujhe dil ma;hv-e vafaa rakhtaa hai kis qadar ;zauq-e giriftaarii-e ham hai ham ko 1) I keep the heart, and the heart keeps me, absorbed in faithfulness 2a) to what an extent we have a taste/relish for fellow-captivity! 2b) to what extent do we have a taste/relish for fellow-captivity? 2c) as if we had any kind of taste/relish for fellow-captivity!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the heart desires me, and I desire the heart, {so that it is / which is} [kih] a captive of faithfulness. (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I keep the heart absorbed in faithfulness, and the heart keeps me absorbed in faithfulness. We both want to keep each other captives of faithfulness. (185)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, when I fall short in some way, then the heart encourages me; when the heart begins to feel a lack of courage [be-jigarii], then I say, 'you ought not to be like this'. (248)

FWP: SETS == KYA The first line sets up a sentimental-sounding reciprocity of behavior between the speaker and his heart: each keeps the other on the strait and narrow path, 'absorbed in faithfulness'. A flat statement of fact, a closed universe, and a report of irreproachably lover-like behavior. All seems to be well. Then when we come to the second line, the wonderful multivalence of kyaa (in its oblique form kis ) rips the verse wide open. Here are the classic three readings: 2a) What a relish we have for fellow-captivity! The heart and I do this together as a deliberate joint project, in order to encourage each other, and how we love it! 2b) To what extent do we really have a relish for fellow-captivity? If we weren't each patrolling and spying on the other all the time, would we perhaps both be tempted to sneak away for a break? Who knows? It's an open question, tempting to speculate about. 2c) As if we had any kind of relish for fellow-captivity! Can't you see that we live in a police state, where each of us must constantly inform on the other? If we weren't under such unrelenting scrutiny, and so sure of mutual betrayal, wouldn't we escape at once? Anybody would, and so would we! After we reflect on the second line, things in the first line can never be the same. Revisiting it, we see that its first impression of bland, irreproachable innocence and contentment has been thoroughly undercut. It now looks thoroughly problematical-- and very possibly like a description of two prisoners in a cell, each informing on the other. And yet of course the two prisoners are 'I' and my 'heart'. How different are they really? When the lover reproaches the heart, perhaps he's merely, at one metaphorical remove, reproaching himself. But perhaps his heart is wilful and headstrong and does what it pleases, so that it's a separate,

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uncontrollable moral agent (as in {31,2}). As so often, Ghalib leaves our minds to bounce around amidst the questions, with no answers available.

{123,3} .zu((f se naqsh-e paa-e mor hai :tauq-e gardan tire kuuche se kahaa;N :taaqat-e ram hai ham ko 1) from weakness, the footprint of an ant is a neck-collar 2) from your street, how/where could we have the strength for flight/fleeing?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That weak one around whose neck such a heavy collar would be fallen-- how can he move from his place? (131)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the footprint of an ant has the effect of a neck-collar for a weak person like us. Carrying such a heavy burden, how can we flee from your street? (185)

Bekhud Mohani: I have become weak to such an extent that even the footprint of an ant has become a neck-collar for me. When this is the situation, if I leave your street where can I go? (248)

FWP: SETS == KAHAN Anyone for whom an ant's footprint is a neck-collar is of course in a terminal stage of weakness. In addition, he's probably collapsed on the ground, where his neck can at least in some sense come into contact with the ant's footprint- enough, anyway, to find it a barrier to further movement. (If we don't locate him on the ground, then we're forced to try to imagine an ant's footprint being somehow lifted up and secured around his neck to hold him captive, which as an 'objective correlative' is even more awkward.) 'From your street, where...?' [tire kuuche se kahaa;N] sets up a strong expectation: we feel sure that something about places or directions or destinations is coming next. That expectation is abruptly cancelled for us, just as all prospect of flight is blocked for the speaker, by the next phrase: it turns out that the 'where' is really a marker for the rhetorical question 'where is the strength for flight?'. But still lingers on, like a phantom limb, because of the perfect positioning of the kahaa;N right between the two phrases. Other than the kahaa;N , I don't see much going on in this verse.

{123,4} jaan kar kiije ta;Gaaful kih kuchh ummiid bhii ho yih nigaah-e ;Gala:t-andaaz to sam hai ham ko 1) {knowingly / having known} practice negligence, so that there might also/even be some hope! 2) this gaze of wrong/incorrect style/valuing/estimate is poison to us

Notes: andaaz : 'Measure, measurement; quality... valuing, valuation, value; rough estimate; conjecture... elegance, grace; mode, manner, style, fashion, pattern'. (Platts p.90) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if having known me as your lover you practice negligence then there would also/even be some hope of mercy coming. But such a glance of nonacquaintance is poison for me. (132)

Hasrat: In 'knowingly practice negligence' too a kind of pleasure is hidden. (103)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: 'Having known'-- that is, having understood-- if you avert your eyes from me intentionally, then hope for mercy can be maintained. But to look with such a glance of unfamiliarity is, for me, not less than poison. (185)

Bekhud Mohani: You neglect me; I don't forbid this. But do it after having considered me as your lover, so that I can hope that if not today, then sometime mercy might come. But a glance like that of strangers is, toward me, poison. (248)

FWP: SETS == BHI There's a three-way wordplay and meaning play in this one: between knowing [jaannaa]; neglecting or ignoring [ta;Gaaful karnaa]; and [making] erroneous judgments [;Gala:t-andaaz]. And as Hasrat points out, the juxtaposition of 'knowingly practice negligence' [jaan kar ta;Gaaful kiije] makes an enjoyably paradoxical effect. In particular, ;Gala;T-andaaz has an elegant range of meanings. These include: =she doesn't recognize me at all; her eye passes over me as if I were a stranger =she sees me as vaguely familiar, but thinks I am somebody else =she recognizes me, but has a mistakenly low opinion about me, and thus ignores me What the lover begs for is the reassurance of knowing that she's ignoring or neglecting him knowingly, deliberately, with malice aforethought, because if she's taken that much trouble, she's at least not indifferent. Another verse along the same general lines: {148,2}. I can't feel much enthusiasm for this verse; it's too one-dimensional and prose-paraphraseable. The sam doesn't have any affinity with the rest of the verse; that's what really seems a deficiency. Compare it to {123,1}, to see the complexity that it lacks.

{123,5} rashk-e ham-:tar;hii-o-dard-e a;sar-e baa;Ng-e ;hazii;N naalah-e mur;G-e sa;har te;G-e do-dam hai ham ko 1) envy/jealousy of pattern-sharing; and the pain of/at the effect of a sad call/cry 2) the lament of the bird of dawn is a two-edged sword, to us

Notes: baa;Ng : 'Voice, sound, noise, cry, shout; the call to prayer... ; crowing (of a cock)'. (Platts p.127) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: One edge on that sword is envy/jealousy at language-sharing [hamzabaanii]; and the other edge is the pain of the lament itself. (132)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says: first, the envy/jealousy of fellow-singing [ham-navaa))ii]; second, the effect of the pain of the lament. Both things have made the lament of the bird of dawn a double-bladed sword for me. (185)

Bekhud Mohani: The lament of the nightingale is for me a double-edged sword. One blade is its complaining the way I do. The other blade is the pain of its voice. (249)

FWP: SETS == POETRY In classic mushairah style, the first line piques our curiosity but remains completely opaque until we get to hear the second. And then we learn that a mushairah style is highly appropriate, because it seems as if the poet and the

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bird are rival poets at the same mushairah. The poet is envious or jealous of the bird's sharing the same 'pattern' that he himself uses. Since a 'pattern' (that is, a particular meter-rhyme-refrain combination) was normally set for each mushairah, and all the verses prepared for that mushairah were to be in the stipulated pattern, the use of such a specific term locates the bird not just as a general competitor but as a direct rival, a kind of peer who is invited into the same competitive arena. The poet finds one kind of pain in encountering such a rival. Another kind of pain is, thanks to the creative ambivalence of the i.zaafat , either 'of' or 'at' the effect of a sad voice. If 'of', then the poet feels in himself the pain that the bird's voice seeks to evoke. If 'at', the poet may suffer at the realization that the bird's sad voice is indeed very effective, which makes the bird a much more powerful rival. And then, look at the several beautifully apposite meanings of baa;Ng . It can mean (1) any call or cry (so that the 'bird of dawn', that melancholy singer, remains a mystery); (2) the call to prayer (so that the wakeful 'bird of dawn' seems to be issuing a call to the dawn prayer); or (3) the crowing of a rooster (who is of course the real 'bird of dawn'). But why would the call to prayer, or a rooster's crow, share a 'pattern' with the poet? Partly, no doubt, because they can both sound melancholy, and are both powerfully able to evoke human responses. But also, perhaps, because they steal their technical material and skills from the poet himself.

{123,6} sar u;Raane ke jo va((de ko mukarrar chaahaa ha;Ns ke bole kih tire sar kii qasam hai ham ko 1) when I wanted the vow of cutting off my head to be repeated 2) she laughingly said, 'we {swear by / swear off} your head'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: In this verse the phrase 'I swear by your head' has two meanings: one, I swear by your head that I will certainly cut off your head; and the other, I swear off your head--that is, I will never cut off your head. As when they say, 'You’ve sworn off coming to dinner at our place', that is, you never have dinner with us. (132)

Nazm: That is, we swear on your head, we'll cut your head off! Or else consider it like this: that we've sworn off cutting off your head-- we won't cut your head off. (132)

Bekhud Mohani: When she promised to cut off my head, I wanted the promise to be firm. So I asked, please just say it again. Then, laughingly, what does she say but 'yes, yes, we swear by your head, it will be exactly so'. [Or:] 'we've sworn off cutting off your head-- that is, we absolutely won't cut it off'. (249)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; HUMOR; IDIOMS SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} This is a one-big-trick verse, and the commentators all explain the trick. The effect is delightful, isn't it? It hinges on the fact that 'to take an oath of/about doing something' [kisii kaam karne kii qasam] means, idiomatically, to swear off doing that thing, as in Hali's example. And people often confirm especially binding oaths by swearing by the head of some loved one (as people swear by someone's life in English). So when the one idiom is plugged into the other, the result is the lovely, radical ambiguity created here. For more on the possibilities of qasam , see {89,3}.

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It reminds me a bit of {116,6}, which also hinges on dialogue, and on the beloved's deliberately irritating way of pretending to accept the lover's importunities, while actually thwarting them. The poor lover is helpless, and we get to enjoy the pickle he's in.

{123,7} dil ke ;xuu;N karne kii kyaa vaj'h valekin naachaar paas-e be-raunaqii-e diidah aham hai ham ko 1) what reason is there to turn the heart into blood? but helplessly 2) respect for the lightlessness of the gaze is important to us

Notes: paas : 'Watching, guarding, taking care (of), observing; observance, consideration, attention (to), regard, respect'. (Platts p.217) raunaq : 'Lustre... brightness, splendour, beauty, elegance, grace, ornament; freshness, prime; colour, complexion; flourishing state or condition'. (Platts p.608) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, without tears of blood, the eyes remain lightless. If it were not for this thought, then there would be no other reason to turn the heart to blood. (132)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, there's no special reason to turn the heart into blood. We only turn the heart to blood out of this compulsion: that without bloody tears, the eyes seem a bit lightless. (186)

Bekhud Mohani: Does anyone turn his heart to blood? But what can we do? We're compelled. If they don't weep tears of blood, the eyes gradually become lightless. And we can't stand to see this. That is, in passion it's necessary to weep tears of blood, whether the heart is healthy or not, whether the liver remains or not. (249)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 We could indeed be 'turning the heart into blood' (an idiomatic expression for worrying, fretting, grieving) so as to keep the eyes bright with fresh blood and save them from a state of be-raunaqii , as the commentators maintain. This implies that our turning the heart into blood will be efficacious and will actually accomplish something, so that the sacrifice of the heart will at least be meaningful. But we could also be helplessly 'turning the heart into blood' out of grief at the eyes' be-raunaqii -- even though (or else precisely because) we know that it's too late, that the heart and liver are by now too destroyed to be able to keep the eyes bright with fresh blood. This becomes a sort of catch-22 situation: we weep blood because we no longer have enough blood to weep.

{123,8} tum vuh naazuk kih ;xamoshii ko fu;Gaa;N kahte ho ham vuh ((aajiz kih ta;Gaaful bhii sitam hai ham ko 1) you-- so sensitive/touchy that you call silence a sigh 2) we-- so weak that even/also neglect is tyranny to us

Notes: naazuk : 'Delicate, tender, fragile; fine; light; brittle; nice; neat; elegant; genteel; subtle; --facetious; gracious; keen; sensitive, touchy, testy'. (Platts p.1114) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, I am so strengthless that when you ceased to practice tyranny, and practiced neglect, I considered it too to be tyranny. And you are so delicate that if I stop my tongue from uttering complaints, and remain silent, then you consider that too to be a complaint. (132)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you are so delicate that after my renunciation of sighs, you call even my silence a sigh. And we are so feeble that when you gave up tyranny and adopted neglect, then that too did the work of tyranny toward me. (186)

Bekhud Mohani: You are so delicate that if we remain silent at your cruelties, then you become angry at this and sit with a sulky expression, and through your attitude complain about us. And we are so helpless that even your neglect is, for us, cruelty. (249)

FWP: SETS == BHI; PARALLELISM; YOU AND I Like so many of the 'you and I' verses, this one operates through mood and implication. The whole background and set of arguments that give rise to the two simple, parallel lines can only be inferred from our knowledge of the ghazal world (and of course the real world, and the kind of quarrels that lovers have). The commentators have a plausible background to offer, and I don't disagree with it. But the real charm of the verse is in its tone, and in its open-endedness. It calls attention to the similarities between the delicacy (or sensitiveness, or touchiness) of the beloved and the weakness of the lover-- and also to the radical differences in their positions. Her 'delicacy' takes the form of being hyper-critical; his weakness takes the form of being hyper-vulnerable. After all, in their own way they're perfectly matched. The balance between symmetry (both are frail) and asymmetry (she attacks, he suffers) must return to a sort of mutuality: she's the ideal type of the beloved, he the ideal type of the lover.

{123,9} lakhna))uu aane kaa baa))i;s nahii;N khultaa ya((nii havas-e sair-o-tamaashaa so vuh kam hai ham ko 1) the reason for coming to Lucknow does not {open out/ reveal itself}; that is, 2a) a desire for touring and spectacle-- there's little of that in us 2b) a desire for touring and spectacle-- that's a lesser thing, to us

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [Commenting on {123,9-11}:] From the final line [of {123,11}], the meaning of this verse-set is clear: that he was going somewhere with some hope, and on the way he stopped in Lucknow as well, and composed this ghazal. It's surprising that a person like Ghalib should come to a city like Lucknow, and nothing should be heard about it from anybody there-- when he came, and where he visited, and what happened. (132)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, no reason for coming to Lucknow is apparent. That is, people always take trips for touring and spectacle, and those two things are not applicable. (186)

Bekhud Mohani: [Commenting on {123,9-11}:] Mirza Sahib says, why did we come to Lucknow? We can't understand the reason for it. If it be said that we came

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for a tour, then not even this is true. So having reflected, he says, yes, yes, now we remember! The sequence of ardor isn't ended in this city. That is, we didn't come only this far; rather, we intend to make a pious visit to Najaf the Noble and circumambulate the Ka'bah. The truth is that a hope is bearing us along somewhere (Najaf, Ka'bah). And this is the reason that on the road the path becomes a sign of the kaaf-e karam . He has given for 'path' the simile of kaaf-e karam . (250)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} For the one and (so far) only time, I've failed to follow Arshi: he has a verseset marked to start with {123,7}, but common sense, and the judgment of the other commentators and editors, make it clear that that's just an error on his part, and the verse-set is really a three-verse one that begins with the present verse. Fortunately the situation is unusually clear in this case, so his error can be recognized and corrected without difficulty. This verse is not very complimentary to Lucknow; it clearly implies that the only reason to visit the city would be for casual tourism-- a mere stroll around the city to give a once-over to the sights, with maybe a few fairs or festivals ('spectacles') thrown in. If he's not interested in these trifling things- which he's not-- then why come here in the first place? The wordplay, though not flashy, works nicely: the reason for coming doesn't 'open' or 'reveal itself' [nahii;N khultaa], which resonate excellently with the idea of a stroll or tour in the 'open' air, or the self-revealing presentation of a spectacle. And since this verse is the first of a verse-set, it's meant to be read in juxtaposition to the next two verses.

{123,10} maq:ta((-e silsilah-e shauq nahii;N hai yih shahr ((azm-e sair-e najaf o :tauf-e ;haram hai ham ko 1) this city is not the {cutting-off point / closing-verse} of a sequence of ardor 2) we've resolved upon a tour of Najaf and a circumambulation of the {Holy Place / Ka'bah}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [He comments on the whole verse-set at {123,9}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, this city is not the cutting off of a sequence of ardor. That is, it's not something that ends it. We have an intention of touring Najaf and circumambulating the Holy Place. (186)

Bekhud Mohani: [He comments on the whole verse-set at {123,9}.]

FWP: SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This is the middle verse of a three-verse verse-set; for general comments, see {123,9}. The tone seems casual, easy, in command of its subject matter; perhaps we are chatting with some other travelers, in a bored and leisurely way, about our plans. Plainly we are the monarch of all we survey. Are we deprecating Lucknow, by implying that it's just a casual way-station on the road to the holy places, and thus not worth a visit in its own right? Are we deprecating the holy places, by implying that they're just places for casual sightseeing, like Lucknow only a little later in the itinerary ('if it's Tuesday it must be Najaf')? Are we deprecating Najaf, which merely gets a 'tour' [sair], as

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opposed to the Ka'bah which gets a 'circumambulation' [:tauf]? Are we deprecating the 'circumambulation' too, by combining it casually with minor, trivial kinds of sightseeing? And since we've already said in the previous verse that we have very little interest in (or esteem for) mere 'touring' or 'spectacle', is the whole rest of our journey destined to be as dubious as Lucknow? (To call it a 'sequence of ardor' after the previous bored and indifferent verse does sound a bit strange.) After we've seen the rest of the itinerary, will we still be vaguely wondering why we ever undertook such a trip in the first place? As so often, it's all in the tone, and ultimately we have to supply much of the tone ourselves. Veena Oldenburg comments (May 2006), 'A more historical explanation might be that Ghalib did not like the tawdry imitation of Najaf and Karbala made by Ghazi ud-Din Haidar in his Shah Najaf, which later became his tomb. This was built around 1813-16 or thereabouts. Everyone gets a bit upset with the pretentious stuff the Navabs did-- and perhaps that's what he's saying about Lucknow'. This verse also offers a remarkable and witty bit of sound-play between the word shahr , or 'city', and shi((r , or 'verse'. While they don't sound identical, they nevertheless sound quite similar (especially in this position where the shahr is really meant to sound metrically almost like a single long syllable), and the prominent use of maq:ta(( , a term for the closing-verse of a ghazal, at the beginning of the line alerts us to expect some related bit of wordplay. We're not expecting sound-play, so there's an extra little treat in the shock of recognition. Moreover, to say 'it's not the closing-verse' is enjoyable in itself: it's literally true (there's one more verse yet to come), but it also heralds the fact that the 'sequence of ardor' constituted by the ghazal-- and Lucknow-- is almost over. The next verse will in fact be the closing-verse of the verse-set, of the ghazal itself-- and of Lucknow, since 'a hope/expectation' will carry us far beyond it.

{123,11} liye jaatii hai kahii;N ek tavaqqu(( ;Gaalib jaadah-e rah kashash-e kaaf-e karam hai ham ko 1) a hope/desire carries us along/off somewhere, Ghalib 2) the path of the road is the attraction/curve/difficulty of the 'k' of 'karam'/kindness, to us

Notes: tavaqqu(( : 'Expectation, hope; trust, reliance; wish, desire; request'. (Platts p.343) kashash : 'A drawing; a pull; attraction; allurement; curve or sweep (of a letter in writing); lingering, tardiness, delay; trial, difficulty, pressure...; discord, difference, misunderstanding'. (Platts p.836) karam : 'Generosity, liberality; nobleness, excellence; goodness, kindness, benignity; beneficence; bounty; grace, favour'. (Platts p.826) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [He comments on the whole verse-set at {123,9}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib, while on the way to Calcutta in connection with his pension, halted for some months in Lucknow and Banaras. In this closing-verse, he alludes to that. (186)

Bekhud Mohani: [He comments on the whole verse-set at {123,9}.]

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FWP: SETS == WORD SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} This is the final verse of a three-verse verse-set; for general comments, see {123,9}. For discussion of jaadah , see {9,4}. What an extraordinarily fruitful use of the word kashash ! Even by Ghalibian standards, it's a marvel. There are of course the conspicuous sound collisions of three abrupt 'k' words in a row-- kashash-e kaaf-e karam . And here are some of the interpretive possibilities: =A hope/expectation carries us along in some direction; to us the attraction of the road is the magnetic pull of access to kindness/generosity. =A hope/expectation carries us along in some direction; to us the sweep of the road is the sweep of the tall letter 'k' at the beginning of the word 'kindness'/generosity. =A (vain) hope/desire carries us off somewhere-- to us, the path of the road is the difficulty/ trouble/ misunderstanding in obtaining initial access to kindness/generosity. Aren't these rich possibilities? And all of them even applicable, too, to Ghalib's real-life situation as a poet en route to Calcutta, seeking to have his share of a family pension increased by the East India Company. Nobody is as good as Ghalib at this sort of radically multivalent and yet utterly meaningful, relevant, even inevitable-seeming wordplay.

Ghazal 124 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aah ho composed after 1847; Hamid p. 102; Arshi #123; Raza p. 294

{124,1} tum jaano tum ko ;Gair se jo rasm-o-raah ho mujh ko bhii puuchhte raho to kyaa gunaah ho 1) {you would know / it's your affair} what friendly relations you might have with the Other-2) if you would keep inquiring about me too, would it be a sin?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1860:] My heart very much wants to see you. And seeing you is dependent on your coming here. If only you had come with your venerable father, and had seen me before you left! I've brought the Urdu divan from Rampur, and it has gone to Agra; there it will be printed. One copy will be sent to you too: {124,1}. (Arshi 247) ==Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 366 ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 246

Nazm: 'It's your work, it's up to you' (literally, 'You might know, your work might know') [tum jaano tumhaaraa kaam jaane]-- we have no entree into it. But while meeting the Other, why do you renounce meeting me? (133)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, as well as keeping up friendly relations with the Other, if you also keep up a connection with me, it would be no bad thing. What's to be gained by ceasing to meet with me? (187)

Bekhud Mohani: Now the beloved absolutely won't listen to a thing he says. Desperate, he says, you're in control of your own behavior, we don't say anything to you

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about the Rival. But why have you abandoned us? From 'would it be a sin?' comes the aroma of complaint. (250)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS Nazm points to the idiom 'X jaane Y jaane ' (literally, 'X might know, Y might know') that is used to mean 'it's nobody's business but X's and Y's'. In the verse, the idiom is truncated so that it's nobody's business but the beloved's (and the Other doesn't seem to come into it at all), which is amusingly appropriate to the situation. The implication is that the beloved is significantly involved with the Other, and the speaker is bending over backwards to disavow all right to inquire, or interest in inquiring, about this involvement. The speaker uses this disavowal as leverage to imply that the beloved ought also to show some concern for him (as a former lover? as a fellow-lover and peer of the Other?). This is not a large request-- the beloved ought to show concern only to the very mild extent of kisii ko puuchhnaa , 'to inquire about someone['s wellbeing]'. To 'keep on' doing this would mean nothing more than occasionally making a friendly (but perhaps formal and perfunctory) inquiry about someone's health, as one might dutifully inquire about the condition of a sick friend. The use of 'keep on' also suggests that perhaps this is all the interest the beloved has ever shown, and the lover is concerned about losing even this. Then there's the idiomatic kyaa gunaah ho -- 'would it be a sin?' or 'what kind of sin would it be?'-- that conveys more than a touch of sarcasm. Far from being a sin or wrong, the speaker implies, it would be only right and proper for the beloved to maintain at least a show of concern. The result is a verse that is completely in the future subjunctive-- a verse that does its work through implication and insinuation. This makes the wordplay of 'to know' [jaannaa] and 'to inquire' [puuchhnaa] all the more piquant. Compare {71,9}, which also uses kisii ko puuchhnaa , and also combines it with sarcastic hyperbole ('it wouldn't do any harm').

{124,2} bachte nahii;N muvaa;xa;zah-e roz-e ;hashr se qaatil agar raqiib hai to tum gavaah ho 1) people/you don’t escape from the reckoning/reproach of Judgment Day 2) if the Rival is the murderer, then you are the witness/proof

Notes: muvaa;xa;zah : 'Calling to account, taking satisfaction (from); retaliating; punishing, chastising; punishment; impeachment; accountability; --amends, damages; --reprehension, blame'. (Platts p.1085) gavaah : 'A witness, an evidence; testimony, proof'. (Platts p.921) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, you don't escape; that is, my murderer. The meaning is that if you're a witness, you'll be seized, even if you escape blame for the murder. (133)

Bekhud Mohani: From the inquiry of the Day of Judgment neither can you escape, nor can the Rival. If the Rival is charged as a murderer, then you will be a witness. Because you know very well that I am slain by him. (250)

Faruqi: In truth, the theme-generatingness of this verse is dependent on the law of witness and punishment. According to this law, the witness to a crime is considered to be a participant in the crime if he keeps the crime secret.... According to this law, the beloved, who has beheld the scene of slaughter

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with her own eyes, but has wanted to keep the crime secret, deserves to be charged. If the question be raised as to where in the verse is there mention of keeping the crime hidden, then the reply will be that if the crime is not hidden, then the verse's premise itself is at an end. The point is that the Rival (or the Rival conspiring with the beloved) has contrived the lover's murder, or brought about this result, and only these two know about it. If everybody would know about this, then where's the meaningfulness in making only the beloved a participant ('if the Rival is the murderer, then you're a witness')? If there were many witnesses, then accusing the beloved alone would be frivolous. (232)

FWP: QIYAMAT: {10,11} In classic mushairah-verse style, the first line is such a broad, sententious generalization that it's virtually uninterpretable. The omitted subject of its masculine plural verb can be 'they' (including the unspecified 'people in general'); or the polite 'you' [aap], or the familiar 'you' [tum]; or 'we', or 'we' used colloquially in place of 'I'. Nobody can possibly tell until (after a suitably tantalizing delay) we're allowed to hear the second line. Then, of course, we learn that the beloved will be part of the murder case-as an accomplice (she permitted, or even encouraged, him to do the deed), or as a piece of the evidence (her beauty and cruelty motivated the murder), or both. When she is called to give testimony, her part in the whole affair will be brought out in open court, and how will she escape at least blame and reproach, if not criminal charges? Still, it's a fairly minor verse-- the kind that doesn't lose that much in prose paraphrase.

{124,3} kyaa vuh bhii be-gunah-kush-o-;haq naa-shinaas hai;N maanaa kih tum bashar nahii;N ;xvurshiid-o-maah ho 1a) are they too murderers of the innocent, and ignorant of justice? 2) granted that you are not a human being, you are the sun and the moon

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The refrain and the rhyme constrain the poet: having composed a first line about the next one, he brought in 'they' before its antecedent. The reference is to the sun and moon. (133)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, are the sun and moon too, like you, murderers of the innocent and ignorant of justice? I've granted that you're not a human being, you're as radiant as the sun, and with a face like the moon. (187)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, with regard to beauty, you are not a human being, you're the sun and moon. But they don't, like you, murder any innocent one; they don't forget what is rightfully due to anyone. That is, in these matters you've gone beyond them. (251)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH This verse, like the previous one {124,2}, provides a radically uninterpretable first line. Who could the 'they' be? And to whom could the 'too' apply? Well, naturally we already guess that it will very probably apply to the beloved. But that only intensifies our curiosity about who might even be in the same league with her-- if indeed she's the one-- for such evil qualities.

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The first half of the second line also remains rather opaque. To say that the beloved (if indeed it's going to prove to be the beloved) is not human prepares us, after the indictments in the first line, to feel that she is something evil, something cruel, something subhuman and unworthy. A devil? A beast? A monster? Then what a powerful, bitter, cynical ending to the line! What is normally a sort of hackneyed compliment to the beloved-- her being as beautiful as the sun and moon-- is here tossed off impatiently, almost contemptuously. It's not only taken for granted, but also made to feel like an insult. In proper mushairah-verse style, it's also withheld until the last possible moment, so that the whole verse bursts on the hearer all at once, with maximum force. The insult is that she is not only superhuman in her beauty, but subhuman in her moral and ethical behavior. Not only is she worse than humans (she's not a human being at all), but she's also worse than the sun and moon, since the question about whether they 'too' behave like this feels so purely indignant and rhetorical. And yet-- could we not also say that she's beyond the moral and immoral, just as are the sun and moon? The sun kills anyone, innocent or guilty, who is lost in the desert; the moon lights the path of lovers and villains alike. They move in their own realm, serene and amoral, innocent of any evil intention (or any intention at all) toward humans. Can we not say that the beloved too is amoral in a similar way? On this reading, the first line becomes a genuine question: we are to take seriously the moral parallel between the beloved and the sun and moon, and answer the question thoughtfully and fair-mindedly. It's not clear how we are to answer it, but it becomes one worth meditating on. For another take on the human versus sun-and-moon valuation, see {110,6}.

{124,4} ubhraa hu))aa naqaab me;N hai un ke ek taar martaa huu;N mai;N kih yih nah kisii kii nigaah ho 1) one thread has sprung up within/in her veil 2) I'm dying: 'may this not be somebody’s glance!'

Notes: ubharnaa : 'To rise, swell, be inflated; to come out fully, be developed;... to run over, overflow; to be or become excited or inflamed;... to be puffed up, be conceited'. (Platts p.6) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I don't care to have anyone's eye to light on the beloved. I even suspect a thread of the veil of being the Rival's glance. This illusion could have been expressed in other ways, but the author has adopted the thread of the veil. (133)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in her veil, a thread has sprung up. Having seen it, fear arises in me that the glance of some lover of beauty may have obtained entry within the veil. Mirza Sahib has written the first line of this verse as an illustration [mi;sl]; by way of a proof of the claim, it would be impossible for a better thought to come to hand. (187)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, in love, illusion has reached the limit that when within her veil one thread springs up, then I die of envy/jealousy: may it not be the glance of someone eager for sight, that has become entangled in the veil and remained there!

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH VEIL: {6,1}

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The 'thread of the glance' [taar-e nigaah] is a common idiomatic expression; see {15,3} for an example of its use. Here, it is cleverly not quite present: we in the audience must assemble it for ourselves from its two parts divided among the two lines. In proper mushairah-verse style, the second element of it is withheld until the last possible moment, so that we can't really interpret the verse at all until we hear the whole of it. For one and a half out of two lines, we have no idea what is going on in the verse; then suddenly it comes together at the end, and the metaphor yields a delicious burst of flavor. We might also ask, how does he know what's going on inside her veil? In {97,9}, there's a mechanism provided: he knows she's frowning inside her veil because a wrinkle appears on the surface. Here, we might assume that the thread is on the surface of the veil, and thus 'in' the veil only in the sense of being part of the fabric, not in the sense of being concealed by it. And how suitable are the various meanings of ubharnaa to the various possible situations we're envisioning! It has the scope for a loose thread coming out of the fabric, and/or a desirous or arrogant glance. Or we might say that he's imagining the whole thing-- that with the preternaturally keen eyes of a jealous lover he thinks he can see through her veil, and can even find a single thread/gaze lurking there. In which case we realize that the 'thread' of his own gaze has penetrated the veil! Could it be his own gaze that he (thinks he) sees? There's no end to the complexities that this simple little verse can generate.

{124,5} jab mai-kadah chhu;Taa to phir ab kyaa jagah kii qaid masjid ho madrasah ho ko))ii ;xaanaqaah ho 1) when the winehouse has been left, then now what restriction of place? 2) let it be a mosque, let it be a religious school, let it be some Sufi hospice

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: In this verse, by way of refinement he has not mentioned that activity for which he declares mosque and religious school and Sufi hospice to be suitable. The meaning is that when the wine-house, where there was the pleasure of drinking wine with companions, has been left behind, now if we meet in the mosque or encounter each other in the religious school or the sufi hospice, all places are equal. The mosque, etc., have been singled out by way of mischievousness; that is, these places which are absolutely not proper for this activity-- even there, after leaving the wine-house, there’s no rejection of drinking. And not to explicitly mention wine-drinking is the claim of rhetoric [balaa;Gaat]. (154)

Nazm: When the place where the pleasure of life was found has been left, then now there's no refusing to go anywhere. This verse is the [choicest] 'produce of the ground' [;haa.sil-e zamiin]. (133)

Bekhud Mohani: When one can't remain in the wine-house, then now the mosque, the religious school, the Sufi hospice, are all equal; we'll go wherever you say. This verse is an extremely fine example of rakish witticism [rindaanah ma;zaaq]. How glorious and splendid a thing is the wine-house, and how commonplace the mosque, etc., look! (251)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The commentators have done a helpful job on this one. Bekhud Mohani is right to point out the casual tone of the second line-- how the names of the possible places are tossed off, carelessly and thoughtlessly, in no particular

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order, with the added touch of 'some' [ko))ii] to add a touch of supreme indifference. Has the wine-house been left behind under some kind of duress, as the commentators assume, so that the speaker's indifference is that of a man with nothing left to lose? It's perfectly possible, and it makes a wonderful reading. But it's equally possible that the speaker's (literal or metaphorical) intoxication has now reached such a level that it's independent of the winehouse. He no longer needs wine, he's drunk enough; perhaps he is now so mystically exalted that he will never need to drink again. Now he's free of all ties to particular places. The wine-house was his last allegiance, and now that too has been transcended, so he exults in his radical detachment and autonomy. He's gone beyond even the wine-house! (Compare {5,3}, in which the speaker has gone 'even beyond non-being', and is now free from the inconveniences of that state.)

{124,6} sunte hai;N jo bihisht kii ta((riif sab durust lekin ;xudaa kare vuh tiraa jalvah-gaah ho 1) {when / in that} we hear praise of Paradise, it's all very well 2) but may the Lord grant that it be your {glory/manifestation}-place!

Notes: jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This verse can be appropriate for both divine love [;haqiiqat] and human love [majaaz]. (154)

Nazm: 'It's all very well'-- the meaning is that we don't doubt its excellence, except that if you won't be visible there, then it's nothing at all. (133)

Bekhud Mohani: Praise of Paradise is all appropriate, but may the Lord grant that you too would be available there! The point is that if you're not there, then Paradise is nothing at all. (252)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION JALVAH: {7,4} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}] In proper mushairah-verse style, the first line is so broad and vague that it remains quite unclear how to interpret it. Even as the second line develops, the full flavor withholds itself till the end, when it comes as a wonderful shock of enjoyment. Hali maintains that the verse can be made to work whether we assume a Divine or a human beloved. In the former case, the verse would assert that the real delight of Paradise will be not the outer trappings of gardens and sensory pleasures, but the nearness to God himself; if this nearness is not available, then nothing else can possibly make a 'Paradise' worthy of the name. (For an even more radical rejection of the 'external' delights of Paradise, see {118,2}.) But for this reading to work, we have to assume that we're invoking God abstractly ('may God grant') and also addressing God in the second person ('your'). We're thus speaking of/to the same listener as both 'him' and 'you', which is a bit awkward, to say the least. But if we assume a human beloved, then we have no such problems. Then the verse tells her that the sight of her will be the only truly heavenly part of 'Paradise'; without the supernatural bliss of seeing her supernatural beauty, there can be no 'Paradise' to speak of-- nor indeed, anything much at all. The

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word jalvah has a range of meanings that includes everything from mere 'appearance' to 'radiance' or 'glory', so that we can imagine the beloved's appearance in Paradise as humble or lordly, as we like.

{124,7} ;Gaalib bhii gar nah ho to kuchh aisaa .zarar nahii;N dunyaa ho yaa rab aur miraa baadshaah ho 1a) if Ghalib too [in addition to others] would not be, then there’d be no such harm/loss-1b) if even Ghalib would not be, then there'd [still] be no such harm/loss-2a) the world would be, Oh Lord, and my King would be 2b) may the world be, oh Lord, and may my King be!

Notes: .zarar : 'Harm, injury, hurt, mischief, damage; defect, deficiency, detriment, loss; --poverty; affliction, distress, anguish'. (Platts p.749) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, may my lifetime too be given to the king. (133)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if an accomplished poet like Ghalib would not be in the court, then that would cause no such great harm; but oh Lord, may the world exist, and may my praised king exist. (188)

Bekhud Mohani: May the Lord grand that my king would live as long as the world would remain; if Ghalib too doesn't remain safe, then there's no great harm. Even in this commonplace closing-verse of Mirza's two words are worthy of scrutiny: (1) bhii ; (2) kuchh aisaa . That is, from Ghalib's nonexistence there is indeed some harm, but not all that much. And Ghalib's rank is seen to be below only the king's, and above the world's. (252)

FWP: SETS == BHI The first line offers two readings, based on the two possibilities of bhii . Both possibilities are offered within an 'if' clause, which is followed by a generalized, vague 'then' clause that promises further explanation in the second line. When we then hear the second line, we realize that its two subjunctive verbs also admit of two quite different interpretations. One is of reassurance and stability (2a): Ghalib might not be there, but the world would still be there, and the king would still be there, so the necessary elements for cosmic continuity would be present. The other is of uncertainty and urgent prayer (2b): if Ghalib is not there, then at least, oh Lord, let the world exist, and let the king live on!

Ghazal 125 10 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: uu to kyuu;Nkar ho composed 1853; Hamid p. 103; Arshi #125; Raza pp. 321-22

{125,1} ga))ii vuh baat kih ho guftago to kyuu;Nkar ho kahe se kuchh nah hu))aa phir kaho to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) that idea/saying is gone, that if there would be conversation, then how would it be? 2) from saying it, nothing happened; if you say it again, then how would it be?

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Notes: kyuu;Nkar : 'By what means? In what way? how? in what manner? why?'. (Platts p.890) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Arshi: In the Dihli Urdu Akhbar 15, 10 (6 March 1853), under the title of "Ghazals from the Mushairah of the [Red] Fort" this ghazal was printed, along with a number of other ghazals. (248)

Nazm: In this ghazal, in a number of verses kyuu;Nkar ho is different from the idiom of Lucknow. Here, the author has, in the style of the people of Delhi, said kyuu;Nkar ho instead of kyaa ho . That is, now those days no longer remain when we used to say, 'let's see if there would be conversation with her, then what would be [kyaa ho]. We've already spoken and heard, and nothing happened. Now if we speak again, then what would be [kyaa ho]. Another aspect too is that when from saying nothing happened, then tell us, now what would happen, and now what would we do? (133-34)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that time has passed when we used to wonder how we should begin to express our longing to her. Through good fortune, we were given such an occasion, when after much thought, we gave a long, thorough speech along lines we had devised, and she listened to it all. But no result at all came from it. Now how can our project be accomplished? The meaning is that we said everything but there was no effect at all on her, and no result at all came from our speaking. Now what would we do? We're helpless. (188)

Bekhud Mohani: In the present circumstances, the situation is that we have already explained our purpose to her. Even after hearing everything, she showed no kindness. Now you yourself say: what would we do, and how would we speak to her, and for how long we would humiliate ourselves by again and again submitting our request-- and what result does it even have? (252)

Faruqi: This ghazal proves that Ghalib's complexity [pechiidagii] was not only on the basis of Persianness; rather, his mind itself was such that he could present numerous aspects of every idea even in those verses in which he used very little Persian. In the verse under discussion, only one word is Persian, and that too an extremely common one: guftaguu . And then, the words themselves are every one of them two or three [Urdu] letters long. Despite this, a number of layers of meaning are present in the verse.... ga))ii vuh baat has two interpretations. (1) That time has gone. (2) The thoughts that he used to wander around discussing with himself-- those are now finished. When he couldn't open the lip of expression before the beloved, then he used to say to himself, 'we'll say this, we'll say that'. Or imagining himself to be the beloved, or imagining the beloved to be present, he used to practice speaking directly. Now all those thoughts no longer remain. In the first line, kyuu;N kar ho has three interpretations. (1) In what tone of voice, in what aspect, would the idea be expressed? (2) What path can be devised, through which conversation would take place? (3) What the hell-how is it possible at all! If it would take place, then how? That is-- as if it could take place! In the second line, kuchh nah hu))aa has two interpretations. (1) No effect occurred. (2) An expression of failure. That is, we certainly spoke, but not properly, not completely.... Another interpretation is that to speak is one thing, to converse is another. We spoke, but conversation didn't take place. In the first line is a mention of conversation [guftaguu], and in the second of

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saying [kahnaa].... Another meaning is that we said everything, but felt that we were able to say nothing. Now if we're even able to say it a second time, there's no telling whether even this time there will be any sense of something happening or being done. The truth is that in such a difficult ground, with such easy language, to compose a verse in such fresh and complex language was within the reach only of Ghalib (or Mir as well). And if we consider it from the point of view of 'description of an affair', then even Momin is checkmated. (233-34)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Throughout this ghazal, rhyme-words have occasionally been skewed in their pronunciation (just as in other cases they're occasionally altered in their spelling) to fit nicely into the rhyme. The final vowels of guftaguu and kaho don't rhyme, and there's no reason to believe that Ghalib thought they did; he's just taking a permissible liberty. Another example: ;xuu pronounced as ;xo in {125,4}; and in {125,7}, quite conspicuously (and irritatingly), vuh is even spelled as vo . In {125,8} juu is turned into jo . Faruqi has explicated the possibilities, and pointed out both the brilliance and complexity of the wordplay, and the verse's remarkably simple vocabulary and grammar. The speaker is talking to himself (in the second person familiar, it seems, as tum ), and pondering his options in this new and dire crisis: the perils of success (?) appear even greater than those of failure, because there is less left to hope for in the future. As Faruqi points out, kyuu;Nkar here has a wonderfully effective multivalence; it's related to the use Ghalib so often makes of kyaa .

{125,2} hamaare ;zahn me;N us fikr kaa hai naam vi.saal kih gar nah ho to kahaa;N jaa))e;N ho to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) in our mind, the name of that thought/concern is 'union' 2) that if it would not be, then where would we go?; if it would be, then how would it be?

Notes: fikr : 'Thought, consideration, reflection; deliberation, opinion, notion, idea, imagination, conceit; counsel, advice; care, concern, solicitude, anxiety'. (Platts /.783) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we remain happy with that very thought; union never takes place. (134)

Bekhud Dihlavi: According to us, 'union' is the name for sitting and thinking for hours that if union with the beloved would not (God forbid!) be vouchsafed, then what will we do? Where will we go? And if it takes place, then how will it be? What equipment ought there to be for it? What kind of effort ought to be made? (188)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, a vision of union has been portrayed. And it's been said that neither has union yet been vouchsafed to us, nor can any prospect of union be seen. Nevertheless, day and night we remain absorbed in the thought that if union doesn't take place, then what will we do, and where will we go? And if by the grace of fortune it would take place, then how will it be, and what schemes will we have to adopt for it? Through this mental concern of ours we obtain the imaginary pleasures of union, and we constantly think about this and are happy. (252)

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FWP: SETS == DEFINITION 'UNION': {5,2} For us, 'union' is the name of a fikr --with the admirably wide range of meanings that this all-purpose word can offer. The commentators have emphasized the main point: that all we know of 'union' with the beloved is an abstract mental experience of our own. And even then, it's apparently an experience fraught with uncertainty, doubt, apprehension. For the question 'where would we go?' implies that we can't even imagine any recourse, any refuge; and the rhetorical-looking question 'how would it be?' (how would it come about?) suggests that we can't see much prospect of its ever really taking place. Nazm, backed up for once by Bekhud Mohani, insists that the lover is happy, or at least content [;xvush] with this state of affairs. This is not really puzzling; Nazm and Bekhud are simply relying on an alternative sense of kyuu;Nkar ho . In his commentary on the previous verse, Faruqi {125,1} enumerates all three senses that this excellently multivalent expression can have. Basically, these are (1) what would it be like?; (2) how would it be brought about?; and (3) how could it ever happen at all! (as a negative rhetorical question or exclamation). Nazm and Bekhud Mohani, relying on reading (1), allow the lover the luxury of fantasizing about the unknown joys of union; and perhaps also, relying on reading (2), allow him the pleasure of creating intricate plans and schemes that might, he imagines, procure this state of bliss. Thus they consider him happy in his fantasy world-- or at least happy part of the time, since even they can't remove the distraughtness of kahaa;N jaa))e;N . Nor, of course, can they remove the grim and colloquial energy of reading (3).

{125,3} adab hai aur yihii kashmakash to kyaa kiije ;hayaa hai aur yihii gomago to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) when/if there’s courtesy, and this tension/tug-of-war, then what can be done? 2) when/if there’s shame, and this equivocation/hesitation, then how would it be?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse, instead of kyuu;Nkar ho , kyuu;Nkar bane is in the idiom. That is, a tug-of-war with courtesy has held me back; and a tug-of-war with shame has held the beloved back; so then how can the thing get done [baat kyuu;Nkar bane]? (134)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, desire, ardor, longing-- these all compel us to obtain the wish of our heart. But courtesy stops, and a tug-of-war occurs between these two sides. Her shame doesn't let her give a clear reply; from her side, the speech falls into equivocation. Now if there would be success, then how would it occur? (188-89)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is beside us, she is silent from shame. We are silent from shame. Emotions of ardor boil up, but courage is lacking. To ourself, or to the beloved, we say, if things remain like this, then we'll remain unsuccessful. That is, neither ought we to show courtesy, nor ought you to show shame. (252)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM

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The lines are a lovely study in parallelism, right down to the word level: there are enjoyable similarities between the two Persian constructs kashmakash (pull / not-pull) and gomago (speak / not-speak). Parallelism, as we've seen in so many verses, invites us to ask about the relationship between the two lines. Do they describe different, independent situations, as the commentators will have it? Or do they both describe the same situation, in slightly varying ways? Both seem quite possible in the present verse. The commentators are all quite sure which attributes belong to whom, though it's not clear how they can know. After all, the verse has been carefully structured to give no information whatsoever about how many, and which, attributes belong to how many, and which, persons. The commentators assume that shame is a quality of the beloved's. But it's also easy to find verses in which diffidence and shame are qualities of the lover's, as in {102,1}; and we all know that shamelessness is one of the beloved's trademarks ({24,2}, {116,3}, etc.). In the present verse, it's perfectly possible that all four attributes belong to the lover, who is lamenting his own diffidence and irresolution. Or all four could belong to the beloved, as the lover laments her constant shillyshallying behind an impenetrable mask of refinement. Other possibilities can be generated in quantity; for a limit case of such multivalence, see {4,4}. Does he have 'courtesy' and 'shame', while she has 'tension' and 'equivocation'? Does he have 'courtesy' and 'tension', while she has 'shame' and 'equivocation'? And so on. Since 'courtesy' and 'shame', 'tension' and 'equivocation/hesitation', are all (by careful arrangement, needless to say) such broad and multifarious terms, they lend themselves readily to a wide range of imagined situations. And since Ghalib has carefully deprived us of signposts, who but we can do the imagining?

{125,4} tumhii;N kaho kih guzaaraa sanam-parasto;N kaa buto;N kii ho agar aisii hii ;xo to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) you yourself [must] say: the living/livelihood of idol-worshippers-2) if idols would have a disposition such as this, then how would it be?

Notes: gu;zaarah : [of which guzaaraa is a variant spelling]: 'A passing, passing over, crossing; a passage; passing of time or of life; living, subsisting; --stay, abode'. (Platts p.900) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if idols would have a temperament like yours, then how would their worshippers have a living/livelihood? (134)

Bekhud Mohani: If beloveds would have such a temperament-- that is, if they, like you, would be frivolous, faithless, treacherous, pitiless, cruel-- then you yourself do justice: how would a lover's life exist? That is, everybody would be finished off. However many qualities the beloved may have, in the phrase aisii hii ;xuu all of them are comprehended. (253)

Naiyar Masud: But where's the necessity in this verse that we should turn the suggestion of 'idol' and 'idol-worshippers' toward beloved and lover alone? A new strength enters the verse when it is considered to be addressed not by the lover to the beloved, but by the servant to the Lord. (190)

Faruqi: An idol is made of stone; sighs and laments have no effect on it. It is motionless, and its heart (if it even has a heart) is devoid of the feeling of compassion. But despite this, idol-worshippers don't die of despair; rather,

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somehow or other they manage to pass their lives. Thus it's been proved that no matter how indifferent an idol may be, it can't be as cold-hearted and indifferent as you. You don't even let any of your lovers stay alive. If idols had a temperament like yours, then it would show itself on the lives of the idol-worshippers. (235)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} On the pronunciation of ;xuu as ;xo , see {125,1}. A marvel of a verse; the various commentators point to some of its complexities. If you can talk to your 'idol', you can appeal for justice: 'you yourself say!'. But an idol who is capable of listening to such a plea, who is approachable enough to make such a plea worthwhile-- can that idol really be so stony-hearted, stonier than a stone image? Maybe so; this is the universe of the ghazal after all, and the lover is accustomed to getting the worst of all possible worlds. Or is the idol really stone, or stone-hearted, so that no reply at all is possible? That wouldn't necessarily stop the selfdeluding lover from making his urgent, intimate appeal. At the heart of the complexity is our uncertainty about whether the group of 'idols' mentioned in the second line includes the beloved (why are you crueler than all the other idols?), or is contrasted to the beloved (why are you crueler even than idols?). And of course, as Naiyar Mas'ud asks, is the beloved to be imagined as God, or a human? And there's a second layer of uncertainty: am I, the speaker, included among the idol-worshippers, or contrasted with them? Another layer of ambiguity, as Bekhud Mohani observes, is provided by the excellent phrase 'a disposition such as this' [aisii hii ;xuu], which is elastic enough to include all possible cruelties of commission (tyranny, anger) or omission (neglect, indifference). Thus our power to imagine the beloved multifariously is not at all circumscribed, but is even enhanced.

{125,5} ulajhte ho tum agar dekhte ho aa))iinah jo tum se shahr me;N ho;N ek do to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) you become perplexed/embroiled if you {see / look into} a mirror 2) if there would be one or two like you in the city, then how would it be?

Notes: ulajhnaa : 'To be engangled, ravelled, twisted, entwined; to be complicated, made intricate; to be perplexed;... to fall foul (of, se), dispute or wrangle (with); to interpose, interfere; to demand a reason'. (Platts p.75) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: One meaning of it is that if there might be one or two more temperamental people like you in the city, then what shape would the city be in? And another meaning is that when it doesn’t please you that even your reflection is like you, then if in fact one or two as lovely as you were present in the city, then what kind of tumult would you raise? (132-33)

Nazm: That is, having seen your reflection in a mirror, you become perplexed/embroiled. If in the city there would be one or two beautiful ones with your face, then how would it be [kyuu;Nkar bane]? Here too [as in {125,3}], the author has used kyuu;Nkar ho in place of kyuu;Nkar bane . (134)

Bekhud Mohani: Seeing your own face in a mirror, you become angry. If there were one or two beloveds like you in the city, then what would happen? That is, you wouldn't let them remain alive. (253)

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FWP: SETS == GENERATORS MIRROR: {8,3} Here even the versatility of dekhnaa assists in the multivalence: unlike English, Urdu doesn't offer a choice between 'to look at (or into)' and 'to see'. Does the beloved's eye casually fall on a mirror, and she becomes angry because even the thought of anything that could hold or capture a beauty like hers is unacceptable to her? Or does she look into the mirror, and see her own beauty reflected there, and resent the glimpse of the 'rival' she sees in it? And of course, which sense of the many relevant meanings of ulajhnaa best captures her reaction to the mirror? Is she angry? Perplexed? Or even somehow captivated by the sight of her own beauty, such that she becomes entangled or entwined with the wonderful face in the mirror? Then here, as so often, the relationship between the two lines is left unspecified. The second line contains two subjunctive phrases, being spoken by a meditative observer (presumably the lover). But do those phrases represent thoughts in the beloved's mind (suggesting that she's actively on the lookout for rivals, to blow them out of the water)? Or are they only observations by the lover (marvelling at her inimitable, unique confusion, perplexity, wrath, etc.)? And as so often in this ghazal, the final kyuu;Nkar ho can mean either 'how would it come about that there would be one or two like you in the city?'; or 'if there would be one or two like you in the city, then how would it be?' (that is, what would that state of affairs be like?). Both questions are somewhat rhetorical: the answer to the first is 'impossible, such a thing could never be!'; and to the second, 'it would be a disaster!'.

{125,6} jise na.siib ho roz-e siyaah meraa saa vuh sha;x.s din nah kahe raat ko to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) the one to whom is destined a black day like mine 2) if that person wouldn’t call night 'day', then how would it be?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: What must the blackness of that day be like, compared to which even night seems to be day? (154)

Nazm: kyuu;Nkar ho -- that is, kyuu;Nkar bane . The meaning is, who will call it day? Because such a black day simply can't be called 'day'. (134)

Bekhud Mohani: The one in whose destiny has been a day as black as mine-- to him night too will look like day. That is, my black day (day of trouble) is so dark that in comparison to it night seems to be day. (253)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} Unusually, Nazm seems to have got it backwards; but all the commentators point to the sleight-of-hand play of opposites. Anyone vouchsafed a day as black as mine would surely call the night 'day'-- if he would not do so, then 'how would it be'? Which gives us two possibilities: first, the obvious one of 'how would it be possible that he would not do so?' The answer to this rhetorical question naturally is, of course he would do so! How could he help but do so?

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But there's also the second, more open-ended reading: 'how would it come about that he would not do so?' What might cause him to refrain from confusing his black 'day' with 'night'? Well, maybe his nights are even blacker and more unimaginably terrible than his days; thus he would still have a basis for comparison, and would not be led into confusion. Perhaps he might lose the concept of 'day' altogether, and thus have nothing to contrast his 'night' with; in the inconceivable bleakness of his life even words and concepts might have deserted him. There may be other possibilities, of course. Ghalib leaves us to imagine them, and he's locked us into a box in which none of the possibilities are pretty.

{125,7} hame;N phir un se umiid aur u;Nhe;N hamaarii qadr hamaarii baat hii puuchhe;N nah vo to kyuu;Nkar ho 1a) for us, then/again, to have hope from her, and for her to respect/value us1b) we have hope from her, then/again, and she esteems/values us-2) if she wouldn't inquire even about our thought/utterance, then how would it be?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, how would [kyuu;Nkar ho] we have hope, and how would she have esteem? There is awkwardness in the construction. And for the sake of the rhyme he has made the h of vuh into a vaa))o [which is contrary to the pronunciation]. (134)

Bekhud Mohani: She doesn't turn her face toward us; she doesn't even address us; she doesn't even inquire about our thought/utterance. What hope would we have from her, and how would she know our worth? That is, if we had conversed, then she would have known what excellences are in me. (253)

Faruqi: This meaning is very fine. But there can be another aspect: that hame;N phir un se umiid be considered a separate sentence and that it be understood to have a hai . That is, again we have hope from her. Now the meaning emerges that at one time we were in despair, but now we are again becoming hopeful, our hope is again placed on her. And there, things are such that she doesn't even inquire about our thought/utterance. In such a situation, that she would esteem/value us-- how would it be? If 'and' is taken with the meaning of 'but', then the meaning becomes absolutely clear. (237)

FWP: On the spelling of vuh as vo, see {125,1}. A clever trick: the permissible omission of verbs in the first line permits either the subjunctive [ho] or the present tense [hai] to be inserted at our pleasure, for either or both of the two independent clauses in the line. The commentators go for the subjunctive (1a), and Faruqi for a hybrid (present for the first clause, subjunctive for the second); but (1b), the entirely present, is surely equally possible. In fact, (1b) is a moving, even desperate, reading. The lover is trying so hard to reassure himself. Why haven't I heard from her? Why hasn't she invited me into her presence? Well, there surely must be a reason! After all, I trust her, and she values me-- how would it be possible for her to ignore me? (Implied answer to the rhetorical question: why, it wouldn't be possible at all!) Rather, the messenger must have gone astray; she must have forgotten where my house is; the weather must have been bad; someone must have

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intercepted her letter, etc. The lover will clutch desperately at any implausibility, rather than believe the beloved is really at fault and acting culpably. Compare {36,1} and {91,3}.

{125,8} ;Gala:t nah thaa hame;N ;xa:t par gumaa;N tasallii kaa nah maane diidah-e diidaar-jo to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) it wasn't erroneous, our doubt/guess of comfort from the letter 2) if the vision-seeking gaze would not {agree / go along}, then how would it be?

Notes: gumaan : 'Doubt, distrust, suspicion; surmise, conjecture;... notion, supposition'. (Platts p.914) tasallii : 'Consolation, comfort, solace; assurance; contentment, satisfaction'. (Platts p.324) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we considered it a cause for comfort that a letter came from her. But if the vision-seeking gaze would not agree, then how would it be a comfort? (135)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, our suspicion was not erroneous that from her letter comfort would come to our heart.... But here, through ill-fortune the vision-seeking gaze dug in its heels even more than the restless heart. That wretch simply wouldn't in any way be diverted by her letter, and went on insisting that it would see the vision of her for itself. Now, if there would be comfort, then how would it be? (189)

Bekhud Mohani: Our opinion was not erroneous that when the letter came, then the heart would be comforted. But the eyes are compelled by ardor-- the gaze doesn't agree. That is, the heart was comforted, but the eyes are restless in this way. In one other place he has said the mirror-image of this verse: {152,6}. (253)

Arshi: Compare {152,6}. (249)

FWP: WRITING: {7,3} On diidaar-jo instead of diidaar-juu , see {125,1}. What a brilliant choice the word gumaa;N is for the purposes of the verse! It can either have a markedly negative slant (doubt, suspicion, distrust) or remain entirely neutral (surmise, idea, conjecture). Needless to say, the second line picks up on either possibility without missing a beat. Here are two readings: =We were not wrong to think/surmise that the letter would be a comfort-- in fact, it was a comforting letter. But our vision-seeking gaze would not agree to be comforted, so how could it really be a comfort (such as it rightfully should have been)? How could the heart be content, even if comforted, while the eyes remained unsatisfied? (For a verse in which the eyes are satisfied but the heart is not, see {152,6}.) =We were not wrong to have doubt/suspicion/distrust about whether the letter would be a comfort. For in fact, it turned out not to be a comfort. Our vision-seeking gaze refused to be persuaded of its comfortingness, so how could the letter be a comfort? Then in addition, maannaa can be not only transitive (to consent to something specific) but also intransitive (to go along, to be tractable and cooperative). As usual with Ghalib, either sense works wonderfully well

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here. And of course diidah-e diidaar-juu makes for enjoyable visual, aural, and semantic effects.

{125,9} bataa))o us mizhah ko dekh kar kih mujh ko qaraar yih nesh ho rag-e jaa;N me;N firo to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) tell me, having seen those eyelashes, whether/how I would have composure! 2) if this lancet would be buried in the jugular vein, then how would it be?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: According to the Urdu taste, to shorten [the zhah syllable] of mizhah seems bad. Here the author has followed the Persian-speakers. In this verse is extreme convolutedness; in prose we'll say it like this: having seen her those eyelashes, tell me-- if such a lancet would be buried in an artery, then how would I have any composure? (135)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Hazrat Advisor, your counsel that I should not be restless, that I should show endurance-- I receive it most respectfully. But please just look at that cruel one's eyelashes and tell me: when such a lancet has penetrated the heart, how can there be endurance and composure? (190)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse there is convolutedness; but Mirza wants to say so much in one verse, that it can fit only with difficulty into the meter. The phrase bataa))o us mizhah ko dekh kar is the life of the verse, and it is also the cause of the convolutedness. The fact is that compared to the excellence of the theme, Mirza and all the elders in olden times didn't care about the words. [Shortening the zhah syllable] was exactly the Urdu taste. Shaikh Nasikh says: [an example of the same usage]. (254)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION Bekhud Mohani is right that the vigorous exclamatory energy of bataa))oo us mizhah ko dekh kar is the heart of the verse. Colloquially, the verb is omitted from the first line; we readily supply the subjunctive ho , but then the 'whether' is also missing, and that too we have to add, to fulfill the intention of the line. These multiple omissions are what Nazm and Bekhud Mohani refer to as 'convolutedness' [ta((qiid]; it's a sort of allusive sketchiness of grammar that requires work on the part of the reader-preliminary work, even before the usual interpretive work once the grammar has been established. The grammar of the first line also makes possible the attribution of the dekh kar to either the speaker ('Tell me-- once I've seen...') or the listener ('Take a look at them, then tell me!'). A lancet was used in early medical practice to make an incision in a vein and let out blood, as a therapeutic measure. People could be bled to relieve feverishness or delirium, so bleeding would be an appropriate treatment for a hysterical lover crazed by the nearness of the beloved. Bleeding of course involved minor veins and not the jugular vein (literally, 'vein of life'); but then, the lover is a special case, and for him this ultimate treatment might be the only genuinely effective one. The grammar of the second line, like that of the first, offers some enjoyable ambiguities. Here are some possible readings: ='If this lancet would be buried in my jugular vein, what would that be like?!' Because I'm thinking this so thrillingly all the time, I naturally can't have any composure.

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=If this lancet would be buried in somebody's jugular vein (as it is in mine) then how would it be possible for that person to maintain composure? (You just take a look at it, and tell me!) =If this lancet would be inserted into my jugular vein to bleed me, then indeed after that drastic medical treatment I might be less delirious and have some composure; but how could this be arranged? =Since this lancet penetrates deep in my eyes and veins and heart, I can't have any peace or composure. If only it could be plunged fatally into my jugular vein, and thus put me out of my misery, it would be a real kindness! But how could this be arranged?

{125,10} mujhe junuu;N nahii;N ;Gaalib vale bah qaul-e ;hu.zuur firaaq-e yaar me;N taskiin ho to kyuu;Nkar ho 1) I'm not mad, Ghalib, but, in the words of His Majesty, 2) 'in separation from the beloved, if there would be peace, then how would it be?'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The second line is Huzur's, and the ground is a commanded [farmaa))ishii] one in which rhymes are lacking. The author has achieved a wonder: he fulfilled the command in this ground. But it should be remembered that for an accomplished Ustad, everything is all right [ravaa]. Otherwise, it's better to avoid rhymes like [the ones in this ghazal]. (135)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, I am not insane, that I should willy-nilly remain restless and agitated! But in the words of Huzur (Huzur refers to the Shadow of God, Bahadur Shah II, with the pen-name of Zafar, the last king of Delhi, and this second line is his), in separation from the beloved, no means for peace comes to mind-- if there would be peace, then how would it be? (190)

Bekhud Mohani: Don't think that my restlessness is a sign of madness. I haven't gone mad. But I'm separated from the beloved. How would I not writhe in pain? (254)

Arshi: This [second] line is Bahadur Shah Zafar's; probably some mushairah had been held with this as a pattern-line. In Ghalib’s first line ;hu.zuur refers to the King, Zafar. (249)

FWP: There's not much to be said about this one, is there? It forms a graceful frame for Zafar's line. I tracked down Zafar's original opening-verse (p.412 in the 4th vol., Kulliyat-e Zafar (Delhi: Bismah Kitab Ghar, 2002): na.siib-e va.sl tumhaaraa kaho to kyuu;Nkar ho firaaq-e yaar me;N taskiin ho to kyuu;Nkar ho [the destiny of union with you-- tell me, how would it be? in separation from the beloved, if there would be peace, then how would it be?] Although Nazm makes a point of how difficult and intractable this ground is, Zafar has not only the 11-verse ghazal cited above, but also =a 9-verse one in the same meter (G5) (p.248 in the 2nd vol.), rhyme uur ; refrain ho to kyuu;Nkar ho =a 9-verse one (p.251 in the 2nd vol.) in meter G2, rhyme at ; refrain ho to kyuu;Nkar ho =an 8-verse one (p.578 in the 2nd vol.) in meter G2, rhyme at ; refrain ho to kyuu;Nkar ho =a 9-verse one (p.582 in the 2nd vol.) in meter G5, rhyme ar ; refrain dil ko

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nah ho kyuu;Nkar nah ho =a 7-verse one (pp. 582-83 in the 2nd vol.) in meter G2, rhyme aanah ; refrain ho to kyuu;Nkar ho These were the ones I found in a cursory search (the book has no index). The obvious point is that Zafar, a fine poet in his way but no Ghalib, apparently had no trouble working with this meter and these rhyming elements. So why should Ghalib? So often these difficulties are not present in the mind of the poet at all, but exist only in the eye of the (later) beholder.

Ghazal 126 11 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa;N kyuu;N ho composed 1854; Hamid p. 104; Arshi #127; Raza pp. 330-31

{126,1} kisii ko de ke dil ko))ii navaa-sanj-e fu;Gaa;N kyuu;N ho nah ho jab dil hii siine me;N to phir mu;Nh me;N zabaa;N kyuu;N ho 1) having given the heart to someone, why would someone be a {song-singer / wealth-measurer} of lamentation? 2) if/when there would not even be a heart in the breast, why then would there be a tongue in the mouth?

Notes: navaa : 'Voice, sound; modulation; song; air;... riches, opulence, wealth, plenty; subsistence; --prosperity; goodness or splendour of circumstances; -a splendid situation; --a happy life'. (Platts p.1157 sanj : 'Weigher, measurer; examiner (used as last member of compounds, e.g. na;Gmah-sanj or taraanah-sanj [for] a measurer of sounds, i.e. a musician'. (Platts p.681) fu;Gaan : 'Cry of pain or distress, wailing, groaning, lamentation, complaint; clamour'. (Platts p.782) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [writing in July 1854, at the end of a letter records all verses, in order] ==Khaliq Anjum, vol. 3, pp. 1148-49

Ghalib: [writing in 1858:] First of all the question is asked of you: in a number of letters, I've found you continuously complaining of grief and sorrow. Enough! If your heart has been lost to some pitiless one, then what scope is there for complaint? Rather, such grief is to be wished for one's friends as well, and to be considered worthy of increase. In the words of Ghalib (God's mercy be upon him!), this verse [bait]: {126,1}. Bravo, bravo-- the 'glory of the opening-verse' [;husn-e ma:tla((]: {126,8}. Alas, that I'm not able to remember more verses of this ghazal! ==Khaliq Anjum, vol. 2, pp. 713 -14 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, pp. 183-84 ==another trans: Daud Rahbar, pp. 89-90

Nazm: That is, having become a lover of somebody, what's the point of complaining about it? (135)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having become a lover of somebody, to keep complaining and lamenting about it is contrary to the honor [shaan] of passion. The lover

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ought to remain silent. As if the concealment of passion is the honor of passion. When the heart wouldn't be in the breast, and it would be given to someone else, then it's necessary that the tongue too would not be in the mouth. One ought to cut it too out and fling it away, or it's proper to nail it down. What a fine opening-verse he has composed! (190)

Bekhud Mohani: After becoming a lover, why weep over the cruelty of the beloved? That is, the glory of passion is that the lip should not be acquainted with complaints about the beloved. (254)

Arshi: [Further discussion of the dating of this ghazal, based on letter references.] (252)

FWP: The commentators offer the obvious prose sense and are content to stop there. Of course, the second line provides a nice, wry, punchy image that gives them something to enjoy. Indeed, if you don't even have a heart, why should you have a tongue? Why not just accept your destiny and resignedly fall silent, or even make it a point of honor to keep your lips grimly sealed, as Bekhud Dihlavi declares to be incumbent on the lover? Or, as he also suggests, why not cut out your tongue and fling it away? Yet surely there's more to the verse. After all, Ghalib doesn't say 'why lament?' He says, 'why be a navaa-sanj-e fu;Gaa;N ?'-- which is considerably more complex. The obvious meaning of navaa-sanj is a 'singer' (literally, 'song-measurer'). Someone who is a 'singer' or 'musician' of cries and groans is surely someone who turns them into an art form. This gives us a delicious vision of the Rival, the false lover, who orchestrates his laments for effect, and always keeps at least one eye on the audience. For him and his ilk, the speaker's implied message is clear: you are not true lovers, your performance is not fooling anybody-- just shut up. But there remains the secondary meaning of navaa as wealth, prosperity, even happiness. Beyond the piquant wordplay of 'a happiness-measurer of suffering', what would it mean to be a 'wealth-measurer of lamentation'? Surely even the true lover might be tempted to indulge in this secret pleasure: cherishing his sorrows, enjoying the heat of his sighs, relishing the constant flow of laments, considering his lamentation to be his real 'wealth'. For him, the speaker's message is equally stern: give up these games; noise is inferior, the truer pledge of passion is silence. The one who loses his heart should lose his tongue as well; the higher disciplines and deeper sufferings of passion occur without words, and even without sounds. And as Ghalib suggests in his letter, even one's (wordless) feelings should be only those of heartfelt gratitude. I've had a go at translating (1991) this one.

{126,2} vuh apnii ;xuu nah chho;Re;Nge ham apnii va.z((a kyuu;N chho;Re;N subuk-sar ban ke kyaa puuchhe;N kih ham se sar-giraa;N kyuu;N ho 1) she will not abandon her temperament; why would we abandon our style? 2a) would we/she become {low / base / light-headed} and ask, 'why are you {arrogant / heavy-headed} with us'? 2b) as if we/she would become {low / base / light-headed} and ask, 'why are you {arrogant / heavy-headed} at us?'

Notes: sar-giraan : 'Proud, arrogant, insolent'. (Platts p.648)

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subuk-sar : 'Light-headed; unsteady, undignified, without power or dignity, contemptible, mean, base; helpless; hasty'. (Platts p.633) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This verse [na:zm] has attained such a structure [bandish] that even in prose such an appropriate [barjastah] utterance is not possible. (135)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This is the supreme limit of literary achievement. He says, she won't leave off her habit of being irritated. Why would we abandon our style of selfrespect? Would we lower ourselves [;haqiir ban kar] to ask, why are you angry with us? (190)

Bekhud Mohani: What beautiful phrases he has put in the verse! And its appropriateness is of such an order-- what can be said about it! Her habit is to constantly remain angry; she won't leave off this habit. Then why would I abandon my style of self-respect, and ask the way fools do, 'why are you angry with us?'. That is, if it were the annoyance of a single day, then one might persuade her. (255)

FWP: The commentators have got half of it-- but how much greater is the relish when the other half is added! The grammar in the first line carefully creates two masculine plural subjects: the beloved, who gets the plural of respect; and the lover, who refers to himself, here as so often, in the first person plural. Then the second line carefully omits all subjects, and offers only a masculine plural verb [puuchhe;N]. The speaker of the quoted phrase in the second line refers to him/her self as 'we', and to the addressee as 'you' in the familiar. Thus either party in the first line could speak the words in the second line to the other. Either party could speak the words-- but of course, neither party ever will. The commentators all assume that the beloved's temperament is wrathful, and that sar-giraa;N means something like 'angry'. Yet the beloved's temperament is completely undefined in the first line, except that it's something she won't abandon; and the meaning of sar-giraa;N is more like 'proud' or 'arrogant' than like 'wrathful'. Which of course means that her 'temperament' inclines her to arrogance, and the lover's 'style' is also, obviously, something that keeps him from groveling or abasing himself, as the first line clearly implies. So neither of the two will unbend toward the other. They can't, nor should they-- for to do so would be to become low, vile, mean, foolish. The lover cannot grovel, he cannot beg, he cannot ask a possibly foolish or vain question. Nor, of course, can she-- and for essentially the same reasons. The lover and beloved, equal in their personal pride and their commitment to style and consistency, deserve either-- and thus are condemned never to reach out to each other. With excellent wordplay, they are both determined to remain 'heavy-headed' rather than 'light-headed', and so there they are, stuck with themselves and each other. For another, similarly wry verse about clashing-- or ironically meshing-temperaments between lover and beloved, see {115,7}.

{126,3} kiyaa ;Gam-;xvaarii ne rusvaa lage aag is mu;habbat ko nah laave taab jo ;Gam kii vuh meraa raaz-daa;N kyuu;N ho 1) sympathizing/'grief-eating' made [him/her/me/it] disgraced/revealed; {to hell with / may fire burn} this love! 2) the one who wouldn't have strength/'heat' for grief-- why would he be my confidant?

Notes: taab : 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming; pain, affliction, grief;... strength, power, ability, capability; endurance'. (Platts p.303)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'love' is meant the sympathizer's affection. In this verse the author's information-conveying [aashnaa-pardaazii] is worthy of praise. How rapidly he has moved from information to inshaa ! Only the mere informative [;xabariyah] phrase kiyaa ;Gam-;xvaarii ne rusvaa -- and the rest of the verse is inshaa .... The second reason for eloquence [balaa;Gat] is connected with the theme: that is, he has made clear through implication the grief of his heart-- having heard which, the sympathizer became so restless and anxious that through his restlessness the secret of passion became revealed. Jur'at: dam bah dam dekh dekh rotaa hai maare ;Daale hai hamnashiin hame;N [every moment/breath, watching, he weeps-the companion keeps killing us] (135-36)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we had concealed the secret of passion, but our sympathizer's restlessnesses revealed it. May fire burn this love, because of which our sympathizer saw our difficulties and became restless, and could not have enough endurance for grief and suffering. Why did that wretch ever become our confidant? For the presentation of meaning, it is the very limit of eloquence. (190-91)

Bekhud Mohani: My sympathizer revealed the secret of my passion. May fire burn this love! When that cruel one didn't have the strength to endure grief, why did he become my confidant at all? This also makes it clear that the difficulty that has fallen upon us and which we are enduring, are such that somebody who even hears about them becomes so restless that he can't uphold his promise of secrecy. He [the lover] is all the more angry because the cause of disgrace was no enemy, but a friend. (255)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; GENERATORS In a brief space Ghalib succeeds not only in conveying a great deal of information through implication, as Nazm observes, but also in making that information highly ambiguous. Just look at the first phrase: kiyaa ;Gam;xvaarii ne rusvaa . It has no object, so we have to decide for ourselves who or what was made notorious and disgraced by the 'sympathizing' of the confidant. Was it the lover, disgraced for his illicit intrigue? Was it the beloved, disgraced for being compromised by such an illicit intrigue? Was it the confidant, disgraced for violating his pledge of secrecy? Was it the lover, disgraced for violating his proper duty of confidentiality? Was it even passion itself, disgraced by being publicly savored by a thousand gossippy tongues? Then, when the lover exclaims, 'to hell with this love!'-- which love is he condemning? Nazm thinks it's the confidant's affection for the lover, which caused all the trouble when the confidant's sympathy wore him down and caused him to (inadvertently?) reveal the secret. Or it could be the lover's affection for the confidant, which caused him to trust his friend and rashly pour out all his secrets to him. Or it could even be an expression of vexation with the dangerous, unstable state of passion itself, which has gotten everybody into the whole mess in the first place. As Nazm rightly observes, most of the verse is inshaa))iyah and exclamatory. Even the second line, which the commentators read as blaming the confidant, could equally express the lover's vexation at his own stupidity: why in the world did he choose such a weak and vulnerable person to be his confidant?

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Then there's the enjoyable wordplay (and meaning-play) of taab , with its triply relevant meanings of 'endurance', and 'grief', and also 'heat' (which resonates so well with aag lage ).

{126,4} vafaa kaisii kahaa;N kaa ((ishq jab sar pho;Rnaa ;Thahraa to phir ay sang-dil teraa hii sang-e aastaa;N kyuu;N ho 1) what kind of faithfulness? what sort of passion? when head-smashing has been {decided upon / fixed, settled} 2) then, oh stone-hearted one, why would it be your doorsill-stone?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This verse is, in its color and shape [rang-o-sang], a royal pearl.

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what kind of faithfulness, and what passion and love! When I've resolved to bash my head and die, then what do I care about the aforementioned two things? And when I've already resolved in my heart to adopt the scheme of bashing my head, then, oh stony-hearted one, what need do I have of your threshhold-stone? If not that one, then I'll bash my head against some other stone. They're not words, but sets of jewels. (191)

Bekhud Mohani: It's as if the beloved has said, 'you claim to be faithful, so then why complain about cruelty?' The answer to this is [the verse].... Through this, his only purpose is to move the beloved to compassion. (255)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; WORDPLAY What a brilliant use of inshaa))iyah speech! The whole verse consists of two short simple questions, and one long complex one. Here are some of the possibilities of the two short ones: ='What kind of faithfulness, what sort of passion', have you ever shown me? (Now you see the result of your cruelty!) ='What kind of faithfulness, what sort of passion', do I owe you? (None at all, after the way you've treated me!) ='What kind of faithfulness, what sort of passion' is this, that's so relentlessly and unreasonably driving me mad? (It seems to be some kind of irresistible doom.) ='What kind of thing is faithfulness? What is the source of passion?' I'll never understand the nature of these deep emotions, but I know they go far beyond any special loyalty to you. Then the second question includes the beautiful, multi-layered wordplay that links the stony-hearted [sang-dil] beloved and her 'doorsill-stone' [sang-e aastaa;N]. There's also the ambiguity inherent in the verb ;Thahrnaa . When something has been 'fixed' or 'settled', it may indeed have been decided or resolved by the person himself; but it may also have been already arranged, decreed, written by the hand of fate-- such that the person cannot 'decide' it, but can only discover or realize it as an inevitable fact. The implied answer to the second question would seem to be, 'Why, there's no reason at all it should be your doorsill! It won't be, of course, there are plenty of more convenient, more neutral stones without that charge of extra bitterness!' But of course, it's very possible that it will be her doorsill after all; the lover, having vented his bitterness, will be back to her door just as surely as the moth will return to the candle flame. See {124,5} for a similar treatment of all places versus the one place.

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{126,5} qafas me;N mujh se ruudaad-e chaman kahte nah ;Dar hamdam girii hai jis pah kal bijlii vuh meraa aashiyaa;N kyuu;N ho 1) telling me, in the cage, the events of the garden, don't be afraid, friend 2) the one on which lightning has fallen yesterday-- why would it be my nest?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: So meaning has been contained within these two lines that it will not be without pleasure to explain it here in detail. 1) 'A bird, separated from garden and nest, has become a captive-- only the one word 'cage' gestures toward this theme. 2) With his own eyes he has seen lightning striking the garden, and in the cage he has become anxious: 'no telling whether my nest has escaped or been burnt!'. Only the word 'yesterday' is giving evidence for all these meanings. 3) Another bird, who is his friend and companion, has come and perched on a branch before him. And the caged captive has sought to inquire from him about the events of the garden. But the companion bird, knowing that his nest has been burned, hems and haws about giving a full account: 'in this disastrous captivity, how can I tell him about the burning of his nest?'. All this theme is established only by the sentence mujh se ruudaad-e chaman kahte nah ;Dar hamdam . 4) In addition to this abundance of meaning, how pathetic the theme in the second line makes the whole event! That is, on this captive a fresh disaster and calamity has fallen from the heavens. How he must have comforted his heart: 'in the garden there are thousands of nests, how would lightning have fallen exactly on mine?' His state is such that the beholders' and hearers' hearts ache, and they feel compassion, and the engendering of this compassion is the effect that the verse has created. (136-37)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Such an eloquent [balii;G] verse, and that too in this ground-- who except Mirza can compose such a verse? (191)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has composed a peerless commentary on this verse. I will copy it down. [He does.] (255)

Naim: One day the hunter throws into the cage a new captive, another nightingale from that flower garden. The old prisoner asks the new one for news of the garden. During his narration the new prisoner tells about the nest on which lightning fell the previous day but stops in the middle of the utterance on realizing that the nest which was destroyed had in fact been the home of the old prisoner. At that moment the old prisoner encourages him to continue by remarking: 'do not hesitate to tell me the news. How could that nest be my home; I have been in this cage so long that I cannot lay any claim to that nest. Fate has made this cage my home. If that home of long ago was not allowed to exist, what complaint can I make?' (Naim 1970, pp. 39-40)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} THE LOVER IS A BIRD: This is one of several verses in which the lover speaks, absolutely straightforwardly and matter-of-factly, as a bird. Others include: {145,2}, {167,2}; {232,3}. There's also {234,6}, in which the bird image is presented as a mi;saal . This verse is so sharp and bleak and deadly-- who can encounter it without a wave of cold dread? It captures that terrible moment when someone is confronted with irreparable loss, when the knife is just being withdrawn.

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(And that someone could always be us, can always be any of us at any moment.) The fatal slash has already been made, so swiftly and deeply that the doomed person doesn't quite realize his doom. In a moment the blood will gush out, in a moment the victim will give a terrible, hopeless cry. That moment is not quite yet, it's still half a second away-- but how unbearably deep down it makes itself felt, how frantically the victim is fighting it off! The victim both does and doesn't realize his doom. He's desperately (and vainly) refusing to realize it-- and thus beginning the long and agonizing process of realizing it. All this complexity of dread, denial, and acceptance is conveyed in two small lines. The lines aren't even informative speech, but (of course) are Ghalib's favorite inshaa))iyah performances. The first line consists of a command, the second of a question. And yet, as Nazm points out (for once joined in total and admiring agreement by Bekhud Mohani), the amount of background information conveyed by phrases like 'in the cage', and by the particular framing of the utterances is simply astonishing. It makes us realize afresh the value of a stylized poetic universe, full of images, tools, and devices that can make two tiny lines go on forever and contain the cosmos. (Naim's reading is of course possible too , though I think it reduces the power of the verse.) Like a mushairah verse, this one remains uninterpretable until the very end, so that the last unbearable question hits you all at once with the whole weight of the verse behind it. But whereas a classic mushairah verse is experienced and relished fully in that moment, this one lingers and lingers; in fact it's unforgettable. Its depths of anguish are all the more potent for being merely implied; they are even actively rejected by the apparent sense of the verse, which makes them all the more deadly. The second line always seems to me also like an arrow aimed right at God. It's a fierce, unanswered, maybe unanswerable question. Maybe one deadly blow of fate is random, like my capture and imprisonment. But why another, why the lightning on-- out of all the nests in the garden-- my nest? We know, too, that God is not going to answer.

{126,6} yih kah sakte ho ham dil me;N nahii;N hai;N par yih batlaa))o kih jab dil me;N tumhii;N tum ho to aa;Nkho;N se nihaa;N kyuu;N ho 1a) you can say 'we are not in the heart'-- but tell me this 1b) you can say 'are we not in the heart?'-- but tell me this 2) when you only/alone are in the heart, then why are you hidden from the eyes?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: In this verse the addressee is the True Beloved. (154)

Nazm: In the first line is a negative rhetorical question [istifhaam-e inkaarii]-- that is, you cannot say 'we are not in the heart'. (137)

Bekhud Mohani: You cannot say that you don't dwell in my heart-- that is, you are in the heart. When things are such, then why is there concealment from the eyes? That is, why concealment from the lover? [Or:] If you would say, 'I am not in the heart', then all right, I can say nothing. But when no one but you is in the heart, then why the concealment? (256)

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Faruqi: First of all, please notice that there's parallelism in the whole verse. That is, all eight of the eight metrical feet [rukn] end where words end.... Parallelism is a kind of verbal device.... by means of which harmoniousness is increased. This quality is very evident in Ghalib. The second point is that in the two lines five clauses [jumlah] have been used, three in the first line and two in the second. The abundance of clauses creates variety in the harmony, because in some places the line must be read rapidly because of the clauses, and in other places it's necessary to read haltingly, as in [the second line of {126,10}] which contains four clauses, three of which will be read swiftly-- and then there will be a pause. One of the excellences of this ghazal is that its verses contain many clauses. All this is very well, but to explain the meaning of this verse is no easy task. Some meanings are in earlier commentaries, and I have come up with some points myself. But I am not satisfied; I can say with confidence that despite its complete beauty, the meaning of this verse is not clear. Consider the first customary interpretation: 1) In the first line is a negative rhetorical question. That is, it will be decoded like this: can you say that we (the beloved) are not in your (the lover's) heart? It's clear that you can't say such a thing. But if you can't say that we (the beloved) are in your (the lover's) heart, then tell me this, and so on. In this there are two flaws. The first is, why can't the beloved say, 'we are not in the lover's heart'? The beloved can always cast doubt on the lover's sincerity and faithfulness and can say, 'your claims are all very well, but we don't trust you; we know that we are not in your heart'. The second flaw is that the prose of the verse would need to have 'then' [phir] instead of 'but'. Some people have even read par as phir , and straightened out the meaning. But in Arshi's edition and in all the trustworthy manuscripts there's only par , not phir . 2) [Another customary interpretation:] In the first line there's not a question, but rather information. Now the prose will be like this: you can say for the sake of argument that we (the beloved) are not in your (the lover's) heart. That is, you can say that our claim of passion is false. But tell me this, and so on. In this the flaw is that the lines become 'two-part'. In the first line he has said through the beloved's lips that the beloved is not in our (the lover's) heart, and in the second line he has made the claim that no one but the beloved is in his heart. Thus there's no connection between the two lines. In order to create a connection, there would have had to be some proof, or if not a proof then a suggestion, that in the lover's heart there's no one except the beloved. If it be assumed that the beloved is intended to be the True Beloved, [the basic problem remains]. Now please consider my proposal. The first 'heart' is the beloved's heart, and in the first line 'we' applies to the lover. The second 'heart' is the lover's heart. Now the interpretation will be that you can say that we (the lover) are not in your heart. But tell me this: when in our heart you alone are present, then why are you hidden from our eyes? The flaw in this interpretation is that there's no warrant in the verse for taking the first 'heart' as the beloved's, and the second 'heart' as the lover's. No doubt it's true that the verse is so ambiguous that if such an assumption isn't exactly warranted, it's not exactly unwarranted either. But the proper condition is that the warrant for assumptions should come only from within the verse itself. Since that's not the case here, the commentary remains defective, although it's better than [the usual ones]. (238-40)

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FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE Faruqi is right to point to the difficulties of this verse. Despite its undoubted beauty and engaging air of triumphalism ('ha! I've caught you! I win the argument!), the verse doesn't easily consent to hang together properly. It's very difficult to put together an interpretation in which the second line in fact provides an effective rejoinder to the first one. Using (1a) as Faruqi and the commentators do, it's virtually impossible. But then Sean Pue came up with what seems to be the best suggestion yet: (1b). The lover reproaches the beloved with neglecting him. The beloved replies, 'aren't we in your heart?' (Meaning, isn't just the thought of us enough?) Then the lover responds, well, you can say that you're in my heart, but tell me-- if you're so embedded in my heart, then why aren't you visible to my eyes? Even on this reading the verse doesn't work with that satisfying click of logical gears meshing, because it's not obvious that what's in one's heart normally is, or has to be, or ought to be, visible to one's eyes. (In fact, usually in the ghazal-- as in real life-- the two domains are more different than overlapping.) But at least (1b) makes the two lines refer to the same situation, so it saves the second line from being a complete non sequitur. The second line can be some kind of a flirtatious, teasing remark, perhaps: since I am so unqualifiedly devoted to you and you know it, why don't you let me see you? (Such a remark could well be addressed to either a human beloved or a divine Beloved.) This verse is so frustrating that Sean's suggestion came as a godsend. It does seem as if he has thought of a reading that had eluded Faruqi-- and how often does that happen?

{126,7} ;Gala:t hai ja;zb-e dil kaa shikvah dekho jurm kis kaa hai nah khe;Ncho gar tum apne ko kashaakash darmiyaa;N kyuu;N ho 1) the complaint about the attraction of the heart is erroneous; look-- whose is the fault? 2) if you wouldn't pull/draw me toward yourself, why would there be {tension / struggle / attraction} between us?

Notes: ja;zb : 'Drawing, attraction; allurement; absorption'. (Platts p.378) kashaakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; jostling, hustling; bringing and taking away; command after command; commanding and countermanding; great unpleasantness, or grief, or pain; distraction, dilemma, perplexity, difficulty; struggle, contention, wrangle, squabble; attraction, allurement'. (Platts p.835) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the attraction of the heart draws me this way; you draw me that way; this is the cause of tension. (137)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you complain to me about the attraction of my heart, that 'this draws me toward it'-- this is incorrect. Just reflect and look: whose is the fault? That is, mine, or yours? If you would not draw me toward you, then why would there be a tension between us? (191)

Bekhud Mohani: Momin Khan has composed a fine verse: yih ((u;zr-e imti;haan-e ja;zb-e dil kaisaa nikal aayaa mai;N ilzaam un ko detaa thaa qa.suur apnaa nikal aayaa

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[this excuse of the test of the attraction of the heart-- how it turned out! I used to lay the blame on her; the sin turned out to be my own] (256-57)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Isn't this a classy mushairah verse? And it's full of wordplay which is also, as so often, meaning-play. It's lucky for the translator that we have the English word 'attraction', which can do many of the same tricks that ja;zb can: it can include the mechanical action of a magnet, and (by an obvious extension) the effects of an 'attractive' beloved on a lover who is 'attracted'. The senses of 'drawing, pulling' [khe;nchnaa], and a number of the meanings of kashaakash , work perfectly with this semantic range. The final two words before the refrain are the wonderfully multivalent kashaakash (full of both positive and negative senses) and then the crucial rhyme-word darmiyaa;N , which suddenly drives home the point: that it takes two to tango, that a (desirable or undesirable) kashaakash exists not in the beloved's heart or in the lover's heart alone, but in the space 'between' them. Between them the air is charged with electricity-- or with magnetism. And the source of this charge between them, that produces the whole kashaakash , is not the lover but the beloved. The lover is surely saying this ruefully-- wouldn't he give anything to be as 'attractive' to the beloved as she is to him? But he knows he's not; the attraction is one-sided, it's all based on her drawing him toward her. Why should the magnet complain about the iron filing? Moreover, the nature of the complaint is unspecified: it is just 'of/about the attraction of the heart'. Is the complaint that the attraction exists at all ('you're pursuing me!'); or that it's somehow unsatisfactory ('you're pursuing me in ways that I don't like')? Is the magnet complaining that the iron filing is drawn toward it, or that it's drawn toward it awkwardly? And of course, the very complaint itself is also a part of the constant kashaakash --whatever form(s) it may take-- between the lover and the beloved. The kashaakash caused by the (one-sided) 'attraction' produces the complaint, and the complaint is part of the delightful mischievousness and perversity [sho;xii] that only increases the 'attraction' and thus prolongs the kashaakash . Ghalib leaves us to play with the paradox of a relationship that is both entirely one-sided and inherently mutual.

{126,8} yih fitnah aadmii kii ;xaanah-viiraanii ko kyaa kam hai hu))e tum dost jis ke dushman us kaa aasmaa;N kyuu;N ho 1a) to lay waste a man’s house, as if this affliction/mischief is insufficient! 1b) to lay waste a man's house, is this affliction/mischief insufficient? 1c) to lay waste a man's house, how insufficient this affliction/mischief is! 2) he whose friend you became-- why would the sky be his enemy?

Notes: fitnah : 'Trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment, plague, pest'. (Platts p.776) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [See comments in {126,1}.]

Nazm: That is, your being kind to anyone, and being his friend-- is that insufficient to lay waste his home, that the sky too would become his enemy? 'This affliction' refers to the beloved's becoming a friend. (137)

Bekhud Dihlavi:

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He says, this affliction-- that is, your becoming a friend-- is sufficient to lay waste a house. The one whose friend you become, why would the sky become his enemy? That is, your friendship is in every respect enough to ruin him. Why does the sky then need to add its name to the list of enemies? (192)

Bekhud Mohani: Your love alone is sufficient to bring a man down into the dust. The one to whom you're kind-- where's the need for the sky to be his enemy? That is, the sky is the bringer of ruin to mankind. When that ruin takes place at your hands, what need does the sky have to take the trouble? (257)

FWP: SETS == KYA FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} Everybody dutifully gives the obvious reading, and indeed it's an enjoyable one. We almost have it already in English as a nice punchy insult-- 'With friends like you, who needs enemies?' But then the commentators stop right there, with a sigh of satisfaction, and move on to the next verse. But of course this verse is cleverly arranged, in ways that are thoroughly familiar to us by now, to create and exploit multivalent meanings. First (and in-your-face obviously), there's the famous trick with kyaa and its three possible readings: the indignant denial (1a); the straightforward yes-or-no question (1b); and the emotional exclamation (1c). And once we start playing around with those possibilities, we realize that 'this' affliction isn't free of ambiguity either. For the second line envisions two doomsday scenes: your friendship, and the sky's enmity. The meanings of fitnah point at least as much to the traditional disasters that descend upon us from the sky, as to the beloved's romantic cruelties. Because the grammar carefully refuses to provide us a clear link between the two lines, it's up to us to decide which of the two afflictions is 'this' one. So when we start working out the permutations, (1a) wants 'this affliction' to be the beloved's friendship; for this reading, see the general commentarial consensus. Then the interrogative (1b) also wants 'this affliction' to be the beloved's friendship; on this reading, each of the two lines is a genuine question, meditating on the same situation (Is the beloved's friendship in fact enough to ruin me? Or could there be some further reason why the sky would become my enemy?). Then (1c) wants 'this affliction' to be the sky's enmity, and the line pours scorn on it. How feeble and inadequate the sky's enmity looks, compared to the beloved's friendship! How would the sky even dare to show off its puny little disasters, when the beloved is around! Anybody who can endure her friendship has been so toughened (and/or so ground down) that he can afford to laugh at the sky.

{126,9} yihii hai aazmaanaa to sataanaa kis ko kahte hai;N ((aduu ke ho liye jab tum to meraa imti;haa;N kyuu;N ho 1) if this is testing, then what do they call tormenting? 2a) when you've given yourself to the enemy, then why would I be tested? 2b) when you've given yourself to the enemy, then why would this be a test of me?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Having become the enemy's beloved, she doesn't want to test and try me, but to torment me. (137)

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Bekhud Mohani: The beloved said, we are testing you; the reply to this is, when you've become the Rival's, then this is not testing, it's tormenting. I decline such a test. (257)

Faruqi: The commentators have assumed that 'to test' and 'to become the enemy's' are two separate things.... A better scenario is that when the beloved began an affair with the enemy, then the lover complained. The beloved replied, we took up with the enemy in order to test your steadiness and firmness. In reply to this, the lover says, if you call giving your heart to the enemy a test of us, then what is 'tyranny' the name of? When you have become the enemy's, then what's the good of testing us? Even if we are successful in the test, you still won't become ours, because you've already become the enemy's, so now leave us alone. (241)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION Everybody uses (2a), a straightforward reading that works perfectly well. But I think that (2b) adds a great deal to our enjoyment of the verse. The grammar of (2b) is to yih meraa imti;haa;N kyuu;N ho , with the yih as the implicit subject. I take the (permissibly omitted) 'this' to refer to the beloved's having given herself to the enemy, which is the nearest and most obvious antecedent. And my reading emphasizes meraa -- if you've so flagrantly flunked your own faithfulness test (by giving yourself to the enemy), then why would this be considered a test of me? On the contrary-- it's clearly been a test of you, and you've flunked it, and so now it's all over; you have no further reason to 'test' me, so go away and don't 'torment' me any further. I like this reading because it contains a welldeserved sneer at the beloved's faithless behavior.

{126,10} kahaa tum ne kih kyuu;N ho ;Gair ke milne me;N rusvaa))ii bajaa kahte ho sach kahte ho phir kahyo kih haa;N kyuu;N ho 1) you said, 'why would there be disgrace in the Other's meeting me?' 2a) you speak rightly, you speak truly! Say again: 'indeed, why would there be?' 2b) you speak rightly, you speak truly, say it again! For indeed, why would there be?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Only out of regard [for the refrain] has the author used kyuu;N ho in this place; otherwise, in such a place they say rusvaa))ii kyuu;N hone lagii . Nevertheless, its construction [bandish] has reached the level of enchantment. (137)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when you said, why would there be disgrace and ill-fame in meeting the Other, for what cause?-- you speak rightly, you speak truly. Then say it a second time: indeed, why would there be disgrace? The meaning is that there will certainly be disgrace. For your sake, if you tell me to, I would say that indeed, meeting the beloved is not a cause of disgrace. (192)

Bekhud Mohani: When the lover tries to persuade her, the beloved says, why is there ill-fame in meeting the Rival? In response to this he says sarcastically, you've spoken

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very well-- please just say it again! From your lips, this speech is very pleasing. Precision [barjastagii] [of structure] sacrifices itself for this verse. (257)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; EXCLAMATION; REPETITION This is surely the world's ultimate verse of dialogue. Forms of 'to say' [kahnaa] occur in it four times, and its colloquial energy and idiomatic phrasing are admired by the commentators. Appropriately, it relies on tone; and as usual, we readers are left to choose much of the tone for ourselves. The first line is a direct quotation of the beloved's words. Are these words innocent and naive (she doesn't realize how the gossip machine works)? Or are they coy and flirtatious (she is just teasing, pushing the lover's buttons)? Or are they defiant and angry (she declares her willingness to burn her bridges behind her)? As usual, it's left to us to decide for ourselves. Whatever her tone may be, the lover's own tone is hardly in doubt: he's speaking with heavy, ostentatious sarcasm throughout. He offers her classic phrases of mock praise ('oh sure, that's great! you're really brilliant!'). And then-- what next? He either encourages her to repeat and even amplify her words (2a); or he adopts her line of reasoning-- and echoes her very words-himself (2b). Either way, the sarcasm is dripping from his words, and this enjoyable vehemence is what gives such remarkable exclamatory energy to the verse. Yet the fact that the verse asks a question, and that the surface grammar is completely hospitable to this question, can also lead us to ask the question straightforwardly. Would it in fact be disgraceful if the beloved were to associate with the Other? We know nothing about her circumstances. Perhaps she is a well-placed lady of independent means, and feels able to associate with anyone of her choosing. Or perhaps she's so accustomed to living with scandal-- since her gorgeous beauty attracts and slays lovers by the score-- that she has nothing further to lose (in this context consider {24,7}). So might the lover's sarcasm be a last-ditch recourse-- might it be a desperate replacement for the more substantive arguments he would like to offer but cannot find? For after all, the lover himself doesn't exactly occupy any moral high ground: his real reason for trying to discourage her is not any abstract moral concern, but sheer self-interest. (Remember {116,6}, in which he's hoist with his own petard.) As usual, Ghalib leaves us with a set of piquant and fascinating questions-- and, needless to say, no answers.

{126,11} nikaalaa chaahtaa hai kaam kyaa :ta((no;N se tuu ;Gaalib tire be-mihr kahne se vuh tujh par mihrbaa;N kyuu;N ho 1) do you seek to get work/desire accomplished through reproaches/accusations, Ghalib? 2) from your calling her unkind, why would she be kind to you?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, you think that through your repeated reproaches, she would become yours. That will not happen. (137)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Sahib has written this whole ghazal with adornment. Every single verse is peerless, and the closing-verse is the ultimate jewel.... The excellence of this closing-verse is that he has described the beloved's behavior with a new mischievousness [sho;xii]. The meaning is that she always does the opposite of what she is told to do. And knowing this, he has

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called her 'unkind', so that with her long-time stubbornness she would become kind. (192)

Bekhud Mohani: Reproaches will not get the job done; she's not one to be trapped in your net. (257)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; OPPOSITES A vintage mushairah verse. The first line is uninterpretably broad and abstract. The first half of the second doesn't make clear what's going on. The punch-word mihrbaa;N is withheld till the last possible moment, and then it knits the whole thing together. It opposes itself both to the reproaches/accusations in the first line, and to the be-mihr earlier in the line. And it also connects with the secondary meaning of kaam -- which is 'desire' as well as 'work'. The lovely, perfectly balanced second line, suggesting the hopelessness of struggle, has an overtone of clear-eyed fatalism. Reproaching her and calling her 'unkind' won't make her kind-- but then, flattering her and calling her 'kind' won't make her kind either. (If it would, the lover would have made use of such a ploy long ago). The basic truth is that nothing will make her kind. The lover's rational self is trying gently, compassionately, to reason with his passionate self. He sees that it's pursuing a lost cause-- and even doing so in a counterproductive way. But then, it's not as though the rational self has anything more promising to offer.

Ghazal 127 3 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa;N ko))ii nah ho composed 1833; Hamid p. 105; Arshi #121; Raza p. 278

{127,1} rahye ab aisii jagah chal kar jahaa;N ko))ii nah ho ham-su;xan ko))ii nah ho aur ham-zabaa;N ko))ii nah ho 1) now please let's go and live somewhere, where there would be no one 2) there would be no speech-sharer, and there would be no language-sharer

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word 'now' is saying that the people who are companions [hamdam] and speech-sharers [ham-su;xan] and language-sharers [ham-zabaan] and neighbors [hamsaayah] and compatriots [ham-va:tan]-- from them he has received grief. (137-38)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from my friends, compatriots, neighbors, companions, and speechsharers I have received so much grief and sorrow that now I want to go and live someplace where all these fine people won't be. (193)

Bekhud Mohani: He's come to feel extreme distaste for the people of the world. He says, now I ought to spend my life in a place where there would there wouldn't be anyone even to speak to me. (257)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Two commentators, Bekhud Dihlavi (193) and Chishti (611), label this little three-verse ghazal a verse-set. None of the rest of the ones whom I'm reading

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do; and of course Arshi does not, which for me is decisive. Still, it's easy to see why the temptation is there. They certainly feel like a verse-set, in tone and mood and content and even perhaps narrative sequence. And I argue in {127,3} that Ghalib surely meant us to read them that way, at least in practice if not in theory. Nazm points out all the other Persian-derived ham words that lurk behind those singled out for rejection in the verse. Undoubtedly, Nazm maintains, the speaker is also rejecting friends, neighbors, and compatriots, since he's even rejecting anybody who shares his 'speech' and 'language'. This makes sense, and is borne out by the direction of the two other verses (if I may cheat a little and consider them somewhat relevant in this unusually short and unified ghazal). But still-- look at the verse structure. He courteously invites himself (or somebody else) to go and live somewhere where three conditions apply: there will be no (1) person; (2) speech-sharer; (3) language-sharer. But what is the relationship among those three conditions? Obviously, if there are no (1)s, there will be no (2)s or (3)s either. So why does he even need to mention (2) and (3)? And are they the same group, simply reiterated or paraphrased? Or are they two different groups? Group (2) might consist of people who talk to him, but don't know his language; group (3) might consist of people who know his language, but don't talk to him. Ghalib leaves us, as so often, with a set of building blocks, but no indication of how to fit them together. The very fact that the speaker has to mention, and rule out, two different (?) groups of people defined in terms of word-usage, even after he's already ruled out all human beings, is surely significant-- but of what? Are the two word-usage groups simply the first categories that present themselves to his irritated mind? Are they the groups from whom the speaker is most deeply alienated? Are they groups so supremely important that ruling them out is simply a restatement of the ban on all human beings? Apart from these metaphysical questions, the verse has a wonderful incantatory power. Its extreme amount of repetition (10 words in the verse occur once, 11 are repetitions) and especially its triple repetition of the whole phrase ko))ii nah ho , is part of the reason. Another part is the elegant fitting of words to meter, such that the phrasing corresponds well to the footpatterns; and the meter itself, = - = = / = - = = / = - = = / = - = , is one of the most hypnotically repetitive ones available. The result is a real wonder: a simple-looking verse you can say to yourself that may start out in exasperation, but is so rhythmic and harmonious that it ends up almost being soothing.

{127,2} be-dar-o-diivaar saa ik ghar banaayaa chaahiye ko))ii ham-saayah nah ho aur paasbaa;N ko))ii nah ho 1) one without-door-and-walls-ish house ought to be made 2) there would be no neighbor, and there would be no Gatekeeper

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: When there's no door, then why would there be a Gatekeeper? And if there's no wall, then how will there be a neighbor? (138)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in some field posts ought to be erected into a frame, which would do the work of a house but would have no door or wall in it. If there would be no door, then what need of a Gatekeeper will remain? And if there will be no wall, then how will any neighbor come and live there? The meaning is

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that if one doesn't meet anybody in the world, then one won't experience grief. (193)

Bekhud Mohani: That house would be such that there would be neither door nor wall-- one where there would be neither Gatekeeper nor neighbor. That is, please go to a wilderness or desert. (257)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Nazm makes the point about the elegant parallelism: a house without a door would have no Gatekeeper or door-guard, while a house without a wall would have no neighbor. Literally, a 'neighbor' [ham-saayah] is a 'shadesharer'-- one who gets shade from your walls, while you get shade from his, which makes the connection with the lack of walls all the clearer. This is a very singular house-- not just 'a' house, but 'a single house' [ik ghar], a usage that nicely points up its uniqueness and/or isolation. Bekhud Dihlavi perhaps imagines it a little too concretely as consisting of a wood frame in a field; and Bekhud Mohani, as consisting of a wilderness. The point is that we are left unable to imagine it. Its only peer is Majnun's house in {18,3}; many of the same kinds of uncertainty exist here. But this house is even more ambiguous than Majnun's, because the context of its isolation is left to our imagination. If it has no Gatekeeper, is that because the Gatekeeper would himself be a kind of intrusive, bothersome 'neighbor', since he'd be virtually living at the front 'door'? Or is it because the house doesn't need a Gatekeeper? And if it doesn't need one, is that because there's no neighbor (who might come visiting and be a bother); or because there's no fear of intruders since no other human beings will be around; or because there's no fear of intruders since in a non-house there's nothing to steal? And if the house has no 'neighbor', is that because there literally can be no neighbor without a wall; or because a neighbor without a wall between would be a terrible bother; or because a neighbor would be a person, and thus intrusive by definition? A without-door-and-wall-ish house is thus both completely open (by definition), and completely impenetrable (since nobody can fathom where, or how, it begins or ends). Like the previous verse, this one too makes use of repetition (though not to the same degree); and like the previous verse, it also has semantic patterns that beautifully coincide with its metrical foot-divisions, for a nice, swingy effect.

{127,3} pa;Rye gar biimaar to ko))ii nah ho biimaar-daar aur agar mar jaa))iye to nau;hah-;xvaa;N ko))ii nah ho 1) if you would fall sick, then {there would/might be / let there be} no sickattendant 2) and if you would die, then {there would/might be / let there be} no dirgereciter

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [Writing in 1862:] I envy the situation of island-dwellers in general, and of the lord of Farrukhabad in particular, whom they put off the ship and left on the shore of the land of Arabia. Hah! [ahaahaahaa]: {127,3}. (Arshi 246) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 387-88 ==another translation: Russell and Islam p. 271

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Nazm: That is, the people through whom he experienced grief-- from then on, even their nursing and dirge-recitation is not acceptable to him. (138)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in such an alien [;Gair] dwelling, suitable for being wished on one's enemies, if you fall sick, then no one from among those enemies who have caused you grief will become a nurse. And if, God forbid, you die, then from among those cruel friends who have caused you difficulties, no one will be a dirge-singer in a mourning assembly. (193)

Bekhud Mohani: Where the sick person would lie, then no one would serve him; and if he would die, then no one would weep over his body. (258)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; REPETITION Some editors and commentators have instead of biimaar-daar , the alternative reading tiimaar-daar . Steingass gives for tiimaar 'Sorrow, grief; care, attendance on the sick; sympathy; defence, custody'; for tiimaar-daar he gives 'A manager of property; caretaker' (343). Platts doesn't give the word at all. But in any case, it doesn't matter what it means, since the best evidence is that it's not what Ghalib wrote. The scholarly work of manuscript collation has been carefully done by Arshi, whom I follow as always. This verse offers us two parallel lines with their 'if' clauses in the polite imperative (a refined, courteous substitute for the plural subjunctive) and their 'then' clauses in the plural subjunctive. How seriously are we to take the parallelism? Is falling sick a condition similar (or prepatory) to dying, so that a nurse is simply a precursor of a mourner? Or do these two lines offer two separate examples of the conditions of the ideally solitary life? The structure of this verse also shows how instinctively and unavoidably we tend to read this verse as part of a verse-set, even though it officially isn't one (on this see {127,1}). It's hard to believe that Ghalib didn't mean for us to carry over the context of the earlier verses for this one. For after all, if we didn't read this verse in the context of the two previous ones, it might perfectly well be a lament about the evils of solitary living. How terrible-- if you get sick there'd be no one to nurse you, and if you die there wouldn't even be anyone to mourn you! The fact that we don't read it that way shows that we're letting it be governed by the two preceding verses. Without the preceding two verses it could even be a lament about, say, poverty and friendlessness in a big city ('nobody cares whether you live or die!'); for there's nothing in the verse itself about solitary living or fleeing all human company. As the rounding-off of a little three-verse riff on solitude, however, it's a great success. Not only does it complete the hermit's journey (he goes to a solitary place of some kind, he builds a non-house, he eventually gets sick unattended and dies alone), but it somehow does it with a feeling of proper closure, even of satisfaction. This vision of solitary decline and death doesn't feel half as grim or bleak as it should. Perhaps this is because the speaker so palpably advances it as an ideal end.

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Ghazal 128 1 verse; meter G3; rhyming elements: il hai aa))inah composed 1816; Hamid p. 106; Arshi #128; Raza pp. 164-65

{128,1} az mihr taa bah-;zarrah dil-o-dil hai aa))inah :tuu:tii ko shash jihat se muqaabil hai aa))inah 1) from sun to sand-grain-- heart; and heart is a mirror 2) {from / by means of} the six directions, a mirror confronts the parrot

Notes: muqaabil : 'Fronting, confronting; opposing, contending; opposite; -comparing; collating; --corresponding; matching; resembling, like'. (Platts p.1053) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the world face and face, and heart and heart, are mirrors to each other-- that is, one sees his aspect in the other, and the other in the one. The gist is that the whole world is unified in its being, and is one, and they are not alienated from each other. One sees himself in another, as when someone would look in a mirror. When this is the situation, then whichever direction a parrot would look, a mirror is present before him. And the parrot is only a metaphor; the point is that individual who would see the unity, and in a state of mystic absorption would raise the song an al-;haq . (138)

Bekhud Mohani: shash jihat = Six directions: north, south, west, east, down, up. The parrot, seeing himself in a mirror, considers it another parrot, and speaks well. By 'parrot' is meant the mystical knower. From the sun to the sand-grain-- that is, everything in the world-- is a heart, and the heart is a mirror. Thus the parrot sees a mirror in every direction. That is, the world is a mirror-house, in which the mystical knower sees his own face in every direction. [Or:] It's the Lord's power alone, which in every direction is seen in a new aspect, and is called by a new name. Otherwise, the reality of everything is one. (258)

Faruqi: The meaning is clear: that from earth to sky, in everything is the same radiance that is in the heart. Things are made of sand-grains, and every sandgrain glitters in the light.... The sand-grain's being illumined, and its changing with the state of the light so that its glitter decreases or increases, gives it similitude with the heart's being illumined and its beating. Accordingly, on the one hand every sand-grain is a heart, and the heart is a mirror-- thus every sand-grain is a mirror. Ghalib has used the theme of the comparison of the heart and the mirror a number of times: {29,1}; {228,7}. Accordingly, up to this point the matter is settled: all creation is made up of sand-grains, and the sand-grains act as hearts, and the heart is a mirror. Since all creation is made up of mirrors, wherever the parrot turns, he will see mirror after mirror.... Now please consider the verse from a new angle. What's the affinity between a parrot and a mirror? This is the fundamental question. And the answer to it is that when they teach a parrot to speak, then they place him before a mirror. The teacher is behind the mirror. The parrot sees his reflection in the mirror, and considers some bird of his own species to be before him, and and

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considering the hidden person's voice to be the voice of his fellow-bird, he tries to imitate it. Thus it's clear that in order to teach a parrot to speak, they place him in error. And this error is produced by means of a mirror. But if this error were not to exist, then the parrot would not learn to speak. In the first line it's been said that all of creation speaks by means of mirrors. Now assume that there's a parrot in that hall of mirrors. The parrot sees its reflection in every direction, and hears different kinds of voices, because the creation is always full of different kinds of noise. The parrot, seeing its reflection and hearing voices, becomes eager to speak. Now we've learned that the parrot is in reality a metaphor for the poet. Between the parrot and the poet are various kinds of affinities. The poet is called a parrot. It can also be said that the poet says all the things that the Lord causes him to say.... The parrot too says all the things that the teacher teaches him. Like the parrot, the poet too speaks when he is moved by circumstances. Thus the basic interpretation of the verse is that in every direction the poet sees nothing but hearts-- that is, nothing but mirrors. What is a mirror? It is a tool for seeing. This sight may be deceitful (because in the mirror is only a vision, not the real thing). But the poet, having seen those visions, enters the world of speech. Just as the parrot sees its reflection in the mirror and learns to speak, so the poet sees, with his imaginative eye, visions in the mirror of creation, and becomes absorbed in poetic composition. Thus this verse is not mystical, but rather conveys the theme of the psychology of the creative act, and the poet's responsibility for his own identity. The poet is like a parrot-- seeing his own image, he sees the whole world. (242-44)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} ZARRAH: {15,12} Despite Faruqi's persuasive explication, this verse continues to feel to me like one of mood. It feels like {105,2}. The mystery, the seductiveness, is especially in the first line. The first line has a flow of its own, with a sensuous amalgamation of dil o dil (increased by the meter, which causes it to be read 'di-lo-dil'). The clear semantic separation into two independent clauses, on which all the commentators agree, is logically irreproachable of course. Still, it doesn't accord with how the verse either sounds or feels. Deep down I feel that the first line is really 'from sun to sand-grain, heart after heart is a mirror'. Heart upon heart? Heart and heart? Depths of heart? Something more compelling, anyway, than simply a full stop and a fresh sentence that just happens to begin with the same word that the last one ended with. Also, I want only one mystically extended heart/mirror, reaching from the sun to the sand-grain, rather than a zillion little tiny ones; and here the grammar is with me (though it's not against the usual interpretation, either). In short, I'm making nit-picking little quibbles, because I don't want the great beauty and flowingness of the first line to be shortchanged by mere semantic rationality. But perhaps my reading wouldn't even make much difference, since either way the first line is almost uninterpretably abstract, and whatever specificity the verse has is contained in the second line. And here, Faruqi's explanation works wonderfully. I can't add a thing to it, except to emphasize the verse's sensuous texture, which is trans-rational and (to me at least) even more compelling than its striking parrot-poet metaphor. For other such evocations of the 'six directions', see {41,4}. For other such parrot-and-mirror verses, see {29,2}.

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Ghazal 129 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;N nah puuchh composed after 1821; Hamid p. 106; Arshi #129; Raza pp. 255

{129,1} hai sabzah-zaar har dar-o-diivaar-e ;Gam-kadah jis kii bahaar yih ho phir us kii ;xizaa;N nah puuchh 1) every door and wall of the grief-chamber is a verdant meadow 2) the one whose springtime/flourishing would be this-then/afterwards/again, don’t ask about his/its autumn!

Notes: sabzah-zaar : 'A place abounding in verdure, a verdant mead, meadow, lawn, greensward, green'. (632) bahaar : 'Spring, prime, bloom, flourishing state; beauty, glory, splendour, elegance; beautiful scene or prospect, fine landscape; charm, delight, enjoyment'. (Platts p.178) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says, the spring harvest of my grief-chamber is that door and walls have become verdant. Now one ought to imagine, in what state grass grows up on the walls of a house. From lying neglected for a long time, ruined by the rains of year after year; from the unchecked effects of rain and sun on the walls. When at some time the grass grows so tall that it begins to wave in the breeze, then when there would be such a vehement/calamitous [aafat kii] spring, then in the fall what difficulties would there not be? (138)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the door and walls of my grief-chamber have become so ruined that in the rainy season grass sprouts and it looks verdant. The house of which this is the spring-- meaning, which is so devastated-- don't ask about the state of its autumn, and what a disaster/doomsday it will be. (194)

Bekhud Mohani: The house which would be in such a terrifying state in the spring-- what will its condition be in the autumn? I can't tell it, or you can't listen to it. Ghalib: {10,7}. (258)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; INEXPRESSIBILITY What a spectacular riff on greenness and bahaar ! A number of imagery patterns are here deftly made to converge. In the first line, why are the door and walls of the grief-chamber a verdant meadow? =Because the grief-chamber is constantly wet with tears. Thus its walls and door are slowly disintegrating, covered with a blanket of greenish molds and moss and saltwater-loving weeds like a rocky seashore. =Because the lover's tear-floods have carried away the walls and door completely. In their place is now an open, grassy meadow that is charmingly green in the spring. (The lover's floods of tears are sufficient to wash away whole cities, as we see in {111,16}.) =Because the lover totally neglects his house, and never repairs any gaps or cracks. By now, years of rains have crumbled it away, and its roof has collapsed. Thus the sun shines right in, and the rubble of walls and doors is now covered with grass and spring verdure.

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=Because the lover never had any grief-chamber in the first place except the wilderness-- its every door and wall has always been made out of wilderness. (Compare {18,3} and {127,2}.) Naturally, this non-house made of open ground looks its best in the spring. But the magic-show of multiple meanings is far from over. For, in the second line, why is this state of affairs a bahaar ? =Because it's 'spring', the season that brings out all the greenery in its most charming and flourishing state. =Because the greenness of plants covering the desolate ruins of the house is all the 'flourishingness' that this grief-chamber will ever know =Because the green verdure of wild nature where the walls and doors used to be (or never were) is actually a 'fine landscape' full of 'enjoyment' for the contemplative nature-lover =Because this desolation is a source of (melancholy?) pride to the lover, who sees in it the 'glory' or 'prime' of his passion How elegantly the inshaa))iyah structure of the second line has contrived to contain all these possibilities! The inexpressibility trope ('don't ask!') serves the poet well-- it admits of multiple possible reasons for not asking. Don't ask because the truth is too awful to be endured-- or too ineffably grand to be put into words; don't ask because you probably already know; don't ask because I am not able or willing (for one or more of many possible reasons) to tell you. Grammatically, the second line could apply either to the grief-chamber, or to the owner of the grief-chamber, which further encourages multiple and metaphorical readings.

{129,2} naachaar bekasii kii bhii ;hasrat u;Thaa))iye dushvaarii-e rah-o-sitam-e ham-rahaa;N nah puuchh 1) helpless(ly), endure even/too the longing of/for friendlessness 2) the difficulty of the road, and the tyranny of the road-sharers-- don’t ask!

Notes: kas : 'Someone, somebody, anyone, one; a person, a man, an individual'. (Platts p.832) bekasii : 'Forlorn state, friendlessness, destitution'. (Platts p.203) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the cruelty practiced upon us at the hands of the fellow-travelers-- to endure that trouble is a difficult path; don't even ask about its difficulty! Our longing is, if only we were friendless and alone! (138)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't ask me about the difficulties of the road and the tyrannies of the fellow-travelers. It has reached such a limit that I've been forced to resolve that it's now necessary to endure the longing for friendlessness and solitude. And in such a difficult passage along the road, the company of such cruel ones is not good. (194)

Bekhud Mohani: In this rough road, it is necessary to endure such difficulties at the hands of the companions that, uncontrollably, my inner self wishes that I were alone. That is, out of compulsion I am forced to feel the longing for friendlessness. (259)

FWP: SETS == BHI; EXCLAMATION; INEXPRESSIBILITY In classic mushairah style, the first line alone is not only vague, but actively misleading. For bekasii kii ;hasrat might well lead us to think of a longing

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generated by friendlessness-- the way {21,10} and {71,1}, which both speak of the sound 'of' breaking, mean the sound generated by breaking. The longing 'of' friendlessness would be a perfectly natural counterpart, since friendlessness is such an undesirable state that we would expect a semipersonified 'Friendlessness' to long for companionship or support of some kind. This possibility is reinforced by naachaar , 'helpless(ly)', since the connection between friendlessness and helplessness is very strong (consider the meanings of ;Gurbat ). Only at the last possible moment, at the end of the second line, do we learn that along with the 'difficulty of the road', the 'tyranny of the fellow-travelers' (literally, of the 'road-sharers') is a large part of the problem. Because the road is difficult anyway, one would wish for reliable companions. But to have cruel and treacherous companions is worse than to be alone! So, reluctantly and 'helplessly', one is forced to wish for a state of 'friendlessness'. The word bekasii itself, like ;Gurbat , illustrates the strong negative value attached to aloneness. For literally, the be-kas simply negates kas , the Persian word for 'someone, anyone'; thus be-kasii is the state of being without anyone. It is conventionally construed as having no friends or companions around, but this verse reminds us pointedly that it also means having no enemies or persecutors around. It makes us remember the little three-verse riff on the beauties of the hermit's life: {127}.

Ghazal 130 4 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;N u;Thaa))iye composed 1821; Hamid p. 107; Arshi #130; Raza p. 238

{130,1} .sad jalvah ruu bah ruu hai jo mizhgaa;N u;Thaa))iye :taaqat kahaa;N kih diid kaa i;hsaa;N u;Thaa))iye 1) a hundred glories/manifestations are before you, if you lift your eyelashes 2) where is the strength, that you would lift [the burden of] the beneficence of sight?

Notes: i;hsaan : 'Beneficence, benefaction, benevolent action, benefit, favour, kindness, good offices, obligation conferred'. (Platts p.29) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: For the poet, a refined/sensitive [naazuk] mind and temperament are special traits, and accordingly the always create refined/sensitive themes. The meaning is that our refined/sensitive mind can't enture to lift [the burden of] the kindness of the gaze. We only enjoy the promenade and spectacle of the world if we keep our eyes closed. (139)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that the colorful spectacles of His power are visible. Who has the strength to see all these moods and understand them? Looking and looking, a man becomes tired, and the marvels of His power are not finished. (194)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, what patience do we have for the world's glories/appearances, which appear like mirages, that we should look at them? Having closed our eyes, we are seeing the glory/appearance of the True Beloved in the manifestationplace of the heart.

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[Or:] It's an expression merely of temperamentalness [naazuk-mizaajii]. There's no lack of glories/appearances. It takes only the length of time necessary to lift the eyelashes. But now the heart doesn't have any more strength for the worship of glories/appearances. (259)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} This is one of a surprising number of verses enjoining a prickly independence and refusal of all indebtedness. In English we have the idea of bearing a 'burden' of gratitude, or being placed under a 'weight' of obligation. Here the metaphor is the same, though the grammar of the verse doesn't spell it out: who has the strength to 'lift' this burden of obligation? The burden is the favor that 'sight' would do for you; it's a favor for which you could make no return, so you would remain indebted, which would be humiliating and unacceptable. And of course, the ground of the present ghazal makes this concluding syllable and word pattern very convenient, so it appears again in {130,3}, with the metaphor of lifting a burden spelled out much more explicitly. A similar use of i;hsaa;N appears in {44,1}: it's a kindness that remains 'on' the eyes like collyrium. As so often, the relationship between the two lines is left for us to decide. The commentators spell out a few of the many possibilities. Is the first line an offer of vain, transitory, worldly temptations, as Bekhud Mohani maintains, so that it must be refused? Or does it evoke the glories of the True Beloved, as Bekhud Dihlavi asserts, so that it must be welcomed even though we can't do it justice? Or is the nature of the sight in the first line irrelevant, as Nazm implies, since the poet/lover will stubbornly keep his eyes closed at all times, for fear of an unbearable indebtedness? The first line speaks of, and apparently recommends, lifting the lightest, easiest thing in the world: one's own eyelashes. The second line speaks of lifting something that, whether light or heavy, desired or unwanted, is beyond one's strength. Unsurprisingly, both lines are in inshaa))iyah modes: we get two subjunctives (though technically the verbs are polite imperatives) and one question. This makes the verse extremely flexible, and highly responsive to our own reading. It's one of those verses in which tone makes the difference; and tone is exactly what we have to supply for ourselves.

{130,2} hai sang par baraat-e ma((aash-e junuun-e ((ishq ya((nii hanuuz minnat-e :tiflaa;N u;Thaa))iye 1) on stone is the assignment/warrant of the livelihood of the madness of passion 2) that is, now/still lift [the burden of] the {favor of / obligation to} children

Notes: baraat : 'A writing conferring immunity or exemption; commission, warrant, decree, assignment, letter; draught, cheque'. (Platts p.143) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Decrees, orders, etc. are called baraat . That is, the decree of livelihood for madness is on a stone. The gist is that the livelihood of madness has been fixed upon the stones of children. (139)

Bekhud Dihlavi: An authorization for a salary is called baraat . He says, on stones are written the authorizations for salaries of the livelihood of the madness of passion. Thus still, for some days more, you ought to keep lifting [the burden of] the kindness/obligation of the stone-throwing boys. The meaning is that in the madness of passion, you ought to 'eat' stones [patthar khaanaa] stones from the hands of boys. (195)

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Bekhud Mohani: baraat = Order (check).... The livelihood of the madness of passion is dependent on the stones of boys. For this reason, you ought still/now to lift [the burden of] the kindness/favor of boys. That is, we considered that in passion, one would not be compelled to be obligated to anybody. But this opinion turned out to be wrong. (259)

FWP: SETS == HANUZ; IDIOMS Above all, this verse is a masterpiece of idiomatic wordplay and implication. Normally, something that is 'graven on stone' is inscribed in a very solid, formal, lasting way; you're very fortunate if the decree or warrant that provides for your livelihood is not merely written on flimsy paper but actually engraved on stone for posterity. The word baraat -- a decree, order, authorization for a salary-- is a formal and pompous one; the commentators make a point of defining it, since they feel that their readers may not know it. So from the first line, we might well conclude that some lofty, immemorial decree confers on the mad lover a special, privileged livelihood. Then, under mushairah performance conditions, we'd eventually hear the second line, and at once it would all be turned around. The 'stone' that records the 'decree' turns out to be the kind thrown at madmen by thoughtless boys; in the ghazal world, as we all know, boys follow madmen around, ridicule and taunt them, and harass them with showers of stones. Once we have this basic image, several kinds of implication make themselves felt. = in Urdu idiom, people 'lift a stone upon' somebody [kisii par sang u;Thaanaa] when they throw stones at him (as in {35,10}), the way in English we 'lift a hand against' somebody when we attack him. Thus even though the verse teasingly saves its refrain-required u;Thaanaa for the lover's obligation to the boys, the verb strongly carries over to our awareness of the boy's actions that incur that obligation. = the baraat is specifically for mu((aash , or 'livelihood', something that one lives on. As Bekhud Dihlavi points out (or perhaps he just unselfconsciously uses the phrase), when one is struck by a thrown stone one idiomatically 'eats a stone' [patthar khaanaa]. (One also 'eats a beating' [maar khaanaa], and so on.) The stones are both a warrant for one's livelihood, and literally what one is 'fed'. The mad lover's 'livelihood' thus consists, wonderfully and appropriately, of the special prerogative of eating stones. (Should the stones even perhaps be salted, as is envisioned in {77,1}?) = the doubleness of hanuuz -- is it 'still', or is it 'now', that one should shoulder the obligation to the boys? If the former, the impatient lover is being persuaded and enjoined to continue his endurance of a difficult (but also auspicious?) situation; if the latter, the lover is just now being informed of either his rise (he now has been granted a decree for a fancy, new, special livelihood!) or his fall (he now has nothing left to live on but stones) in the world. = and of course, the largest 'implication' is the whole information content of the verse. If we didn't already know about how boys throw stones at madmen, the verse would be completely opaque. The whole connection between the stones and the boys is made only by us, not by the verse itself. For more on stone-throwing, see {35,10}.

{130,3} diivaar baar-e minnat-e mazduur se hai ;xam ay ;xaanumaa;N-;xaraab nah i;hsaa;N u;Thaa))iye 1) the wall is bowed/bent from the burden of the favor/kindness of the workman 2) oh house-and-home-wrecked one, don't 'lift' [a burden of] kindness/obligation

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Notes: ;xaan-maan : 'House and home, household furniture, everything belonging to the house; household, family'. (Platts p.486) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Oh house-wrecked one, look at the wall of your house! Be convinced that there's no other reason for its being bowed except that the burden of the kindness of the workman has caused it to bow. Receive a lesson from this, and don't accept kindness/obligation from anyone, for this burden is impossible to endure. The wall's bending, and that too from the burden of kindness/obligation-- in both things he has created the verbal device of 'poetic claim' [iddi((aa-e shaa((iraanah]. (139)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, kindness/obligation is a thing burdensome to such an extent that even a wall lacks the strength to 'lift' it: it too has become bent by the burden of the kindness of the workman. Oh house-wrecked one, as long as you live in the world, don't 'lift' [the burden of] anyone's kindness/favor! And look at wall and door, and receive a lesson from them: that even such strong things, after lifting such a stony burden, became bowed. (195)

Bekhud Mohani: It's a 'poetic explanation' [shaa((iraanah taujiih] that the wall has not become bowed through age, but rather has lifted [the burden of] the workman's labor, and is bowed from the burden of this favor/obligation. Oh house-wrecked one, don't accept anyone's kindness/favor, otherwise your head will not be able to 'lift' itself up [sar nah u;Th sakegaa]. (259)

Arshi: Compare {26,1}, {92,4}. (192, 254)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} On the general metaphor of 'lifting a burden' of kindness or obligation, see the discussion in {130,1}. Deliberately or casually, Bekhud Mohani adds a related image: under the 'burden' of such gratitude, your head will not be able to 'lift' [u;Thnaa] itself high (in pride and self-respect), but will remain bowed-- in humiliation, and also in the stance of someone who carries a heavy burden on his back. The enjoyableness of the verse rests on on the device of assigning a surprising new 'poetic' reason for some ordinary thing. This is called 'elegance in assigning a cause', though Nazm and Bekhud Mohani provide slightly different terms for the same device. As usual, we don't know exactly how to connect the two lines. In the first line, is the case of the bowed wall merely a general example? Or is the addressee invited to contemplate the wall of his own wrecked house, and derive a lesson specifically from his own experience? All three commentators invoke the addressee as 'house-wrecked one' [;xaanah-;xaraab], the most common form of the phrase. The verse itself, however, uses something more sweeping: 'house-and-home-wrecked one' [;xaan-maa;N-;xaraab], which can include 'household' and 'family' among the wreckage. Are we meant to conclude that one's family relationships can be destroyed by the burden of mutual favors, kindnesses, and obligations? But surely family relationship can't possibly exist in the absence of mutual favors, kindnesses, and obligations. So the verse seems to be to be ruling out family life entirely. As you stand in the wreckage of your life, says the verse, oh house-andhome-wrecked one, learn a lesson: never accept favors, kindnesses, obligations. Was it that kind of human indebtedness that ruined the addressee's life in the first place? Is the only cure complete solitude? Rather

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than becoming a 'wall', should the stones insist on remaining a disorderly, autonomous, stubbornly unindebted heap?

{130,4} yaa mere za;xm-e rashk ko rusvaa nah kiijiye yaa pardah-e tabassum-e pinhaa;N u;Thaa))iye 1) either please don't make my wound of envy/jealousy notorious/revealed 2) or please lift the curtain of the hidden smile

Notes: rusvaa : 'Dishonoured, disgraced, infamous, ignominious; humiliated; open, notorious; accused; one held up to public view, as an example to deter'. (Steingass, p. 576) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, either arrange it so that you do not cause disgrace to the 'smile' of the wound of envy/jealousy that affects my heart, or cease to laugh quietly with the Rival behind the curtain. (139)

Bekhud Mohani: Either do not cause disgrace to the wound of envy/jealousy that has befallen my heart, or lift the curtain of the hidden smile. That is, either cease to meet quietly and laugh with the Rival, or don't disgrace me by saying, 'he is envious/jealous'. In short, as long as you don't stop laughing with the Rival, why would I not feel envy/jealousy? (260)

Faruqi: 'Hidden smile' is no established idiom, it is Ghalib's invention. In the light of both verses [this one and {10,10}] a single meaning emerges: 'to laugh furtively, to laugh under one's breath, to laugh in such a way that the laughter would not be revealed'.... If this is the case, then what is meant by 'curtain'? It can have two meanings. (1) this laughter interposes between lover and beloved like a curtain, and creates a feeling of alienation. (2) Behind this laughter something else is hidden. This is not merely an innocent kind of laughter, but rather something is hidden behind it, some secret. If the first meaning is taken, then the interpretation will be: stop laughing furtively, so that the feeling of alienation that is between us would diminish. If the second meaning is taken, then the interpretation will be: reveal the thing that is behind this furtive laughter. Now please consider the first line. The meaning of rusvaa is not only 'disgraced', but also 'opened, revealed'. Or rather, this is the original meaning; rusvaa meaning 'distgraced' is derived from this 'opened, revealed' meaning. (See [the Persian dictionary] bahaar-e ((ajam , and Steingass; in fact, in bahaar-e ((ajam only 'opened, revealed' is given, with no information about any other meaning.).... There's also a wordplay between 'open' and 'hidden'.... Thus the result is that the lover feels envy/jealousy because the beloved smiles secretly to herself, and the lover suspects that she is enjoying the memory of a meeting with the Rival. The longer she keeps smiling like this, the more the lover's envy/jealousy keeps increasing. So much so that the lover begins to fear that now he wouldn't be able to help showing that envy/jealousy. (Fear because in envy/jealousy is hidden a reproach to the beloved's faithlessness.) The lover says: I feel something like envy/jealousy at your hidden smile. So why don't you say plainly what you're laughing at? Or why don't you stop laughing? Otherwise, the pain of envy/jealousy in my heart will so increase that I will be forced to show it. The pleasure of the verse lies in the fact that the lover doesn't know the reason for the hidden smile. The smile might not necessarily be connected to the Rival in particular, but the lover is so afflicted with envy/jealousy that

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he's convinced that 'there's something black in the daal' [that is, there's some cause for suspicion]. [The commentator] Asi [aasii] has pointed to the wordplay of 'wound', 'infamous', 'hidden', 'curtain'. But he has overlooked the point that because the reason for the hidden smile is not revealed, the verse has acquired a wonderful eloquence [balaa;Gat]. (248)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} VEIL: {6,1} Nazm and some others bring in the idiom/image of the wound's 'mouth' to suggest that the wound too, like the beloved, has a 'smile'. But that idea doesn't seem to be developed in the rest of the verse. Faruqi's reading requires the lover to say 'don't make me reveal my wound', whereas the grammar clearly says 'don't reveal my wound'. So I'm not convinced that we've really gotten to the heart of this one yet. I'm not sure my own take on the verse is really decisively satisfying either; but for the present, it's the best I can come up with. The lover asks the beloved to do one of two things. The second alternative is clear, and is surely his real choice: you should please 'lift the curtain' of the hidden smile. Presumably, as Faruqi argues, this means: you should either explain what you're smiling at, or else stop smiling in that pitying, alienating, I've-got-a-secret way! In other words, you should 'reveal' the smile, either by explaining it, or else by unveiling it (and thus turning it into a 'normal', open, appropriate smile). But what about the first alternative? Since it doesn't involve asking her to stop smiling, presumably her hidden smile continues. So all she is asked to do is, not to disgrace the lover by publically revealing the envy/jealousy that her hidden smile causes in him. Surely one way she can do this is by being careful not to call attention to him-- by refraining from rolling her eyes, or pointing at him, or smiling or laughing openly at his absurd, poorlyconcealed displays of envy/jealousy. Thus she's being asked to keep her 'hidden smile' to herself, and prevent others from understanding its cause; which is basically what she's doing anyway. So on my reading, the beloved is being asked: please, either keep on doing exactly what you're doing, or or else stop doing exactly what you're doing! It seems an amusingly safe request. But of course, we know the beloved: she's more than capable of giving the lover the worst of all worlds. She might continue her secret smiles, but also contrive to share her mockery of the lover with others, thus disgracing him. However, since the lover has been so courteous and humble, perhaps she will relent just this once, and not augment his misery. Anyway, it's surely worth a try?

Ghazal 131 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aat chaahiye composed 1821; Hamid p. 108; Arshi #180; Raza p. 243 {131,1} masjid ke zer-e saayah ;xaraabaat chaahiye bho;N paas aa;Nkh qiblah-e ;haajaat chaahiye 1) under the shade/shelter/protection of the mosque, a wine-house is needed 2) near the brow an eye, supplier/Qiblah of necessities, is needed

Notes: saayah : 'Shadow, shade; shelter, protection'. (Platts p.631)

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;xaraabaat : 'Ruins, desolate place;... A tavern; --a brothel (such being usually kept in ruins).' (Platts p.488) qiblah : 'That part to which Muslims turn their faces when at prayer; the temple of the Ka'ba in Mecca; Mecca; --an altar, a temple, an object of veneration or reverence;... (by way of respectful address) Father! Worship! Sire!'. (Platts p.788) qiblah-e ;haajaat : 'What is looked to for the attainment of (one's) necessities or desires; one who supplies (another's) needs'. (Platts p.788) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The similes of the eye as a wine-house, and the eyebrow as the [arched] prayer-niche [mi;hraab] of a mosque, are well-known. The author has here created an innovation by taking the reflection [((aks] of this simile. The term qiblah-e ;haajaat is a .zil((a of a mosque, but it is a very idiomatic word. And the thing is that when an idiom is used only for the sake of creating a .zil((a , then the .zil((a is displeasing. And when the idiom is wholly engaged [puuraa utare], then using the very same .zil((a is attractive; and this is the situation with every verbal device [.san((at-e laf:zii]. (139-40)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Poets always give the simile of a wine-house for the eye, and the prayerniche of a mosque for the eyebrow. He says, oh Supplier of Necessities (this is directed toward the Preacher, or the Shaikh, or the Ascetic), a wine-house certainly ought to be built adjacent to the mosque-- the way God the Most High has created an eye near the brow. (195)

Bekhud Mohani: He has composed a joke on the Preacher: oh Supplier of Necessities, there definitely ought to be a wine-house next door to the mosque, the way near the eyebrow there's an eye. In this verse the meaning also emerges that between the mosque and the wine-house is the relationship of eyebrow and eye-- and the eye is of a higher rank than the eyebrow. (260)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} What a delightfully irreverent and mischievous [sho;x] verse! Two conventional similes are abruptly combined, for a slightly shocking, stunningly amusing effect. Why is the emblematic prayer-niche [mihraab] of a mosque like an eyebrow? Because they both have an arched shape, and they both shelter and protect what is beneath them. Why is the eye like a wine-house? Because it regularly provides, and pours into the mind, the intoxicating, ravishingly beautiful colors and forms of the world. (For a classic meditation on this theme, see {169,5}.) All very well-known and well-established. But when we suddenly juxtapose them (which, in order to maximize the effect, the verse cleverly doesn't do until the second line)-- the whole thing explodes. We 'prove' with the most perfect poetic logic that every mosque should have next to it-- and in its shelter and protection-- that most officially-unIslamic place, a wine-house (described in its crudest and rawest form, in which it is linked to ruins and prostitution as well). And not only that, but as Bekhud Mohani points out, we also prove that the wine-house is of higher rank than the mosque, just as the eye is of higher rank than the eyebrow. Since it could well be said that the eyebrow exists only in order to protect the eye, it could also follow that the mosque exists only to protect the wine-house (which justifies the 'under the shade/ shelter/ protection' in the first line).

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And what about qiblah-e ;haajaat ? Obviously, it's a double source of wordplay. The qiblah is the direction (toward Mecca) that Muslims should face in prayer, and every mosque features a small arched opening [mihraab] that marks it, so there's a perfect affinity with the reference to the mosque in the first line. And since ;haajaat means 'necessities, needs', it resonates elegantly with the refrain, chaahiye . The commentators read qiblah-e ;haajaat as a vocative-- a teasing, mockrespectful address to one of the conventionally pious figures of the ghazal world, in a verse that is meant to shock his religious sensibilities. But as the definition indicates, the expression can also refer to a thing, and in this case the closest (and thus most obvious) thing is the eye, so that the reading would be 'an eye, [which is] a supplier of necessities, is needed'. This reading offers a further touch of enjoyment: the formal, respectful expression, so seemingly appropriate to a mosque, is applied instead to the wine-house-- the 'eye' that supplies our need for color and beauty (and intoxication, and escapism) in this world, the 'eye' for which the mosque is nothing but a protective eyebrow. Remember, after all, the lovely {48,9}.

{131,2} ((aashiq hu))e hai;N aap bhii ek aur sha;x.s par aa;xir sitam kii kuchh to mukaafaat chaahiye 1) even/also {you / we ourself} have become a lover of some other person 2) after all, some retaliation/recompense for cruelty is needed

Notes: mukaafaat : 'Compensation, reparation; recompense, requital; retribution; retaliation'. (Platts p.1057) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The poets of Lucknow don't compose [verses about] the beloved's becoming a lover of anyone else; and this theme too is among the rejected ones [matruukaat], and in their view is bland [phiikaa]. (140)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way we are your lover, in the same way you too have become a lover of some other person. And this secret has become evident to us. You've treated your lovers very cruelly and badly. Finally, some vengeance should be taken for this, by the Lord, upon you too. (195)

Bekhud Mohani: 'Some other person' is full of meaning. The interpretation emerges from it that because of envy and pride, it doesn't suit him to mention the name of the Rival. [Or else] the beloved herself knows-- so what need to mention the name? (260)

Arshi: Compare {105,1}. (223)

FWP: SETS == BHI This verse lays a clever trap; all the commentators I've read (and not just the ones cited above) have cheerfully walked into it and set up housekeeping. Obviously aap can be a formal address to 'you', the beloved, which is how all the commentators read it. But it can also mean 'oneself'. For an example of ham aap meaning 'we ourself', see {60,7}. For a very clear example of aap alone meaning 'we ourself', see {17,3}. Other than the sheer argument-from-Ghalibness for the double meaning of aap , there are two other strong clues to this reading. The more readily noticeable is the cleverly complex word mukaafaat , which happens to have exactly the right two meanings: both retaliation (so that it can mean punishment for a tyrant) and recompense (so that it can mean requital for a

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victim of tyranny). But actually, the clue that first struck me was the ponderously vague awkwardness of ek aur sha;x.s , when words like Rival, Other, etc. are so much more normal in such a slot. Only the obtrusive ambiguity of 'some other person' leaves full room for both anybody the beloved might love, and anybody the lover might love-- while also calling attention to itself, to alert us to both readings. For another verse that plays with the idea of taking another lover, see {65,1}. For more on the beloved falling in love herself, see {13,2}. How does the lover find his 'recompense'? No doubt through the sheer vengeful pleasure of seeing the beloved's anger and frustration at losing her faithful, long-mistreated slave. Do we dare imagine that he might have found someone more kind and affectionate to love? No, we can't really believe in that-- not in the world of the ghazal. If he thinks so, it's only because he hasn't had time to get to know her yet. In the ghazal world, all beloveds are cruel almost by definition. And don't forget, the second line doesn't claim very much. It only says, perhaps even wistfully, that some recompense 'is needed'.

{131,3} de daad ai falak dil-e ;hasrat-parast kii haa;N kuchh nah kuchh talaafii-e maafaat chaahiye 1) do justice, oh Sky, to a heart that worships longing/grief! 2) indeed, some kind or other of recompense for the past is needed

Notes: daad denaa : 'To dispense justice; to do justice (to), to appreciate, to give due praise (to), to praise duly... --to make reparation'. (Platts p.499) ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) talaafii : 'Making amends, reparation, compensation, recompense'. (Platts p.333) maafaat : 'That which is past'. (Steingass, p. 1141) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, a great many longings were not fulfilled-- fulfill some desire at least! (140)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, alas, Sky, so many longings you have flung down into the dust! Now we ought to receive justice for those longings. My longing-worshipping heart has become very much grief-stricken. Fulfill another of our longings, through which there will be reparation for past things. (196)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Sky, if none of my longings were fulfilled, then so be it. Do justice to my longing-worshipping heart. That is, you ought to do justice to the fact that although no longing of mine was fulfilled, nevertheless I still long! I don't get upset and abandon them. That is, what a heart we have, and what a man of spirit we are! (261)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN The rhetorical structure here is almost miraculously ambiguous. What is the relationship between the two lines, and among the various phrases? There are just astonishingly many ways to put them together. And since each contains several vaguely connected abstractions, the permutations multiply. Here are only some:

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=oh all-observing Sky, at least give me credit for my patience and perseverance, and for all the suffering you've watched me enduring at the beloved's hands. After all, I deserve some recompense, and it's clear I haven't gotten any other! A little praise and recognition from you wouldn't come amiss; it will be better than nothing. =oh impartial Sky, I call you as a witness and a judge-- I've received no justice my whole life long! My heart is full of vain longings, and has never been able to gratify them. Do justice in my case: judge between me and the world, since nobody else will! =oh cruel Sky, you haven't fulfilled even one of my longings! Now, in the name of justice, you owe me something-- you ought to do something for me. (Fulfill a longing? Praise me for my patience and fortitude? Fulfill a longing by praising me for my patience and fortitude?) =oh serene, solitary, and desire-free Sky, I speak to you as my soul-mate. My heart has worshipped longing and grief for so long that it no longer even craves anything else. It has achieved a purity and rigor that are worthy of your notice and admiration. Your recognition would compensate for all that I've suffered. If we look at the particular elements, it's easy to see why the combinations are indefinitely numerous: =Is the Sky being blamed? (For what?) Asked for justice? (What kind?) Asked for praise? (For what?) Asked to fulfill a longing? (What longing?) The Sky is usually the source not of justice but of suffering and fresh disasters (as in {14,8})-- is it being asked for such favors only in an ironic way? (After all, the Sky is addressed quite without hope in {66,5}.) =Does the 'heart that worships longing/grief' mean simply a heart that's consumed with longing all the time, even though (or because) its longings are never fulfilled? Or does it mean a heart that worships the process of longing itself, as distinct from any object of the longing? Or does it mean a heart that worships grief, because grief is the only proper and natural state of the true lover? =Does the second line echo and re-describe the same situation as the first, such that the doing of justice by the Sky would constitute the recompense? Or is the second line an incidental, throwaway observation that the lover simply mutters to himself, after addressing the first line to the sky? The introductory words haa;N kuchh nah kuchh give a careless, afterthought air, as of someone mentioning a minor secondary point in a vague way (compare a very similar rhetorical structure in {36,4}). The phrase talaafii-e maafaat is wonderfully resonant. But beyond providing sound effects, it also has a sense of formality and completeness, a feeling of what's done is done. We know that, no matter what the lover says or hopes or urges or intends, there's never going to be any recompense for the past.

{131,4} siikhe hai;N mah-ru;xo;N ke liye ham mu.savvarii taqriib kuchh to bahr-e mulaaqaat chaahiye 1) for the moon-faced ones, we've learned painting/drawing 2) some recommendation/pretext for the sake of meeting is needed

Notes: taqriib : 'Giving access (to), causing to approach, bringing near; approaching;... commending, recommending, mentioning (anyone) to another before meeting;... cause, means; appearance, probability; pretence, motive'. (Platts p.330) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Painting is an implication for poetry, but among those with the temperament of lovers, there is painting and poetry, dastan-recitation and witty repartee,

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and music too. That is, to play the dhrupad or the biin -- and in addition to that, playing chausar and card-games is a separate skill-- and another condition is to be among the people of the wine-house [;xaraabaat]. When they are adorned with this jewelry, then all the means for gaining the company of the beautiful ones are at hand. (140)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the sake of the beautiful ones, we have learned to make paintings-- or rather, consider that we have learned poetry. There ought to be some means for meeting with the beloveds. (196)

Bekhud Mohani: By painting is meant both poetry and painting. But there's more pleasure in taking painting to mean poetry. We learned poetry only so that it would turn out to be a means for meeting beautiful ones. (261)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR The first line sounds earnest and sincere. The beautiful ones are 'moonfaced'-- how could I not want to capture their radiant likeness? And would they deserve less than the finest artistic achievements? Perhaps they suggested, or even demanded, that I learn to paint, since I did it 'for them'. Perhaps they invited, or required, me to become their court, or salon, painter. Under mushairah conditions, we would hear the first line, and then of course have to wait for the second. We speculate about where the second line will go-- perhaps something about how their radiance made my colors blush, or how the canvas glowed in the dark from their moon-faces, or how I was too absorbed in their beauty to hold the brush? Then the second line hits us all at once, in a wonderfully comic comedown. The speaker turns out to have not the slightest interest in painting, and not a word to say about it. He is supremely practical, and he's reporting his techniques for getting access to beautiful ones, in the 'How to Succeed' tone of a self-improvement handbook or a dating guide. He will surely go on to advise his readers to carry their paint brushes very conspicuously, and to make sure there are a few small, becomingly color-coordinated paint stains on their shirts. (For a another enjoyably ironic verse about professional credentials and access to the beloved, see {174,7}.) In the second line we learn, in short, that under no circumstances does the speaker really want to paint pictures of the beautiful ones. He wants far more (to be their lover); but if not that, then he wants something quite different (permission to stand humbly in their presence and gaze at them). In the former case, a painted picture is superfluous; in the latter case, it's unacceptable. He wants not an image, but at all costs a 'meeting'. The commentators insist that painting is really a coded reference to poetrycomposition. Certainly nothing in the verse requires us to think so. It might be the other way around, in fact. If a recommendation/pretext for meeting is needed, why shouldn't poetry suffice? Yet it apparently doesn't, since the poet/lover has to go out and (pretend to) learn to paint in addition. This adds another note of humor and irony to the whole situation-- our knowledge that the poet already possesses (and is in the very act of demonstrating) a much more valuable credential or recommendation than the one he claims to have acquired. Nothing in the verse forbids the commentators to interpret 'painting' as 'poetry' of course, but they have to do it on their own responsibility, as a secondary move, after the primary, internally-generated logic of the verse has been established. A note for grammar fans: siikhe hai;N can be interpreted as short for siikhe hu))e hai;N , to avoid any concerns about the lack of ne . It would mean 'we are in a state of having learned'.

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{131,5} mai se ;Gara.z nishaa:t hai kis ruu-siyaah ko ik guunah be-;xvudii mujhe din raat chaahiye 1) from wine, joy is the purpose of which {disgraced / black-faced} one? 2) I need one sort/color of selfless-ness, night and day

Notes: guunah : 'Colour; kind, sort, species; form, figure, fashion; mode, manner'. (Platts p.927) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, he keeps causing forgetfulness of grief through unconsciousness and selfless-ness. (140)

Bekhud Dihlavi: By drinking wine, my intention is not that I would obtain joy and delight, but rather I drink wine so that I would forget grief and sorrow. Night and day, I need some small selfless-ness. (196)

Bekhud Mohani: This is a verse of such broad meaning that it's not easy to comment on it. Besides joy, all the other things that necessitate drinking wine may be there-all are present in it. Because the author has left the burden of understanding them on the mind of the hearer. Many different aspects can be seen in this verse.... The meaning of ik guunah emerges as, I need one kind of selflessness. That is, there's nothing special about wine. I need selfless-ness, however it might be obtained.... The phrase din raat is a doomsday/wonder! That is, the whole day my heart is full of troubling thoughts, and if at night I sleep, then frightful scenes occur in dreams. In short, asleep or awake, I find no peace. From chaahiye a doomsday/wonder of power has been created in the verse. That is, it's not that I have an ardor for selfless-ness-- rather, it's become my new necessity. Or say, rather, that it's a type of medicine. (26263)

Mihr: Compare {33,2}. (128)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} WINE: {49,1} The color imagery offers some elegant wordplay: guunah means literally 'color', and ruu-siyaah means 'black-faced'. And of course, there are the two highly color-coded words, black 'night' and white 'day'. There are also the overtones of the ruby (or blood) color of wine, and we can hardly avoid thinking of the idiomatic expression siyaah-mast , 'black-drunk', for someone who's very drunk indeed-- drunk enough to become 'self-less', perhaps. (For examples of siyaah-mast , used with imagery of (dark) shadows, see {49,2} and {80,4}.) As always, I use 'selfless-ness' to remind the reader that this is not the English word 'selflessness', meaning 'extreme unselfishness'; rather, it's about serious loss of self or obliviousness to self. The speaker sounds contemptuous, fierce, almost desperate-- people who naively (or culpably?) seek joy through wine are called 'disgraced ones' or 'wretches'. Why such harshness? Perhaps the speaker means to imply that he himself would never be so vulgar as to seek mere happiness-- where he is, happiness doesn't even exist, and only relief from pain is the point. Or perhaps he thinks that such people are frivolously misusing a great and serious medicine, and turning it into a mere toy; such vulgarization of something so vital and precious is a 'disgrace'. As for the speaker himself, his words are chillingly bleak. Bekhud Mohani has pointed out some of their implications. A milder, more compassionate

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version of this theme can be seen in {86,3}-- where those who seek joy in wine are not 'disgraced', but are simply naive remnants of an earlier, more hopeful generation.

{131,6} nashv-o-numaa hai a.sl se ;Gaalib furuu(( ko ;xaamoshii hii se nikle hai jo baat chaahiye 1) growth and nurture is from the root/origin, Ghalib, for the branches/derivatives 2) from silence alone comes the speech that is needed

Notes: nikle hai is an archaic form of, here, nikaltii hai . furuu(( : 'Tops, summits, heads; branches; subdivisions; ramifications; derivatives'. (Platts p.780) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of this verse-set is that the beginning of the whole world of bodies is free from the body and bodily things, and is outside this world, the way the branches of a tree all emerge from the root, but the root is hidden. The second illustration [tam;siil] is whatever speech there is, it has emerged from silence; that is, first meaning came into his head, after that speech arose from it, and meaning itself is hidden. The third illustration [in {131,7}] is that there are flowers of different colors in the garden, and in every color the proof of spring is present, and spring itself is hidden from the eyes. After this he says that from the many-colored flowers we ought to take the lesson that in every color/aspect man ought to prove/establish his origins. Sometimes he is flushed with intoxication, sometimes he is the Ascetic who stays awake all night; that is, all these colors/moods are among the qualities of Being [;zaat]. And every single quality manifests itself in its own time, and bears witness to the presence of Being. [The commentary abruptly turns to a long technical discussion about the scansion of the final ii in ;xaamoshii .] (140-41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the origin-- that is, from the root-- is the flowering and fruiting of the branches. Oh Ghalib, the speech that emerges from a man's lips-- first the man inwardly understands its meaning, when some speech emerges from his lips. In this whole verse-set he has included these same ideas of mysticism, and in these verses has expressed these three things. [He copies almost verbatim the three points made by Nazm.] (197)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning of this verse-set is exactly what Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has written. That is, the origin of the whole world (the world of bodies) is free from the body and bodily things, and is outside this world. The way the branches of a tree emerge and grow from the root, but the root is hidden. (263)

Shadan: The first line, to avoid convolutedness, can be like this: nashv-o-numaa furuu(( ko ;Gaalib hai a.sl se . (326)

FWP: This verse marks the beginning of a verse-set that includes the remaining four verses of the ghazal. It is an unusual ordering, because the present verse is, formally speaking, the closing-verse of the ghazal, but doesn't appear as the last verse. This state of affairs is rare, but not unheard-of. Nowadays the urge to have the closing-verse actually be the last verse is so strong that some commentators and editors have moved this one to the final position;

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among them are Hasrat Mohani (108); Bekhud Dihlavi; Baqir (337); and Josh (243-44); Hamid too has done so. But as always, I follow Arshi; and the more scholarly editors and commentators are with him. To me, this officially-marked verse-set doesn't feel half as unified as some of those not officially so marked (for discussion, see 'verse-set'); but we're aiming for fidelity to the best manuscript tradition, not personal choice by any modern editor. So this closing-verse is the beginning of a verse-set. And what a simple, seemingly plain, but actually subtle verse it is! The second line states a truth about human life, and the first line has already 'proved' it with a powerful and elegant 'objective correlative'. Silence is to speech, as the root is to the branches. This beautiful relationship has various suggestive corollaries: =The root provides not anything the branches happen to fancy, but only, and exactly, what they need for proper growth; similarly, silence gives rise to the speech that is needed, that is necessary. There may well be many kinds of speech that are not necessary. =The growth and nurture of the branches by the root proceeds slowly, over many years, and not always at the same pace, and the branches have no control over it. Human beings must learn to be still, and enduring, and patient. =Everyone sees the branches, but no one sees the root. Human beings are mysteries to each other, and perhaps to themselves as well. The verse also lends itself to a mystical reading. When things come 'out of silence', it may mean that their origin is not silence itself (as we've been assuming so far), but something that works through silence, or Someone who moves behind a veil of silence. On the latter reading, the 'necessary speech' might the voice of an angel (compare {169,13}), or even the direct words of God.

{131,7} hai rang-e laalah-o-gul-o-nasrii;N judaa judaa har rang me;N bahaar kaa i;sbaat chaahiye 1) the color of tulip and rose and eglantine is each one separate 2) in every mood/aspect/'color', a demonstration/proof of spring is needed

Notes: rang : 'Colour, tint, hue, complexion;...appearance, aspect; fashion, style; character, nature; mood, mode, manner, method'. (Platts p.601) i;sbaat : 'Establishing, confirming; confirmation, corroboration, verification, proof, demonstration; ascertainment; certain knowledge'. (Platts p.22) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the colors of tulip and rose and eglantine are separate. That is, the tulip can be of many colors, but in each of its variously colored flowers is a wound/scar [see {33,1}]. The rose too is of many colors. The eglantine is most often white. The gist is that the variation in colors and shapes is not the point. In every color it's necessary for a proof of spring to exist. By 'spring' is here meant the thought of an expression of the essence of the Court of the Most High. The verse is mystical, and is a fine one. (196)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

FWP: SETS == WORD This is the second verse of a four-verse verse-set; for discussion see {131,6}.

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The crucial word is obviously rang here, and how cleverly it's deployed! The first line opens with hai rang , and we occupy ourselves with comparing flower-colors and emphasizing the individuality and differentness of each. The second line opens with the similar-seeming har rang me;N , and we expect to continue our discussion of colors and flowers. Maybe 'in every color' is a different kind of beauty, or a necessary contribution to the visual symphony of the garden, or a fresh pang to the heart of the desolate lover? But not at all-- there's almost an iihaam in fact, for the second line develops the abstract possibilities of rang , to the exclusion of its 'color' meaning. The abstract meanings (see the definition above for a sampling of the word's very wide range) are invoked both by the word i;sbaat , drawn from the domain of logic and reasoning; and by the verb chaahiye , which suggests that something 'is needed', and thus might or might not be present. Once the verse starts arguing that a 'proof' of something is 'needed', it's outside the domain of color and into that of the philosophical discussion of 'aspect, character, nature, mood, mode', etc. How effortlessly the protean rang makes the transition! But only in retrospect, of course, after we've read (or heard) the whole second line, and then returned to reinterpret it. (The first time through, we're bound to be fooled, because Ghalib has set it up for us that way, beyond our power to avoid.) If we decide to read the two lines as describing the same situation-- since as so often, we have to make our own decision about their relationship-- we then will go back and reread the first line, turning each flower into a complex moral agent with not just its own color but its own 'aspect, character, nature, mood, mode', etc.-- and therefore its own obligation to provide a 'proof' of spring. Alternatively, we can decide that the two lines are separate, with the first one a mere illustration of the second: just as each flower has a color of its own, so every mood and mode and form of activity needs to provide its own 'proof' of spring. An obligation is thus being placed by the speaker on almost everything in the world. By what authority does he speak? By whom are all these proofs of spring 'needed'? Is he demanding them with confident power and authority, speaking perhaps on behalf of God? Or is he simply expressing a personal hope or desire, or even a wistful longing? And what would it take to constitute a 'proof' of spring, anyway? Just a vivid (if short-lived) burst of color, like that of a flower, or something else more imbued with conscious activity and choice, or even with mystical insight? Needless to say, Ghalib induces us to raise these questions, and then leaves us with no answers at all.

{131,8} sar paa-e ;xum pah chaahiye hangaam-e be-;xvudii ruu suu-e qiblah vaqt-e munaajaat chaahiye 1) the head needs to be at/on the foot of the [wine-]cask at the time of selfless-ness 2) the face needs to be toward the Qiblah at the time of worship

Notes: ;xum : 'A large vessel or jar; an alembic, a still'. (Platts p.493) qiblah : 'That part to which Muslims turn their faces when at prayer; the temple of the Ka'ba in Mecca; Mecca; --an altar, a temple, an object of veneration or reverence'. (Platts p.788) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of selfless-ness, it's necessary for the head to be bent, and at the time of prayer, it's necessary for the face to be toward the Qiblah. (196)

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Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; PARALLELISM This is the third verse of a four-verse verse-set; for discussion see {131,6}. Here we see two extremely parallel lines. Still, how are we to interpret their parallelism? Do they represent two perspectives on the same situation? Do they describe two different situations, with certain implied similarities? Or do they describe two different situations, with certain implied contrasts? As usual, Ghalib requires us to decide for ourselves. The first line paints a picture of what looks at first like supreme submission: for anyone's head to be on the foot of anyone (or anything) is an ultimate display of lowliness and humility. Presumably the intoxicated drinker, even as he passes into a state devoid of any sense of self, should (gratefully? humbly? prudently?) drape himself as closely as possible around the base of the wine-cask. We can imagine that it's a large still or wine-making vessel with a spigot near the bottom, so the drinker may actually be seeking to remain as close as possible to the direct source of his intoxication. Thus his gesture may be reverent, or practical, or appreciative, or merely prudent (why should anyone else have a chance to come between his unconscious self and the source of such transcendant delight?). The line also offers the enjoyably repetitive sound effects of paa and pah . The second line prescribes the proper behavior at the time of prayer for a Muslim (since the Qiblah is first of all the Ka'bah); or perhaps more generally for anyone who worships or prays (since qiblah can also be 'any object of veneration or reverence'; it is used in a broad sense in {131,1}). As compared to the gesture of 'putting the face on the foot', the gesture of 'turning the face toward' is similarly expressive of reverence, but less graphic and intense. This line also provides its special sound effects in the enjoyable sequence ruu suu . But no amount of close analysis can tell us how to put the two lines together. Does one represent good behavior for a drinker, and one for a worshipper, so that the theme of the verse is that behavior should be appropriately respectful to the occasion? Is one of the lines the important one, and the other merely a parallel example or metaphor-- is the verse 'really' about intoxication, or 'really' about prayer? Is the 'selfless-ness' of an intoxicated drinker to be likened to the mood of prayer, or differentiated from it? Is one better than the other, and which is it? Do the two lines describe the behavior of one person at different times, or different sorts of persons? And so on. Not despite, but because of, the verse's extreme simplicity, it remains opaque; it refuses, and will forever refuse, to yield any single interpretation.

{131,9} ya((nii bah-;hasb-e gardish-e paimaanah-e .sifaat ((aarif hameshah mast-e mai-e ;zaat chaahiye 1) that is, in conformity/proportion to the going-around of the {wine-glass / measure} of qualities, 2) a mystical-knower always intoxicated with the wine of Being is needed

Notes: ;hasb : 'Computing; considering, reflecting upon; --sufficiency, a thing sufficing or sufficient for; quantity, etc. (see ;hisaab ); --adv. Agreeably (to), conformably (to), according (to), in conformity (with); as'. (Platts p.477) paimaanah : 'A measure (for dry or wet goods); measure (of length, or capacity, &c.)... a cup, bowl, goblet'. (Platts p.301) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, according to the intoxication of the circling of the wine-glass of qualities, the mystical knower ought always to be intoxicated with Being. (196)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments for the whole verse-set: {131,6}.]

FWP: This is the final verse of a four-verse verse-set; for discussion see {131,6}. The ya((nii could be thought of as introducing a paraphrase, or a summingup, of the other verses of the verse-set. The complexity of this verse depends above all on the lovely word- and meaning-play of paimaanah ; it effortlessly unites the sense of measurement or proportion (as in ;hasb ) with the wine imagery ( gardish / mast / mai ). Here are some of the possible emphases: =just as the wine-glass is there, so an appropriate drinker needs to be there =just the way the wine-glass keeps on circulating no matter what, similarly a drinker is needed who is intoxicated no matter what =in proportion to how amply the wine-glass (always) keeps circulating, the drinker too always needs to be (proportionately amply) intoxicated As for the relationship of the relationship of the wine-glass of 'qualities' [.sifaat] and the intoxication with 'Being' [;zaat], we're left entirely on our own. Are the qualities aspects of being, and thus legitimately intoxicating in their own right? Are they preludes to being, so that they have to be transcended (the way wine-drinking enables you to reach a level beyond wine-drinking)? Are they something that a person has lots of, or only one of (the way each flower has its own one color in {131,7}? Is the mystic-knower intoxicated with his own qualities alone, or with the spectacle of everybody's, or with something deeper (the way the tree is different from the branches in {131,6})? Is 'Being' an intoxicant like wine, or like prayer? Or are the two the same? (This question is especially relevant in view of the ya((nii and the fact that the immediately preceding verse is {131,8}.) And finally, by whom or what is such a drinker 'needed'? By God? By the scheme of things? By the poet's esthetic or mystical sense of fitness? This little verse-set, fresh and lovely as a rose, is surrounded by thorny questions well-contrived to leave scratches in our minds.

Ghazal 132 7 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: uu;N vuh bhii composed 1821; Hamid p. 109; Arshi #133; Raza pp. 239-40

{132,1} bisaa:t-e ((ajz me;N thaa ek dil yak qa:trah ;xuu;N vuh bhii so rahtaa hai bah andaaz-e chakiidan sar-niguu;N vuh bhii 1) in the spread/expanse of weakness there was one heart, and that too-- one drop of blood 2) thus it too remains head-lowered in the style/manner of dripping, {even that / that too}

Notes: bisaa:t : 'Anything that is spread out; surface, expanse, expansion; carpet; bedding;... goods, wares, &c.'. (Platts p.154)

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((ajz : 'Powerlessness, impotence, weakness, helplessness, submission, wretchedness'. (Platts p.759) ;xuun-baar : 'Shedding (or raining) blood; generally spoken of the eyes of a lover'. (Platts p.497) ;xuun-e jigar piinaa or khaanaa : 'To suppress (one's) feelings, to restrain (one's) emotions, or anger, or grief, &c. -- to consume (one's own) lifeblood; to vex or worry (oneself) to death --to work (oneself) to death'. (Platts p.497) ;xuun honaa : 'A murder to be committed; to be murdered; --to be wasted, be squandered'. (Platts p.497) sar-niguu;N : 'Hanging down the head, abashed, ashamed; downcast, dejected; depressed; mean, abject, vile'. (Platts p.648) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The Urdu language will not bear the word chakiidan to be brought into it. But Persianness [faarsiyat] was dominant [;Gaalib] over the author. For this reason, he didn't consider it foreign/strange. (142)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the spread/expanse of weakness there was one heart, and that too was only a drop of blood-- its actuality was really nothing more than that. But in the style of dripping, that wretch too remains head-bowed; no telling when it might fall. In man's chest, the heart is hanging by means of a sinew, and its state is just the same as that of a drop of blood when it falls. The meaning is that the whole wealth/property that my passion possessed consisted of one heart. Now, from constantly enduring grief and sorrow, it is in the same state as a drop of blood that is constantly ready to fall. (197-98)

Bekhud Mohani: We are weak and oppressed; we had only one heart, the condition of which was really no more than that of a drop of blood. But alas, even that one is now in such a state that like a drop of water, it has its head lowered for dripping. That is, can we do anything? Our capacity [bisaa:t] is this: that our heart has the shape of a cypress, and seems to have its head lowered. [And in reply to Nazm's objection:] If vaqt-e raftan ['time of departing'] is a phrase that can be said, so can this one. [An example of this usage from Zauq.] (263)

FWP: SETS == BHI; IDIOMS This is only the third time we've seen the word bisaa:t . In {13,5} it seemed to be more like a carpet, and in {33,7} more like a meadow. Yet to come is the lovely {169,6}, in which it seems to be a luxurious pleasure-house, bisaa:t-e havaa-e dil . This last example is perhaps the closest, with its 'desire of the heart', for in the present verse too the bisaa:t is linked to the heart-- but how differently! Here, the context is so stark, so deprived, that it's hard to tell what's going on. Here bisaa:t seems to mean something like 'goods, wares' on the concrete side, or 'scope, capacity' on the abstract side. When weakness spreads out its wares, or reveals the extent of its capacity, its inventory turns out to consist of 'one heart'. And that heart too, upon examination, is nothing but 'one drop of blood'. Here we are at the heart (sorry, sorry!) of one of the ghazal world's great central image clusters. In ghazal physiology, the liver makes fresh blood, which it sends to the heart. The heart bleeds some of it away through countless unstanchable wounds, and pumps some of it up to the eyes, which pour out streams and rivers of

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bloody tears. There are a host of idiomatic expressions related to this series of events; see the definitions above for some examples. Thus if the whole heart now consists of a single drop of blood, the reason is that it has worn away, melted away, bled away in the course of proper loverlike suffering and grief, leaving the lover in a condition of 'weakness'. This weakness is obviously terminal, because the remaining single drop of blood remains 'head-lowered', trembling on the verge of dripping away entirely and thus finishing the lover off. How perfectly the imagery works! It's beautifully 'over-determined'. The lover himself is always inclined to sit with lowered head (as in {32,2}), because of weakness, grief, and/or humility (see the definition above). His heart too is frequently 'down'-- and now that his heart has been reduced by weakness and grief to a single drop of blood, that drop of blood too duly sits with its head lowered. It thus both dutifully reproduces the lover's own attitude, and assumes the position of a drop about to fall. Everything about the lover's life and death, love and loss, is perfectly, matter-of-factly, unsentimentally summed up in the image of that one last sar-niguu;N drop of blood.

{132,2} rahe us sho;x se aazurdah ham chande takalluf se takalluf bar-:taraf thaa ek andaaz-e junuu;N vuh bhii 1) we remained displeased with that mischievous one, {somewhat / for some time}, out of formality/pretense 2a) {leaving aside formality / 'to tell the truth'}, that too was one style of madness 2b) formality/pretense was put aside-- one style of madness, {that too / even that}

Notes: chande : 'Some, somewhat, a few, a little, a while'. (Platts p.444) takalluf : 'Pains, attention, industry, perseverance; trouble, inconvenience; elaborate preparation (for); profusion, extravagance; careful observance of etiquette, ceremony, formality; dissimulation, insincerity; -- takalluf bar:taraf , adv., Ceremony apart; waiving ceremony'. (Platts pp.331-32) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of the first takalluf is adornment and artifice, and by the second takalluf is intended that respect and concern that would not be from the heart, and would be artifice. That is, if we don't call it madness, then it's as if he himself showed takalluf for himself. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as we have a heart in our breast, then we can't become displeased with her. Indeed, for some days we made a show of displeasure. The truth is [.saaf .saaf yuu;N hai] that this too was our madness. That is, what kind of takalluf can there be with a mischievous person, and what kind of displeasure? She sometimes teases, and sometimes torments us. What meaning can it have to quarrel with such a person? We've come to a truce with the beloved. Now that we've become accustomed to the pleasure of laughing and enjoyment with her, what a pity that we spent so much time in displeasure! This too was our madness. (264)

Faruqi: The deliberately chosen adoption of displeasure has been called a style of madness because it's a device-- i.e., that we would, for some time, pretend to be displeased-- that madness itself had taught us. If we were in our right mind, then we wouldn't have been able to do such a major task

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(mischievousness, short-sightedness, the trouble and pain of keeping the beloved herself at a distance). There are a hundred kinds of dangers in being angry with the beloved; no sensible person in his right mind would incur them.... The question remains, why commit such a folly?.... The answer to this question is in fact contained in the word 'mischievous one' [sho;x]. The beloved considered us foolish and trivial, and mocked us. She treated us in such a way that it was clearly apparent that she didn't intend to humiliate us; rather, she considers it a form of sarcasm and teasing. This behavior of hers embarrassed us. Our madness taught us [this strategy]. But in some [chande] days we realized that ceasing to visit the beloved is worse, it's better to again present oneself humbly in her court.... To prove takalluf (which is a thing of responsibility) to be madness (which is a thing of irresponsibility and agitation) is a wonder even for a poet like Ghalib, not to speak of the ordinary run of poets. And on top of this, the axis of the verse has been placed in a common word like sho;x . And all this at the age of twenty-four! Ghalib put it well when he said that if poetry were a religion, then his divan would be the scripture of that religion. (250-51)

FWP: SETS == BHI; IDIOMS Faruqi has done a lovely job, and I'd only like to add some further thoughts about the first phrase in the second line, takalluf bar-:taraf . Literally it means 'leaving aside formality', and of course it's a stock introductory phrase like 'to tell the truth' or 'if you want to know the truth'. For more examples and discussion of this phrase, see {65,1}. These verses, like the present verse, place the phrase right at the beginning of the line, just where such a phrase might be expected in real speech: the speaker says something, then decides to add something else that will be particularly candid. In the present verse, the commentators have concentrated on discussing (2a), the 'claim of candor' sense, in which the 'that too' refers to the show of displeasure described in the first line. I agree that that's the more prominent reading. But I love the prospect of adding (2b), in which 'that too' refers to the act of 'putting aside formality' itself. On this reading, the 'for some time' in the first line receives full weight. The verse becomes an inventory of tactics: 'For some time I pretended to be mad at her; then the pretense was put aside-- and that too was a style of madness.' No matter how I treated her, it was a 'style' of madness. Either it was a deliberately planned device, cunningly suggested by madness; and/or it was a result, a symptom, a function of madness. The very fact that the second line is so contrived as to yield both (2a) and (2b), with the thaa in just the right 'swing' position, and the ek that emphasizes the possibility of other styles of madness-- truly, the man was a genius. Who could possibly get more mileage out of ten or so words?

{132,3} ;xayaal-e marg kab taskii;N dil-e aazurdah ko ba;xshe mire daam-e tamannaa me;N hai ik .said-e zabuu;N vuh bhii 1) when would the thought of death bestow comfort on the sorrowful/vexed heart? 2) in my net of longing, {even that / that too} is one weak/inferior/unworthy prey

Notes: aazurdah : 'Afflicted... sad, dispirited, sorrowful; vexed... displeased, dissatisfied; weary'. (Platts p.45) zabuu;N : 'Weak, infirm, helpless; vile, evil, ill, bad, wicked, faulty; unfortunate, unlucky'. (Platts p.615)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: ba;xshiidan is a Persian verb; from it, in Urdu ba;xshnaa has been made.... but to use such a word is considered somewhat devoid of eloquence [;Gairfa.sii;h]. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: To people who are melancholy, whose hearts have been extinguished, the thought of death-- that is, the hope for death-- cannot give comfort. That too/also is one inferior prey in my longing-net. That is, the cure for an extinguished heart is death. Merely the thought of death cannot give it comfort. (264)

Faruqi: The meaning of .said is not only 'prey', but also an animal that is hunted. That is, it's not necessary for it to come into the net.... Now please consider the refrain. The point of vuh bhii is that the net of longing is full of animals that are emaciated and moribund, and the thought of death too is one emaciated animal among them. It's clear that the reason for their emaciation is either that they've been in captivity for a long time (the longings have been lying around in the heart for many days), or that they were moribund in the first place (the longings didn't have the strength to emerge, that is, to be fulfilled).... From such attenuated longings, what comfort would the heart have? My heart spread the net of longing, many longings were captured in it, but they are like weak/inferior prey.... Thousands of longings like the 'thought of death' are in the net of longing, so what hope can there be from the longing for death? That is, how can it be comforting that death will come? No longing of mine is being fulfilled [nikalnaa]-- what hope is there that the longing for death will be fulfilled? Especially when it's like a weak/inferior prey-- that is, such an attenuated animal that it wouldn't be able to emerge [nikalnaa] from the net?... He's composed a fine verse. On the foundation of just such verses, Ghalib's side of the balance-scale seems to weigh more heavily than Mir's. (252-53)

FWP: SETS == BHI; EXCLAMATION 'When?' asks the first line. And at once we realize the answer is 'Never!' Such a resonant and powerful rhetorical question adds great exclamatory energy to the verse. And its verb is ba;xshnaa , 'to bestow', which is used only for gifts from superiors to inferiors. (The king may 'bestow' something on you, but you can only 'present' something to him.) Thus the use of zabuu;N in the second line works perfectly-- the 'thought of death' is too vile to be able to 'bestow' anything on anybody. Then of course, the 'thought of death' is only one [ek] prey, out of many that are in my 'net of longing'. And the vuh bhii cleverly keeps open both possibilities: 'that too' (death is just one more in a long series of similar, and similarly unfulfilled, longings); and 'even that' (death is in a class by itself, yet somehow even it too disillusions me). Faruqi also makes an enjoyable point about the confinement of the longings in the net. When longings are fulfilled, they are idiomatically said to 'emerge' [nikalnaa], meaning to appear in the world, to come true. A perfect example of this use (and of further wordplay with the verb as well) is found in {219,1}. The 'thought of death' is just one more trapped, confined, nonemergent longing, destined never to see the light of day. To have one's prey trapped in one's net, which normally is a good thing, turns out in this case to be a disaster, since the trapped longings can never be fulfilled unless they 'emerge' from the net.

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Such a witty turnaround! We expect that the 'prey' in a hunter's 'net' would be something desirable-- something captured after painstaking labor and borne home in triumph. But here, the hunter is like a disgusted fisherman with a netful of small, weak, dying, worthless fish. Even if one of them is said to be Moby Dick, plainly it's of no more use than the others. The hunter's sorrowful/vexed [aazurdah] heart can't be appeased by such trifling prey. He seeks, in his endless longing, to pursue far bigger game-- but what? Death itself, as opposed to the mere 'thought of death'? Something beyond death? Something beyond thought?

{132,4} nah kartaa kaash naalah mujh ko kyaa ma((luum thaa hamdam kih hogaa baa((i;s-e afzaa))ish-e dard-e daruu;N vuh bhii 1) if only I had not lamented! how could I know, companion, 2) that it would/will be a cause of increase in inner pain-- {that too / even that}?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The first line is anchored in idiom, but inappropriate Persianness is dominant [;gaalib] over the second line. The word hamdam has an affinity with naalah , otherwise 'formerly' [pahle] or 'Advisor' [naa.si;h] could also have fit in here. (142)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh companion, if only I had not lamented! How did I know that the heart's hidden grief and sorrow would by this means become apparent? The meaning is, I used to consider that a lament will certainly have an effect, and through it some aspect of success will emerge. But its being proved ineffective has given an even greater blow to the heart. (198)

Bekhud Mohani: If I had known that from lamenting, the pain of the heart would increase further, then I would not have lamented. That is, now the state I'm in is such that not even a lament is free from the fear of harm. (264)

FWP: SETS == BHI; EXCLAMATION Here is the ultimate exclamatory verse, based on sheer expressive emotion and getting maximum mileage from the ambiguity of bhii . Is it that everything else increases inner suffering, and now I've found out the hard way that lamentation, like everything else, also increases it ('that too')? Or is it that I expected lamentation to be in a different category, but to my shock and dismay even lament itself has the effect of increasing inner suffering ('even that')? A lament is supposed to externalize grief, to vent it, to make it manifest to the beloved and to the world at large. At worst, one would expect that it might have no effect at all: perhaps through the lover's weakness it was inaudible; or else in the general indifference to his plight, no one cared to listen to it. But the lover has now discovered a new 'worst case' below the level of the previously imagined worst case. Instead of venting and releasing grief from the heart into the outside world, the lament actually works in reverse: it increases the lover's inner suffering. Who knew that a lament could work like that? And how, in fact, does it work like that? Does the lover feel moved to sympathetic pain by his own lament, the way he hopes (vainly) that others would feel? Does he feel his pain redoubled by the clear evidence that no one is listening to his lament, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests? Is his heart now so weak and feverish that even the process of lamentation, which is supposed

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to lighten it, burdens it instead, as Bekhud Mohani proposes? The lover so excels at 'worst case' situations that the mechanisms could be all of the above.

{132,5} nah itnaa burrish-e te;G-e jafaa par naaz farmaa))o mire daryaa-e betaabii me;N hai ik mauj-e ;xuu;N vuh bhii 1) don't be so coquettish/proud about the sharpness of the sword of tyranny/cruelty 2) in my sea of restlessness, {that too / even that} is one wave/ripple of blood

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: While being slain, and in the state of writhing in pain, these words are spoken. And by the 'sword of tyranny' that sword itself is meant, by which he is being slain and by which tyranny is being practiced. But the simile of a 'wave' for a sword is carelessness/ casualness [taba;z;zul]. By calling it a 'wave of blood of the sea of restlessness' he has created novelty. The gist is, what is your one sword worth? My sea of restlessness is full of waves, and hundreds of such swords are piercing me. (143)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh my murderer, why are you so proud of the sharpness of the sword of tyranny? I agree that the sword of your tyranny is slaying me. But what is that? In my sea of restlessness, it is one lowly wave of blood. (198)

Bekhud Mohani: Why do you plume yourself on your sword? It too is one wave of blood in my sea of restlessness. In the state of restlessness, every wave of blood that runs in my veins is just as piercing. (264)

FWP: SETS == BHI Nazm has perceptively indicated the real problem: why is the 'sword of tyranny' to be equated with a 'wave of blood'? The problem is especially acute because the first line itself tells us that the beloved's pride is in the 'sharpness' of the sword, and implies that that might be the basis of comparison. A wave of blood can be many things, but 'sharp' is not one that springs readily to mind. Of course, if we unleash our imaginations, we can come up with possibilities. The sword is a wave of blood because the sword is dripping with (the lover's) blood, and because it swings through the air for its slashes the way a wave of blood would ripple through the sea. The sword is 'one' wave of blood because it is long and thin like a wave, and and moves along its long axis the way a single wave does. The sword is a wave of blood because it is limited, contingent, short-lived, and superficial, capable of causing only minor effects-- the way a wave of blood would travel only briefly, among hundreds of its equally short-lived and trivial peers, over the surface of the much larger, more powerful, and longer-lasting sea of blood that is the lover's own passion and suffering. What the beloved can do to him is nothing compared to what he is already, and always, doing to himself. Still, by Ghalib's standards this kind of thing is not exactly overwhelming. To see how astonishingly much more he can do when he tries, consider the brilliant {16,4}, which also deals with unusual kinds of waves.

{132,6} mai-e ((ishrat kii ;xvaahish saaqii-e garduu;N se kyaa kiije liye bai;Thaa hai ik do chaar jaam-e vaazhguu;N vuh bhii

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1) as if the wine of ecstasy would be requested from the Cupbearer of the sky! 2) {he too / even he} has already taken one or two or four inverted/inauspicious cups

Notes: do chaar : 'A few (= do tiin )'. (Platts p.529) vaazhguu;N : 'Inverted, reversed, turned upside down, topsy-turvy; -contrary, opposite... --unfortunate, unlucky'. (Platts p.1174) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: One two four-- and it came to 'seven heavens' [saat aasmaan]. (143)

Bekhud Dihlavi: What hope would there be for the request to the Cupbearer of the sky for the wine of ecstasy? He too has already taken one or two or four overturned cups. Putting together one and two and four, there are seven heavens, and overturned cups are always empty. The meaning is, where in the cups of the sky is the wine of ecstasy, that we should long for it? (199)

Bekhud Mohani: It's vain to long for ecstasy from the Cupbearer of the sky. That poor wretch himself is sitting there with some cups overturned-- what will he give to anybody? (264)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS WINE: {49,1} What a lovely combination of wordplay and meaning-play! The first line is abstract and almost uninterpretable-- and even the second holds its double punches in reserve until the last possible moment. Why should we not ask the Cupbearer of the sky for the wine of ecstasy? =Because he's already drunk it all, and overturned his cups afterwards to show that he's had enough. =Because he has no wine-- all he's ever had is overturned cups, in the form of the domes of the heavens. =Because we want a cup of the auspicious wine of ecstasy, and all he's ever had is 'unfortunate, unlucky' cups. =Because he's already drunk so many cups of wine that he's intoxicated, and is thus unable or unwilling to listen to our appeals. Then there's the delightful number play. Ek do means 'one or two', just as in English. And do chaar means 'two or three', or perhaps 'three or four'. So that when the speaker conflates the two idiomatic expressions into ek do chaar , he not only evokes both expressions, but also conjures up the wonderful fuzziness of intoxication-- 'well, I've had two or three drinks, or maybe it was four; or wait, it could have been five'. Plainly, they've all begun to blur together. And as the commentators point out, if you add up one plus two plus four you get seven, the number of the 'seven heavens' [saat aasmaan], the concentric spheres of Greek cosmology. Each of which would of course look, from earth, like an inverted bowl or cup. Inverted in satisfaction by a happily intoxicated drinker who can't hold another drop? Inverted in despair to show the lack of wine? Inverted in dismay at the 'unfortunate, unlucky' nature of the wine? As so often, the choice is ours.

{132,7} mire dil me;N hai ;Gaalib shauq-e va.sl o shikvah-e hijraa;N ;xudaa vuh din kare jo us se mai;N yih bhii kahuu;N vuh bhii

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1a) in my heart ardor for union and complaint of separation is predominant 1b) in my heart, Ghalib, is ardor for union and complaint of separation 2) may the Lord send that day when I would say this to her, and that too

Notes: ;Gaalib : 'Overcoming, overpowering, victorious, triumphant, prevailing, prevalent, predominant'. (Platts p.768) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word ;gaalib here has both meanings. (143)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here, the pen-name has given an extraordinary pleasure. Two meanings have been born. As for the rest, the meaning is only, may the Lord show me the day when I would tell her my ardor for union, and would make a complaint about separation. That is, may I somehow find an occasion to meet her. This is a peerless closing-verse that he has composed. (199)

Bekhud Mohani: At the time when this prayer is presumably being made, the heart must be in an extraordinary state. Sometimes complaints of separation must come to his lips, and sometimes stories of the ardor of union. (265)

Arshi: Compare {24,8}. (256)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY 'UNION': {5,2} What's in a name? Plenty, if it's a pen-name; simply a play on it is often enough to energize a verse most enjoyably. Here, the name/word ;Gaalib is placed with absolutely perfect precision. Placed as it is, it feels so perfectly natural as a term of meditative self-address that only on the second or third reading does the literal meaning come to mind. And then we notice that it's equally perfectly placed to mean 'dominant, prevailing' over the mind. It will require the intervention of the Lord himself, to permit any of those alltoo-powerful yearnings to find expression. And even then-- even when expressing to the Lord his wildest longings-- the lover imagines not union, but only the chance to speak to the beloved about his longing for it. He imagines a conversation with her: he would have two different things to talk about, both of them prepared in advance. He would tell her of his heartfelt longing for union, and make his complaint at not achieving it. Beyond this chance for conversation, even his imagination seems hardly to dare to go.

Ghazal 133 4 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: abo;N se composed 1821; Hamid p. 110; Arshi #131; Raza p. 239

{133,1} hai bazm-e butaa;N me;N su;xan aazurdah labo;N se tang aa))e hai;N ham aise ;xvushaamad-:talabo;N se 1a) in the gathering of idols, poetry/speech is vexed/displeased/wearied by the lips 1b) in the gathering of idols, poetry/speech is from vexed/displeased/wearied lips 2) we have become irritated/harassed by such flattery-seekers

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Notes: aazurdah : 'Afflicted (by, - se ), sad, dispirited, sorrowful; vexed (with, - se ), displeased, dissatisfied; weary (of, - se )'. (Platts p.45) tang aanaa : 'To be distressed or incommoded (by), to be in distress or difficulty; to be troubled, or vexed, or harassed (by); to be utterly weary or sick (of), to have one's patience exhausted (by); to be dejected or sad'. (Platts p.340) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has called speech a 'flattery-seeker'. That is, in the beloved's gathering, speech has become irritated with my lips. It wants to perform flattery, and to come as far as the lips. The gist is that before the beloved, words don't emerge from the mouth. Or he has called the beloved a flattery-seeker, such that while flattering and flattering her, speech has become disaffected with the lips. (143)

Bekhud Mohani: A strange situation in the beloved's gathering is to be seen. Here when we look, we see that speech is vexed with the lips. That is, whoever is there is seated with the seal of silence on his lips. We are tired of such flatteryseekers, our heart wants to open itself and speak, and enjoy the pleasure of the company. But here it's a different world. (265)

Faruqi: The best solution is that 'flattery-seeker' is not a description of the beloved, but rather of speech. In such a situation, the word 'vexed' [aazurdah] too becomes more powerful, because nothing has occurred to show that the beloved's awesomeness would prevent a voice from emerging, and we would say that speech is vexed or angry with the lips. Thus the better approach is that having arrived in the gathering of the idols, words and speech find their minds lifted up to the sky. The beloved always remains vexed/disaffected anyway-- that is, she doesn't pay that much attention. Now speech too becomes vexed: 'we want to speak, but speech doesn't emerge from our mouth, we remain seated, rapt and entranced'. Two questions can emerge about this. The first is, why, having arrived in the gathering of the idols, does the mind of speech rise to the sky? And [the second question is that] 'flattery-seekers' is plural-- how would it be said to describe 'speech', which is singular? The answer to the first question is that everything conspires against the lover. Even when somehow or other he manages to obtain entry to the beloved's gathering, then speech conspires against him-- that is, he no longer has the power of speech. It's as if words are seeking to be flattered, to induce them to take the trouble of coming to the lip. The answer to the second question is that the idiom is just this: in order to create force in speech, the plural would be used instead of the singular. 'I am irritated with people'-- that is, 'I am irritated with you'-- is an everyday idiom. The pleasure of the verse is in the fact that speech, which won't come to the lips, has been called a 'flattery-seeker'. It's clear that flattery is done only by means of words. If words are used, then speech will spontaneously occur. Thus even flattery is impossible. That is, in the gathering of idols, it's impossible to open one's lips. (254-55)

FWP: SETS == A,B; POETRY IDOL: {8,1} Each line is a separate statement, and it's left up to us to decide what their relationship is. The second line, at least, is relatively simple: we are fed up with 'such flattery-seekers'. Faruqi's point about the plural form having a

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colloquial effect (of indirection and dark sarcastic muttering to oneself) is excellent. The flattery-seeker could thus in fact be singular, and pluralized merely for rhetorical effect. So far so good. What kind of flattery-seeker(s) are we fed up with? The first line offers us several candidates; taking them in order, they are: (1) the idols (that is, the beautiful beloveds, who are often treated as plural for no particular reason-- unless perhaps for the effect mentioned by Faruqi above); (2) speech; (3) the lips. (1) The idols, or beautiful beloveds, could be flattery-seekers: they keep hordes of lovers around them in the gathering, and encourage them to outdo each other in praise and devotion. Even as the lover mutters darkly about his fed-upness, we notice that he's muttering right from within the idols' gathering; he hasn't left, or even ceased to speak, though he does claim that his speech comes from vexed lips, as in (1b). A weakness of this reading: where in the verse itself is the 'proof' or evidence that the idols are flatteryseekers? (2) Speech itself could be a flattery-seeker. That's why it emerges from 'vexed' lips (1b). The lover considers it ostentatious and vulgarly selfpromoting-- even if it's his own speech, and even if it's required by the social situation. He begrudges every word. Or perhaps the words, vain and ambitious, insist on emerging against his will and despite his vexed efforts to contain them. For after all, in the presence of the beloved, one should be silent, in a kind of mystical rapture (see {116,5}). (3) The lips could be flattery-seekers, and then it's speech that is vexed and displeased with them. In such a gathering, speech wants to restrain and refine itself, to withhold itself. Or perhaps to make itself felt in other ways-- but how exactly? Through humility rather than eloquence? Through silence rather than a voice? Through deeds rather than words? Through some direct communion between the lover's heart and the beloved's? And then of course, 'speech' [su;xan] is so often (perhaps even more often than not) used to refer to poetry, as in {33,4}, {50,3}, and many other verses. That's in fact my own best suggestion for making meaning from this somewhat problematical verse. The intimate connection of one's own 'poetry', recited before one's beloved, with a desire for flattery, can hardly be missed; it's much more potent than that of mere 'speech'. And the desire for flattery can go either way: the beloved can desire flattery through the poetry (both in its content, and by the very fact of its composition and recitation); and the poet-lover can desire to hear flattery of his poetry from the beloved. Still, it doesn't fit together as brilliantly, or with such an audible 'click', as many of his verses do. It feels almost like a puzzle with a piece missing.

{133,2} hai daur-e qada;h vaj'h-e pareshaanii-e .sahbaa yak baar lagaa do ;xum-e mai mere labo;N se 1) the going round of the flagon is a cause for perturbation to/of the wine 2) one time, place the wine-cask to my lips

Notes: pareshaanii : 'Dispersion, scattering, confusion, disorder, derangement, perplexity, bewilderment, perturbation, distraction; distress, embarassment, trouble, misery'. (Platts p.259) ;xum : 'A large vessel or jar; an alembic, a still'. (Platts p.493) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The perturbation of the wine in circulation is obvious: whoever takes part in the circulation will drink, and the wine will be divided, and for divided things to be pareshaa;N is inevitable. And when one single individual drinks all the wine, then the wine will be saved from pareshaanii . The way it was

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in one place in the cask/still, so it will now remain in one place in my head. To create hyperbole about the amount of wine-drinking has been a longstanding habit of poets. The author too has imitated this; otherwise, this theme has no pleasure. (143)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Wine is a cause of affection; to make it perturbed is not becoming; and the circulation of the flagon is a cause of perturbation.... To express one's meaning with such excellence, and to present it with a 'proof' [daliil], is not devoid of pleasure.

Bekhud Mohani: In the circulation of the cups, the wine will be apportioned to everybody. It's obvious that those who drink a great deal will not be satisfied. It will also be necessary to wait. Don't make me part of the circulation-- one time, tilt the cask! (265)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR WINE: {49,1} What a witty and amusing little gem of a verse! And as a play on the multiple possibilities of pareshaanii , it's superb-- rivaled only perhaps by {111,8}. Because of the flexibility of pareshaanii (with its literal and metaphorical meanings all fully available) and the ambiguities of the i.zaafat construction, the first line can be read in two different ways. It might be the cautionary complaint of an oenophile, a gourmet wine-lover: 'Careful! Don't you know the wine has to 'rest'? All this pouring and sloshing isn't good for it! It needs to settle.' Or it might be the empathic murmur of a compassionate kindred spirit: 'All this going around in circles-- how could the wine not feel dizzy, perturbed, shaken up? When the wine is so kind to us, how can we torment it so?' Until we're allowed, under mushairah conditions, to hear the second line, we have no idea which way to read the first one. And of course, when we hear the second line, we can't help but laugh: not only does it work perfectly as a solution to the problem posed in either reading of the first line, but it adds considerable energy, charm, and humor of its own. If the wine cask (or even, still more extravagantly, the still in which the wine is made) is placed directly to my lips, all problems will be over. The wine will no longer be 'perturbed' by circulating, since I'll drink it all. Isn't that the perfect solution? Aren't I thoughtful, inventive, and humane? Aren't you grateful for my self-sacrifice and helpfulness? Best of all, oh Cupbearer, you'll only need to do this 'one time' [yak baar], and that will suffice-- apparently forever. The lover does, after all, claim to have the most extraordinary wine-drinking capacities; remember {12,2}. This is the first verse in which Ghalib contrasts the 'cask' with lesser, commonplace wine vessels. Other amusing examples include: {175,3} and {178,8}.

{133,3} rindaan-e dar-e mai-kadah gustaa;x hai;N zaahid zinhaar nah honaa :taraf un be-adabo;N se 1) the libertines/drunkards of the door of the wine-house are mischievous, Ascetic 2) beware! don’t get mixed up with those disrespectful ones

Notes: rind : 'A sceptic; a knave, rogue; a lewd fellow, reprobate, drunkard, debauchee, blackguard, profligate, libertine, rake'. (Platts p.600) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Oh Ascetic, the libertines who station themseles at the door of the winehouse are mischievous. Beware-- don't mix it up [galnaa] with them! That is,

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don't mention the forbiddenness of wine in front of them. kisii se :taraf honaa is now rejected [matruuk]; it's an idiom from Mir's time. (143)

Bekhud Mohani: :taraf honaa : 'to confront, to become entangled with'.... Some libertine is saying this, who still has some regard for the Ascetic, and who considers the Ascetic worthy of respect and the libertines rude. (265)

Faruqi: The reprimand is especially about those libertines who station themselves at the door of the wine-house. They have been declared to be more discourteous and mischievous, in comparison with those people who quietly/furtively go in, drink, and come out. The ones who station themselves at the door are the ones who did not attain success inside, who in Mir's words are those with nothing left to lose [maayah baa;xtahgaa;N]. They have nothing to gain or lose. Ascetic Sahib, if you get mixed up with them, you'll be humiliated. If you must deliver a lecture, then go on inside-the people there will be ashamed, and will listen for a while. From that the point also emerges that although apparently he's expressing sympathy for the Ascetic, the real purpose is that the Maulana should be induced to make a tour of the inside. (257)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION WINE: {49,1} The word rind is wonderful, and nowadays almost untranslatable. We still have 'rakish', which works well for rindaanah , but we really don't use 'rake' any more, so we have to make to with a patchwork of inadequate substitutes. The rind is a mixed, bittersweet epithet, both a sort of compliment (people like to be thought a bit 'rakish') and a sort of putdown (the rake's life is limited, and goes against the grain of the larger society's purposes). By whom is this inshaa))iyah warning being spoken, and under what circumstances? There's no way whatsoever for us to tell. As so often, we're left with a range of possibilities, with no way to choose among them. Is the speaker a sincere friend of the Ascetic, who wants to spare his dignity? Or a stray passerby on the street, with unknown motives, calling out a prudent warning? Or another of the libertines-- who might be better-mannered than the worst group, or who might be offering the 'advice' as a way of taunting the Ascetic? And consider the context: most probably the advice is offered because the Ascetic is seen heading down the street toward the wine-house. What is the Ascetic really up to? Is he planning to exhort the debauchees from outside-or to actually enter the wine-house himself? Either way, a warning about the cluster of libertines at the doorway would be very appropriate. And if he's indeed planning to go in, then is it possible that he's backsliding a bit, and looking to have a drink or two himself? (In this context consider {219,9}.) As Faruqi suggests, the real intent of the advice could be to induce him to go in. (Or, of course, to induce him to avoid the wine-house entirely, since its door is guarded by such ruffians.) Doorways, roadsides, threshholds, crevice-work in walls-- all such liminal places are grist to Ghalib's mill. How they multiply the possibilities of meaning!

{133,4} bedaad-e vafaa dekh kih jaatii rahii aa;xir har-chand mirii jaan ko thaa rab:t labo;N se 1) look at the cruelty/injustice of fidelity! that it kept going away, finally 2) although my life had a connection with the lips

Notes: jaan ba-lab : 'At the point of death, dying, expiring'. (Platts p.272) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: Although my life was very familiar with my lips-- that is, my life always remained on my lips-- as faithfulness departed, it kept going away, and left behind such familiar and beloved companions as the lips. (144)

Bekhud Mohani: Although my life always remained only on my lips, now look at the tyranny of faithfulness-- that it couldn't endure, and took its leave. That is, in being faithful, a person doesn't only remain with his life on his lips, but rather washes his hands of his life entirely. As if faithfulness had created separation between two lovers, life and lips. (266)

Faruqi: The point is really that faithfulness is cruel in the sense that it can't endure the life's having a relationship with anything except the beloved. The claim of faithfulness is that if the life would have a relationship, then it would be only with the beloved. On the basis of this relationship with the beloved, we have come near to death. The life, having come to the lips, has paused there. Faithfulness didn't consent that the life should have even this kind of relationship with the lips. Thus finally the life was compelled to break off its relationship even with the lips. He's composed a devastating verse. To construe jaan ba-lab honaa as a relation between the life and the lip is an uncommon theme. (258)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH This is a smashingly in-your-face mushairah verse in its structure. The first line is set up in a way that positively forces us to misread it. For 'faithfulness' [vafaa] is feminine, and the feminine singular verb 'kept on going' [jaatii rahii] not only agrees with it, but also makes for a perfect semantic fit, for naturally the progressive departure of 'faithfulness' would seem indeed to be a case of 'cruelty/injustice' [bedaad]. Not until (after a delay, of course, under mushairah performance conditions) we've been finally vouchsafed the second line, can we perceive that the feminine singular thing that 'kept on going' was not faithfulness, but 'my life' [mirii jaan]. And the only way we can perceive this, or indeed make sense of the second line at all, is by recognizing the wonderfully evoked idiom jaan ba-lab honaa , 'for the life to be on the lips', meaning for one to be on the verge of death. Even then, we recognize the phrase only by implication, since the idiom on which the whole verse rests is nowhere present in the verse itself. As Faruqi comments, the idiom 'the life to be with the lip' has here been construed as a relationship, and thus one that must be given up. The 'life' must abandon its longtime companion, the 'lip', even as the lover must abandon his life. Both, in the name of 'faithfulness', are practicing a 'cruelty' or 'injustice'; the verse exclaims at it, calls our attention to it-- perhaps reproachfully, but perhaps with a reluctant (or even unreluctant) admiration.

Ghazal 134 2 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aaraa nahii;N karte composed after 1838; Hamid p. 110; Arshi #208; Raza p. 284

{134,1} taa ham ko shikaayat kii bhii baaqii nah rahe jaa sun lete hai;N go ;zikr hamaaraa nahii;N karte 1) so that we wouldn't have an occasion left even to complain 2) she listens, although she doesn’t mention us

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if somebody spontaneously mentions me before her, then she doesn't even forbid him, so that I wouldn't have a clear cause for unkindness and quarreling and complaint. In this verse the author has versified the state of the beloved's temperament which is that of extreme hostility. That is, she doesn't even express anger, so that he could apologize; she doesn't express hatred, so that he could complain. She doesn't even express any grievance; it's as though she had never met him. To versify states like these is always a depiction of inner reality. And this is poetry of a high level, although in it there's no excellence of expression and rhetoric [badii((]. [He quotes from a Persian work on poetics to show that poetic pleasure can come not only from 'metricality' but also from 'depiction':] that is, the proof that pleasure is obtained from depiction/description [mu;haakaat] is that when some creature is disgusting to look at, people are happy to look at a picture of it; if they would see the creature itself, then they would avert their eyes. Thus it can be learned that pleasure is neither in its aspect, nor in the picture itself; but rather, the picture as an occasion of depiction is pleasing. The point is that the reason that the picture is pleasing, is the same reason that the verse is pleasing. That is, that poetry is good in which the glory of the depicting/painting would emerge. (144)

Bekhud Dihlavi: And in both of these things her purpose is only that we wouldn't have even cause for complaint against her. (200)

Bekhud Mohani: In such a situation, to the lover death looks easier than such a life. In such a situation, the side of hope weighs lightly in the balance scales, and the side of hopelessness becomes heavy. (266)

FWP: Nazm makes a thoughtful observation: this is a verse of extreme simplicity and bareness: no wordplay, no charm, no wit, no clever idioms, no elaborate multiple meanings. Perhaps the only ambiguity is the question of whom the beloved listens to. Nazm feels that it's some random person who just happens to mention the lover; but it could also be-- and this is almost a worse vision-- that the lover himself is allowed to speak and to plead his case before her. And she listens to it all-- and then says not a word in reply, but turns to her maid and asks for a shawl, or inquires whether any letters have come. Nazm goes on to praise the verse, and to locate its power in its 'depiction' or 'description' [mu;haakaat]. What we enjoy, in his view, is not the beloved's coldly terrifying alienation itself, but the economy and masterfulness with which it is depicted. Nazm is inconsistent and quirky in his use of poetic principles, but here he makes a very plausible point. If we don't enjoy the subtlety of psychological evocation in this verse, what do we enjoy? There literally isn't anything else on offer. And yet the verse feels grim, chilling, powerfully bleak.

{134,2} ;Gaalib tiraa a;hvaal sunaa de;Nge ham un ko vuh sun ke bulaa le;N yih ijaaraa nahii;N karte 1) Ghalib, we’ll narrate/convey your situation to her 2) that she, having heard it, would send for you-- this we don’t undertake

Notes: The spelling of ijaarah has been changed to suit the rhyme.

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ijaarah : 'Lease, farm, contract, rent, hire; right, title, monopoly'. (Platts p.22) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The verse is very clear, but the causes of its eloquence [balaa;Gat] are very subtle. When non-responsibility-taking [be;havaalah] people say sunaa de;Nge ham un ko , its meaning is, as an idiom, that some time other, on one or another occasion, watching her mood, in the course of conversation or joke-telling, we'll convey your situation to her ear; that much responsibility we undertake. That is, we don't have the courage to say it straight out. The point is that all these meanings are comprised in that phrase. Because this is the occasion on which it's used, and necessarily the beloved's pride and loftiness and imposingness and quick-temperedness and self-regard and selfishness also become apparent. Suppose that the author had said kah de;Nge ham un se -- then the multiplicity of meanings would have vanished. And ijaarah nahii;N karte is said when someone would be extremely persevering and would say 'by any means, arrange a meeting between me and her-- otherwise, I will have a complaint against you'. In short, this phrase has captured a picture of the lover's impatient insistence. For one expression to be multivalent [ka;siir ul-ma((nii] is a major one among the causes of eloquence. Then on top of that, the addition that on the one hand the beloved's dignity and coquetry, and on the other hand the lover's impatience and insistence-- glimpses of both these pictures can be seen in this verse. (145)

Bekhud Dihlavi: What a fine closing-verse he has composed! And to what an extent the words have assumed the aspect of eloquence-- it's impossible to praise it enough. (200)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the poet has not said all these things openly, nor does it seem that he wants to say all this. But the words have emerged from the pen such that the beloved's quick-temperedness, loftiness, self-regard, pride, stubbornness, lack of sympathy, self-interest also drip from it. Along with that, the lover's restless, hopeless secrets too can be seen glittering here and there. The verse is peerless. (266)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE Here the speaker is only one person, or one group of people, and the voice is entirely different from that of the lover; it doesn't occur to us for a moment that the verse could be, like so many closing-verses, one of self-address. In analyzing its idiomatic overtones, Nazm has once again excelled himself. Perhaps because of the legalistic senses of ijaarah , I have a vision of the speaker as a practical person, a social engineer in effect, who can undertake to do this or that. He has some sort of access to the beloved; probably he's a casual acquaintance of some kind. He is begged or bribed by the lover to plead his case before the beloved. Unmoved, he gives his reply: he's willing to undertake to get the message across, but (he says with a shrug of the shoulders), he doesn't promise that it will work. He won't undertake, or contract, or bind himself, to achieve the desired outcome. The colloquial plainness of his speech is the real delight of the verse. I've had contractors talk to me just like that-- well, we can do it if you want, it's up to you, but (with a shrug of the shoulders) we don't guarantee that it will work. Meaning, of course, that we don't think it will work; but, hey, it's your money. It's clear that the speaker doesn't himself support what he's being asked to do, or hold out any real hopes for it. But his words are strictly businesslike; he implies that it's not up to him to judge the larger costs and

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benefits. It's the understated, unmovedly realistic, emotion-free practicality that's the charm. And it's the shrug of the shoulders in the last half of the second line, with its bleak and lingering finality, that packs the verse's real punch.

Ghazal 135 1 verse; meter G5; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1833; Hamid p. 110; Arshi #202; Raza p. 278

{135,1} ghar me;N thaa kyaa kih tiraa ;Gam use ;Gaarat kartaa vuh jo rakhte the ham ik ;hasrat-e ta((miir so hai 1) what was even there in the house, that grief for you would have destroyed it? 2) that which we used to maintain/keep-- a single (vain) longing for construction-- that's still here

Notes: ta((miir : 'Building, constructing; construction, structure; rebuilding; repairing'. (Platts p.327) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [Writing in 1859:] The state of Delhi is this: {135,1}. What's even here, that anybody would loot it? That information [about looting] is only a false rumor. (Arshi 306) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 721 ==Another English trans: Russell and Islam p. 204 ==Another English trans: Daud Rahbar p. 100

Nazm: Not even the grief of passion destroyed that longing. (145)

Hasrat: Ghalib says: {114,6}. (345)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although the grief of passion destroyed us, not even it could destroy the longing for construction. And this very longing for construction was the greatest wealth of our house. Besides it, there was nothing else in our hut that the grief of passion would have destroyed. (201)

Bekhud Mohani: We were in such a ruined condition that in our house there was nothing at all, that the grief of passion would have looted it. Indeed, in the heart there was the longing for construction and flourishingness [aabaadii]; that is still here today. That is, even previously we had the longing that we would be worthy of something, and that passion would loot us and make us happy. And even today that longing remains. (267)

FWP: The verse is easy, colloquial, almost offhand. After the conflagration, the homeowner is being asked what he has lost in the blaze that consumed his house. He shrugs his shoulders and says, 'What did I even have in there to lose? What I had was just one thing, and that'-- perhaps he pauses for a moment to glance over at it and check, or perhaps he doesn't even need to check-- 'well, that's still here'. It's the way one might talk about a fireproof safe. But what is it? In proper mushairah performance style, the punch-phrase, the identity of the one surviving thing, is withheld until almost the end of the second line. (Since this verse is an 'individual' even in its unpublished manuscript form,

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it's impossible to tell what its rhyme and refrain would have been.) And this one surviving thing is so arresting, so bizarre and fascinating, that it alone suffices to energize the whole verse. The one survivor of the complete conflagration is a single [ik] '(vain) longing for construction' [;hasrat-e ta((miir]. (The 'vain' is there because the nature of a ;hasrat , uncapturable in translation, is to be forever unfilfilled.) Why has this one thing survived? Because it's so abstract that it's indestructible? Because it's of so little value that it was hardly there to begin with (as the first line rhetorically suggests)? Because a longing for (re)construction would be exactly the thing that would emerge more intensely after devastation and ruin? Because the devastation caused by the grief of passion might, to the lover, be the force that razes an old building in order to make possible a new one? Ghalib enjoys the multivalence of ta((miir ; the word seems always to appear in contexts of the most extreme abstraction. The great classical example is {10,6}; but especially apropos here is {114,6}, since it too features a ;hasrat-e ta((miir . The simplicity of the verse, the colloquial tone-- and then suddenly, yet casually and dismissively tossed in, that wildly abstract and indestructible 'possession' (something that we used to 'keep' or 'maintain', and confidently continue to harbor), the 'longing for construction'. Is it a 'hope-springseternal' verse, or a wry expression of despair? As usual in the case of Ghalib, it seems to be both at once.

Ghazal 136 7 verses; meter G2; rhyming element: aane kii composed 1821; Hamid p. 111; Arshi #132; Raza p. 239

{136,1} ;Gam-e dunyaa se gar paa))ii bhii fur.sat sar u;Thaane kii falak kaa dekhnaa taqriib tere yaad aane kii 1) from the grief of the world, even if I {found / would find} leisure to lift my head 2) to look at the sky-- the taqriib of remembering you

Notes: paa))ii is, grammatically speaking, a perfect form, but colloquially in contexts like this the perfect is often used instead of the future subjunctive. taqriib : 'Giving access (to), causing to approach, bringing near; approaching; approximation, proximity; approach, access; commending, recommending, mentioning...; occasion, conjuncture;... ceremony, rite; cause, means; appearance, probability; pretence, motive'. (Platts p.330) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: That is, when I get leisure to lift my head from the grief of the world, then the moment I lift my head my gaze falls on the sky. And since it practices oppression, the moment I see it, you come to mind. Now another grief begins. In short, under no circumstances is there any relief from grief. (15455)

Nazm: That is, when he lifted his head from the grief of the world, he looked at the sky-- and there's the taqriib of remembering you. In the second line, 'is' [hai] is omitted. And the reason for taqriib is that you always used to practice such cruelty that we used to remain staring at the sky. Now when sometimes by chance we look at the sky, you come to mind. The conclusion is that when the time came to lift his head from the burden of grief, then looking at

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the sky, he remembered the beloved, and again he was confronted by grief. (145)

Bekhud Mohani: Force has been created in the verse by bhii . And the meaning has been so increased: when do we at all get leisure to lift our head from the grief of the world; and if we even [bhii] do, and lift our head, then no sooner does our gaze fall on the sky, than we remember you. Because it too [bhii] is cruel like you, or because the sky does its work in obedience to your gestures. We remember you-- and our heart begins to writhe in torment. That is, we are so unfortunate that we are immersed in both the grief of passion, and the grief of the world. (267)

FWP: SETS == BHI; GENERATORS; WORD This is such a marvelous verse of word-exploration that I can't even manage to translate the word it explores. In the definition of taqriib given above, almost every nuance of every meaning is beautifully appropriate to the context. =I look at the sky, and that causes me to remember you (neutral report of facts). =I look at the sky involuntarily, and at once I remember you. =I look at the sky deliberately, because then I remember you. =I look at the sky, because it's the nearest available approximation of what you're like. =I look at the sky, and the sky recommends to me that I remember you. =I look at the sky, and that act becomes a ritual, a formal occasion, for remembering you. =I seem to look at the sky, but it's only a pretense; I'm really remembering you. The commentators generally agree that looking at the sky is an involuntary, accidental thing that the lover can't help doing, and that it just adds uselessly to his wretchedness. But it's also quite possible that he does it deliberately, and reports on it wryly or ruefully. After all, the lover is enmeshed in the grubby, commonplace, time-consuming cares of the world against his will; his real obsession is the memory of the beloved, and to replace the former with the latter for even a moment is surely a great gain. (For a meditation on the available kinds of 'grief', see {20,7}.) The commentators also generally agree that remembering the beloved is painful. It's true that the bhii in the first line strongly suggests this. But it could also be read as a mere measure of time: the lover is reporting with pride, 'whenever I manage to get so much as a single free moment, even just the time to lift my head-- I instantly look up at the sky, and devote the time to remembering you'. (This reading applies the bhii to the amount of leisure, rather than to the fact of obtaining leisure.) It's also not clear why remembering the beloved is painful. Is it because the good old days, in which she used to be in the lover's life, were so good that their loss is a misery? Is it because the bad old days, in which she tormented him, were so brutal that they're branded on his brain forever? Is it a matter not of ordinary pain at all, but of some whole other, ungraspable, indescribable experience? If the verse is read as addressed to the divine Beloved, then this latter is surely the case; and in fact then the verse becomes one almost of (ruefully amused?) piety. The second line, in its deliberate, verb-free simplicity, gives us no help whatsoever in narrowing the extremely side range of meanings. Really, this seemingly simple little verse is like clear water in which the bottom is too deep to be seen. For another meditation on the sky, the beloved, and memory, see {27,8}.

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{136,2} khulegaa kis :tara;h ma.zmuu;N mire maktuub kaa yaa rab qasam khaa))ii hai us kaafir ne kaa;Ga.z ke jalaane kii 1) in what way will the theme of my letter/writing be revealed/opened, oh Lord? 2) that infidel has sworn off burning the page/paper

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, there's no hope at all of her opening the letter-- now she's even sworn off burning them! If only she had burnt it and flames would have arisen from the writing, then the theme of the writing would have been revealed, and the state of the burning of grief would have become manifest to her. That is, if on her part there was any chance of my letter being revealed/opened, then it was only this-- that she always used to burn them. Now, not even that hope remains

Bekhud Dihlavi: In two situations the theme of my letter would be clear to her. One would be that if she would open and read it, then she would become aware of its purport. From that infidel there's no hope of this-- how would she open my letter and read it? The second situation would be that in anger she would burn my letter; then she would become aware of the burning of my passion and the fire of separation. But she's sworn off burning the page-- this hope too has been cut off. (201)

Bekhud Mohani: Where there is a fear of a secret being revealed, letters are written on the skin of an onion or something like that, so that when they are brought near fire they are read, and outwardly it seems to be a blank paper. (267-68)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH INFIDEL: {21,12} WRITING: {7,3} As a proper mushairah verse, this one not only withholds its punch-phrase, jalaane kii , until the last possible moment, but actively misdirects us. Everything in the verse leads us to expect that what she's vowed not to do is to 'read' the letter; only at the last possible moment (after the usual tantalizing delays in performance) do we realize that the lover's lament is, instead, that she's vowed not to 'burn' it. At once, with a burst of surprise and amusement, we go back and reconfigure the verse in our minds, and for the first time understand and relish the real importance of the word 'theme' in the first line. If she would 'open' the letter and read it, then the meaning would be 'opened'/revealed to her; but she won't, of course. If she would burn the letter, then the meaning would still be 'opened'/revealed to her, as the flame became an expression of its fiery theme of burning passion. Bekhud Mohani even comes up with the metaphor of invisible ink that can only be read when the paper is heated. But she won't burn the letter either, and that's what the lover is lamenting; it doesn't even cross his mind that she might possibly read it. Why won't she burn it? Is it because she's showing the kind of deadly indifference, far more terrifying than anger, that's described in {134,1}? In this case, perhaps not, because the verse doesn't feel at all bleak. The lover refers to the beloved, with affectionate exasperation, as 'that infidel', and adds to our enjoyment by rolling his eyes and asking the 'Lord' to take note of her behavior (thus providing another fine example of wordplay as

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meaning-play). So probably she's acting out of sheer perversity, just to aggravate the lover. After all, she's not coolly refraining from burning the letter, she's indignantly (and unnecessarily) 'swearing off' burning it-- and that kind of strong emotion from her is not such a bad omen for the lover. (For further examples of the use of qasam , see {89,3}.) She has a 'fiery' attitude toward that letter; in an important sense, the lover has already gotten his message across.

{136,3} lipa;Tnaa parniyaa;N me;N shu((lah-e aatish kaa aasaa;N hai vale mushkil hai ;hikmat dil me;N soz-e ;Gam chhupaane kii 1) for a flame of fire to be wrapped up in painted silk is easy 2) but the skill to hide the burning of grief in the heart is difficult

Notes: parniyaan : 'A kind of fine painted silk (from China); garments made of this silk'. (Platts p.255) ;hikmat : 'Wisdom; knowledge, science; philosophy; --mystery; miracle; -cleverness, skill, art, contrivance, ingenuity'. (Platts p.480) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It's obvious that flame can't remain wrapped in silk, and it flames up. But nevertheless, it's easier than to hide the burning of grief in the heart. The meaning of saying 'easy' is that the heart is more delicate than painted silk, and the burning of grief is even more headstrong than fire. (146)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to wrap a flame in a silk robe, which is impossible, is considered possible-- compared to keeping the burning of grief hidden in the heart. (201) The meaning is that the lover's heart is more delicate than painted silk, and the burning of the grief of passion is even more headstrong than fire. (201)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the heart is more delicate than silk, and the burning of grief is even more fiery than a flame. (268)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; TRANSLATABLES DIFFICULT/EASY: {6,5} The parallelism of the lines is quite conspicuous. The 'flame of fire' is parallel to the 'burning of grief'; 'in painted silk' is parallel to 'in the heart'; 'to be wrapped' is parallel to 'to hide'; 'easy' is parallel to 'difficult' (for opposites are not only very similar, but in fact dependent on each other). What elements in the two lines are not parallel? Only two: the little 'but' that sets up the logical relationship of the two lines, and the 'skill' in the second line. Once we consider the 'skill', we're also led to notice the grammar of the lines: lipa;Tnaa is an intransitive verb, giving no hint that there is or isn't any agent involved; while chhupaanaa is a transitive verb, making it clear that someone would be actively doing something. The first line, grammatically, is about something easy that just happens; the second line is about something contrasted to that by being difficult and requiring the action of an agent with 'skill'. Which makes it all the more piquant that the first verse is about a fancy handmade product of skill, and even an expensive one imported from far away, and about its being used in a quite impossible way. The process in the first line thus seems to flow, intransitively and unproblematically. Both 'difficulty' and 'skill' are reserved for describing the task in the second line: that of (actively) hiding the burning of grief in the heart. The word ;hikmat is a cleverly multivalent one: it can refer to

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knowledge, magical lore, some mysterious or miraculous power; or, of course, some ordinary human contrivance, the fruit of craft and ingenuity. Whatever the exact nature of the 'skill' may be, it far outranks any of the skills involved in making painted Chinese silk and wrapping it around a flame of fire.

{136,4} unhe;N man:zuur apne za;xmiyo;N kaa dekh aanaa thaa u;The the sair-e gul ko dekhnaa sho;xii bahaane kii 1) she wanted to take a look at the state of her wounded ones, and then return 2) she got up for a stroll through the roses-- look at the mischievousness of the excuse!

Notes: After kaa , the colloquially omitted word is ;haal . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, she got up with the excuse of going for a stroll in the garden; and her purpose was to take a look at her wounded ones and then return. The mischievousness in this excuse turned out to be that she considers looking at the wounded ones to be a stroll in the garden. (146)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she wanted to take a quick look at her wounded ones. She could not do it openly before the Others. She said, I'll just go and take a stroll in the garden, I'll see the spectacle of the roses and tulips. With these excuse, she indeed saw her wounded ones. But a stroll among the roses and tulips, and looking at the wounded ones, were shown to be equivalent in her opinion. And this was the mischievousness of the excuse. (202)

Bekhud Mohani: The aspect of flowers is like that of wounded ones. The rose, especially, looks absolutely drenched in blood.... The beloved is so pitiless that she considers a stroll among the wounded to be a stroll in the garden. [Or:] The roses too are wounded by the sword of her coquetry. (268)

Arshi: Compare {8,3}. (255)

FWP: As Bekhud Mohani suggests, it's not quite clear what the beloved actually did. There would seem to be three possibilities. It's their overlapping and blurring that makes the verse amusing. 1) She pretended she was going to walk in the garden, but actually she didn't: she took a quick look at her wounded lovers instead. 2) She announced that she was going to walk in the garden, and then did so, in order to enjoy the sight of the wounded roses, which all suffered in their love for her. 3) She announced that she was going to walk in the garden, and as she walked in the garden she contrived to let her wounded lovers get a glimpse of her, so she could take a quick look at them also. As everybody in the ghazal world knows, the wounded lovers are covered with their hearts' blood, so that they look as red as roses; and they writhe in anguish, the way roses sway and bend in the breeze; and they soon droop and die, as roses in full bloom are also soon doomed to do. There's also the wordplay with dekhnaa -- she wants to 'look at' her lovers, and the listener is enjoined to 'look at' her mischievousness. (Two can play the 'gazing' game.) As Arshi points out, {8,3}, with its 'bloody writhing of the wounded', is an ideal verse for comparison,

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{136,5} hamaarii saadagii thii iltifaat-e naaz par marnaa tiraa aanaa nah thaa :zaalim magar tamhiid jaane kaa 1) it was my simplicity to die over the kindness/'apostrophe' of coquetry 2) yours wasn't an arrival, cruel one, but a preliminary/'preface' to leaving

Notes: iltifaat : 'Regard, attention, countenance; respect, consideration, courtesy, civility, kindness; (in Rhetoric): An apostrophe. (74) tamhiid : 'Arrangement, disposition, adjustment, settlement, management; confirmation; preliminary, preamble, introduction, preface'. (Platts p.337) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, you came in order to leave after a little while; and we in our simplicity considered it kindness, and began to die over this very 'kindness'. (146)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it was our simplicity-- that is, stupidity-- that we became infatuated with your 'kindness of coquetry'. In our house your coming was not coming, but rather a preliminary to going. The meaning is that you came with the intention that you'd go back in a little while, and we'd writhe for months in separation from you. (202)

Bekhud Mohani: Even your kindness was beloved-like coquetry; we were wrong when we considered it an enduring kindness. (268)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The commentators explicate the obvious, and sure enough, the meaning they point to is right there on the grammatical and semantic surface. But there's another layer that they ignore: an enjoyable layer of poetic misdirection and subtle literary wordplay. Under mushairah performance conditions, when we hear the first line, we take iltifaat to mean something like 'kindness, regard'. That's its normal meaning, and it suits perfectly with the general sense of the first line. When we finally (after the proper tantalizing delay) are allowed to hear the second line, we notice that it contains, quite conspicuously, the word tamhiid , which is very commonly used with its literary meaning of a 'preamble, introduction, preface'. And if we have the kind of sophisticated literary knowledge that Ghalib longed for in his audience, we then at once are cued to notice that in the first line, iltifaat too has a literary meaning, although a much less well-known one. In rhetorical terminology, iltifaat is an 'apostrophe', a 'figure of speech which consists in addressing a dead or absent person, an animal, a thing, or an abstract quality or idea as if it were alive, present, and capable of understanding' (Princeton Handbook of Poetry and Poetics, 1974 ed., p. 42). We now have the pleasure of going back and reinterpreting the whole verse along much more complex lines. Alas, says the lover, when you addressed me it was just a kind of set piece, a literary exercise, an address to someone or something who is not necessarily even there; it was a small particular insertion into a larger ongoing work of art and coquetry that wasn't necessarily connected with it at all. So when you spoke to me, you weren't really speaking to 'me'. And when you came, you didn't really visit 'me'; in fact you didn't really come at all-- you just prepared and practiced a literary 'preface' for your departure, as part of your larger ongoing work of coquetry that obviously has no place for me at all.

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I am left behind, dying for you, and your attention is already elsewhere-- if it was ever here at all. I don't blame you, however, cruel though you are. It was my simplicity and naivete that made me trust you; and I now 'die' (metaphorically or literally) as a result.

{136,6} lakad-kob-e ;havaadi;s kaa ta;hammul kar nahii;N saktii mirii :taaqat kih .zaamin thii buto;N ke naaz u;Thaane kii 1) it cannot bear the kicks and blows of events/disasters 2) my strength, that was responsible for enduring the coquetry of idols

Notes: ;havaadi;s : 'Accidents, occurrences; misfortunes, calamities'. (Platts p.482) ta;hammul : 'Enduring patiently; patience, endurance; long-suffering, resignation, forbearance'. (Platts p.313) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is that now there's such weakness that the burden of events can't be sustained-- and we are the same who used to endure the coquetry of idols! From this the meaning emerges that the coquetry of idols is, in the belief of the poet, greater than events and disasters. (146)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now we've become so weak that we are borne down even under the burden of events-- we who used to have the strength to endure the coquetry of idols. (202)

Bekhud Mohani: There was a time when we used to habitually endure the coquetry of idols; and now this time, when we don't even have enough strength left for the disasters and difficulties of the world! What a radical revolution has taken place! It's truly astonishing-- 'where is that strength, where is this weakness!' (268)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} Why can my strength, which capably undertook to endure the coquetry of idols, now not patiently bear the kicks and blows of events/disasters? Here are some possible reasons: =Because enduring the coquetry of the idols took so much out of me that now I have no endurance or patience left for any further torments =Because the idols who tormented me with their coquetry were so lofty and powerful, that I can't stand to be persecuted now by lesser, commonplace, even random, forces =Because the idols tormented me delightfully through 'coquetry', while events torment me vulgarly through 'kicks and blows' =There's no 'because' involved; it's just an observation, hyperbolically framed for maximum contrast ('What a comedown-- I who used to be able to lift heavy suitcases, now can't even lift a matchbox!'). Bekhud Mohani invokes the classic idiomatic structure 'where [is] X, where Y?', as in the famous proverb kahaa;N raajah bhoj kahaa;N ganguu telii . The point is that the two things named are so utterly incommensurable that they really can't even be mentioned in the same breath. That's exactly what's at the heart of the verse. But Ghalib has cleverly offered us several hints about possible causes of this incommensurability, and (of course) has not enabled us to choose among them. The word ta;hammul is excellent here, because it has the primary sense of patient endurance, of quietly putting up with something, as in 'I can't bear such scorn' rather than 'I can't bear such a heavy load'. It suggests a touchy impatience, rather than a helpless weakness. Another charm of the verse is the word ;havaadi;s , which can refer either to neutral, random happenings,

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or to disasters and calamities. The lover isn't even concerned with the difference; after his experience of the coquetry of the idols, the rest of it is all one to him-- and it's unbearable.

{136,7} kahuu;N kyaa ;xuubii-e au.zaa((-e abnaa-e zamaa;N ;Gaalib badii kii us ne jis se ham ne kii thii baar-haa nekii 1) the excellence of the ways/habits of the sons of the age, Ghalib-- what can I say! 2) that one treated us badly, whom we've many times treated well

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In all the previous verses of this ghazal, ne was part of the rhyme; and in this verse, it's become part of the refrain. In the rules of rhyme they call this kind of rhyme 'contrived rhyme', and they have counted it among the defects of rhyme. But artifice-loving [ta.sannu((-pasand] poets consider it a verbal device. (146)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This rhyme is called 'contrived rhyme'. If such a rhyme is used in one or two verses, then it is considered a beauty of poetry. He says, the sons of the age have come to have such ways that we can't even express their excellence-the person whom I had many times treated well, treated us badly. In the first line, the word ;xuubii has been used sarcastically, and has the meaning of 'evil'. (202)

Bekhud Mohani: Don't ask about the excellence of the style of the worldly ones! A person treated us badly, whom we had not once but many times treated well. From this the author's astonishment is evident, as if he hadn't at all expected such treatment from anybody. (269)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY GOOD/BAD: {22,4} What a contrast between the lines! The first line is deliberately ornate, featuring two fancy Arabic plurals, au.zaa(( from va.za(( and abnaa from ibn , and further adorned by no fewer than three i.zaafat constructions. It's a highly abstract general statement, making use as well of the inexpressibility trope ('what can I say'). After such a setup (elaborate verbiage plus a claim to have no words), the second line cuts like a knife. What really hurts is not a vast, ponderous generalization about Modern Man. What really hurts is the way that one particular person has treated me. He returned so much bad, after I gave him so much good! The vocabulary, the grammar, the structure-- everything is direct, heartfelt, full of simplicity and stark pain.

Ghazal 137 2 verses; meter G10; rhyming elements: aamii composed 1821; Hamid p. 111; Arshi #134; Raza p. 242 {137,1} ;haa.sil se haath dho bai;Th ai aarzuu-;xiraamii dil josh-e giryah me;N hai ;Duubii hu))ii asaamii 1) wash your hands of any fruit/result, oh longing-{stride/pace} 2) the heart, in the turmoil of tears, is a {'deadbeat debtor' / drowned person}

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Notes: ;Duubnaa : 'To dive; to sink, drown, be drowned; to drown oneself; to be immersed, be submerged, inundated, deluged, or flooded; to be lost, be sacrificed (as capital, reputation, &c.); to be destroyed, be ruined;... to be absorbed, be engrossed, be lost (in business, or study, or thought, &c.)'. (Platts p.570) asaamii : 'Person, individual; party; substitute; employee, servant; friend, lover; customer, purchaser; client; inhabitant; tenant; cultivator, defendant (in a law-suit); debtor; culprit; witness'. (Platts pp.46-47) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By aarzuu-;xiraamii the author means a stride/pace toward one's longing.... A 'deadbeat debtor' [;Duubii hu))ii asaamii] is that debtor from whom there's no hope of repayment. The meaning is that from the turmoil of tears no such fruit will be obtained that would be according to one's longing or the object of one's movement. The heart ought to be considered a 'deadbeat debtor', since its garden remained without fruit. In this verse 'to wash one's hands' and 'to drown in the turmoil of tears' form a .zil((a ; and bai;Th has been brought in for the sake of ;xiraam . (146-47)

Bekhud Dihlavi: A 'deadbeat debtor' [;Duubii hu))ii asaamii] is a term among landlords for a peasant farmer afflicted by some damage, and he would owe so many rupees to the moneylender that all hope of repaying them would be gone. And among gamblers, it's a term for someone who would constantly keep losing.... The meaning is, oh longing, you trust to tears to produce the desire of your heart. And the ineffectiveness of weeping has drowned the heart; it seems that nothing will turn out the way you want it to. (202-03)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh longing, you thought that the turmoil of tears would be a cause of attaining your desire. This is your mistake. (269)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} Nazm points out the enjoyably complex wordplay: in dho bai;Th , the bai;Th is really only an auxiliary verb, but it cleverly smuggles in the notion of 'sitting' that balances the 'stride' or 'pace' associated with longing. And of course, one can 'wash the hands' [haath dhonaa] in the same water-- or 'tears' [giryah] in which someone else has 'drowned' [;Duubnaa]. In classic mushairah-verse style, the first line is impossible to interpret in isolation; it seems both abstract and wilfully obscure (why should one address a semi-personified 'longing-stride'?) Not until we are allowed (after a suitably tantalizing interval) to hear the second line do we suddenly catch on, and even then, the 'punch-phrase' is withheld until the last possible moment: it's really the sudden colloquial perfection of the drowned 'deadbeat debtor' [;Duubii hu))ii asaamii] that pulls it all together, and surely the first hearers must have burst out laughing. It's easy to imagine the 'longing-stride' closing in firmly, determined to acquire the 'fruit' of its desires. But the bystander calls out, mockingly or with genuine goodwill, to tell it not to bother: you can't get blood from a stone, and the heart has nothing left to offer: the heart has drowned in its own tears, it's a 'deadbeat debtor' if there ever was one. Another, subliminal wordplay is that of longings 'emerging' [nikalnaa] from the heart, in the sense of coming to fulfillment; for examples and discussion, see {81,5}. (This same verse is also a good comparison to the present one for another reason as well: it too revolves around an idiomatic expression, 'life imprisonment'.) The person seeking fulfillment of the 'debt' of longings,

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presumably the 'longing-stride' walker, is warned that the longings will never 'emerge' from the heart, but are drowned within it in a sea of tears; just as coins will never be recoverable from even the most tearfully regretful 'deadbeat debtor".

{137,2} us sham((a kii :tara;h se jis ko ko))ii bujhaa))e mai;N bhii jale hu))o;N me;N huu;N daa;G-e naa-tamaamii 1) like that candle that someone would extinguish 2) I too, among the 'burnt' ones, am a wound/scar of incompleteness

Notes: jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387) daa;G : 'A mark burnt in, a brand, cautery; mark, spot, speck; stain; stigma;... scar, cicatrix; wound, sore; grief, sorrow; misfortune, calamity; loss, injury, damage'. (Platts p.501) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: I am a wound/scar of incompleteness, that is, I bear the wound of my remaining incomplete. Those people who have girded their loins to narrow down the Urdu language, and are devoid of the art of meanings, hold the opinion that the word se in this verse is only for the meter [baraa-e bait], and after :tara;h they've left off saying, and writing, and versifying se . But this is used in the idiom, or it can be guessed; and both are permissible. Mir says: daa;G huu;N rashk-e mu;habbat se kih itnaa betaab kis kii taskii;N ke liye ghar se to baahar niklaa [I am a wound/scar of the envy/jealousy of love-- so restless, for whose comfort did I emerge from the house?] (147)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am the wound/scar of incompleteness. That is, I bear the wound/scar of my own incompleteness as does the candle that someone would, after it had been burning for a while, extinguish, and it would remain unfinished and useless. (203)

Bekhud Mohani: The way an extinguished candle feels sorrow at its incomplete burning, in the same way I am grieved at not having been able to burn completely in the fire of passion. (269)

Baqir: In another place he writes: {76,2}. (348)

Arshi: Compare {76,2}, {143,2}. (212, 257, 270)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} How elegantly the word daa;G works here, along with the complexities of the i.zaafat ! The daa;G-e naa-tamaamii , the 'wound/scar of incompleteness', can be: the wound/scar 'caused by' incompleteness; or the wound/scar 'possessed by' incompleteness; or the wound/scar that itself 'is' incompleteness. But the power is also in the sound of the phrase itself, with its flow of resonant long vowels; it's the heart of the verse, and it echoes in the mind, mysterious and stark.

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And in metrical terms, huu;N daa;G-e naa-tamaamii occupies exactly the whole second half of this metrically abrupt-sounding, self-repeating line (foot A foot B / foot A foot B), which also contributes to its effect. (In the first line, the juxtaposition ko ko))ii , with the first ko long and the second short, also creates an enjoyable metrical swinginess.) But who are the 'burnt ones' among whom I, like the snuffed-out candle, find myself to be a 'wound/scar of incompleteness'? They seem to be the fully, properly, honorably 'burnt-out' lovers and/or candles; I alone am one who was not fortunate enough to manage to burn completely. It is humiliating, it is painful, it is the restlessness of unfulfillment; I 'burn' with jealousy/envy at their consummation and my own failure. Through the words kii :tara;h se , the simile is made unusually explicit: I am like a half-burnt, snuffed-out candle. But as if to compensate for making the simile explicit, Ghalib has also given it an extra twist. It's not 'like a snuffed-out candle, I am unfulfilled', but 'like a snuffed-out candle, I am a wound/scar'. So the snuffed-out candle and I are both wounds/scars, and the straightforward-looking simile has revealed a more baroque metaphor within it. Candles and wounds-- what more could the ghazal poet ask for in evocative imagery? Arshi points to two excellent verses for comparison.

Ghazal 138 8 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aan hai composed after 1821; Hamid p. 112; Arshi #135 Raza pp. 258-59

{138,1} kyaa tang ham sitam-zadagaa;N kaa jahaan hai jis me;N kih ek bai.zah-e mor aasmaan hai 1a) how narrow is the world of us oppressed ones! 1b) is the world of us oppressed ones narrow? 1c) what-- as if the world of us oppressed ones is narrow! 2a) in which one ant's egg is the sky 2b) in which the sky is one ant's egg

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the world of which the sky is an ant's egg. (147)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the world of us who are afflicted by oppression is so smallish that the sky of that world is only the egg of an ant. The meaning is that an oppressed man considers that for him the world has become limited to an extremely narrow circle; that he has no helper, nor anyone to listen to his complaint. (203)

Bekhud Mohani: The world of us oppressed ones is so narrow that there the sky is equal to the egg of an ant. That is, for the oppressed, the world is not wide, but narrow. (269)

Faruqi: This verse can also be sarcastic. That is, the first line can have not a declarative, but a sarcastic interpretation. And the second line, in this sarcastic mode, is an answer to it. The world becomes narrow upon oppressed ones, so narrow that its sky seems to be equal to an ant's egg. Or an ant's egg too becomes oppressive and painful like the sky. In order to achieve this interpretation, in the first line he has asked a question: is the

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world of us oppressed ones narrow? And the second line is an answer in the form of a question: that world in which one ant's egg is the sky? That is, are you calling that world of which the sky is an ant's egg 'narrow'? In this way the meaning has been increased: to call the world of the oppressed ones 'narrow'-- that is, to use for it the attribute of being narrow-- is to turn something major into something minor. That world of which the sky would be an ant's egg-- for it the word 'narrow' is very insufficient. In order to make clear its narrowness, there ought to be some other word. (259)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA; TRANSITIVITY In its richness of possibilities and undecideability of tone, this verse is one of the true 'meaning-machine' gems of the divan. We know by now the excellently multivalent uses of a phrase like this one in the first line that is introduced by kyaa : as an exclamation, the way the commentators insist on taking it ('how narrow this world is!'); as a yes-or-no question ('is this world narrow, or isn't it?'); and as a scornfully negative exclamation ('what-- as if this world is narrow!'). Right away we have a sufficiently intriguing set of possibilities to energize the whole verse; we are left eager to hear the evidence for the narrowness (or non-narrowness) of the world. Then the second line opens up for us an even more undecideable and enjoyable question of transitivity: since Urdu is much less dependent on word order than English, both 'A is B' and 'B is A' readily present themselves as possible readings. As usual with Ghalib, both possibilities work intriguingly with all the various permutations of the first line. And, as Faruqi points out, the tone too can vary: the possibilities include not only sarcasm but also wonder, despair, perplexity, indignation, and ruefulness. Who are the 'oppressed ones'? They are us, but who are we? We suffering lovers, no doubt; and more widely, we who are victims of injustice and tyranny. And ultimately, we human beings, living our cramped, oppressed, and all-too-limited lives under an ant's-egg sky. But then, maybe it's just the opposite, maybe our lives are not limited at all. It could be that our wideranging minds find ample freedom even in such a tiny ant's-egg space; or maybe the sky itself is a mere ant's egg to us in our boundless mental (and spiritual?) inner spaces (as in the similarly dismissive treatment of Rizvan's garden in {10,1}). We oppressed ones, we readers, end up being allowed-- or forced, depending on how we look at it-- to invent the verse's tone and meaning for ourselves. For another verse in which the sky is compared to an egg, see {217,4}. Another enjoyable verse for comparison is the irresistible {68,5}, in which the round dome of heaven becomes not an ant's egg but-- even more dismissively-- a mere wastebasket. And of course there's Hamlet: 'O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams'.

{138,2} hai kaa))inaat ko ;harakat tere ;zauq se partav se aaftaab ke ;zarre me;N jaan hai 1) creation has movement through {Your relish/taste / the relish/taste for You} 2) from the sun's ray, life is in the sand-grain

Notes: ;zauq : 'Taste, enjoyment, delight, joy, pleasure, voluptuousness'. (Platts p.578) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, creation considers you its original source, and the claim of nature is running in your direction-- the way from the sun's ray, life occurs in the

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sand-grain. In this verse the sand-grain's being alive has given great pleasure. That is, he has given it as a simile for that which is alive, and the cause of similitude is movement. (147)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He has made the movement of sand-grains into a token of life entering into them, through which an extraordinary pleasure has been created. (203)

Bekhud Mohani: Because of the way the sand-grains dance in the rays of the sun, the poet has called the sand-grains alive. Movement is a symbol of life. (269)

Arshi: Compare {95,3}, {143,4}. (225, 257, 271)

FWP: ZARRAH: {15,12} That little phrase tere ;zauq se does a wonderfully evocative double duty here. While in English we can easily distinguish between 'the thought of you' (which is in my mind) and 'your thought' (which is in your mind), Urdu offers us no such grammatical specificity. Only context can enable us to decide whether the ;zauq is 'from' you or 'for' you. Needless to say, Ghalib has made sure that the available context admits both readings. For when we consider the second line, we find that it's easy to envision the ;zauq as flowing downward from Beloved to lover, just as the ray travels from the sun to the sand-grain. But because the sand-grain then has 'life', it's equally easy to envision the ;zauq as traveling backward toward the Beloved who is the giver of that life, just as the ever-changing glittery radiance of sand-grains creates a sense of movement. After all, the sandgrains themselves have now become tiny light-sources or suns, they too emit their own bright little rays of responsiveness and desire. As Arshi suggests, an excellent verse for comparison is {95,3}.

{138,3}

;haalaa;Nkih hai yih siilii-e ;xaaraa se laalah rang ;Gaafil ko mere shiishe pah mai kaa gumaan hai 1) although this tulip color is from the slap of a stone 2) the heedless one suspects my glass of [holding] wine

Notes: siilii : 'A blow with the edge of the open hand on the back of the neck; a slap, a cuff'. (Platts p.712) gumaan : 'Doubt, distrust, suspicion; surmise, conjecture'. (Platts p.914) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, having been damaged by a stone, my glass is turning red, and people think that it is full of wine. But all [the poets] versify [baa;Ndhnaa] a glass as breaking from the damage of a stone. To be damaged and turn red is contrary to reality. In this verse, in the word order the word ;haalaa;Nkih informs us that the author has put the second line first; he has placed the first line after it. (147)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the reality of the situation is that the glass of my heart has been damaged by the blow of a stone-- that is, the harshness of the age has turned it red, the effect of which has made my eyes red. Redness of the eyes is usually an effect of happiness. Thus people who are unaware suspect that the glass of my heart is brimming with wine, although in reality this is not the case. (203-04)

Bekhud Mohani: From the harshnesses of difficulties, my heart has turned to blood. The heedless one thinks that it has this color from the wine of joy.... [As for

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Nazm's objection,] when by glass the heart is intended, then this is not inappropriate. In addition, the glass can be colored as well. (270)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} How cleverly Ghalib has derailed his own incipient metaphor! As it runs off the end of the tracks, the commentators are left perplexed, waving awkward signal flags in all directions. It's easy to see how the problem has been set up: the first line simply describes the thrown-stone source of 'this tulip color', without telling us where this color is to be seen. The second line pointedly does not clarify the situation: it reports only that a particular wrong 'suspicion' (that there is wine in my glass) is held by some 'heedless' person. So we are left to trace out the path of the implication for ourselves. There is one fine clue, however, that the commentators have ignored: the word siilii , which has the basic meaning of a slap or cuff, or specifically a blow with the hand on the back of the neck. This suggests just the kind of blow that a stone might inflict-- on a neck, or a face, or a cheek. The result would surely be, at a minimum, a conspicuous patch of redness on the skin. (For a discussion of the stoning of madmen, see {35,10}.) We can imagine the mad lover turning up at the fashionable evening party. He looks festive, with a heightened 'tulip' color in his cheeks, and the heedless observer (the beloved? a random, typical guest?) thinks he's been drinking wine along with everybody else. (Or else the observer thinks the 'glass' of his heart has been holding the 'wine' of enjoyment, to make his face so flushed.) If the 'heedless' observer is wrong in his guess, then it must be true that the lover's glass holds no wine (or his heart no joy). And the use of the word 'suspicion' [gumaan] reinforces the lover's aggrieved tone: 'Although I am innocent of wine-drinking, joy, un-loverlike behavior, I am unjustly suspected-- the heedless one thinks the effects of a thrown stone are the effects of wine!' The lover's protest is vehement, and possibly with reason. For isn't there something suspicious about that tulip color after all? Can't it also be true that, to the lover, thrown stones are as intoxicating as wine? We are back once again at the old joy-in-suffering conundrum, the paradoxical knot at the very center of the ghazal world.

{138,4} kii us ne garm siinah-e ahl-e havas me;N jaa aave nah kyuu;N pasand kih ;Than;Daa makaan hai 1) she 'warmed up' a place in the breast of the people of lust 2) why wouldn't it please her? for it's a cool house

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'people of lust' is meant the Rival, for in his breast there's no burning of passion, and for this reason it's been called a cool house. (147-48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the Rivals' hearts there is no fire of the burning of passion, as there is in ours. And for this reason the beloved has made a place in the Rivals' hearts. Everyone likes to live in a cool house, and the heart in which there is no fire of passion will certainly serve as a 'cold-chamber' [sard;xaanah]. (204)

Bekhud Mohani: The lust-worshippers pleased the beloved-- and why wouldn't they please her, for where in them is the impatience and restlessness and bitterness of passion? (270)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY

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Here's another witty and delightful example of Faruqi's observation that wordplay is really meaning-play as well. The beloved has 'warmed up' a space for herself (think of a 'housewarming') in the breast of her lustful lovers; and naturally she likes it, as the speaker (surely the true lover) comments ruefully or bitterly, for it's a 'cool' house, free of the unquenchable fires of passion. And in a hot climate like that of North India, everyone would be glad to live in a cool house, as Bekhud Dihlavi observes. In a verse like this, how can we disentangle the wordplay from the meaning-play? It's also a great classic mushairah verse in structure. The first line makes us curious about her choice of dwelling, and the first half of the second line only increases our eagerness to know what's going on. But the punch-phrase is withheld until the last possible moment. Surely the original audience must have gotten, with the sudden flash of comprehension, a really good laugh. For another meditation on the relative 'heat' of the hearts of the lover and the worldlings, see {5,6}.

{138,5} kyaa ;xuub tum ne ;Gair ko bosah nahii;N diyaa bas chup raho hamaare bhii mu;Nh me;N zabaan hai 1) what a fine thing [to claim]-- you didn't give the Other a kiss! 2) enough, be quiet; there's a tongue in our mouth too!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: 'There’s a tongue in my mouth too'-- this has two meanings. One is that I have such proof that if it comes to speech, I will convince you. And the second, mischievous meaning is that I can taste your mouth and tell whether the Other kissed you or not. (133)

Nazm: That is, on being accused of kissing the Rival, the beloved has begun to quarrel; and from anger and wrath he doesn't want to discuss it further. (148)

Bekhud Mohani: He made a complaint. The beloved rejects it. Now, in anger, he says, 'What a fine thing-- you didn't do it!' That is, you did kiss him, and for sure; enough, keep quiet. Otherwise we too will say some things that you won't want to hear. (270)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR; WORDPLAY Like the equally amusing and delightful {116,1}, this verse relies on wordplay and meaning-play about the different uses of a mouth or tongue. =In the first line the beloved's speech is quoted; in the second line she is told to keep her mouth shut, lest the lover should open his own mouth and speak. =In the first line the beloved is (sarcastically) accused of speaking falsely; in the second line she is threatened with some kind of ominously true speech from the lover =In the first line the beloved denies having given a kiss, and in the second line the bhii of 'there's a tongue in our mouth too' amusingly and erotically evokes her misdeed. For more examples of such erotic suggestion, see {99,4}. The idiomatic, teasingly and suggestively ominous 'there's a tongue in our mouth too' perfectly fits all the levels of meaning in the verse, and also provides an irresistibly punchy mushairah-verse ending.

{138,6} bai;Thaa hai jo kih saayah-e diivaar-e yaar me;N farmaa;N-ravaa-e kishvar-e hinduustaan hai

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1) the one who is seated in the shadow of the beloved's wall 2) is the decree-issuer of the realm of Hindustan

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The special feature of Hindustan is that in the shadow of a wall there is darkness, and Hindustan too is a black [kaalaa] country. (148)

Bekhud Mohani: To sit in the shadow of the beloved's wall is equal to being the emperor of Hindustan.... Since they say 'realm of Iran' [kishvar-e iiraan], etc., the pleasure of this is increased. Because the verse has been composed in Hindustan, and will also be recited right here. This reason too can be cited for using Hindustan: that there is an affinity between 'shadow' and 'Hindustan', because the color of the people here is black. (270)

Faruqi: (1) That person who would get the chance to sit in the shadow of the beloved's wall is so fortunate and triumphantly lucky that he is the king of Hindustan. (2) When they become lovers, the king and the beggar all become alike. That person who is seated in the shadow of the beloved's wall is in truth the King of Hindustan. Passion has taught him humility and submission. (3) That person who has ever sat in the shadow of the beloved's wall has the rank of the king of Hindustan..... Durga Parshad 'Nadir' Dihlavi, pupil of Hilm Dihlavi, has said an excellent thing: that there is an affinity between 'shadow of the wall' and 'Hindustan, because both are black ( hinduu meaning 'black' [in Persian]). Look how the affinity-seekers see affinity in so many places. It's true, as Hasrat Mohani has said, that affinity of words is a thing of great accomplishment. (260-61)

FWP: The first line offers a lovely picture of humility, confiding submission, and contented simplicity-- for the lover seated in the shadow of the beloved's wall is receiving both (literal) shade from the sun, and (metaphorica) shelter and protection accorded by the wall-owner. What more could the true lover desire? So it is both a surprise, and then not a surprise, to find in the second line that the lover is also (in pointedly Persianized royal vocabulary) the 'decreeissuer of the realm of Hindustan'. The second line thus equips the same submissive lover with the highest degree of rank and power obtainable in the realm. As Faruqi points out, there are three ways that this attribution of grandeur can be read: the one who is seated there is so ecstatically happy that he feels himself to rule the realm; or he is, by virtue of his (mystical) rank as a lover, equal to the king of the realm; or, most literally, he is the actual king of the realm in person, struck by the same arrows of passion that afflict everybody else. No matter how exactly we read it, the lovely paradox of submission and exaltation remains. The verse's very simplicity-- it consists of nothing but the assertion 'A is B'-- gives it an open-ended dignity and charm.

{138,7} hastii kaa i((tibaar bhii ;Gam ne mi;Taa diyaa kis se kahuu;N kih daa;G jigar kaa nishaan hai 1) grief erased even the confidence/belief in existence 2) to whom might I say that a wound/scar is a token/trace of the liver?

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Notes: i((tibaar : 'Confidence, trust, reliance, faith, belief; respect, esteem, repute; credit, authority, credibility; weight, importance'. (Platts p.60) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, due to grief a wound/scar occurred, and the wound has been called a 'liver'. If I would say to anyone that at one time we too used to have a liver, and its trace, the wound/scar, is still present, then no one would believe my statement. This theme is very new and is especially the result of the late author's reflection. (148)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This theme is an absolutely untouched one. He says, the turmoil of grief had created a wound/scar on my liver. Gradually that wound/scar consumed the liver. Only the wound/scar itself remained. The existence of the liver was erased. Now if I say to anyone, at one time I too used to have a liver, and its trace-- that is, the wound/scar-- is still present in my breast, then no one believes my word. (204)

Bekhud Mohani: God, God, grief reached such an extreme that now people refuse to believe in the existence of my liver! That is, grief so erased the liver that where the liver was, there a wound/scar can now be seen. No matter to whom I might say that we too once used to have a liver, he doesn't believe me. That is, my situation has become absolutely bad. This verse is peerless. (271)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} The scope of the deliberately abstract and unqualified first line is potentially total. Whose confidence, in whose existence, did grief erase? We are eager to find out. And in the second line, of course, we don't (directly) find out; we are only given some clues, some symptoms of the problem. For we find a whole new question (Ghalib's favorite inshaa))iyah mode). It's the most doubt-filled line in the world: it doesn't know to whom it might be addressed; it doesn't know whether it would actually be spoken or not; and it doesn't seem sure that what it might say is true, or even makes sense. It thus depicts kind of cosmic erasure, an utter devastation by grief. Does the lover still believe that other people exist ('to whom')? Does he still believe that he himself exists ('might I say')? Does he still believe that he ever had a liver? At present he has merely a wound/scar, and he seems unable to assert with any confidence (though he wistfully hopes) that it is the mark or trace of a completely vanished, otherwise undetectable liver. Thus the second line dramatizes or enacts the highly abstract situation described in the first line. Its loss of confidence, its sense of groping in vain for coherence, give it a real poignancy; surely that's why Bekhud Mohani calls it 'peerless'.

{138,8} hai baare i((timaad-e vafaadaarii is qadar ;Gaalib ham is me;N ;xvush hai;N kih naa-mihrbaan hai 1) finally, there's this much confidence in/of faithfulness-2) Ghalib, we're happy in this, that [she] is unkind

Notes: i((timaad : 'Reliance, dependence, trust, confidence, faith'. (Platts p.60) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we are happy at the beloved's being unkind, since she has confidence in our faithfulness. She considers that even at her ill-treatment, I will not renounce love. (148)

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Hasrat: The theme of this verse is a fine one, but in the second line, without 'she' [vuh] or some word of similar meaning there is no eloquence [fa.saa;hat]. (111)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she has such trust and complete belief in our faithfulness that despite her being unkind and practicing tyranny, she doesn't have even a suspicion that because of her ill-treatment Ghalib would renounce love. (204-05)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is not kind to us. We are happy with this very thing; we are happy in considering that she has so much trust in our faithfulness that she thinks that no matter how much cruelty she shows toward us, we will remain faithful. (271)

FWP: The commentators agree on the most obvious reading, but they don't do justice to the carefully framed ambiguity of the first line. Just as in the previous verse, {138,7}, the first line gives no information whatsoever as to who has trust or confidence in whose faithfulness. That alone should alert us-- since this is Ghalib, after all-- to the need to scrutinize the second line with great care. And when we do, we easily notice a second reading: that the lover is finally perfectly satisfied and confident in his own faithfulness-- so much so that he's quite content, even happy, when she's unkind to him. The first line, in short, may be smugly (or wryly) reporting not on her great faith in his loyalty, but on his own great (and hard-won) faith in his loyalty: he now unhesitatingly accepts, with perfect good cheer, whatever she dishes out. (On this reading we takeis me;N to mean not 'because of this' but 'in this situation'.) Then, of course, the whole verse is excellently suited to being read sarcastically: 'Oh sure, aren't we fortunate! After all this time, we're so lucky-- she now trusts us! Such happiness-- she now kindly deigns to be unkind!' For an even more complex look at the subtles of kindness and unkindness, see {91,3}. For grammar fans: Hasrat's complaint raises an interesting issue: normally the subject can be omitted if it is clearly indicated from prior context. Here, the omitted subject is understood only by being dragged in from our knowledge of the ghazal universe. It does feel a bit dicey, doesn't it?

Ghazal 139 12 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aarii haa))e haa))e composed after 1821; Hamid p. 113; Arshi #136; Raza p. 259

{139,1} dard se mere hai tujh ko be-qaraarii haa))e haa))e kyaa hu))ii :zaalim tirii ;Gaflat-shi((aarii haa))e haa))e 1) from my pain, you feel restlessness-- alas! 2) what became, cruel one, of your practice of heedlessness-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [Writing to Mihr in June 1860:] Listen, my friend, among poets Firdausi, and among faqirs Hasan Basri, and among lovers Majnun-- these three men, in

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their three arts, are the heads and chiefs. The excellence of a poet is that he should become Firdausi. The limit for a faqir is that he should rival Hasan Basri. The token of a lover is that he should have a destiny like that of Majnun. Laila had died before his eyes. Your beloved died before your eyes- or rather, you have gone beyond him, because Laila died in her own house, and your beloved died in your house. My friend, these Mughal types [mu;Gbachche] are a disaster-- the one whom they're dying for, they end up killing. I too am a Mughal type. In my whole life I too have killed one very cruel dancing girl [ek ba;Rii sitam-peshah ;Domnii ko mai;N ne bhii maar rakhaa hai]. May the Lord have mercy on them both, and you and me as well, who have suffered the wound of a friend’s death. This happened forty or fortytwo years ago. Nowadays I've abandoned that path; I've become a mere stranger to that [lover's] art. But even now sometimes I remember those coquetries. In my whole life, I won't forget her death. I know what must be passing through your heart. Be patient, and now abandon the turmoil of worldly [majaazii] passion. (partial text: Arshi 258) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 723 ==another English trans.: Russell and Islam, pp. 248-49

Ghalib: [Writing to Mihr in June 1860:] I don't like these ideas. I'm sixty-five years old. For fifty years I've strolled around the world of color and scent. In my early youth, an accomplished master [murshid-e kaamil] gave me this advice: 'I don't seek asceticism and abstinence. I don't forbid immorality and licentiousness. Drink, eat, take your pleasure; but remember this: become a sugar-fly, not a honey-fly.' So my practice has been according to this advice. He should grieve for the death of another, who will not die himself. What's this tear-shedding, whence this elegy-reciting? Give thanks for freedom! Don't grieve. And if you're happy with your captivity, then so what if there's no 'Munna Jan'-- there's always a 'Chunna Jan'! When I form a picture of Paradise, and reflect that if I am granted mercy, and am given a palace in Paradise and a Houri-- life in perpetuity, and with the very same excellent woman-- then this picture terrifies me, and my heart is in my mouth. Alas-that Houri will grow tiresome! Why shouldn't I feel anxious? That same emerald palace, and that same branch of the Tuba tree; and-- may the evil eye be far from us!-- that same one Houri! Brother, come to your senses, and attach your heart somewhere else. Take a new woman each returning spring, For last year's almanac's a useless thing. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 721-22 ==another English trans.: Russell and Islam, p 249 (source of trans. of final verse)

Nazm: This whole ghazal is an elegy for a beloved. In this verse, the meaning is that the sympathy I feel when I see you dying-- even in this state, you don't wish to see me endure grief, and you are becoming restless. Where are those days when we used to die, and you didn't even inquire about us! (148)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This whole ghazal is a verse-set and an elegy for a beloved. Seeing her dying, he says, seeing you in this state I feel sympathetic; now you, even in this state, don't like my grief and sorrow, and from my writhing [in pain] you yourself are becoming restless. What has happened to your practice of heedlessness, when I sacrificed my life, and you didn't even inquire about me? (205)

Bekhud Mohani: The whole ghazal is addressed to a beloved. Alas, you are restless at my being sorrowful. What happened to your former heedlessness? If only you

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had remained careless toward me. Alas, from my anxiety you are becoming restless, and I can't bear to see this state. (271)

Baqir: This whole ghazal is drowned in burning and melting, and a number of its verses seem to be of lamentation. He has written an elegy on the death of some beloved. (351-52)

Chishti: All the commentators are in agreement that this ghazal is an elegy for a beloved. Every verse is drowned in burning and melting, because every verse is a mirror-holder of the emotions of separation. This is the reason why no verse is difficult. (234)

Mihr: This whole ghazal of mourning is an elegy for some beloved. From various verses it seems that most of the verses are presenting the situation of the time when the beloved was dying. (469-70)

FWP: Well, here comes the second (and last) ghazal in the whole divan that can be argued to be personal-- that can be claimed to be a counterpart to {66}, with its poignant grief over the death of Arif. Arshi explicitly footnotes to this ghazal part of Ghalib's first letter excerpted above; Russell and Islam assert, referring to the present ghazal, 'A moving poem written at the time she died is included in his collected verse' (42). They then present excerpts from a particularly ornate Persian letter also written apparently later in Ghalib's life (since he dates the event to an earlier time when 'my hair was black') and under similar circumstances (to console his friend Muzaffar Husain Khan for the loss of a beloved). This letter combines the elements of both the above letters: it begins with an even briefer, vaguer, and more stylized account of his grief at the death of a beautiful beloved, then continues to an elegantly argued conclusion that one should, in effect, be a sugar-fly rather than a honey-fly (43). So let's consider these two Urdu letters. Ghalib wrote them both in the same month, to the same friend, and to address the same situation: his friend's grief over the death of a beloved. It's not clear in which order they were written; Russell and Islam put them in the order given above, Khaliq Anjum presents them in the reverse order. (They are dated only by month; I'm not going to get sidetracked into researching all that.) The second letter has a good deal of wittily rhymed prose, with the playfulness increasing as the letter goes on; Russell and Islam have taken some clever liberties to capture something of the effect, but I have stuck to literalism as usual. (Though I was sorely tempted by their concluding sentence: 'Come to your senses, brother, and get yourself another'.) I did borrow their enjoyable translation of the final Persian verse. It's surely clear from these two letters-- so close together, so apposite, and so opposite-- that Ghalib's chief purpose was to overcome his friend's melancholy at all costs. Let's call the one I've given first the 'been-there' letter, and the one I've given second the 'not-been-there' letter. Both letters have similar possibilities as potential bits of real biography. In the been-there one, he invokes an unidentified long-ago ('forty or forty-two years ago') beloved; in the not-been-there one, an unidentified long-ago (possibly fifty years ago, if we can tell at all) 'accomplished master' who apparently saved him from the 'been-there' fate. But the two letters are not nowadays given equal attention or credence. Because of the tremendous appeal of 'natural poetry' to Urdu critics over the past century, nobody pays much attention to the contents of the letter that seems to deny that he ever suffered over a reallife beloved; everybody is fascinated by the been-there one. People want to

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believe, because of the been-there letter, that this ghazal at least (if not most of the others) is 'real', 'natural', based on personal biography. So great is the general eagerness to make this connection that nobody notices a striking implausibility right in the heart of the been-there letter: the fair cruel Domni reportedly dies not from some disease, or poison, or even a casual all-purpose fever, but only out of love for Ghalib himself. Since the been-there letter reports that he was dying of love for her too, the plot looks a bit peculiar. Even unrequited love is not all that common as a cause of death, but we could cut him some slack along those lines; this is the ghazal world, after all. But when was the last time we heard of a madly-loved beloved dying of requited love? If she were an aristocratic lady in pardah, we might even grant her the possibility of dying from the shame and disgrace of a Forbidden Love; but remember she's explicitly a 'Domni', a low-caste professional dancing-girl. Furthermore, she's habitually cruel/tyrannical [sitam-peshah], so how does this square with the claim that she died of love? Oh come on, the natural-poetry people will say, he's just speaking metaphorically: she must have died of a fever or something; and this being the ghazal world, he prefers to say that she died for love of him, or even that his love killed her, since that's so much more romantic; and he calls her 'cruel' as a stock epithet too. But then, I reply, if he's poetically and literarily reframing the whole incident (since their love and her dying of it are the whole incident, as he reports it), what makes us so sure he stopped there? Might he not have gone a bit further and simply invented the whole vague little anecdote, placing it safely out of reach many decades earlier, in order to comfort his friend with a show of solidarity? After all, we don't easily assume that he really had an 'accomplished master' who taught him some suspiciously convenient rules of life, as he claims in the not-been-there letter. (And while we're on the subject of Ghalib's inventions, he also equipped himself, in other letters, with a convenient long-ago Persian Ustad who probably never existed.) Why should we take it for granted, in this one case, that he really had one particular real-life fair cruel Domni? Then the natural-poetry people will triumphantly say, all right, then how do you explain this ghazal, with all its burning-and-meltingness [soz-o-gudaaz] and elegiac-ness? It's so different from his usual style-- as Chishti points out, in it 'no verse is difficult'. Doesn't that show its sincerity, its naturalness, its true-to-life grief, etc.? To some extent, such an argument makes a valid point: in the context of the divan, this ghazal does require some special explanation. Chishti is right-- no verse in it is difficult. Nor is any verse very interesting, or memorable in itself, or of much literary merit. If this were how Ghalib normally composed his ghazals, I would never bother to study his poetry; and neither, dear reader, would you. Let me vent my feelings further: I also dislike the refrain- I think it sounds silly and faux-naif . Fortunately for us all (and for Ghalib's reputation), this ghazal is unique in the divan. Just for general interest, let me report that Ghalib had originally composed a thirteenth verse to this early ghazal, which he omitted from his published divan (Raza p. 259): gar mu.siibat thii to ;Gurbat me;N u;Thaa letaa asad merii dillii hii me;N honii thii yih ;xvaarii haa))e haa))e [if there was trouble, then if only I would have endured it abroad, Asad! in Delhi itself this wretchedness had to happen to me-- alas!] It doesn't add much to any biographical understanding of the ghazal: since he spent basically his whole adult life in Delhi, any affairs he had were likely to have taken place there anyway. Maybe he later decided that this verse was even more one-dimensional than the others, or had a slightly petulant ring

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('it's all about me'). Or else he was juggling pen-names, since the ghazal in its present form uses 'Ghalib'. Still, that doesn't answer the 'natural-poetry' question: how did Ghalib come to write such a mediocre and un-Ghalibian ghazal, if not because a fair cruel Domni actually died of love for him and unhinged his usual poetic practices? My own view is that for some now-unknowable reason, he consciously decided to try his hand at the elegy genre. An elegy can definitely be written in ghazal form (see dars-e balaa;Gat pp. 140-42), and can be composed for anybody (including even a vague or hypothetical anybody), not just for the martyrs of Karbala. This elegy-ghazal is so conspicuously a unified whole, with so consistent a mood and theme, that it's surely asking to be read and enjoyed as such. Since the poet didn't adorn it with the literary devices and complexities of which he was such a master, he must surely have felt that it had other merits and offered other kinds of enjoyment: it moves fast, it evokes its own mood, it has a kind of understated, semi-implicit narrativity, it creates the exquisite (shades of Poe!) melancholy of the death of a beautiful young (and loving) woman, etc. But its stylization and abstractness are like an impenetrable shield, denying us any sense of any actual person it might have been about. To contrast this one with a genuine lament, one that passionately mourns the loss of a real person, we need only turn to {66}, the lament over Arif's death. That one is powerful and raw, though also sophisticated in its craft; it's simple and poignant, but the very reverse of bland and vague. It cuts like a knife; it can surely bring tears to your eyes. It's hard to imagine that this one can do the same. Did this one receive its original impetus from some beautiful beloved's death? Who knows, and what difference does it make? No matter who or what inspired it, this one feels like a stylized, generic exercise. It's worth remembering that the link between this elegy-ghazal from the early 1820's, and the been-there letter from almost forty years later, is made only by later critics, not by Ghalib himself. The commentators all read the ghazal as a unified elegy. Some of them are convinced that the beloved has killed herself (or simply died) out of shame and the fear of disgrace, because of her true passion for her lover. Others are merely sure that she's dying or dead. For example, nothing in the present verse suggests that the beloved is on her deathbed, yet the commentators generally put her there. (We know from the verse that she's sympathetically 'restless', but we have no reason to believe that she's dying of it.) The commentators treat the other verses similarly. Reading this ghazal as a unified elegy puts it into a legitimately different generic category from the rest of the ghazals in the divan. It means that an apples-and-oranges defense can be used to shield it from comparison to his real ghazals.

{139,2} tere dil me;N gar nah thaa aashob-e ;Gam kaa ;hau.slah tuu ne phir kyuu;N kii thii merii ;Gam-gusaarii haa))e haa))e 1) if in your heart there was not the courage/'stomach' for the devastation of grief 2) then why did you assuage/'drink' my grief-- alas!

Notes: ;hau.slah : 'Stomach, maw; crop, craw; (fig.) capacity; desire, ambition; resolution; spirit, courage'. (Platts p.482) gusaar : 'Taking away, removing, dissipating, assuaging; drinking, swallowing'. (Platts p.910) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if only you had remained unfamiliar/unintimate with me, then it would have been better. (149)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in your heart there wasn't the endurance for the harshnesses of grief, then why did you claim to be my consoler? That is, you shouldn't have met with me and remained my friend/intimate like this. (205)

Bekhud Mohani: The 'alas' tells us that now the beloved's state is so sorrowful that the lover wishes that she had not been kind to him. (271)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. Other than the wordplay noted above, I can't find anything else going on in this verse.

{139,3} kyuu;N mirii ;Gam-;xvaaragii kaa tujh ko aayaa thaa ;xayaal dushmanii apnii thii merii dost-daarii haa))e haa))e 1) why did it occur to you to console my sorrow? 2) friendship to me was enmity to yourself-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, for the sake of consoling me, you disgraced yourself. Then from the shame of disgrace, you gave up your life. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if only you had not become my consoler, and the thought of consoling me hadn't occurred to you! In consoling me, you made yourself publicly disgraced, and as a result you gave up your life in the anxiety of disgrace. (205)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, to become a friend to me was to become an enemy to yourself! That is, if you had not been kind to me, then you wouldn't be in this state. (272)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. Other than the friend/enemy wordplay, not much is going on. Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi are convinced that the beloved has killed herself, or else died of disgrace.

{139,4} ((umr bhar kaa tuu ne paimaan-e vafaa baa;Ndhaa to kyaa ((umr ko bhii to nahii;N hai paa))idaarii haa))e haa))e 1) if you made a promise of life-long faithfulness, then so what? 2) not even a lifetime has stability-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Although you promised to uphold it for a lifetime, your life did not show faithfulness. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even if you promised to keep meeting with me faithfully for a whole lifetime, then so what? Your lifetime itself was not faithful to you, and you were forced to depart from the world, leaving me writhing [in grief]. (205)

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Bekhud Mohani: If you promised to be faithful for a whole lifetime, then what's the good? Life itself is unfaithful. (272)

FWP: For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. I can't think of anything to add to what the commentators have said.

{139,5} zahr lagtii hai mujhe aab-o-havaa-e zindagii ya((nii tujh se thii use naa-saazgaarii haa))e haa))e 1) the atmosphere/'water and air' of life seems poison to me 2) that is, because of you, it had disagreement/indisposition-- alas!

Notes: naa-saazgaarii : 'Discordance, dissonance, disagreement, dissension; -inadaptability; --absurdity; --indisposition; --ill-behaviour; --dissimulation'. (Platts p.1110) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when life proved unfaithful to you, then I became disaffected from this life. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for me the 'air and water' of life have the effect of poison. Since it proved unfaithful to you, then I too consider such a life to be worse than death. (205)

Bekhud Mohani: The 'air and water' of life didn't suit you. Thus I too am disaffected with them. (272)

FWP: For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. This verse contains some wordplay involving air and water, poison, and indisposition. But by Ghalibian standards, nothing much is made of it.

{139,6} gul-fishaaniihaa-e naaz-e jalvah ko kyaa ho gayaa ;xaak par hotii hai terii laalah-kaarii haa))e haa))e 1) what became of the rose-scatterings of the coquetry of glory/appearance? 2) on your dust is the tulip-{doing/performing}-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Once [yaa to], at the time of glory-radiating, you used to produce/offer flowers of coquetry and style; while now [yaa ab] rose-performing is taking place on the tablet of the tomb. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of your glory-radiating, those flowers of coquetry and style that you used to produce/offer-- what became of them? Then [yaa to] was that time; now [yaa ab] this is a time when flowers have been placed on your grave. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, that rose-scattering of coquetry did not remain. That is, neither you nor your coquetries remained, in which there was an extraordinary spring/flourishing. Now flowers are blooming on your grave. (272)

FWP: For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. A bit of wordplay involving dust and flower-scattering.

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{139,7} sharm-e rusvaa))ii se jaa chhupnaa naqaab-e ;xaak me;N ;xatm hai ulfat kii tujh par pardah-daarii haa))e haa))e 1) from the shame of disgrace/revealedness, to go and hide in the veil of dust! 2) with you is the end/culmination of the pardah-keeping of love-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, having hidden herself from people, she gave me a promise of faithfulness for her lifetime; but from the shame of disgrace, she also killed herself [halaak karnaa]. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from shame at being disgraced, you became a dweller in the earth; and you placed the veil of dust over your face. In the world, who can be more pardah-observing than you? The meaning is that from the fear of disgrace, you killed yourself. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: From the fear of disgrace, the beloved gave up her life. He says that in order to remain in pardah, you hid your face in a veil of the dust of the grave. The truth is that the secret-keeping of love finds its end/culmination in you. (272)

FWP: SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} VEIL: {6,1} For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi seem sure that the beloved actually killed herself. The double meaning of ;xatm as both 'culmination' and 'end' is nicely deployed, as is that of rusvaa))ii as both 'disgrace' and 'revealedness'; on this see {20,9}.

{139,8} ;xaak me;N naamuus-e paimaan-e mu;habbat mil ga))ii u;Th ga))ii dunyaa se raah-o-rasm-e yaarii haa))e haa))e 1) the honor/reputation of the pledge/proof of love mingled with the dust 2) the way and practice of friendship/lovership departed from the world-alas!

Notes: naamuus : 'Reputation, fame, renown; esteem, honour, grace, dignity; -disgrace, reproach, shame'. (Platts p.1118) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse is a complaint, but the cause for the complaint is not given. Rather, it's only mourning. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from your dying the honor of the pledge/proof of love has been mingled with the dust, as if the way and practice of friendship had departed from the world. That is, after you, now no faithful beloved will be born in the world/age. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: You were the honor of the embodied pledge/proof of love. It wasn't you who mingled with the dust-- faithfulness mingled with the dust. That is, you yourself were faithfulness, and we didn't bury you, we buried faithfulness. (202)

FWP: SHAME/HONOR: {3,5}

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For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. Nazm puts his finger on the basic characteristic of the whole ghazal.

{139,9} haath hii te;G-aazmaa kaa kaam se jaataa rahaa dil pah ik lagne nah paayaa za;xm-e kaarii haa))e haa))e 1) the sword-wielder's hand itself gradually became useless 2) not even one effective/mortal wound managed to reach the heart-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I longed for you to kill me with a sword, and that longing was not fulfilled. Here, the longing to sustain a wound does not have its literal meaning, but rather is by way of lamentation. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's a cause for sorrow, that the powerful hand became useless. I had longed for a wound to my heart from a sword-blow by that hand; that longing of mine was not able to be fulfilled. The heart's longing to sustain a wound remained within the heart itself. The meaning is that I was not able to experience your coquetry and style to the extent that I desired. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, the heart had still not yet been able to receive any deep wound, when when the sword-wielder's hand drooped. That is, we had not been able to experience the pleasure of love, when the beloved passed away; ee hadn't been able to know the enjoyment of coquetry and style, when the beloved departed. It's not a verse, it's a picture of longing. (273)

FWP: For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. Bekhud sums it up perfectly: 'it's not a verse, it's a picture of longing'. To him, this is a supreme compliment.

{139,10} kis :tara;h kaa;Te ko))ii shab'haa-e taar-e barsh-kaal hai na:zar ;xuu-kardah-e a;xtar-shumaarii haa))e haa))e 1) how would anyone pass the black nights of the rainy season? 2) the gaze is habituated to star-counting-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we had the habit, in the ardor for union and the night of separation, of passing the night in counting stars. Now, how can we pass these dark nights of the rainy season? The rainy season is a metaphor for weeping, and he has called the nights of grief 'nights of blackness'. (149)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we used to take pleasure, during the hours of waiting and the nights of separation, in passing the time counting stars. Now how will we pass these dark nights of the rainy season? He has constructed the nights of grief as dark nights, and the rainy season is a metaphor for weeping. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: How could anyone endure the dark nights of the rainy season? In winter and summer the nights were spent counting stars. That is, since your death, passing the days of the rainy season has become very difficult. (273)

FWP: For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. I have nothing to add to the commentators' explanations.

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{139,11} gosh mahjuur-e payaam-o-chashm ma;hruum-e jamaal ek dil tis par yih naa-ummiidvaarii haa))e haa))e 1) the ear is separated from a message, and the eye deprived of beauty 2) a single heart, in addition to which-- this non-hopefulness-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Atish and Nasikh, etc., among the poets of Lucknow, and in Delhi Zauq and Momin, etc. are to some extent earlier than the author's time. tis par is not in the poetry of any of them. And neither has this phrase been used in Lucknow speech for a long time. For this word to emerge from the author's pen is a cause of astonishment-- and this word bears witness that the late Mirza Naushah [Ghalib]'s language was to some extent separate from the language of Delhi. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the ears are absorbed in separation from the beloved's message, and the eyes have become deprived of the beloved's beauty. My heart alone [ek] is calling down the disasters of these two troubles of hopelessness. (206)

Bekhud Mohani: A single heart, and so many deprivations.... [Contrary to Nazm's claim], tis par occurs in the poetry of Nasikh, may God's mercy be upon him. And the Delhi people say it to this day. [Examples from Nasikh, Mir Dard, and Insha.] (273)

FWP: SETS == A,B For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. If this were a normal ghazal, we could discuss the possible relationships between the ear, the eye, and the heart, which are not exactly thrilling but still offer scope for a bit of complexity. But in this ghazal, does that really seem appropriate? Also, why naa-ummiidvaarii instead of naa-ummiidii ? Normally we'd never suspect Ghalib of making do with any convenient word just for the sake of the refrain; but then, this isn't a normal ghazal.

{139,12} ((ishq ne pak;Raa nah thaa ;Gaalib abhii va;hshat kaa rang rah gayaa thaa dil me;N jo kuchh ;zauq-e ;xvaarii haa))e haa))e 1) passion had not yet taken on, Ghalib, the aspect of madness 2) whatever had remained in the heart-- a taste/relish for wretchedness-- alas!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It had not yet come the time for my roaming about and desert-wandering, when through the shame of disgrace the beloved gave up her life. And the relish for wretchedness that had been in my heart, remained in my heart. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, my passion had not yet assumed the aspect of madness. That is, I had not yet performed roaming and desert-wandering, when for fear of disgrace, my beloved gave up her life. And in my heart this kind of taste/relish for wretchedness remained in my heart. (207)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, your beauty was such that if you had remained alive, my passion would certainly have reached the level of madness. (274)

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FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} For extensive commentary on this whole very unusual ghazal, see {139,1}. I have nothing to add to the commentators' remarks.

Ghazal 140 6 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aas hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 114; Arshi #137; Raza p. 240

{140,1} sar-gashtagii me;N ((aalam-e hastii se yaas hai taskii;N ko de naviid kih marne kii aas hai 1) in stupefaction/wandering/distress, there is despair/terror of the world of existence 2) for peace, give the good news that there is hope of dying

Notes: sar-gashtah : [a variant of sar-gardaan]: ''The head whirling round', dizzy, vertiginous; stupefied, bewildered, confounded, amazed, astonished; wandering, straying; distressed, humble, depressed'. (Platts p.648) yaas : 'Despair, desperation, hopelessness, despondency; --fear, terror'. (Platts p.1248) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, because of stupefaction, there is despair of life. Now, for peace, let there be the good news that after death, there will be salvation from stupefaction. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, because of my stupefaction, I've become hopeless of life. Now, for peace, congratulations ought to be given, because after death comes, there will be certain salvation from stupefaction. (207)

Bekhud Mohani: Anxiety has reached such a limit that I have become entirely without hope toward the world or life. But peace will come, and will definitely come. Because now there's the hope of dying. (274)

FWP: LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} Here, ko means 'for'; it's basically substituting for ke liye . (This is a common colloquial usage.) And that little ko is the pivot on which the verse turns-turns in a way that makes it clever and also possibly terrifying. For what exactly does 'for peace' [taskii;N ko] mean? If we decide, as the commentators do, that 'for peace' applies to 'dying', then it refers to the 'peace' that will be available after death: 'if you want to obtain peace, then just wait, and you'll have it after dying'. But oh, the other possible reading! If life is unbearable, if you're in stupefaction and despair, cheer yourself up at all costs. For the sake of 'peace', tell yourself some comforting lies. Tell yourself that you'll eventually die. And tell yourself that after death, no such suffering will remain. Give yourself all this 'good news' not because it's true, but only because you need it so badly: give it 'for peace'. In fact, as we know, a longed-for death may, as in {161,9} and many other verses, prove to be a mirage, always on the horizon but never actually arriving. And would such a death, if it ever came, actually bring peace? Self-

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deception in matters like this is all too possible: for a cynically perfect illustration, see {174,10}.

{140,2} letaa nahii;N mire dil-e aavaarah kii ;xabar ab tak vuh jaantaa hai kih mere hii paas hai 1) she doesn't {keep track of / inquire about} my wandering heart 2a) she {still / as yet} thinks, 'It's in my possession!' 2b) she {still /as yet} thinks that it's in my possession

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Up to the present she still considers that my heart is present in my possession, and here she's already confirmed herself in power. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my heart, having gone out of my control, has become a wanderer, but the beloved still believe that it is in my possession. With this confidence, she has become careless about my heart, and does not keep track of it. (207)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is entirely careless about my wandering heart; her thought is that 'the heart is not in his possession, but rather it is in my possession'. That is, if she knew about the restlessness of my heart in love, then she would surely show mercy to me. (274)

FWP: Traditional Urdu usedkih to introduce speech (including inner speech such as thoughts), but had no quotation marks. There was no way to distinguish direct discourse (He told me, 'You are a fool!') from indirect discourse ('He told me that I was a fool'). This was not much of a problem, though, because of the heavy preference in normal speech and writing for direct discourse; indirect discourse remained a rarer possibility, its presence made clear by some particular context. In this verse, (2a) is the direct-discourse reading, and (2b) is the indirect-discourse one. By no coincidence, both readings work delightfully with the first line. As always, jaannaa can mean 'consider, think'-- perhaps wrongly-- as well as 'know'; see {16,5} for one of many examples. So it's clear-- though, it should be noted, only through the power of implication-- that the beloved is in error. She has underestimated the wilfulness, the autonomy, the uncontrollable wildness, of my 'wandering heart' [dil-e aavaarah]. She still thinks either that it's safely in her own possession (since she's taken it from me long ago); or that it's safely in my possession (where she can get it anytime she chooses). But in fact, neither she nor I can control it. Naturally I can't control my heart (it goes running off to her at the first opportunity); but how amusing to realize that even she, the almighty beloved, can't control it any better! She might (or might not) be able to track it down and bring it back, if she took the trouble; as yet [ab tak], she doesn't realize that she needs to do so. The key to the verse is that ab tak ; it sets the stage for many possibilities. When she discovers that the barn door is open and the horse is gone, what will she do? Why is the heart such a wild wanderer? Perhaps her cruelty has so wrecked and alienated the heart that it's now reverted to a wilder state, like a zombie of some kind. Or perhaps the heart is moving on some Sufi path, up to levels of mystical awareness where she can't possibly follow it. The lover has so deeply surrendered his will, that an autonomous heart with a fierce, stubborn will of its own is a very enjoyable addition to the ghazal world.

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{140,3} kiije bayaa;N suruur-e tab-e ;Gam kahaa;N talak har muu mire badan pah zabaan-e sipaas hai 1) to what extent would the joy/exhilaration of the heat/fever of grief be narrated? 2) every hair on my body is a tongue of praise/thanksgiving

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the increase of the heat/fever of grief, when the hair stands on end, it becomes a tongue of praise/thanksgiving. When it comes to tak and talak , modern poets have rejected talak and adopted tak , but from looking at the poetry of the older poets it can be seen that the words tak and talak are both discovered. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the happiness that has been obtained from the increase in the heat/fever of grief-- to what extent would I express it? The gist is that every hair on my body has become a tongue in order to express thanks. In a winter fever, the hairs on the body stand up. (207)

Bekhud Mohani: In the heat/fever of passion, there is so much pleasure that every hair on my body has become a tongue of praise/thanksgiving. That is, this condition is not due to trouble, but rather every hair is expressing thanks for this blessing. (274)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE If the little hairs on one's body stand up, in English the convention is that the cause is cold, or else sudden panic or horror. South Asian convention is a bit more elastic: Sanskrit has room for the expression of bliss also (as does Hindi: see pulak and pulkit honaa , Platts p.268). Another possibility, relied on by all the commentators but made explicit by Bekhud Dihlavi, is that this happens because of a fever (possibly accompanied by chills?). If the hairs on the body stand up, they become thin, wavy little things, flexible but firmly anchored at one end. This makes them, for the purposes of the present verse, very like tongues. So if they are waving or wagging tongues, they are surely saying something. Why of course they are: they are expressing thanks for the boon of the heat or fever of grief. And even then, the verse implies, they're insufficient: they're already waggling their little tongue-tips off, yet the first line inquires, rhetorically or seriously, 'to what extent' the appropriate thanks might be expressed. The obvious reading is that all this hair-tongue-waggling is probably still grossly insufficient to the intensity of the joy of it all. Thus, contrary to appearances, the lover is not shivering and writhing with the 'fever' or heat of grief; instead, he's expressing thanks for the joy of such suffering. This is of course parallel to the lover's joy in wounds (see for example {92,5}), and ultimately in death (as in {17,5}). However, the verse still makes it into my 'grotesquerie' category. The vision of every hair on the body as a tiny tongue constantly waving around expressing feverish thanksgiving is simply repulsive. This verse wants you to somehow stop your imagination from using the 'objective correlative' vision to the fullest. The thought of a body covered with tiny wagging tongues reminds me irresistibly of the story about how Indra's lustful intentions toward a rishi's wife, Ahalya, were punished when he was cursed to sprout lingams-- or yonis, depending on which version of the story you hear-- all over his body. Later these were changed into eyes; no doubt that

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was an improvement of sorts. (Actually I think that the yoni version is more canonical, and comes from the Mahabharata.)

{140,4} hai vuh ;Guruur-e ;husn se begaanah-e vafaa harchand us ke paas dil-e ;haq-shinaas hai 1) she is, from the pride/vanity of beauty, a stranger to faithfulness 2) although in her possession is a {right/truth}-acquainted heart

Notes: ;Guruur : '(orig.) A thing by which one is deceived'; pride, haughtiness, vanity, vainglory'. (Platts p.770) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, my right-acquainted heart is in her possession, and it has made her aware of the right of faithfulness. But in her pride of beauty, when does she listen? If we take the right-acquainted heart to mean the beloved's heart, then it will be against the idiom. No one says, 'In his possession [us ke paas] is an enlightened heart and an insightful eye'; rather, one ought to say, 'His heart [us kaa dil] is enlightened and his eye insightful'. (150)

Bekhud Mohani: Although the beloved is unfaithful to the lover, he doesn't like it if anyone would call her unfaithful or unacquainted with the right. Thus he says that the cause is the pride of beauty. Or rather, say that to comfort his heart, he has established this opinion. (275)

Faruqi: In begaanah-e vafaa there are two components: begaanah (meaning a stranger, unrelated, not acquainted, not recognizing) and vafaa -- that is, instead of recognizing faithfulness, the beloved is unacquainted with it. In this regard, in the second line he has said ;haq-shinaas -- that is, 'recognizing the right, knowing the truth'. Thus it can be seen that 'faithfulness' and 'right' are two names for the same thing. Faithfulness is the right, faithfulness alone is the greatest truth. But if the beloved's heart is 'truth-acquainted'-- that is, recognizing faithfulness-- then why is she unacquainted with faithfulness? The reason for this is that the beloved has pride in her beauty. This reason is extremely subtle, because pride closes a person's 'eye of insight'. (There's an idiom, 'to be blind with pride' [;Guruur se andhaa honaa].) Within this reason the beloved's mind is concealed as well, because her beauty too is so peerless that her pride in it is rightful and appropriate. The lover shows faithfulness, but before the beloved's eyes is the curtain of the pride of beauty. Thus even though she has a 'truth-acquainted' (that is, faithfulnessacquainted) heart, she doesn't recognize the lover's faithfulness. It's a tour de force of theme-creation. (262-63)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH Faruqi sees this as an extremely subtle, complex verse involving the nuances of the beloved's pride in her beauty. I see it as a wryly funny one, and a classic mushairah verse in style and structure. The first line sets up an archetypal ghazal-world problem: the beloved is arrogantly absorbed in her own beauty, and completely indifferent to either the lover's own faithfulness, or his wistful longing for her to be faithful in return. This is such a stock situation that it gives us absolutely no hint as to where the second line might take us. Then, after (under mushairah performance conditions) a properly tantalizing delay, we get to hear the second line. But even then, the second line withholds the kicker until the last possible moment. Even after we've heard 'although in her possession', we have no clue to what's coming. Only at the

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very end do we learn that what's 'in her possession' is a 'right-acquainted heart'. This seems to be part of a conventional frame for moral rebuke-- 'You treat me badly, although you know better'; 'You treat me cruelly, although you have a good heart', etc. But even then, we are nagged by a clever grammar trap, almost an iihaam . We expect, appropriately to the 'moral rebuke' reading, that the heart will be hers. But the unusual, uncolloquial usage, emphasized by Nazm, of 'in her possession' [ke paas] gives us pause. And then all at once we realize-- oh of course, it's not her own heart that's 'truth-acquainted', it's the lover's heart that's 'in her possession'! With the sudden burst of recognition, with the reframing of the whole line, the wry humor of the verse hits us all at once. Such light, sly, deftly self-mocking wit-- surely the audience must have relished it. There's some enjoyable wordplay too, about being a 'stranger' versus 'acquainted'. And possibly overtones of 'truth' versus 'deceitfulness' (see the definition of ;Guruur ) as well.

{140,5} pii jis qadar mile shab-e mahtaab me;N sharaab is bal;Gamii mizaaj ko garmii hii raas hai 1) drink, to the extent it would be available, during a moonlit night, wine 2) for this 'phlegmatic' temperament, only heat is propitious

Notes: bal;Gamii : 'Of, or relating to, phlegm; phlegmatic'. (165) raas : ' raas aanaa ( ko ), To agree (with, --as climate, medicine, &c.); to suit; to be auspicious'. (Platts p.581) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, a moonlit night is cool, and why would my phlegmatic temperament not drink wine? Or this: that the character of a moonlit night is mar:tuub ['moist, humid, wet, damp; full of humours' (Platts p.1023)]. For this, to drink wine is advisable. (151)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the moonlit night, to the extent that wine was available, I drank it. My temperament is phlegmatic, and for those of phlegmatic temperament hot things are always beneficial. They imagine wine as 'wet fire', which is a minor proof of its being of hot temperament. And a moonlit night too is always cool; for this reason the use of wine on a moonlit night has been proved to be particularly beneficial. (208)

Bekhud Mohani: Addressing himself, he says, your temperament itself is phlegmatic; heat is propitious to it. On a moonlit night, to the extent that wine is available, drink it. The light of the moon is cool; thus he says that a moonlit night is cool; in it, it is beneficial to drink wine. (275)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR WINE: {49,1} The verse has, amusingly, the tone of a medical prescription: something like 'Drink as much liquid as you can-- for a condition like this, hydration is appropriate'. The temperament is 'phlegmatic' in the sense of being dominated or characterized by 'phlegm', which is, in the classic Greek medical system, is one of the four bodily humours. It is considered to be 'cold and moist', so that the adjective can refer also to 'coldness or dullness of character' or to 'coolness or evenness of temper' (Shorter OED, p.1571).

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Nazm points out an entertaining ambiguity-- we can't tell which 'temperament' is being diagnosed. It could be the listener's (he's being told to drink 'hot' wine, after all); but it could also be that of the 'cool' moonlit night (for which 'hot' wine would be a suitable counterbalance). Bekhud Dihlavi takes pii as the perfect form (with mai;N ne omitted). But his interpretation would require milii instead of mile ; I think he's just read the verse carelessly. Presenting as a sober medical prescription an (astonishingly convenient) injunction to drink lots of wine is delightful in its own right. But an extra piquant touch is the thoughtful medical stipulation of the moonlit night. For moonlit nights are classic times for drinking; on this see {97,13} (which passes itself off as nostalgia, while still reporting continued wine-drinking).

{140,6} har ik makaan ko hai makii;N se sharaf asad majnuu;N jo mar gayaa hai to jangal udaas hai 1) every single dwelling has nobility/dignity through its dweller, Asad 2) because Majnun has died, the wilderness is indifferent/solitary/sad

Notes: sharaf : 'Highness of rank, &c., exaltation, eminence, excellence, rank, grandeur, glory, honour, dignity, nobility'. (Platts p.725) udaas : 'Indifferent (to, - se ), unconcerned, apathetic; unsettled in mind; retired, lone, solitary; forlorn, dejected, sad, sorrowful; dull, dispirited, castdown; grieved'. (Platts p.31) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, this is the reason that the wilderness is udaas ; otherwise, it would not have been udaas . (151)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, every dwelling receives honor/rank from the dweller. The inhabitedness/liveability [aabaadii] of the wilderness was dependent upon Majnun. After his death, the wilderness has become udaas . (208)

Bekhud Mohani: The prestige/respect of a house is from the master of the house alone. Just look-- after Majnun's death, how udaasii spread over the wilderness, and what a 'howling wilderness' [sannaa;Taa] it has become! From this the point emerges that only Majnun was a lover, and all the rest is a mere imitation/show [naql]. (275)

FWP: SETS == WORD HOME: {14,9} The first line offers a kind of dry, abstract, general statement, one that is destined, in the ghazal world, to be backed up by a 'proof', or illustrated by an example of some kind. Naturally, we are curious to hear the second line. And when we get the second line-- after, under mushairah conditions, a suitably piquant delay-- we are so devastatingly rewarded with its gorgeous sound effects and rich range of meanings. This is one of Ghalib's brilliant verses of what I call 'word-exploration'. Monier Williams in his Sanskrit-English Dictionary defines udaas (literally, 'aside' + 'sit') as 'to sit separate or away from, sit on one side or apart; to abstain from participating in; to take no interest in, be unconcerned about, be indifferent or passive' (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1974 [1899], p.185). As can be seen from Platts's definition above, the meanings that have accrued to it over time all come directly from that primary concept of being

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seated apart, with its implications of sadness, indifference, isolation. Here are some of the possible readings: =Because Majnun has died, the wilderness has been in mourning; it has been paying the tribute of grief to the one whose residence gave it the 'nobility' to feel such honorable emotions. =Because Majnun has died, the wilderness is sad; it knows it will now be an empty shell, like an abandoned house; it will no longer have the kind of prestige and honor that it did when he dwelt in it. =Because Majnun has died, the wilderness is indifferent and solitary; it now holds itself aloof from human affairs, as is appropriate for one of high rank who will tolerate no inferior company. =Because Majnun has died, the wilderness is now neglected and ignored; nobody cares about it any more, since it's of no more value than a longabandoned house. =The reason that the wilderness is so wild, desolate, remote, forbidding, is that Majnun has died; otherwise, it would not have been so. (This is Nazm's reading.) This verse can thus also be considered, on this last reading, a witty example of 'elegance in assigning a cause': the obvious fact that the wilderness-- and jangal in Urdu is much broader than the English derivative 'jungle'-- is wild, desolate, etc., is no mere happenstance of nature, but rather a direct result of Majnun's death. To me the second line is one of the most resonant and haunting ones in the whole divan. But when I try to analyze the reasons, I find it hard to put my finger any single one. Maybe it's not just sound effects, but also a case of mood. There's also the fact that the semantic structure of the line fits with complete perfection into the metrical foot pattern. And the sound effects are there: all the resonant long vowels, contrasted powerfully with the three clipped, short-a consonantal syllables mar and jan and gal . Try it yourself-see if this line isn't very easy to memorize, and wonderfully resonant to recite. A wonderful verse for comparison is {18,3}, another meditation on Majnun's wilderness 'house'. Also compare {4,15x}, on the relation between the 'owner' and the 'house'.

Ghazal 141 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aal hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 115; Arshi #138; Raza p. 241

{141,1} gar ;xaamushii se faa))idah i;xfaa-e ;haal hai ;xvush huu;N kih merii baat samajhnii mu;haal hai 1) if through silence is the advantage of concealment of the situation 2) I'm happy/fortunate, that to understand my words/utterance is impossible/absurd

Notes: mu;haal : 'Absurd; impossible; that cannot be'. (Platts p.1007) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: That is, if in silence is the advantage that the state of the heart does not become manifest, then I am happy that my speech too gives the benefit of silence itself; because my speech/poetry [kalaam] isn't understood by anybody. (112-13) [See also his comments on {175,6}.]

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Nazm: That is, if I am such a madman that it's impossible to understand my words, then I have obtained the advantage of silence without being silent. And by 'situation' is meant events of the heart. (151)

Bekhud Mohani: My words have become so esoteric that no one can understand them, and the secret of the heart remains hidden. To this there can be the objection that when no one understands, then what's the need of saying anything? The answer to it is that I can't bear not to speak. When I am compelled by the claims of the heart, then I can't help but say something. [Or:] In the madness of passion, the situation of the heart and the beloved come to the tongue. But thanks be, that my style of speaking is so arranged that people don't even understand it: {215,5}. (276)

FWP: SETS == POETRY Ghalib's critics famously complained that his verse was incomprehensible. Hali observes that 'Mirza has here and there, in his Urdu and Persian divans, alluded to this kind of nit-picking' (112); as examples, he cites the present verse and {175,6}. I've discussed the alleged incomprehensibility of his poetry in an article. Another comment by Ghalib takes the form of a quatrain (Hamid 218, Arshi 339): mushkil hai zabas kalaam meraa ay dil sun sun ke use su;xanvar-e kaamil aasaa;N kahne kii karte hai;N farmaayish 'goyam mushkil vagar na-goyam mushkil' [my poetry is quite sufficiently difficult, oh heart hearing it, accomplished poets request me to compose easy ones 'to speak is difficult; and not to speak is difficult'] The last line is in Persian, and has an elegant structure impossible to capture fully in English. In its scope the present verse could apply to all the speaker's speech, since merii baat , my 'idea' or 'words' or 'utterance', is not a concept limited to poetry. And it certainly works that way as a witty or desperate observation by the lover on the inexpressibly dire straits in which he finds himself. But Hali's observation is plausible, and it's certainly easy to imagine this verse as a wry reaction to a group of particularly obtuse and uncomprehending critics.

{141,2} kis ko sunaa))uu;N ;hasrat-e i:zhaar kaa gilah dil fard-e jam((-o-;xarch-e zabaa;Nhaa-e laal hai 1) to whom might I recite the complaint of the (vain) longing for expression? 2) the heart is the account-sheet of the collection and expenditure of inflamed/precious/dumb tongues

Notes: fard : 'A single thing or article; a unit;... a half, one of a pair or couple;... a draft (of an account); a register, record, statement, account-sheet; a list, roll, catalogue'. (Platts p.778) laal : 'Red-hot; inflamed; enraged'. (Platts p.946) laal : 'Beloved, darling, dear, precious; --dumb'. (Platts p.946) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the longing for expression is complaining of the tongue's {not being a speaker / not, so to speak, existing} [goyaa nah hone se]. Before whom

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would I recite that complaint? And by 'the ledger of collection and expenditure' is meant the account-book of complaint. That is,when the expression of ardor was not able to take place through the tongue, then the complaints about the tongue fill up the heart. The author has called the tongue a collection in this respect: that on many occasions the tongue showed deficiency in expressing ardor; and it's possible that the tongues of companions might be intended. (151)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the longing for expression has a complaint about the tongue's {not being a speaker / not, to to speak, existing} [goyaa nah hone kii]. Before whom might I go, and bewail its sorrow? And my heart is an account book, in which the income and expenditure of dumb tongues is recorded. The meaning is that the longing for expression has a complaint against those people who, like the dumb, have a tongue in their mouth. That is, they don't ask me about the state of my difficulties, despite the fact that from my face the longing for expression is plainly visible. (208)

Bekhud Mohani: In plain words, the interpretation of the verse is that the longing for expression of thoughts that there must be in the hearts of all the dumb people in the world-- that much longing is in my one heart, and it's clear how convoluted that must be for me. In place of kis ko sunaa))uu;N he could have versified kyuu;Nkar sunaa))uu;N too, but now two aspects emerge in it. One is that what expression was there-- that is, when I don't even have the power of speech at all, then to whom might I express anything. The second is that, who can hear? (276-77)

FWP: SETS == WORD COMMERCE: {3,3} What a rich, complex, semantically juicy verse! Each line is convoluted in itself, and when the two are put together the result is almost fivedimensional. The first line does everything it can to make the prospect of expression remote. To whom (is anybody suitable there? is anybody there at all?) might/would I recite (in the subjunctive, so that the probability of its happening is no more than fifty-fifty) the complaint of the longing for expression? The inshaa))iyah mode is as conspicuous as it can possibly be. Since the complaint is of the '(vain) longing for expression', quite possibly I couldn't recite it at all, even under ideal conditions, so that the whole question becomes rhetorical. And what exactly is the complaint 'of' the longing for expression? Is it a complaint made by me 'about' the longing for expression? If so, it could take various forms: 'The longing for expression pesters me night and day, and I wish it would go away!' or 'I long to express myself, but somehow I can't manage to find the words!' or 'Something is wrong with my tongue!' Alternatively, the complaint could be made 'by' the longing for expression, in which case I would simply be striving (probably vainly) to report it. As in so many verses, we're not told how to connect the two lines, so we have to figure it out for ourselves. Depending on which element of the first line we choose to emphasize (is it about finding a listener? about the possibility of recitation at all? about the content of the recitation? about the longing for recitation?), the second line can assume various relationships to the first. Is the second line a paraphrase of the first, with both describing the same situation? Or is the second line a cause of the first, with the overflowing fullness of the blocked-up, wordless heart giving rise to the longing for expression? Or is the first line a cause of the second, with the longing for expression causing the heart to feel like a dammed-up torrent?

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The second line is also elegantly complicated in its own right. The word fard , which means account-sheet (thus the clever use of the mercantile imagery of 'income' and 'expenditure'), also means 'single'; and with beautiful wordplay it's joined by an i.zaafat to a word meaning a 'gathering' or 'collection'. But in classic mushairah style, the best has been saved for last. The 'tongues' are pluralized, so that it's not clear how many, or whose, tongues may be meant. This prepares us for the wonderful description of them as zabaanhaae laal , in which all three of the quite different meanings of laal are beautifully apposite. Needless to say, the commentators all opt for the most obvious meaning, 'dumb', which is certainly quite appropriate. But then, would the tongues not also be hot or inflamed, because of their passionate yearning to speak? Are they not also precious or dear, because the power of speech is so utterly desirable and necessary? Or might they even be precious as representing a 'collection' of memories of the beloved's speech, and even of the lover's 'expenditure' of replies as well-- though of course no amount of conversation with the beloved is enough, and the 'longing for expression' always remains unsatisfied.

{141,3} kis parde me;N hai aa))inah-pardaaz ay ;xudaa ra;hmat kih ((u;zr-;xvaah-e lab-e be-savaal hai 1a) in {which / what kind of} veil are You mirror-perfecting, oh Lord? 1b) in {which / what kind of} veil is the mirror-perfecter, oh Lord? 2a) since mercy is requesting excuse with/for a non-asking lip 2b) mercy! for there is an excuse-requester with/for a non-asking lip

Notes: pardaaz : 'Performing, accomplishing, finishing, completing'. (Platts p.246) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Necessarily, the non-asking lip will be lifeless, and he has called the lip nonasking and lifeless because of the affinity with the fact that when breath reaches a mirror it clouds it. So it certainly happened that one ought to express a wish to meet with the mirror-perfecter through a non-asking lip. And the mirror-perfecter is the one who would give brightness/polish to the mirror. The verb for 'mercy' is omitted-- that is, 'have mercy'. (151)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Lord, since mercy is requesting excuse on the part of a non-asking lip, in which veil is it a mirror-perfecter (is it adorning itself)? That is, what is the delay in mercy's descending on patient and grateful people? Ghalib: {174,4}. (277)

Faruqi: After some weeks of thought and reflection, I've been forced to arrive at the conclusion that this verse can't support analysis and commentary. I won't say that the verse is meaningless, but I'm certainly forced to say that Ghalib made this verse outwardly very beautiful, but what he presumably wanted to say was not able to be expressed.... The verse can be put into prose in three ways: 1) Oh Lord, that mercy which is the excuse-requester of a non-asking lip, in which veil is it mirror-perfecting? 2) Oh Lord, in which veil is your mercy mirror-perfecting? (Look,) even the non-asking lip is excuse-requesting at this time. 3) Oh Lord, in which veil are you mirror-perfecting? (Show) mercy, for a non-asking lip is excuse-requesting....

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The phrase 'mirror-perfecting' has created the real difficulty. What connection is there between 'mercy', or the Lord himself, and mirrorperfecting? This isn't revealed by the verse in any way.... If Bekhud Mohani's meaning be considered accurate, then it becomes easy to express the meaning of the verse. The divine mercy is delayed in manifesting itself because it is absorbed in self-adornment. But the difficulty is that for 'mirrorperfecting' a meaning of 'self-adorning' is not established in any dictionary. As for the commentary that [Nazm] Tabataba'i has written for this verse, the prose reading that it generates has been given in my (3) above. But in this position to take 'mercy!' to be an exclamation is absolutely contrary to Urdu idiom.... Then what is the meaning of the verse? I can say this much: that 'mirror' should be considered a metaphor for the heart, and it should be imagined that by 'mirror-perfection' (for a mirror to be polished) is meant for the radiance of the divine light to fall on the heart. These two notions are absolutely selfexplanatory, there's nothing further needed. Now the interpretation has become that the speaker was absorbed in sins, or was heedless toward the Lord. He never even asked anything of the Lord. His lips were without a question. Not to ask can be on the basis of arrogance, or on the basis that whether or not I would say anything with my lips, the heart is the Lord's mirror-- it will be, or will continue to be, polished by the radiance of the divine illuminations. A period of time passed. Suddenly I felt that up till now I had been in the sleep of heedlessness. I didn't even ask anything of God, and now that I look, I find that the heart is entirely black and lightless. Then the speaker makes a plea to the Lord for mercy. The plea is not accepted. He again makes a plea, and says, oh Lord, in which veil is your radiance raining down illuminations on my heart? I call to you again and again, but I find my heart only lightless. Look-- now even my non-asking lip (which up till now had never asked you for anything) is asking to be excused for former heedlessnesses and shortcomings. Now permit your radiance to manifest itself in my heart. This reading allows for all the words in the verse, but the truth is that to take the meaning of 'non-asking lip' to be that the speaker was non-asking in past times, is merely conjectural. And it's also true that however many commentaries on this verse I have looked at, they seem to be even less trustworthy than my own. (264-66)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT MIRROR: {8,3} VEIL: {6,1} Even Faruqi is pretty much flummoxed, and how often does that happen? Here is an case in which Ghalib indeed seems to have outsmarted himself. The verse simply, and incurably, lacks connection between its lines. There are too many possible ways of putting the verse together, and they aren't framed or joined so as to interlock into real ranges of meaning. Instead of having several meanings, or even half a dozen, this verse could be tortured into having a couple of dozen-- and all of them vague and un-punchy and excessively obscure. It would be like trying to figure out a puzzle made of wet spaghetti. Isn't it remarkable that relatively soon after composing this ghazal, he composed {139}? Nobody could ever accuse him of being a boring middleof-the-roader.

{141,4} hay hay ;xudaa nah ;xvaastah vuh aur dushmanii ay shauq-e munfa((il yih tujhe kyaa ;xayaal hai

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1) alas-- may the Lord forbid! she-- and enmity! 2) oh disturbed/afflicted/abashed ardor-- what thought is this of yours?!

Notes: munfa((il : 'Done, performed; made; --suffering or receiving the effect (of an act), affected (by); disturbed, afflicted; --abashed, ashamed'. (Platts p.1079) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The quality munfa((il for shauq is not good. The meaning is: oh ardor, you who are repenting that we considered an enemy to be a friend and created a connection [rab:t] with her-- this thought of yours was wrong. (151)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh ardor of love, in that you are munfa((il with the thought that this mischievous one showed, or will show, enmity toward you-- alas, God forbid, why did you begin to do that? This idea of yours is absolutely wrong. (209)

Bekhud Mohani: When the lover expressed his ardor, the beloved showed such disdain that the lover repented of his ardor, but then hope and renewed expectation fill him with the thought that it's very wrong to think of enmity on her part-where is she, and where enmity [kujaa vuh kujaa dushmanii]! From 'alas, may the Lord forbid!' it is clear that he has absolutely no belief that the beloved has become an enemy, and his heart doesn't in any way accept it. He says, may the Lord not cause that to happen! In this verse, every single word is worthy of praise. The power of the poetry has been increased by so many words: 1) 'alas'; 2) 'may the Lord forbid!'; 3) 'she-- and enmity!'; 4) 'what is this thought of yours?!'. (277)

Arshi: Compare {88,4}. (260)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATIONS; IDIOMS; WORD Bekhud Mohani enumerates the wonderful exclamatory idioms that are the heart of this verse. The whole effect is of a spontaneous, entirely colloquial cry of dismay. Among Indo-Muslims of the older generation whom I know, this kind of dismay can be provoked by even casually or hypothetically expressing some inauspicious idea. They react as if the very framing of the idea in words somehow makes the thing more likely to happen. Some things are so awful, it seems, that even to speak of them is intolerable and/or dangerous. Here, the intensity of the reaction is provoked by the horrible, heretical, inauspicious idea that the beloved can be connected in even the remotest way with 'enmity'. The entity being scolded for harboring this idea is the elegantly complicated shauq-e munfa((il . What kind of 'ardor' might this be? =it might be an 'affected' or 'influenced' ardor, which holds this view in response to some seemingly hostile behavior by the beloved. =it might be a 'disturbed' or 'afflicted' ardor, which holds this view because of the stress of great suffering or mental imbalance. =it might be an 'abashed' or 'ashamed' ardor, which has already been upbraided sufficiently for holding this awful view =it might even be a 'created' or 'achieved' ardor, which has received most careful cultivation from the lover-- and is thus all the more culpable for indulging in such unworthy thoughts. Here is a verse made from a handful of idiomatic exclamations and one striking, complicated adjective. In the midst of all that vigorous bemoaning and deploring (with of course its strong overtones of 'methinks thou dost protest too much'), munfa((il leaps out at us in all its craggy, Arabicized glory. For another brilliant use of the same multivalent word, see {88,4}.

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{141,5} mushkii;N libaas-e ka((bah ((alii ke qadam se jaan naaf-e zamiin hai nah kih naaf-e ;Gazaal hai 1) know the drapery/veil of the Ka'bah to be musky/dark from the footstep of 'Ali 2) it's the navel/center of the earth, it's not the navel of a gazelle

Notes: mushkii;N : 'Of musk, musky; --dark, black, jetty, raven'. (Platts p.1040) naaf : 'The navel; --nave; middle, or center (of anything)'. (Platts p.1115) ;Gazaal : 'A young gazelle or deer, a fawn'. (Platts p.771) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To call the Ka'bah the 'navel of the earth' is the theme of an anecdote about the Prophet [;hadii;s], and by 'navel of the earth' is meant 'middle/center of the earth'. But the objection is made, that how can it be the center/pole of the earth [which is far to the north]? A possible answer to this is that first of all, very few anecdotes about the Prophet are such that they have been proved to be absolutely accurate and correctly recorded. And if we accept it, then consider: the people of Europe, who have sifted through every bit of dust and investigated historical conditions, have reported this astonishing thing: that in the northern regions, where ice and cold are extreme, many bones are found of animals who live in hot lands, and can't ever survive outside the tropics. This gives us great reason to suppose that at some time this region was in the tropics; and where now snow falls, the loo used to blow. From which it follows very clearly that when the northern regions were in the tropics, then Arabia must certainly have been at the pole. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This is a verse in praise of the Prophet and his companions [manqabat]. He says, consider the cover [;Gilaaf] of the Ka'bah to be perfumed by the footsteps of 'Ali. That is, the blessing and benefit that is reaching all the world from the Ka'bah-- it is because Hazrat 'Ali, may God's blessing be upon him, tore the idols from the walls of the Ka'bah and took them out. If the idols had not been broken, then the infidels would have continued to have it in their grasp, and Muslims would not have received benefit from it. And the chamber of the Ka'bah is the navel of the earth, it is not the navel of a gazelle that has musk in it. With regard to musk, the chamber of the Ka'bah ought not to be considered to be perfumed clothing. The second special point is the Hazrat ['Ali] was also born right in the chamber of the Ka'bah. (209)

Bekhud Mohani: In Central Asia, there is a species of deer, from the navel of which musk is taken out. The Ka'bah's cover/veil is black. The Ka'bah is the navel of the earth, not of a gazelle. Because it is the navel of the earth, the Ka'bah's cover/veil does not have that perfume. Rather, through the blessing of 'Ali's footsteps the allusion is to the fact that Hazrat Ali was born in the chamber of the Ka'bah, and destroyed the idols and purified the Ka'bah from idols. (277)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse clearly expresses reverence for Hazrat 'Ali. But since many Sunni Muslims feel such reverence, the verse doesn't suffice to mark Ghalib formally as a Shi'a. Ghalib himself always sought to avoid not only sectarian controversy, but sectarian labels as well. Russell and Islam provide (pp. 32-

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38) a thoughtful discussion of the available evidence of his religious attitudes as they developed over time. In proper mushairah-verse style, the first line appears merely perplexing until we are allowed to hear the second. For after all, either as a newborn baby, or as an adult idol-breaker, Hazrat 'Ali surely never walked on the covering of the Ka'abah. So why would it be either 'musky' or 'dark' from his footsteps? In the second line, we learn that 'it'-- unspecified-- is the navel of the earth, not the navel of a deer. What is the 'it'? Grammatically, it ought most directly to be the covering/veil [libaas] of the Ka'bah, but that reading gives rise to major problems: the mere covering is surely not the 'navel of the earth'-after all, it's changed every year. So we are led to take the 'it' to be the Ka'bah itself. If we take 'it' to be the Ka'bah itself, then we learn that the Ka'bah is the navel of the earth, not the navel of a deer. It is the navel of the earth apparently because there is a ;hadii;s to this effect, as Nazm points out; and also because it is musky-dark [mushkii;N] like earth (and like musk). And it is the navel of the earth, rather than the navel of a deer, because it (along with its covering) is a made into a powerful perfume-source by means of the footsteps of Hazrat 'Ali, rather than merely by means of a musky scentgland. There is a species of Central Asian 'musk deer', the adult males of which have an external scent gland with very strong aromatic powers that make it valuable for use in perfumes (*wikipedia*, *National Geographic*). The gland isn't in the deer's navel, or even connected to the navel in any way. But what do we care? The ghazal world has its own rules of anatomy and physiology, which override the arrangements of mere ordinary nature. The 'navel' might only refer, after all, to the 'middle' of the deer in question; being too literal-minded about the real world gets us nowhere in the world of the ghazal. There's also the word naafah , obviously derived from naaf , that refers to a 'musk-pouch', presumably one on the animal's body. For an example of this usage, and another look in general at musk-deer imagery, see {228,1}. As a handy example of such literal-mindedness, Nazm himself becomes surprisingly exercised over the problem of the 'navel of the earth'; he seems to equate this with the North Pole, and energetically argues that long ago Mecca could perfectly well have been in the polar region. And yet it's not hard to see how the Ka'abah could be viewed as the (religious) 'center' of the earth, and thus referred to as the earth's 'navel'. Without being at all literal-minded, however-- in fact, just because we are not literal-minded in naturalistic terms-- we can expect precision of structure, especially from a poet like Ghalib. And in this verse we don't really find it. The need to slide constantly back and forth in our minds between the qualities of the Ka'bah itself, and those of its covering, is disconcerting. It's also not attractive to have to compare the footsteps of Hazrat 'Ali to the scent-gland of a deer. All this makes the verse feel rather slippery. Its connections seem slapdash, and there's really not much going on in it. Perhaps its charm is meant to lie in its devotional tone, rather than in its literary subtlety.

{141,6} va;hshat pah merii ((ar.sah-e aafaaq tang thaa daryaa zamiin ko ((araq-e infi((aal hai 1) upon my madness/wildness, the space of the horizons was narrow 2) the sea, to the land, is the sweat of shame

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Notes: ((araq : 'Sweat; exuded moisture, exudation; moisture, sap, juice, liquor; extract, essence, spirit; the root (of anything)'. (Platts p.760) infi((aal : 'An act which causes a blush (as its effect); shame, modesty; confusion'. (Platts p.94) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: When for my desert-wandering the breadth of the earth proved contemptible, then the earth became bathed in the sweat of shame. This sea is, so to speak, the 'sweat of shame'. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the field of the world is, compared to my desert-wandering, very small. And for this reason the earth is drowned in the sweat of shame. It is as if this sea and ocean do the work of the 'sweat of shame' for the land. (209)

Bekhud Mohani: The breadth of the world was not enough for my madness. For this reason, the earth felt the sweat of shame. The sea is not the sea, but is rather the earth's 'sweat of shame'.

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} That initial phrase 'upon my madness' [va;hshat pah merii] sounds a bit odd, so that we're alerted to examine it closely. And in fact it yields two quite different meanings: =For/upon my madness, the horizons were too narrow (just as a garment might be too tight 'for' the shoulders, or too binding 'upon' the body), etc. My madness tried to expand beyond the horizons, and found them constricting. =Upon my [entering the state of] madness, this madness caused me to imagine that the very horizons were too narrow, and that the sea was the land's sweat, and other crazy things that had no basis in reality. The second line further develops the double vision. If even the horizons (which extend beyond the land to include sky and sea as well) are too narrow for me in my madness, the mere earth/land [zamiin] is obviously still more hopelessly narrow and inadequate. No wonder the earth feels shame and embarrassment, such that its brow is covered with sweat! Enjoyably, the sweat is a whole immense oceanful-- a vivid image that drives home both how wide is the land that could generate such sweat, and how correspondingly much wider are the demands of my madness. (And/or, how extreme my madness is, that I could come up with such bizarre imagery.) Another marvelous verse about the power and uncontrollability of va;hshat : {5,4}

{141,7} hastii ke mat fareb me;N aa jaa))iyo asad ((aalam tamaam ;halqah-e daam-e ;xayaal hai 1) don't be taken in by the trick/deceit of existence/life, Asad 2) the whole world is a link of the net of thought

Notes: hastii : 'Being, existence; entity; world; life; --wealth, riches; --worth, merit. (Platts p.1229) fareb : 'Deception, deceit, fraud, trick, duplicity, treachery, imposture, delusion, fallacy; allurement, beguilement, &c.' (Platts p.780) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, the whole world is only imagined and suppositional [i((tibaarii]. One ought not to consider his existence to be 'existence'. He has constructed the sphere of the world as a link in the net of thought. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, this whole world is only imaginary, and has a suppositional existence. Don't by any means consider your presence here to be your 'existence'. This whole world has no more reality than a link in the net of thought. (209)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Asad, don't consider the world to be present. There's nothing in the world. Its existence is hypothetical and suppositional. As many spheres as might be considered to exist, they are nothing but imagination.... The Sufis too have this view: that in the world there's only the Lord, and nothing else at all. (278)

Arshi: Compare {100,3}; {196,4}; {208,3}. (229, 260, 299, 333)

FWP: What does it mean to 'come into', to be taken in by, to be lured into or suckered into, the trick/deceit of existence [hastii kaa fareb]? Well, that depends on what the trick 'of' existence is. It can mean at least three things: 1) the trick that itself is existence; 2) the trick that is played by existence on somebody; 3) the trick that somehow belongs or pertains to existence. In short, all the possibilities Ghalib so often smuggles in with the i.zaafat , he here provides with kaa . (In {196,4}, he uses fareb-e hastii itself.) Uncertain among those three possibilities, we wait (under mushairah performance conditions) for the second line, expecting clarification. And what do we get? More ambiguity and multivalence, of course. (Are we really surprised?) For it's impossible to tell what kind of entity 'thought' might be. Is it an autonomous agent named 'Thought', like a personification? Is it something in the mind of God, that shapes us willy-nilly? Is it something in our own minds, that we can play with as we like? Is it something in our own minds that compels us, and over which we have no power? Putting it all together, here are just a few of the possible readings: =Don't foolishly think that you 'exist' =Don't naively play the games that 'existence' wants you to play =Even though you're forced to 'exist', don't be blind to the real truth To be paired at will with: =The whole world is imaginary/imagined ='Thought' is a notorious trickster =Use your 'thought' to perceive the tricks of 'existence' =Your own 'thought' is what ensnares and deceives you The imagery of being ensnared 'in' a trick/deceit [fareb me;N aanaa] works suggestively with the 'net' in the second line-- the kind of net in which birds are commonly trapped. (See for example {167,2}.) What kind of a net would it be, in which the whole world would constitute only one link? Vast and awesome, no doubt, but would it also encompass other worlds, other universes (and might they be accessible to us somehow, within the net)? Could we escape from it (the way clever birds don't fly into a net)? Could we escape from it (the way a trapped bird might find a small hole in the net)? To imagine that the net has been placed by God is relatively comforting; what if we ourselves have created the net? Or, most frighteningly, what if there's no one at all behind the net? An especially good verse for comparison: {196,4}.

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Ghazal 142 2 verses; meter G16; rhyming elements: abii hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 115; Arshi #139; Raza p. 241

{142,1} tum apne shikve kii baate;N nah khod khod ke puuchho ;ha;zar karo mire dil se kih us me;N aag dabii hai 1) don't keep digging up matters of complaint {about you / by us} 2) be wary/fearful of my heart-- for in it fire is suppressed

Notes: khodnaa : 'To dig, delve, excavate; to undermine; to scoop, hollow; to engrave; to carve; -- to search for; to inquire closely into, to investigate'. (Platts p.883) ;ha;zar : 'Caution, wariness, vigilance, care; prudence; --fear'. (Platts p.475) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has given suppressed fire as a simile for complaint hidden in the heart, because from the expression of complaint, the fire of perversity often flames out. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, complaints against you are hidden in my heart the way that fire is hidden in a stove. If you keep poking and prodding and asking about them, then the complaining expression of these matters will cause a fire of enmity to flare up. The meaning is that among friends, complaints often lead to sorrow. (210)

Bekhud Mohani: The complaint that I have against you-- don't keep digging it out. Be fearful of my heart-- in it fire is suppressed. From khod khod ke puuchho it is clear that so far the lover has kept hold of his self-control, and doesn't make any complaint.... Pestering him, she asks again and again, 'After all, what did I do? Why are you angry?' Now the lover is unable to bear it any more. But even now he doesn't want to say anything. Thus he says, don't keep irritating me and asking. You ought to be afraid of my heart, since in it fire is suppressed. That is, the Lord knows what complaints I have against you.... aag dabii hai -- it's a phrase for which eloquence [balaa;Gat] sacrifices itself. That is, he's said every single thing-- and he's said nothing. (278)

Arshi: Compare {172,3}, {177,2}. (261, 266, 319)

FWP: If we consider apne shikve kii baate;N in isolation, it looks very versatile. The 'utterances' or 'ideas' or 'matters'-- baate;N is one of the most flexible words in the language-- concern a {pertaining/belonging}-to-the-subject-ofthe-sentence complaint. With equal grammatical ease, the complaint could thus be about her, or by her. However, the consensus of opinion of the commentators is that the complaint can only be about her. And as Vasmi Abidi has rightly pointed out to me, the verb puuchho certainly seems to go more in this direction: why would she be 'asking, inquiring'-- rather than merely nagging-- if the complaint were her own in the first place? The two verses that Arshi suggests for comparison also go in this direction. In any case, she's playing with fire: she's rashly poking a stick again and again into an ominously smoking volcanic crater. The lover's suppressed

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grievances and sufferings and fiery passions are under high pressure, and are dangerously near the surface. She should be warned, and stop tempting fate. The structure of the second line gives a powerful double emphasis to both 'fire' (watch out-- it's not just some extinct crater in my heart, it's fire!) and 'suppressed' (watch out-- the fire in my heart is not just a little candle, it's huge flames under deadly high pressure!). In this vivid picture of his heart, the lover has, as Bekhud Mohani puts it, said everything; and yet since he's trying desperately to avert a calamitous explosion, he's also said nothing at all.

{142,2} dilaa yih dard-o-alam bhii to mu;Gtanim hai kih aa;xir nah giryah-e sa;harii hai nah aah-e niim-shabii hai 1a) oh heart, even this pain and sorrow is, then, a prize/blessing, for finally 1b) oh heart, this pain and sorrow too is, then, a prize/blessing, for finally 2) there is no dawn weeping, nor is there midnight sighing

Notes: mu;Gtanim : 'Considering, or holding, as spoil or prey, or as a prize, or blessing'. (Platts p.1051) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [Writing in 1858:] And if-- may the Lord forbid!-- you have worldly griefs, then, brother, you are our fellow-sufferer [ham-dard]. I am bearing that burden in a manly [mardaanah] way-- you bear it too, if you are a man. As the late [mar;huum] Ghalib has said in this verse: {142,2}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 714 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 184 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 90

Nazm: The meaning of 'finally' is that the result even of all this pain and sorrow will be that there will be neither weeping or sighing-- that is, having done their work, they will give release from suffering and pain. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The result of this pain and sorrow is about to happen: that one day we will die, and then neither will the dawn weeping remain, nor will the midnight sighing be present. Oh heart, you ought to consider the state of pain and sorrow to be a prize/blessing, because as long as it exists, our life too continues. (210)

Bekhud Mohani: [Nazm's comments] are incomprehensible to me. The author has said bhii ; his excellency the commentator has paid no attention to it. (278-79)

Arshi: Compare {90,4}. (219, 261)

FWP: SETS == BHI Such an exercise in subtlety, wit, and amusing evocation! In the first line, we have several choices of nuance. What is it exactly that we are to consider a prize, a blessing, a piece of loot from the battlefield? = this pain and suffering (as opposed to some other, ordinary kind) = this pain and suffering (as opposed to ease and delight) = even this pain and suffering (which is a uniquely non-'prized' thing) = this pain and suffering too (in addition to all the other things in its category, whatever category that may be) Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait and hope for clarification from the second line. When it comes, it turns out to be a

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wonderfully ironic and delightful comment that works equally well with all the above alternatives. Moreover, we notice that there are two possible ways to connect the second line to the first: do the two lines describe the same general situation, or is the second line a result of the first line? If we consider the two lines to describe the same general situation, then the verse poses as a sort of moral injunction about the fleeting little interval of life. Invariably such moral injunctions offer as an ominous, looming future the loss of something greatly valued: gather ye rosebuds while ye may, because there won't be any more joy/delight/love/living etc. etc. when you're gone. And here, in a sort of highly enjoyable parody, we see, 'gather ye suffering while ye may, because there won't be any more such suffering when you're gone'. The vision of loss is even highly detailed: alas, you won't have that old nostalgically remembered 'dawn weeping', nor those exquisite moments of 'midnight sighing'. The poor lover! Do such melancholy occasions hold for him the sentimental place that happier memories do for us? Are those the happiest (or least miserable) experiences he has? Does he think those really are happy memories? Or is the cautionary note of the verse intended to remind us that even these miserable times are better than no times at all? If we consider the second line to be a result of the first line, then we find fresh complexities. Nazm reads the verse as a true celebration: all this pain and sorrow can only end in death, which will come as a blessed and peaceful release; so we should be grateful for all this misery that's rapidly hastening the day of our liberation. Bekhud Dihlavi agrees with the diagnosis that the pain and suffering is rapidly causing our death; but he feels we should be grateful to have it, since its presence shows that we're not dead yet. It's easy to assume that the verse is about death, but even more morbidly, it may envision a sort of grim despair, a death-in-life. In the letter above, written shortly after his own long period of suffering in 1857, Ghalib speaks of himself as 'the late Ghalib', one whose life is over. Might the second line refer also to a time when the heart is all wept out, when tears and sighs are replaced by blank, bleak silence? (Think of {138,7}.) As Arshi suggests, {90,4} is an excellent verse for comparison.

Ghazal 143 6 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aar hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 116; Arshi #159; Raza pp. 244-45

{143,1} ek jaa ;harf-e vafaa likkhaa thaa so bhii mi;T gayaa :zaahira:n kaa;Ga;z tire ;xa:t kaa ;Gala:t-bardaar hai 1) in one place you had written a word of faithfulness-- and that too was erased 2) obviously, the paper of your letter is 'error-remover'

Notes: ;Gala:t-bardaar : 'Error-remover'; an eraser'. (Platts p.772) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: They call a paper 'error-remover' when a letter can easily be removed from it by means of a penknife/scraper, etc., and no sign of it would remain on the paper. But here, by way of a witticism, 'error-remover' has been taken to mean 'from which an incorrect letter would spontaneously vanish'. He says, you had written a word of faithfulness at only one place in your letter, and even that vanished; from this it seems that the paper of your letter is 'error-

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remover': whatever word is not written on it with a true heart, spontaneously vanishes. (155)

Nazm: That is, you wrote the word of faithfulness falsely. In reality, it was incorrect; thus it was erased. From this the subtlety is created that the paper of your letter is 'error-remover'-- that is, your paper is such a thing as the scribe uses to remove a wrong word. (153)

Bekhud Mohani: In the whole letter, you had written a word of faithfulness in only one place-and that too was erased. From this, the mischievous author has created the idea that the paper of your letter seems to be 'error-remover', in that it erased one word that you had written wrongly. That is, you are unfaithful. (279)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH WRITING: {7,3} Poor Ghalib! Such a cleverly designed little frivolous gem, in classic mushairah-verse form-- and now people have to struggle to recover, somewhat laboriously, what should have been an instantly apparent, amusing twist on an idiom. The idiom is duly placed in the coveted last slot in the second line, where the punch-word of a mushairah-verse so properly goes. But alas, that doesn't help. Hardly any joke is funny when it has to be explained, and the rule seems to apply even to great poets. Literally (in Persian) a ;Gala:t-bardaar is an 'error-remover'. Steingass gives (p. 892) exactly the same simple, textbook definition as does Platts: it's an 'eraser'. But plainly a soft rubber rectangle is not what Ghalib intends. The commentators (except Nazm, who perhaps doesn't get the joke) seem to describe something like what used to be called 'erasable' bond (back in the days when people typed): a heavy, smooth-surfaced paper designed to withstand the stress of having errors scraped off its surface. But the grammar of the name 'error-remover' suggested to Ghalib an alternative sense of its meaning. Probably it was very funny to the original mushairah crowd. (If nobody had understood it, why would he have left it in his divan?) In fact, given how many humorous verses Ghalib wrote, we're lucky this sort of falling-flat thing doesn't happen more often.

{143,2} jii jale ;zauq-e fanaa kii naa-tamaamii par nah kyuu;N ham nahii;N jalte nafas har-chand aatish-baar hai 1) why wouldn't the self 'burn' at the incompleteness of the relish for oblivion? 2) we don't 'burn'-- although the breath is fire-shedding

Notes: jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387) nafas : 'Breath, respiration;-- the voice or sound from the breast;-- a moment, an instant'. (Platts p.1144) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, every breath enters the breast and gives rise to flame, and that very flame is the cause of life. Although in every flame the wellbeing of the body and the essence of the physical frame is diminished. From this it has emerged clearly that according to temperament and to the claims of its

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nature, every living creature has a relish for oblivion-- because the very flame that causes oblivion is life itself. But at the incompleteness of this relish for oblivion, the self 'burns', because it does not all at once burn it up. People who are acquainted with the author's biography will be astonished: from where did he learn this problem of the circulation of the blood [dauraan-e ;xuun]? (153)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, it's that very same flame which causes oblivion and bestows life. The heart 'burns' at this incompleteness of this relish for oblivion: why doesn't it burn the body up all at once? (210)

Bekhud Mohani: From the author's biography everyone can learn that Mirza had an extreme ardor for knowledge. Mufti Sadr ud-Din Khan 'Azurdah', Maulvi Fazl-e Haq Khairabadi, etc., recount that the depth of Mirza's knowledge couldn't be gauged-- whatever extremely thorny problems of philosophy, mysticism, etc. etc., were mentioned, Mirza said something that seemed as if he had just finished consulting a book about them. So why is His Excellency the Commentator [Nazm] surprised? (279)

Arshi: Compare {76,2}, {137,2}. (212, 257, 270)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse really has a slick, recycled quality. There are so many possible 'pre-poeticized' meanings of jalnaa (see definition above)-- the verse simply throws in a couple of forms of the verb itself, and then an extra 'fireshedding breath' for good measure. (On the subtleties of nafas , see {15,6}.) In the first verse, for example, the speaker somewhat petulantly asks why the self wouldn't 'burn' over its inadequate taste for oblivion. If it did burn, would it 'burn with envy' of those more successful lovers who manage to die quickly and completely, like moths flying into a candle flame? Or would it 'burn with irritation' at its own dilatory and lukewarm tendencies? Or would it 'burn with sorrow' or pity or some other emotion at the recognition of its own weakness? Or would it be so shamed by its remaining unburnt that it would just go ahead and 'burn up' and remove all cause for complaint? Similarly, in the second line, 'we don't burn'-- but in what sense? Is the second line to be read as a sort of paraphrase of the first, with both describing the same situation? If so, 'burn' would surely be read the same way in both cases. But if the two lines are to be read separately-- and of course Ghalib gives no idea about their possible relationship-- then the second 'burn' could be quite different from the first one. How about 'we don't catch fire, although the breath is constantly flinging out sparks.' Or: 'we're not jealous of the breath, even though it's so fiery and spark-shedding and we're not'. Or: 'what's wrong with that inept breath-- it keeps uselessly shedding sparks, but nothing happens!' No matter how the jalnaa meanings are pieced together, I'm unable to find anything very interesting in them. This verse feels like a casual spinoff from {76,2} and {137,2}, which make much more compelling use of the same kind of material.

{143,3} aag se paanii me;N bujhte vaqt u;Thtii hai .sadaa har ko))ii dar-maa;Ndagii me;N naale se naachaar hai 1) at the time of fire being extinguished in water, a cry/voice/sound arises 2) everyone, in misery/distress, is forced to lament

Notes: .sadaa : 'Echo; sound, noise; voice, tone, cry, call'. (Platts p.743)

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dar-maa;Ndagii : 'Misery, distress, wretchedness, penury, misfortune'. (Platts p.509) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: 'Helpless to avoid a lament'-- that is, [in Persian] 'there's no escaping a lament' [az naalah chaarah na-daarad]. He says that although among the qualities of fire, silence is famous-- so much so that the mental necessity has come about for the poet that with the image of fire, the image of silence too appears. Despite this silence, in the state of misery, that cry is raised. (153)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, fire is a silent thing; it has no connection with noise and tumult. But when they put it in water, even from it a voice is born. From this it's been proved that in the time of difficulty, everybody is forced to lament. (211)

Bekhud Mohani: He's said 'a cry arises', and not 'a cry comes', because the force that is born in 'arises' and the meaning that is born, is not in 'comes'. That is, a voice emerges uncontrollably.... [Contrary to Nazm's view,] the image of silence with that of fire is not necessary. Silence is one quality of fire. But there seems to be no reason for calling it a 'mental necessity'. (279-80)

FWP: A textbook example of 'elegance in assigning a cause', and a simply and brilliantly well-done one. The first line states a basic little scientific observation: when a fire is drowned, it hisses loudly, snaps, crackles, and steams. We had thought that this was just a trivial physical fact about the nature of fire and water. But we were wrong, as the second line so quietly but poignantly shows us. For we now learn that the fire is silent as long as it can control itself, but in its death-agonies it can't help but reveal its pain; no amount of stoicism enables it to keep silent. And we also learn that this is the case not just of fire, but of everybody [har ko))ii]. We may all try to be brave and self-controlled, but past a certain threshhold of suffering, the effort is vain. When we're in agony and at the point of death, we'll all be forced beyond the point of silence. So quiet a verse, so completely devoid of all self-pity and any rhetorical flights. And yet how simply and irrevocably it makes its case. A bleak little 'proof' about our lives.

{143,4} hai vuhii bad-mastii-e har ;zarrah kaa ;xvud ((u;zr-;xvaah jis ke jalve se zamii;N taa aasmaa;N sarshaar hai 1) he himself, for the deep intoxication of every sand-grain, is excuseseeking 2) with whose glory/manifestation from earth to sky is saturated/drunk

Notes: sarshaar : 'Overflowing, brimful, full.... steeped, soaked (in, me;N ); intoxicated, drunk'. (Platts p.654) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: Every grain, that is to say every creature, is in need of excuse, seeking pardon, or entitled to exemption. In this verse the claim has been made in such a manner that the proof is contained in the claim itself. The meaning is that the sand-grains of the world, that is, all creation, which in reality have no existence-- the one who asks excuse for their intoxication and

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heedlessness is the One from the radiance of whose being all this nonexistence breathes the breath of existence. (155)

Nazm: That is, for him to make it happen by itself, and the blame to be upon us-this is impossible. He has constructed the dance of sand-grains as deep intoxication. This is 'elegance in assigning a cause'. (153)

Bekhud Mohani: The one from whose glory/appearance everything, from earth to sky, is intoxicated-- he is the excuse-seeker for the deep intoxication of every sandgrain. That is, nothing in the world is able to resist. Because the maker of all, present and active and energizing within all, is that very Lord. [Or:] No matter what we may do, we are not responsible, because he is our Creator. Our body, our spirit, everything is in his control; what he wants, that very thing is what we do. This is a belief of the determinists [firqah-e jabariyah]. The author composed it according to their taste. (280)

Arshi: Compare {95,3}, {138,2}. (225, 257, 271)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} ZARRAH: {15,12} Every 'sand-grain' glitters unpredictably, flashes intermittently in the sun, slides around with every footstep, is blown here and there with the breeze. (Or perhaps they are 'dust-grains' that seem to dance in a beam of sunlight; the word can be used for them too.) By invoking the device of 'elegance in assigning a cause', Nazm takes the verse to mean that the real cause of their movement is deep intoxication. But surely the verse goes beyond merely that assertion. God (or the semidivinized human beloved) seems to have deeply intoxicated all Creation, by making it, in a beautifully chosen adjective, 'overflowing, saturated, intoxicated' [sarshaar] with his own manifestation/glory. So naturally he's looking for reasons to excuse the intoxication that he himself created. The intriguing ambiguity in the verse thus becomes: is he 'excuse-seeking' on behalf of the sand-grains in their drunkenness; or is he 'excuse-seeking' for his own behavior in intoxicating them? Moreover, in between God and the sand-grains, what about the rest of us? Does the first line imply that he is looking to excuse even the very sandgrains-- and thus, by extension, the rest of his creatures-- from blame? Or are the sand-grains uniquely excusable, because of their unique vulnerability? Or are we ourselves metaphorically sand-grains? Bekhud Mohani seems to suggest an excessively broad and (conveniently?) deterministic reading; but even if it's true that intoxication is excused, it doesn't follow from the verse that everything is excused. Maybe the rest of us are supposed to become Sufis? As Arshi says, {95,3} and {138,2} are good verses for comparison.

{143,5} mujh se mat kah tuu hame;N kahtaa thaa apnii zindagii zindagii se bhii miraa jii in dino;N bezaar hai 1) don't say to me, 'you used to call us your life' 2) even/also toward life, these days, my self is disaffected

Notes: bezaar : 'Displeased, vexed, annoyed, out of humor; disgusted'. (Platts p.203) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He is angry, and the beloved is coaxing him. (153)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't say to me, 'you always used to call us your life'. That was a different time, and a different era. Now my self has become disaffected even/also from my life. (211)

Bekhud Mohani: Nowadays I am disaffected with life. Don't say to me, 'you always used to call us your life, your self'. From this it was clear that the heart didn't like to say a single word of disaffection, even with the beloved. [Or:] The lover is angry. The beloved is cajoling him. He says, don't say that we used to call you our life. Nowadays we are disaffected even with life. That is, you've so tormented us that the self no longer wants to live. (280)

FWP: SETS == BHI; DIALOGUE Lover and beloved are on intimate terms, each addresses the other with the intimate tuu . But the tone is not clear. The lover is dissatisfied with something, but what? The beloved? Life itself? His own behavior or situation? Is he truly angry, a bit sulky, or just melancholy? Is he dissatisfied 'even' with life (the limit case of letdowns), or with life 'too' (just the latest in a long string of disappointments)? Naturally, the verse gives us no way to tell. Thus we're left to wonder why the beloved should not say what she apparently does say, or has said, or is about to say. Here are some possible reasons: =She shouldn't ask him cajolingly about his love for her, because nowadays he's so disaffected that he won't be cajoled and doesn't want to talk about it =She shouldn't have the gall to ask him about his emotional life, because she's the one who has made it so wretched (as Bekhud Mohani suggests) =She shouldn't reproach him for slackening in his confidences and attentions toward her, when now he's too far gone to care =She shouldn't presume that he has a 'life', because nowadays he's so alienated from it that he hardly even has one any more =She shouldn't pretend to be interested in his affairs-- it's too late, and they both know she doesn't care in the slightest, and he rejects her fake sympathy. It's unusual for someone to call his beloved merii zindagii , but of course in another form 'my life' [merii jaan] is exactly what the lover does often call the beloved. The lover is thus disaffected from the beloved in exactly the way that he's disaffected from his own life. Vasmi Abidi has helped me think this verse through, and I'm most grateful to him for his good interpretive suggestions.

{143,6} aa;Nkh kii ta.sviir sar-naame pah khe;Nchii hai kih taa tujh pah khul jaave kih us ko ;hasrat-e diidaar hai 1) the picture of an eye has been drawn on the address/'heading' so that 2) it would be revealed/'opened' to you that it has a [vain] longing for sight

Notes: sar-naamah : 'Titles at the beginning of a letter (given to the person to whom it is addressed); address, superscription, direction of a letter; --a heading'. (Platts p.648) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: khul jaanaa is a word of .zil((a , for it has an affinity with 'address', and also an affinity with 'eye'.

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, instead of writing a letter, on the envelope of the letter I have drawn with a pen a picture of an eye. And what I mean by this is that it would

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become clear to you that the writer of the letter has an extremely great longing for sight. (211)

Bekhud Mohani: At the top of the letter we have drawn a picture of an eye, so that it would become clear to you that we long to see you. (280)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY WRITING: {7,3} This verse is a real jewel of wordplay. Eyes read letters, eyes look at pictures, eyes behold beloveds. Eyes are in 'heads', which is part of 'headings' [sar-naamah]. Eyes become open, and the sight of a pictured eye would reveal or 'open' [khul jaanaa] to you my longing to see you. Letters too, when they are to be read, become open, so that their contents are revealed or 'opened'. Thus the strands of imagery are beautifully woven together, with a seemingly effortless naturalness. And the pictured eye would show you that 'it' has a (vain) longing for 'sight'; since it is only a picture, its longing can never be fulfilled. But I too have a longing for 'sight'-- that is, of course, the sight of you. And my longing might possibly even be fulfilled-- if only my letter could be able to move you to insight and compassion. A piquant one for comparison is {61,5}, which also has to do with writing and eyes.

Ghazal 144 1 verse; meter G13; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1833; Hamid p. 116; Arshi #203; Raza p. 279

{144,1} piinas me;N guzarte hai;N jo kuuche se vuh mere kandhaa bhii kahaaro;N ko badalne nahii;N dete 1) in a palanquin, when she passes through my street 2) she doesn't allow the bearers even to change shoulders

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Both kandhaa and kaa;Ndhaa are used in the spoken idiom. (153)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way she hates the sight of my face, in the same way she hates my neighborhood too. She doesn't wish to have even the amount of delay in which the bearers would change shoulders. Thus she insists to the bearers that they must change shoulders outside this street, and must quickly pass through it. (211)

Bekhud Mohani: With badalnaa people say kandhaa , and with denaa they saa kaa;Ndhaa .... Janab Hasrat [Mohani] says that the taste [ma;zaaq] of this verse is entirely contrary to the glory of Mirza's poetry, which in general he had declared to be purified of commonplace thoughts and words. The taste of this verse is not commonplace; rather, it is that of... 'description of an affair'.... In my view, some event was associated with this verse such that the author himself didn't want to forget it for his whole life. For this reason he didn't remove this verse from his [published] selection. (281)

Baqir: I have heard that one day Maulana Azurdah passed by Ghalib's street, but since at that time he was in a hurry, he didn't want to stop at Ghalib's house.

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He urged the bearers to go quickly. They began to change shoulders. But the late Azurdah Sahib didn't allow them to change shoulders. Ghalib saw this situation, and at once composed this verse and sent it to him, at which he himself came to make excuses. (362)

Shadan: Hakim Momin Khan Sahib, or Mufti Sadr ud-Din Azurdah, was passing by Ghalib's street in a palquin.... [He reports the same anecdote as Baqir does.] If this verse is connected to this event, then there's no objection. But if that was the case, then he ought indeed to have made it an individual verse. If he had made it into a ghazal, then there was no need to include it in his [published] selection. Since the event is not known to anyone except Janab Bekhud Dihlavi, the thought that the verse is in bad taste [bad-ma;zaaq] has occurred to many. (345)

Josh: The theme is in a commonplace taste [((aamiyaanah ma;zaaq]. (260)

FWP: Unlike most verses, this one has generated some real commentarial discussion. Just for the record, let me report that Hasrat Mohani does not say in his commentary what Bekhud Mohani attributes to him; nor does Bekhud Dihlavi in his commentary report the anecdote that Shadan attributes to him. It's quite possible that they had written these things somewhere else, or else the attribution might have been made in error. I'm not sure in what way the verse is supposed to show a 'commonplace taste'. Perhaps because other poets had used the same theme; or else because it is based on vulgar details of physical behavior (the palanquin bearers and their tired shoulders, their putting down and picking up the palanquin, her nagging at them about details of their arrangements, etc.); or else because it suggests that the lover furtively spies on her behavior and then whines about it to us. But since 'description of an affair' [mu((aamilah-bandii] is indeed considered a traditional sub-class of ghazal verses, Bekhud Mohani is within his rights to invoke it; in such verses details of jealousy, evasions, spying, conniving, etc. are far more common. But it's also true that such detailed 'description of an affair' is not Ghalib's normal vein at all. Yet there's plenty of leeway in the verse, in its bold contours and its very starkness, for it to be well within Ghalib's real (and extremely broad) stylistic parameters. After all, this is a highly ambiguous verse, and who but Ghalib is the world's champion ambiguity-maker? The verse invites us to ask both why the beloved behaves in this way, and how the lover in fact feels about it. Needless to say, it offers not a ghost of an answer. No doubt one obvious possible reason for the beloved's behavior is that she hates the lover's very street, and will go to extraordinary lengths to avoid spending any time in it. Yet surely the taking of such pains would also suggest that she has a remarkable concern with what the lover knows about her doings (where is she off to?); or what he thinks of her character (is she off to some lover's house?); or what access he has to her (will he be allowed a glimpse of her in passing?). Does she have to pass through his street at all? Surely, in the warren of streets of a traditional Islamic city, she could take a roundabout route if she chose. Does she want him to know that she is passing through his street (as opposed to avoiding it)? And does she want him to know that she is passing through it at maximum speed (as opposed to lingering)? There is room here for a whole subtle language of signs and hints, such as is almost unavoidable between lovers, and almost undecipherable by anybody else. Moreover, in what tone is the lover reporting her behavior to us? Perhaps he is ruefully amused by the depth of her aversion. Perhaps he's hopelessly melancholy at her disdain. Perhaps he's boasting of the way she has singled

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him out for a special show of pique, and has carefully stage-managed even the finest details. Perhaps he has contemplated running after her palanquin, or has even done so in the past, so that now he is perversely proud that she doesn't even dare pass through his street except at full speed. Perhaps he wants us to know he observes her behavior so closely that he can even tell what instructions she gives her palanquin-bearers. And indeed, is her reported behavior a 'fact' at all? How would the lover really know? Most of the time palanquins just go along, with the bearers changing shoulders only occasionally. Perhaps the beloved just goes thoughtlessly through the lover's street, without her bearers happening to change shoulders there. And the poor lover, desperate for her notice, then persuades himself that she has achieved this result through careful tactics. But he's wrong, as we can well guess; he's deceiving himself as he so often does. This is the saddest and bleakest reading: as the lover well knows, hate is a permutation of passion, but indifference is only indifference. The only truly implausible and depressing idea is that Ghalib is recording in this verse a real-life encounter with his friend Azurdah. What a comedown this would be-- what a weakening of the verse into private language, childish humor, and virtual meaninglessness! The 'natural poetry' movement in Urdu criticism has done a great deal of damage.

Ghazal 145 4 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 117; Arshi #181; Raza pp. 199-200

{145,1} mirii hastii fa.zaa-e ;hairat aabaad-e tamannaa hai jise kahte hai;N naalah vuh usii ((aalam kaa ((anqaa hai 1) my existence is an expanse of amazement, inhabited by longing 2) what we/they call a 'lament'-- it is the Anqa of that world

Notes: fa.zaa : 'Width, spaciousness, openness; extensiveness (of ground, &c.); an open area, a court, a yard; a spacious tract, a wide expanse of land, a plain (syn. maidaan )'. (Platts p.782) aabaad : 'Inhabited, populated, peopled; full of buildings and inhabitants, populous; settled (as a colony or town); cultivated, stored; full; occupied.... -flourishing, prosperous; pleasant; happy'. (Platts p.2) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, amazement inhabits my existence, and among the necessities of amazement is it would make one motionless and voiceless. When in the excess of amazement the voice cannot emerge, then how could there be a lament? But along with longing there is necessarily lament. The gist is that there is lament, but it is voiceless-- like the Anqa bird, who is spoken of in the world, but whom nobody has seen. (154)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my existence brightens up the habitation of longing. Lament and complaint, names which the people of the world have assigned, are the Anqa of that world. That is, no kind of voice is raised at all. In the Sufis' terminology, they call the station where the radiance of Being descends on the seeker, the 'station of amazement' [maqaam-e ;hairat]. (212)

Bekhud Mohani: My existence is a region of the amazement-habitation of longing, and a lament is the Anqa of that world. That is, in longing and love we are taking a

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stroll around the 'station of amazement', and this is the reason that our lip is unacquainted with lament. Whoever sees us finds us peaceful and silent. If we had not become absorbed in the radiances of the beloved's manifold glories, then we would have lamented and complained. (281)

FWP: In case anybody thought the previous verse, {144,1}, was too down-to-earth, here's the ideal antidote: a wildly esoteric, unvisualizably abstract one. My existence is a world of its own. This world consists of at least three things: a spacious plain of 'amazement'; a habitation lived in by 'longing'; and an Anqa bird. Moreover, in the second line we learn that the Anqa has some kind of complex, crossover identity. What people call a 'lament' is the Anqa of that world. But what does this mean exactly? Does what is called a 'lament' in this world somehow morph, in that world, into an Anqa? Or does that world use 'Lament' as the name of the bird which in this world we call an Anqa? An Anqa would be exactly the right kind of bird to fly over the expansive field of 'amazement' and the town of 'longing', after all. Thus in that world, a 'Lament' would be a kind of bird that was known to exist, but that could never even be seen, much less captured. Nazm's reading, which emphasizes the stupefied silence imposed by 'amazement'-- on lamentation as well as all other speech-- makes good use of this sense of the Anqa. Another question also hovers around the line. To say 'what people call an X' is often a way to question a common opinion-- people think it's an X, but it's really a Y. Could the (unidentified) people possibly be wrong in their judgment? If people can see a crow and mistakenly call it a raven, perhaps they can see an Anqa and mistakenly call it a 'lament'. is there perhaps something wrong with our this-worldly notion of 'lament'? Needless to say, the verse gives us no way to decide. I'd call this a verse of mood. Isn't its real charm the haunting, lovely, unimaginable eerieness of the first line? The silence and amazement are a perfect semantic fit to the elegance of the imagery. The second line provides a delicate finishing touch that completes the effect. His other Anqa verses tend to be equally subtle and obscure.

{145,2} ;xizaa;N kyaa fa.sl-e gul kahte hai;N kis ko ko))ii mausam ho vuhii ham hai;N qafas hai aur maatam baal-o-par kaa hai 1) what is autumn? what do they call rose-season? whatever the season might be, 2) there's the same 'we', there's the cage, and there's the mourning for wing and feather

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the construction of this verse is the beauty that six phrases/sentences have come into two lines. And in the expression of meaning is the beauty that the complaint of captivity is through the tongue of the nightingale, and in the complaint the prolixity [a:tanaab] gives pleasure: here the author has expressed a small meaning in a number of words. And a further pleasure of the prolixity is that the tiny sentences would be numerous, rather than becoming one long sentence-- although there would be more words in such a sentence, the pleasure of prolixity would not be created. (154)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we don't know what they call 'autumn' and what they call 'spring'. Our situation doesn't change at all in any season. We are the same captive nightingale, imprisoned in a cage for a long time. That is, neither is the

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beloved enticed by the effect of love, nor does sighing and lamenting have any power. (212)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is peerless for pain and emotional effect.... From vuhii ham hai;N it is understood that our situation today is just as it was at the beginning of captivity. The continuation of captivity has not been able to erase it. From 'mourning for wing and feather' it's clear that wings and feathers have been finished off with such unfeelingness that they would not be able to emerge again.... In this verse there is prolixity. And when making a complaint, the prolonging of speech seems attractive. In prolixity, there ought to be a number of small sentences. (282)

FWP: SETS == I AND The commentators generally locate the verse's center of gravity in the first line, with its burst of small abrupt rhetorical questions. It's indeed unusual, as Nazm points out, for a two-line verse to accommodate so many separate utterances at all, much less with such ease and colloquialness. He counts six. Technically he's right, but rhetorically the three in the second line really work as one. For this is another of Ghalib's 'I and X' verses: the second line cleverly invokes the structure of a common, highly emphatic expression of strong-though varying and sometimes ambiguous-- emotion. For more discussion of this colloquial expression, see {5,6}. A relatively close parallel is the second line of {71,3}: both lines share a 'we are, and X is' framework. But in this present verse alone, conspicuously, there are three such entities rather than two. The idiomatic expression is changed, but it still works. The starkness and simplicity of this expression are as striking as the intensity that it generates. This is one of several verses in which the lover speaks as a bird; for others, see {126,5}.

{145,3} vafaa-e dilbaraa;N hai ittifaaqii varnah ay hamdam a;sar faryaad-e dil'haa-e ;hazii;N kaa kis ne dekhaa hai 1) the faithfulness of heart-stealers is coincidental; otherwise, oh friend, 2) an effect of the complaint of melancholy hearts-- who has seen it?

Notes: ittifaaq : 'Concurrence, agreement, accord, correspondence, coincidence; equality; union, unity, concord, harmony, unison, conformity; amity, friendship, affection; similarity of disposition; assent, consent'. (Platts p.16) ittifaaqii : 'Concurring, accidental, casual, occasional, incidental'. (Platts p.16) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the kindness of beautiful ones to their desirers is due to destiny and chance. We are not a believer in the effect of love. In this verse, dekhaa hai is a qaafiyah-e shaa))igaan [cf. Steingass pp.728-29]-- that is, the alif is not original, but rather is the sign of the past tense. It is called a 'rhyme for free' [muft kaa qaafiyah], and is considered lax. (154)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the finding of a faithful beloved is a matter of chance and fate. Otherwise, oh friend, we don't believe in the effects of laments and the effectiveness of love. That is, neither is the beloved tamed by the effect of love, nor does sighing and complaining work. (212)

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Bekhud Mohani: By paying attention to the second line, one learns that this is the saying of a person to whom no one has been faithful at all. His companion is a believer in the effect of lamentation, but the lover doesn't agree with him. (282)

Arshi: Compare {108,2}. (222, 285)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 The excellent word ittifaaqii is deployed here to fine effect. Although it has a specific meaning of 'coincidental, accidental, by chance' that is perfectly appropriate to the context of the verse, it can't help but remind us of its noun ittifaaq itself, which has a basic sense of something like 'coming together', and thus also can mean 'union, concord, amity, friendship, affection', and the like. The two senses of 'coming together'-- the evocation of harmony, union, affection on the one hand, and sheer random indifferent coincidence on the other-- that themselves 'come together' within a single word, work powerfully to give the verse a flavor of bitterness and irony. Bekhud Mohani sees the verse as part of an extended argument: the lover's friend has sought to encourage him by presenting some kind of evidence of the faithfulness of some beloved-- maybe even the lover's own beloved. But the lover isn't buying it-- to him, even evidence of faithfulness is further evidence of radical unfaithfulness. It merely shows that the beloved is so completely ignorant of, or indifferent to, faithfulness that she doesn't even avoid it consistently. She simply does what she pleases, and once in a while, by sheer chance, her behavior happens to briefly coincide with what looks like 'faithfulness'. The lover has thus created a catch-22 situation: when she's unfaithful she's unfaithful, and when she's faithful she's unfaithful. The 'effect of the complaint of melancholy hearts' is thus to generate something that can't be generated: to 'cause' something that comes about only by chance. And the plural 'hearts' gives the rhetorical question a bleak, if slightly petulant and grandiose, universality. All this works reasonably well. Still, this verse is pedestrian and one-dimensional compared to its far more complex and amusing counterpart, {108,2}.

{145,4} nah laa))ii sho;xii-e andeshah taab-e ranj-e naumiidii kaf-e afsos malnaa ((ahd-e tajdiid-e tamannaa hai 1) mischievousness of thought didn't muster strength/endurance for the sorrow of despair 2) to 'wring the hand of regret' is the vow/season of the renewing/newness of longing

Notes: sho;xii : 'Playfulness, fun, mischief; pertness, sauciness; coquetry, wantonness; forwardness, boldness, insolence'. (Platts p.736) andeshah : 'Thought, consideration, meditation, reflection; solicitude, anxiety, concern...; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; apprehension, dread, fear'. (Platts p.91) kaf-e afsos malnaa : 'To wring the hands with regret'. (Platts p.839) ((ahd : 'Promise; bond, league, treaty; --a vow, an oath; --time, season, conjuncture; lifetime'. (Platts p.767) tajdiid : 'Renewing; renewal, novelty'. (Platts p.311) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, the mischievousness of thought couldn't summon the strength to endure the shock of hopelessness and despair. To live in that very longing is despair, and in the state of despair they wring the hand of regret. The author has extended it, such that then this wringing of the hand is an initiation into longing. Here the author has, in the course of composition, said ((ahd-e tajdiid-e tamanna instead of tajdiid-e ((ahd-e tamanna . Although it is not idiomatic, the meaning is correct. (154)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that when in a state of despair I wring the hand of regret, I don't wring it because of hopelessness. Rather, at the lands of longing I am initiated a second time. At the time of [Sufi] initiation, the novice [muriid] takes in both hands one of the hands of the master [piir], and expresses regret and repentance. And this is also the aspect of wringing the hand of regret. (212)

Bekhud Mohani: From the restlessness of our temperament it's impossible to sit still, and hopelessly we wash our hands of the pleasure of ardor and waiting; we can't endure it. When we again and again wring our hands at our failure, one ought not to consider that we've given up longing. Rather, its meaning is that we are taking a fresh vow of longing, all over again. At the time of taking a vow, one hand is slapped against the other.... The meaning of ((ahd-e tajdiide tamannaa is that we had only longed, we hadn't made a vow of longing. But now, after failure, we are not wringing our hands. Rather, we are making a vow that we will definitely renew our longing. (872-73)

FWP: SETS == A,B As so often, we're left to figure out how to put the two lines together. If we take the first line as a cause and the second as an effect, then we learn that the 'mischievousness of thought' was unable to endure the sorrow of despair; for this reason it escaped despair by 'wringing its hands'-- by way of either (a) vowing to renew the longing it had earlier felt; or (b) initiating a fresh bout of longing. The second line clearly offers both possible readings: =(a) 'hand-wringing' is really a 'handshake' marking a vow of renewed longing (after the old longing has worn itself, and us, out) =(b) hand-wringing marks the season of new, fresh longing (before we go beyond it into longing so deep and desperate that it has no outer sign) But what if the second line is the cause, and the first line the effect? Then the second line reports a discovery: that the lover's longing is so intractable that (a) even hand-wringing is only a sign of determined 'vow' to go deeper into renewed longing; or (b) hand-wringing is really only a preliminary stage of longing, before the worst of it kicks in. In either case, the situation is so grim that it must surely induce despair. Yet the lover's 'mischievousness of thought' can't muster the fortitude to endure despair. So perhaps his mind flees in disarray, back into longing-- only to be again driven out into despair. The verse sets up a vicious circle that seems to bite its own tail, as many times as we can bear to think about it. In fact, it sets up the kind of dead-end circling of futile thoughts that itself is one form of despair.

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Ghazal 146 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa;G-e kushtah hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 118; Arshi #151; Raza p. 192 {146,1} ra;hm kar :zaalim kih kyaa buud-e chiraa;G-e kushtah hai nab.z-e biimaar-e vafaa duud-e chiraa;G-e kushtah hai 1) have mercy, cruel one, for what existence does an extinguished/'killed' lamp have? 2) the pulse of one sick from faithfulness is the smoke of an extinguished/'killed' lamp

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the first line chiraa;G-e kushtah is a metaphor for one sick from faithfulness, and in the second line the meaning is the original one. For pulse the 'smoke of a killed lamp' is a 'simile of movement', and the cause of similitude is that very movement-- that is, to be cold, to be weak, gradually to fade away, etc. However many are these qualities of an extinguished lamp, they are all present in the pulse of a sick person at the time of dying. (155)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, have mercy, cruel one-- what life does one sick from faithfulness even have? It's as if his pulse is the smoke of a killed lamp. (213)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the author has said 'killed lamp'; he has not said 'dead lamp' [chiraa;G-e murdah]. A 'dead lamp' is one that would become extinguished by itself, when the oil and wick had been exhausted. A 'killed lamp' is one that would be extinguished [by someone], and would still be capable of burning. That is, have mercy even now-- the way an extinguished lamp can be relit, in the same way the lover who has been killed by your neglect can still be saved from dying. In saying 'killed lamp' it also emerges that he has been killed by you. (283-84)

FWP: Such a simple, even repetitive, verse, and yet what enjoyable subtleties it generates! Consider a few of the possibilities of the first line alone. Why should the 'cruel one' be exhorted to 'have mercy'? =because the lover has already died-- nothing has any effect on him now, and he should be left in peace =because she's already killed the lover-- she can stop tormenting him now, since it's a waste of energy =because the lover isn't quite dead yet; but if she goes on tormenting him, he soon will be-- and she might want him for something in the future The second line offers the lovely, apt, and quite effective metaphor of the lover's pulse as the smoke of an extinguished-- or literally, of course, 'killed'- lamp. The smoke emerges in feeble irregular little bursts, disperses rapidly, and soon ceases entirely. The one who is 'sick from faithfulness' has a disease that is guaranteed to be mortal; even under the best of circumstances, he's always doomed.

{146,2} dil-lagii kii aarzuu be-chain rakhtii hai hame;N varnah yaa;N be-raunaqii suud-e chiraa;G-e kushtah hai

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1) the longing for heart-attachment keeps us restless 2) otherwise, here non-'flourishingness' {is / would be} the advantage/profit of an extinguished/'killed' lamp

Notes: raunaq : 'Lustre, water (of a sword, &c.); brightness, splendour, beauty, elegance, grace, ornament; freshness, prime; colour, complexion; flourishing state or condition'. (Platts p.608) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the raunaq of the burning of passion is entirely a cause of loss [ziyaa;N] for the heart. Look at the lamp, and heed the moral lesson: for it, burning is a cause of loss, and in 'silence'/extinguishedness [;xaamoshii] and be-raunaqii there is profit [naf((a].

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the longing for heart-attachment keeps us restless, and as an illustration of this he presents the fact that the raunaq of a lamp is a cause of harm to it. That is, if a lamp keeps on burning, then its oil and wick both become finished, and the lamp is harmed. And if it is extinguished, then its be-raunaqii is beneficial to the lamp. (213)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the half-burnt candle that would be extinguished-- its profit[naf((a] is in the fact that it wouldn't be burned again. So that in this condition, it will enjoy the air of the world for a few more days. In the same way our heart, which is half-burnt-- its profit too is in the fact that now it wouldn't be consumed in the fire of love. But what's to be done-- the wretched heart itself won't agree. For an extinguished lamp, be-raunaqii alone is suitable. In the same way, when strengths and longings have come to an end, it's better to avoid the worship of beauty. But what's to be done? We're constrained by the heart. That is, now our age no longer remains capable of being a lover, but we're constrained by the heart. (284)

FWP: SETS == VARNAH In what sense is be-raunaqii , with all its complexities of meaning, a gain or 'profit' to us-- we who are an 'extinguished lamp'-- or, literally, a 'killed' one? There are surprisingly many possibilities: =because now we get to live longer, instead of quickly burning ourselves out =because now we no longer suffer the pain of burning, and can be cool and comfortable instead =because it's proper: when our bright burning prime of life is over, we should withdraw from the 'heat' of the action and live quietly =because now we're dead, and it's better to be dead than to be alive =because now we're not really dead, since we can always be re-lit again =because it's so unworthy and incomplete to remain half-burnt that only beraunaqii is a proper way to show our humiliation and regret =it's not really a profit to us at all, but it would be, of only our heart would cooperate (using the other sense of varnah ) The interactions and oppositions among these meanings quickly take us into the domain of the central paradox: it's the fiery, self-consuming process of (passionate) living that kills us, just as the very process of burning gradually 'kills' the lamp as it burns itself out. Are we better off half-burnt (like a lamp or candle that's been extinguished), with the resulting overtones of frustration and incompleteness? And if we're half-burnt, are we then alive, or dead, or half-alive, or half-dead? Or are we better off fully burnt (like a lamp or candle that has burnt itself out and can never be relit)?

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These questions are emphasized by the vocabulary of profit and loss brought in by the word 'profit' [suud]; this choice of word readily brings to mind both 'loss' [ziyaa;N] and the word naf((a , which also means 'profit', as can be seen in Nazm's and other commentaries. The commercial overtones of 'profit' and 'loss' can be seen very clearly in {3,3}. This evocation of a balance sheet works well with the questions about consumption and consumedness that the verse raises: an oil lamp, after all, is a perfect illustration of the process. And of course, the tone of the verse can be melancholy, rueful, sarcastic, bitter, or neutrally observant.

Ghazal 147 3 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aaz hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 118; Arshi #157; Raza p. 175

{147,1} chashm-e ;xuubaa;N ;xaamushii me;N bhii navaa-pardaaz hai surmah to kahve kih duud-e shu((lah-e aavaaz hai 1) the eye of beautiful ones, even/also in silence, is voice-achieving 2) the collyrium is, one might say, the smoke of the flame of a voice

Notes: surmah : 'Lead-ore; antimony (reduced to powder); collyrium (of antimony), or lead-ore or sulphuret of lead'. (Platts p.65) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'voice-achieving' is meant that the coquetries and sidelong glances from the eyes are such that even in silence they are speaking. As if [goyaa] the collyrium [kaajal] of this eye has collected lamp-black [paa;Rnaa] from the flame of the voice. (155)

Bekhud Dihlavi: surmah-;xvuraaniidan or surmah-e aavaaz -- these are both idioms of the Persian-speakers, and are used with the meaning of 'to cause to be silent'. Mirza Sahib says that this collyrium has been made [by collecting soot] from the flame of the voice. For this reason it has a contrary effect, and bestows the power of speech on collyrium. (213)

Bekhud Mohani: Even when the beloved remains silent, her eyes don't remain heedless of sidelong glances, hints. As if [goyaa] the collyrium in her eyes were lampblack collected from the flame of the voice. That is, from the collyrium, the effect of her glances is even further heightened. (284)

FWP: SETS == BHI; DEFINITION; KIH The beloved's gorgeous dark eyes are surrounded with collyrium, which enhances their beauty and thus their power to 'speak' to the dazzled lover. Collyrium is made by holding a plate above the smoky flame of a burning lamp to collect the soot. The beloved's collyrium is made, however, from the 'smoke of the flame of a voice'. How are we to put the two lines together? As so often, we have to decide for ourselves. (1) Perhaps the two lines describe the same situation: they vividly convey to us how beautiful and 'speaking' the beloved's collyrium-lined eyes are. (2) Or we might take the second line as a cause (the beloved has made herself some special fancy 'voice'-produced collyrium), and the first line as an effect (therefore her eyes are able to 'speak' even in silence). (3) Or we might take the first line as a cause (the beloved's eyes 'speak' radiantly, burningly, even in silence) and the second line as an effect

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(therefore what looks like collyrium around her eyes is really the smoke from the fire of her eyes' 'voice'). In this latter case, we'd also have an example of 'elegance in assigning a cause': you think that's collyrium around her eyes, but it's really an accumulated layer of smoke and soot from the flame of her brilliant eyes. Then, of course, we have the lovely wordplay of navaa , aavaaz , kahnaa ; and their opposite, ;xaamushii . The form kahve is an archaic predecessor of the modern goyaa , which the commentators use in their paraphrases. Both are conventionally used to mean 'as if'-- or 'so to speak', since both come from verbs of speaking. Besides enhancing the wordplay, the sequence kahve kih also creates a bit of visual play with the look of the script (since short vowels are not shown). And finally, there is the clever ambiguity of kih , which here can be read in two ways. 'One might call it collyrium' quite rightly, because it is the smoke of a voice-flame, and collyrium is made of smoke, as in (2). Or else one might erroneously call it collyrium, although in fact it's really something quite different, not a cosmetic but a by-product of a voice-flame, as in (3).

{147,2} paikar-e ((ushshaaq saaz-e :taali((-e naa-saaz hai naalah goyaa gardish-e sayyaarah kii aavaaz hai 1) the aspect/form of lovers is the maker/harmony/instrument of an inharmonious fate/star 2) lament is {so to speak / 'speaking'} the voice of the circling of a planet

Notes: saaz : 'Making, effecting, preparing; feigning;-- maker;... concord, harmony; a musical instrument'. (Platts p.625) :taali(( : 'Rising, appearing (as the sun), arising; --s.m. Star, destiny, fate, lot, fortune; prosperity; --the (false) dawn'. (Platts p.750) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: At the hands of 'inharmonious fate', like a harmonious organ, the aspect of the lover is entirely complaint and lament. Thus his lament is, so to speak, the voice of the circling of the planets, because the circling of the planets and inharmonious fate are causes for complaint and lament. The word ((ushshaaq in this place is a word of .zil((a for saaz . In the Persians' music, muqaam-e ((ushshaaq is the name of a melody [raag]. (155)

Bekhud Mohani: When the stars circle, a voice emerges from them.... At the hands of evil fortune, the form of a lover is an organ, and it has lamented. The voice of the circling of the planets he has written as the lovers bewailing their fate. To call a lament the circling of the planets is a new idea. (284)

Faruqi: If we take saaz in the sense of saa;xtah -- that is, 'having become' [banaa hu))aa]... then a very fine meaning emerges.... Now the meaning will be that the lover's body is made from the dust of inauspicious stars, or is made from inauspicious stars (that is, a fragment has been taken from them and the lover's body sculpted from it). The lover's lament is not commonplace lamentation, but rather the voice that is born in the circling of a planet. Now from the verse comes the vision of a broad expanse of space, in which a planet is circling all alone-- alone because space is an unstable border, and even the nearest things are very far; and also because the planet is inauspicious, and no one meddles with it. The harmony in weeping and lamenting has an affinity with the harmony of the circling planet; and a grieving voice is extremely beautiful and appropriate. The lover remains

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constantly entrapped in desert-wandering and roaming. For the lover's solitude and wandering in the desert of life, what better image can there be than to suppose him to be an inauspicious planet? Stars are connected with circling, they have nothing to do with wandering. This is exactly the lover's state. The planet circles around some star. That is, in the star's place is the beloved. The affinity between the sun and the beloved is obvious. The planet is dark; the lover's world too is shadowy and dark. The way that the circling of a planet inevitably creates a voice-- in the same way the circling of the lover creates lamentation.... Leaving aside all these things, in the verse ((ushshaaq , saaz , naa-saaz , :taal((a , gardish , siyaarah , goyaa , aavaaz have interconnected wordplays to such an extent that justice must be done to the imaginative reach of the young poet.... [Some commentators maintain that if used independently, saaz cannot have the sense of saa;xtah . But there is much evidence against their view.] Ghalib himself, in one verse, uses saaz in a way that points to this meaning: {172,3}. (268-70)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES; WORD; WORDPLAY This is what I call a verse of 'word-exploration'. Look at the three different meanings of saaz -- so different, yet all three so elegantly allowed for, so clearly invited into the verse, and so cleverly caressed through wordplay. If we take saaz as meaning 'harmony', we have the wonderful, paradoxical vision of the lover's aspect as the 'harmony of inharmonious fate'. How punchy and tight it sounds-- saaz-e :taali((-e naa-saaz . Does it mean the (quote-unquote) 'harmony' of inharmonious fate-- in that it's not really a harmony at all? Or does it mean that it's in harmony with inharmonious fate, such that it too is inharmonious? If we take saaz as meaning 'musical instrument', the lover's form is itself the instrument on which 'inharmonious fate' plays its 'music'. It's passive and helpless in the hands of fate, but it can still wince at the terrible sounds being played on it. And perhaps it is like an instrument with a broken string, and thus doubly inharmonious. If we take saaz as meaning 'maker', as Faruqi does, we have the lovely reading that he explains so eloquently. In all three cases, we have the fantastic variety and interconnectedness of the wordplay, as Faruqi also points out. It's so dense you have to feel your way through it like a jungle. Almost every word in the verse is involved, and in not one but at least two or three of the possible readings. (On goyaa in particular, see {5,1}.) And in addition to everything else, we have to decide for ourselves the relationship between the two lines. Do they describe the same situation, through two different but related metaphors? Or do they describe two different situations, which are parallel in some ways (but perhaps contradictory in others)? And in this case, what are the significant parallels (or differences)? After all, the 'aspect/form of the lover' and the abstraction 'lament' might have some quite different features in their destinies. The second line also surely invokes the Pythagorean 'music of the spheres'. Pythagoras observed that vibrating strings produce harmonious tones when the ratios of the lengths of the strings are whole numbers; this was part of his whole mysticism of the mathematics of music, which made such resonances a sign of cosmic harmony. His work was well-known in the medieval Islamic world, and it's so suited to Ghalib's purposes that it's impossible that he wouldn't invoke it in a verse like this. Turning the whole cosmic harmony inharmonious in the lover's case is in fact exactly the kind of thing Ghalib would do. And doesn't he do it with a kind of deceptive ease and unobtrusiveness?

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{147,3} dast-gaah-e diidah-e ;xuu;N-baar-e majnuu;N dekhnaa yak-biyaabaa;N jalvah-e gul farsh-e paa-andaaz hai 1) look at the power/'hand-place' of the blood-scattering eye/gaze of Majnun! 2a) a desertful of the glory/appearance of roses is a {doormat/'foot-wiper'}carpet 2b) the {doormat/'foot-wiper'}-carpet is a desertful of the glory/appearance of roses

Notes: dast-gaah : 'Power, strength, ability, means; understanding; intellect; knowledge'. (Platts p.516) diidah : 'The eye; the sight; a wanton or impudent eye'. (Platts p.556) jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) paa-andaaz : 'Carpet spread at the entrance of a room for cleaning the feet on, door-rug'. (Platts p.213) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the earth of Najd is becoming red with bloody tears for miles around. The word dast-gaah in this verse is a .zil((a for paa-andaaz , and he has introduced it artificially [batakalluf]; and then, between the two words there's also a full hand's breadth [haath bhar] of distance. (155)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, please contemplate the blood-scattering eye of Majnun-- from his eyes a river of blood has flowed that has turned the wasteland of Najd into such a doormat of roses that for miles around the spectacle of the glory/appearance of roses can be seen. (213)

Bekhud Mohani The lover, in the turmoil of madness, has come out into the wasteland. It's springtime; the wasteland is turning red with the abundance of flowers. Seeing this state, in the same madness he says... 'how urgently Majnun has been waiting for me, that hearing of my arrival, he has spread a carpet of flowers for miles!'.... [Or:] In his ardor for the coming of Laila, Majnun has so watered the wasteland with his heart's blood that in the whole wasteland a carpet of flowers is spread.... [As for Nazm's objections,] in connection with the first objection it is sufficient to observe that here some word was needed with the meaning of 'power', and if the author placed there the word dast-gaah , then what sin did he commit? And if there's so much distance between dast-gaah and paaandaaz , then that's hardly a disaster. That distance itself makes it clear that it has remained distant from artifice.... After all, there's no cause for so much distaste for affinities. (285)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; WORDPLAY The first half of the second line, freely translated, is the source of 'A Desertful of Roses', which popped into my head one day as the ideal name for the present project. Ghalib likes to measure things by the 'desertful' and other such units; for a discussion of this Persianized expression, see {11,1}, a verse which itself features 'a desertful of fatigue'.

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As in so many verses, the first line is almost uninterpretable until we hear the second. As Nazm observes (sorry, sorry, I can't help it), dast-gaah (literally 'hand-place') does seem a less than obvious word to apply to an eye or gaze. Along with the neutral imperative dekhnaa , it thus alerts us to expect further wordplay-- about parts of the body, like hands and eyes? about sight and vision? And as in so many verses, the second line overfulfills our expectations, leaving us in the usual richochet pattern, back and forth among multiple nodes of meaning. Our expectations of further wordplay and verbal affinity are amply fulfilled: to go with the hand and eye, we now have a foot as well; to go with the redness of Majnun's tears of blood, we now have roses; and to go with sight and vision, we now have an extraordinary, and very possibly hallucinatory, scene. The first line has invited us to contemplate, possibly with amazement, the power of the mad Majnun's blood-scattering eye/gaze. That gaze has certainly, in the second line, achieved something remarkable-but what exactly? Here are some of the ways the second line might be read: =Majnun disdains a whole desertful of rose-glory, considering it a mere doormat =Majnun has commandeered a desertful of rose-glory to use as a doormat =Majnun sees a desertful of rose-glory and mistakes it for a doormat =Majnun imagines, with the gaze of madness, that his doormat is a desertful of rose-glory =Majnun has so spattered his doormat with bloody tears that he mistakes it for a desertful of rose-glory =Majnun has in fact, through the power of his passionate gaze, turned his doormat into a desertful of rose-glory The first three readings are based on (2a), the latter three on (2b). And of course, there's the question of tone-- do we read the line with wonder, or melancholy, or pity, or sarcasm, or the detachment of a neutral observer? The use of the colloquial 'doormat', literally 'foot-thrower' [paa-andaaz] reminds me of the 'dust-bin' [;xaak-andaaz] in {68,5}; take a look, and see how similarly the two dismissive terms are used. In fact, if there's a flaw to be found in this ravishing verse, it might be the word farsh , which doesn't seem to add anything. (Or maybe I just haven't figured it out yet.)

Ghazal 148 10 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: at hii sahii composed after 1821; Hamid p. 119; Arshi #182; Raza p. 258

{148,1} ((ishq mujh ko nahii;N va;hshat hii sahii merii va;hshat tirii shuhrat hii sahii 1) it's not passion in me, it's madness-- so be it 2) my madness-- your fame, indeed

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, upon my expressing passion, you say, 'you've gone mad!' I'm mad in such a way that my response is, [the verse]. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, since upon my claim of passion you say, 'this isn't love that you feel-- rather, it's the turmoil of insanity, that has turned into

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madness/wildness', then my response is 'all right, let it not be passion [((ishq nah sahii], but madness [va;hshat hii sahii]-- it's the cause for the fame of your beauty, indeed [hii sahii]. (214)

Bekhud Mohani: From hii sahii it's apparent that the beloved has called the lover's love 'madness'. In reply to this the lover says, 'the truth is that i feel passion for you, but you say that it's not passion, but madness. All right, let it be so [achchhaa yuu;N hii sahii]. My madness won't do you any harm; rather, your beauty will be spoken of in every house: 'she's so beautiful that people go mad'. (285-86)

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} This ghazal is in a relatively short meter, and the refrain, hii sahii , while not unduly long, is conspicuous and powerful. It is emphatic both in its sounds (with the two mutually echoing hii syllables) and in its vigorous, argumentative colloquialness. Thus it stands out very markedly, and clever use of it constitutes one of the chief pleasures of the ghazal. It's impossible to find one single satisfactory translation for such a protean idiomatic expression as hii sahii . Here are some of the candidates: 'indeed'; 'at least'; 'even if'; 'in any case'; 'so be it'; 'let it be so' (as an assumption). For the purposes of this ghazal, my solution has been to translate the expression in one of these ways, but to italicize the translation, to emphasize the colloquialness of the original. (Compare its mirror image, nah sahii , which I've treated similarly in {175}.) Wherever the commentators have used forms of the expression while discussing this ghazal, I have shown the original Urdu. Ghalib himself declares it untranslatable: {148,10}. Other verses that use the same idiomatic expression: {9,4}; {91,4}, {228,9}. For discussion of other sahii expressions, see {9,4}. The first line, as the commentators note, seems to sarcastically echo something that the beloved has just said. (This effect of being in the midst of a vigorous argument is created largely by hii sahii .) The beloved has apparently said that what the lover feels is not passion, but merely madness. He responds somewhat snidely that even if that's true, at least she gets some advantage out of it. The advantage she gets out of it is 'fame'. The commentators suggest that this fame takes the form of gossip about her devastating beauty and its power to drive men mad. But of course, we're reminded also of the power of poetry-- think for example of Shakespeare's sonnets 55 and 60, which promise the beloved immortal fame through the sheer force of their own words. (For another verse along these lines, see {208,5}.) The second line is so compressed-- it dispenses even with a verb-- that it achieves a kind of sublime crypticness. After all, what is the relationship between 'my madness' and 'your fame'? The multifariousness of hii sahii leaves us lots of room to frame our own possibilities.

{148,2} qa:t((a kiije nah ta((alluq ham se kuchh nahii;N hai to ((adaavat hii sahii 1) let connection with us not be cut off! 2a) if there's nothing [else], then [let there be] enmity at least 2b) if there's nothing, then [that's] enmity indeed

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: In the 'description of an affair' [mu((aamilaat-e ((aashiqaanah], this theme is part of the author's special portion. And he has versified it very very well-and where he has versified it, he has used it in a new style. In one place he says: {48,4}. Then he has used it like this: {134,1}. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This theme has come into Mirza Sahib's portion. Where he has versified it, he has versified it peerlessly. In every place he has used it in a new style. He says, why do you cut off the connection? If there's no affection left, then please show enmity towards us. If not love [mu;habbat nah sahii], then enmity [((adaavat sahii]. (214)

Bekhud Mohani: The point of ((adaavat hii sahii is that if you maintain enmity, then I'll have the pleasure of your cruelties, and the hope of your sometime or other becoming kind. In kuchh nahii;N hai is hidden the idea that the heart wants you to be kind to us, to love us, to value our love. But if none of this can be done by you, then-- well, at least let there be enmity [;xair ((adaavat hii sahii]. (286)

Arshi: Compare {119,1}. (243, 285)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. As Arshi suggests, {119,1} is an excellent verse for comparison; {46,3} might also be of interest. The basic idea that enmity is a form of 'connection', and thus far better than the loss of all relationship, is, as Nazm says, characteristically Ghalibian. The second line offers some pleasures of its own. It might be construed, as in (2a), as a call for enmity: if there's nothing else available, at least give me enmity! But it might also register the thought, as in (2b), that if there's nothing at all (in the beloved's heart), then such complete indifference is enmity indeed. Is this latter thought the most exquisite torment (since her indifference is the worst imaginable fate)? Or might it be perversely consoling (since even her indifference is a form of enmity, and thus a form of connection with her)? We're back, most elegantly and complexly, at the fundamental ghazal paradox: the lover's ability to rejoice in the beloved's cruelty. And all this in just a few brief phrases, containing only thirteen words.

{148,3} mere hone me;N hai kyaa rusvaa))ii ay vuh majlis nahii;N ;xalvat hii sahii 1a) what's the disgrace/revelation in my presence/existence? 1b) what disgrace/revelation there is in my presence/existence! 1c) as if there's disgrace/revelation in my presence/existence! 2) either way-- if not in a gathering, then in solitude, indeed

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this the phrase ay vuh is very subtle-- only the real knowers of language [ahl-e zabaan] will understand it. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if I meet with you in private, then in that what disgrace will there be for you? To meet in both places is the same thing-- if not indeed a gathering [nah sahii], then at least in private [sahii]. (214)

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Bekhud Mohani: Whether it be your gathering or in private, if we would remain there, what kind of disgrace is this to you? That is, you and we are both free from sin. Or this: that we are your true lover. The subtle meaning in this verse is that the lover considers that from giving true lovers a space near her, the beloved can't at all be disgraced.... In this place, ay vuh is extremely enjoyable. In it is hidden the picture of the beloved's becoming very angry, and the lover's giving her a reply. (286)

FWP: SETS == KYA For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. As in so many verses, kyaa is beautifully positioned to do its threefold work- it can generate a genuine, thoughtful question (1a), an affirmative exclamation (1b), or an indignantly negative exclamation (1c). On the double meaning of rusvaa))ii , see {20,9}. In the first line, the ambiguity of mere hone me;N , literally 'in my being', leaves us poised between two interpretations. It can easily mean either 'in my existing', or 'in my being there'. We await the second line, expecting to have the question resolved. And is it resolved? Of course not. The equation of company and solitude could perfectly well apply to my presence in the beloved's company, as the commentators maintain. But it could equally well apply to my very existence, which either might be, or is, or isn't, a disgrace in itself, whether in company or in solitude. After all, not a single word in the verse explicitly introduces the beloved. We know the lover seems to be having some kind of a semi-exasperated or rueful discussion with somebody, even perhaps to be berating somebody-- but the somebody could very well be himself. This verse could very well be a less grim (because more multivalent) reframing of {3,5}.

{148,4} ham bhii dushman to nahii;N hai;N apne ;Gair ko tujh se mu;habbat hii sahii 1a) we too our not our own enemy! 1b) we too are not an enemy, [we're] your own 2) the Other loves you-- so be it!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, then why would we show enmity toward ourselves by loving you, when you're convinced of the Other's love? (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we are not our own enemy, that we would show love for you and enmity toward ourselves, when you have perfect belief in the Other's love, and consider him your true lover-- why would we meet you? (214)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning of mu;habbat hii sahii is that we don't believe that the Other loves you. And even if we would believe it, then we aren't our own enemy. That is, when you believe in the Rival's love, then why would we give our heart and fall into a disaster? [Or:] The Rival loves you, so be it [hii sahii]. But we too are not your enemy, but your own. (286)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}.

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As in so many verses, the first line is opaque until we hear the second; even then, it remains deliberately multivalent. Here are some possible ways the verse could be read, using the primary and more interesting meaning (1a): =I'm not such a fool-- I'm not going to destroy myself! Let the Other go ahead and love you, if he's that stupid! (Here bhii is read as a colloquial intensifier.) =I'm not going to keep on driving myself mad over you, since you've already accepted the Other as your lover. (This is the commentators' consensus reading.) =Why should I knock myself out to fight a losing battle? So be it: the Other loves you! (This is said sarcastically, in the course of an argument in which he's been maintaining that the Other's love is false.) =Well, I too know which side my bread is buttered on, and how to advance my own interests! Just as the Other does, when he claims that he 'loves' you! Compared to the protean (1a), (1b) is almost self-explanatory. To me it looks strange, since apne would normally refer to the subject of the sentence. We discussed this on the Urdulist, and I thank the members of the list for their helpful arguments going both ways. S. R. Faruqi says that the lover and beloved are to be considered so closely identified that the 'own' can apply either way; although he finds this meaning less 'dramatic' of course than (1a). In either case, the 'enemy' in the first line forms an enjoyably balanced connection with the 'love' in the second line; and the verse offers the wellmatched set of 'we', 'one's own', and the 'Other'.

{148,5} apnii hastii hii se ho jo kuchh ho aagahii gar nahii;N ;Gaflat hii sahii 1) let it be from one's own existence, whatever it might be 2) if not awareness, then heedlessness-- so be it

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, from one's own existence comes awareness-- that is, mystical knowledge itself. And he has taken this theme from a famous hadith, 'He who has recognized his self has recognized his Lord' [man ((arafa nafsahu faqad ((arafa rabbah]. Then he says that if awareness is not attained, then from his own existence one should take heedlessness. When one considers himself to be nothing, then the glory/appearance of the Truth will be visible. There are no words sufficient for the praise of this verse. The truth is that those Shaikhs of the [Sufi] Path, whose divans are always interpreters of Reality-- even their divans are devoid of the vision of this verse. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to know one's own existence is mystical knowledge itself.... In the second line he says, if awareness is not attained through one's own existence, then it's proper to attain heedlessness itself through one's own existence. That is when one considers himself nothing and nonexistent, then the glory/appearance of the Truth will certainly become visible. This verse too is a well-honed 'razor' [i.e., a 'cutting', excellent verse] among Mirza's 'razors'. (214)

Bekhud Mohani: Whatever might be, let it be from one's very own breath and self. The heart wants mystical knowledge and insight to be attained. If this is not possible, then ignorance of the whole world-- so be it [hii sahii]. That is, even if it would be some worse than bad thing. To obtain things from someone else is contrary to manly courage. (287)

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FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. This is another of Ghalib's group of verses that advocate radical autonomy and urge one to refuse to be beholden to anybody for anything. Even something inferior, if it's authentically one's own, is more desirable than something superior that is derivative and obtained from others. The commentators, following Nazm, generally give the verse a mystical turn: God is to be found through knowing oneself, not through knowing external things. The hadith referred to by Nazm is widely known, though apparently not well-documented in the authoritative collections; sometimes it is attributed to Hazrat 'Ali. (I'm grateful to the members of the Urdulist for sharing their knowledge on these points.) Still, nothing in the verse itself pushes us in a mystical direction. And in fact the use of 'heedlessness' as an alternative to 'awareness' works against a mystical reading, since 'heedlessness' can hardly be considered a recommended means for acquiring mystical knowledge. To me the verse looks more like a stubborn assertion of individualism, a nail-your-flag-to-the-mast defiance. I'd compare it to the similar, defiantly rakish {9,4}, which also, as it happens, uses hii sahii .

{148,6} ((umr har-chand kih hai barq-;xiraam dil ke ;xuu;N karne kii fur.sat hii sahii 1) although the lifetime is lightning-paced 2) leisure to turn the heart to blood-- so be it

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The reason for the affinity is that lightning too is the blood in the veins of the cloud. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we've agreed that a lifetime has the stability of a flash of lightning. But nevertheless, it's possible to find enough leisure to turn the heart to blood. (215)

Bekhud Mohani: We've agreed that the speed of a lifetime is the speed of lightning. But if the time isn't enough for many great works, then so what? In this lifetime, we can't even turn our heart into blood, and is this a lesser task? That is, if a lifetime is too short for attaining mystical knowledge, then isn't it also too short for making love? (287)

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. The commentators point to two possible readings of the second line. Although life is as brief as a lightning-flash, (1) still there is at least leisure enough to turn the heart to blood (Bekhud Dihlavi's reading); or (2) if only we could have leisure enough to turn the heart to blood! (Bekhud Mohani's reading). In other words, the absent verb in the second line is taken by Bekhud Dihlavi to be hai , and by Bekhud Mohani to be ho or hotaa . Reading (1) can be construed ironically or sarcastically-- we hardly live for a moment, and even that moment we spend in suffering and self-torment! By contrast, reading (2) has a wistful air-- the one great wish we have is to turn our heart to blood, and we don't even have time enough for that! Yet the tone of this wish too can be sarcastic; it's left to us to decide. Out of a handful of

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words, a cleverly missing verb, and hii sahii , Ghalib has thus made an irreducibly dual expression: one that perfectly contains two opposite, and apposite, views of human life. Needless to say, both fit perfectly with the 'although' of the first line. For Ghalib, after all, this sort of tour de force is commonplace. For another, more literal-minded use of 'turning the heart to blood', see {123,7}.

{148,7} ham ko))ii tark-e vafaa karte hai;N nah sahii ((ishq mu.siibat hii sahii 1) as if we ever renounce faithfulness! 2) if not indeed passion, then difficulty indeed

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Here 'difficulty' is appropriate in both senses. [These are described below by FWP.] (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we won't become fearful of the troubles of passion and renounce faithfulness. If indeed [yuu;N sahii] we don't consider passion a source of comfort, we'll consider it a cause of difficulty. (215)

Bekhud Mohani: It's impossible that we would abandon faithfulness. If the pleasure of passion isn't available, then it's not [nah sahii]; there's difficulty at least [hii sahii]. (287)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. And in fact this verse is a sort of garden of idioms: for discussion of nah sahii , see {9,4}. Most striking of all is the highly colloquial ko))ii , an emphatically negative exclamation; for more on this, see {7,5}. As Nazm observes (though very cryptically), the complexity in the verse is generated by the second half of the second line, mu.siibat hii sahii , which has been carefully stripped of all accompanying grammar-- such as pronouns or a verb-- that would limit its meaning. Thus we're left with two readings of it: 1) We're always faithful-- if not indeed to passion, then to difficulty indeed. (Whether or not we can count on passion, we can always count on difficulty to be our constant companion-- and one whose company we never seek to escape.) 2) We're always faithful-- if indeed we didn't have passion, then that would be difficulty indeed! (The suffering caused by passion is nothing compared to the real suffering that would be caused by the lack of passion.) All this is done in six small words, one of which is used twice. Elegant, isn't it?

{148,8} kuchh to de ay falak-e naa-in.saaf aah-o-faryaad kii ru;x.sat hii sahii 1) give something, after all, oh unjust sky! 2) the {send-off of / leave for} sigh and complaint, { at least / indeed }

Notes: ru;x.sat : 'Facilitation, license, indulgence; leave, permission to depart, leave of absence... dismissal, discharge'. (Platts p.590)

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ru;x.sataanah : 'A present made on dismissing a person, parting present'. (Platts p.590) ru;x.satii : 'Anything given at parting, a parting present'. (Platts p.590) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, he doesn't say 'give my desire alone', he says 'then give me leave to complain'. (156)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, 'Oh sky, I don't say to you, fulfill my desire! Oh cruel one, give me leisure to complain-- for does it do any harm to you to give it?' (215)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh sky, the claim of justice was that my heart's desires would be fulfilled by the beloved. All right, this didn't happen [achchhaa yih nah sahii]-- give me at least permission [ijaazat] to complain. That is, what a disaster it is that we are deprived of union, and on top of that, the tyranny that for fear of disgracing the beloved, or for fear that it might displease you, we sit with the seal of silence placed on the lip of complaint! The words of the verse tell us that now the lover no longer has the strength to suppress his complaint. (287)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. In this verse too, as in others in this ghazal, the second line is deliberately cryptic, and its relationship to the first line is left for us to determine. Here are three possible readings of the second line: 1) give me permission to sigh and lament as much as I wish, about your injustice 2) give a send-off or dismissal to my sigh and lament, so it will depart; then I will at least be silent and cease to complain aloud about your injustice 3) give something or other-- after all, it's the send-off of sigh and lament, and the occasion requires a gift from you. (That is, either I'm sending off my sigh and lament into the world, to be heard by whoever is listening; or else my despair and hopelessness are now so deep that I am giving up sighing and lamenting for the future.) The first two meanings are relatively straightforward. The first emerges directly from the literal meaning of ru;x.sat as 'to give leave or permission'; see {44,2} and {92,6} for examples of this usage. The second comes from the very common use of ru;x.sat as 'to give leave or permission to depart', which is based on the requirement of courtly etiquette that no one can leave the royal presence without permission. Since the language of courtesy accords to the other person a high rank, this assumption is borrowed into polite language in Urdu: instead of saying that you think you'll be going, you ask formally for 'leave' or 'permission' [ijaazat] to depart. Many such rituals of parting include a gift given by the person of superior rank to the departing subordinate. One of the most common rituals of departure in the culture is the formal sending off of a bride to her husband's house; the term ru;x.sat is commonly used for this ceremony. It includes gift-giving on a large scale: the terms ru;x.sataanah and ru;x.satii (see above) record the strong association of such formal send-offs with gift-giving. It is thus amusingly appropriate to address even such an unjust entity as the sky on this particular occasion: it's a ru;x.sat after all, oh unjust sky, and surely even you should give at least something!

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{148,9} ham bhii tasliim kii ;xuu ;Daale;Nge be-niyaazii tirii ((aadat hii sahii 1) {we too / even we} will adopt a temperament of acceptance 2) indifference/independence-- your habit, { indeed / so be it}

Notes: tasliim : 'Surrender, resignation; conceding, acknowledging, granting; assenting to, accepting'. (Platts p.324) ;xuu : 'Nature, disposition, temper; habit, custom; way, manner'. (Platts p.494) niyaaz : 'Petition, supplication, prayer; --inclination, wish, eager desire, longing; need, necessity; indigence, poverty; --a gift, present; --an offering, a thing dedicated'. (Platts p.1164) be-niyaazii : 'Freedom from want, ability to dispense (with), independence'. (Platts p.204) ((aadat : 'Custom, habit, manner, wont, usage, practice'. (Platts p.756) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He uses this introductory phrase [ham bhii] so that ;xuu ;Daale;Nge proves by implication that now our temperament [:tabii((at] cannot endure the indifference, and her habit is irascible. Nor is there any hope of a quick change in our temperament-- gradually we will take up indifference. Here he has created an introductory phrase, and the author has in mind the conclusion too, and from this the meaning becomes increased. (157)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, gradually we too will adopt a habit [((aadat] of acceptance and contentment-- when we understand that indifference has become a part of your habit. (215)

Bekhud Mohani: Now we don't have acceptance and contentment-- we make complaints about your indifference. We'll adopt the habit [((aadat]. [Or:] You say, 'I am not careless of you alone'-- or, even better, 'I don't practice carelessness, rather it's just my habit'. So we too will adopt the temperament [;xuu] of acceptance. (287)

FWP: SETS == BHI For discussion of the versatile idiomatic expression hii sahii , see {148,1}. Here is one of the most elegant exploitations of the multivalence of bhii -one that points up the fact that we have to decide for ourselves if the two modes of behavior named in the two lines are similar, or mesh together symbiotically, or are opposite. If bhii is taken to mean 'too, also', then the meaning becomes: we too will adopt a habit that is in conformity with the one you have adopted: if you are indifferent and independent, we will be content and accepting. (Both tasliim and be-niyaazii can be seen as implying the acceptance of one's present lot, which can be taken as a sign of submission to God's will. But the latter term of course carries much more of a sense of pride and self-will.) If bhii is taken to mean 'even', then the meaning becomes: even we, who are so determined and intransigent, will eventually have to adopt a temperament of acceptance, in response to your habit of constant indifference.

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If bhii is taken to be merely a colloquial emphatic particle with no strong meaning (as in yih bhii ko))ii baat hai !), then the meaning becomes merely: 'we do X, your habit is Y indeed', and the possible interpretive range becomes even wider-- especially in view of the versatility of hii sahii . Then of course the word ;xuu can mean 'habit, custom, way, manner', which is very close to the core meaning of ((aadat (see definitions above); or else it can mean 'nature, disposition, temper', which is much more like 'temperament' [:tabii((at]. If the beloved has a 'habit' and the lover responds to it by developing a ;xuu , is that fighting fire with fire, or is it fighting fire with water? The choice matters, because a 'habit' may be relatively easy to develop, while developing a 'temperament' may be a long-term, uncertain task; the commentators recognize its difficulties. As usual, we're left with all these choices, and required-- or allowed-- to put together our own reading. For an example of the versatility of tasliim , see {101,5}; for an example of be-niyaazii , see {19,2}.

{148,10} yaar se chhe;R chalii jaa))e asad gar nahii;N va.sl to ;hasrat hii sahii 1a) let the teasing of/by/with the beloved keep going, Asad! 1b) the teasing of/by/with the beloved might keep going, Asad 2) if not union, then longing, {at least / indeed}

Notes: chhe;R : 'Touching, touch, handling, passing the hand over; meddling with, molesting, molestation, provocation, excitement, irritating, irritation, vexing, vexation, worrying, annoying; --touching up, stirring up, making active; action, activity, stir; incitement, stimulus, fillip; --dalliance, flirtation, amorous intercourse or skirmishing; jest, fun'. (Platts p.468) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [c.1865:] According to word-lists or dictionaries, in Arabic they say this, and in Persian this, and in Hindi this. Hindi's style of speech can never be that of Persian; or Persian's that of Hindi. For example, 'stolen sugar is sweet' [chorii kaa gu;R mii;Thaa]-- don't ask what it would be in Persian, there's no telling. And how could sahii and to sahii have Persian forms? This is the colloquial speech [rozmarrah] of Urdu: [line two of {148,10}]. (Arshi, 286) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1427 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, pp. 287-88

Nazm: We ought to understand by 'longing' the 'expression of longing', which has assumed the form of teasing. Because a longing that would be only in the heart, and would not be expressed-- why would it begin to assume the form of teasing? The word gar he brings into the poem in imitation of the Persian poets; otherwise, in the idiom of Urdu no one says gar ; they say agar . And for this reason gar is rejected in prose, and in Lucknow sme poets have rejected it in poetry too. (157)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Oh Asad, the teasing and pestering [chhe;R chha;R] of the beloved for the achievement of what you want-- let it continue! To keep on sitting in silence will get you nowhere. If union is not attained, then the expression of longing at least [hii sahii]! (215)

Bekhud Mohani: Keep on telling the beloved the longing of your heart. Let teasing and pestering [chhe;R chha;R] continue. If there won't be union, then there won't [nah sahii]. There will be the pleasure of importuning and teasing. (287-88)

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FWP: 'UNION': {5,2} It's hard to translate chhe;R , but I think 'tease' comes closest, because one can tease either verbally ('stop teasing your sister!'), or physically, as when people tease animals by goading or harassing them. Moreover, teasing can express flirtation or affectionate intimacy; or a more general desire for amusement and joking around; or an active hostility and a wish to torment the victim (see definition above). All these possibilities, in their many subtle combinations and variations, are left open by the cleverly ambiguous grammar of the first line. The speaker calls for the yaar se chhe;R , the teasing 'with' the beloved, to continue. This use of se strongly suggests transaction and interaction: think of kisii se baat karnaa , to converse 'with' someone; kisii se la;Rnaa , to fight 'with' someone, etc. The commentators are generally convinced that it's the lover who's 'teasing' the beloved-- he nags and pesters her with constant importuning for the 'union' that he'll never stop wanting and she'll never grant. Thus he's (relatively) content, because even if they don't have 'union' they still have a connection of sorts, so he wishes that the teasing at least, if not something better, would continue (1a). S. R. Faruqi agrees with this view, and rejects the idea that any such 'teasing' would originate from the beloved's side (Nov. 2004). But surely it could also be the beloved who's 'teasing' the lover. We see her do it in one way or another in many verses; in {46,1}, for example, and (even more clearly) {59,2}; while in {191,3}, the lover even wishes that she would never cease to make a 'game' of 'tormenting' him. After all, the second line doesn't make clear how the non-'union', and the 'longing', are connected to the first line; we're obliged to decide on the relationship between the two lines for ourselves. The second line thus might describe not his motivation for teasing her, but his reaction to her teasing, or to their mutual banter and repartee. But her 'teasing' may well be a source of torment and frustration too, as well as arousing hopeless yearning. The first line can also be read with a simple subjunctive (1b), not as the expression of a wish but as a simple statement that something might or might not happen. The lover may be looking, resignedly or grimly, into his own future, and simply reporting what he sees there: he knows her, and he knows himself, and he sees no end to their stalemate.

Ghazal 149 5 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa mujhe composed 1816; Hamid p. 120; Arshi #141; Raza p. 167

{149,1} hai aaramiidagii me;N nikohish bajaa mujhe .sub;h-e va:tan hai ;xandah-e dandaa;N-numaa mujhe 1) in repose/rest, reproach/scorn is appropriate to me 2) the dawn of the homeland is a teeth-baring smile to me

Notes: nikohish : 'Spurning, rejecting, despising; chiding; reproach, blame; scorn, contempt; rejection'. (Platts p.1149) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in repose and abandonment of wandering, reproach and scorn are a proper punishment to me, so that in my homeland it's not a dawn to me, but

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rather it's a teeth-baring smile at my condition. The smile of the dawn is a famous metaphor. (157)

Bekhud Mohani: The dawn in the homeland laughs at me, and it ought indeed to laugh. Because I'm seated here comfortably. It doesn't look proper for a madman and desert-wanderer to remain in the homeland. We can also understand this verse like this: some individual who loves the homeland is seeing it in the clutches of Others. And because of his lack of courage, or ardor for pleasure, or love of near and dear ones, doesn't try to cut the chains on the feet of the homeland, but his sensibility constantly reproaches him: oh you cruel one, what are you doing? In such a state his gaze falls on the whiteness of dawn, and the thought occurs to him that this is not the whiteness of dawn; rather, the dawn of the homeland is laughing at my love of ease. (288)

Faruqi: This reading can also emerge: that I'm comfortable in a foreign country; seeing my comfort, people taunt me. This taunting can be because I'm outside the homeland and still am happy; or because people say that the homeland hasn't esteemed you, and only after coming here have you been comfortable. People's teeth-baring smile (that is, their sarcastic laughter) reminds me of the dawn in my homeland, or it seems to me to be the dawn in my homeland, because that dawn too taunts me. That is, the people of my homeland weren't pleased with me either. In this connection this verse seems to be of the same kind as {101,10}. This meaning is far-fetched, but not impossible, because the image of 'the dawn of the homeland' is present; the speaker either is in the homeland, or is not in the homeland but rather in a foreign country. 'Repose' can also signify death, for 'death in a foreign country' is a common theme. (271)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} Dawn is a 'teeth-baring smile' because the first light of dawn-- the 'crack' of dawn-- shows itself as a narrow horizontal strip of whiteness on the horizon. Bekhud Mohani's nationalistic interpretation has two problems. One problem is the early date of this ghazal (1816); at that time, the English had only held Delhi (with a farman from the Mughal emperor, of course) for thirteen years, and their presence was not as yet very obtrusive, so that nationalist sentiment had hardly even begun to develop as it would by the end of the century. The other problem is the fact that even in Ghalib's later life, evidence that he opposed the British presence in India is hard to come by. He was certainly wretched during the events of 1857, and described his and Delhi's sufferings vividly; but it's clear that he blamed both sides, and from his extant writings it seems that he blamed the rebels more than the British. (He thought of himself as an aristocrat, and in Dastanbu he generally depicted the rebels as brutal, low-class ruffians.) Of course it can be argued that in taking such an attitude he was simply being politically prudent or expedient; but to make such an argument stick, there should be private letters to his friends that expressed covert nationalistic or patriotic sentiments. As far as I'm aware, there aren't any. 'Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence', of course; but it certainly isn't evidence of presence. Why does the dawn of the speaker's homeland give him a 'teeth-baring smile'? Because he's reposing peacefully at home; he's not doing his duty as a lover by wandering from pillar to post and retiring to the desert and so on. Or of course, the dawn of the homeland doesn't really give him such a smile in reality: it only seems so to him, because he's castigating himself and is full of self-reproach.

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Faruqi's comparison with {101,10} seems exactly as he describes it: farfetched but not impossible. The verse itself gives us no reason to assume that the speaker is in a foreign country. But since we know he often experiences hostility and contempt in his homeland, the reading certainly isn't so implausible either. For another teeth-baring smile, see {166,1}.

{149,2} ;Dhuu;N;De hai us mu;Gannii-e aatish-nafas ko jii jis kii .sadaa ho jalvah-e barq-e fanaa mujhe 1) the self searches for that fire-{breath/spirit}-possessing {singer / independence-maker} 2) whose echo/voice/call would be the glory/appearance of the lightning of oblivion to me

Notes: mu;Gannii : 'A singer; a musician; -- part. adj. Making free from want; rendering in a state of competence, or rich, or independent'. (Platts p.1051) nafas : 'Breath (of life), animal life; --soul; spirit, self, person; substance, essence, individual thing itself'. (Platts p.1144) .sadaa : 'Echo; sound, noise; voice, tone, cry, call;.... [among Khatris] an invitation (to a marriage ceremony, or a feast)'. (Platts p.743) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the self wants an experience of hearing such that a state of 'oblivion to the self' [fanaa fii))l-;zaat] would occur.... But to say in a verse 'let this be so, let that be so' makes the verse loose. If, on the contrary, he had brought this theme into the expression, and said, 'your voice is to me the glory/appearance of the lightning of oblivion', then it would give more pleasure. (157)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my heart is searching for that singer, the lightning of whose voice would fall on me and obliterate me, and I would forget my very self along with my existence. (216)

Bekhud Mohani: I long for a mystical guide [murshid] who will express the secrets of Reality in such a way that the world and the pleasure of the world will become vile in my eyes.... [As for Nazm's criticism:] Now 'a reversed Ganges has begun to flow!' [ul;Tii gangaa bahne lagii]. The correction that he has devised-- the Lord knows what kind of literary creation it is! (289)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} JALVAH: {7,4} LIGHTNING: {10,6} In the first line we learn that the self is searching for a mu;Gannii , a singer and/or an 'independence-maker' (see definition above), who will have a breath, or spirit, or essence, of fire. This is a tall order! We look forward to clarification in the second line. And do we get it? Not exactly; but we get some fascinating abstraction-play instead. If we pursue the 'singer' image (as the commentators generally do), then we're offered the vision of a singer whose 'breath' or essence is fire, such that his/her voice would 'strike' the hearer like a bolt of lightning, and bring oblivion. Don't we have here an echo of Moses seeking to experience God's presence on Mount Tur? In Qur'an 28:29, after all, Moses's experience

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begins with the sight of a 'fire'; he approaches it, and then hears the Voice from a tree nearby. And in {36,5}, the speaker complains that a single lightning-flash before the eyes was unsatisfactory-- he wanted from the beloved 'speech', a conversation, a voice, as well. In the present verse, the speaker wants a voice that will resemble, or act as, or actually be, the 'lightning of oblivion'. A voice that slays its hearer with its first sound? A voice that is to the ears, through a sort of synesthesia, what lightning is to the eyes (and to the whole body, if it strikes directly)? A divine Voice that gives the long-desired command of oblivion, and thus releases one from the wretchedness of mortal life? If we pursue the alternative sense of mu;Gannii as one who renders one rich or independent, we emphasize the idea of fire and lightning rather than that of sound. That 'independence-maker' whose very essence is 'fire' would naturally be able to 'call' or summon (or even 'invite'?) one, with a single stroke of the 'lightning of oblivion', out of the world entirely. And what could possibly be a greater 'independence' or 'wealth' than such a complete escape? There's also the wonderful multivalence of the final 'to me'. It can be read as meaning that all this lightning-striking would be done 'to me' (as opposed to being done to someone else). But it can also be read as rendering the whole verse radically subjective: I may long for someone who would be the most desirable beloved in the world 'to me'-- meaning, not necessarily to you. If I long for someone whose call would be a lightning-strike 'to me', the implication can quite well be that this is a private matter, and perhaps no one else would experience it in the same way. In fact it might not even be a voice or call; it could be merely an 'echo' that would affect me so strongly. Of course, the grammar itself makes it clear that no such person or entity has (yet?) turned up.

{149,3} mastaanah :tay karuu;N huu;N rah-e vaadii-e ;xayaal taa baaz-gasht se nah rahe mudda((aa mujhe 1) intoxicated(ly), I traverse the road of the valley of thought 2) so that no intention/meaning of turning back would remain to me

Notes: mastaanah : 'Drunken, drunk... ; --Like a drunkard, drunkenly, &c.' (Platts p.1031) vaadii : 'A valley, vale; low-lying ground; an oasis (in a desert); a desert; -channel (of a river); a river'. (Platts p.1173) baaz-gasht : 'Turning back, returning; return, retreat'. (Platts p.121) mudda((aa : 'What is claimed, or alleged, or pretended, or meant; desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift; --object of search'. (Platts p.1015) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I want to be so immersed in my thought that I would never be able to emerge again. From Mir Muhammad Husain Sahib 'Azad' we learn that karuu;N huu;N and maruu;N huu;N have for some time been considered contrary to eloquence even in Delhi. [There follows an extremely long discussion of Delhi and Lucknow usages and archaisms.] (158)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the field of thought I am traversing the road in an intoxicated manner, so that I would have absolutely no intention of turning and going

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back. That is, I would lose myself in such a way that I would never afterwards be able to return to awareness. (216)

Bekhud Mohani: Now, instead of karuu;N huu;N they say kartaa huu;N . I traverse the field of thought as intoxicated ones do, so that no purpose of turning and going back would remain to me. (289)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Such an array of questions this little verse raises! =Is the speaker doing the traversing in a state of intoxication, or merely in a manner that evokes or imitates that of intoxication? (Is he drunk, or just imitating drunkenness?) =Is the speaker walking 'intoxicated(ly)' so that he won't want to go back, or so that he won't be able to find his way back in any case? =Since a 'road' and a 'valley' or 'channel' [vaadii] might well be linear, would walking along them 'intoxicated(ly)' really cause one to lose one's way so irrevocably? Or is the speaker deluding himself? =Is he walking intoxicated(ly) along the road of the valley of thought, so that his thought will be impaired, and he won't be able even to form a coherent claim or intention or meaning [mudda((aa] about returning? It's not surprising that the subtleties accumulate, when we're dealing with a wild card like 'thought'. Don't forget the ominous shufflings of the 'cardplayer of Thought' in {81,2}.

{149,4} kartaa hai baskih baa;G me;N tuu be-;hijaabiyaa;N aane lagii hai nak'hat-e gul se ;hayaa mujhe 1) {since / to such an extent} you do unveilings/immodesties in the garden 2) I have begun to feel shame before the scent of the rose

Notes: be-;hijaabii : 'Appearing unveiled, immodesty, indecency, shamelessness'. (Platts p.202) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I used to consider the scent of the rose to be immodest, since the moment a gust of wind comes, it's out of its robe. But you turned out to be even more immodest than it. The beloved's being immodest and shameless and mischievous too is a style, the way being bashful and remaining in pardah is also a style. (161)

Bekhud Mohani: I used to consider that the scent of the rose was very immodest, since the moment a gust of wind comes, it's out of its robe. But you turned out to be even more immodest than it. [Or:] Since you practice immodesty before the scent of the rose, I consider it a Rival and am embarrassed. [Or:] Refined people don't admit to their houses women who wander from house to house and door to door. That is, you practice immodesties before the scent of the rose, that wanders from street to street; thus I'm embarrassed before the scent of the rose: it will wander around telling everybody about my shamelessnesses. [Or:] He says that this is not the scent of the rose, it's your perfume. That is, it's not the scent of the rose, it's the perfume of your body. If you don't practice immodesties in the garden, then why does this perfumed scent arise? And since the scent travels a long distance with the wine, and makes no distinction between lovers and non-lovers, I am embarrassed by its freedom. (289)

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Faruqi: Now let's reflect on the reason for being ashamed before the scent of the rose. One reason is the one that Bekhud Dihlavi, etc., have mentioned: that I used to consider the scent of the rose to be freely-moving, and the beloved to be the very essence of shame/modesty. But when the beloved too adopted immodesty, then I was ashamed before the scent of the rose. But a more refined meaning is this: that if somebody has seen you, or someone near to you, doing something objectionable (for example, someone sees your son, or you yourself, commiting a theft), then you'll have cause to be ashamed in front of that person. You won't be able to meet that person's eyes. Thus since the beloved (whom we hold in honor, and about whom we think every good thing) has begun to be unveiled/immodest in front of the flowers, we have thus begun to be ashamed before the scent of the rose. Here the question can arise, since the beloved was unveiled/immodest before the flowers, why is the shame felt before the scent of the flowers? The reply to this is that the scent of the flowers wanders around and flies from house to house, thus it's possible that it will tell people this secret. It's possible that the scent of the rose might have told this secret even to me myself. Thus it's inevitable to feel shame before the scent of the rose. Then there's this too: that be;hijaabii is equal to 'becoming beside/outside oneself' [aape se baahar ho jaanaa]. For the scent of a flower to fly around is for it to become 'beside/outside itself'. Thus there's the same relationship between the beloved's unveiledness/immodesty and the beloved, as there is between the flower's scent and the flower. (273)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH VEIL: {6,1 Ghalib has cleverly left it up to us to supply the causal logic by which the first line gives rise to the second one. Most fundamentally, we have to decide whether it's because of similarities between the wanton beloved and the wanton rose-scent; or because of differences between the (theoretically at least) secluded beloved and the wanton rose-scent; or simply because the rose-scent is a wandering tale-bearer who will too easily reveal too many secrets. The commentators have laid out a number of possibilities, and I don't have any others to add. What I especially enjoy is suggestive, provocative energy of be;hijaabiyaa;N -- it's so much more lascivious-sounding than the more commonplace behijaabii . It suggests a variety of wanton actions, perhaps of many different kinds, perhaps repeated many times; it invites us to fantasize. For more on such pluralized abstractions, see {1,2}.

{149,5} khultaa kisii pah kyuu;N mire dil kaa mu((aamilah shi((ro;N ke inti;xaab ne rusvaa kiyaa mujhe 1) why would the affair of my heart have become open/apparent to anybody?! 2) the anthology/selection of verses disgraced/revealed me

Notes: mu((aamilah : 'Dealing, transaction, negotiation, business, commerce, traffic; bargain, contract; correspondence; --sexual intercourse; --proceding, procedure; behavior; --affair, matter, concern'. (Platts p.1046) inti;xaab : 'Extract; selection; election, choice'. (Platts p.86) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Obviously the meaning is that people have realized that he is someone who has a romantic temperament [((aashiq-mizaaj]. (161)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why would my affair-- that is, the secret of my passion-- be open/apparent to anyone? But the selection of verses made me notorious-that is, I always used to choose and recite/read verses that contained themes of affairs of passion and love. (216)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, from the selection of verses the world learned that I am of a romantic temperament [((aashiq-mizaaj] or a lover of complexity/difficulty [diqqatpasand]. It's clear that lovers of complexity are notorious among the common people. (289-90)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY The verse is crammed about as full of literary wordplay as it could possibly be. The words affair, selection, verses all have their own glossary entries. An additional pleasure is the presence in the first line of the verb 'to be open/apparent to someone' [kisii par khulnaa], which directly evokes the 'opening' and reading of a book-- say, an anthology or 'selection' of poetry. As for the 'affair' [mu((aamilah], it not only has wonderfully multifarious meanings from the commercial to the directly sexual, but strongly and relevantly invokes the kind of ghazal called 'description of an affair'. Almost the same sense of 'opening' or 'public revelation' is in fact the literal meaning of rusvaa))ii ; for discussion, see {20,9}. The first line is contrafactual, and suggests that the secret of his 'affair(s)' could have been kept if it were not for the anthology or 'selection' that gave the secret away. Was this because every verse he wrote-- and thus every verse in the anthology-- was one of obsessive passion, or some secret of the sort? Was this because when someone selected some of his verses for an anthology, the ones about obsessive passion at once stood out through their superior merit, and demanded to be chosen? Or, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests, was this because he himself always chose and recited verses about obsessive passion at mushairahs? What it really is, obviously, is a delightful virtuoso display of wordplay about words, of poetry about poetry, even of a perverse pride in one's (in)famous celebrity status.

Ghazal 150 1 verse; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa rakhte the composed 1835; Hamid p. 120; Arshi #207; Raza p. 283 {150,1} zindagii apnii jab is shakl se guzrii ;Gaalib ham bhii kyaa yaad kare;Nge kih ;xudaa rakhte the 1) when our life passed {'in this shape' / wretchedly}, Ghalib 2a) will even we remember that we used to have a Lord? 2b) how we'll remember that we used to have a Lord! 2c) as if we'll remember that we used to have a Lord!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1858:] Listen, Sahib! That person who feels an ardor for some pursuit, and he would without hindrance pass his life in it-- the name of this is 'enjoyment/luxury' [((aish]. Your turning your attention toward poetry, is a

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proof of your refinement of spirit and elegance of temperament. And brother! This poetry that you scatter around, I too have a name and fame in it. In this art my condition now is that the path of poetry-composition, and my previously composed verses-- I've forgotten all of it. But indeed, one and a half verses of my Hindi poetry-- that is, one closing-verse and one line-are still in my memory. Sometimes when my heart begins to sink completely, then five or ten times this closing verse comes to my lips: {150,1}. Then when I feel very anxious and upset, I recite this line and fall silent: [the second line of {228,10}]. (Arshi p. 309) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 1, p. 280 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 153

Nazm: is shakl se is an idiom of which the meaning is, in a bad state. (161)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Oh Ghalib, when our life passed in such bad circumstances, how will we say that we used to have a Lord? (216)

Bekhud Mohani: Then in the second line, Mirza has done a deadly feat.... That is, our situation is such that we can't even think that we are servants of the Lord. If He had created us, and were our Lord, then we wouldn't be ensnared in these difficulties. That is, not to speak of the Lord-- no master can wish such indignity on his slave. This is not a verse, but a masterpiece of poetry. (290)

FWP: SETS == KYA Another masterful verse that fully brings out the triple possibilities of kyaa . All three of the readings resonate wonderfully with the first line. When our life has passed 'in this shape'-- that is, wretchedly-- then what? Perhaps we ask a genuine yes-or-no question (2a): will we, or won't we, remember that we used to have a Lord? Or perhaps we exclaim (2b): how yearningly we'll remember that we used to have a Lord, and how in those days we were much better cared for! Or perhaps we'll exclaim just the opposite (2c): we won't by any means remember that we used to have a Lord, when he's abandoned us so long and so thoroughly that his very name is hard to recall! The question of time also looms large. We seem to be looking back on our whole life, and describing all of it as wretched. So when was the time when we 'used to have' a Lord? Before birth (in some garden of Paradise)? In infancy? Or did we keep on desperately praying, even when we received no response? (The jab in the first line, rather than agar , makes it improbable that the perfect form of the verb is really working as a subjunctive, as it is in {111,7} and elsewhere.) And when will we do the future behavior specified by yaad kare;Nge , if not in some mystical afterlife? And the question only deepens when we notice that the verb is actually rakhte the , literally 'to keep' or 'to maintain' a Lord. It almost puts him into the category of household possessions (one 'keeps' a car, after all). Think of the anti-theistic force of {93,2x}, or {174,10}.

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Ghazal 151 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa kiye composed after 1847; Hamid p. 121; Arshi #221; Raza p. 299 {151,1} us bazm me;N mujhe nahii;N bantii ;hayaa kiye bai;Thaa rahaa agarchih ishaare hu))aa kiye 1) in that gathering, I get nowhere by showing shame/modesty! 2) I remained seated-- although signs/gestures/hints always occurred

Notes: ;hayaa : 'Shame, sense of shame, modesty; pudency; shyness, bashfulness'. (Platts p.482) ishaarah : 'Sign, signal; beck, nod, wink, nudge, gesticulation; pointing to, indication, trace, mark, allusion, hint, clue; insinuation, innuendo; loveglances, ogling'. (Platts p.55) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1861, concluding a letter:] For singing, seven verses are usually enough. I send two Persian ghazals, two Urdu ones, relying on my memory, as an offering to Bhai Sahib: [other ghazals and {151, verses 1,8,7,3,6,9}]. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 372-73, 375 ==Another trans.: Daud Rahbar, pp. 21-22

Nazm: They also use ;hayaa to mean ;Gairat [honour, jealousy, envy, shame, spirit, bashfulness (Platts p.774)]. That is, I remained seated without 'honor' in her gathering, no matter how people kept making gestures and whispering. (161)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has used ;hayaa with the meaning of 'honor' [;Gairat]. He says, in her gathering of coquetry, I get nothing accomplished by showing 'honor'. I remained seated, despite her signs/gestures toward the Other. (216-17)

Bekhud Mohani: Although jests and taunts kept being exchanged among the beloved, the Rivals, and their near and dear ones, we remained seated.... In such a situation one ought not to have remained seated. But he remained seated, and it's also clear that the feeling still remains with him. But the heart is uncontrollable-- nothing can be done [kuchh banaa))e nahii;N bantii]. (290)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS The first line has an energetic idiomatic punch; 'I get nowhere!' is my attempt to approximate it in English. Literally, it's that my baat nahii;N bantii , my 'project/task/idea' doesn't 'occur/happen'. The expression is so common and colloquial that people often omit the baat , although its presence can be seen in the feminine singular of bantii . This particular form of the expression, involving the perfect participle of a transitive verb plus bannaa (having done X, the baat doesn't bannaa ), can be seen in Bekhud Mohani's commentary, and in {191,1}. By now, if you've been reading my commentary at all, you probably know what I'm going to say about the second line. Ghalib has framed the grammar in such a way that it pointedly doesn't give us any idea who's making signs to whom, of what kind, or for what purpose. As usual, the commentators with one voice (not just the few commentators I've quoted here, but all the ones

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I've looked at) pick out one or two possibilities and magisterially affirm them. In this case, their possibilities are: =the beloved and the others in the gathering are making gestures that mock or taunt the lover =the beloved is making encouraging or flirtatious signs to other lovers in the gathering I don't deny these possibilities. But as usual, I want to add another perfectly good possibility: =the beloved is making (at least possibly) encouraging or flirtatious signs of some kind to the lover himself I would even argue that my possibility is more amusing than theirs, and best accords with the vexed, letting-off-steam tone of the first line. The lover seems to be exasperated with the results of his own behavior. Maybe what he's exasperated with is not the signs, but the fact that despite them, he kept on just modestly sitting there. Maybe the beloved doesn't appreciate his modesty, humility, reverence, and is inviting him to try a more flirtatious kind of behavior? Instead of just sitting there bashfully as he did this time, maybe next time he might respond in some way-- at least maybe wink at her, or try a romantic smile, or make some such small gesture? Or is he disgusted by her shallowness-- would his own deep passion make that kind of thing quite impossible? The verse leads us into enjoyable kinds of speculation, as we attempt to fathom his thought processes. Nazm and (following him) Bekhud Dihlavi (re)define the relatively straightforward ;hayaa as the more multivalent ;Gairat , which has meanings that include jealousy, envy, shame, honour, spirit, and bashfulness (Platts p.774). Then they base their readings on ;Gairat rather than ;hayaa . My reading has the advantage of not requiring such an extension.

{151,2} dil hii to hai siyaasat-e darbaa;N se ;Dar gayaa mai;N aur jaa))uu;N dar se tire bin .sadaa kiye 1) it's a heart, after all-- it feared the authority/punishment of the Doorkeeper 2) I-- and to leave your door, without calling out!

Notes: siyaasat : 'Rule, government, governance, administration; jurisdiction, legal authority; --correction, punishment, chastisement; torture, pain, pang, agony; severity, rigor'. (Platts p.708) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word bin , people now have rejected, in poetry and prose. And that has created such an effect that even in conversation it is gradually being rejected. But as yet it still doesn't sound ugly to the ear, and its rejection too is without reason. bin and binaa are Indian [hindii] words, and be is a Persian word. The Indian word has been dropped, and the Persian one has entered into its place. (161-62)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, the situation of the heart is that sometimes it becomes strong, and sometimes feeble. At that time the state was such that a mere small intervening challenge caused it to fear; otherwise, I am not such that I would have gone away from your door without calling out. (217)

Bekhud Mohani: The reply to the beloved's suspicion or complaint is: 'that I would come to your door, and not call out the way faqirs do-- this act was impossible for me. But a person has a heart-- it feared the Doorkeeper.' bin is now rejected; in its place they say be . (290)

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FWP: SETS == I AND This is a verse of nuance, a network of subtle suggestions and enjoyable implications. In the first line, the lover seems to be excusing himself for his seeming cowardice: it wasn't by any means I myself who feared the authority/punishment of the Doorkeeper! Oh no, not at all! In fact it was my heart-- and you know how hearts are! The all-purpose dil hii to hai does a wonderfully colloquial job of getting the point across, with a shrug and a rueful smile. For another use of the same phrase in the same position, see {115,1}. Aside from the fact that that's an amusingly implausible excuse, the fear itself is (in real-world terms) implausible and inappropriate. After all, the lover is a person of a higher social class; he has his own Doorkeeper (even if that person's only job may now be grass-cutting, as in {10,7}). For him to fear the Doorkeeper is a sign both of his abject humility before the beloved, and of his awareness that she will not welcome him. Thus the only way he could ever hope to get past her Doorkeeper would be by flattering and conciliating him (as in {43,4} and {111,12}). Since even this might not work, how terrifying the prospect of sealing one's fate by actually incurring the Doorkeeper's anger! No wonder the poor heart quails! The anger would be incurred, it seems, by 'calling out' [.sadaa karnaa] at her door. As Bekhud Mohani observes, this is exactly what wandering faqirs, or religious mendicants, do: they come to the door and call out, announcing their presence. If the householders want to give alms, they do so, and receive the faqir's blessing; if the faqir gets no response, he passes on. He doesn't expect to be invited into the house and entertained as a guest. The lover apparently places himself in this category. It's no duty of the faqir to call out as he passes by; but the lover is so abjectly devoted that he feels guilty for even such a minor negligence. And his guilt, we realize finally, is a kind of parodic echo of the normal social guilt that might justify the reproach, 'You were right on my street, and you didn't even stop by!'. (See {144,1}, in which the commentators invent such a scenario.) Of course, the normal implication is that if you had let me know, I would have invited you in and entertained you, etc. etc. In this verse, no such hospitality is even remotely envisioned. As so often, the lover manages to have the worst of all worlds: he feels social guilt as though he had rejected or avoided someone's hospitality, but he also knows perfectly well that he has no prospect of obtaining the hospitality. Both his obligation to 'call out', and his failure to fulfill that obligation, are not reciprocal at all, but are governed only by his own nature and his own (self-imposed) role as a lover. The sound effects of darbaa;N , then ;Dar , then dar also create enjoyable echoes.

{151,3} rakhtaa phiruu;N huu;N ;xirqah-o-sajjaadah rahn-e mai muddat hu))ii hai da((vat-e aab-o-havaa kiye 1) I go around pawning my khirqah and prayer-carpet as a pledge for wine 2) it's been a long time since I made a feast of/for {water-and-air}

Notes: phiruu;N huu;N is an archaic form of phirtaa huu;N . ;xirqah : 'A ragged, patched garment; dress of a devotee or religious mendicant'. (Platts p.489) aab-o-havaa : 'Air, climate'. (Platts p.2) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, it's a feast for the spring season. (162)

Bekhud Dihlavi: After a whole year, the spring season has come. The rain is falling, and a cool breeze is blowing. It's proper that at this time a feast for the spring season would be given, and wine would circulate. And having put both things together, he pawns them. And he's made the mischievousness [sho;xii] of the verse to be that one of the things was not sufficient for the price of the wine. (217)

Bekhud Mohani: From rakhtaa phiruu;N huu;N there emerge two meanings. One is that my ardor is such that if one wine-seller doesn't accept my pledge, then I go to another. And the second meaning is that nobody speaks up to accept the deal. From 'khirqah and prayer-carpet' there emerges the interpretation that in the eyes of the wine-sellers these are so valueless that nobody speaks up to accept them. The second line tells us that this is no new thing; we have done the same thing previously. Time after time we become pious or rakish. The heart blames us; we repent. Ardor wells up; again we tear up our repentance. From the pawning of khirqah and prayer-rug it's also clear that in his opinion, among all the things in his house, these are the most useless. Or else that as his wine-drinking continues, nothing remains in his house at all. In the pawning there are also two aspects: one is, why would the wine-sellers take the things and sell them to anyone? Thus he doesn't confide them to anyone else's hands, because he knows his temperament: that he will certainly again repent, and will need them again. (291)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT WINE: {49,1} Bekhud Mohani does a fine job unpacking the possibilities of the first line, with all the implications of the wandering, the pawning, and so on. And what kind of a feast is it exactly? Thanks to the ambiguities of the izafat construction, there are several possibilities: =a feast 'of', or celebrating, the atmosphere, climate, etc.; the commentators interpret this as a celebration of springtime, but of course the verse goes out of its way not to confirm any such idea. It might be celebrating the vitality and indispensability of wine itself. (Think of the whole 'wave of wine' ghazal, {49}.) =a feast 'for' 'air and water', in which they are the honored guests. And with what could they more appropriately be regaled, than with wine? Wine, after all, is a superior cousin of water, and creates its own 'air' or 'atmosphere' of intoxication. (The lover, after all, is a thoughtful host: when he gives a feast for 'eyelashes', he serves them bits of liver: {233,2}.) =a feast consisting 'of' 'air and water', in the sense that the supreme gifts or 'air and water' are provided to the guests-- in the form of wine, of course, that absolute necessity of the lover's life. There are verses in the 'wave of wine' ghazal, {49}, that equate wine with sustenance, growth, and flourishing. In any case, this is a verse full of 'mischievousness' [sho;xii], as Bekhud Dihlavi observes. The complex layers of humiliation inflicted on the faqir's robe and the prayer-carpet, in order to provide complex layers of glorification of wine, presented with such off-handed casualness that they're a sheer delight to read. (After all, the lover is really concerned chiefly with his social obligations, with the overdue feast; the means for arranging it are presented only by the way.)

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{151,4} be-.sarfah hii guzartii hai ho garchih ((umr-e ;xi.zr ;ha.zrat bhii kal kahe;Nge kih ham kyaa kiyaa kiye 1) it passes only/surely unprofitably, although it might be the lifetime of Khizr 2a) even/also Hazrat [Khizr] will say tomorrow, 'what deed did we accomplish?' 2b) even/also Hazrat [Khizr] will say tomorrow, 'as if we accomplished any deed!'

Notes: .sarfah : 'Expending, expense, expenditure; economy; utility, profit; addition, surplus, excess, redundance, profusion'. (Platts p.744) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is that no matter how long a lifetime there may be, the chatterings/voices of the world don't give a person the chance to make preparations for tomorrow. (162)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, where is there escape from the chatterings/voices of the world, that the lifetime would be spent in divine worship! Even if the lifetime would be as long as Khizr's, it will certainly pass uselessly. Even/also Hazrat Khizr will say tomorrow, we don't know what we kept doing. (217)

Bekhud Mohani: Even if there would be a lifetime like Hazrat Khizr's, it becomes wasted. Although Hazrat Khizr is a guide to all creatures, even this, in comparison to the lofty rank of life, is no admirable task. (291)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; BHI SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This one always reminds me of Zauq's famous verse: ho ((umr-e ;xi.zr bhii to kahe;Nge bah vaqt-e marg ham kyaa rahe yahaa;N abhii aa))e abhii chale [even if there would be the lifetime of Khizr, we will say at the time of death we hardly remained here!-- just now we came, just now we left] The general meaning of be-.sarfah is 'unprofitably', but the range of meanings of .sarfah itself add enjoyable overtones. Are our lives lived 'without expenditure', without a chance to use up everything we have in us? Are they lived 'without economy', so that we're compelled to see our time wasted? Are they lived 'without utility or profit', so that we gain nothing from them? Are they lived 'without excess or profusion', so that our lifetime never yields any interest on our investment? (Or, of course, all of the above; our lives are restless and dissatisfied in so many ways.) Moreover, the little word 'tomorrow' creates wonderful implications of its own. Even Hazrat Khizr, who will live till Judgment Day, has a lifespan so short that it is merely 'tomorrow' that he will look back on it with regret. The 'omniscient narrator' of the verse provides us with that perspective, and also with (apparently) reliable information about what he 'will say' when tomorrow comes. In addition, the sound effects of kyaa kiyaa kiye are truly a delight. For grammar fans: the kiye should be interpreted as an adverbial past participle with the hu))e colloquially omitted: ham kyaa kiyaa kiye hu))e hai;N , 'we are in the state of having done what deed?'

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{151,5} maqduur ho to ;xaak se puuchhuu;N kih ay la))iim tuu ne vuh ganj'haa-e giraa;Nmaayah kyaa kiye 1) if there would be the power/ability, then I would ask the dust: oh wretch/miser! 2) what did you do to/with those precious treasures/hoards?

Notes: la((iim : 'A vile or worthless fellow; a sordid man, a miser'. (Platts p.976) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The reference of the vuh has been left unstated, and this is a fault of interpretation. The meaning is, those people who are buried. (122)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if that power would be obtained, then I would certainly inquire from the dust, 'oh wretch/miser, what did you do with those valuable treasuries?' That is, great people came into your embrace, and you mingled them with the dust, in such a way that not even a trace of any of them remains. (217)

Bekhud Mohani: A miser [la((iim] would neither take any advantage of his riches himself, nor would he permit anyone else to do so. He has called the earth a 'miser' because when very very great and very very beautiful ones mingled with the dust, there was no advantage to the earth. If they had remained in the world, then the world would have received benefit from them. From saying 'precious treasures' we learn that it's as if having mentioned those people, why would we begin to mention anyone else besides them? And the addressee too understands.... [As for Nazm's criticism,] inference can testify to the poet's intention. Here, keeping the hint obscure is eloquence [balaa;Gat] itself, from which emerges the meaning that has been written above. (292)

FWP: The best possible use has here been made of the double sense of la((iim . If it is taken as a general term of contempt and opprobrium, then the question sounds like that of someone interrogating a suspected thief: okay, you scum, where did you stash the loot? And if it is taken in its specific sense as 'miser', then the reproach is more melancholy: why have you hidden away all those precious treasures, so that not only are we deprived of them, but you don't get any benefit out of them either? The double subjunctive maqduur ho to puuchhu;N suggests great tentativeness. Since in this world there seems no need for such tentativeness- we know all too well that we have no such ability, and the earth won't listen to a word we say-- the utterance may very well be planned for a time after death. Perhaps when I get into the dust myself, down and dirty with the earth, it will listen to me! And how can this verse fail to evoke the unforgettable {111,1}?

{151,6} kis roz tuhmate;N nah taraashaa kiye ((aduu kis din hamaare sar pah nah aare chalaa kiye 1) on which day did enemies not cut/carve out aspersions/slanders? 2) on which day did not 'saws move on my head'?

Notes: taraashnaa : 'To cut out, carve, shape, form, fashion'. (Platts p.315)

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aaraa sir par chal jaanaa : 'To be tortured, tormented, put to excruciating pain'. (Platts p.37) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: For tuhmat , honaa , karnaa , duharnaa , baa;Ndhnaa , lagaanaa -- all these are in idiomatic speech. But the author has composed tuhmat taraashnaa only for the wordplay with 'saw'. (162)

Bekhud Mohani: [As for Nazm's criticism,] it's possible that the author composed it only for the wordplay with 'saw'. But in those two fragmentary words the glory of the idiom is found. Here, praise for inventiveness is obligatory for every connoisseur. If only Janab the Commentator had considered how idioms come into being! (292)

Faruqi: It's surprising that Allamah [Nazm] Tabataba'i has sworn that tuhmat taraashnaa is not in the idiom, when here tuhmat taraashnaa has been used in its original meaning, and has been used very well for wordplay with 'saw'. In the second line there are two meanings. One is that the enemies made false accusations against us, and that 'carving out' of accusations caused us so much pain that it was as if saws were moving on our head. The second meaning is that the enemies' 'carving out' of accusations kept making the beloved disaffected toward us, and the beloved kept giving us punishment.... The metaphor of 'saws moving on the head' reminds us of the martyrdom of Hazrat Zakariya, and thus establishes an implication of the speaker's innocence and loftiness of rank. (275-76)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH An idiom about saws grating on one's head, with a bit of wordplay about carving or cutting-- that's plenty to occupy an ordinary poet's two-line verse, but this is Ghalib! No doubt we can consider it a mushairah verse; but how much does that help? It still seems to be pretty minor and unmemorable. In defense of the verse, perhaps we should assume that the idiom sar par aaraa chalnaa would have been both well-known (since it figures in Platts) and powerfully evocative to Ghalib and his audience. It might have resonated with them in ways that we can't now recapture. As part of the possible resonance of this idiom, consider the martyrdom of Hazrat Zakariya, adduced by Faruqi. It is not narrated in the Qur'an, but becomes well-known in later story literature. Here is one account, for which I'm indebted to Janab Zia Inayat-Khan (Dec. 2004): The [Urdu] compendium qi.sa.s al-anbiyaa (Kanpur, 1911) relates that when Hazrat Zakariya became the target of a crew of murderous apostates, a tree bid him to secrete himself in its hollow, and he gladly accepted the invitation. At first his pursuers were confounded, but then Satan intervened and betrayed his location, prompting the villains to produce a saw [aaraa] and begin cutting. When the saw neared his head, Hazrat Zakariya let out an 'oof'. Suddenly Hazrat Jabra'il descended with a message from God: 'if you seek salvation in God rather than in a tree, refrain from 'oof'-ing'. Hazrat Zakariya submitted, and stifled his 'oof' as the saw blade dug in. There are also apparently traditional references to the blame [tuhmat] attached to Hazrat Zakariya for the pregnancy of Maryam; people didn't know that this had actually been caused by divine intervention. I thank Janab Syed-Mohsin Naquvi (Dec. 2004) for pointing this out. One other thing does occur to me: if we read the two lines together, and take taraashnaa very literally, perhaps in some sense the enemies were carving their aspersions literally right out of the speaker's skull? Perhaps the aspersions (or self-reproaches, or humilities) were actually 'in' the speaker's

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skull or brain? No doubt this is too fancifully literal a reading, but maybe some readers will enjoy it as I do.

{151,7} .su;hbat me;N ;Gair kii nah pa;Rii ho kahii;N yih ;xuu dene lagaa hai bosah ba;Gair iltijaa kiye 1) may this habit not have been acquired in the company of the Other! 2) she's begun to give a kiss without [my] having pleaded/begged

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In 'union', seeing the beloved's affection, the suspicion has arisen that her habit has been spoiled by the Rival. And with this thought, all the happiness of union has turned into dust. In this verse the author has shown the state of the lover who sees the carelessness that has come into the beloved's manner, and for this reason he always remains grief-stricken and has become habituated to grief. Even the affection of the beloved gives him no happiness, and in it too he searches out some aspect of grief. (162)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I've developed the suspicion, 'may this habit not have been acquired in the company of the Other-- she gives kisses without [my] pleading!' And this suspicion has turned the happiness of 'union' into grief. (218)

Bekhud Mohani: Since the beloved is gracious and now the lover is not forced to beg for a kiss, now the suspicion overpowers him: may this habit not have been acquired in the society of the shameless Rival! From this suspicion, all the happiness of 'union' has turned into dust. (292)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 As Nazm points out, there's an enjoyable catch-22 situation here. If the beloved doesn't kiss the lover, he feels the deprivation-- and thus is unhappy. If the beloved does kiss the lover, he imagines that she's learned the trick from the Other-- and thus is unhappy. As usual, the lover has contrived for himself (or has had contrived for him by others?) a no-win situation. It's rare that the beloved volunteers to kiss the lover, but not unheard-of. For more on such erotic suggestion, see {99,4}. A note for grammar fans: the second line requires some fancy footwork, doesn't it? Normally we would expect the kiye have the same subject as the main verb; but here, we have to read it as ba;Gair mere iltijaa kiye for it to make any sense at all.

{151,8} .zid kii hai aur baat magar ;xuu burii nahii;N bhuule se us ne sai;Nk;Ro;N va((de vafaa kiye 1) the matter of contrariness/stubbornness is another thing-- but her disposition is not bad 2) out of forgetfulness, she fulfilled hundreds of vows

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is clear, but until the occasion of this speech is known, it cannot give enjoyment. Some sympathizer has tried to persuade him that he should not love her, she's a vow-breaker, she's faithless. And he looks with the eye of love, which prevents him from seeing any flaw, and he is taking her part. (162)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the matter of contrariness is another thing-- that at some time, on some point, she might be especially contrary toward us. Otherwise, her disposition is not bad-- she has often, out of forgetfulness, fulfilled vows. The meaning is that even her forgetfulness sometimes gives pleasure. (218)

Bekhud Mohani: On someone's persuasion, or in his own heart, he says, when she's in a fit of contrariness, then she doesn't listen to a word I say. If the situation is looked at with that left aside, then she has fulfilled hundreds of vows. Another aspect can be that when she forgot her refusal, then she never made excuses about fulfilling her vow. (292)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR The charm of this verse is its colloquial tone; as the commentators note, it seems to be part of a dialogue. Someone has criticized the beloved, probably for contrariness and faithlessness. The lover eagerly rushes into the breach, ready to defend her reputation to the utmost degree possible. He does so by a pretended show of judiciousness: 'Well, contrariness is another matter-- but really, she doesn't have a bad disposition.' He thus concedes a small, charming whimsicalness or naughtiness on her part: no doubt she can be said to be contrary at times, and that's when a casual observer might think her faithless. But after all, a bit of contrariness and perversity from the beloved is almost a compliment, it is the lover's due. Thus the lover firmly rejects the grave charge of faithlessness: she is really good at heart, he insists, or at least 'not bad'. In classic mushairah style, we have to wait for the second line, to hear what evidence he will produce to justify her behavior. And the evidence? Out of forgetfulness or absent-mindedness, he claims, she has fulfilled 'hundreds' of vows. What a defense! Surely the original audience must have laughed out loud. If that's the best defense her devoted lover can muster, what must her enemies be saying? The colloquial tone, the sense of apology and excuse, all mustered into the most favorable shape for the defense-- we've all had arguments like that, about the flaws and virtues of friends and lovers. But most of us aren't stuck with such unpromising material! The poor lover, deluded but loyal, is doing his best; we, the audience, feel sorry for him, but also can't help laughing. One other implication of his defense: if she forgetfully fulfills 'hundreds' of vows, that means she must have originally made-- casually, indifferently-thousands of them. Many others she would have forgetfully not fulfilled, and still more she would have deliberately not fulfilled. Weren't there perhaps a few that she deliberately fulfilled? Alas, the lover can't seem to dredge up a single example, even when one would greatly bolster his case. We're not surprised of course; we already know her as well as he does-- or even better.

{151,9} ;Gaalib tumhii;N kaho kih milegaa javaab kyaa maanaa kih tum kahaa kiye aur vuh sunaa kiye 1a) Ghalib, you yourself say-- what answer will you get? 1b) Ghalib, you yourself say-- will you get an answer? 2) granted/assuming that you would [repeatedly] speak and she would [repeatedly] listen

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the second line there is sarcasm-- that is, all right, granted that you spoke and she listened, but think about this: what answer will you get? The

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persuader is convinced that Ghalib has gone mad, that he's gone there to express his passion; in that place even access is impossible, much less that anyone would listen to his whole utterance. For this reason, he has said 'granted'. (163)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, you yourself think, and answer this question: what answer will you get from there? You've assumed that you would keep expressing your desire to her, and she too would keep listening, but what prospect will there be of your desire's being fulfilled? How will you be able to reach there, and then how will the imposingness of beauty give permission for the expression of longing? Where are you, and where is she? Just think it over for yourself. (218)

Bekhud Mohani: The persuader says, first of all, she won't listen to your words; and even if she would listen, then you yourself think, what answer will she give? That is, her temperament, her pomp, her rank, make it impossible that she would agree to your words; so what is the behefit of this foolishness? (293)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; KYA This is another one of those remarkable and delightful verses that does so much with such (seemingly) simple means. In the first line, Ghalib is asked to answer a question about his chances of getting a question answered. As if that weren't complexity enough, the relationship between the first and second lines is also left up to us to decide. There are two possible logical relationships, and two senses of kyaa , yielding at least these four choices: =Assuming that you talk and she listens (which is not guaranteed), will you even get an answer? (You won't!) =Assuming that you talk and she listens (which is not guaranteed), what kind of answer will you get? (A rejection, for sure!) =Will you get an answer at all?-- though I grant that you'll talk in any case, and (for whatever reasons) she'll listen. =What kind of answer will you get?-- though I grant that you'll talk in any case, and (for whatever reasons) she'll listen. The usefulness of maanaa is that it can be applied variously, to mean either 'I now assume for the purposes of argument (though not necessarily in the real world) that X might happen', or 'I grant you that X will no doubt happen'. For another clever exploitation of the possibilities of maanaa , see {152,6}. For an even more extravagant exercise along the same general 'dialogue' lines, see {46,7}.

Ghazal 152 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aab hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 122; Arshi #140; Raza pp. 241-42

{152,1} raftaar-e ((umr qa:t((-e rah-e i.z:tiraab hai is saal ke ;hisaab ko barq aaftaab hai 1) the movement/pace/speed of life is a section/traversing of the road of agitation/anxiety/haste 2) for measurement/judgment of this year, lightning is the sun

Notes: qa:t(( : 'Cutting; a cutting, section; intersection; a segment; a portion, division; a breaking off; intercepting; traversing or passing over (a road, &c.)'. (Platts p.793)

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i.z:tiraab : 'Agitation, perturbation, restlessness, distraction, anxiety, anguish, trouble, chagrin; precipitation [=haste]; flurry'. (Platts p.59) saal : 'A thorn; --pain, affliction, trouble'. (Platts p.626) ;hisaab : 'Measure, measurement; proportion; rule, standard; --estimation, judgment, opinion; condition, category'. (Platts p.477) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the way they measure a year through the movement of the sun, they ought to measure the passage of a lifetime through lightning instead of the sun; and the meaning of saal is also 'lifetime' [((umr]. The meaning of 'road of restlessness' is that road which would be traversed in a state of restlessness. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: In saal is an iihaam -- its meaning is also 'lifetime'. The Indian [hindii] and Christian year is also measured by the sun. The road of a lifetime is traversed with restlessness and speed. The lifetime is a 'year' that we ought to measure it not with the sun, but with lightning. That is, the lifetime passes as quickly as lightning. (293)

Faruqi: A number of people have written that the meaning of 'year' [saal] is 'lifetime' [((umr]. But 'year' as 'lifetime' is neither in Urdu nor in Persian.... Now the interpretation of the second line is that the standard used to measure the length of a lifetime is one year, and a year is equal to the time in which [in classical cosmology] the sun completes one revolution. But this 'year'-- that is, the year by which we measure the length of a lifetime-- is so swiftmoving that its interval is equal not to one revolution of the sun, but rather to a flash of lightning.... Between i.ztiraab as 'movement, motion' and raftaar there is a 'wordplay of meaning' [ri((ayat-e laf:zii]. Then, between i.ztiraab as 'restlessness' and saal as 'pricking pain', there is the pleasure of .zil((a . He's composed a verse that's out of the ordinary. (278)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT; WORDPLAY LIGHTNING: {10,6} Everybody agrees that the verse laments the shortness of life: a year is measured in relation to the (apparent) movement of the sun, but a lifetime is measured by a lightning-flash. (Compare the even greater complexity of the lightning-flash in {81,1}.) But the multivalence of i.z:tiraab gives us another option as well. When one is restless or anxious for something to happen, time seems to pass with infuriating slowness; this is all the more true if one is feeling the (literal) 'prick of a thorn', pain or affliction [saal]. (In fact 'the prick of a thorn' is itself a wonderful evocation of restlessness and anxiety.) So in the extremity of such a mood, a single lightning-flash might seem to last as long as the sun; it might seem that the intolerable agitation and anxiety of life is destined to go on forever. What with its multivalent abstract words and its multiple i.zaafat constructions, the first line itself is an astonishingly versatile creation. Since qa:t(( can mean either 'a section or division' or 'traversing', the choice of interpretation for it can bring out quite different possibilities for raftaar and i.z:tiraab . The verse also seems to have more flowingness than many. Perhaps it's the many aa sounds that it contains, and its fine rhythm.

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{152,2} miinaa-e mai hai sarv nishaa:t-e bahaar se baal-e tadarv jalvah-e mauj-e sharaab hai 1a) the flask of wine is a cypress, through the delight of spring 1b) the cypress is a flask of wine, through the delight of spring 2a) the {raincloud / pheasant's wing} is the glory/appearance of a wave of wine 2b) the glory/appearance of the wave of wine is the {raincloud / pheasant's wing}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the delight of the spring, on the basis of the green color he is showing the flask of wine to have the style of the cypress, and he shows the wave of the ebullience of the wine to have the sheen of the wing of the pheasant. The result is that in the wine party is the pleasure of the spectacle of the garden. But the habit of poets is to mention along with the cypress the turtledove [qumrii]; the author has versified the pheasant, and omitted the turtledove. Only Persianness [faarsiyat] has taken the author in this direction, for in Persian terminology they speak of the cloud as a pheasant's wing. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the springtime of the intoxicated ones is of an extraordinary kind-- in it the wine-flask shows the glory/appearance of the cypress, and the wave of wine, of the wing of the pheasant. That is, from drinking wine, the rakish ones obtain the pleasure of a stroll in the garden. (293)

Faruqi: They call baal-e tadarv , a white cloud that appears in a black sky and pours down rain [in Persian].... Now let's consider these verbal elegances: sarv and tadarv share a rhyme; this is a form of verbal device. baal and miinaa offer the pleasure of a .zil((a (in a miinaa a baal --a 'crack'-- appears). A cloud often seems to come rolling along in the form of a 'wave'; in this regard there is an affinity between baal-e tadarv and mauj . In Mughal painting, when they make a cypress their intention is a flask. Thus 'cypress' and 'flask' have several kinds of affinity: color, because the flask is often green; shape, because both have similar forms; and symbolism, because the cypress is a symbol of the flask. The original meaning of jalvah is 'to be manifest' and 'to present oneself before someone'.... In this regard, there is an affinity between jalvah and mauj , because a wave arises and becomes manifest. There is also an affinity between jalvah and mauj-e sharaab , because (according to the author of [the Persian dictionary] bahaar-e ((ajam ) one quality of jalvah is also to be 'intoxicated'. (280-81)

FWP: SETS == A,B WINE: {49,1} In some manuscripts and editions, the last word of the first line appears as mai instead of se . As always, I follow Arshi; and in this case it's clear that his reading also makes for a better meaning. This verse is a classic example of what I call 'A,B' structure: it offers 'A is B' statements in such a way that, given the flexibility of Urdu grammar, 'B is A' is another quite legitimate reading. This verse is amost the ideal example in fact, because each line does this trick, and the two lines do it in reverse order. If we set out to read 'A is B', then in the first line we get 'wineflask is cypress' (1a); and in the second line, we get 'raincloud is glory of wine-wave'

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(2b). In other words, if we want to create the obvious directional parallelisms between the lines (moving, to start with, from the wine-drinking toward the garden), we must read one line as 'A is B' and the other as 'B is A'. This is what the commentators generally do. Then, since both lines can go both ways, we also can pair the other readings, (1b) and (2a), and we get the reversal: something about the garden is equated with something about wine-drinking. Faruqi discusses this possibility at length in a part of his commentary (279) that I haven't translated. On this reading, the verse praises not the verdant glories of wine-drinking, but the intoxicating glories of spring. And reversing the expected order of comparison also cleverly evokes the confusing synesthesia of intoxication. This verse can't help but recall {49}, since the whole ghazal has 'wave of wine' as a refrain.

{152,3} za;xmii hu))aa hai paashnah paa-e ;sabaat kaa ne bhaagne kii guu;N nah iqaamat kii taab hai 1) it's become wounded, the heel of the 'foot of stability' 2) there is neither the chance to flee, nor the strength/endurance to stand

Notes: The spelling ne is used for nah to make the syllable flexible so it can be scanned long, since nah in its normal spelling is always short. ;sabaat : 'Permance, stability, endurance; constancy, firmness, steadiness, steadfastness; fixedness; resolution, determination'. (Platts p.368) guu;N : 'Opportunity, advantage, occasion'. (Platts p.926) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, while on the road, it came about that he injured his heel. The word guu;N in this verse is showing its freshness. (163)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the heel of the 'foot of stability' having been wounded, the difficulty has developed that now neither can I flee from the field of passion, nor can I stand. (219)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, his life has fallen into a great disaster. The difficulties of passion are so harsh that it is hard to bear them, and the captivity is so harsh that it's difficult to flee with one's life: {205,7}. It is a picture of different moods. That is, the captivatingness of passion and the pain of love. (293)

Arshi: Compare {205,7}. (261)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR The commentators capture the meaning all right, but they don't even try to describe the enjoyableness of this amusing little verse. In the Indo-Persian literary culture, feet are tremendously abstract entities (as are heads and hands, for that matter), and are apt to give rise to fancy i.zaafat phrases. Here are just a couple of examples that happen to be at hand (so to speak). Abu'l Fazl says of the downfall of Baz Bahadur of Malwa, 'his foot was slippery from the wine of insouciance and could not convey him swiftly on the highway of obedience and service'; Aurangzeb speaks in a letter of 'placing the foot of fortune in the stirrup of victory'. I don't have any examples of the 'foot of stability' at the moment, but I'm sure there are some. The point is that when you see a phrase like 'foot of stability' you expect it to be an ornate, rhetorical sort of foot, possibly even part of a phrase of formal

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rhymed prose. You certainly don't expect it to be a real physical foot, with a sore heel! So the peculiar, slightly plaintive tone of the first line is enjoyable in itself. And, of course, it leaves us totally at a loss to guess where this might be going. In the second line, we discover how cleverly Ghalib has meshed all the gears. If a real, physical heel is badly wounded, naturally its owner can't run, and very possibly he can't even stand up, or 'make a stand' in any sense-- he's literally 'hamstrung'. While if the metaphorical 'foot of stability' is wounded in its metaphorical heel, what will be affected is its metaphorical resolve, its firmness on the ground. The owner of this metaphorical foot will lose his 'steadfastness', his courage and determination. He might wish to run away-but he wouldn't have the resolve and energy to actually do it. He might halfheartedly try to remain at his post-- but he wouldn't have the will to 'stand fast'. So he'd be metaphorically or morally hamstrung, and quite as useless as his real-world counterpart with the sore heel. Who else but Ghalib can amuse us in two ways at once, by offering two such visions of haplessness and incompetence? Two visions-- and our minds keep going back and forth between them, and vehicles and tenors and other metaphorical apparatus crowd both lanes of the road.

{152,4} jaadaad-e baadah-noshii-e rindaa;N hai shash jihat ;Gaafil gumaa;N kare hai kih getii ;xaraab hai 1a) the estate/landholding of the wine-drinking of the rakish ones is [in] the six directions 1b) the six directions are the estate/landholding of the wine-drinking of the rakish ones 2) the heedless one suspects/thinks that the world is wretched/ruined

Notes: jaa))edaad : 'Place, station; appointment, employment, service; consignment; an assignment on land (for the maintenance of troops, or of an establishment, or of a person); estate, property, effects, assets, funds, resources'. (Platts p.375) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: jaadaad is short for jaa))edaad , that is, estate [jaagiir]. By wine is meant mystic knowledge, and by the rakish ones, the knowers of mystic knowledge. And by the world being wretched and desolate is meant that there is no prudence or judgment in the arrogance of the person who is heedless of the glory/appearance of Reality. (163)

Bekhud Mohani: Those people who don't have an eye for Truth, those people who aren't lost in the intoxication of mystic knowledge, consider that the world is desolate-what is there in it, after all? The truth is that in the eyes of the rakish ones-that is, the drinkers of the wine of mystic knowledge-- every grain of the world is a wine-house. That is, whatever they look at, they see the divine Glory/Appearance, and they remain intoxicated. (294)

Faruqi: Many commentators have declared 'the six directions' to mean 'the world'. There's nothing wrong with this, but if it is taken in its dictionary meaning, then too there is a great deal of affinity. That is, in whichever of the six directions you might direct your gaze, the estate [jaagiir] of the rakish ones can be seen. Accordingly, if we take 'the six directions' metaphorically, then it is pictorial; and if we suppose an image, then it is mystical. In the light of the pictorial interpretation, the world is nothing-- it's only an estate for winedrinking. That is, the very purpose of the creation of the world was that it

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should serve as a wine-drinking place for rakish ones. In the light of the mystical interpretation, the wine-drinkers consider the whole of creation to be their estate, or creation has been given to them by way of an estate.... Thus the heirs of the world are those who are wine-drinkers. In the eyes of those who don't drink wine, the world is desolate. Wine-drinking and rakishness can also be considered a metaphor for the wine of mystic knowledge, but then the mischievousness in the theme becomes somewhat less. In the verse, wordplays are numerous. 'Six directions' and 'estate'; 'heedless one' and ;xaraab (meaning wrecked by drunkenness) and 'wine-drinking' and 'rakish ones'. Between 'heedless one' and gumaa;N is a connection of .zil((a , since because of heedlessness there's no knowledge of the truth.... Between 'six directions' and 'world' the wordplay is obvious. (282-83)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; IZAFAT WINE: {49,1} The 'six directions' are the usual four, plus 'up' and 'down'. In the first line the commentators go for 'A = B' (the estate is [in] the six directions) (1a), but 'B = A' is equally possible (the [set of] six directions is the estate) (1b). This latter reading makes for an even more 'mischievous' meaning, because then the wine-drinkers don't even have to be given or granted any actual land at all: their estate might be simply 'the six directions' themselves. What does it mean to have 'the six directions' as an estate? Maybe it's totally worthless (the rakish wine-drinkers know they have no worldly property, but in their intoxication they laugh about it and don't give a damn). Or maybe it's the best thing of all, and they are lords of creation (everything in the universe, after all, is somewhere within the domain of the six directions). Either way, how piquantly it works with the second line. If the wine-drinkers have nothing, then their carefree intoxication becomes a form of faaqahmastii (on this see {90,3}) that does them credit; while the narrow, 'heedless' materialist is the one who's never satisfied with the world, no matter how much of it he owns. And if the wine-drinkers have everything, then obviously God approves of them, and gives them the glories of the universe, while the 'heedless one' receives nothing and is doomed to find the world a wretched place. In addition, the wonderful i.zaafat of jaadaad-e baadah-noshii opens up further possibilities. The phrase can mean or 'the estate that is used for winedrinking'; or 'the estate that pertains to wine-drinking' (in some unspecified way); or, most powerfully 'the estate that is wine-drinking'. Long before we've rung the changes on all these possibilities, we realize that this verse is never going to be pinned down. It's a rare thing to be able to add something to Faruqi's inventory of wordplays, but in a verse like this, which is about wine-drinking places and wretched or ruined places, ;xaraab can hardly avoid dragging in its wake ;xaraabaat , which means literally 'a ruin' or 'a desolate place', and by extension also 'a tavern' (Platts p.488). For an example in which ;xaraabaat is used to mean 'wine-house', see {131,1}. For other such evocations of the 'six directions', see {41,4}.

{152,5} na:z:zaarah kyaa ;hariif ho us barq-e ;husn kaa josh-e bahaar jalve ko jis ke naqaab hai 1a) as if sight would {withstand / be equal to} that lightning of beauty! 1b) would sight {withstand / be equal to} that lightning of beauty? 2) for whose glory/appearance the turmoil of spring is a veil

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, that True Beloved for whom the manifestation of the physical world is a cloak-- how can sight behold Him? When the gaze falls, it will fall only on a veil; that is, the moment it looks, it will see only bodies. The turmoil of spring is a metaphor for the manifestation of the world, and he has called it a veil because just as a veil covers a face, in the same way the spectacle of the physical world, according to the Sufis, prevents the gaze from reaching to the world of the divine. (163-64)

Bekhud Mohani: To see that lightning of beauty is impossible, the glory/appearance of which itself has become a veil for its face. That is, a person remains caught up in its airs and graces, and can't see it completely. (294)

Arshi: Compare {53,2}, {158,7}, {214,7}. (196, 262, 277, 307)

Faruqi: Little attention has been paid to 'the lightning of beauty'. Between barq and jalvah there's of course wordplay, but if he hadn't said barq-e ;husn then spring's being a veil would not have been proved. Because when the gaze is lifted, it will fall on the spring itself. How can it be known that even behind the spring there's someone for whom the spring is acting as a veil? Thus by saying 'lightning of beauty' he has indicated that its splendor keeps glittering and flickering like lightning, so that it can be seen even behind the curtain of spring. That lightning is so delicate that the spring, which itself is delicate, acts as a veil for it. And its glory/appearance is so extensive and powerful that not merely the spring, but rather the 'turmoil of spring', is a veil for it. And that glory/appearance is so radiant that it flashes out even behind a veil. Thus the word 'lightning' is not merely conventional, but rather a multilayered metaphor. (284)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} Does the spring veil the appearance, or make the appearance possible? On the former reading, the veil is there to thwart our curiosity and prevent us from seeing what is behind it; in this case the veil is a vexation and we try furiously to see what is behind it. But it's also possible that the veil is there for our protection, and that without it we'd be instantly blinded and dazzled, our senses shriveled to ashes. (Here we of course think of Hazrat Musa on Mount Tur.) Thus on this reading, only the veil makes it possible for the veiled one to appear before us at all. (And of course, the two readings are not mutually exclusive.) The 'turmoil of spring' is itself an amazing intoxicant (see for example {152,2}), capable of driving people half-mad with delight and desire. One could wish sometimes to interpose a veil between oneself and that rush of intense emotion, when 'spring is springing'. And the Reality for whom the full flowering, the commotion in the blood, the whole rush of spring is only a 'veil', an interposition, a protection-- well, we've been given some kind of notion how powerful that Reality must be. Which is in fact the thought that the verse seems to express. The first line of the verse, after all, either rejects out of hand (1a), or seriously questions (1b), the ability of sight to see such a 'lightning of beauty' at all.

{152,6} mai;N naamuraad dil kii tasallii ko kyaa karuu;N maanaa kih terii ru;x se nigah kaamyaab hai

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1a) what would I do for the comfort of the disappointed heart? 1b) what would I, disappointed, do for the comfort of the heart? 2) granted/assuming that the vision is successful with [reaching] your face

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: ko is not to mark an object, but rather for a meaning of this kind: that would plan would I adopt for the comfort of the disappointed heart-- without pressing you to its bosom, there is no comfort for it. Although it's true that the eye has obtained comfort through seeing; but the heart has not. (164)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how would I comfort my disappointed heart? I've granted/assumed that only the eye will receive comfort from seeing you. But the heart will have comfort only when there will be physical union with you as well. (219)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse is a picture of that restlessness, and that crowd of longings, that always appear upon seeing the beloved. He has given a reflection of it in one other place also: {125,8}. (294)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani chooses an excellent verse for comparison: in it a contrast is drawn between the satisfied mind and the unsatisfied eyes. In the present verse, things are a little better, and the eyes are satisfied although the heart is not. At, so the commentators generally assume. But the convenient ambiguities of maanaa remain. Consider {151,9}, in which maanaa appears in exactly the same position, and offers us two possibilities: one of hypothetical 'assuming' (which is clearly undertaken only for the purposes of argument and is not extended to the real world); and the other of genuine 'granting' (which is used for things conceded to be true about the real world). The commentators assume the latter sense: they take it for granted (so to speak) that the eyes will, or do, in fact have the 'success' of seeing the beloved. But the former sense is also possible: on this reading, the poor lover is counting his chickens before they're hatched. His eyes haven't yet even succeeded in seeing their fill of the beloved, and he's already worried about his heart's feeling envious and disappointed when they do! He tosses in that little concession in the second line so offhandedly,so dismissively, that perhaps his listener won't even notice it. The lover, in the ghazal world, is always trying to make the best of an intolerable situation, but he rarely has much to work with. To be naamuraad is, after all, his normal state.

{152,7} guzraa asad musarrat-e pai;Gaam-e yaar se qaa.sid pah mujh ko rashk-e savaal-o-javaab hai 1) Asad, I passed through/beyond/over the joy of a message from/to the beloved 2) I feel envy/jealousy of the Messenger over the question-and-answer

Notes: guzarnaa is a variant spelling of gu;zarnaa . gu;zarnaa : 'To pass, go, elapse; to come to pass, to happen, to befall; to pass (by or over, par ); to pass (through, par se , or se ); to pass (before, or under, or in review, se ), to be put or laid (before, se ), be presented; to pass (over, se ), to overlook, to omit; to abstain (from), desist (from); to decline; --to pass (beyond), to surpass; to pass away, to die'. (Platts p.901) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, oh Asad, I dispense with the happiness of the beloved's message; I feel envy/jealousy that the Messenger will go and speak with her. (164)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, what would I want with the joy and happiness of a message from the beloved? This envy/jealousy slays me, that if I send a Messenger, then the Messenger will go and speak to her, he'll converse with her, and I can't by any means approve of this. (219-20)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, that happiness just isn't in my destiny! Now the Messenger has come, bearing a letter. And this envy/jealousy slays me, that he must have conversed with the beloved. (295)

FWP: The different possibilities of gu;zarnaa (see definition above) yield several possible readings: =I've now given up sending messages to the beloved, because of my increasing jealousy of the Messenger =I send messages to the beloved, but they give me no pleasure because of my jealousy of the Messenger =I get no pleasure when the beloved sends me a message, because of my jealousy of the Messenger For similarly complex uses of gu;zarnaa , see {196,5} and {208,8}. Are the messages written, as the commentators assume, or might they be oral? If they're written, then the contrast is between the dry, second-hand limitations of words on a page, and the lively immediacy of conversation-even if the latter is only in the form of businesslike arrangements about the sending and receiving of letters. If the messages are oral, which seems equally possible from the wording of the verse, then the piquant contrast is between the one-way message, 'X says Y', and the liveliness of dialogue, or in fact literally of 'question and answer'. Or is it that her messages to the lover are so brief, or so hostile, that even a businesslike 'question and answer' exchange such as the Messenger has would be more desirable? Or is it that his passion has reached such a state of wild excess that he's begun to be (self-defeatingly) jealous of every form of access to her by everybody? (Along these lines, see {99,2}, or the even more extreme case of {153,1}.) Or does he feel convinced that that particular Messenger has actually fallen in love with her himself? Obviously, we can't tell; we're trapped in a maze of variant readings. Plainly, Ghalib has so arranged the verse that nothing is plain.

Ghazal 153 10 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa jaa))e hai composed after 1821; Hamid p. 123; Arshi #184; Raza pp. 255-56 {153,1} dekhnaa qismat kih aap apne pah rashk aa jaa))e hai mai;N use dekhuu;N bhalaa kab mujh se dekhaa jaa))e hai 1) look at fate/destiny-- that I myself am jealous of myself! 2) that I would look at her? what the hell, how can I {endure / 'look upon'} that!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Compare {60,1}. (56)

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The limit of jealousy is to keep even oneself deprived, just as the limit of miserliness is that the miser keeps even himself deprived. The author's supposition is accurate, because jealousy too is a form of miserliness. (164)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, look at my ill-fortune, that I am jealous of myself. The limit of love is that in love suspicion would arise, and the limit of suspicion is that a man would be jealous of the prospect of success even for himself. In a state of jealousy, how can he stand to behold this? The meaning is that the limit of love keeps love itself deprived of success. (220)

Bekhud Mohani: The limit of jealousy can be recognized in that it doesn't enjoy even its own success. The way the limit of miserliness is that the miser himself doesn't make use of his own wealth-- not to speak of others' doing so. Alas for my ill-fortune, that when the beloved came near me, and the time came that there might be fulfillment of a lifetime's longing, jealousy became a mortal disaster. My heart can't endure that even I myself would see her. (295)

Arshi: Compare {205,6}. (286, 294)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; EXCLAMATION; WORDPLAY There's a sort of paradox at the heart of the verse, or rather what I call a 'catch-22': the lover desperately longs for something, but he also can't bear the idea of getting it. It's a very Ghalibian notion: the verses suggested by Nazm and Arshi are indeed close parallels. What none of the commentators even deign to mention is the extremely conspicuous wordplay involving dekhnaa . The verb is used in three different senses within the two lines: as a neutral-imperative injunction to some listener to pay attention ('just look at the workings of fate!'); as a proposed action ('that I would see her'); and, idiomatically, to express unendurableness ('how can I stand to see that', 'how can I look upon that'). (In Urdu, it's impossible to convey the difference that English encodes in 'to look' versus 'to see'.) The grammatical form is a passive present habitual-literally, 'when is that seen by me?'-- that idiomatically acts as a strong and absolute form of rejection. For more on the idiomatic subtleties of bhalaa , see {21,11}. Even more strikingly, Ghalib has included these three permutations of one verb in a completely unforced-feeling way. The tone of the verse is in fact that of a lively, colloquial exclamation; the structure is so fluent as to be almost transparent, and the energetic emotion is what comes through. We notice at once that lover is exasperated, frustrated; we only later realize that he's using three dekhnaa forms to express it. He seems to ascribe the whole conundrum to 'fate, destiny, fortune' [qismat]. The commentators tend to interpret this as 'ill-fortune', but that's to narrow it down unduly. He really seems to be wryly marveling at his own destiny, and his own self-defeating role in it. Yes, he's doing it all to himself-- but does he really have any control over it, or over himself? In addition to the ideal {205,6} proposed by Arshi, another helpful verse for comparison is {198,1}.

{153,2} haath dho dil se yihii garmii gar andeshe me;N hai aabgiinah tundii-e .sahbaa se pighlaa jaa))e hai 1) 'wash your hands' of the heart, if this very heat is in thought/anxiety 2) the wine-flagon is melted by the activity/violence of the wine

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Notes: andeshah : 'Thought, consideration, meditation, reflection; solicitude, anxiety, concern...; doubt, misgiving, suspicion; apprehension, dread, fear'. (Platts p.91) tundii : 'Swiftness; briskness, activity; sharpness, severity, acrimony; impetuosity, violence, fierceness, fury'. (Platts p.339) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'the heat of thought' is meant that effect that changes the state of the heart; and he has given the simile of the 'activity/violence of wine' for it, and the simile of the 'wine-flagon' for the heart. (164)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in the fire of thought is just such heat, then one ought to despair of the heart. In the second line he expresses the same theme with a simile. The wine-flagon-- that is, the glass of the heart-- is melted by the swiftness/sharpness of the heart. (220)

Bekhud Mohani: If in mere thought is heat, then it's not well for the heart. The wine is so active/violent that it melts the wine-glass. That is, if my thought and concentration remain in this state, then my spirit will be dissolved. (295)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Just when the verse seems poised to invoke a straightforward parallel between the inner world and the outer world-- it doesn't. Wine is one of Ghalib's great images, and he refers to it constantly-- its color, its life-giving powers, its blood-like qualities,its bubbles, its intoxication. But here, he's given it a quality that, in the real world, it doesn't have. No matter how 'active' or 'violent' wine is, nobody has ever seen it melt the wine-flagon. So the wine and wine-flask in the second line become entirely metaphorical, entirely dependent for their behavior on the qualities suggested for the heart in the first line. This hyperbolic factoid about wine emphasizes the uniqueness and supreme power of the 'heat of thought', which in actual fact is so much more deadly, so much more of a container-melter, than real wine. This verse about the irresistible power of andeshah can't fail to evoke the supreme one of its kind: {5,4}. In English, we 'wash our hands of' something, an idiom that I couldn't help using in the translation above. And it is indeed close to kisii chiiz se haath dhonaa . But while both idioms have the sense of 'give up on', 'lose hope for', the English one also contains a note of both choice and strong disapproval: people declare that they 'wash their hands of' those whom they reject. In Urdu, the sense is simply one of resignation to impending loss. In this verse, dhonaa also has of course an affinity with the aab -- which can mean, among many other things, 'water'-- of aabgiinah . Note for grammar fans: are we to read pighlaa jaa))e hai (an archaic form of pighlaa jaataa hai ) as a passive made from an intransitive verb (very rare, but not unheard-of), or as an idiomatic use of the past participle with the hu))aa colloquially omitted, thus meaning something like 'goes on being in a state of having melted'? I'm not sure of the proper analysis here, but I'll look into it further. Another problematical case: {153,7}.

{153,3} ;Gair ko yaa rab vuh kyuu;Nkar man((-e gustaa;xii kare gar ;hayaa bhii us ko aatii hai to sharmaa jaa))e hai 1) oh Lord, how would she forbid the Other [to show] insolence? 2) if even/also shyness/modesty comes to her, then she's ashamed

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This is a verse of the affairs that usually take place between seeker and sought, and poetic refinement is found in the second line. It's clear that to be shy, and to be ashamed, in reality is one single thing; so what does it mean, that even if she feels shy, then she's ashamed? The idea is in that situation the cause of shyness is one thing, and the cause of shame is another. If she even feels shy-- that is, at the Other's insolence and inappropriate desire-then she is ashamed-- that is, of the Stranger or of repeating [her words to him]. (156)

Nazm: 'Shyness/modesty' [;hayaa] has been taken to be something animate, from the coming of which the beloved feels shame. That is, when from the Other's teasing/pestering shyness comes to her, then from that too she feels shyness. The meaning is she feels so much shame that she doesn't forbid the Rival to show insolence. (164)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is shy, and as yet the air of the world has not touched her. If at some time the Rival's insolence causes her shyness, she remains struck by embarrassment. And the lover, seeing this situation, is vexed, and also understands the beloved's inability to forbid him. [The commentator Shaukat says:] How would the shameless beloved forbid the Other's insolence (seeking to touch or pinch or squeeze her), when if shame even comes to her, she's embarrassed? That is, she would consider shyness worthy of shame. (295-96)

FWP: SETS == BHI Perhaps, as most of the commentators assert, the beloved is so shy that she's too embarrassed to rebuke the Other for his insolent behavior. There's a good basis for this reading in the verse, though none of them cite it: the verb aanaa . A shy, modest young woman would be duly embarrassed by anyone's approaching her; when 'even' shyness is the one who comes to her, the embarrassment is paralyzing. Thus the beloved is unable to confront and rebuke the bold Other. Or else, on Shaukat's reading, the beloved is so shameless she considers shyness itself a cause of embarrassment. If shyness 'too' comes to her, along with all her other feelings, she is ashamed of herself. So it goes without saying that she won't rebuke the shameless behavior of the Other. Either way, she's a vision of the same extravagant, hyperbolic behavior as that of the lover in {153,1}. He's the limit-case lover: he can't permit even himself to even look at her. And she's the limit-case beloved. Whether she's totally shame-filled or totally shameless, the result is the same: the Other can take liberties with her, while the lover himself can only stand by, gnashing his teeth, lamenting his lot, and plaintively trying to understand her.

{153,4} shauq ko yih lat kih har dam naalah khe;Nche jaa))iye dil kii vuh ;haalat kih dam lene se ghabraa jaa))e hai 1) ardor has such a trick/whim/vice, that at every breath/moment, one would utter a lament/groan 2) the heart is in such a state, that it is agitated/alarmed by taking a breath

Notes: lat : 'A trick; a bad habit, a vice; a whim, whimsey; blameworthiness, faultiness'. (Platts p.951)

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ghabraanaa : 'To be confused, confounded, flurried, or flustered...; to be perplexed, bewildered...; to be perturbed, disturbed in mind, agitated, disquieted, distracted; to be alarmed, scared, dismayed'. (Platts p.930) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Ardor has fallen into the habit of lamentation; and the heart is in such a delicate state that it doesn't want even to take a breath. By saying lat the intention is 'a bad habit, an undesirable form of behavior'. This word is not free of obscenity, and this is not the place for its use, but the author had in mind a 'rhyme' [saj((a] with ;haalat .

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, ardor has fallen into such a habit of lamentation that it never at all tires of sighs and complaints. And the situation of the heart has become so dire that it doesn't even wish to take a breath. The meaning of lat is a bad habit, as when they say, 'he has the lat of playing dice games'. (220)

Bekhud Mohani: The gist of it is, how would I fulfill the claims of ardor for lamentation, when because of the weakness of the heart, it's becoming difficult for me even to take a breath. (296)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM The two lines are really remarkably full of parallelisms. In both lines, the second word begins with k . The third word in the first line is 'this'; in the second line, 'that'. The fourth word in the first line is lat ; in the second, ;haalat , which ends in it. The fifth word in both lines is kih . The seventh word in the first line, and the sixth word in the second line, is dam . Finally, the first line ends in jaa))iye , the second line in the semi-echoing jaa))e hai . The wordplay of dam -- meaning both 'moment' and, literally, 'breath'-- is excellent. But as Nazm observes, it's the pair ;haalat and lat that really stand out, because lat is such a casual and even vulgar word. To come upon it in a ghazal is an enjoyable little shock that adds spice to the line. The two lines are not connected at all, but simply presented in their deadly parallelism. The poor lover is doomed to suffer, no matter what he does. His ardor (or even a personified Ardor) constantly goads him into groaning and lamenting; meantime, his heart shies away from even taking a breath. So how can he moan and groan, without taking a breath? The breathlessness and the lamentation are two symptoms of the same disease, but they fight for possession of the poor lover's life, and their combat doubles his misery. It's easy to see why 'ardor' wants to groan and lament. But why exactly does the heart feel agitated or fearful or reluctant about taking a breath? Because it's so weak that it's not sure it can make the heroic effort of taking one more breath? Because it's in such burning pain that every breath will fan the flames and aggravate the misery? Because the suffering is so great that death seems preferable to life, so that every breath seems an undesirable prolonging of the agony? We are allowed-- or forced-- to choose. We also have to choose a tone for the verse, since it gives us no hint whatsoever of how the lover feels about what he's reporting.

{153,5} duur chashm-e bad tirii bazm-e :tarab se vaah vaah na;Gmah ho jaataa hai vaa;N gar naalah meraa jaa))e hai 1) may the evil eye be far from your music party-- bravo! 2) it becomes a melody, if my lament goes there

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, in your gathering my lament is musical, like a melody. From my lamentation, you're happy. The point is reproach/blame. (165)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, may the evil eye be far-- what a music party you are having! That is, it's so involved in happiness that even if my lament reaches there, then it too becomes a melody. The meaning is that having heard my complaint, you are happy. Such stony-heartedness-- may God have mercy! (221)

Bekhud Mohani: He says sarcastically, may the Lord save your gathering from the evil eye! It's an extraordinary occasion. If even my lament goes there, it becomes a melody. [Or:] That is, ever since I understood that my lament has reached to your gathering or to your ear, I myself have been to find a certain pleasure in my lament. (296)

Arshi: Compare {211,2}. (287, 275)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The first line is a sheer exclamation of (apparent) pleasure. '[May] the evil eye [be] far [from you]!' is exactly what one exclaims when seeing someone or something quite beautiful or excellent. In South Asian folk tradition the evil eye is attracted by superiority, and activated by envy, so attempts to ward it off are always by way of protecting something valuable and desirable. The beloved's musical soiree would surely fall into that category. Moreover, the exclamation vaah vaah is the Urdu equivalent of 'bravo!'-- a phrase you call out to applaud some exceptionally fine musical or other artistic performance. So the first line sets up a tone of exclamatory delight and praise, centered on the beloved's musical gathering. Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait a while to discover what exactly is about this gathering has evoked such a strong reaction. And when we hear the second line, we can't help but realize that it splits sharply into two readings. What might be called the positive reading lauds the transformative power of her soiree-- its atmosphere is so intoxicatingly musical that if even something as melancholy as the sound of my lament reaches there, the lament itself is at once transformed into a melody. The beloved's beauty evokes, demands, even compels, beauty of all kinds to surround her. Who could fail to pay tribute to such radiant power? But of course, the negative reading is equally available. If my lament reaches there, a 'song' develops-- people laugh and cheer, and mock me, and turn the sound of my grief into new little improvisatory tunes. Or perhaps I myself have created a lament so heart-rending and powerful that it attains the level of music-- and in her gathering, nobody cares about its burden of longing and pain, everybody thinks only of its melodiousness. Or perhaps the beloved is indeed so cruel, as Bekhud Dihlavi supposes, that the sound of her lover's suffering is 'music to her ears' (compare her relish for wounded lovers writhing in their blood in {8,3}). The effect of the first line is thus constantly shifting from warm enthusiasm to bitter sarcasm, according to the tone in which we choose to read the second line. Compare the morbid {15,9}, which also has to do with repelling the evil eye, and with the lover's reluctant, helpless contribution to the happiness of a gathering of Others. Compare {229,2}, another verse in which something negative of the lover's is transformed into something artistically pleasing when it enters the beloved's presence.

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{153,6} garchih hai :tarz-e ta;Gaaful pardah-daar-e raaz-e ((ishq par ham aise kho))e jaate hai;N kih vuh paa jaa))e hai 1) although the style of heedlessness is the curtain-possessor of the secret of passion 2) but we are [habitually] lost [by some agent] in such a way that she/He {finds us / finds out}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Having gone before her, we become lost in such a way-- that is, become transported out of ourselves-- that she finds us. That is, she understands that we are under a magic spell-- although she maintains the style of heedlessness, so that some concealment of the secret of my heart would remain. It should be remembered that kho))e jaanaa with hai is for the meaning of self-obliviousness; if one would say kho jaanaa then this meaning will not arise. (165)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although her averting of her eyes-- that is, inattention-- is a veilmaintainer of the secret of love, before her we become senseless and outside ourselves in such a way that she becomes aware of the secret of passion. kho))e jaane se [sic] and paa jaanaa -- he has used such idioms in this verse that sufficient praise is impossible. (221)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse he has covertly [dar-pardah] expressed the idea that she is so beautiful that we want a hundred thousand times to keep hold of our senses, but we are not successful. Shaukat says: 'Although the beloved's style of heedlessness is the curtainpossessor of the secret of passion-- that is, the secret of passion is not revealed to anyone-- still, when she practices heedlessness before us, we don't remain in our senses, so that she guesses.' The Lord knows how he came up with this meaning! [Or:] Because of the beloved's style of heedlessness, a curtain still covers the secret of my passion-- that is, the people of the gathering don't realize. Or she herself, in order to keep me restless or prevent me from being insolent, practices heedlessness. But I understand this much: that she certainly understands the state of my heart. (296-97)

Chishti: Momin has expressed the theme like this: shab bazm-e ;Gair me;N jo vuh aa;Nkhe;N churaa ga))e kho))e ga))e ham aise kih a;Gyaar paa ga))e [last night, in the gathering of the Other, when she averted her eyes we became lost in such a way that the Others found out/us] (662)

FWP: LOSING/FINDING {4,6} VEIL: {6,1} The verb form t kho))e jaate hai;N is a true passive, meaning that there's an agent lurking in the background: we are lost by somebody or something, we don't just happen to become lost. This distinction is very hard to show in translation. If we just happen to become lost, with no outside agent involved, the form would be kho jaate hai;N . I believe this may be the issue that Nazm is trying to address, though I can't really make out his meaning. Note for grammar fans: special confusion arises in this case because khonaa can be either a transitive (taking ne ) or intransitive (not taking ne ) verb, with no change in its spelling. But the grammar is clear: it's the transitive

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form of the verb (in the passive present habitual), since only the transitive form can be made into a true passive. (Well, with a few rare exceptions, but not the kind we see here.) It's possible to confuse the true passive kho))e jaate hai;N , made from the transitive, with the compound-verb form kho jaate hai;N , made from the intransitive-- but not if you're a grammar fan. Whose is the 'style of heedlessness', and whose is the 'secret of passion'? We can assume that the 'passion' belongs to the lover, but either the lover or the beloved may know the 'secret of passion'; and either the lover or the beloved may feign 'heedlessness' in order to maintain a proper public facade. Some of the resulting possible permutations are explored by the commentators. If we add in mystical interpretations, the possibilities multiply further. Bekhud Dihlavi points to the witty, idiomatic use of expressions for 'losing' and 'finding'. Ghalib has done this kind of thing before: for examples, see {4,6}. In particular, paa jaanaa can have the double sense either of 'finding us' (since we've been lost, either by the finder or by some other agent); or of 'finding out' (information, such as the 'secret of passion'). For another example of this double use of paanaa , see {4,1}.

{153,7} us kii bazm-aaraa))iyaa;N sun kar dil-e ranjuur yaa;N mi;sl-e naqsh-e mudda((aa-e ;Gair bai;Thaa jaa))e hai 1) having heard of his/her party-adornings, here the afflicted heart 2) like the stamp/impression of the Other's goal/purpose, 'sinks'

Notes: bai;Thnaa : 'To seat oneself, sit down, be seated, be unemployed or idle; to sit, brood, incubate;... to be laid out or expended;... to fall in or down (a house, wall, &c.)'. (Platts p.206) naqsh : 'A print; a carving, an engraving;... -- an impression; a stamp; a mark'. (Platts p.1145) naqsh bi;Thaanaa : 'To make a strong impression (on); to establish (one's) rule or authority (in or over)'. (Platts p.1145) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, in the way that the stamp of the Other is 'sinks in' in the beloved's gathering, in the same way, hearing about that party-adorning, my heart 'sinks'. (165}

Bekhud Dihlavi: Hearing news of her flirtatious gathering, here my sad heart 'is seated' (that is, becomes hopeless) the way the Rival's stamp of faithfulness has impressed ['seated'] itself on her heart. (221)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comment about this verse in his discussion of {111,3}.] Repeatedly hearing that nowadays the Rival's fortune is on the ascendant, and very fine parties are happening, my heart sinks and is melancholy to the same extent that the 'stamp of the purpose of the Other'-- that is, the success of the Rival-- is taking place. (297)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY As Bekhud Mohani observes in his discussion of {111,3}, the present verse is based entirely on wordplay. Fortunately, we have English idioms that can at least approximate the effect. For one's heart to 'sit down' [dil bai;Thnaa] is for it to 'sink'. And for a stamp or engraver's die to make a strong impression [naqsh bi;Thaanaa] is for it not to remain on the surface, but to 'sink in' firmly and embed its mark in the material being stamped.

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Thus, as Nazm points out, when I hear about her parties, my heart sinks. And how does it sink? It sinks just the way the Other's 'stamp' makes an 'impression' (another parallel English idiom) at her parties-- by 'sinking in' and 'impressing' itself firmly into her heart. In classic mushairah-verse style, the crucial, idiomatic verb used simultaneously for both effects is withheld until the last possible moment. This delay doubles its effect, since the whole 'punch' of the verse is unavailable until we hear that final verb; then the thing hits us all at once. Enjoyably of course, but still this is a rather onedimensional verse. We've seen the 'party-adornings' before, in {111,2}-- and we've seen how this pluralized abstraction offers a range of interpretive possibilities. In the present verse, the us kii could refer, semi-sarcastically, to the Other (he's the life of the party, the beau of the ball) as well as to the beloved (she takes pains over her parties, she appears at her flirtatious best, etc.). Note for grammar fans: what is the exact analysis of bai;Thaa jaa))e hai ? It's equivalent to bai;Thaa jaataa hai , that much is clear. So are we to consider it a passive made from an intransitive verb? If so, it's quite unusual, but not totally unheard-of (the example I've seen cited is yahaa;N bai;Thaa nahii;N jaataa , which isn't exactly parallel). In that case, it would mean something like 'is made to seat itself'. Or is it an idiomatic use of the past participle bai;Thaa hu))aa , with the hu))aa colloquially omitted, thus meaning something like 'goes on being in a state of having been seated'? For another such (to me) unclear form, see {153,2}.

{153,8} ho ke ((aashiq vuh parii-ru;x aur naazuk ban gayaa rang khultaa jaa))e hai jitnaa kih u;Rtaa jaa))e hai 1) having become a lover, that Pari-faced one became more delicate 2) [her] color goes on showing/'opening out', as much as it goes on fading/'flying away'

Notes: khulnaa : 'To be uncovered, be unfolded, be exposed, be laid bare;... -- to be expanded, be widened or enlarged; to be developed;... to be made known, be disclosed, be divulged, be revealed;... to be let loose, be set free;... to be dissipated or lost;... -- to acquire fullness, clearness, brightness, or depth (a colour); to stand out well or conspicuously, to appear to advantage'. (Platts p.879)

Nazm: In passion, the color's becoming white he has constructed as the color's 'opening'. (165)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that Pari-faced one, having fallen in love with the Other, became even more delicate. From the shock of love, to the extent that her color fades, to that very extent it keeps becoming clearer. That is, it becomes more pleasing. (221)

Bekhud Mohani: He says, from falling in love the beloved's delicacy has increased somewhat more. As her color kept fading, she kept becoming more of a Pari. That is, now two things increased: the first is that she became more delicate than formerly; and the second is that her color keeps becoming clearer. [Or:] It's possible that he might say this to tease the beloved, or that he might be taunting the Rival's passion. (297)

Faruqi: [Compare {13,2}. (37)]

FWP: SETS == WORD

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Faruqi rightly mentions {13,2} as an excellent verse for comparison, and I'd add {7,2} as another (and lesser, though enjoyable) example of Ghalib's face-color wordplay. Above all, this verse is powered by the cleverly exploited multivalence of khulnaa . Here are some of the possible readings that the second line can generate: =By some effect of her delicacy, her color actually becomes more visible and evident as the roses slowly fade from her cheeks. Perhaps because her skin is becoming more pale and delicate, since she's not eating or sleeping properly? Or perhaps because it now has a more inward and mystical glow? =Her color becomes even more radiant and attractive as it fades, since she's so beautiful that her beauty can't be dimmed by passion; her new ethereal glow appears to advantage, making her even lovelier than before. A Pari is, after all, a creature of special radiance, made from fire rather than (like us mortals) from mere earth. =Her 'color' or 'mood, state, condition' (since rang is so multivalent) is revealed to the world all the more clearly, the more her cheeks become pale; the secret of her new status as a lover is exposed for all to see, so that everybody can gossip about it. This latter reading is the most piquant, since it requires the meaning of rang to change horses in midstream-- to begin the line as metaphorical, and end it as literal, without the usual luxury of a repetition. But why not? Obviously it can do this, because it does do it-- in our minds, as we read the line. The sudden 'flip' is unsettling, but also enjoyable. (From a flip-- a fillip?) Note for script fans: it's true that khulnaa can also be read as khilnaa , 'to bloom'. In order to squelch this possibility, Arshi carefully provides a pesh . It's also clear that khilnaa offers a much less interesting reading, since there's no other 'flower' imagery in the verse. For more on this pair, see {94,1}. For more on the beloved's falling in love, see {13,2}.

{153,9} naqsh ko us ke mu.savvir par bhii kyaa kyaa naaz hai;N khe;Nchtaa hai jis qadar utnaa hii khi;Nchtaa jaa))e hai 1) what kinds of coquetry the image/drawing uses even/also on its painter! 2a) to the extent that he/it 'draws', to that same extent he/it is 'drawn' 2b) to the extent that he 'draws', to that same extent it 'draws away'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the way the painter 'draws' her picture, to that very extent the picture too 'draws' him. And this [second] 'draw' has a different meaning. (165)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even her picture treats the painter with coquetry and arrogance. That is, to the extent that the painter goes on drawing the picture, to the same extent her picture goes on creating tension with the painter [mu.savvir se kashiidagii]. (221)

Bekhud Mohani: Or: the painter makes a hundred thousand attempts to draw the picture, but can't succeed. (297)

FWP: SETS == BHI; WORDPLAY By great good fortune (or some kind of common human metaphor-making process?) we have almost the same idiom in English as the one on which this verse is based. To us, 'to draw' means, among other things, both 'to make a picture' and 'to attract', just as khe;Nchnaa does in Urdu (with its intransitive

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counterpart khi;Nchnaa meaning both 'to be drawn [as a picture]' and 'to be attracted', in a way that has no real counterpart in English). This means that the enjoyableness of the verse can be experienced more directly, and not through laborious explanations. The subtle effect of the tiny monosyllable bhii -- with its double reminder both that others are similarly affected, and/or that the artist is, or should be, in a class by himself-- is a further delight. And what a masterpiece of self-reflexivity the second line is! Its two clauses both apply to a masculine singular, unspecified subject, in a way that's perfectly idiomatic in Urdu. And the first line cleverly provides two such subjects, the picture and the painter. All four permutations are entirely possible, and quite meaningful: he/he, it/it, he/it, and it/he. The fact that the various permutations only create dizzying variations on the same basic idea is an additional pleasure-- since that's what the verse is saying, after all: that 'drawing' and 'being drawn' are, in this case, inseparably intertwined. Another reading is pointed out by Vasmi Abidi (Jan. 2005), and I think at least some of the commentators share it (though it's hard to tell in some cases, since mostly they just paraphrase the verse itself). Vasmi points out that in {205,2} the second line, kih jitnaa khe;Nchtaa huu;N aur khi;Nchtaa jaa))e hai mujh se , clearly uses khi;Nchnaa to mean 'draws away' (as is established by the se ). As Vasmi observes, the same reading could certainly apply to this verse. I agree, and I've incorporated this reading as (2b). The enjoyable part is that the beloved's naaz can easily have both effects: to draw someone in, and at the same time to (coquettishly) draw itself away from him. And the first line in fact gives us a strong hint in this direction, by exclaiming at kyaa kyaa naaz , which makes it clear that more than one kind of naaz is involved.

{153,10} saayah meraa mujh se mi;sl-e duud bhaage hai asad paas mujh aatish-bajaa;N ke kis se ;Thahraa jaa))e hai 1) my shadow, like smoke, flees from me, Asad 2) near 'fire-lifed' me, who can bear to remain?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I'm in such a condition that not even a shadow stays with me. This whole theme is an idiom, but the author has made it colorful with similes. He has called himself 'burning-to-death'-- that is, he has given for his restlessness and agitation the simile of the writhing of a person who has fallen into fire, and he has given for his shadow the simile of smoke. In addition to the similes, in this verse the explanation that he has declared the rising of the smoke to be a fleeing from fire, has given great enjoyableness. (165)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, thanks to passion I am ensnared in such difficulties that even my shadow flees from me. That is, the way smoke ascends from a fire and rises high, in the same way, through fear of the burning in my liver, my shadow flees far from me, as if it is the smoke of the flame of the liver, not a shadow. He's written an extraordinarily enjoyable closing-verse. (221-22)

Bekhud Mohani: The way smoke flees from a fire, in the same way my shadow flees from restless me. The simile of smoke and shadow is extremely eloquent [badii((]. (297)

Arshi: Compare {190,3}. (269)

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FWP: 'Fire-lifed' is really not very satisfactory for aatish bajaa;N , but the phrase is exceptionally hard to convey in English. Nazm takes it to mean someone who's burning to death, and of course it can very well have this sense. But since its literal meaning is something like 'having fire in the life', it can also refer to someone who's living in a condition characterized by a constant inner fire. This condition would be as appropriate as the burning-to-death one for the fine wordplay about smoke and shadow that the commentators praise. And it seems more plausible as a source of the verse, since someone in the act of burning to death might not have the leisure to observe and discuss the defection of his shadow. To say that the shadow flees 'like smoke' that the shadow vanishes or diffuses into the air the way smoke does. Or it could also imply that the smoke itself is fleeing, unable to bear the heat of the fire within the lover's heart. Arshi is right to suggest {190,3} as a very similar treatment of the same theme. And {1,5}, which also plays with idioms about fire, is surely a sort of distant cousin.

Ghazal 154 4 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aalii ne mujhe composed after 1821; Hamid p. 124; Arshi #185; Raza pp. 256-57

{154,1} garm-e faryaad rakhaa shakl-e nihaalii ne mujhe tab amaa;N hijr me;N dii bard-e liyaalii ne mujhe 1) the form/shape of the {young plant / bedding} made me eager/'hot' to lament 2) then in separation, the coldness of the nights gave me ease/security

Notes: nihaalii : 'A young plant; --a quilt; a mattress, or bedding (stuffed with cotton); a cushion; --a species of small carpet (with a short pile)'. (Platts p.1162) bard : 'Cold, coldness, frigidity'. (Platts p.146) liyaalii is the plural of lail , 'night'. (Steingass p.1134) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866:] [After some difficulties in traveling] I stayed in a smallish house in the sarai of Muradabad. Hungry and thirsty, I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay there. I passed the time till morning reciting this verse of mine: {154,1}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p.1221

Nazm: That is, having seen the form of the bedding, I became eager to lament: 'alas, that this form would be near me, and would not be my beloved!' And after my having become 'hot' to lament, the coldness of the night of separation saved my life. (166)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having seen the form of the bedding, I became absorbed in lamentation: 'alas, that this form would be near me, and would not be my

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beloved!' My being 'hot' to lament saved my life from the cold of the night of separation; otherwise, I would have died. (222)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that if the lover doesn't have the beloved, he can't get to sleep. (298)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES; WORDPLAY How often in Urdu would you ever expect to find bard-e liyaalii to express the coldness of the nights? Is this kind of thing just a metrical convenience, or a display of erudition-- or am I missing some kind of wordplay? The only wordplay I see in the verse is the excellent use of tab , which means 'then' but also of course 'heat' ( since it's equivalent to tap ). The piquant thing in the verse is the nihaalii . The first meaning is 'a young plant'-- are we to imagine the beloved's lovely sinuous form as that of a rose, or perhaps a vine or creeper (as is so common in Sanskrit poetry)? If so, then perhaps the lover's passionate lamentation generates so much heat that only (the thought of?) the coldness of the nights-- a sign of winter, when the life of a 'young plant' would be over and it would have been killed by frost-enables him to achieve a measure of calm. The commentators prefer the second meaning, which seems to be some kind of quilt, mattress, or bedding. But it's hard to tell what there is about its 'form, shape' [shakl] that is so erotic. Is it just because it's bedding, and thus associated with bed? Or is there some way that it might be decorated or folded-- in the shape, say, of a bedroll-- that would suggest a human form? And why exactly would the coldness of the nights bring peace? Because then the lover needs to be wrapped in the quilts, bedding, etc., that evoke the beloved's form or presence? Or, on the contrary, because the agitated lover becomes so 'hot' to lament that he flings off the quilts, bedding, etc. (so that he's in 'separation' from them, in a way), and then the night air cools him down?

{154,2} nisyah-o-naqd-e do-((aalam kii ;haqiiqat ma((luum le liyaa mujh se mirii himmat-e ((aalii ne mujhe 1) the credit and cash of the two worlds-- [I/we] know what reality/substance it has! 2) my lofty courage took/bought me from myself

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, my lofty courage considered both the world and its cash, and the next world and its credit, to be of little reality, and it separated me from them both. Neither worldly cash nor next-worldly credit is worth what I am worth. (166)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, I am such an expensive item of merchandise that neither worldly cash nor next-worldly credit is sufficient to purchase me. (222)

Bekhud Mohani: Whether it be comfort in this world or or comfort in Paradise, in my eyes it has no substance. My lofty courage bought me from myself. That is, according to my courage, to long for the world and for Paradise was a shame. I abandoned them both. I am neither a seeker of the world, nor a seeker of Paradise; rather, I am a seeker of the Master. (298)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} [SNIDE REMARKS ABOUT PARADISE: {35,9}]

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The first line pours colloquial scorn on the value of both this world and the next; for more examples of this very common idiomatic use of ma((luum , see the grammar page. The tone makes the two worlds sound, at best, tawdry and cheap, mere commercial properties available for money-- and at worst, fraudulent, mere shell games with no 'reality' or 'substance' at all. The two worlds are made to seem so parallel, in fact, that the chief difference between them seems to be that one involves cash and the other credit. The first line strongly evokes the first line of {174,10}, in which a similar scorn is heaped on the 'reality' of Paradise. In English we often use 'take' to mean 'buy'; in Urdu the idiom is more prominent, so that part of the normal range of meaning for lenaa , 'to take', is 'to buy'. Thus the second line can have the sense that my lofty courage 'bought' me from myself-- nicely echoing the commercial imagery of the first line. But it can also mean that my lofty courage somehow 'took' me (away?) from myself-- seized me, or compelled me, or perhaps translated me into an entirely new sphere of self-lessness [be-;xudii] in which the wheeling and dealing of this world and the next were equally meaningless and unattractive.

{154,3} ka;srat-aaraa))ii-e va;hdat hai parastaarii-e vahm kar diyaa kaafir in a.snaam-e ;xayaalii ne mujhe 1a) the {multiplicity/excess}-adorning of oneness is the worship of an illusion 1b) the worship of an illusion is the {multiplicity/excess}-adorning of oneness 2) these imagined/mental idols made me an infidel

Notes: ka;srat : 'Multitude, plenty, abundance, superfluity, excess, glut; plurality, multiplicity'. (Platts p.817) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, to cause oneness to be adorned with the dress of multiplicity, and to impose on oneness the thought of multiplicity, is the worship of an illusion. And this imagined multiplicity is the 'imagined idols'. And just as the devotee considers the idols to be partners with the Deity, in the same way the unaware person who believes in multiple beings, considers multiplicity to share in oneness, and this is 'assigning partners to God' [shirk] and infidelity. (166)

Bekhud Dihlavi: [A slightly rearranged paraphrase of Nazm's comments.] (222)

Bekhud Mohani: To adorn oneness in the dress of multiplicity-- that is, to consider oneness to be multiplicity-- is the worship of an illusion. Ah! those imagined idols have made me an infidel. That is, I should have understood that things in the world are the captivatingness of nature. Through my illusion and my error, I considered them to be established aspects of being, and wandered from the road. To consider that multiplicity grows out of oneness is 'assigning partners to God' and infidelity. (298)

FWP: SETS == A,B IDOL: {8,1} INFIDEL: {21,12} A real classic, a 'let Ghalib be Ghalib' verse. Nobody else in the world of Urdu ghazal makes such a habit of such abstraction. It's easy to see why some of Ghalib's contemporaries hated him.

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The nuances of ka;srat are surely at the heart of the verse. I've translated it first as 'multiplicity' because that's the meaning that engages most elegantly with 'oneness'; and of course that meaning also feeds directly into the Islamic theological sense that the commentators, following Nazm, matter-of-factly take as central. But the meaning of 'excess' or '(super)abundance' is at least as common in normal usage. Thus a phrase like ka;srat-aaraa))ii-e va;hdat can also mean something like 'excessive adorning of oneness'; this suggests the process of mental embroidering that eventually covers anything one broods about with a dense, private cloud of imagination and fantasy. Such mental embroidering may be ruefully described as 'the worship of an illusion'; or, since 'A = B' is interchangeable with 'B = A', 'the worship of an illusion' may be (mildly) criticized as constituting such mental embroidering. But let's also consider the tone. Is the verse really offering a kind of definition of religious infidelity, and a warning against it, as the commentators suggest? The idea isn't very persuasive. For in other verses idol-worship is flaunted as the lover's badge of identity, a deliberate choice that won't be abandoned even in the teeth of public disapproval (see for example {59,5}). The only thing in the present verse that could be construed as expressing disapproval of idol-worship is the word 'illusion'. And that, after all, suggests an intellectual fault or mistaken perception, rather than a moral fault or religious heresy. For after all, Ghalib is one of the world's most intellectual and intellectualist poets, and his 'imagined' or 'mental' idols [a.snaam-e ;xayaalii] are more plausible as his pets and toys and companions than as objects of scorn and religious contempt. He's the poet who thinks that every mosque needs a wine-house nearby-- the way an eyebrow needs an eye (see {131,1}). And one of the chief functions of wine is to enhance and nourish the glories, the jalvah , of thought: see for example {49,8} and {49,9}. The result is that the 'gathering of thought', the party one has in one's mind, is itself a wine-house- but without all the noise and fuss (see {169,5}). And when did the classical ghazal ever fail to delight in the wine-house? In short, the tone of the second line looks anything but censorious or apologetic. Bekhud Mohani introduces it with an 'ah!' [aah], the sound of a sigh, which seems just right. The speaker may be ruminative, he may ruefully shake his head as he recalls the follies of his youth, but his tone is surely indulgent, even nostalgic. After all, if he really regretted the power of these 'mental idols' to make him an infidel, he could repudiate them on the spot. But the verse pointedly doesn't repudiate them, or even criticize them in any very severe way; to call them an 'illusion' is, in a sense, no more than to call them 'imagined', or to label them as dreams, visions, mental events rather than physical realities in the outer world. After all, these mental idols are still 'idols', just as the beloved herself is an 'idol', and when did the classical ghazal poet ever fail to cherish such idols?

{154,4} havas-e gul ke ta.savvur me;N bhii kha;Tkaa nah rahaa ((ajab aaraam diyaa be-par-o-baalii ne mujhe 1) even in the imagining/idea of desire for the rose there remained no pricking/anxiety 2) wing- and feather-lessness gave me an extraordinary rest/ease

Notes: ta.savvur : 'Imaging or picturing (a thing) to the mind; imagination, fancy; reflection, contemplation, meditation; forming an idea; idea, conception'. (Platts p.326) kha;Tkaa : 'A pricking or rankling (in the mind);... perturbation, anxiety, care, concern; apprehension, fear, dread'. (Platts p.871)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: From becoming wing- and feather-less, there was such rest/ease that now not even the imagining/idea of the spectacle of the rose comes. (166)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now not even the imagining/idea of the spectacle of the rose manages to come. I've been saved from its pricking/anxiety too. The meaning is that as long as there remained in wing and feather the strength for flight, I used to fly off and arrive in the garden. Now, thanks to strengthlessness, I've become free from the bondage of passion for the rose. (222)

Bekhud Mohani: My wing- and feather-lessness gave me much rest/ease. Now, the thought of the springtime and the garden doesn't come to me even by chance. On this theme, Mir and Sauda too have exercised their pens: Sauda: zabaa;N hai shukr me;N qaa.sir shikastah-baalii ke kih jin ne dil se mi;Taayaa ;xalish rihaa))ii kaa [the tongue fails to express sufficient gratitude for weak-wingedness which erased from the heart the ache for release] Mir [{435,4}]: usii taqriib us galii me;N rahe minnate;N hai;N shikastah-paa))ii kii [that it may remain in that very proximity, in that street-the pleas of weak-wingedness] (298-99)

Arshi: Compare {120,10}. (251, 288)

FWP: SETS == BHI How utterly distant is the bird from the rose! The bird no longer has (if it ever did have) the rose itself; the bird no longer has anxiety about the rose; the bird no longer has desire for the rose; the bird no longer has anxiety about desire for the rose. All the bird may still perhaps have is an imagining/idea of desire for the rose-- and about that, it no longer has any anxiety. Most of this extraordinary distancing effect is achieved through the magic of bhii , which can be imagined as emphasizing different parts of the operative phrase. Where did no anxiety remain? 'Even in the imagining of desire for the rose' (as opposed to actually experiencing the desire)? 'Even in the imagining of desire for the rose' (as opposed to imagining some other feeling about the rose)? 'Even in in the imagining of desire for the rose' (as opposed to imagining some other kind of desire)? The fact that we have no way of deciding among these alternatives drives hom the abstraction and remoteness of the actual rose itself. Since the rose has a thorn, it's a fine bit of wordplay to evoke the prick [kha;Tkaa] that it might give to anyone who touched it. Oh, but wait-- it's not the rose that has the thorn, but the abstract 'imagining' of 'desire' for the rose that has the thorn. And even the imagining of the desire has the thorn no longer. So once more we're several metaphorical layers away from any real physical objects. The verse that Arshi suggests, {120,10}, is indeed a good one for comparison. In both cases, the question of tone remains unresolvable. When the bird expresses gratitude for his winglessness, or the victim blesses the highway-robber, it could certainly be sarcastic. But in both cases the words are deadpan, and reasons are given for the gratitude-- reasons that could be imagined to be sincere rather than ironic. As usual, Ghalib leaves us woven into a kind of web of possibilities.

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Ghazal 155 3 verses; meter G4; rhyming elements: aa;N hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 125; Arshi #173; Raza p. 187

{155,1} kaar-gaah-e hastii me;N laalah daa;G-saamaa;N hai barq-e ;xirman-e raa;hat ;xuun-e garm-e dihqaa;N hai 1) in the {work/tillage/strife}-place of existence, the tulip is {wound/scar}equipped 2a) the lightning of the harvest of comfort/rest is the hot blood of the farmer 2b) the hot blood of the farmer is the lightning of the harvest of comfort/rest

Notes: kaar : 'An action, work, thing, affair; business, occupation, labour, art, profession, trade, commerce; effect, impression; exigency, need; tillage, agriculture; strife, contention, war, battle'. (Steingass p. 1001) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866(?):] daa;G-saamaa;N , like the expression anjum anjuman ['with stars for company', referring to a solitary person] is that individual whose property and equipment [sarmaayah-o-saamaan] is a wound/scar. The existence [maujuudiyat] of the tulip is founded on its display of a wound/scar; otherwise, other flowers too are red in color. After that, please understand that for flowers or trees or grain, whatever is sown, the farmer is forced to do the labor of plowing, planting, watering. And in the exertion, the blood becomes warm. The poet's point [maq.suud] is that that existence is merely grief and toil. That blood of the cultivator's which has been warmed through tilling and work, that itself is the lightning of the harvest of the tulip's comfort/rest. The fruit of existence [;haa.sil-e maujuudiyat] is a wound/scar, and a wound/scar is the opposite of comfort/rest, and an aspect of grief. (Arshi, p.279) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p.845 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, pp. 277-78

Nazm: [He quotes Ghalib's own commentary.] The gist is that existence is disastrous. If someone seeks to attain comfort/rest here, then that comfort/rest becomes exactly a calamity itself. The farmer works ardently, and heats his blood, for the sake of the tulip, but from that the tulip receives a wound/scar. (166)

Bekhud Mohani: [Janab Shaukat says,] 'In this verse and in its lines there's no mutual connection. What the hell-- between a tulip and a workshop, what relationship is there? If the first line were like this: gulsitaan-e hastii me;N laalah daa;G-saamaa;N hai [in the garden of existence, the tulip is {wound/scar}-equipped], then some affinity would also emerge. Even so, the second line has no tie to the first line.' If the learned commentator had recalled that here kaar is for tilling, and kaar-gaah means 'a place of sowing', then this objection would not have arisen. Now the tie between the lines too will probably [;Gaalib;an] have become manifest. (299)

FWP: SETS == A,B LIGHTNING: {10,6}

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This verse is a member of one of Ghalib's most striking and cryptic-seeming sets; for the other verses about lightning, harvests, and human desire, see {10,6}. Shaukat's objection, as indignantly reported by Bekhud Mohani, does seem unduly picky: although in Urdu kaar-gaah is indeed normally used to mean 'workshop', its potential range, as a place of kaar , is much wider, especially in Persian (see definition above). In Persian more than in Urdu the extension of kaar , literally 'action' or 'deed' or 'task', into other domains is very conspicuous: not only 'tillage' but also 'need', 'effect', and 'strife, war' are among the possibilities. It's hard to believe that the youthful Persianchauvinist Ghalib (aged nineteen when he composed this ghazal) didn't mean for these possibilities to come to our minds. If we look closely at the first line, we see that these possibilities open up the range of meaning considerably. The little verb 'is' creates the ambiguity. It shows us the tulip, in the kaar-gaah of the world, in a state of possessing a daa;G . (On the tulip's daa;G , see {33,1}.) But how does it acquire that wound/scar? Does it (1) bring it with it into the world (since the moment the tulip opens out it shows its characteristic mark)? Or does it (2) become equipped with this mark in the course of its life (since the kaar-gaah of the world surely has means for creating such a mark)? Then in the second line, we find that 'the farmer's hot blood' is 'the lightning of the harvest of comfort/rest' (or vice versa, of course). It's impossible not to interpret this in the light of the second line of {10,6}, in which 'the essence of the lightning of the harvest' is 'the farmer's hot blood'. Such an obscure, fascinating, ominous insight into the world! But in the present verse, whose is the comfort/rest? It could very well mean (1) the farmer's own comfort/rest; or it could mean (2) the comfort/rest of the tulip, if we assume that the farmer is a tulip-gardener. In other words, our interpretation of each of these lines is part of the larger question of how we interpret the relationship of the two lines to each other. Do the two lines describe two different situations, that are perhaps suggestively parallel? If they do, we are pushed toward interpretation (1) of each line. Or do the two lines describe two aspects of the same situation? If so, we are pushed toward interpretation (2) of each line. In the case of this verse it might be thought that such questions are moot, since Ghalib himself has given an explanation based on interpretation (2). If we hadn't already thought of interpretation (2), Ghalib's explication would certainly cause us to do so. But can, or should, it cause us to rule out interpretation (1)? I would argue that it cannot, and should not. For remember, Ghalib's divan was a published work, and had been so for a quarter of a century before the letter above was written to a single recipient in the last few years of Ghalib's life. Obviously Ghalib can't have seriously intended to restrict people's general reading of the verse, or he would have (and could have) taken much earlier and more energetic measures for the purpose. Suppose this letter had been lost in the mail, or had been destroyed somehow by its recipient? Then no one would ever have had access to this interpretation (as indeed we have no access to any of Ghalib's thoughts on the great majority of his verses). Obviously that possibility didn't bother Ghalib a bit. This little ghazal is a unique case: we have (some of) Ghalib's thoughts on each of its three verses. For Ghalib never took any special measures to explain his own verses, other than responding, as in this case, to haphazard requests from individual correspondents. Which also brings up the strong possibility that he gave the kind of interpretations suited to the needs of the moment and the particular correspondent. Perhaps he simplified, or gave one meaning rather than two or three, because he thought his correspondent would be happier with something simple; or perhaps he gave only one

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meaning because he thought his correspondent had too many fancy notions already and should be brought back to a central one. Since we don't know, there's no point in giving such excerpts from his letters any overpowering or definitive weight. Although it's also true that we'd be completely delighted to have more of his thoughts on his own poetry! And it's also true that he knew by this late point in his life that many recipients were saving his letters for future publication, so that the odds were reasonably good that any particular letter might live on. But there's still no evidence that he made any efforts to shape people's general interpretive notions about his verses; perhaps he despaired of doing so. I've written more about some of these issues in 'The Meaning of the Meaningless Verses'. There are other issues of literary theory here too, about the autonomy of the text and the validity of interpretation, but let's not even get started on all that. It's a marvelous verse, isn't it? The first line, with its almost deliberately choppy, bumping rhythm, is the kind that stays lodged in the mind. The idea of a wound/scar as 'equipment' gives rise to many thoughts, most of them grim.

{155,2} ;Gunchah taa shuguftanhaa barg-e ((aafiyat ma((luum baavujuud-e dil-jam((ii ;xvaab-e gul pareshaa;N hai 1) from bud to full bloomings, the leaf/provision of contentment-- 'known' [to be nonexistent]! 2) despite heart-{composure/collectedness), the sleep/dream of the rose is disturbed/scattered

Notes: barg : 'Leaf (syn. pattaa );... provisions or necessaries for a journey or march'. (Platts p.148) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866(?):] When the bud emerges, it looks like a pinecone. And as long as the flower remains, the 'provision of contentment' is 'known'. Here, 'known' [ma((luum] means 'nonexistent' [ma((duum]. And the 'provision of contentment' means 'the property of rest' [maayah-e aaraam]. [An illustrative Persian line.] barg aur sar-o-barg means 'supplies and equipment' [saaz-o-saamaan]. The sleep/dream of the rose, the personality [sha;x.siyat] of the rose, is with regard to its silence and its prostration in fatigue [barjaa-maa;Ndagii]. Its pareshaanii is obvious: that is, its blooming-- that same dishevelment of the petals of the flower. The bud seems composed. Despite this composure, the rose is destined to a disturbed sleep/dream. (Arshi p.279) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p.845 ==Another trans.: Daud Rahbar pp. 278-79

Nazm: That is, as long as the bud stays open, its attainment of the 'provision of contentment'-- that is, its remaining happy through contentment-- how can this be known to happen? When this is the case, then the rose has, instead of 'heart-composure', 'anxiety'. And thus the bud has been used as a simile, and from that the aspect of 'heart-collectedness' is manifest. In the same way, the scattering of the petals of the opened rose makes manifest the aspect of 'disturbed'. And the rose's silence and prostration in fatigue show the state of sleep/dream. In short, since all these three states befall the rose, then despite its 'heart-collectedness', the sleep/dream of the rose remains disturbed/scattered. And the cause of this disturbance is that it broods, 'let's see whether in this realm of disaster the 'provision of contentment' is possible or not'. (167)

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Bekhud Mohani: [A paraphrase of Nazm's comments.] (299-300)

Shadan: The Persian verb shiguftan doesn't look good in Urdu alone like that, without being in some construction. And in addition, Janab Ghalib has added a haa to it. (360)

Josh: In barg there is an iihaam . The reason is that it means 'leaf', and also 'wealth, treasure' [toshah]. In connection with the rose, barg meaning 'leaf' is the most obvious meaning. But here he has taken the remote meaning. (272)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; WORDPLAY This verse has constructed for the rose a three-stage life cycle: the closed ('composed, collected') bud, the opened ('disturbed, disquieted') rose, and the withered rose (bowed over in 'sleep/dream'). At no stage of its life does the rose obtain the 'leaf' ('provisions, supplies') of contentment, which is what makes its 'sleep/dream' actually 'disturbed' even if it looks 'composed'. Ghalib himself explains all this-- what a rare treat! Shadan complains about the Persian plural form shiguftan-haa , or 'bloomings'. This is one of Ghalib's pluralized abstractions; for other examples, see {1,2}. While in other instances the plural form seems to enrich the meaning, here the case is harder to make. The single 'bud' followed by a multiple set of 'bloomings' could perhaps be said to heighten the contrast between the tightness of the former and the scatteredness of the latter, but really that's rather weak. The plural form of course fits nicely into the meter; perhaps even Ghalib once in a while uses just a small wisp of padding. The first line has a vigorous colloquial effect; it's really an idiomatic negative exclamation. For other examples, see the grammar page. But what's not clear is to whom the rose's predestined lack of the 'leaf/provision' of contentment is 'known'. Is some observer exclaiming about the rose's fate, and analyzing the rose's restless sleep/dream? Or does the first line contain the content of the rose's intuitive awareness, the cause of its restless sleep/dream? Josh claims that 'in barg there is an iihaam ': on first reading we take barg to mean 'leaf', to go with 'bud' and 'bloomings'; later we realize that what he really means is 'provisions' or 'wealth'. I'd say that he really means both, all the way through. Since the verse is entirely about the life of a rose, why wouldn't the rose dream, or brood, about the (real or metaphorical) 'leaf' of contentment? But past a certain point, parsing the exact metaphorical grammar of a ghazal verse becomes a hopeless exercise-- especially in the case of a poet like Ghalib, who loves to set up fine, lucid metaphorical equations, and then subvert them or tangle them up. What I really love about this verse is the second line. It stuck in my mind the first time I ever heard it. It has that great sense of 'mood', and so much flowingness and resonance! You don't even need the first line, in order to enjoy the second one very fully. In fact it's almost better without the first line, for then you're left to imagine for yourself the nature of the rose's restlessness in its sleep/dream. Then it's a line full of mystery, with a powerful ominousness that evokes for us our own doom. For a less brilliant use of the same basic imagery, compare {212,2}.

{155,3} ham se ranj-e betaabii kis :tara;h u;Thaayaa jaa))e daa;G pusht-e dast-e ((ajz shu((lah ;xas bah dandaa;N hai 1) how would the sorrow of restlessness/weakness/dimness be endured by us?

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2) the wound/scar shows the 'back of the hand of weakness'; flame has a straw in its teeth

Notes: betaab : 'Faint, powerless; agitated, restless, uneasy, impatient (syn. bechain ); --devoid of splendour, lustreless' (Platts p.202) taab : 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming, pain, affliction, grief; anger, indignation, wrath, rage; light, radiance, lustre, splendour; strength, power, ability'. (Platts p.303) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866(?):] The 'back of the hand' is an aspect of weakness. And 'to seize straw, or grass, between the teeth' [;xas bah dandaan-o-kaah bah dandaa;N giriftan] too is an expression of weakness. Thus, in a state/world [((aalam] in which the wound might have put the back of its hand on the ground, and flame might have taken a straw between its teeth, how would the the sorrow of restlessness be borne by us? My dear sir! In the beginning of my concern with poetry [fikr-e su;xan], I used to compose Rekhtah in the style of [the complex Persian poets] Bedil and Asir and Shaukat. Thus the closing-verse of one ghazal (Raza p.109) was: :tarz-e bedil me;N re;xtah likhnaa asad ull;aah ;xaa;N qiyaamat hai [to write Rekhtah in the style of Bedil-Asadullah Khan {is / it is} a devastation/'Doomsday'!] From the age of fifteen years to the age of twenty-five years, I always composed [likhaa kiyaa] imaginative/cerebral [;xayaalii] themes. In ten years, a large divan became collected. Finally, when discrimination [tamiiz] came [to me], then I rejected [duur kiyaa] that divan. The pages I utterly [yak-qalam] tore up. By way of example, I permitted ten or fifteen verses to remain in the present divan. Protector of servants! There's no need for correction of your prose. This special path of your composition is interesting and free of flaws. Please don't abandon this style. And if you wish to imitate me and favor me, then please study seriously 'Panj Ahang' [panj aahang] etc., my [prose] writings, and advance your practice [mashq]. (Arshi p.279) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 845-46 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, pp. 279-80

Nazm: The meaning is that we will not be able to endure that sorrow, and it will slaughter us. By 'hand of weakness' is meant that hand that is weak through absorbing a shock. For this same reason, he has given for it the simile of straw, and for the wound a simile of flame. And 'to place the back of the hand on the earth' has the meaning of expressing helplessness. It's obvious that straw cannot endure the calamity of flame, which burns it up and obliterates it. And 'to take a straw in the teeth' also has the meaning of an expression of weakness. This second aspect emerges from the meaning of this verse: that is, the flame-wound of my 'hand of weakness' has taken a straw in its teeth. On my behalf it is expressing passion, such that it will not be able to endure the sorrow of restlessness. After recounting the meaning of all these three verses, the late author writes, [Ghalib's further comments given above]. (167)

Bekhud Mohani: [He quotes Ghalib's comments about this verse, and also the early verse given above.] Whatever Mirza wanted to say, he said. In my view, the meaning of the verse is also that which would emerge from the words,

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whether that would be in the author's mind or not. I consider an extremely clear and easy meaning of this verse to be as follows: When the wound has become 'with the back of the hand of weakness', and the flame is becoming 'with straw in the teeth', then how can the sorrow of restlessness be borne by us? That is, when restlessness has made the wound and the flame, which are entirely fire, so weak-- then we who are human, how can the tyrannies of restlessness be endured by us? (300)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} To take a 'straw in the teeth' is a classic sign of submission and surrender; for another example, see {10,3}. For fire itself to take a straw in its teeth has a wonderful quality of paradox and impossibility. Showing the 'back of the hand of weakness' seems to mean being forced to the ground, so that one's hand is on the ground for support and is thus, humiliatingly, not available to make the variety of formal salutations and gestures for which it's normally used. I don't see any such piquant relationship between the hand and the wound as there is between straw and flame, but I may just be missing some bit of idiomatic correlation. But then, how do the two lines fit together? Are the 'wound' and the 'flame' (perhaps in the form of a perpetually burning passion, heart, etc.) aspects of the lover's own being, such that both lines basically describe the same situation? Or are there three independent entities, the lover, the wound, and the flame, all troubled beyond endurance by the 'sorrow of restlessness / weakness / dimness'? After all, we know that the lover is restless and weak in any case; the fact that a wound throbs and bleeds, and that a flame flickers and dances, could also be seen as signs of restlessness and/or weakness (two qualities that seem contradictory but so often go together). Ghalib seems to endorse the second reading; but I agree with Bekhud Mohani that the poet's comments do not limit interpretation; for more on this see {155,1}. There's some nice wordplay: how can we endure or 'lift' [u;Thaanaa] the sorrow of restlessness, when the 'hand' is flat on the ground? But it's betaabii that ties the whole verse together: its range of meaning includes restlessness, weakness, and dimness, all appropriate in varying ways to a lover, a wound, and a flame. It's based on the negation of taab , an even more protean concept (see above). Moreover, because of the multivalence of the i.zaafat , the sorrow 'of' betaabii can mean sorrow that (1) is caused by it; (2) pertains to it; or (3) consists of it, so that the interpretive possibilities are further multiplied. Since this letter goes on to say more about Ghalib's own poetic style, I've translated all the relevant material from it. I've done so with all the more interest because the latter passage in the letter is frequently cited by 'natural poetry' advocates to argue that Ghalib himself saw the error of his hyperbolic, artificial, etc. early style and rejected it. It's a cliche in Ghalib criticism to depict him as turning to 'natural poetry' in his later, 'mature' style. One can see how this cliche developed, but it's also easy to see how greatly it oversimplifies the real state of things. I don't want to argue the whole case at present, but I do want to point out some problems with this famous and oft-cited letter. The main problem is that it's really a tissue of hyperbolic falsehoods, so that to trust its account of Ghalib's poetic views is decidedly rash. Here are some of its inaccurate claims: First: it's not true that even in his earliest ghazals, Ghalib 'always' composed highly fanciful or cerebral poetry. There are plenty of counterexamples-consider {4}, for a start, and if I were going to make the whole case I would marshall a number of other verses as well. Second: it's not true that Ghalib later 'rejected' that whole early divan, or 'utterly tore up' its pages in some kind of disgust that was based on a newly-

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achieved power of 'discrimination'. If you look at the 'names' index under 'Ghalib', you'll see the verses on which he has commented in various letters. When he discusses the early ones, he only once (in the case of {28,1}) expresses even the smallest hint of disapproval or literary doubt. This present ghazal, {155}, is a typical example: it's a very early ghazal, very complex-and as he explicates it, he shows no sign at all of distaste or apology or a desire to distance himself from it. Third, and most conspicuous: it's not true that Ghalib permitted only 'ten or fifteen' of his early verses to remain in his published, muravvaj divan. Of his very early ghazal verses (composed by around 1816), 192 are present in his published divan; of his slightly later ghazal verses (composed by around 1821), 276 are present in his published divan, for a total of 468 verses out of 1,459, or a little less than one-third of the whole published divan. I've done the count using Kalidas Gupta Raza; there might be a small margin of error in my count, but not much, and the main point is clear. Ghalib's estimate in this letter of the number of early verses retained in the published divan is somewhere between 100 times and 150 times too low. So since he obviously wasn't making an accurate report of his own past literary choices, what was he up to instead? Perhaps he was merely enjoying a fit of rhetorical extravagance-- the idea of 'utterly' tearing up the old divan is described with the adverb yak-qalam , an enjoyably appropriate piece of wordplay in its own right (see {71,7} for another example). When it came to recounting the alleged follies of his long-ago youth, he was nothing if not uninhibited; as a case in point, see {139,1} for the two directly contradictory accounts of his youthful romantic experience that he wrote in almost simultaneous letters, perhaps five years before the present one. If he wasn't just amusing himself with extravagance, whimsy, and wordplay, he might also have been trying to head off his correspondent, Maulvi 'Abd ur-Razzaq 'Shakir', from some idea of writing extremely complex verse or prose, in emulation of the flashy juvenile Ghalib. He seems to be acting as an Ustad, and earlier in the letter has offered 'correction' for a few of Shakir's verses before launching into the explanation of {155}. If the four verses quoted in the letter are any indication, Shakir would indeed have been well advised to concentrate on simple rather than baroque verse and prose. So Ghalib's account might have been designed to turn himself into an example of the attitude he was recommending to Shakir; this was, after all, just what he was doing in the letters quoted in {139,1}.

Ghazal 156 1 verse; meter G5; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1833; Hamid p. 125; Arshi #204; Raza p. 279 {156,1} ug rahaa hai dar-o-diivaar se sabzah ;Gaalib ham biyaabaa;N me;N hai;N aur ghar me;N bahaar aa))ii hai 1) greenery is sprouting from door and walls, Ghalib 2) we are in the desert, and {at home / in the house} spring has come!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In madness, desolation and wilderness are pleasing. When the house was not desolate, then he left it and came away into the desert. But so much time has passed in desert-wandering that the house has become desolate-- to such an extent that grass has grown up on the door and walls. Now the heart desires to see this garden-house. In this verse there's no excellence of expression or

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rhetoric [badii((], but in very clear plain words he has captured such a picture of madness that it has no peer. (167-68)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, thanks to wildness of heart, we have become, in a state of madness, a desert-wanderer. And the rainy season has come and, in the state of desolation, brought forth grasson door and walls. Alas, that we wander in the wilderness, and in the house spring has come and the desolate house has become a garden. Mirza Sahib has created such a picture of madness, in such simple words, that it's beyond praise. (224)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse is a peerless picture of madness. If he were not mad, then his heart would writhe at this devastation of the house and the door and walls becoming a heap of dust and grass covering the whole house. Now he considers that situation to be the ebullience of spring. And he's restless to go and reach there. (301)

FWP: HOME: {14,9} The first line, in classic mushairah-performance style, suggests a melancholy reflection that will probably be followed in the second line with something about time, death, the lover's fate, or something of the sort. But instead, after the obligatory suspense-creating delay, the second line offers an amusing sense of ruefulness: what a waste, that here we are miles from home, and only now, in our absence, is our house verdant and flourishing! Here, the lover thinks, is a fine irony. But of course, to the audience a much greater irony is also apparent: that the lover's notion of 'springtime' and 'verdancy' consists of the house becoming such a wreck that it's overgrown with weeds and returning to a wilderness state -- joining its owner, in a sense. This verse is part of the home-versus-desert group; for the other members, see {17,2} . One of its cheerful cousins is {10,7}, in which the grass growing in the house is sufficient to provide a living for the Doorkeeper. A more complex one is {35,8}, a brilliant verse that proposes a whole range of possible relationships between home and desert. But I'd also like to add some verses that the commentators wouldn't accept as related. In {18,3} the desert seems to be invoked as Majnun's 'home': he's a 'desert-wanderer', he's to be found by wilderness-roaming, and his house is 'doorless'. (Think also of {127,2}, which proposes the making of a 'withoutdoor-and-walls-ish' house.) But the clearest proof is {140,6}, in which beyond all doubt the wilderness is Majnun's 'house' [makaan]. So it's possible to read the lover here as similarly mad, a similar desert-wanderer who considers the wilderness his 'house'. It's springtime, the desert grasses and plants have sprung up for their brief season in the sun. We, the mad lover, consider that our wilderness 'house' is now flourishing, with its 'door and walls' decked out in greenery. Even in the 'waterless' [be-aab , thus biyaabaa;N] desert, we're able to have a lively, seasonally decorated house. Who could ask for more?

Ghazal 157 7 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: il me;N hai composed 1828; Hamid p. 126; Arshi #201; Raza p. 273

{157,1} saadagii par us kii mar jaane kii ;hasrat dil me;N hai bas nahii;N chaltaa kih phir ;xanjar kaf-e qaatil me;N hai 1) a [vain] longing to die for/over her simplicity is in the heart 2) I am powerless, for again the dagger is in the murderer's hand

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By 'simplicity' is here meant the renunciation of adornments and equipment, through which it conquers without a sword. That is, the state she's in without putting on a sword-- I long to cut my throat and die for that style. But she doesn't allow me to cut my throat, and takes the dagger in her hand; and because the dagger is in her hand, for two reasons my longing can't be fulfilled. One is that when the dagger is in her control, then how could I possibly cut my throat? And the other reason is that when the dagger comes into her hand, where then is that 'simplicity', for which we would have sacrificed our life? And from the word 'again' the meaning emerges that this had already happened previously as well-- that we would have cut our throat, but she took the dagger in her hand, so that that simplicity no longer remained, for which style we would have given our life, nor could we have control over the dagger itself. (168)

Bekhud Dihlavi: [A close paraphrase of Nazm's remarks.] (224)

Bekhud Mohani: The grace of her simplicity has so pleased me that my heart is writhing with eagerness to give up my life for it. But what can I do? For again the dagger is in the murderer's hand. That is, now that simplicity has no longer remained. From 'then' it is apparent that such a thing has already happened previously. (301)

FWP: Nazm does a fine explication, and the other commentators mostly follow his line of argument. And yet the range of possibilities is surely a bit wider. What exactly does her adorable 'simplicity' consist of? There seem to be two main possibilities: == 1) She thinks she doesn't need a dagger in order to kill me. This is the line the commentators take. This 'simplicity' and naive self-confidence of hers are so powerfully moving and adorable that they in fact make her assumption true. I would indeed give up my life over her-- but it's not up to me, for she herself has once again taken the dagger in her hand. This situation has any or all of three possible implications: (1) that I can't kill myself with the dagger, since she's got control of it; (2) that she can kill me with the dagger, if she chooses, since she's apparently changed her mind about needing and/or using it; (3) that I perhaps can't kill myself just by dropping dead out of sheer helpless passion, as I had been inclined to do, since I no longer control the situation: she might take the matter out of my hands by using the dagger on me. == 2) She thinks she does need a dagger in order to kill me. This 'simplicity' is shown by her act of picking up a dagger. Her naive lack of awareness of her own overpowering beauty and charm is so captivating that I would gladly just lie down and die over it; I am completely helpless and powerless. Whether she actually uses on me this time the dagger that she has 'again' picked up is entirely out of my control. Her naive belief that she needs a dagger in order to kill me finds a parallel in {3,6}, in which poor conventional Farhad thinks-- wrongly-- that he needs an axe in order to kill himself. This verse so strongly evokes {112,9} that I'm surprised the commentators haven't mentioned the resemblance.

{157,2} dekhnaa taqriir kii la;z;zat kih jo us ne kahaa mai;N ne yih jaanaa kih goyaa yih bhii mere dil me;N hai

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1) look at the pleasure/relish of speech/confirmation-- for what she said 2a) I considered/felt this: that 'it's as if this too is in my heart' 2b) I considered/felt this: that 'this too is {speaking / a speaker} in my heart'

Notes: taqriir : 'Speaking, discoursing; relating; explaining; confirming; speech, discourse, statement, declaration, assertion, relation, recital, narrative, account, detail; exposition; avowal, confession; ascertainment; confirmation'. (Platts p.330) la;z;zat : 'Pleasure, delight, enjoyment; sweetness, deliciousness; taste, flavour, relish, savour; -- an aphrodisiac;... sensual pleasures'. (Platts p.955) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: There can be no better praise of anyone's beauty of speech than that whatever idea emerges from the speaker's mouth enters into the listener's heart in such a way that he suspects that this idea was in his heart even beforehand. (125)

Nazm: That is, it seemed to me that whatever thing she said, she said the thought of my heart. (168)

Bekhud Mohani: God, God, what pleasure in speech would be greater than this, that whatever thing she said, it established itself in my heart in such a way that I considered that I too used to say this! The word jo is meaningful-- that is, whatever sort of thing at all it might be. (301)

FWP: SETS == BHI; WORDPLAY Bekhud Mohani singles out jo for special attention, but I'd single out two other words: bhii , and goyaa . For there is a small shock of unexpectedness in the phrasing of the second line. The first line leads us to expect the obvious tribute to a fine orator: whatever she says, I am instantly persuaded: I think, 'oh yes, this is what I think too, this is what is in my heart too'. And that's almost what we get-- but not quite. For instead of 'this is in my heart too' [yih mere bhii dil me;n hai , or yih mere dil me;N bhi hai] we get, quite unmistakably, 'this too is in my heart' [yih bhii mere dil me;N hai]. The focus is thus shifted from the group of things that she says (which I now endorse) to the group of things that are in my heart (of which this now becomes one). This too is in my heart-- in addition to what? To her? To all the moods and modes of passion? To all the things that I'd like to reply to what she's just said? And of course, for something to 'be in my heart' is more intimate and less explicit than for me to simply endorse or accept something. I absorb her words into my heart because they're hers and are thus precious little parts of her; and not because they are formed into rhetorically persuasive ideas or even because they're words at all (I'd love a lock of her hair just as much). The lushness and sensuality of la;z;zat works perfectly with this interpretation. All this richness of implication is achieved by the careful, subtle positioning of bhii . Then I'd also point to the clever double use of goyaa , which literally means 'speaking' or 'speaker' (2b), and by extension comes to mean 'so to speak' or 'as if' (2a). As so often, the wordplay points to meaning-play; for more on this versatile expression, see {5,1}. Thus there is a very enjoyable affinity among taqriir , kahaa , goyaa -- and then, as counterpoints to speech, we also have 'knowing' [jaannaa] and 'seeing' [dekhnaa]. Nor is that all, for the versatility of taqriir too is beautifully appropriate. The la;z;zat-e taqriir can be either the pleasure of her speech, or the pleasure of

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the lover's speaking. Since the verse begins with a neutral imperative, 'look at', there is plainly an implied addressee, and the lover is a 'speaker' himself. Moreover, taqriir can also mean 'confession' or 'confirmation', so perhaps the lover is also enjoying the great relief of speaking out and confessing or confirming his love, 'getting it off his chest'.

{157,3} garchih hai kis kis buraa))ii se vale baa ii;N hamah ;zikr meraa mujh se bahtar hai kih us ma;hfil me;N hai 1) no matter with what kinds of badness, still nevertheless 2) my 'mention' is better than I, for it is in that gathering

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The main clause, which is the important one, has remained till very late. That is, the word 'mention' and its explanation, which are primary, have been placed last. (168)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although my mention is made before her in a bad way, and the Others make that mention, still in any case it is better than I, for it does come into that gathering. (225)

Bekhud Mohani: The phrase kis kis buraa))ii se is short, but as many evils as there can be in one man are all comprehended within it.... It makes it clear that extreme humiliation and abuse are performed there, but even so, the lover's ardor is so extreme that it's in no way reduced. And how could it be? If there's enough progress so that his mention occurs there, then he feels envious of his mention. (301-02)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH GOOD/BAD: {22,4} This must be one of the world's ultimate mushairah verses. Nazm observes, in a somewhat crotchety tone, exactly this typical mushairah-verse structure. (He doesn't go on to criticize it further, though.) The first line is, in its own right, completely incomprehensible and uninterpretable. The pompousness of having both vale and the apparently redundant, extremely Persianized baa ii;N hamah occupying the whole latter part of the line adds insult to injury: we are exasperated with such obscurantist otiosity (there, see?); we think, 'get to the point, will you!' All the more so because after such an elaborate introduction, the point might well be an interesting one. Then in the carefully staged oral performance arena of a mushairah, a tantalizing delay is imposed before we are allowed to hear the second line. And even when we are allowed to hear it, we don't really 'get' the verse until the very last moment, since the reason for the superiority of the 'mention' only becomes apparent when the rhyming elements, ma;hfil me;N hai , are heard. And then we get it amusingly and completely, with a nice rueful little comic punch. And that's it, and it's time to move on to the next verse; this verse wouldn't repay even five minutes of extra thought or attention. Once we get the good/bad wordplay of buraa))ii and bahtar -- and it's hard to imagine that anybody wouldn't-- the verse has exhausted its treasures, and lies collapsed like a burst balloon. But that's no insult; a burst balloon that has made the party-goers laugh has done its work well. In English we'd be more likely to say 'the mention of me' in this situation, and to save 'my mention' for a mention that I make. I preserved the awkward form in my translation, to show the amusing semantic parallelism: 'my

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mention is better than I [am]', just as you might say 'my brother is better than I'. (Of course, nowadays in American practice we'd be likely to say 'better than me', but let's maintain at least a tiny shred of takalluf .)

{157,4} bas hujuum-e naa-umiidii ;xaak me;N mil jaa))egii yih jo ik la;z;zat hamaarii sa((ii-e be-;haa.sil me;N hai 1) enough, crowd/rush of despair! it will go down into the dust-2) this our particular/sole pleasure, which is in fruitless endeavor/effort

Notes: hujuum : 'Rushing (upon, or at, par ); attacking; crowding; swarming...; -assault, attack; effort; impetuosity'. (Platts p.1221) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1865:] How can I describe the state I'm in? Formerly I used constantly to recite this verse of mine: {157,4}]. Now I'm no longer even fit for that kind of tune. That is, the pleasure of my fruitless endeavor has gone down into the dust [sa((ii-e be-;haa.sil kii la;z;zat ;xaak me;N mil ga))ii]. (Arshi p. 305) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 543

Nazm: Oh crowd/rush of despair, leave off! Let it not be that the unique/sole pleasure I find in my useless endeavor would also be trampled underfoot! That is, among the crowd of despairs and hopelessnesses, the pleasure that comes from an endeavor without results will also be mingled with the dust. The meaning is that the state of despair is terrible, and although endeavor may be without results, it is not without pleasure. (168)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh crowd/rush of despair, leave off! Let it not be that the one small pleasure that is left in our fruitless endeavor would also mingle with the dust. (225)

Bekhud Mohani: When there is despair, then no pleasure comes from effort. Oh crowd/rush of despair, leave off! Let it not be that the pleasure I get from my unsuccessful effort would also be erased. That is, despite the fact that no intelligible outcome emerges from my effort, and my effort is without result, I still find a pleasure in it. (302)

FWP: SETS ==EXCLAMATION This one was a bit confusing; I was glad of Nazm's strong lead (and so were the other commentators, I suspect). Ghalib's own paraphrase also suggests that Nazm is on the right track. Since both la;z;zat and sa((ii are feminine, there can be some confusion as to what's going down into the dust; and the grammar of the second line opens several conceivable ways to parse it (what does hamaarii modify? what does the jo really apply to?). On the whole, though, I think teasing out those small permutations doesn't add any real pleasure to the verse, or provide any fresh or valuable readings, so I'll refrain. There are plenty of small word- and meaning-plays: pleasure versus despair; one vs. a crowd; a rush or attack, vs. a passive going down into the dust. The secondary meaning of hujuum as 'effort' resonates particularly well: we have then an 'effort of despair' in the first line and a 'fruitless effort' in the second line. The speaker is exclaiming to a crowd or rush or attack of despair, urging it to back off, for fear that something feminine singular will be trampled into the dust in the crush. In classic mushairah style, the first line is cryptic and incomplete, but tantalizing, so that we wait impatiently to hear what all the

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fuss is about. Even the first half of the second line gives us no real clue, except that it's something valuable and unique: a special or sole pleasure. Not until the rhyming elements do we learn that the precious, vulnerable thing in need of protection from the rush or despair is the speaker's 'fruitless endeavor'. But having enjoyed the realization and the wordplay, is there anything more? Beyond the level of wordplay, the verse doesn't really seem to hang together very well. If the 'endeavor' is something that can be trampled into the ground by a rush or attack of despair, it seems that it might be at least somewhat personified. But then it's also a 'pleasure', which contradicts the personification. The effort, though fruitless, is a special (unique? sole?) source of pleasure; and it's in danger of being destroyed by the rush/attack/'effort' of despair. So is the 'effort' of despair successful (in overpowering my 'fruitless endeavor'), while my own 'effort' remains perpetually unsuccessful? Or is my 'fruitless endeavor' what generates the 'rush/effort of despair' in the first place? One can struggle to 'get' it, but it refuses to click into place in any exciting way. The four primary images-crowd/rush; going into the dust; pleasure; and fruitless endeavor-- are simply not richly intermeshed with each other, as they so often are in Ghalib's great verses. I think this one lacks the deeper kinds of connection.

{157,5} ranj-e rah kyuu;N khe;Nchiye vaamaa;Ndagii ko ((ishq hai u;Th nahii;N saktaa hamaaraa jo qadam manzil me;N hai 1) why endure the sorrow of the road? there is passion from/for laggingbehind-ness 2) our foot/footstep which is {'in' / on the road to} the destination cannot rise up

Notes: vaamaa;Ndagii : 'The remaining or lagging behind (esp. from fatigue); -openness, exposure'. (Platts p.1177) qadam : 'The foot; sole of the foot; a foot's length; a footstep, step, pace; --a going before'. (Platts p.789) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse it seems that to put ko in place of kaa is an error of the calligrapher [kaatib], and in this case the meaning is clear. But it wouldn't be strange if he had composed ko itself, because then the meaning will be a bit more elaborate. That is, fatigue has come to have a passion for my footstep, and doesn't release it so that I might go toward the desired destination. In the verse the author has intended by 'destination' the 'road to the destination'; the word 'in' proves this. That is, in the idiom, when people say it with 'in', they mean the 'road to the destination'; and when they say it with 'to', they mean the destination itself. And in the idiom of the Persian-speakers ((ishq means 'peace and acceptance' [salaam-o-niyaaz], and in that case ko is correct. That is, we accept fatigue, and thanks to it our footstep which is in the road cannot be lifted. (169)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Why would the troubles of the road be undertaken, and why would an inappropriate attempt be made? Fatigue has come to have a passion for us. That is, unsuccessfulness and non-attainment are in love with us. And when it has been proved that fatigue is absorbed in us, and we will never be able to reach the desired destination, then our every footstep has come to weigh hundreds of pounds. That is, our inner self has absolutely turned aside from going along the road. (225)

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Bekhud Mohani: vaamaa;Ndagii raa ((ishq ast [in Persian]= that is, I am a lover of fatigue, or fatigue is a lover.... We are madly in love with weakness and helplessness. Now our foot cannot be lifted to go further. Weakness and helplessness are in love with us. (302)

Arshi: Compare {11,1}. (166)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Why can't our foot or footstep rise up? Two possible reasons seem to be proposed: =Because it's already at the destination, since it is in love with laggingness and/or laggingness is in love with it, and the beloved is the lover's true destination =Because it's being detained on the road to the destination, by its love for laggingness and/or laggingness's love for it As Nazm says, that ko is a wild card. In normal Urdu usage, aa ko b se ((ishq hai would mean that A loves B; on this reading, it is laggingness that loves our footstep. But especially in Persian, as Bekhud Mohani points out, it can work the other way, so that if ko is a translation of the Persian raa , it can suggest a usage in which the love is directed toward A. Surely Ghalib means for us to consider both. Although a semi-personified 'Laggingness' would seem to be a peculiar lover, it is no stranger than many of Ghalib's other highly abstract personifications. But the real complexities surely center on qadam . Since it comes from an Arabic root that means 'going before' (Platts p.789), it has a very enjoyable wordplay with 'lagging'. And its meanings include 'foot'-- something that would definitely be expected to rise up-- but also, through 'footstep', veer toward the idea of 'footprint'-- something that would never be expected to rise up, but would by definition always be 'lagging' or left behind. This latter sense emerges clearly in {123,1}, in which the 'ground-kissing of the footstep' is part of the lover's literal collapse and prostration on the ground. Compare also {116,8}, in which the behavior of the footprint [naqsh-e paa] is a guide for the lover's own behavior. And this sense of 'footprint' becomes a perfect lover and/or beloved for 'laggingness', since the two are inseparable by definition. Arshi cites {11,1}, another very abstract verse in which the footprint [naqsh-e qadam] is compared to a bubble. So there we have it. One can assemble all the parts, and enjoy all the wordplay. But behind it there's not as rich a network of meanings as in his truly great verses. I don't consider this one as problematical as the previous one, {157,4}, but it's certainly far from the top of his game. This one reminds me in fact of {8,2}, in its ostentatious metaphysicality with no real world of meaning behind it.

{157,6} jalvah-zaar-e aatish-e doza;x hamaaraa dil sahii fitnah-e shor-e qiyaamat kis kii aab-o-gil me;N hai 1) a {glory/appearance}-garden of the fire of Hell-- our heart, indeed 2) the mischief of the tumult of Doomsday-- in whose {constitution / waterand-earth} is it?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has said the words kis kii sarcastically. The gist is that in your constitution is the mischief of Doomsday. That is, we've granted that our heart is filled with the fire of Hell; your saying this is true. But take a look at

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yourself too-- you too have become from head to foot the mischief of Judgment Day. (169)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you say truly that our heart is filled with the fire of Hell; but in whose constitution does the mischief of Judgment Day participate? The meaning is that you are from head to foot an example of the mischief of Doomsday. (225)

Bekhud Mohani: Seeing the lover heaving hot sighs, the beloved has said to him: it's hardly your heart-- it's Hell! He says, all right, our heart is indeed so, but tell me this: in whose essence is the tumult of Doomsday? That is, what are you saying-- you yourself are made of Doomsday from head to foot! (302)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM QIYAMAT: {10,11} The commentators point out the repartee-- the verse seems to reply to a sort of teasing remark or taunt. (For more on this colloquial use of sahii , see {9,4}.) The idea is, if I'm like the fire of Hell, you're like the turmoil of Judgment day! (And, of course, if I'm to be blamed for hotly and passionately desiring you, you're to be blamed for provoking and inciting me with your disastrous beauty.) There's also a wonderful affinity among the elements named here: the 'fire' of Hell is supplemented by the 'water' and 'earth' of the petrified phrase aabo-gil , meaning 'constitution'. And of course, the heart is a {glory/appearance}-garden, while the water and earth are perfect elements of such a garden. And aab , with its double meanings of 'water' on the one hand, and the fire-evoking 'radiance' or 'luster' or 'splendor' on the other, is a perfect crowning touch. The second line is in Ghalib's favorite inshaa))iyah mode: it asks a simple question-- and of course implies the answer. The first example of this delightful device is the first line in the whole divan: {1,1}. It's also a device beautifully suited to counterattack, in an argument ('Well, whose idea was it to go to the party, anyway?'). Comparing the beloved to Doomsday is no uncommon idea. My favorite example is the very explicit {96,3}, in which the beloved and Doomsday are actually measured against each other. Everybody agrees that in the first line the implied emphasis should be on 'our', such that the first line is about the lover's state, and the second about the beloved's. But what if we instead focus the first line on 'heart'? Then the second line might simply add to the catalogue of the lover's wild and desperate nature: his heart is the fire of Hell, his whole constitution the turmoil of Doomsday. He might thus be saying, 'Oh yeah? Hellfire in my heart-- you think that's bad? That's nothing, that's just my heart-- you should take a look at the rest of me!'

{157,7} hai dil-e shoriidah-e ;Gaalib :tilism-e pech-o-taab ra;hm kar apnii tamannaa par kih kis mushkil me;N hai 1) Ghalib's mad heart is an enchantment of {twisting/ convolution/ agitation/ distraction} 2) have mercy on your own longing-- for, what kind of difficulty it's in!

Notes: shoriidah : 'Disturbed (in mind), distracted, mad, frantic; desperately in love; faint; dejected'. (Platts p.736)

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pech-o-taab : 'Twisting and twining; convolution, twisting knots, folds; contortions; restlessness, anxiety, agitation, perplexity, disquietude, distraction, distress; vexation, anger, indignation'. (Platts p.297) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, my heart is full of pech-o-tab . The longing for you [terii tamannaa] has come into it, and become ensnared. Have mercy on it, and release it from that difficulty. The result is-- make my desire and longing 'emerge' [nikaalnaa]. (169)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of this verse is only this much: make the longing of my heart 'emerge' [nikaalnaa]. Mirza Sahib has expressed it with an extraordinary mischievousness [sho;xii]. (225)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, in his heart there's a crowd/rush of agitations, and the longing for you [terii tamannaa] has become trapped in them. If you have no mercy on me, then have mercy on your own longing [terii tamannaa]. (302)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Never was there a better example of the double sense of the possessive in Urdu. While in English 'the longing for you' is in my heart, and 'your longing' is in your heart, in Urdu terii tamanna would be perceived first as 'the longing for you', with 'your longing' (that is, the longing that's in your heart) as a secondary possibility. (For further discussion and illustration of this point, see {41,6}.) Here, Ghalib plays on that doubleness: look at the trouble the poor 'longing' is in, in the serpentine pech-o-taab of my heart! You should have mercy on it, because it's 'your own longing' [apnii tamanna]. What?! we say-- why has she sent 'her longing' into such a dangerous and uncharacteristic situation?! We must rapidly reframe our whole sense of the verse. Ghalib requires us to take in the whole situation at a glance, deduce whose 'longing' it really is, and realize with no further prompting how the lover is seeking to induce the beloved-- and us-- to shift the interpretation, knowingly or naively, from the normal first sense to the less common second one, as a trick to elicit her sympathy. Is this wordplay, or grammar-play, or meaning-play, or idiom-play? All of the above, of course. Isn't it a kind of compliment that the poet has such confidence in the our interpretive powers? Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi also point out the invocation of the (unstated) idea that a longing when it is fulfilled is said to 'emerge' [nikalnaa]; so that by depicting the pathetic longing as ensnared in the terrible writhing tangle of pech-o-taab , and by urging the beloved to consider it her own, the lover is really begging her to 'cause it to emerge' [nikaalnaa]-- that is, to fulfill it. For another example of this use of nikalnaa , see {219,1}. The concept of an 'enchantment' comes from the realm of the dastan world, dominated by the story of Hamzah. Such enchantments are often created by evil magicians, and once one has entered them one is unable to escape without special, often divine, help or at least guidance. Thus it's very appropriate to ask the beloved for a 'divine intervention' on behalf of the poor struggling 'longing'.

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Ghazal 158 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar ga))ii composed 1833; Hamid p. 127; Arshi #205; Raza p. 279

{158,1} dil se tirii nigaah jigar tak utar ga))ii dono;N ko ik adaa me;N ra.zaamand kar ga))ii 1) from the heart, your glance went down to the liver 2) having, in one style/coquetry/gesture, made both {willing/consenting}, it went on/away

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, both heart and liver had longed for this arrow. (169)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Compare {30,2}. (60) He says, your glance, like an arrow, from the heart went and arrived in the liver. And having made both of them willing with one coquetry, it came back [vaapas ho ga))ii]. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: Your glance drilled through both heart and liver, and {fulfilled / 'caused to emerge'} [nikaal dii] the longing of both. (302)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} Your glance is the ultimate arrow. While in {30,2} the glance-arrow simply pierces both heart and liver, here it does more. First it goes through the heart and then through the liver, making both 'willing' or 'consenting' with one single gesture. The heart and liver are separate enough to be two stops in a flight trajectory, but together enough to both respond to a single gesture. Here, they're not just 'pierced' as in {30,2}, but made, more ambiguously, to agree or consent to something. To what? To their own destruction? To an absolute submission to the beloved's will? To share a single adaa between them? The impossibility of deciding is, needless to say, part of the enjoyableness of the verse. Then after the heart-liver itinerary, the glance-arrow, most delightfully, simply keeps on going, to parts unknown. The verb form kar ga))ii -- short for kar ke ga))ii -- makes its continued travel quite clear. (Compare the use of kar ga))e in {97,3}.) Which opens up one more possibility: that the heart and liver were made to 'agree' or 'consent' to the glance-arrow's cruel, fickle onward travel. Oh, the poignancy of that little kar ga))ii !

{158,2} shaq ho gayaa hai siinah ;xvushaa la;z;zat-e faraa;G takliif-e pardah-daarii-e za;xm-e jigar ga))ii 1) the breast has become split open-- congratulations, pleasure of freedom/disengagement!

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2) the trouble/suffering of the hiding/veiling of the wound in the liver has gone

Notes: takliif : 'Ceremony; the imposition of a burthen (upon); burden, difficulty, trouble, distress, inconvenience; molestation, injury, hardship, grievance; suffering, ailment, affliction'. (Platts p.332) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: First he has reported this event: that the breast has become split open. Then, expressing joy, he has mentioned the advantage of the breast's bursting open. That is, he has become free of the need to keep the wound in the liver concealed. (169)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, listen, my breast has become split open, and from its splitting open, the pleasure of separation has obtained an extraordinary happiness. To hide the wound in the liver was a great trouble. Now that that has been erased, the uninhibited pleasure of separation has been vouchsafed. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: From takliif-e pardah-daarii it is clear that there was so much trouble/suffering in hiding the wound of the liver that the lover considers the splitting open of his breast to be not a difficulty, but a comfort. (303)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION JIGAR: {2,1} VEIL: {6,1} It's clear in the second line that something has gone, and we are celebrating its departure-- but what exactly, and why? Is it the 'trouble' or 'suffering' (or even 'ceremony') [takliif] of hiding a liver-wound that has gone, since concealment is no longer an option? Or is it the trouble of the 'veiling' [pardah-daarii] that has gone, since once the whole chest has split open, no further cover-up is possible? Or is it the trouble of veiling the 'wound' [za;xm] that has gone, since the wound has now been split completely open and thus no longer exists? Or is it the trouble of veiling the wound in the liver [jigar] that has gone, since the whole liver itself has now been ripped apart and destroyed? Any or all of these possibilities can work, not to our surprise. Congratulations are in order-- but they aren't addressed to the lover himself, who would seem to be the natural recipient. Rather, they go to a semipersonified 'Pleasure of Freedom/Disengagement'. Do we conclude that the lover himself has died when his breast split open, and all that's leftof him is a kind of lingering, ghostly, disembodied satisfaction? Or has he taken his sense of 'freedom/disengagement' with him to another sphere, and cries of congratulation are being launched after him encouragingly, the way people wave to a departing traveler? Or is he himself ruefully contemplating the sight of his own innards, and wryly trying to put a good face on things? Three guesses-- or more, if you care for more. Congratulations, oh Pleasure of Freedom! Ghalib is going to allow you as many choices as he can possibly contrive. Note for grammar fans: in this and several later verses of this ghazal, I translate ga))ii as 'has gone' instead of 'went'. Here, that's obviously the appropriate English counterpart, because the first line actually does contain the present perfect, and the second line logically postdates the first one. In {158,3}, {158,4}, and {158,6}, the 'now' points us firmly toward the present perfect. In general, it's also true that Urdu tends to be, in colloquial usage, one step further in the past than English: Urdu speakers tend to say mai;N ne film dekhii thii where English speakers say 'I saw a film', and so on. But

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here, the poet himself is providing the temporal cues; we can thus tell that he really 'means' the present perfect.

{158,3} vuh baadah-e shabaanah kii sar-mastiyaa;N kahaa;N u;Thye bas ab kih la;z;zat-e ;xvaab-e sa;har ga))ii 1) where are those intoxications of nocturnal wine? 2) please get up, enough now!-- for the relish/taste of the dream/sleep of dawn has gone

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If the words of this verse would bear a literal meaning, then there's no pleasure. Probably [;Gaaliba:n] the author intends a metaphor. That is, by 'wine of the evening' he means the intoxication of youth, and dawn is a metaphor for old age, and the address to get up is to his heedless spirit. (16970)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now where have those intoxications of the wine that was drunk at night remained! That is, the time of youth has passed; the time for waking up has come. The pleasure of the dream of dawn did not remain; that is, the beginning of old age has come, the time for sleeping the sleep of youth has gone. No occasion for heedlessness remains to the spirit. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: The pleasure of the wine that was drunk at night has departed, and in the morning, sleeping is only pleasurable as long as intoxication remains. And when the eyes begin to open from drunkenness, they are dulled, and there's a throbbing in the head. (303)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; IZAFAT; KAHAN NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} WINE: {49,1} The commentators generally follow Nazm's lead in making the crudest possible didactic reading of the verse (though only Nazm actually sneers at the verse for what he takes to be its simplicity). Certainly their case isn't without merit: they can cite in their support the famous verse-set in {169}, with its classic contrast of the nighttime party versus the morning after. But of course, such a cut-and-dried reading is achieved only by ignoring all the subtle complexities of which Ghalib is such a master. One of the secrets, in this verse, is his masterful use of i.zaafat constructions. In the first line, what kind of 'noctural wine' intoxications are we talking about? Here are some possibilities: =intoxications caused by wine that is drunk at night =intoxications caused by 'night-ish' wine-- wine that has some night-like qualities =intoxications caused by the insidious 'wine' of night itself Then if we look to the second line for some help amidst all these permutations, we find only that something has gone. And what might that something be? Allowing for all the i.zaafat possibilities, here are some haunting choices: =the taste/relish of the dream/sleep of dawn (though the dream/sleep of dawn itself may remain) =the dream/sleep of dawn, with its taste/relish =dawn, the deceitfully enjoyable 'dream/sleep' of which has proved itself false or fleeting

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And of course, the first line ends in a well-placed kahaa;N ; here are three readings: =Those 'nocturnal' intoxications used to exist, but now they're over =Those 'intoxications' were never more than a farce, and never did have any real existence! =Where are those intoxications now, I wonder? Then when we actually try to put it all together, we realize that we don't know what relationship exists between the 'intoxications of nocturnal wine' and the 'relish/taste of the dream/sleep of dawn'. The second line features three i.zaafat constructions, the first line has two plus a kii that works with fully as much freedom. How are we ever going to come to an end of the permutations? Does the second line describe the same state as the first (X is gone, get up because X is now over), or another state (where is X?, and furthermore Y is gone, so get up)? Are 'intoxications' to be identified with the 'taste/relish', the 'dream/sleep', or neither? Is the 'wine' to be identified with the 'taste/relish', or the 'dream/sleep', or neither? Moreover, whether we interpret ;xvaab as 'dream' or 'sleep' will make a big difference in how we imagine the connections. In short, this 'simple' verse is an appallingly tricky little 'meaning-machine'; its fault is not simplicity, but undecideability (if in fact that's a fault). Are we being painfully ejected from a lovely lost paradise, or being rescued from some delusional non-world, or being briskly welcomed into a new, brightly sunlit day?

158,4} u;Rtii phire hai ;xaak mirii kuu-e yaar me;N baare ab ay havaa havas-e baal-o-par ga))ii 1) my dust flies around in the street of the beloved 2) at last now, oh wind/desire, the desire/lust for wing and feather has gone

Notes: havaa : 'Air, wind, gentle gale;.... affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p.1239) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It's clear that to address the wind is devoid of pleasure, but because of the affinity with havas the author has preferred it over 'spring breeze' [.sabaa]. In the same way, the affinity with 'wing and feather' requires that in place of 'street of the beloved' the dust should have flown in 'the courtyard of the garden of the beloved' [.sa;hn-e baa;G-e yaar]. In addition, this theme has been used so often that it's become hackneyed. The gist is that this verse falls very much below the level of Ghalib's poetry. (170)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for years I longed to grow wings and feathers, and use them to fly to the beloved's street. During life, this longing of mine was not fulfilled. But after death, my dust flies around enjoying the street of the beloved, just as I had longed to do in life. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: [In response to Nazm's criticisms:] To address a lifeless thing as a living thing is common. In addition, the author has used havaa not merely instead of 'spring breeze', but because it means 'longing' and 'desire'. Indeed, in this word there is certainly an iihaam . And when that is so, there's no need to speak of the 'courtyard of the garden'. Only this much of the theme, that our dust is flying around in the street of the beloved, is hackneyed. If he had said this only this much, then it would have been hackneyed; but with 'now the longing for wing and feather no longer remains', it is not hackneyed. (304)

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FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The second line has such excellent sound effects, that almost evoke the soughing of wind-- all those a and aa sounds that permeate the whole line, and above all the baare ab ay havaa havas-e sequence. The juxtaposition of havaa and havas is brilliant, since they share not only sound but also one meaning ('desire'). We can't help but strongly experience that nexus at the heart of the line. But then, is the vocative ay havaa addressed to the speaker's own desire, or to the wind? The commentators are sure it's to the wind, but why would Ghalib ever limit himself to one addressee when he could have two? Either one is an appropriate addressee, and the first line works beautifully with either one. If the addressee is one's own desire, then the distinction between the more general havaa , with its wide range of meaning, and the more specific havas , with its particular sense of 'lust' or carnal desire, are also well invoked. Compare {114,2} for another treatment of the wing-and-feather theme. And {58,1} too is a good study in the ambiguities of wings and feathers.

{158,5} dekho to dil-farebii-e andaaz-e naqsh-e paa mauj-e ;xiraam-e yaar bhii kyaa gul-katar ga))ii 1) just look at the heart-deceivingness of the style of the footprint 2) how the wave of the gait of the beloved 'too' did 'rose-cutting' as it passed by!

Notes: gul-katar : 'To snuff (a candle); --to trim (a lamp); --to calumniate'. (Platts p.911) katarnaa : 'To cut, clip, pare, lop, prune, trim; to cut out; to cut up, to hew. (Platts p.812) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: gul katarnaa and shiguufah pho;Rnaa are both idioms with exactly the same meaning; that is, to use some machination such that turmoil/mischief would arise, and you yourself would remain apart from it. (170)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Just look at the heart-deceivingness of the style of her footstep-- how the wave of the gait of the beloved, having become shears, has cut flowers! This second meaning also emerges, that gul katarnaa is an idiom that is used when someone creates turmoil/mischief; and her footstep, having established itself on the ground, has caused turmoil/mischief to break out mutually among lovers and Others. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: In the beloved's footstep is the extreme limit of heart-captivatingness. It's worth seeing how what kinds of mischief arise from it. [Or:] From the beauty of the footprint of the style of the wave of the beloved's gait, a garden has bloomed in the road. (304)

Baqir: [According to aasii] The gait of the beloved has been called a wave because from the movement of a wave, shapes appear on the surface of the water. He says, wherever the wave of the beloved's gait has passed, there roses are scattered about, as if the beholders of her footprints are sacrificing themselves for them. (391)

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Shadan: In this place the word 'wave' does not seem to have any excellence or affinity. [Instead it could have been:] us kii ;xiraam-e naaz bhii kyaa gulkatar ga))ii . gul-katarnaa has other meanings too: to cut flowers; to do something novel or unexpected; to say surprising things; to act mischievously; to create turmoil/confusion; to show anger. (363-64)

Mihr: gul katarnaa : to make flowers out of paper, etc.; to do 'flower-work' or embroidery; to bring off some extraordinary or surprising accomplishment. (522)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION CANDLE: {39,1} Both lines are in the inshaa))iyah mode: they're primarily exclamations. The first line introduces itself with the exclamatory energy of the colloquial dekho to ; the second line contains both the forceful kyaa and the here almost untranslatable bhii : in this position, in this kind of an exclamatory sentence, bhii doesn't necessarily mean 'even' or 'too' as it normally does, but can be understood to simply emphasize the word before it. Alternatively, it can mean 'too' in a very broad sense, so that the effect would be something like 'her footprints are amazing, and her gait too is astonishing'. The real question is, as so often, the relationship between the two lines. It's perfectly possible to read them as simply two parallel exclamations, one praising her footprints and the other praising her gait. But surely, since it's Ghalib we're dealing with here, there must be something more going on. What's the connection between the two lines? Here are some possible ways to link them: =Perhaps the footprint is to the earth as the wave is to the sea. That is, the footprint is like a wave, because both are produced by movement, and both are disturbances in the surface of a larger medium across which movement takes place. On this reading, both lines describe the same general situation: her irresistible, devastating charm. =Perhaps the trickery ('heart-deceivingness') of the footprint is like the mischief-making (gul-kataarii) of the gait. Both of them have a 'style' that bewilders observers and ultimately drives them mad. On this reading, each line praises a separate thing, but for the same quality. =Perhaps the 'heart-deceivingness' of the footprint and the devastatingness of the gait form a vicious circle. As she sways or glides sinuously along like a wave, her progress is defined by those round, swirling footprints that seem to ripple seductively behind her like little whirlpools. Just as a whirlpool looks innocent until the hapless ship gets close enough to be sucked in, so her footprints achieve strange feats of trickery and deadly allure. On this reading, both lines work together to delineate the mechanisms by which her beauty wreaks its havoc. The centerpiece of the verse is obviously the remarkably versatile idiom gul katarnaa . Putting together the various relevant definitions, it can mean: snuffing out a candle; trimming a lamp; creating turmoil/mischief while remaining apparently aloof; cutting off or pruning or cutting down roses; doing something novel or unexpected; saying surprising things; doing 'flower-work' embroidery; bringing off some extraordinary accomplishment. When these various permutations are plugged into the various possible readings of the lines, the resulting combinations seem to go on forever. I haven't quoted anything from Shadan for a long time. But isn't it nice to know that he's still providing us with helpfully simplified rewritings of the lines, showing us how Ghalib should have done it? His chutzpah offers a pleasure all its own.

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{158,6} har buu'l-havas ne ;husn-parastii shi((aar kii ab aabruu-e shevah-e ahl-e na:zar ga))ii 1) every lecher has made a practice/pursuit/profession of the worship of beauty 2) now the honor of the profession/activity of the people of vision has gone

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the worship of beauty was the practice of people of vision: they recognized the affinity of the elements and pursued sincere passion. When all sorts of people also began to practice the worship of beauty, then the practice of people of vision was left with no honor at all. (170)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the habit of the lustful was not the worship of beauty. But now they too, without thought or understanding, have adopted this habit. The value of the sincere passion of people of vision has been vanishing. (226)

Bekhud Mohani: By the 'worship of beauty' only poetry can be intended. Now every lecher has become a 'worshipper of beauty'-- now the honor of that noble art/craft can no longer remain. [Or:] Now every illiterate, every fool, has begun to compose poetry, and the distinction that used to belong to this noble art/craft-- that it was reserved only for people of vision-- has been vanishing. (304)

FWP: Alas, this one leaves me at a loss. It's quite simple in appearance, and the commentators explain it sensibly. But surely there's something more going on? Some bit of wordplay that we're missing? Where's the punch, where's the sudden blast of pleasure, where's the central focus of the verse? The sequence of ab aab is of course an enjoyable example of sound effects. Compare {115,6}, for an example of how much more can be done with the 'lecher'.

{158,7} na:z:zaare ne bhii kaam kiyaa vaa;N naqaab kaa mastii se har nigah tire ru;x par bikhar ga))ii 1) there, vision too did the work of a veil 2) from intoxication, every gaze was dispersed/scattered on your face

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, by the time it reached your face, the glance was so intoxicated that it became scattered, and its every thread became separated, and those scattered threads, like a veil, blocked the gaze. The simile of a thread for the glance is well-known. The freshness is that the threads of the glance have been opened out and a veil has come into being out of them.... [Such an apt simile] produces an effect of astonishment in the listener's mind. Here, the author has used the word har to make the whole veil. The meaning of the verse is that, seeing your face, such self-transcendence occurred that everyone remained deprived of the pleasure of sight. (170)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, reaching the beloved's face, the glance became so intoxicated that, like her curls, it became disordered and scattered. And like the skirt of a veil, the gaze was blocked, as if it itself had become a veil. (227)

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Bekhud Mohani: That is, the observer became so self-less that he could see nothing. It's a matchless idea. (304)

Arshi: Compare {53,2}, {115,3}, {152,5}, {214,7}. (196, 262, 277, 307)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} Ghalib famously, or infamously, loves to play with paradox, and here's a fine example. The beloved's face is so intoxicating that everyone is irresistibly drawn to look at her, but also so intoxicating that nobody can see her. (Or Him, since this verse so strongly invites a mystical reading as well.) Vision itself acts as a veil. He plays with this kind of paradox of vision vs. invisibility in many other verses as well. My favorite in this context is above all {115,3}, in which the beloved's face doesn't intoxicate the glance (like wine), but actually melts it down (like the sun). Then there's also {214,7}, in which the beloved's face dazzles the glance (like lightning).

{158,8} fardaa-o-dii kaa tafriqah yak baar mi;T gayaa kal tum gaye kih ham pah qiyaamat guzar ga))ii 1) the difference/separation between tomorrow and yesterday all at once became erased 2a) yesterday did you go, or did Doomsday pass over me? 2b) yesterday you went-- for Doomsday passed over me

Notes: fardaa : 'Tomorrow; (met.) the day of resurrection.... -- fardaa-e qiyaamat , The resurrection morn.' (Platts p.778) dii : 'Yester (see diiroz and diishab ). (Steingass, p. 550) tafriqah : 'Difference, distinction, separation, division; variance, discord, disunion'. (Platts p.329) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: He says that the moment you left, by reason of self-unawareness and selfforgetfulness such a state came about that between today and tomorrow/yesterday there remained no distinction at all. And just such a thing is said about Doomsday too: that there, the past and the future will both turn into the present time. Thus it wasn’t that you went, it was as if Doomsday passed over me. For Doomsday to pass over has two meanings: for a time of extreme harshness to pass over, and for Doomsday itself to pass over. (156-57)

Nazm: Although yesterday was yesterday, the 'tomorrow of Doomsday' confronted me, and tomorrow and yesterday came together in one single day. No difference/separation of past and future remained. (170)

Bekhud Mohani: Yesterday, the moment you left, such a self-lessness overtook us that we lost the power to distinguish between today and yesterday. The suffering of Doomsday passed over us.... That is, the moment you left, we departed from the world. (304-05)

FWP: SETS == KIH QIYAMAT: {10,11}

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Here is Ghalib being Ghalib, and what a treat it is. The confusion is radical-what happened yesterday when you left? Was yesterday thus the metaphorical 'Tomorrow' (see definition above) of Doomsday? And if so, was it literally so (could Doomsday actually have happened, and I confused it with your leaving?), or simply metaphorically so (since your leaving was a Doomsday)? Or was I simply rendered so distraught by your leaving, that I can no longer tell night from day, or yesterday from tomorrow, in the most general sense? (I'm like someone waking after a terrible concussion and asking 'where am I? what day is it? what happened?'.) There are so many possible combinations of literal and metaphorical readings that the whole thing becomes hopelessly convoluted. We readers are as confused and bewildered as the lover-- which is, no doubt, part of the point. Then there's the 'difference' or 'variance' of tafriqah nicely bumped up against the 'all at once' or 'completely' quality of yak baar . This one reminds me of the even simpler and more eloquent {35,2}.

{158,9} maaraa zamaane ne asadull;aah ;xaa;N tumhe;N vuh valvale kahaa;N vuh javaanii kidhar ga))ii 1) the time struck you down, Asadullah Khan 2) where are those howlings/tumults, where did that youthfulness go?

Notes: valvalah : 'Howling, lamentation, wailing, crying; --wail, lamentation; -confused murmur, noise, tumult, uproar'. (Platts p.1201) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The first line is an exclamation of lamentation [inshaa-e ta))asuf] and the second is interrogative [istifhaam]-- in short, the whole verse is inshaa . The second excellence arises from the appearance of the whole name, with the title. From the word 'Khan' the meaning emerges that at one time [zamaanah] he had power and dignity, which old age erased. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asadullah Khan Bahadur, the revolvings of the time and the troubles of love have finished you off even before death. Now where is that fervor and turmoil, and where did that power and tumult of youthfulness go? (227)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Asad, the time has erased you. In old age neither those howlings/tumults remain, nor that beauty and strength of youth. From saying 'Khan' there is a suggestion that in youth there was power and strength, which has now mingled with the dust. (305)

FWP: The 'howlings/tumults' and the 'youthfulness' may of course be two separate items that are simply listed together as they are recollected, but they may also-- more enjoyably-- be seen as equational, as paraphrases of each other. His youth, in short, consisted, at least in his (nostalgic?) memory, entirely of weeping, wailing, and general miserable uproars. And not only that, but when he laments the losses caused by time, the only thing he remembers-- or at least regrets-- seems to be the fact that he's no longer capable of such youthful wild uproars of grief. Nazm's observations, both about the inshaa))iyah force of the verse, and about the effect of his using his full name, are exactly right. The full name also gives a kind of valedictory effect, as though his life were being summed up and memorialized at its close. For another such example, see {71,10}.

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Ghazal 159 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: ar mile composed after 1847; Hamid p. 128; Arshi #212; Raza p. 294

{159,1} taskii;N ko ham nah ro))e;N jo ;zauq-e na:zar mile ;huuraan-e ;xuld me;N tirii .suurat magar mile 1) we wouldn't weep over [the loss of] peace, if relish of sight would be available 2a) among the Houris of Paradise your face/form might perhaps be available 2b) but among the Houris of Paradise your face/form should be available!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if an aspect resembling yours would exist among the Houris, and merely the pleasure of sight would be obtained, then we wouldn't grieve over [the loss of] the peace of the heart: since if there's pleasure of sight, then if there's no peace of heart, so be it. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the lover these two things are their happiness and joy: one, peace of the heart; the other, relish of sight. If the Houris of Paradise would resemble you, then from obtaining them only the relish of sight can be achieved. But no-- it's not such that the aspect of the Houris would resemble yours; and even if it be agreed that their appearance would resemble yours, even then, peace of the heart can't be achieved without obtaining you. But upon obtaining the relish of sight, we endure-- but here [in Paradise] not even that joy will exist, because the Houris don't have your aspect. (227)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover is in Paradise, and says through his manner that 'from the Houris of Paradise my heart cannot find peace. If from looking at them at least the sight could obtain some pleasure, even then I would endure it; but alas, what shall I do? for here not even the relish of sight is available'. (305)

Arshi: In the qur:aan us-sa((dain 3,31 (28 March 1848) a 'double ghazal' [do;Gazalah] by Azurdah in this ground has been printed. It is not improbable that this ghazal too would be from that period. (312)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR The first line contains two subjunctives, so it seems to be about two interlinked possibilities, the first contingent upon the second. If we would obtain relish of sight, then we wouldn't weep over our lost peace of mind. All that's clear is that we're talking about not a present state, but a future possibility of some sort; and that we're talking (at least in our own mind) to the beloved. =We could be talking about our situation in this life: 'At present, we lament our lost peace of mind, since we're longing all the time for you, and get no comfort. If we would obtain at least the relish of sight, and feast our eyes on you, then we'd settle for that, and would cease to lament. For you're so beautiful that your peer would only 'perhaps' [magar] be available in Paradise!' =We could be talking about our future situation in Paradise: 'Even if we suffered the constant agitation of passion, we wouldn't lament our lost peace

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of mind-- if the relish of sight would be available. 'But' [magar] the condition would be that your face/aspect would be available. Otherwise, we'd never consent to live there.' The Houris of Paradise are available as 'companions', so the lover could certainly hope for many delights from them. But instead of looking forward to such an enticing prospect, all he thinks of is the relish of sight. Is this because he's so conditioned by the beloved's inaccessibility here, that he can't even imagine anything more? Then, too, his definition of the relish of sight is already fixed, and even fixated: out of all the range of divinely beautiful possibilities, only the beloved's face/aspect counts. This is also a brilliantly resonant and flowing verse, especially the first half of the first line. Very singable, very memorizable, the kind that feels as if you've always known it.

{159,2} apnii galii me;N mujh ko nah kar dafn ba((d-e qatl mere pate se ;xalq ko kyuu;N teraa ghar mile 1) don't bury me in your street after the murder! 2) through my address/information, why should {everybody / 'all creation'} find your house?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is people will give the address like this: 'the street with a grave in it, that's where So-and-so's house is'. My envy/jealousy doesn't accept this, that Other people would search out your house through the address of my grave. And the second meaning is that my love doesn't accept that people would learn that you're a murderer, and that you'd be held accountable for my murder. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you bury me in your street, then two evils will be created. The first evil is that through my address, your house will become famous-- that is, people will make the 'street with the grave' famous; or they'll say 'the street in which Ghalib's grave is'. And under both circumstances-- even after dying, as if I won't feel envy/jealousy! The second, subtle meaning in this verse is that when from the address of the grave your house will become famous, then people will make you famous as Ghalib's murderer or beloved; in this will be disgrace and ill-repute for you. Even after dying, I won't want you to have ill-repute. (227-28)

Bekhud Mohani: The first excellence in this verse is that the lover always wants to be buried in the beloved's street. Mirza says the reverse of this, and takes refuge in envy/jealousy: I don't want to be buried in your street. The second excellence is that the author has not said 'the Other', but 'all creation'; from this it necessarily follows that the beloved's face is so fine that the whole world is dying for her. (305)

Chishti: In this rhyme Momin and Abad too have produced praiseworthy verses. Momin says: rahne de ay ta.savvur-e jaanaa;N nah kar ;xayaal aisaa nah ho kih vuh tujhe dushman ke ghar mile [oh let it go, the vision of the beautiful one; don't think of it! may it not be that you would meet it/her at the enemy's house] Abad says: aabaad mar ke kuuchah-e jaanaa;N me;N rah gayaa dii thii du((aa kisii ne kih jannat me;N ghar mile

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[Abad, having died, remained in the street of the beautiful one-somebody had prayed that he would receive a house in Paradise]

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR The commentators point out some possibilities of interpretation, and I think they're right. But I want to take it a step further. This is a doubly inshaa))iyah verse, the first line a command and the second a rhetorical question. It's one of those verses of wonderfully amusing disproportion, like {111,12}. In the most offhanded way ('after the murder') the verse dismisses the concerns that we, the ordinary 'people of the world', would have: that we are facing death, perhaps quite immently; that it is the cruel beloved who intends to murder us; and that she is so unmoved by our love, passion, and ultimate sacrifice that she will then do something quick and convenient with our body and carry right on with her flirtatious life, surrounded by other adorers. Instead, most absurdly, the lover fixates on a small detail of the situation: that he doesn't wish to be buried in her street, because then 'all creation', 'every Tom, Dick, and Harry', would use his grave as a reference point for finding her house. He doesn't even mention the usual suspects, the 'Rival' and the 'Other' (perhaps because he knows they can find her house anyway?). He might of course mean that he thinks that 'all creation' would become her lovers, as Bekhud Mohani suggests. But it also sounds wonderful as a kind of generalized grumbling. The speaker is grumpy, he's cross: he can't find a way to object to the main plan of action, so he seizes on some small detail and mutters darkly about it, just to ventilate his feelings.

{159,3} saaqii-garii kii sharm karo aaj varnah ham har shab piyaa hii karte hai;N mai jis qadar mile 1) {be ashamed for / uphold the honor of} Cupbearer-ship today; otherwise we 2) every night, always drink wine to the extent it would be available

Notes: sharm karnaa : 'To feel ashamed... ; to be abashed'. (Platts p.725) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, today you've become the Cupbearer; today, fill me up. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, today you've become the Cupbearer; you ought to fill me up. Every day we drink more or less wine at our own house too, but we're not vouchsafed the chance to drink to our heart's content. Today, serve us as much as we want. (228)

Bekhud Mohani: Today you've become the Cupbearer, so serve us as much as we want. Otherwise, usually we drink more or less wine. That is, we don't insist on your satiating us because we are longing for wine. Rather, our meaning is that you've become the Cupbearer, so uphold the honor of Cupbearer-ship too. Janab Shaukat [says], 'oh Cupbearer, don't think that we are of small capacity; our today falling short of deep intoxication is a mere happenstance. Thus our falling short is for you a proper cause of shame, not an occasion for taunting me.' (306)

FWP: SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} WINE: {49,1}

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The first line begins with a command-- 'be ashamed for, uphold the honor of, Cupbearer-ship today!' Then comes varnah , which makes it clear that what follows contains some kind of 'otherwise' state of affairs, something that explains and justifies the command. But of course (since we're used to this sort of thing by now), it's not clear exactly what part of the 'otherwise' state of affairs is the one that needs to be changed. Here are some possibilities: =We always drink as much wine as is available, but it's never enough for our thirst, so for once, oh Cupbearer, give us as much wine as we can drink! (That is, change the amount of wine.) =Oh Cupbearer, you know we always show more capacity and excellence as a drinker than you do as a drink-provider-- aren't you ashamed? For once, see if you can do your job properly! (That is, change the Cupbearer's performance.) =Normally we don't care much about wine, we just casually drink it to whatever extent somebody happens to provide it for us. Oh Cupbearer, see if you can arouse our relish a little more than this! (That is, change the drinker's mood.) In all these cases, the drinker can be addressing any Cupbearer. For a further touch of piquancy, we can imagine each of the three as addressed to the Beloved in particular, as the Cupbearer par excellence. And for a final set of complexities, we can imagine each of those three complaints as addressed to the Beloved, about the Cupbearer: 'the ordinary Cupbearer's performance is inadequate; won't you please do a better job yourself?'. The real Ghalibian twist is the exquisitely clever phrasing of jis qadar mile . To say 'I drink wine to whatever extent it happens to be available' may express, in English as in Urdu, either the flat-out desperation of a drunkard (who is talking about the amount of the wine), or the casual indifference of the non-drinker who only takes a glass out of social courtesy (who is talking about the occasions for drinking).

{159,4} tujh se to kuchh kalaam nahii;N lekin ay nadiim meraa salaam kahyo agar naamah-bar mile 1) there's no 'word' against you, but, oh friend, 2) give him my greetings, if you see the Messenger

Notes: kalaam : 'Word, speech, discourse; a complete sentence or proposition; composition, work; --disputation; anything said (or to be said); against, objection, question'. (Platts p.841) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1864:] This theme requires some introduction. That is, the poet needed a Messenger. But he feared that the Messenger might fall in love with the beloved. One friend of this lover's brought a person, and told the lover, 'this man is steadfast and highly trustworthy; I vouch for him, that he won’t play such a trick'. Well, a letter was sent through his hand. As fate would have it, the lover’s suspicion proved true. The messenger, seeing the addressee, became distracted and crazed with love. What letter, what answer? He went mad, tore his clothing, set out for the wilderness. Now the lover, after this event has happened, says to his friend, God knows the hidden; what does anyone know about what’s inside anyone else? Oh my friend, there's nothing said against you. But if you see the Messenger anywhere, then give him my greetings: 'well, sir, after making such a number of claims of not becoming a lover, you became one; and indeed, what was the result?'. (Arshi 312) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 4, p. 1514 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 302 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 269

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Nazm: I have no complaint against you, but convey to the Messenger my complaintmixed greetings. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh friend, we have no great complaint or grievance against you. Although indeed, the Messenger whose praises you sang so loudly, and who claimed as he set off that he would certainly bring a reply to the letter-- so far he hasn't shown his face, and out of shame he's gone into hiding somewhere. If you meet him, then give him my greetings. The meaning is, complain against him a little, and make him embarrassed. (228)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh companion, I have no complaint against you; but indeed, if you meet the Messenger, then give him my greetings. That is, 'if the beloved gave no answer, then why did you flee from me? Bravo! You carried out my task very well!' (306)

FWP: SETS == WORD WRITING: {7,3} This is what I call a 'word' verse, in which the multiple meanings of some one single word energize and unify the whole verse. Here the word is obviously kalaam , which is positioned with fine flair right in the middle of the first line. In a verse about trust and untrustworthiness, about written letters and oral messages, about complaints and greetings, every single meaning and overtone of kalaam works beautifully, and enhances our enjoyment of the verse. It's also a verse of implication, and we're fortunate to have Ghalib himself explain what he means (with unusual intricacy) to imply. In his carefully detailed explication, Ghalib refers first to 'the poet', then later to 'the lover', in a way that completely identifies them with each other. His third-person references also make it entirely clear that neither one of these abstract personages is to be identified with himself. Ghalib does not explain his prominent wordplay with kalaam . Why not? My theory: because his correspondent is not a leading light of literary subtlety, and has been having (the usual?) trouble getting any sense out of the verse (or out of several others, including the not-so-difficult {115,6}). Ghalib good-naturedly gives him the 'meaning' that he's asked for, but doesn't feel obliged to provide an exhaustive discussion. In only one of the four verses explained in that letter ({62,9}) does he discuss the wordplay; and indeed that one is so simple there's not much else to discuss.

{159,5} tum ko bhii ham dikhaa))e;N kih majnuu;N ne kyaa kiyaa fur.sat kashaakash-e ;Gam-e pinhaa;N se gar mile 1) to you too we would show what Majnun did 2) if we would get leisure from the tension of hidden grief

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if grief would not so grip us, then we too, like Majnun, would go out into the desert. (171)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we would have showed you to what extent Majnun-- that is, Qais-advanced the cause of lover-ship, but the constraint is that hidden grief, out of modesty and fear of disgrace, seizes us and draws us back, and forbids us to go out to the wilderness. (228)

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Bekhud Mohani: We too, in madness would have set out for the wilderness, and would not have proved inferior to Majnun. But we're helpless-- hidden grief does not let us stir. That is, if there weren't the fear of the secret of passion becoming revealed, then we too would be the Majnun of our time. The phrase 'hidden grief' testifies to this meaning. (306)

FWP: The clever bhii in that little phrase 'to you too' at once makes it clear that either (1) we have shown this to other people already, so that our credentials for Majnun-ship are not in doubt; or that (2) you would see it the way Laila saw what Majnun did, so that you are a Laila, and we are a Majnun. (Or, of course, both.) What exactly prevents us from showing you what Majnun did? The second line actually offers an unresolvable number of possibilities: =a lack of 'leisure': what Majnun did was rather trivial, and we're busy with more important pursuits. =a 'tension' [kashaakash], literally a 'pulling back and forth': Majnun was able to break the tension and simply run off into the wilderness, but we're engaged in an inner struggle much more complex than his. =a 'grief': Majnun had the energy and vitality to run all around in the desert, but our grief is so much deeper and more deadly that we're not even able to move. =a 'hidden' grief: Majnun made a rather naive, childish display of himself, since he lacked the fortitude to control his behavior; but we are stronger and more enduring. (Compare {100,4}.) This is one of a group of what I call 'snide remarks about famous lovers'; for more on these, see {100,4}. This verse also reminds me of {5,5}, in its dismissive, shrug-of-the-shoulders attitude toward mere outward theatrics.

{159,6} laazim nahii;N kih ;xi.zr kii ham pairavii kare;N jaanaa kih ik buzurg hame;N ham-safar mile 1) it's not necessary that we would follow in Khizr's footsteps 2) we considered that we had acquired one venerable-elder as a fellowtraveler

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, our rank too, as a traveler on the Sufi path [martabah-e suluuk], is not a bit less than that of Khizr. (172)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on the Sufi path we are equal to Khizr, but on the path of instruction we want to take lessons from him. Therefore we consider him a venerable elder. But we fall short of following in his footsteps. In this verse Mirza Sahib's mischievousness of temperament is manifest. (228)

Bekhud Mohani: It's not incumbent upon us to follow in Hazrat Khizr's footsteps. If we meet Khizr along the way, then we consider that a venerable elder has become our fellow-traveler. That is, in the True Path, we are not less than Khizr. (308)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Khizr is, according to tradition, a guide to wanderers and the lost. So to say that we don't need to follow him is to strike a typically Ghalibian note of independence. But it's the second line that adds the wonderful touch of patronizing non-recognition. Not only don't we need to follow Khizr as a

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valuable guide-- we also don't even need to know who he is, and apparently don't know. So when he turns up along the road, we just think, 'oh, there's some [ek] elderly gentlemen who's a fellow-traveller'. The phrasing makes it appear that we're already on the road, already going in our chosen direction, and Khizr just happens to turn up and join the party. It's also quite possible that he's following us-- and that could equally well be why, as the first line points out, it's not necessary for us to follow him. The wordplay is also a treat: pairavii , jaanaa (which also, cleverly, means 'to go'), and ham-safar mesh together enjoyably.

{159,7} ay saakinaan-e kuuchah-e dildaar dekhnaa tum ko kahii;N jo ;Gaalib-e aashuftah-sar mile 1) oh dwellers in the street of the heart-possessor, keep an eye out-2) in case you {anywhere / by any chance} run into Ghalib with the disordered head

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The utterance is, if you happen to run into Ghalib there, then look out for him. And the meaning is, keep in mind that Ghalib might perhaps be there. Because of jo , this meaning does not emerge from the utterance. The word jo makes it conditional, and the conditional is not intended. [Further discussion of this in terms of Urdu grammar.] (172)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh dwellers in the way of the Sufi path [suluuk], if you run into Ghalib of the disordered head, then revere him, and look at what a lofty rank he holds in his emotional state. The street in which you've thrown together your hut and settled-- with what detachment he passes through it! (229)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh dwellers in the street of the beloved, if you run into Ghalib of the crazed head anywhere, then take note. That is, nowadays the state of his madness is worth seeing. [Or:] Nowadays Ghalib's craziness had increased, there's no sign of him anywhere. It's possible that his madness might have taken him toward the wilderness, but after wandering around he'll come back right here. We're anxious about his being lost. (306-07)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The really provocative question, the unanswered and unanswerable one, is just why the dwellers in the beloved's street are being enjoined to look out for Ghalib. One obvious scenario: he's a sick man, he needs care, he's wandered off somewhere, if you find him be sure to report him to the authorities and get help for him. Another, of course: watch out, he's insane, he rips his clothes off, he's drunk all the time, he's quite mad, who knows what treatment you might receive from him? The maximally inshaa))iyah structure of the verse gives us not a clue as to how to choose between them; and of course, they're not mutually exclusive. As Bekhud Mohani points out, no matter what his condition, the one sure thing is that sooner or later he'll turn up in the beloved's street. The commentators do a Sufi-path reading, but there aren't any special grounds for it. For another look at the 'disordered head', see {201,9}.

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Ghazal 160 6 verses; meter G14; rhyming elements: aanii aur hai composed after 1847; Hamid p. 129; Arshi #213; Raza pp. 294-95

{160,1} ko))ii din gar zindagaanii aur hai apne jii me;N ham ne ;Thaanii aur hai 1) if for some few more days there is more life 2) in our inner-self we have resolved/decided something else

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1864:] There's no difficulty in this. The words are the meaning. Why should the poet tell his purpose, and what he will do? Mysteriously he says, I will do something. God knows whether he will become a Faqir and make his abode in the city, or on the outskirts of the city; or leave the country and go off to another country. (Arshi 313) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 4, p. 1514, omits it; Mihr, Khutut-e Ghalib, vol. 2, p. 739, includes it ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 302 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 270

Nazm: The excellence of the construction and the pleasure of the idiom have carried this verse along; otherwise, someone like Ghalib is not unaware that 'to keep a private matter to oneself alone' [jii kii baat jii hii me;N rakhnaa] is called [in Arabic] 'meaning internal to the poet' [al-ma((nii fi))l-baa:tin ashshaa((ir]. From this verse one ought to take the lesson that for the sake of beauty of construction and pleasure of language, the elders accept even weakness of meaning. (172)

Bekhud Mohani: If we would live for some days more, then we will not seek to renounce love.... From jii me;N ham ne ;Thaanii aur hai we learn that he feels ashamed to express the thought of renouncing love, and feels regret. And from this another matter emerges as well-- that he also doesn't express his intention because perhaps the renunciation of love might not be able to take place, and people would sneer: 'You used to say this!'. (307)

FWP: SETS == AUR; FILL-IN How pleasant to have such a sophisticated analysis from the poet himself! The whole point, as Ghalib notes, is that the lover is muttering dark threats, and not making them explicit. Very possibly he himself doesn't know what he's planning to do, but people often comfort themselves by muttering ominous but vague threats (often safely under their breath). This is also a textbook case of clever use of the two meanings of aur : in the first line it means 'more of the same', in the second line it means 'something quite different'. Our pleasure in this combination of identity (the same word) and diametrical opposition (the meanings) is a real part of the delight of the verse. Nazm's complaint about 'private meanings' echoes the one he makes in {1,1}, but in the case of this verse it seems to be slightly less severe. Is it based on grammatical misuse of the idioms involving jii , or is he chastizing

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Ghalib for refusing to reveal his intentions? The nature of his complaint seems a bit obscure.

{160,2} aatish-e doza;x me;N yih garmii kahaa;N soz-e ;Gamhaa-e nihaanii aur hai 1) in the fire of Hell, where is this heat?! 2) the burning of {hidden griefs / the griefs of concealment} is something else

Notes: doza;x : 'Hell; -- (met.) the belly'. (Platts p.533) nihaanii : 'Secret; private;... clandestine; ... s.f. Concealment; --a secret; -andaam-e nihaanii, s.m. The private parts'. (Platts p.1162) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1860:] These days pass badly for me. In the heat my state is exactly that of animals who drink water with their tongues-- especially in this July, since there's a crowd of griefs and anxieties [;Gam o hamm kaa hujuum]: {160,2}. (Arshi 313) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 990-91 == another translation: Daud Rahbar, p. 181

Nazm: Instead of kahaa;N the word nahii;N could also have come, but in that case the sentence would have been 'informative' [;xabariyah], and now the negative rhetorical question [istifihaam-e inkaarii] has made it inshaa))iyah . And inshaa is better than 'information' [;xabar]. (172)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how could this heat fall to the lot of the fire of hell! The burning of hidden grief is something other. The meaning is that the burning of brief is even harsher than the torment of hell. (229)

Bekhud Mohani: Yes, yes, there's indeed a lot of heat in the fire of hell. But how would it have the heat of the sorrow of the grief of the heart? This verse is based upon the natural law that man considers the present difficulty to be harsher than all the difficulties in the world. (307)

FWP: Nazm puts it succinctly and well. But is that all that's going on? Is the verse really so limited and basic? Perhaps the two readings of ;Gamhaa-e nihaanii are meant to be experienced as interestingly and enjoyably different: on one reading, the heat of the fire of Hell is being contrasted with the heat of our own private griefs; on the other reading, the public openness of the sufferings of Hell is being contrasted with the sufferings caused by the need for discreet 'concealment' of our condition. Maybe we should consider it a mushairah verse, in which the withholding of the key word nihaanii until the last possible moment delays interpretation in a satisfying manner. I don't know whether the idiomatic sense of doza;x as 'belly' (because it's so 'hellish' when not satisfied), and the relationship of nihaanii to 'private parts', are meant to occur to us as forms of wordplay, or not.

{160,3} baar-haa dekhii hai;N un kii ranjishe;N par kuchh ab ke sar-garaanii aur hai

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1) a number of times I've seen her indignations/grievances 2) but this time the dissatisfaction/arrogance is somewhat-- something else

Notes: ranjish : 'Grief, &c. (=ranj); indignation, offence; unpleasantness, coolness. (Platts p.600) sar-garaanii : 'Heaviness of the head from intoxication, headache, cropsickness; stupidity; dissatisfaction; pride, arrogance' (Platts p.648) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: From the claims of an excess of love, the illusion has come about that the anger of the present time is greater than that of all other times. (172)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the suspicion of the excess of love is a frightful thing. Although a number of times a quarrel with her has taken place, and then mutual reconciliation has occurred, this time I believe that now there will be no reunion with her. (229)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover is speaking to his heart, that she often becomes angry, but this time there's such anger that there's no hope of reunion again. (It's possible that the indignation itself would be such, or that it would be merely an illusion). (307)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN There's some manuscript variation in this verse; some editions (including Hamid) have ab kii instead of ab ke . Both are grammatical (the latter is like the generalized adverbial usage in un ke tiin be;Tiyaa;N hai;N ). As always, I follow Arshi. How wonderfully ominous a verse-- and also, how shrewdly ambiguous. The best horror, after all, is invoked indirectly, by hints, and ominous Noises Off. What is she angry about? How does he recognize that this time is different? Is this time in fact different, or is her anger always so apocalyptic that this time is really no worse than usual? (As the commentators point out, the lover's tunnel vision and paranoia might be at work.) The tone of judiciousness is part of the ominousness; the tone seems to be simply, flatly, recognizing some irrevocable disaster. It's already too late to avert the calamity, if indeed it could ever have been averted at all. The colloquialness of the kuchh complements the 'inexpressibility trope' of the aur -- no words can be found for what's going on now, it's simply something different from what's ever happened before. Luckily, in English the idiomatic 'something else' almost works ('The scene she created was really something else!').

{160,4} de ke ;xa:t mu;Nh dekhtaa hai naamah-bar kuchh to pai;Gaam-e zabaanii aur hai 1) having given the letter, the Messenger watches the face/mouth 2a) there is something of an oral message that is {additional / something else} 2b) an oral message is, after all, in a class by itself

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, she has spoken and sent some abuses as well, which the Messenger hesitates to repeat. (172)

1146

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the Messenger gave her letter to me, but from looking at his face it is clear that she has sent some message orally as well, and it is such that in repeating it the Messenger's tongue is unwilling to move. It seems that she's sent some abuses along with the letter. Mirza Sahib's mischievousness and humor certainly shows its gleams in every ghazal. (229-30)

Bekhud Mohani: It can also be that after the secret of love becoming revealed, the lover insistently sends a letter to the beloved expressing his love, and in the letter he writes, 'come to us, we are restless'. And from this the lover's disgrace or pain or murder is intended. (307-08)

FWP: SETS == AUR WRITING: {7,3} This is another one of those little Ghalibian delights, so irreducibly simple and yet so juicy with multiple possibilities. The Messenger has just delivered the letter. Now he is watching the recipient's face (or more literally, and perhaps more relevantly, 'mouth')-- and why? Perhaps because (1) he's preparing to announce that an extra oral message that has been sent along with the letter-- one which is 'additional'. Or perhaps because (2) the oral message he's about to deliver is dire and dreadful in some way, and he hesitates to inflict it without preparation-- it's a message that is 'something else'.) Or perhaps because (3) he expects the recipient of the letter to send (in addition no doubt to a written reply) an oral message, and is waiting to hear what it might be. And then, of course, who is the sender, and who the recipient? The verse carefully doesn't tell us, and it carefully arranges the ambiguities so that the Messenger could be looking at the face of either lover or beloved, and conveying (or preparing to convey) a message from either one of them to the other. Moreover, the clever grammar of the second line means that it can be read as (1) something thought by the Messenger about the immediate situation; or (2) something observed or imagined by the lover about the immediate situation; or (3) a general reflection by the poet about the special, unique nature of oral messages (2b). The Messenger delivers the letter, and then just stands there, watching your face. It's as multivalently ominous as the phone ringing in the middle of the night. This simple-looking little verse generates huge velocities of suggestiveness-- it harnesses the power of implication, which means that it can draw its high-octane fuel right out of our imagination.

{160,5} qaa:ta((-e a((maar hai;N ak;sar nujuum vuh balaa-e aasmaanii aur hai 1) {very often / a large number of} stars are cutters-off of lives 2) that celestial disaster is something else

Notes: a((maar is the plural of ((umr . ak;sar can be either adjectival or adverbial. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, from the wandering of the stars time is marked off [qa:t((a]; and from the time being marked off, lifetimes keep being marked off. But this effect is very weak. Here, the celestial disaster that I've become involved with-- she/he/it is forceful fate itself. (173)

1147

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a number of stars are such that lifetimes become cut off through them, but here that celestial disaster with whom I've become involved-- in comparison to those inauspicious stars, she/he/it wields the power of forceful fate. (230)

Bekhud Mohani: From the movements of the stars, too, lifetimes are cut off. But that celestial disaster with whom I've taken up-- she/he/it is forceful fate. That is, feeling a passion for her, to remain alive is impossible. He has called the beloved a sky-disaster because he considers her some sort of lofty creature like the Houris of Paradise. (308)

FWP: The idea that the heavens have a role to play in our lives is as old as astrology; evil stars or dangerous planetary conjunctions are poetically thought to threaten all sorts of dire happenings. In that astrological sense, evil stars and planets may 'send down' troubles upon us. Thus disasters are very commonly imagined in the ghazal world as descending from the sky. See for example {14,8}, which actually seems to make the stars observers of some kind (though it's not clear whether they exercise any control) as the streams of disasters come pouring down. The lover certainly seems to be calling the beloved a balaa-e aasmaanii , literally a disaster that is 'sky-related'. This might mean a disaster that descends from the sky; but it could also mean a disaster that pertains to the sky because it dwells or remains there; think for example of {27,8}, in which the sight of the sky reminds the lover of the infinitely powerful, and infinitely remote, beloved. And comparing the stars invidiously to the beloved suggests that her rank, grandeur, radiance, cold glitter, inaccessibility, etc. far surpass theirs. It's also a bit chilling to see how easily the lover dismisses the mere 'cuttingoff of lives' that stars generally do. How incomparably much more deadly and cruel and tyrannical that beloved must be, who can be described only as 'other' or as 'something else'. Once again Ghalib harnesses the power of implication, and forces our own imagination to do much of the poetic work of the verse.

{160,6} ho chukii;N ;Gaalib balaa))e;N sab tamaam ek marg-e naagahaanii aur hai 1) all the disasters, Ghalib, have already become completed 2a) there is one sudden-misfortune death more 2b) one sudden-misfortune death is something else

Notes: naagahaanii : 'A sudden misfortune'. (Platts p.1117) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1861:] Why even ask about the epidemic? In the quiver of the skilful archer Fate, there was only this one arrow left. The slaughter was so general, the looting so severe, famine so major-- why wouldn't there be an epidemic [too]? The Tongue of the Unseen [i.e., Ghalib himself] said ten years ago: {160,6}. My friend, the matter of the year 1277 A.H. [or 1860/1, which Ghalib had predicted as the year of his own death] was not wrong, but I didn't consider it worthy of me to die in a common epidemic. Really, it would have diminished my glory. After this turmoil is over, we'll see about it. (Arshi 313-14)

1148

==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 529-30 ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 258

Ghalib: [c.1867:] Due to events of the time and diseases of the body, I'm only halfalive. In this transitory serai I'm a guest of only a few days: {160,6}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 828

Nazm: Here by marg-e naagahaanii is meant not 'sudden death', but rather that when death comes, it is unexpected-- after all, from saying 'death' it doesn't just come. (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, all the difficulties you had to confront in life have worked themselves out and are finished. Now there's remained only one more 'sudden-misfortune death'. Death doesn't come just from saying 'death'. There's no telling when it would come. It will certainly come, and will attack without prior warning; I am always waiting for it. (230)

Bekhud Mohani: [In response to Nazm's commentary:] The Lord knows why a 'suddenmisfortune' death would not be meant. It's also not true [to say that death comes unexpectedly], because many diseases and conditions are such that the sick person knows beforehand not the day or date, but that now he would die. (308)

FWP: SETS == AUR A ghazal with a refrain of aur is a natural place to exploit the ambiguities of aur , and this verse follows {160,1} and {160,4} in taking advantage of the built-in opportunity. Thus if we take aur to mean 'more, additional', as in (2a), then we're just adding up the list of disasters that has constituted our life: this one is over, that one has done its worst, and so on-- oh, come to think of it, there's one more coming, death, and then that really will be the end. The word 'one' thus contributes to the arithmetical sense of adding them all up. And if we take aur to mean 'something else', as in (2b), then we're making a category distinction. All the disasters are already over. This means that death is either (1) a disaster of such utter magnitude that it requires a whole new word or concept to capture it; or else (2) not a disaster at all, but something else-- maybe even a blessing, or a welcome release, or a sufistic union with the beloved, or something else that 'doesn't count' in the tally of disasters. On this reading, the word 'one' emphasizes the singularity and unique status of the marg-e naagahaanii that's yet to come.

Ghazal 161 10 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: ar nahii;N aatii composed after 1847; Hamid p. 130; Arshi #214; Raza p. 295

{161,1} ko))ii ummiid bar nahii;N aatii ko))ii .suurat na:zar nahii;N aatii 1) no hope comes to fulfillment 2) no aspect/prospect/face/form comes into view

Notes: .suurat : 'Form, fashion, figure, shame, senblance, guise; appearance, aspect; face, countenance; prospect, probability; sign, indication'. (Platts p.747)

1149

*Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: That the pride of inventiveness of the age, a friend like Maulana Fazl-e Haq, should die, and the half-dead Ghalib should remain half-alive! : {161,9}; {161,3}. If I were young and sick, then I would want from you a prayer for health. I’ve become an old man of eighty years. I’m in hopes of a prayer for merciful release! Wine, the wretched thing, even now can't be left behind. Even now I don't have the habit of doing the prayers: {161,4}; {161,10}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 832 ==on the dating of this letter see Mihr, Khutut, vol. 2, p. 919

Ghalib: [1862:] I'm having to worry about camphor and shroud-- that tyrant is in search of poetry! If I were alive, then why wouldn't I myself come there? Remove this much of the trouble from me-- compose some verses in that ground, and send them to me. I'll give correction and send them along. 'The sceptre of a pir, is proper for a pir' [((a.saa-e piir bajaa-e piir]. By God, my poetry in Hindi or Persian-- nothing of it is in my possession. Previously whatever was present in my memory, I wrote down and sent along. Now whatever has come to mind, I write: [two Persian ghazals; then seven verses of this ghazal-- {161:1, 3, 2, 7, 4, 8, 10}; then six verses of {191}: {191:1, 2, 5, 8, 4, 9}.] ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 392-93 ==A reproduction of this letter: *Routes*

Nazm: That is, no 'aspect/prospect' of the fulfillment of hope. (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, no aspect/prospect of the achievement of hope is visible at all. Life is passing in failure and despair. (230)

Bekhud Mohani: No hope of ours is fulfilled, and not only is it not fulfilled today, but rather in the future too no aspect/prospect of its fulfillment can be seen. (309)

Arshi: This ghazal was also printed in the 'Ashraf ul-akhabar' [ashraf ul-a;xaabar] (Delhi) 1,7 (1 December 1866). (314)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY How can the commentators be satisfied with such a bland, prosaic meaning? The wordplay with .suurat screams out for attention. (For another verse that does exactly the same trick with .suurat , with the same force and seeming 'simplicity', see {189,9}.) On their reading, the two lines are parallel, and both describe the same condition of despair: no hope is fulfilled, no prospect of success is visible. But of course, the first line might describe a general condition, and the second line might offer a particular, even a crucial or preeminent, example of it. No hope is fulfilled: that is to say, no face/form is to be seen; the use of 'to come into view' [na:zar aanaa] surely invites us to consider an actual physical object of sight. The hope was for a sight of the beloved's adorable face or form-- a very modest, rock-bottom hope. The hope was not even for a meeting, much less for union with the beloved. It was for the least possible desire of the lover-- and even then, it is destined to remain unfulfilled. Since the two readings are far from mutually exclusive, the sense of .suurat must oscillate back and forth, helplessly and hopelessly, between naming a general lack (of any aspect or prospect of hope), and naming an all too specific lack (of a sight of her face or form) which is also the most plausible content of the general lack. After all, this is just how the lover's own mind moves, and how his life passes away.

1150

{161,2} maut kaa ek din mu((ayyan hai nii;Nd kyuu;N raat bhar nahii;N aatii 1) one day of death is decreed 2) why does sleep not come, the whole night?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: During the night of separation, if death doesn't come then it has an excuse, for it's impossible that there would be delay and postponement in the time that has already been decreed for its coming. But what happened to sleep, that it doesn't come all night, night after night? (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for death, one day has already been decreed. Until that day comes, how can death come? But during the night of separation, what happens to sleep? It's not that wretched death, to be bound by the fixing of some special day for its coming. Why does it (that is, sleep), not come, night after night, during the whole night of separation? (230)

Bekhud Mohani: Has that wretched sleep too become that wretched death? [Or:] From fear of death, sleep has taken flight. He explains to his heart that after all, what's the benefit of this fretting? Death can't be postponed, one day is fixed for it. That is, when death can't be postponed, then to be anxious is contrary to wisdom and courage. (309)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} This is one of those very simple-looking verses that can be read with various emphases, such that its meaning runs through a gamut of possibilities: =ONE day of death is decreed, so why no sleep all night, night after night? =one DAY of death is decreed, so why worry at night? =one day of DEATH is decreed, so if I will get that, why can't I get its cousin, sleep? =one day of death is DECREED, so why bother losing sleep over it? Could there possibly be a better example of creating maximal effects from minimal means?

{161,3} aage aatii thii ;haal-e dil pah ha;Nsii ab kisii baat par nahii;N aatii 1) before, laughter used to come at the state of the heart 2a) now it doesn't come at anything 2b) now it comes at nothing

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This is a verse that even Mir ought to envy. Under what a rubric he's presented sorrow of the temperament, and how excellently he's presented a commentary on it! (173)

Bekhud Mohani: We never laughed very much. Indeed, sometimes we laughed at the heart's restlessnesses, the heart's anxieties, the heart's unheard-of yearnings. But now sorrow has reached such a limit that we don't laugh at anything. (309)

1151

Faruqi: Here apparently there's no [special] point. But suddenly it becomes clear that the meaning of the second line can also be that now laughter comes at nothing, or rather, at the matter of silence. Now this verse seems to be based on the theme of madness and mental defect, rather than despair and sorrow. Because of this specialty of Ghalib's, it's very difficult to make a selection of his poetry. -- S. R. Faruqi, ;Gaalib par chaar ta;hriire;N (New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 2001), p. 61

FWP: This is another brilliantly simple verse that works by implication. We used to laugh at the state of the heart-- why then do we now not laugh at anything? =because the state of the heart used to amuse us, but now the heart's state is now so grim that it's not amusing any more =because the heart is now gone completely, having melted into a pool of blood, so it's not there to laugh at any more =because nothing else is as bleakly funny as the heart used to be in its heyday, so we have no other cause to laugh now that the heart's not so amusing =because we're now too depressed and grief-stricken to laugh at all =because now we're almost catatonic and no longer respond to stimuli Or, to adopt Faruqi's clever reading, because now we laugh at nothing-- that is, we've gone mad.

{161,4} jaantaa huu;N ;savaab-e :taa((at-o-zuhd par :tabii((at idhar nahii;N aatii 1) I know the religious merit of obedience and piety 2) but my temperament doesn't incline this way

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Azad: [To illustrate Ghalib's lack of self-pity and his lively sense of humor, Azad quotes from one of his letters to Majruh:] 'Mir Mahdi, you’ve forgotten my habits. In the auspicious month of Ramazan, have I ever missed the late night prayer at the Jama Masjid? How could I have stayed in Rampur during this month? The Navab Sahib [of Rampur] didn’t want me to leave, and kept dissuading me at great length. He kept tempting me with the mangoes of the rainy season. But my friend, I came away in such a manner that I reached here on the night of the new moon. Sunday was the first day of the holy month. Since that day, every morning I go to the mosque of Hamid 'Ali Khan and hear Maulvi Ja'far 'Ali Sahib reciting the Qur'an. At night, I go to the Jam› Masjid and offer the late-night prayer. Sometimes when I feel like it, at the time of the breaking of the fast I go to Mahtab Garden-- I break my fast, and drink the cool air. Bravo, bravo! -- in what a good way my life passes! Now listen to the true state of affairs. I had taken the boys with me. There they gave me no peace. I was afraid that if I sent them alone, and, God forbid, some accident happened on the road, the reproach would remain for my whole life. For this reason, I came away quickly.' From the first of Ramazan to this point, it is all tongue in cheek. Because all the things in these phrases are ones from which Mirza would run a mile. And this letter was written after the Rebellion [of 1857]. At that time, in Delhi these things had become mere dreams and fantasies. ==Urdu text: Azad, pp. 491-92 ==English trans.: Pritchett and Faruqi, p. 401

1152

Nazm: To merely know the excellence of obedience and piety is not enough, as long as there is not grace from that direction. (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I know that piety and worship are religious merit, and I'm well aware of the excellence of both these things. But my temperament is not inclined in that direction-- what can be done? The meaning is that until God Most High gives grace, man cannot do any virtuous action. (231)

Bekhud Mohani: To some Advisor, or to his heart, he says, it's not that I'm unaware of the religious merit of worship and abstinence-- but alas, what can I do? I know everything, but my heart doesn't want it. (309)

Arshi: Compare {118,3}. (248)

FWP: Should it be idhar , or udhar ? Arshi doesn't give us a reading. Hamid chooses idhar , and that makes sense, because it goes well with the use of aanaa . You'd think the more biographically-minded commentators would be all over this one, since it presents itself as a direct, unequivocal statement, in the first person singular, and it also corresponds very well to what we know about Ghalib's life. In the letter quoted by Azad above, for example, Ghalib first fantasizes for himself an impeccable kind of religious behavior, then brushes it away in a single sentence ('Now listen to the true state of affairs'). Apparently the idea of such pious behavior from him is so absurd in itself as both to amuse Majruh, and to require no explicit labeling of the kind that Azad felt it necessary to provide for the benefit of those who didn't know Ghalib the way Majruh did. See also Ghalib's own letter quoted in {161,1}. Not one of the commentators I've looked at has a single word to say about the 'natural poetry' possibilities of this particular verse! But by the same token, I don't have much to say along those lines either, since the ghazal is so profoundly un-autobiographical on the whole that the game of ferreting out and labeling a few subjectively-chosen verses as 'true' or 'genuine' is a fool's errand. Once the accord between this verse and passages from his letters has been pointed out, the commentator's job is done. (The biographer's job is another project entirely.) Since the first line makes it clear that the first-person speaker does know the religious merit of properly pious behavior, the second line can imply either (1) that I'm distraught at my inability to practice what I know to be virtuous behavior (the line should then be read in a tone of frustration and selfreproach); or (2) that I basically don't give a damn (the line should then be recited languidly, punctuated with a yawn).

{161,5} hai kuchh aisii hii baat jo chup huu;N varnah kyaa baat kar nahii;N aatii 1a) it's somewhat of a certain kind of matter, such that I'm silent 1b) it's just a casual/happenstance thing, that I'm silent 2) otherwise-- don't I know how to talk?

Notes: aise hii : 'Just so, precisely; --as if, as though, so to speak; --accidentally, casually; without motive or reason (= yuu;N hii )'. (Platts p.113) *Platts Dictionary Online*

1153

Nazm: That is, don't cause me to say it-- it's best to remain silent. The intent is a complaint, and through fear of disgrace the beloved forbids it. (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's better that you don't cause me to say it-- don't just casually cause disgrace to yourself. The meaning is that I've learned those secret matters, to speak of which raises the fear of disgrace. (231)

Bekhud Mohani: I know how to speak, but the matter itself is so secret that to say something is to be killed at once. If the background of the looting of Delhi and the destruction of the royal family is kept in mind, then the interpretation of this verse is significant. (310)

Arshi: The idiom [baat kar nahii;N aatii] is also present in Mir Muhammad 'Asar' Dihlavi. He says (Divan, p. 38): ;haal-e dil mi;sl-e sham((a raushan hai go mujhe baat kar nahii;N aatii [the state of the heart, like a candle, is illumined although I don't know how to talk] (314)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN How determined the commentators are about assigning a particular context to that first line! Bekhud Mohani even seems to feel that it involves buried treasure or some Lost Secret of the Mughals, despite the fact that it was more probably composed before 1857. But in savoring the obvious, in-your-face ambiguity, I have Ghalib on my side, for this is a case much like the one he defends in {160,1}. To paraphrase him slightly, 'The words are the meaning. Why should the poet tell his purpose, and what he knows? Mysteriously he says, I will say nothing.' Exactly, and QED. The first line perfectly captures the deliberately vague way that people allude to things when they want to suggest a vast, unrevealable mysteryand tantalize their audience, while giving nothing away. But there's another, and piquantly opposite, way to read the first line as well: as a claim of casual happenstance, randomness, something with no particular meaning (2b); see the definition above. Platts's definition compares the expression specifically to yuu;N hii -- and in {111,16} we can see how there too the verse takes full advantage of both possibilities: the specifying ('like this') and the emphatically non-specifying (just somehow, for no particular reason, 'like this'-- said with an implied shrug of the shoulders). And for dessert, we have the enjoyable interlinear wordplay: the first line features baat ('matter, affair') and chup honaa ('to be silent'); while the second line provides baat karnaa ('to speak'), which most cleverly speaks to (sorry, sorry!) them both. And finally, how can we forget that the person who's saying 'don't I know how to talk?' is, in at least some sense, Ghalib himself, one of the supreme word-framers in the language. There's an extra little frisson of pleasure in that awareness.

{161,6} kyuu;N nah chii;xuu;N kih yaad karte hai;N mirii aavaaz gar nahii;N aatii 1) why would I not scream? for she calls me to mind 2) if my voice does not come

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

1154

Nazm: That is, the beloved obtains pleasure from my lamentation. If I fall silent for a little while, she becomes irritated and incites me to sighs and groans. (173)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my beloved considers my lamentation a means for her fame; for this reason she obtains a kind of pleasure from my complaints. If I become silent, then she says to people, 'a madman used to sit near my house-- today his voice doesn't come; perhaps he might have gone off somewhere'. For this reason, I always scream, night and day. (231)

Bekhud Mohani: She gets pleasure from my complaint and lamentation. As soon as I fall silent, she begins to ask, 'what's happened to Ghalib-- for some time his voice hasn't been coming'. (310)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 This is a consummate 'catch-22' verse. (You can't visit Major Major Major Major when he's in, you can only visit him when he's out.) She pays no attention to my voice when it is there, but only notices my voice when it's not there. So how can I ever reach her, how can I ever communicate? It's enough to make anybody scream with frustration-- so why wouldn't I scream? I scream with despair, because she only hears my scream when it stops. The commentators mostly prefer another reading: I scream in obedience, because she enjoys listening to me scream, and gets irritated with me if I don't. My scream of anguish and frustration is music to her ears. (Compare {8,3}, in which she enjoys the bloody writhing of her wounded lovers the way others enjoy the sight of flowers.) There's no contradiction here; both readings can easily coexist. It's also worth noting that yaad karnaa is much more active than yaad aanaa : it has a sense of deliberateness and volition. In story literature, when a king sends for somebody, the messenger always says, hu;zuur ne tumhe;N yaad farmaayaa , 'His Excellency has called you to mind', because the king's thinking of you is tantamount to a command for you to appear before him at once. So there's this implication too: she never 'calls me to mind', thus summoning me to her presence, unless I fall silent. But how can I fall silent? I can't help but scream with despair, because she never 'calls me to mind' or summons me to her presence or pays me the least attention-- unless I stop screaming. And yet my scream is my best (and only) hope of making my voice heard! What's the good of being summoned into her presence anyway, if I can't speak or scream? It's enough to make anybody scream! So the catch-22 effect is always lurking in the interpretive background.

{161,7} daa;G-e dil gar na:zar nahii;N aataa buu bhii ay chaarah-gar nahii;N aatii 1) if the wound in the heart doesn't come into view 2a) doesn't, oh healer, at least the smell come? 2b) neither, oh healer, does the smell come

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the second line is a rhetorical question, and reproach of the incomprehension of the healer. (174)

1155

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh healer, I agree that the wound of my heart is veiled, that is, it is hidden within my breast, so that you can't see it. But, oh wretch, is your nose closed, that you don't even smell the aroma of its burning? With my breath, the scent of a kabob is coming, and you can't smell it, and deny that the heart is a kabob. In the second line is a rhetorical question. (231)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab Shaukat says, 'The second line will probably be like this: buu bhii kyaa chaarah-gar nahii;N aatii '. How is kyaa more eloquent than ay ? In ay the appearance and expression of blame begins to be seen. (310)

Josh: He reproaches the healer's incomprehension. In the wound of the heart there is burning. From burning or fire meat [gosht] burns; the smell of the burning meat always arises. Thus he says with irritation to the healer, if you can't see the sorrow-wound in my heart, can't you even smell it? Only from the smell can you estimate the nature and existence of the wound of the heart. (280)

Chishti: If you can't see the wound of the heart, then don't you at least smell the burnt meat [gosht]? (680)

Mihr: The result of the wound can be that the meat [gosht] would burn, and a smell would emerge from it. (532)

Faruqi: The theme of burning or burnt meat and its smell will seem unattractive to modern tastes. Mir too has used it: aatish-e ;Gam me;N dil bhunaa shaayad der se buu kabaab kii sii hai [perhaps the heart roasted in the fire of grief for some time there's been a smell like a kabob] The fact of some particular theme's being declared attractive or unattractive in some age cannot establish the excellence or inferiority of that theme. But neither of these verses is of an especially high order.... [Shaukat Merathi is wrong to object to ay .] By means of the word ay he has challenged the healing ability of the healer, and proved his ignorance. In such a situation, by means of the direct address he has created force in his speech: 'oh healer, don't you understand even this much?' (285-86)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE Everybody agrees that in the ghazal world the lover's wounded heart is on fire and burning, and eventually burns away completely (see {5} for several examples). But can that metaphor be fruitfully concretized in a culinary direction, with the heart as burning/roasting meat or even explicitly as a 'kabob'? Plenty of poets have thought so, including Mir, as Faruqi points out. The commentators here are also very comfortable with the vision of burnt or roasted meat; Bekhud Dihlavi explicitly brings in the kabob itself. In my view, this image crosses the line into the category of 'grotesquerie'-excessive physicality, of a grossly detailed kind that, poetically speaking, just doesn't work. Kabobs have too many other qualities-- they drip with juice, they may be greasy or chewy, they are surrounded with onions and green peppers, they are delicious-- that interfere with our imagining of the lover's wounded heart. To what extent does Ghalib encourage this kind of explicit 'meat' vision? Certainly he opens the possibility, for what other kind of 'smell' could be expected to come from the wounded heart, if not that of burning? (Don't think of smelly pus or gangrene; those are not in the ghazal's repertoire of ailments.) And what other 'objective correlative' do we have except the

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physical, fleshy, meaty heart itself, that could generate an actual smell of burning or roasting? So it's certainly not a forced interpretation. And don't forget that in {6,4} the lover cheerfully imagines his heart as a feast, and his friends as enjoying it to the full extent that their 'lips and teeth' permit. But in the present verse, Ghalib does also distance himself a bit from the physicality of it. There's that rhetorical question, after all-- the lover doesn't himself say anything about burning, but only makes an inquiry. And the inquiry seems sarcastic, irritated-- perhaps the lover is patronizing the poor inept would-be healer, or insulting him by pointing out his incompetence. Perhaps the rhetorical thrust, the desire to make a strong sarcastic sneer, outweighs any attempt at clinical description of actual burning flesh or roasting meet. Moreover, we don't have to read the second line as a question at all. Perhaps the two lines are to be taken as parallel, as a kind of inventory ('if you can't see the Invisible Man, [it's also true that] neither can you smell him'), as in reading (2b). We're still left with a choice of tones, the most obvious of which is the sarcastic (the poor would-be healer is scorned as doubly inept). But it's also possible that the verse may be describing the metaphysical or transcendent nature of the fire in the heart; think of {5,3}, in which the lover's fiery sighs were in a universe of such fancy nonexistence that they no longer burned even the feathers of the 'Anqa. Possibly the lover is just calmly describing to his doctor the (new?) refinement or subtlety that his burning passion has attained, and forgiving him for his inability to diagnose it. This reading makes the verse an elegant introduction to the next verse, {161,8}.

{161,8} ham vahaa;N hai;N jahaa;N se ham ko bhii kuchh hamaarii ;xabar nahii;N aatii 1) we are there, from where even/also to us 2) no information about us comes

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we're beyond ourselves in such a way that we know nothing about our state. (174)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, self-transcendence and self-forgetfulness have increased to such an extent that we are unaware of our state. (232)

Bekhud Mohani: In Sufism, there are a number of levels of self-lessness, and one of them is that a man would no longer have even a thought of his own existence. (310)

FWP: Such a simple, stark little verse; it's very effective-- and as so often, it's capable of being read in a number of moods and intonations. But its terse, telegraphic quality is perfect for a sort of truncated explanation of the lover's failure to communicate. This one finds its real nature if read as a postcard from the void.

{161,9} marte hai;N aarzuu me;N marne kii maut aatii hai par nahii;N aatii 1) {we die in the longing to die / 'we're dying to die'} 2) death comes, but does not come

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: The first marnaa is hypothetical [majaaz] and conveys an excess of ardor; the second marnaa is in its true meaning. (174)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, 'we die'-- that is, we are extremely ardent and longing for death. 'Death comes'-- that is, the coming of death is necessary and inevitable; night and day we keep hearing of the deaths of hundreds of people. But to us 'death doesn't come', we don't die. (232)

Bekhud Mohani: aatii hai par nahii;N aatii = 'does not in any way come'. We have an extreme longing that death would come, but it doesn't by any means come. (311)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} A verse of wordplay (and meaning-play too, as Faruqi would point out). Fortunately-- and perhaps by no coincidence, since the mental move is so basic-- we can capture some of it very well in English. 'We're dying to die' is an excellent colloquial counterpart for the first line, and captures its ostensibly paradoxical quality. Alone among the commentators I've looked at, Bekhud Mohani claims to point to a special idiom: aatii hai par nahii;N aatii , he says, means something like 'doesn't by any means come'. Perhaps it would then be similar to bhuul kar bhii nahii;N aatii , which literally means 'even accidentally/forgetfully doesn't come', but has the sense of 'doesn't by any means come'. (There's also the related idiomatic expression of the form banaa))e nah bane , 'even upon being done, wouldn't get done'-- or, 'doesn't by any means get done'; see {191} for examples.) Does this exact idiom really exist, or is Bekhud Mohani improvising a bit? I don't know. Other commentators have no trouble finding other ways to read the second line: death comes (to everybody), but doesn't come (to me), for example, as Bekhud Dihlavi proposes. Far more potent, however, is the more general sense in which the night of separation is one long near-death experience, without the closure or release of actual death-- the sense perfectly captured in the second line of {20,8}.

{161,10} ka((be kis mu;Nh se jaa))oge ;Gaalib sharm tum ko magar nahii;N aatii 1) {with what 'face' will you / how will you have the 'face' to} go to the Ka'bah, Ghalib? 2) but/perhaps shame does not come to you

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Your whole lifetime passed in idol-houses and churches-- now, if you go to the Ka'bah, how will you show your face to the Lord [;xudaa ko kyaa mu;Nh dikhaa))oge]? (174)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, your whole life long you kept worshipping beautiful ones and drinking wine. Now, how do you have the 'face' [kyaa mu;Nh le kar] to decide to go to the house of the Ka'bah? {You have no sense of shame. / Don't you have a sense of shame?} [tum ko sharm nahii;N aatii]. (232)

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Bekhud Mohani: He intends to go to the Ka'bah, but his heart reproaches him: you are completely shameless, your whole life was spent in idol-temples, how will you have the 'face' [kyaa mu;Nh le kar] to go before the Lord? (311)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR There's a line of scolding or reproach in English that consists of phrases like, You have some nerve to... ! Do you have the gall to...? And then you have the face to... ! Of all these similar idioms, 'to have the face to'-- meaning, 'to be sufficiently brazen or impudent or shameless as to'-- seems nowadays, alas, to be archaic. If it can be kept on life support long enough, it provides the best translation for the first line. A delightfully lively and colloquially energetic scolding, administered of course either by oneself or by some companion. And then the second line is a magnificent, classic case of the uses of magar . If we take it as meaning 'perhaps', then we have the wonderfully withering effect of 'Perhaps you have no sense of shame?' And if we take it as meaning 'but', then we have the equally scathing 'But then, you never did have any sense of shame!'. What an irresistibly witty (and complex) note on which to end the ghazal.

Ghazal 162 11 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aa kyaa hai composed after 1847; Hamid p. 131; Arshi #215; Raza pp. 295-96

{162,1} dil-e naadaa;N tujhe hu))aa kyaa hai a;xir is dard kii davaa kyaa hai 1) ignorant/naive heart, what's happened to you? 2) after all, what's the cure for this pain?

Notes: naa-daan : 'Ignorant, unlearned; simple, silly; innocent'. (Platts p.1110) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Here, the point of the question is not that someone ignorant of the situation wants to inquire about it; rather, here the intent of the question is only reproach and blame. (174)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, foolish heart, what has happened to you? You don't by any means leave off your pranks! After all, what is the cure for this pain-- that is, the pain of passion? How would I straighten you out, so that you leave off those mischievous tricks? (232)

Bekhud Mohani: He says to the heart, oh tyrant, after all, what has happened to you? You long for a thing that would be absolutely impossible to obtain. Give up this longing.... The expression dil-e naadaa;N tells us that the longing is such that its fulfilment is impossible. From this there also emerges the idea that the beloved is so modest and of such high rank that even the thought of access to her is madness. (311)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATORY Since its refrain is kyaa hai, this whole ghazal is a superb example of Ghalib's favorite interrogative and/or exclamatory mode of inshaiyah speech.

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The meter is so short, and the words so simple, that the verses look almost childishly plain and naive. But a faux-naif look is, after all, one of Ghalib's enjoyable rhetorical devices. (Remember how Socrates begins his speech in the Apology by claiming to be just a simple, humble man with only everyday speech at his disposal, and no command over rhetorical tricks.) In this opening-verse, both lines are interrogative. And they're about as openended as it's possible to be. To ask 'what has happened to you?' can invite an answer involving evil or good, criminality or victimization, volition or helplessness, an event or a mood or an anecdote or a long string of any or all of them. Thus it's an elegant further ambiguity to address the heart as naadaa;N -- an adjective that allows for it to be either an innocent, simpleminded victim, or a foolish, wrong-headed maker of bad choices. Or it might merely be an unduly involved observer-- one who naively suffers over the human condition without having the slightest power to control it. And then, as so often, we are forced to make our own connection between the lines, since none is provided or even suggested. Most crucially, is either of the two questions rhetorical, or both, or neither? Nazm to the contrary, all possibilities are open here. Either or both questions are the kind that could be asked out of genuine ignorance, or rueful sympathy, at least as well as sarcastically or scoldingly. Are both lines addressed, as a set, to the heart, or is the second line an independent, private meditation? The presence of aa;xir suggests a kind of distancing, a kind of summing up, that might imply a separate status for the second line. But what is it summing up, what kind of experience or story or evidence? We're left to imagine it for ourselves. Is 'this pain' one inflicted by the heart, or one inflicted on the heart, or simply one that the heart observes with a painful degree of compassion? Thus with every reading of this verse, we're forced to give it a tone, and that tone is one possible instantiation of its wildly multivalent range of possibilities. We might beg for closure, for guidance-- but we know we aren't going to get any 'cure' for the pain of this particular kind of angst.

{162,2} ham hai;N mushtaaq aur vuh bezaar yaa il;aahii yih maajraa kyaa hai 1) we are ardent; and she, disaffected 2) oh God, what is this state of affairs?!

Notes: bezaar : 'Displeased, vexed, annoyed, out of humour; disgusted'. (Platts p.203) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: It's as if he has just set foot on the path of love, and is unacquainted with the affairs of coquetry and humility that take place between beloved and lover; for this reason he's surprised that, although he is ardent, the beloved is indifferent. (157)

Nazm: The idiom that the author has used in the second line-- to the person who doesn't know the appropriateness of its use, the verse will seem limp and the line devoid of connection. The appropriateness of its use is that when somebody wishes to express scorn or reproach or distaste for someone's insipid affectations, he says it in this way. And from this affinity the author has created the line, and reproached the beloved. (174)

Bekhud Mohani: [Objecting to Nazm's reading:] If in place of vuh there were tum , then that would be another thing. This meaning [of which Nazm speaks] is obtainable

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by pulling and stretching, but the delicacy/enjoyableness [la:taafat] of the verse is brought down into the dust. Indeed, the meaning he has presented undoubtedly begins to make the verse seem low and devoid of connection. But within the lines, lack of connection is even then not apparent. (311-12)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATORY Here's another example of the beauty of inshaa))iyah speech. The first line presents the basic problem of the ghazal world-- a problem which is also of course the precondition of its existence. It's the rock-bottom classical problem, stated baldly and without nuance: we adore the beloved, the beloved doesn't at all adore us. So in our experience and appreciation of the verse, the tone is going to be everything. But is the tone ruefully amused, calmly analytical, rationally argumentative, mildly melancholy, wildly despairing? If we look to the second line for some interpretive guidance, we get none whatsoever. Instead, we get sheer exclamatory vigor, in a wonderfully colloquial question. Is it the naive question of a newcomer to love, as Hali maintains, or the sarcastic rhetorical question of a veteran, as Nazm argues? Is it even a question at all, or should it be read as an exclamation ('my God, what a situation this is!')? Every time we read the verse-- especially if we read it aloud-- we're obliged to pick and choose among the possible permutations, and create the whole emotional tone of the verse for ourselves. And whatever tone we choose lives always surrounded by a penumbra of other possible tones and readings. Ghalib is a great poet of course, but doesn't the ghazal also give him remarkably clever tools? This particular verse-- and indeed, this whole ghazal-- is a textbook case of the creation of maximal effects out of minimal means.

{162,3} mai;N bhii mu;Nh me;N zabaan rakhtaa huu;N kaash puuchho kih mudda((aa kyaa hai 1) I too have a tongue in my mouth 2) if only you would ask,' What's the intention?'

Notes: mudda((aa : 'What is claimed, or alleged, or pretended, or meant; desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift'. (Platts p.1015) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1865:] The light of my eyes, Mir Mahdi, and Mir Sarfaraz Husain, must probably be unhappy with me and must have a complaint against me, and must say, 'Look, you don't write us a letter!': ham bhii mu;Nh me;N zabaan rakhte hai;N kaash puuchho kih maajraa kyaa hai [we too have a tongue in our mouth if only you would ask, 'What's the situation?'] ==Arshi p. 315 ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 543

Nazm: From the word bhii the meaning emerges that if you ask the Others about their situation, the Lord has given me a tongue too-- ask me too, and find out. (174)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you keep on asking the Others about their state. On me too God Most High has bestowed a tongue-- ask me too sometimes, 'what do you want?', and see what reply I give to this. (232)

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Bekhud Mohani: Anger and blame drip from this verse. (312)

FWP: SETS == BHI; EXCLAMATORY Nazm points to bhii in its additive sense-- I 'too' have a tongue. The verse, however, leaves us to decide for ourselves on the comparison set. I 'too'-like the Others? Like you, the beloved? Like human beings in general? This is certainly the more amusing meaning, since it has sarcastic (or ominous?) overtones and opens up richer narrative possibilities. But certainly bhii also contains the sense of 'even', which offers its own pleasure-- 'even' I have a tongue, though you might not have expected to find the power of speech in one so lowly and hapless. The verse is exclamatory, but as usual, we have to decide for ourselves the tone in which it's exclaimed. Bekhud Mohani finds it dripping with anger and blame, which is certainly a possible tone. But what if it's meek, helpless, wistful, so that the contrafactual expresses a mere utopian fantasy (if only she'd ask!-- but of course, quite naturally, she never will)? What if it's worldweary and sardonic (why let all these morons talk, when I could show them up with a word)? And then in the second line, whose-- and what-- is the mudda((aa ? The commentators unhesitatingly assume that it's the lover's, but the word's range of meanings (see above) certainly opens the possibility that it might be somebody else's intention, desire, claim, etc. that the lover wishes to explain or reveal. Most obviously, he could wish to reveal to the beloved the false, lustful ambitions of the Other(s). Even if it's his own intentions, he might have more to say than just a humble profession of his passion. Who knows-maybe he wants to talk about the larger, mystical meaning of life, or say a few last (first?) words before going off into the desert. As usual, the versatility is striking, and the colloquial energy is a delight. But for an even cleverer use of the 'tongue in the mouth' image, see {138,5}.

{162,4} jab kih tujh bin nahii;N ko))ii maujuud phir yih hangaamah ay ;xudaa kyaa hai 1) since without You, no one is present 2) then, this commotion, oh Lord-- what is it?

Notes: hangaamah : 'A convention, an assembly, a meeting; a crowd; --noice, tumult, commotion, confusion, uproar; sedition, disturbance, disorder; an affray; assault'. (Platts p.1238) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This verse-set is a complaint, that during the movement of this interesting and captivating commotion, how can a person find the inner tranquility to consider it contemptible and turn his attention to the presence of the Truth? This mirage-like appearance has made us so absorbed that we've washed our hands of the search for the sea itself. The complaint is that we want to consider the pleasure of the world contemptible and and pay no attention to it, but its captivatingness doesn't cease to pursue us. (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Lord, given that no one beside You is even present in the world, how does this commotion arise? (233)

Bekhud Mohani: The Sufis' belief is that there is nothing but the Lord; other than He, nothing else even exists. At this problem he is wonder-struck, and asks, oh my Protector, if Yours is the only existence, and no one else is present, then why

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is there this commotion-- that is, the variegatedness and hustle and bustle of beings? These airs and graces of beautiful ones, these black curly tresses, these collyrium-shadowed glances-- after all, what then is all this? And how were roses and grasses created? What kind of thing is a cloud, what is the breeze? That is, our eyes are seeing all these things. So how would we be able to understand this problem? That is, multiplicity forbids us to understand oneness, and we are helpless. (312)

FWP: This is the beginning of a four-verse verse-set. It's a very real and strongly marked verse-set, too. This verse is the conceptual key to it, and poses the basic question; the following three verses add additional, powerful evidence of the (apparent) multiplicity and (genuine) attraction of the real (?) world. The word hangaamah is wonderfully apt-- every one of its meanings works adds another depth to the question posed in the verse. This verse-- and by extension, this verse-set-- seems to be addressed not to a human beloved but clearly to God. For more such examples, see {20,10}. The rest of the verses in this set are radically inshaa))iyah , either sincerely interrogative ('tell me, God, about these beauties of the phenomenal world') or admiringly exclamatory ('for things that don't exist, they're pretty phenomenal!'). Needless to say, either reading works beautiful with the basic question posed by the verse-set.

{162,5} yih parii-chahrah log kaise hai;N ;Gamzah-o-((ishvah-o-adaa kyaa hai 1a) these Pari-faced people-- what are they like? 1b) these Pari-faced people-- the way they are! 2a) sidelong glances, airs and graces-- what are they? 2b) what sidelong glances, airs and graces, there are!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: When in this world there's no one else except You, then how are these Parilike lovely ones and beautiful people to be seen? These people's sidelong glances and airs and graces-- what things are they? (233)

Bekhud Mohani: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATORY; KYA This is the second verse of a four-verse verse-set. For general discussion of the whole verse-set, see {162,4}. This is the most radically inshaa))iyah verse of the whole verse-set-- both lines may be either sincerely interrogative ('why, God, are all these beautiful and flirtatious women here?') or admiringly exclamatory ('how amazing these beautiful ones are, how powerful their coquetry!').

{162,6} shikan-e zulf-e anbarii;N kyuu;N hai nigah-e chashm-e surmah-saa kyaa hai 1) why is there the coiling of amber-scented curls? 2a) the glance from a collyrium-shadowed eye-- what is it? 2b) the glance of a collyrium-shadowed eye-- what it is!

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Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: These perfumed, adorned curls-- why have they been created? And this collyrium-shadowed glance-- what purpose is it serving? (233)

Bekhud Mohani: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATORY; KYA This is the third verse of a four-verse verse-set. For general discussion of the whole verse-set, see {162,4}.

{162,7} sabzah-o-gul kahaa;N se aa))e hai;N abr kyaa chiiz hai havaa kyaa hai 1) where have grass and roses come from? 2a) what thing is a cloud? what is wind? 2b) what a thing a cloud is! what wind is!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: This greenery, and these sweet-scented flowers-- from where have they come? Who has made them? And what a thing is this cloud, what is its nature? And what is this breeze, what is its true essence? (233)

Bekhud Mohani: [See discussion in {162,4}.]

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATORY; KYA This is the fourth and final verse of a four-verse verse-set. For general discussion of the whole verse-set, see {162,4}.

{162,8} ham ko un se vafaa kii hai ummiid jo nahii;N jaante vafaa kyaa hai 1) we hope for faithfulness from that one 2) who doesn't know what faithfulness is

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, because of her youth, she is so ignorant that she doesn't even know what kind of a thing faithfulness is. And I, through excess of passion, am such a fool that I hope for faithfulness from her. (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she is still so young and ignorant that she doesn't even know at all of what creature faithfulness is the name. And we, ensnared in the net of passion, have become such a fool that despite this we hope for faithfulness from her. (233-34)

Bekhud Mohani: Because of her youth, she doesn't understand faithfulness at all-- and we're becoming so mad in our passion that we hope for faithfulness from her.

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[Or:] Our simplicity is worthy of praise! We hope for faithfulness from a beloved who isn't acquainted with even the name of faithfulness-- that is, she's the limit of faithlessness. (313)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION The idea of a sort of uneducated child-beloved who literally doesn't know what 'faithfulness' means (because she has a limited vocabulary?) seems ridiculous to me, but it's surprisingly popular among the commentators. Presumably her childlikeness is meant to have an effect of charming naivete. Bekhud Mohani alone goes on to propose a much more attractive and plausible reading: that the beloved 'doesn't know what faithfulness is' because she's so radically devoid of the quality that she can't even imagine it. For a wonderfully indirect and witty treatment of the same idea, see {104,1}. Things may, however, be even worse: it's possible that 'faithfulness' itself may not even have a meaning at all, as seems to be the case in {9,1}.

{162,9} haa;N bhalaa kar tiraa bhalaa hogaa aur darvesh kii .sadaa kyaa hai 1) indeed, do good-- then good will happen to you 2) what else is the call of the Darvesh?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, he speaks truly, what doubt can there be that the one who does good will experience good. (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, whatever he says, he says truly, what cause is there for anyone to doubt it? The Faqir's call is that the one who would do good-- that is, who would bring benefit to anyone in the world-- benefits will reach him in both worlds. (232)

Bekhud Mohani: The Faqir-- that is, I myself-- say to you that 'indeed, do good-- then good will happen to you'. That is, I say to you truly that if you show mercy to me, then the Lord will show mercy to you.... [Nazm's] commentary is incomplete. The Faqir's call has come. At that point, the lover called the beloved's attention to it, that he says truly. The intent of which is 'if you show mercy to your lovers, then the Lord will show mercy to you'. (313)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR How much Bekhud Mohani must have enjoyed gloating! Nazm has clearly missed the point (taking the imitative Bekhud Dihlavi along with him), and Bekhud Mohani loves nothing more than scoring points against Nazm. This is a disarmingly simple, platitudinous-looking little verse that you either get at once or don't get at all, and Nazm didn't get it. (Which is excusable, since the 'it' to be gotten is really a context or situation, not any complexity in the verse itself.) Nazm's brief commentary, which I've translated in its entirety, is stiff and awkward. You can almost feel him wondering why in the world Ghalib has bothered to quote and affirm, with an apparently straight face, a sort of primitive, popular, pious truism-- the kind of thing religious mendicants go around calling out when they want you to give them alms. But of course, once you imagine the lover saying this to the beloved, the relish of it comes all at once, and how can you not laugh? The lover is wittily using a pious platitude for erotic purposes. He's thus mischievously implying that God Himself will reward the beloved for any favors she may generously

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show to her lover. After all, isn't charity a great virtue, and don't those who have ample goods (such as beauty) have a religious duty to share some of them with humble beggars who are desperately in need? For another request-- more sophisticated, but less amusing-- to the beloved for 'alms of beauty', see {24,3}.

{162,10} jaan tum par ni;saar kartaa huu;N mai;N nahii;N jaantaa du((aa kyaa hai 1) I offer/sacrifice my life for you 2) I don't know what a 'prayer/blessing' is

Notes: du((aa : 'Prayer, supplication (to God); an invocation of good, a blessing, benediction; wish; congratulation, salutation'. (Platts p.518) ni;saar : 'Offering, presenting; donative; sacrifice'. (Platts p.1124) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I don't know how to give merely spoken [zabaanii] prayers/blessings, as others do. (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I don't have oral outflow as others do-- that is, I don't know how to give merely 'prayers/blessings'. I sacrifice my life for you. My great prayer/blessing is that I lay down my life for your sake [tumhaare .sadqe me;N utaarnaa]. (234)

Bekhud Mohani:./ It's as if the beloved has said, 'Everybody gives me prayers/blessings-- you don't give me prayers/blessings'. In answer he says, 'Your Honor, spoken prayers/blessings are not within my ken. I sacrifice [.sadqah karnaa] my life for you. That is, when difficulty would come, I would offer myself up for you. I'm not a man for words.' (313)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION Each line offers a flat statement-- but how are the two statements connected? Here are some possibilities: =A is the cause, B the effect: I sacrifice my life for you at once, and the result is that I don't live long enough to learn the appropriate social conventions and to offer you merely verbal prayers/blessings. =B is the cause, A the effect: Because I don't know what it conventionally means, in the social world, to offer someone appropriate prayers/blessings, I assume that it means to sacrifice my life, since to me that seems a small and minimal gesture compared to the intensity of my passion. =A and B are parallel descriptions of the same situation: I don't give a damn about social courtesies and conventions, I don't even bother to ascertain what they are, I disdain them completely-- I am in such a rush to show you my devotion that I sacrifice my life for you without further ado. An additional and very enjoyable subtlety of the verse is that many of the forms of du((aa involve a sort of ritualized miming of self-sacrifice. The connections can be seen in the commentators' word choices themselves. Bekhud Dihlavi uses for the lover's act the verb .sadqah utaarnaa , which means 'To draw off or away (an evil spirit) by a sacrifice (or by walking round the person, repeating an incantation, &c.)' (Platts p.744). Bekhud Mohani uses for his act .sadqah karnaa , which has the intransitive form .sadqah honaa , which Platts connects to the related action of balaa))e;N lenaa : 'To draw the hands over the head of another (and then crack the fingers over one's own temples) in token of taking all his (or her)

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misfortunes upon oneself; ... to devote oneself to another (syn. .sadqah honaa )' (Platts p.163). To this day, the process of balaa))e;N lenaa is often a part of the blessing offered (especially by older women) to a beloved person, and is certainly a symbolic expression of (readiness for) selfsacrifice. In short, the clear-cut contrast that seems at first to exist between merely oral or socially conventional prayers/blessings, and the lover's act of selfsacrifice, breaks down when we look at it more closely. For the conventional expressions of du((aa are themselves often full of ritualized commitments to self-sacrifice; and as for the lover, if he's alive enough to say 'I sacrifice my life for you', then it seems he hasn't done so yet. His commitment too, so far, is only verbal. So there's enough of a convergence that it looks naive (or faux-naif) for the lover to say that he 'doesn't know' what a du((aa is, because his own words seem to be typical of the genre. Since in this verse he doesn't seem to speak from beyond the grave, his words of devotion and (intention of) sacrifice are all we have-- and how can they not appear as a form of du((aa ?

{162,11} mai;N ne maanaa kih kuchh nahii;N ;Gaalib muft haath aa))e to buraa kyaa hai 1) I agree that Ghalib is nothing 2) if you'd get him for free, then what's {the harm / so bad}?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If a slave is available for free, then who'd let him go? What's the harm? That is, what badness is there in the slave, or what badness is there in that transaction? (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I accept the idea that Ghalib is a worthless kind of man. But if he comes to you as a slave for free, then what's the harm in your making him a slave? You don't have to pay any price at all-- it's free merchandise-- take it! (234)

Bekhud Mohani: He's persuading the beloved: I agree that Ghalib is good for nothing, but you've got a slave for free-- why don't you take him? (313)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} There's some unspoken but still somehow perceptible wordplay here: Ghalib is explicitly 'nothing'-- but then, his price is also 'nothing', since he's available 'for free'. And as the commentators point out, Ghalib is 'freely' offering himself as some kind of 'slave'-- a kind who's 'free' of charge. (Yet surely he's also already enslaved, since he's in the irresistible grip of passion.) The subjunctive verb in 'if you would get him' or 'if he would come to hand' [haath aa))e] makes it seem that a kind of deal is being proposed. The deal is madly one-sided no doubt, but still, there is a condition attached. The condition is that when the (free) 'seller' offers the deal, you, the beloved, would accept it-- and thus accept the slave or servant it would provide. And what else would be the lover's deepest desire? Compare the beloved's shrewd assessment of the lover's heart in {174,2}.

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Ghazal 163 9 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: o aa))e composed 1851; Hamid p. 132; Arshi #216; Raza p. 304

{163,1} kahte to ho tum sab kih but-e ;Gaaliyah-mo aa))e yak martabah ghabraa ke kaho ko))ii kih vo aa))e 1) you all say, 'may the idol with preciously-perfumed hair come' 2) for once may someone say nervously, 'she's come!'

Notes: ;Gaaliyah : 'A kind of perfume (said to have thus been called by Mu'awiyah as "a thing precious"); civet'. (Steingass, p. 879) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1851:] One thing you should know is that when I present myself in the Presence [of the king], then usually the King wants Rekhtah from me. So how can I recite those previously-composed ghazals? I compose a new ghazal and take it with me. Today I wrote a ghazal in the afternoon. Tomorrow or the next day I will go and recite it. I am writing it to you too. Do it justice: if Rekhtah rises to the level of an enchantment or a wonder, then will it take this form, or some other shape? [He sets down the whole ghazal, in exact divan order.] (Arshi, p. 316) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1098-99. NOTE: Khaliq Anjum also includes a transcript of {191} in this letter, but that's an error on his part, based on an earlier scribal error, since {191} was actually composed in 1853.

==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 83

Arshi: This ghazal is printed in the Dihli Urdu Akhbar 13,19 (11 May 1851), with this introduction: 'This week a ghazal of Janab Navab Asadullah Khan Sahib Bahadur, with the pen-name of Ghalib, came into our hands; so we have recorded it in the paper'. (317)

Nazm: To tell the truth, the King's [Zafar's] opening-verse was somewhat better than this: yaa aa))e ajal ya .sanam ((arbadah-jo aa))e aisaa nah ho yaa rab kih nah yih aa))e nah vuh aa))e [either death would come, or the hostile-tempered idol would come let it not be, oh Lord, that neither this one would come, nor that one would come!] (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh friends, oh companions, oh dear ones, oh sympathizers, you're all offering me the prayer/blessing that 'may the Lord grant that that idol with preciously-perfumed hair would come'. Let it be that for once all you people become nervous and suddenly say, 'she's come'. (234)

Bekhud Mohani: ;Gaaliyah-muu : whose hair would be perfumed.... The point of saying 'with perfumed hair' is that the scent of her hair will give notice of her coming.... From reading the first line it seems that they are all saying, may the Lord grant that she would come-- that is, they say [the singular] aa))e , they don't say the respectful [plural] aa))e;N . And [the second line] apparently seems like a complete non sequitur. But no, the real situation is the opposite of this. In the prayer/blessing people say, because of the [singular] word 'idol', may the Lord grant that the idol with preciously-perfumed hair would come [aa))e]. But when she appears and shows herself before them, then how

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would courtesy, and her dignity and grandeur, permit them to say [in the singular] vuh aayaa . (314)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} Ghalib has done some serious contorting of vowels in his rhyme-syllables in this ghazal. In order to make this particular verse work, we have to pronounce muu as mo , and spell vuh as vo (because ghazal convention requires symmetrical spellings too in the rhyme-syllables). The only commentator I've noticed who criticizes him for this is Shadan (p. 371). Similar problems arise in other verses; in all cases I've adjusted the spelling to reflect the exigencies of the rhyme-syllable. That looks awfully strange in some cases, but to have non-rhyming rhyme-syllables would also look awfully strange. Nazm is right! While Zafar's verse is pert and punchy (and swingy in that characteristic way of his), Ghalib's is ponderous and obscure. Still, let's see what we can make of it. The first line quotes a phrase that 'all you people' say, and the second line quotes a phrase that the speaker would like to hear spoken instead. But what exactly is the problem with the first phrase, that is fixed in the second? Several possibilities suggest themselves. =Line 1 is in the subjunctive (she might come); Line 2 is in the perfect (she has come; literally and colloquially, 'she came') =Line 1 is in the subjunctive singular (probably because of but , as Bekhud Mohani explains); Line 2 is in the plural perfect of respect =Line 1 is conventionalized, she's given a pompous formal epithet; Line 2 is simple and direct, she's referred to as 'she' =Line 1 is said habitually; Line 2 would be said once =Line 1 is presumably spoken in a formal way to suit the epithet; Line 2 would be said 'nervously' or 'anxiously' These contrasts aren't mutually exclusive, of course; the ardent lover would have all of them in mind together. The overriding contrast is surely the first: the lover is tired of hearing formal subjunctive wishes that she 'might come', and longs to hear the brief, startled little ejaculation 'she's here!'. Ghalib has showily massaged the verb forms so that both lines end in aa))e -- though in the first line it's the singular subjunctive, and in the second line it's the plural perfect-- and that's also part of what he means us to enjoy: the piquant interplay in the verbs between identity of form and great difference of meaning. The conspicuous weakness is the idol's having exotic, Persianized 'preciously-perfumed hair' [;Gaaliyah-muu]. Where's the connection with the rest of the verse? Bekhud Mohani is the only commentator who tries to address the problem: he claims that her hair is so lavishly perfumed that its scent would precede her and give warning of her approach. This seems implausible, especially since in the second line she manages to arrive quite suddenly and surprise everybody, despite her perfumed hair. It's possible to argue that some kind of formal epithet belongs in that slot, to enhance the contrast with the second line, but why this particular one? This complex, baroque-feeling ghazal, composed when Ghalib was in his mid-fifties, is an excellent piece of counter-evidence against the widespread view that Ghalib repudiated his earlier 'difficult' poetry as he grew older and chose to write only only in a 'simple' or 'natural' style. The letter quoted above shows that Ghalib was exceptionally proud of this ghazal, too. Note for meter fans: in this ghazal, the last syllable of aa))e is a short 'cheat syllable' that doesn't count as one of the official syllables of the meter. This is permissible, but it tends to give this important, normally well-pronounced part of the verb ending a much smaller emphasis than usual; the line seems,

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when recited, to end in a kind of dying fall, with a little ))e attached to a big aa like a small echo. This makes for a slightly awkward effect.

{163,2} huu;N kashmakash-e naz(( me;N haa;N ja;zb-e mu;habbat kuchh kah nah sakuu;N par vuh mire puuchhne ko aa))e 1) I'm in the {struggles / tug-of-war} of the death agony-- indeed, drawingpower of love-2) I might not be able to say anything-- but may she come to ask after me!

Notes: kashmakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; ... struggle, contention, wrangle, squabble; attraction, allurement'. (Platts p.835) ja;zb : 'Drawing, attraction; allurement; absorption'. (Platts p.378) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This rhyme-word too Zafar has composed well: aa))e bhii to aate hii lage pherne chitvan kyaa aa))e vuh gardan pah chhurii pherne ko aa))e [even if she came, the moment she came she began to draw her face away she didn't 'come'-- she came to draw a knife over my throat] (163,2)

Bekhud Dihlavi: At this time I am absorbed in the struggles of the death agony, but indeed, oh attraction of love-- gradually you too please show me an attractive power [kashish]! It's obvious that I have no strength left to talk, but let her come to ask about me. So what if I can't answer-- so be it. (234-35)

Bekhud Mohani: Even now, when I am in the death agony, I feel the wound that she has never even asked about me-- may this wound not remain! In addition, even in the death agony, the beloved is remembered. [Zafar's verse] is very clear, and the flowingness of a river would be ashamed before it. But there's no doubt of the staleness of the theme. Some Ustad says: nigaah pher ke ((u;zr-e vi.saal karte hai;N vuh ham ko ul;Tii chhurii se ;halaal karte hai;N [turning aside her gaze, she excuses herself from union she slaughters us with a reversed knife-blade]n(314-15)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION Here is a verse of wordplay (and meaning-play too of course) between different kinds of 'pulling', 'tension', 'drawing'. The struggles of the death agony are a tug-of-war, as the sufferer is pulled back and forth on the borderline between death and life. Even in this desperate and hopeless condition, the lover is 'pulled' by the longing for the beloved. And in his longing he hopes that the drawing power of love can somehow 'pull' her toward him, so that she'll (perhaps only politely?) come to inquire about his condition. Moreover, the relation between the two lines has been carefully rendered complex by the clever phrase haa;N ja;zb-e mu;habbat , 'indeed, attraction of love'. Is the phrase a vocative, an address to a quasi-personified entity called 'Drawing-power of Love'? Or is it a shorthand for something like, 'just look at the drawing-power of love!' or 'what drawing-power love has!'? The ambiguities open up several possible relationships between the lines: =Lines 1 and 2 both straightforwardly describe the same situation: I'm dying, and I desperately long for her to come to me

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=Line 1 describes me as dying of passion itself, as the 'drawing-power of love' wracks me with a death-agony. Line 2 illustrates the full, paradoxical agony of my situation: desire for her is killing me, and even as I die of it I still vainly crave for more of it. =Line 1 describes me as a classic medical (or psychological) case of the 'drawing-power of love'; line 2 illustrates the diagnosis by showing the symptoms: even as I'm dying, so that her coming will be useless, I still long for her to come to me. =Line 1 is a pathetic exclamation addressed to 'Drawing-power of Love', inviting this entity to notice, or sympathize with, or feel proud of ashamed of, the dying lover's sufferings, as described in Line 2. =Line 1 is a specific appeal to 'Drawing-power of Love' to help out a dying lover; line 2 is a request for this entity to 'draw' the beloved to the lover's bedside. Then there's the secondary ambiguity of 'I might not be able to say anything' [kuchh kah nah sakuu;N], which can have two senses: =Because I'm in my death-agony I can't speak, and thus can't express my longing for her to come, but the longing is still there. =If she comes, I may not be able to speak to her, but I still long for her to come. Really the cleverest word is the colloquial and exclamatory little haa;N , which opens so many grammatical and imaginative possibilities.

{163,3} hai .saa((iqah-o-shu((lah-o-siimaab kaa ((aalam aanaa hii samajh me;N mirii aataa nahii;N go aa))e 1) it's a state/world of thunderbolt/lightning and flame and mercury/quicksilver 2) I don't understand the meaning of 'to come' itself, although she might come

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, although we came into the world, like flame and mercury, we have no stability. Or flame and mercury are a simile for the beloved's mischievousness, and aanaa refers to her coming. (175)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even though she might come to my house, her state is like that of lightning and flame and mercury. That is, she doesn't take a breath, she doesn't sit down, she doesn't remain; the moment she comes, the question of going arises. I don't understand whether such a 'coming' is counted as a 'coming' at all. (235)

Bekhud Mohani: .saa((iqah is that lightning that would touch the ground. In our life the style of restlessness is that of of lightning and flame and mercury. Although we came into the world, it was a 'coming' that was hardly a 'coming' at all-otherwise, we would have found some life. [Or:] The beloved shows her glory/appearance and then vanishes, like mercury, flame, lightning. Who would call that 'coming'? That is, the heart finds no comfort in it. Ghalib: {36,5}. (315)

FWP: SETS == A,B; DEFINITION LIGHTNING: {10,6} Here's a beautiful use of what I call an 'A,B' structure, in which the two lines can be linked in different ways, and we're left to make our own choices about their relationship. The first line has an (unstated) subject, such that it

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turns into something like 'It is...' or 'There is...'. And what is it that there is? A 'state' or 'world' of three extremely fast, slippery, wildly evanescent and ungraspable things. So what is it that constitutes such a 'state' or 'world'? Here are the obvious candidates: =The beloved's 'coming' to visit me (the unmeasurably brief, brightly shining duration of her visit) =The beloved's 'coming' to visit me (the very idea of such an awesome experience) =Human life, upon our 'coming' into this transitory world =The concept of 'to come', in its own right Surely the last possibility is the most radical, the most piquant, because it is capable of subsuming and including all the others. The lover wrestles with the very idea of what it can mean 'to come'-- in a world in which all these other difficulties conspire to make the concept impossible to, almost literally, 'grasp'.

{163,4} ;zaahir hai kih ghabraa ke nah bhaage;Nge nakiire;N haa;N mu;Nh se magar baadah-e doshiinah kii bo a))e 1a) it's obvious-- won't the Recording Angels become anxious and run away? 1b) it's obvious that the Recording Angels won't become anxious and run away 2a) perhaps from my mouth, indeed, might come the smell of last night's wine 2b) but indeed-- from my mouth might come the smell of last night's wine!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: baadah-e doshiinah , that is, wine drunk last night, which he had drunk before dying. Only by way of mischievousness he says that there is no device for escaping the interrogation of the two recording angels except this: that he should die having drunk wine, so that the two recording angels, averse to its smell, should leave without interrogating him. (157-58)

Nazm: By way of a joke he's said they will run away [bhaage;Nge]; the meaning is that [more colloquially] they will run away [bhaag jaa))e;Nge]. And baadah-e doshiinah is the 'wine of last night'. In the idiom, people use bo , pronounced with an o , to mean 'bad smell' [badbuu]. The theme of a bad smell coming from the mouth was not worthy of being used in poetry. (176)

Bekhud Mohani: In a rakish humor he has said it, and has said something new. Munkar and Nakir and those two angels who, according to the Muslims' belief, come into the grave of every dead person and ask some questions. It's obvious-- how would Munkar and Nakir feel anxious and run away from my grave? But indeed-- there's one situation-- if from my mouth comes the smell of the wine drunk last night, then because they're pious, they'll become anxious and run away. If there's any situation for escaping from them, then this alone is it. [In response to Nazm's criticism:] Mirza has said, along with 'smell', 'smell of last night's wine'. He hasn't spoken only of a smell from the mouth. But other elders have said not merely this much, but more as well. The late Shaikh Nasikh: aap apne ((aib se vaaqif nahii;N hotaa ko))ii jaise buu apne dahan kii aatii hai kam naak me;N [no one is himself acquainted with his own fault the way a smell from one's own mouth comes very little into the nose]

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[Or:] That in the grave the Recording Angels wouldn't ask questions-- there's no other situation except that from our mouth would come the perfume of the wine of the divine presence [baadah-e alast]. That is, when they perceive that the perfume of the wine of the divine presence is still in our mouth, and that we've spent our whole life in divine intoxication, they'll say 'Why have we come? Let's go, there's no need to ask him anything'. (316)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MAGAR WINE: {49,1} How cleverly and amusingly Ghalib creates his effects! The first line offers us two very clear, very colloquial readings that are direct opposites of each other. He doesn't, in this verse, even deign to use any of the interrogatives like kyaa that are so conducive to such effects. If we take the first line as one short exclamation followed by a question (1a), we have the Recording Angels definitely fleeing; if we take it as one long single sentence (1b) we have them definitely not fleeing. Then in the second line, the creative use of magar (along with the colloquially exclamatory 'indeed!' [haa;N]) also generates two senses. If we take it as 'perhaps', we have a kind of embarrassed, vaguely apologetic recognition (2a) that one might have bad breath; if we take it as 'but' (2b), we are presenting the information with a flourish, connecting it in some strong logical or other way with the first line. It seems to me that all of the four permutations work: =(1a) plus (2a): Oh how embarrassing, I must have made a social gaffe with my bad wine-breath and offended the Recording Angels-- naturally they've run off. =(1a) plus (2b): I have a great plan for running off the Recording Angels! It's obvious that this will chase them off: I'll just arrange for my mouth to smell of wine. =(1b) plus (2a): The Recording Angels are tough and determined, nothing will discourage them-- not even if, indeed, my breath smells of wine. =(1b) plus (2b): The Recording Angels are tough and determined, nothing will discourage them! But wait-- there's one last hope-- what if my mouth might smell of wine? Among these alternatives, the second and fourth (which the commentators prefer), have the additional enjoyable feature that the plan requires the speaker to drink wine every night as a precaution, so that in case he dies suddenly, he'll be prepared!

{163,5} jallaad se ;Darte hai;N nah vaa((i:z se jhaga;Rte ham samjhe hu))e hai;N use jis bhes me;N jo aa))e 1) we neither fear the Executioner, nor quarrel with the Preacher 2a) we consider it [to be] Him/her-- whoever comes, in whatever guise 2b) whoever comes, in whatever guise-- we've understood him

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: As if he doesn't know anyone except the Lord. (158)

Nazm: That is, whomever we see, we know him to be You. But between the Executioner and the Preacher there's no particular affinity. If instead of Preacher he had said Judge [qaa.zii], then it would have been good, for he's the very one who issues decrees for the killing of those who say 'I am God/Truth' [as did Mansur]. (176)

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Bekhud Mohani: [In refutation of Nazm's criticism:] The Judge gives decrees, he doesn't argue with criminals. This was why Mirza said Preacher and didn't say Judge. There's also the second reason that when, on the Judge's order, the Executioner has come, then the reading is also given that we fear neither the Judge's decree, nor the Executioner's terrifying aspect, nor the glittering sword. (316)

Faruqi: There's another subtle meaning: that whoever comes, in whatever guise, we've understood him. It can also mean that no magic of appearance can have power over us. Whether he would be an Executioner or a Preacher, and in whatever guise he may come before us, we recognize his true essence. Through the effect of this meaning, there's a tone of pride and disdain in the verse, that the people of the world are not worthy of our attention. By means of the Executioner and the Preacher, two worlds are established in the verse. The Executioner carries out the punishment of this world, and the Preacher tells us about the next world, and frightens us with punishment there. We know the true essence of both. (287)

FWP: SETS == A,B; FILL-IN In the first line we have two parallel phrases, and as usual it's left up to us to decide on their relationship. If they're taken as parallel examples of a single state of mind, then we're left with two instances of withdrawal from, or indifference to, all worldly concerns. This reading is the general consensus of the commentators But if they're taken in opposition or contrast to each other, then as Faruqi says, 'two worlds are established in the verse', that of the Executioner and that of the Preacher. As he observes, each of these agents seeks to frighten us-- the Executioner, with the threat of imminent punishment in this world; the Preacher, with the threat of eventual punishment in the next world. The line suggests typical, and understandably human, reactions to each: to fear the Executioner who is an immediate threat, and to quarrel with the Preacher, who is not so dangerous in the short run. The line also makes it clear that we display neither of these typical human reactions: we can't be intimidated by threats or violence, in this world or the next. Why are we so fearless? The second line too is carefully arranged to yield two perfectly good readings. The commentators uniformly support (2a): we're fearless because no matter who we see, and no matter in which guise we see him, we consider him to be the Divine (or at least highly divinized) beloved. But then, why do we think this? Either because we're mystically enlightened, and know that in fact nothing but God exists (as in {162,4}), so that we're quite right not to be afraid of these two threateners; or because we're mad with passion, and quite absurdly see the face of the beloved in everyone and everything, so that we're naively or foolishly unafraid of even the most dangerous threateners. But Faruqi rightly emphasizes the presence of (2b) as well. In Urdu as in English, 'to understand/consider' can, intransitively, take a predicate nominative ('you understand the answer to be seven', 'you understand him to be a friend') as in (2a); but it can also be transitive ('you at least understand me'; 'nobody understands his poetry'). Thus it might be that we just 'understand' whoever comes, in whatever guise they come-- they can't even puzzle us, much less deceive us. In what sense do we understand them? Do we consider them to be entirely illusory? To be only contingently real? To be human agents of a Divine power? To be foolish tricksters trying cynically to intimidate us? To be petty and naive little mortals not worthy of our notice? To be genuine threats, but ones we somehow can't take seriously?

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This is, in short, a radically 'fill-in-the-blanks' kind of verse. There are so many ways to put it together, and to 'understand' the authority-figures of this world and the next, that it's impossible to pin it down at all.

{163,6} haa;N ahl-e :talab kaun sune :ta((nah-e naa-yaaft dekhaa kih vuh miltaa nahii;N apne hii ko kho aa))e 1) indeed, oh people of the search, who would listen to a taunt of 'not-to-befound'? 2a) we saw that she/he is not to be found-- having lost our own self, we came back 2b) we saw that it's not to be found-- having lost our own self, we came back

Notes: naa-yaaft : 'Not to be found, undiscoverable; missing'. (Platts p.1111) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when I didn't find mystical knowledge, then I lost my own self. Who would listen to the taunt that 'he searched, and didn't find it'? (176)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, who would listen to the taunt that 'for years he left no stone unturned in the search, and then he didn't find her/him-- he came back unsuccessful and empty-handed'? When we saw that the hidden mystery of Divine mystical knowledge cannot be searched out, and there's no trace of it anywhere, we lost outselves and came back. That is, having passed beyond awareness and senses, we became intoxicated and carried away. (235)

Bekhud Mohani: Indeed, oh people of mystical knowledge, are you listening? Who would listen to 'he went out to search for the Lord-- and after all, he didn't find Him'. Thus since the divine Self was not able to be searched out, we lost our own self. That is, when the mystery of the Lord's existence didn't come within our understanding, then we forgot our own existence. We abandoned our sense of self. This verse is somewhat superior to {148,5}. (316)

FWP: The first line is a classic rhetorical question, addressed apparently to a sympathetic audience of fellow searchers, appealing to their general agreement: 'who would willingly be taunted for failure in a search?' Obviously, anyone would try to avoid such a sneer. As so often, we can't tell who or what is under discussion until we've waited-- and of course waited, under mushairah performance conditions, as long as conveniently possible. When we hear the second line, at first it seems to be a sensible sequel to the first. When we saw that the search was proving fruitless, that the object of search was simply not turning up-- well, naturally we'd take some kind of preventive action, so we wouldn't have to come home to a chorus of taunts and jeers. But what does this action consist of? Why, losing our own selves, of course! And then, peculiarly enough, coming back. The grammar is clear: kho kar aa))e , with the colloquial omission of kar : 'having lost, came'. This spectacularly counterintuitive strategy has one great advantage: we are now immune to being taunted. For since we ourself are not really 'there', who is there to listen to the taunts? Thus, with a jolt, we now re-experience the first line. What we thought was a rhetorical question is now also a literal one-- indeed, who would listen, since we're not there? Perhaps the taunt will fall flat for want of an audience, or perhaps it won't even be spoken at all. Or alternatively, perhaps the taunt

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would have been made on the road, by the other 'people of the search', and by going 'back', we've confessed our failure and escaped their jeers. There's even a more enjoyably radical reading, if we take 'he/she/it' [vuh] to refer to the speaker's own self. Perhaps we went out in search of our own lost, strayed, or stolen self, but we couldn't find it anywhere; having recognized that we've well and truly lost it, we had to return without it. Thus we may, alas, be subjected to taunts for having lost it, but what choice do we have? We simply can't find it anywhere! One way or another, the verse obviously enjoys playing with paradox. There's also the clever almost-doubling of ko kho .

{163,7} apnaa nahii;N vuh shevah kih aaraam se bai;The;N us dar pah nahii;N baar to ka((be hii ko ho aa))e 1) that's not our practice/habit, that we'd sit at ease 2) when there was no {admission / formal 'court'} at that door, then we stopped by the Ka'bah

Notes: baar : 'Time, turn, occasion, opportunity; ... entrance; admission, admittance; permission'; (in Urdu and Persian), sitting of a sovereign, &c., to give audience, court', or levee (cf. dar-baar )'. (Platts p.120) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, this too was a gadding-about. (176)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's not our practice that when we get tired of seeking a friend, we would then just sit at our ease. When it became proved to us that we can't get information about him/her in any way, that there's no way we can arrive at him/her, then we go to the Ka'bah and become ennobled by a pilgrimage there and come back; that is, when we didn't get entry here, then we go and at least look at the friend's house and return. (235)

Bekhud Mohani: We don't know how to sit at our leisure. When we weren't even able to obtain access to the beloved's door, then we went off to the Ka'bah. From this verse it necessarily emerges that we consider the Ka'bah too to be venerated, but not as much as the beloved's door. That is, when we didn't obtain mystical knowledge, then we performed outer worship, that is, the Haj. In ho aa))e is this refinement, that through it force is generated in the theme of the first line.... That is, we went, and also returned. [In disagreement with Nazm:] No, no-- what occasion is this to speak of 'gadding about'? He says, if there would be access to the beloved's door, then what more is needed! If this would not occur, then one ought to go to the Ka'bah itself. (317)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH In classic mushairah-verse style, the first line is extremely vague and rather moralistic-sounding. All the hearers can get out of it is a rather smug, virtuous claim: we're not lazy, we don't waste our time loafing around! The evidence for this claim, an example of this exemplary behavior, is what we're expecting in the second line-- after we're finally, under mushairah performance conditions, permitted to hear it. And indeed, what we get in the second line is an account of how the speaker uses time efficiently, how he fits in small errands whenever he has an unexpected bit of leisure. For example, when the main errand that would have been his goal-- attending upon some superior person, individually or in

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a 'court' setting-- proves not to be necessary or possible, he immediately sees the chance to cross off another minor errand from his list. So at the very end of the verse we learn the nature of this minor, secondary errand: he 'stops by' at the Ka'bah! What a punch this last phrase must have packed, and how the audience musthave enjoyed it! Part of the 'punch' is obvious-- what an indignity, what a piece of 'mischievous' or rakish behavior, to think of the Ka'bah as merely a secondary, minor destination, to be slotted in as a backup possibility among more important visits. But equally wonderful is the casual, colloquially untranslatable ho aa))e (short for ho kar aa))e -- literally, 'having been [there], came [back]'). I've tried to convey a bit of its casualness with 'stopped by', which has something of the same ease and sense of short duration and opportunistic happenstance and being on the way to somewhere else; 'dropped by' would be similar. What kind of a place is 'that door'? Bekhud Mohani insists that it's the divine Beloved's real, mystically-knowable 'inner' door, the one that a Sufi would seek. Of course, it might also be the human beloved's door. To conflate the two is, after all, business as usual in the ghazal world. (One of my favorite examples is the first line of {233,8}, which speaks of 'circumambulation of the street of disgrace'.) In either case, the point of the verse is to show, offhandedly, how trivial a visit to the Ka'bah is by comparison. Why don't we perform our original errand at 'that door'? The obvious reading is that we don't obtain 'admission' there, for any or all of the usual ghazal reasons. But there's a piquant secondary possibility: that the (divine or human) Lord might have chosen not to hold court that day (see the definition above). Perhaps it's our duty to attend when court is being held, as any proper courtier should (and as Ghalib himself often had to do at the Red Fort, and often complained about in his letters). So we go to 'that door' first, to see if our attendance is required; it's only when the Lord of the court has chosen not to hold court that day that we're free to use the time for minor errands. Adding piquancy to the 'court' reading is the fact that baar is readily equated with the common compound word dar-baar . And surely by no coincidence, the verse offers us not the whole compound but, more subtly, both halves of it, placed only a few words apart: us dar pah nahii;N baar . Here is one more lovely example of what Faruqi would call wordplay that is also meaningplay. It's also left to us to decide what kind of an alternative it is when we leave 'that door' to stop by the Ka'bah. Here are some possibilities: ='that door' and the Ka'bah are very similar; first we'stopped by' at 'that door', then when nothing was doing there we'stopped by' the Ka'bah. The only difference is that the Ka'bah is just a bit inferior, so it makes a good second choice, a substitute or backup in time of need. ='that door' and the Ka'bah are similar, except that the Ka'bah is so greatly inferior that we'd only drop by if we had some time to kill-- or were vexed by our non-admission at the real 'door' (compare {22,2}, in which we leave in vexation when we're not admitted to the Ka'bah). Is the emphatic hii perhaps a sign of some such vexation? ='that door' and the Ka'bah are very different: if we can't do something really desirable in the line of our main aspiration, we might as well do something entirely other (for a similar idea see {9,4}). Then the further question arises-why do we think of going to the Ka'bah in particular? Is going there a pleasure, a duty, a minor religious or social obligation, a casual piece of sightseeing, or something else? This too is left for every reader to decide-and perhaps decide afresh at every reading. In a verse like this, intonation is crucial, and you know Ghalib would never dream of telling us what he had in mind. Because surely part of what he had

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in mind was how compelling this sort of penumbra of possibilities would make his verses. I wonder if he ever thought of a worldwide audience? Why would he not? Remember his ode to Queen Victoria. I think he'd love us new readers.

{163,8} kii ham-nafaso;N ne a;sar-e giryah me;N taqriir achchhe rahe aap us se magar mujh ko ;Dubo aa))e 1) companions {discussed / discoursed about} the effect of weeping 2) it was good for them-- but they came back having exhausted/'drowned' me

Notes: taqriir karnaa : 'To speak, discourse (of); to relate, recite, declare, assert, &c.' (Platts p.330) kalaam karnaa : 'To speak; to relate; to affirm; to reason, argue, dispute'. (Platts p.843) ;Dubaanaa : [of which ;Dubonaa is a variant]: 'To submerge, drown, flood; to lose, waste, exhaust, sacrifice, ruin, destroy'. (Platts p.563) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The idiom is amar me;N kalaam hai , that is, 'we don't believe it'. The author has used it in such a way that in place of kalaam he has said taqriir ; and from using the idiom in this way, no meaning remains. (176)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my companions made a speech to the beloved about the effect of weeping; that is, they argued that weeping had an effect, but they were not able to prove it. And on this basis when the beloved said, 'If weeping had an effect, and what you are making this argument for were true-- that is, that he keeps weeping night and day over me, and that this weeping will have an effect on me, will influence my life-- this is absolutely mistaken, it is not so at all. For if letting tears fall had an effect, then at this moment I would be in the presence of the weeper.' Having heard this, my companions were convinced of the ineffectiveness of weeping, and having lost hope, came back. After having become convinced, these people had the advantage of having conversed with her, but they drowned me-- that is, their becoming convinced of the ineffectiveness of my weeping was a cause of shame for me. A second aspect in this is that they told the beloved the state of my weeping, which I had always kept hidden. Now after its becoming apparent, in her eyes I will become contemptible. (236)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, when the beloved said to his companions, 'if weeping is from the heart, there's no reason it wouldn't have an effect', then the companions agreed with her. The lover says, you people have agreed with everything she said and thus pleased her, and have left me in an awful position. That is, previously the beloved perhaps thought that the lover couldn't endure much from her, and thus showed mercy. But now she considers that his weeping isn't from the heart, and will treat him even more disdainfully, and will even be free of blame for her disdain. [In refutation of Nazm's criticism:] When that meaning [of mine] has been presented, then he didn't use the idiom at all. If he had used kalaam , then it would have become difficult to express the meaning of the verse. In order to avoid the well-known idiom, Mirza didn't say kalaam , but taqriir . In addition, to use an idiom in the Lord knows how many forms-- those Ustads have held this permissible, who were the bearers of the Urdu language and Urdu poetry. (317)

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Josh: An opening-verse of the late Hijr Shajahanpuri comes to mind. In it too, the use of 'to drown' is enjoyable: ashk-baarii se biga;R bai;Thaa vuh dilbar aur bhii ham ko le ;Duube hamaare diidah-e tar aur bhii [from tear-shedding that heart-stealer became even more irritated our wet eyes drowned/ruined us even more] (284)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Nazm is convinced that Ghalib means to say that the companions disputed or cast doubt upon the effect of weeping. Thus he accuses Ghalib of having misused a common idiom in an obscure, almost incomprehensible way, because such a negative meaning could easily and colloquially be achieved through kalaam karnaa , but can't be achieved through taqriir karnaa with anything like the same strength or legitimacy. Bekhud Mohani (supported by Bekhud Dihlavi) is convinced that Ghalib means to say that the companions defended or affirmed the effect of weeping. Thus he finds Nazm's whole approach wrongheaded: the reason the poet didn't say kalaam was that he didn't mean kalaam , in its idiomatic negative sense; why should he be reproached for tampering with an idiom that he never meant to use in the first place? But surely what the companions really did was converse, discuss, or speechify 'about' or 'on'-- literally 'in' [me;N]-- the subject of the effect of weeping. Surely it's not by accident that Ghalib hasn't specified exactly what they said about it. All we know is that they enjoyed their discussion-- while the lover himself was 'drowned' by it. We don't need Bekhud Dihlavi's and Bekhud Mohani's elaborate scenarios about the companions scoring (or not scoring) debating points in the presence of the beloved (although there's nothing against those scenarios either). All we really need is the discussion itself, and its effect on the lover. Some of the companions maintain that weeping is ineffective and vain-- and the lover's heart sinks at the futility and uselessness of his one means of winning the beloved's attention. Others of them argue that weeping can't fail to have an effect-- and the lover's heart sinks at the realization that he alone is cursed with uniquely ineffective tears, and that no one understands the true wretchedness of his plight. Or perhaps it's merely the discussion itself-- the light-hearted treatment of a topic so dire, the outflow of casual words going on and on, people laughing and scoring points-- while the lover himself is in the grip of mortal suffering. In any case, the result is the same: the discussion, so enjoyable for everybody else, has ruined or exhausted or, in a marvelous bit of wordplay, 'drowned' the lover. The lover is 'drowned' by mere discussion of tears-- how vulnerable he must be to the tears themselves! Adding to the wordplay is the reference to the companions as 'breath-sharers' [ham-nafas] and the fact that the root of taqriir is qarr , 'to pour' (Platts p.330) (though I don't know whether this derivation would have sprung readily to mind). The flow or torrent of speech, of 'breath', a source of lively pleasure and a sign of vitality to others, is itself something that can 'drown' the lover and deprive him of the small amount of 'breath' that he still has left.

{163,9} us anjuman-e naaz kii kyaa baat hai ;Gaalib ham bhii ga))e vaa;N aur tirii taqdiir ko ro aa))e 1a) that gathering of coquetry-- what a grand thing it is, Ghalib! 1b) what is it about that gathering of coquetry, Ghalib? 1c) that gathering of coquetry-- what's the good of it, Ghalib!

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2) we too went there-- and came back having bewailed your fate

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, having gone there and described to her your stricken and wretched condition, we came back. Zafar too has used ro aa))e well: ;xvush honaa kahaa;N jab kih na.siibo;N me;N ho ronaa ham sham((a-.sifat ma;hfil-e shaadii me;N bhii ro aa))e [how can there be happiness, when weeping is in one's fate? like a candle we, even in the gathering of joy, wept and came away] (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that gathering of coquetry-- that is, your beloved's gathering-- oh Ghalib, is worthy of praise. Nobody is prevented from going there, friends and enemies and everybody gather there. There is laughter and joking-- in short, they enjoy the pleasures of companionship. It's your misfortune that you are deprived of going there, and can be prevented from access. (236)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved's gathering-- how can it be described [kyaa kahnaa]! We too went there, and to the extent that our tongue aided us, we left no stone unturned to recommend you. But alas-- she wouldn't hear of it. us anjuman kii kyaa baat hai -- from this phrase, it is clear that the speaker has himself been affected by the flourishingness, splendor, ornamentation, and so on of this gathering, and now he understands even better that if Ghalib dies in the attempt to enter it, it's no cause for surprise. From ham bhii it is clear that other people too have previously gone with such a recommendation, and returned. But his fault was not forgiven, or permission for his coming was not granted. Thus even in a worldly respect, the conditions of lover and beloved are as different as earth and sky, for in no way does she agree to his coming into the gathering. (318)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; KYA The calm confidence of the commentators in singling out exactly one meaning for a verse is something that still surprises me. As they describe this effortlessly luxuriant garden of a verse, one which sprouts not little tendrils but giant thick banyan-trunks of meaning all over the place, you'd think they were talking about a telephone pole. The idiomatic expression kyaa baat hai is as common as 'that's really something!', and has at least the same kind of versatility. At a minimum, both expressions convey nothing more than sheer astonishment, sheer exclamatory force. Is it something remarkably good, remarkably bad, or simply remarkably strange and thus indescribable? From the expression itself, nobody can possibly tell. Bekhud Mohani echoes it with kyaa kahnaa - another common idiomatic phrase of almost equal multivalence. For another, similarly complex example of kyaa baat hai , see {231,3}. And here, the wonderfully handy triple possibilities of kyaa itself also come in: the first line can thus be an exclamation of pleasure and admiration (1a), a genuine question (1b), or an exclamation of rejection or horror or disdain (1c). Since we can't tell whether the first line is an exclamation of praise, a disdainful sneer, or a request for information, we hope for guidance from the second line-- for which, under mushairah performance conditions, we're made to wait as long as is conveniently possible. And then what do we get? A line which is itself multivalent, and which can resonant in more than one way with each of the three readings of the first line.

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'We too went' means that the speaker went in addition to one or more others- but who are the others? Well, they could be Rivals, miscellaneous members of the gathering, other friends of the lover, and/or the lover himself. For, commentators to the contrary, it's quite possible that the speaker went to check out where the lover had been spending his evenings, and in the verse is reporting his impressions. And finally, why did the speaker bewail the lover's fate, and then come away from the gathering? Here are some obvious possibilities: =We saw that this gathering was so irresistible that your being excluded from it was truly tragic (this is the commentators' meaning) =We saw that this gathering was so irresistible that you were doomed to slavery to the beloved for the rest of your life, and would finally sacrifice your life for her =We saw that the gathering was so full of Rivals, and the beloved so fickle, that you had no possible hope of success in your mad passion =We saw that you were treated so disdainfully that it made us miserable that you would endure it (see {97,5} for a classic example of this kind of humiliation)

Ghazal 164 14 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aarii hai composed after 1821; Hamid p. 133; Arshi #188; Raza p. 260

{164,1} phir kuchh ik dil ko beqaraarii hai siinah juuyaa-e za;xm-e kaarii hai 1) again the heart feels something of restlessness 2) the breast is in search of an effective/mortal wound

Notes: kaarii : 'Operating, effectual, penetrating, deep, mortal (as a wound)'. (Platts p.800) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the heart is becoming restless, and again the longing has arisen to experience the wound of passion. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again restlessness has arisen in the heart, and there's a kind of constant itching/tickling. It seems that the longing to experience the wound of passion has again arisen. (236)

Bekhud Mohani: Again some restlessness has arisen in the heart, and the breast is in search of a deep wound. That is, again the heart is restless to feel love and to endure somebody's coquetry. (318)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM The two lines look to be parallel, and that's how the commentators read them: as paraphrases of each other, as two descriptions of the same basic situation. But that's not, of course, the only relationship they could have. =A therefore B: If the first line is the cause and the second the effect, then it's the heart's restlessness that causes the breast to begin seeking a deadly wound. And why? In order to escape into death from the miseries of restlessness, and thus avoid further pain? In order to reopen the sufferings of passion, and thus incur further pain?

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=B therefore A: If the second line is the cause and the first the effect, then it's the breast's seeking of a deadly wound that causes the heart to feel 'a sort of' or 'something like' [kuchh ik] restlessness. And why? Because it has a foreboding of further sufferings to come? Because it longs to escape from this wretched world into death? Because we can't pin any of this down, we ourselves are left with 'something like restlessness', as the possible permutations of interpretation cycle back and forth in our minds. In its nostalgic (?) envisioning of a renewed plunge into the cauldron of passion, this ghazal is also a spiritual cousin of {233}. To set the tone, both ghazals make very frequent use of phir .

{164,2} phir jigar khodne lagaa naa;xun aamad-e fa.sl-e laalah-kaarii hai 1) again the fingernail has begun to dig into the liver 2) it's the coming of the season/harvest of tulip-making

Notes: fa.sl : 'A season, time; reaping season, harvest; crop or crops'. (Platts p.781) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By fingernail is meant the fingernail of grief. But 'to scratch with a fingernail' naa;xun se kurednaa is an idiom; 'to dig the liver with a fingernail' [naa;xun se jigar khodnaa] has fallen from the level of idiom. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the fingernail has begun to dig into the liver. It seems that the spring season has come near. In the garden the tulip and rose will bloom, and madness will again acquire force. The wounds of the people of passion will again become fresh. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: Again the fingernail of grief, or the fingernail of passion, digs into the heart. Again the time has come for the sowing of tulips. That is, the grief of passion has begun, and the heart seeks to become a tulip-garden through wounds. [Rejecting Nazm's complaint:] This is not an idiom, it is a dictionary usage, and kurednaa would have had no affinity with 'tulip-making'. (318)

Arshi: Compare {4,5}. (160)

FWP: SETS == A,B JIGAR: {2,1} Here is a verse with two utterly simple but richly, even wildly, evocative lines, and no indication of how we are to connect them to each other. Because both lines are so 'pre-poeticized' within the ghazal tradition, the possibilities form a considerable network. Just to start with, here are some possible logical relationships between the lines: =A and B as parallel accounts of the same situation: I've once again begun to dig into my liver, and it's once again the season of tulip-making =A as cause, B as result: Because I've once again begun to dig into my liver, the season of tulip-making will now arrive =B as cause, A as result: Because it's the season of tulip-making, I've once again begun to dig into my liver And of course, we have available multiply metaphorical resonances for both these activities.

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=The coming of the spring season, the time of 'tulip-making', might have reawakened my mad passion, so that I've begun to 'dig into my liver' in renewed self-torment. =When I 'dig into my liver', I might be preparing a sort of flower-bed for the growth of beauty and love, as a gardener does in the early spring when he prepares to plant his flowers and engage in 'tulip-making'. =Or I might be seeking supplies of fresh blood (since in the ghazal world the liver is the blood-making organ); the blood will emerge in the form of red drops, and will then fall and adorn the hem of my robe, turning it into a garden and thus performing 'tulip-making'. (For a similar case, see {233,6}.) =Or my beginning to 'dig into my liver' is perhaps to me entirely equivalent to the coming of the season of 'tulip-making', since in my wretchedness all I know of spring is a fresh burst of self-torment. =Or perhaps my digging into my liver is all the spring there is in the world, perhaps my self-torment creates (the effect of) spring for everybody else; for a parallel case, see {62,8}. For further permutations, we could also translate fa.sl not as 'season' but as 'harvest', which would give us a whole set of further, equally enjoyable variations on the gardening imagery. And of course, for initial simplicity I've said that 'I' dig-- but it's really not 'I' at all, it's actually 'the fingernail' that digs. It could well be my fingernail, but acting autonomously-- the fingernail might be digging without, or even against, my will. Or of course it could be somebody else's fingernail (the beloved's?), or the fingernail of a semi-personified abstraction ('the fingernail of grief', 'the fingernail of passion'), as Bekhud Mohani points out. (For that matter, it could even be somebody else's liver, though that possibility doesn't seem to take us anywhere.) Even now the interpretations could go on; it's that kind of verse. In its luxuriance it reminds me of {4,5}. And of the superb, unforgettable {214,6}, which is also about gardening and the liver. Note for grammar fans: Look how necessary it is, semantically and psychologically, to translate khodne lagaa as 'has begun to dig', even though it literally appears to mean 'began to dig'. It's a powerful example of how what appear structurally to be parallel perfect forms between English and Urdu, in practice are often (or even usually) skewed one step further into the past in Urdu.

{164,3} qiblah-e maq.sad-e nigaah-e niyaaz phir vuhii pardah-e ((amaarii hai 1) the Qiblah of the goal of the gaze of humility 2) again is that same veil/curtain of the canopied litter

Notes: ((amaarii : 'A litter or seat with a canopy, to ride in (on an elephant)'. (Platts p.765) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has considered the curtain of the elephant-litter to be the curtain of the Ka'bah. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again/still the prayer-direction of the gaze of humility has become that very curtain of the elephant-litter in which the beloved is manifest. The meaning is that like Laila, our beloved too has come to have an ardor for riding in a litter [ma;hmil]. (237)

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Bekhud Mohani: Again/still the curtain of the litter [ma;hmil] has become the prayer-direction of the purpose of the gaze of humility. That is, again/still all the hopes are bound up with the curtain of the beloved's litter. (318)

Shadan: Since Ka'bah too can also come, then why shouldn't Ka'bah itself be said? And if we don't consider a curtain to be removed from it, then along with the word ((amaarii the word pardah becomes useless. It's better that the word Ka'bah would be there, and in the second line the word pardah would not appear: ka((bah-e maq.sad-e nigaah-e niyaaz phir kisii kii vuhii ((amaarii hai [the Ka'bah of the goal of the gaze of humility still/again is that very canopied litter of someone's] (475)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH Here is a strikingly clever 'mushairah verse'. The first line consists of absolutely nothing except four nouns joined by three i.zaafat constructions, so it's quite literally uninterpretable. The fact that the first word is qiblah does, however, set up in us an expectation of religious imagery to come. When we're finally, after the usual delay created under mushairah performance conditions, allowed to hear the second line, at first our expectation of religious imagery is fulfilled. There's an emphasis on continuity and repetition through 'again/still' [phir] and 'that very' [vuhii]. By the time we hear pardah , we can hardly fail to think of the curtain of the Ka'bah, which is the prime and ultimate Qiblah. But then in classic mushairah-verse style, at the very last possible moment, in the rhyme-word itself, we discover that the curtain belongs not to the Qiblah, but to the beloved's fancy canopied elephant-litter. All the sense of piety and humility and devotion over time that the verse had carefully evoked, is now with a single word transferred to the beloved. (Which of course, given the ghazal's usual human-divine slipperiness, may not ultimately be much of a transfer-- but then again, it may.) The normal word for a litter is ma;hmil , the word that the commentators use when explaining the verse; for an example of its use, see {29,1}. The word ((amaarii is much less common, and the verse makes no use at all of its specialized meaning as a canopied elephant-litter. For its value lies elsewhere: it enables the 'punch-word' of the verse to be deferred until the very last moment, since it can be positioned as the rhyme-word in a way that ma;hmil cannot.

{164,4} chashm dallaal-e jins-e rusvaa))ii dil ;xariidaar-e ;zauq-e ;xvaarii hai 1) the eye is a broker of the merchandise of disgrace 2) the heart is a buyer of the relish/taste of/for abjectness/wretchedness

Notes: ;zauq : 'Taste, enjoyment, delight, joy, pleasure, voluptuousness'. (Platts p.578) ;xvaarii : 'Contemptibleness, meanness, baseness, vileness; abjectness, friendlessness, wretchedness, distress'. (Platts p.494) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: [Commenting on this verse and {164,5} together:] That is the eye, acting as a broker, makes the heart absorbed in the merchandising [saudaa]. He has given the details of this in the second verse: that in a hundred ways the eye performs tear-shedding, which is a cause of disgrace, and in a hundred ways the heart laments, the result of which is abjectness/wretchedness. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the eye has begun to traffic in the merchandise of disgrace, and the heart has become a buyer of the relish of abjectness/wretchedness-- that is, it has become mad. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: [Commenting on this verse and {164,5} together:] The heart is buying the merchandise of disgrace and ill-fame. The eye has become a broker. Then, compared to previously, the heart laments in a hundred ways. The eyes are dripping tears in a hundred ways. That is, the eye, having seen the glory/appearance of the beloved, weeps. The heart laments. Of which the necessary result is ill-fame. (319)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM COMMERCE: {3,3} Nazm, Bekhud Mohani, Shadan (475), Chishti (691), and Mihr (455) treat this and the next verse as a verse-set; Bekhud Dihlavi explicitly labels them as such. Baqir (408) seems to treat them as a pair of some lesser kind. Josh (284) treats them separately. As always, I follow Arshi, who treats them as ordinary, separate verses. It's possible to see why they might be read together, but it's also perfectly possible to read them separately without any sense of loss. (For further discussion, see {164,5}.) On the whole, Ghalib doesn't make too much use of imagery drawn from the realm of commerce, but here he gives us a fine illustration of how it can be done. The eye is a kind of broker or middleman, who wheels and deals, and may play both ends against the middle. Selling (though not producing) the 'merchandise of disgrace', the eye is a kind of drug dealer, soliciting customers in a furtive way, gesturing from a dark alley, knowing he'll have takers for his seductive, addictive wares. And what is his relationship to the heart, the poor sucker, the masochist, the hapless customer? The heart is a 'buyer'-- but not of any material goods. What the heart is really seeking is the 'relish' or 'taste', either 'of', or 'for'-and look at the wide range these these ambiguities open up-- some kind of 'lowness', 'vileness', 'abjectness', 'wretchedness'. At the instigation of the eye, the heart deliberately strays from the broad highway of proper behavior, into the alleys and byways where it can 'purchase' its own disgrace and humiliation. How to assign responsibility for this sordid and undesirable state of affairs? Is it the wandering eye, the seeker-out and broker of all manner of forbidden fruits, who's to blame? Or is it the heart, the customer who ought to know better, who deliberately sacrifices his good repute for the sake of vile and illicit pleasures? The two lines of this verse seem to identify them as natural accomplices in their low-life transactions. And who is turning in this police-blotter kind of report, identifying their mutual culpability, if not the lover himself? But what is his tone? Analytical, deprecatory, despairing, self-exculpatory, amused, wry? The tone is everything-- and as so often, we have to invent it for ourselves.

{164,5} vohii .sad-rang naalah-farsaa))ii vohii .sad-guunah ashk-baarii hai

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1) [there is] that very hundred-{colored/styled} lament-wearingoutness-2a) that very same thing is hundred-{colored/styled} tear-shedding 2b) there is that very hundred-{colored/styled} tear-shedding

Notes: farsaa : 'Wearing, rubbing; obliterating, effacing; worn, obliterated, old (used as last member of compounds, e.g. jaan-farsaa , 'distracting, or wearing out, the mind')'. (Platts p.778) guunah : 'Colour; kind, sort, species; form, figure, fashion; mode, manner'. (Platts p.927) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his discussion of this verse together with {164,4}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He has given in this verse the details of the previous verse. That is, the heart is lamenting in a hundred ways, the result of which is disgrace and abjectness, and what stability can it find? And the eye in a hundred ways is shedding tears, which is a cause of vileness and ill repute. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his discussion of this verse together with {164,4}.]

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; REPETITION A number of commentators treat this as the second and final verse in a small two-verse verse-set; for further discussion, see {164,4}. The case for treating the two as a set is the one made by the commentators: that this verse can be read as a sort of inventory or detailed list of the kind of 'merchandise' of (the relish/taste for) 'lowness/vileness' that is bought by the heart from the 'broker' of the eye. Merchandise of 'a hundred colors/styles' would also be well suited to a commercial transaction. The case for treating the two verses separately can be made along several lines. The use of vuhii doesn't seem particularly appropriate to anything in {164,4}, unless weeping and lamenting is taken to be identical to, or 'the very same' as, the 'relish for abjectness/wretchedness'. No doubt an argument could be made to this effect, but it's not obvious on the face of it. (One can very well weep or lament without having 'bought' a 'relish' for 'abjectness'.) The case for separate treatment is also enhanced by the very different treatment of the eye. In {164,4} it's a broker, a middleman; in the present verse it has suddenly become reduced to a mere appendage of the buyer, and appears merely as a source of tears. The enjoyableness of this verse is based on its extreme, elusive simplicity. Does the extraordinarily parallel structure of the two lines conceal identity, or similarity, or contrast? And the juxtaposition of 'that very one' [vuhii] with 'hundred-{colored/styled}'-- expressed similarly and positioned identically-has its own ambiguities. How is identity to be maintained, or even recognized, amidst hundreds of colors and styles? And is the lamentwearing-outness the same as the tear-shedding, or a cause of it, or an effect of it, or a contrast to it? And it's all 'that very same'-- but the same as what? As previously? Or as always? Or as promised to the beloved? And what, of course, is the tone? Is the verse rueful, melancholy, amused, wry, despairing, grimly determined? The structure of the verse reminds me of the first line of {24,6}. We seem to get some kind of (equational) information-- but really, how informative is it? The very presence of an alleged huge equation only seems to point up the huge holes in our knowledge of the circumstances. It's like being given, very

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portentously, what purports to be a gigantic key-- but not being told which particular lock to put it in. Compare this verse to its closest sibling, {164,8}, which has a structure almost as minimal. Note for meter fans: Arshi's text gives the first word in each line as vohii , with a long vowel in the first syllable, in order to make the first syllable long, according to the basic pattern in this meter. This isn't necessary, however. There's a perfectly permissible variant in this meter, in which the first syllable may be short rather than long, at the poet's pleasure. Moreover, Ghalib was quite aware of this possibility and willing to use it elsewhere in this ghazal: notice the first line of {164,13}, which begins with an unambiguously short syllable. But in a case like this Arshi would surely take pains to reflect Ghalib's own usage; it seems quite plausible that Ghalib himself would have written vohii , in order to assure the strong emphasis that works so well in this verse.

{164,6} dil havaa-e ;xiraam-e naaz se phir ma;hsharistaan-e beqaraarii hai 1) again the heart, from the {desire for / breeze of} the gait of coquetry 2) is a {Doomsday/collection}-place of restlessness/instability

Notes: ma;hshar : 'A place of assembly or congregation; .... the day of the place of congregation, the day of judgment'. (Platts p.1009) beqaraarii : 'Restlessness, uneasiness, anxiety, discomposure, disquietude; instability, inconstancy, variableness, fluctuation'. (Platts p.203) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The cause for affinity is that they always use ma;hshar as a simile for ;xiraam .

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in ardor for the beloved's gait of coquetry, again our heart has become, for restlessness, a field of Doomsday/collection. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: In the longing to see the beloved's gait of coquetry, again the heart has become a Doomsday/collection place. That is, in the heart are a crowd of restlessnesses. (They give as a simile for the gait of the beloved, the mischief of Doomsday.) (319)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY QIYAMAT: {10,11} This is a lovely verse of wordplay. The word havaa can mean either 'desire' or 'breeze'; for another verse that plays (even more clearly) with this double sense, see {8,3}. If we take it to mean 'desire', then we have the heart longing to see the beloved's coquettish style of walking. This desire makes the heart a 'Doomsday' of restlessness. Although mahshar literally means 'gatheringplace', it's often used, by extension, synonymously with qiyaamat , to refer to the Day of Judgment, and thus metaphorically to any great, terrible, catastrophic situation. This 'Doomsday' scenario is doubly appropriate because it's so common in the ghazal world for everything the beloved is or does to be referred to as a 'Doomsday' in its power and effect: for many examples, see {10,11}. So the lover's heart is a final gathering-place, beyond the grave, of all the 'restlessness' in the world, all collected together in one

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ultimate, doomed, desire: not to possess the beloved, but merely to behold her deadly, irresistible way of sauntering along. If we take it to mean 'breeze', then we have an actual physical effect: as the beloved walks along, the breeze of her passage (bearing, as it always does, traces of her intoxicating perfume) reaches the lover. And just as the same breeze disorders the wounded lovers in {8,3}, causing them to writhe, here too it inwardly disorders the lover, causing him to feel all the restlessness in the world: he is 'blown' into a state of 'instability' and 'fluctuation' that is itself very like the movement of the breeze. But most enjoyable of all is the word- and meaning-play involving the two poles of being 'collected' or 'gathered', versus being 'restless' or 'unstable'. (For an intriguing parallel, see the use of pareshaan in {111,8}.) The heart is a 'collection-place' for a state in which one can't 'collect' oneself. And what is the midpoint between these two poles of collectedness and instability? Surely a process of steady movement-- a process of walking, a 'gait'. Walking will take one to a gathering-place; walking will also express, or channel, or exhaust, one's 'restlessness'. So it's the beloved's 'gait'-- not her glance, her curls, her henna-ed fingers, etc.-- that operates here so appropriately on the lover. Since mahshar already explicitly contains the idea of 'place', why do we need to call it a mahsharistaan , a 'gathering-place-place'? I can't see any benefit to the verse from the redoubled 'place' information. Could it be that we're actually catching Ghalib in a small bit of 'padding'? On padding in general, see {17,9}.

{164,7} jalvah phir ((ar.z-e naaz kartaa hai roz-e baazaar-e jaa;N-sipaarii hai 1) glory/appearance again makes an offering of coquetry 2a) it's the day of the bazaar of life-surrendering 2b) every day, there's a bazaar of life-surrendering

Notes: ((ar.z karnaa : 'To make representation (of), to represent, to submit, to state humbly; to report; to memorialize; to make application (for), to apply (for), to request, beg'. (Platts p.760) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, it's the day of the bazaar of the lover's life-surrendering-- that the glory/appearance of the beloved is offering the merchandise of coquetry, and asking who is a buyer of it. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the glory/appearance of the beloved, displaying the merchandise of coquetry and arrogance, is saying, which life-sacrificing [jaan-baaz] lover is the buyer of this? As if the bazaar of life-surrendering is, every day [har roz], at its height [garmii-e baazaar]. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: jaan sipaarii = to sacrifice one's life. The beloved's glory/appearance is again eager for the market [sar-garm-e baazaar], and it's the time of the lovers' sacrificing their lives. (319)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} JALVAH: {7,4} From the first line, we can tell only that glory/appearance is 'offering' or 'presenting' coquetry. The multivalence of ((ar.z karnaa (see definition) makes it impossible to tell where the verse is going. It's even deliberately

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confusing, almost like a kind of iihaam , since most of the meanings involve humility and submissiveness, which are not at all what we expect from the beloved or her glory/appearance. Under mushairah performance conditions, of course, we'd then have to wait as long as conveniently possible before hearing the second line. Only on hearing it do we suddenly realize that the 'offering' being made in the first line was a commercial proposition, like an 'offering' of stock in a company, or the 'offering' of merchandise. This is piquant in itself, since Ghalib rarely uses such commercial imagery. Thus no humility is involved, but simply a shrewd business transaction. And in the bazaar (our borrowed rendering of baazaar ) here come the eager customers, ready to purchase the 'offering' with their own stock-in-trade: their 'life-surrendering'. To our minds, the bargain is wildly unequal: what the beloved offers is a renewable resource that she can well afford to spare; what the lover pays for it is no less than everything. Is it even possible for a customer to 'buy' something that involves the customer's own death? If he's not around to take possession of it, can he really be said to have 'bought' it and to 'own' it? The second line is given by Arshi with an i.zaafat after roz , leading to (2a); this is thus the preferred or primary reading. But it's also metrically possible to read the line without the i.zaafat , yielding (2b), as Bekhud Dihlavi reads the verse. Both readings make enjoyable kinds of connection with the first line. A bazaar could be held only on certain days, or only once a year, as part of some special festival or event. So this bazaar could be a special event, as in (2a)-- the beloved so rarely makes this irresistible offering, and the buyers are rushing to take advantage of it. Or it could be a constant, daily occurrence, as in (2b)-- there's no end to the rush of buyers, day after day they come in search of such an 'offering'. The relatively uncommon phrase jaa;N-sipaarii finds its supreme, most amusing moment in {95,1}.

{164,8} phir usii be-vafaa pah marte hai;N phir vuhii zindagii hamaarii hai 1) again we die over that very same faithless one 2) again that very same life is ours

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the one over whom we're dying-- upon seeing that one, we live. (177)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again passion for that faithless one has been born for a second time. That is, the one over whom we previously used to die-- again we are passing the days of our live in that same way, the way they used to be spent. (238)

Bekhud Mohani: We again give our life over that faithless one, and what previously happened to us is again happening to us. [Or:] Again we are the lover of that faithless one, and again she is our life. (319)

FWP: LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} Almost the only commentary needed for this verse is a reference to the classic paradox of the lover's life-in-death and death-in-life. Ghalib himself put it as clearly as it could possibly be put, in {219,8}: in love there's 'no difference between death and life', because we only 'live' through seeing the one over whom we 'die'.

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The meaning of kisii par marnaa is not 'to die for someone' in the sense of sacrificing one's life (as in {164,7}), but is more like the idiomatic uses of 'I'm dying for her to notice me' or 'I'm dying for a drink'. I've tried to reflect this distinction by using 'die over' instead of 'die for'. What kind of a 'life' is it, that is based on dying? And what kind of 'dying' is it, that goes on and on, and recurs again [phir] or repeatedly? Whichever line we look at, we're bounced off a kind of reflective surface of paradox-- back toward the other line, which is equally opaque. Meaning becomes a kind of tennis ball, being volleyed back and forth with no escape in sight. In particular, it's possible to read the second line, with its impenetrable simplicity, in several ways: (1) we've fallen in love again, so again our life consists of constantly, metaphorically 'dying for' that faithless one; (2) again and again we die over her, and again and again we find ourselves (magically? mystically?) revived, with that very same life restored to us; (3) we keep dying over her, and that very process of perpetually dying now constitutes our 'life'. In its extreme structural simplicity this verse is reminiscent of {164,5}, though it's not quite as radical of course.

{164,9} phir khulaa hai dar-e ((adaalat-e naaz garm-baazaar-e faujdaarii hai 1) again the door of the courthouse of coquetry {is open / has opened} 2) there's a hot market in the criminal court

Notes: faujdaarii : 'Of or relating to crime, (a court) for criminal cases'. (Platts p.784) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse, baazaar is an extremely uninspired [;Than;Daa] word. (178) [Commenting on verses 9-13:] In this verse-set, ((adaalat and faujdaarii and sarishtah-daarii and savaal denaa and muqadmah and rob-kaarii -- all these terms are, to this day, rejected by the eloquent. The reason for the aversion is that these are not terms made by expert knowers of the language [ahl-e zabaa;N]. Although by necessity everyone is forced to say them, as yet they are not properly established, and the Urdu language has not accepted them. And even if you consider them to have entry into the language, then in those special meanings they are all Indian words [laf:z-e hindii]-- it will not be correct to bring them into a Persian construction [like the i.zaafat].... The objection has always been raised against this verse of Atish's kisii kii ma;hram-e aab-e ravaa;N vuh yaad aa))ii ;habaab kaa jo baraabar ko))ii ;habaab aayaa [someone's delicate/'running-water' bodice came to mind when a bubble came near another bubble] -- that is, although the word 'bodice' [ma;hram] is not Indian [hindii], with the meaning of 'bodice' [angiyaa] it is Indian, so why did he use it with a Persian i.zaafat ? [Further discussion and more examples along similar lines.] (178-79)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the recess [ta((:tiil] is over. Again the lock on the door of the court of coquetry has been opened. Nowadays the bazaar of the criminal court has again heated up. The meaning is that as soon as rose-season comes, the turmoil of passion and madness begin to arise in people's hearts. (238)

Bekhud Mohani: [Rejecting Nazm's criticism:] Khvajah Atish, peace be upon him, says:

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saarii ((adaalat ulfat-e .saadiq kii hai gavaah muhro;N se hai lipii hu))ii apnii sajal tamaam [the whole court is a witness to true love my whole affadavit is enveloped in seals] 'Analysis' is beating its head against a wall, but the learned Commentator, with his 'judicial authority' [ijtihaad], is unwilling to listen to anybody... Bestowing the honor of acceptance upon these words, Mirza has brought them into the language. [These terms] have assumed the aspect of learning [((ilm]. [He provides another illustration, in which Atish uses savaal denaa .] (319-21)

Shadan: ((adaalat means a court; it is Hindustani Persian. In Arabic and Persian it means 'justice'. In the time of the English there were three kinds: diivaanii , ma;aalii , faujdaarii .... She has again begun to use coquetry. With the sword of coquetry she will take the lives of thousands. And all those thousands will present their cases and have them registered in the court of coquetry. (376)

Josh: In these five verses [the court-related words] are words of one single .zil((a . In poetry, a .zil((a is not not considered a good thing. And here the words too of the .zil((a are such as are not part of the language of the ghazal. (285)

Chishti: All five of these verses are a verse-set. In these verses Ghalib has assembled court-related terms.... It's true that from these words, the verbal device of wordplay [ri((aayat-e laf:zii] is conspicuous in this verse-set. But these words have no affinity with the language of the ghazal. (692)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} Well, here in {164,9-13} we have a verse-set that really is a verse-set! Arshi presents it as one, and also it feels like one in every way. Nazm treats it as one, and so do almost all the other commentators as well. To my surprise, Nazm's objection to its 'un-ghazal-like' language is echoed by several more commentators, although less passionately and at less length. I join Bekhud Mohani in telling them they should lighten up. Not only are there plenty of counterexamples to their narrow, restrictive claims about classical ghazal language, but also, who are they to say what kind of terms the ghazal can and can't assimilate? Who's to tell Ghalib (or Shakespeare, that powerful coiner of dozens of neologisms) what words he can or can't use? In a two-line verse after all, as Abu Talib 'Kalim' has famously said, 'a fresh word is equal to a theme'. And Nazm himself knows this perfectly well: he has cited this very quotation in his discussion of {17,2}. His literary instincts seem to be pulled in several directions at once; his commentary on different verses expresses attitudes that are sometimes strikingly selfcontradictory. Then again, do both lines describe the same situation-- that the beloved is coquettishly holding 'court', and judging her lovers guilty of all kinds of offenses? Or do the lines refer to two different situations? After all, as Shadan observes, in Ghalib's day colonial courts came in three varieties, so that 'court' might be a general term, used for the coquettish, arbitrary, dictatorial salon of the beloved, while the rush at the 'criminal court' [faujdaarii] might refer to the cases of mad lovers doing crazy things and getting arrested in a whole different context (of actual criminal behavior). Or, thanks to the versatility of the i.zaafat construction, the 'courthouse of coquetry' could even be the courthouse in which coquetry will be brought to trial, as Shadan proposes-- and since coquetry murders the lovers, this might well be an affair for the criminal court.

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It's true, as Nazm sneers, that not much is done with the word baazaar . But then, remember that this is the introductory verse of a verse-set, so it is entitled to be judged and enjoyed along with its companions. And Nazm to the contrary, their technical, law-court language is indeed manipulated very cleverly and wittily. Note for grammar fans: it's not possible in this context to distinguish khulaa hai , 'has opened' (present perfect), from khulaa hu))aa hai , 'is in a state of having become open' (past participle with the hu))aa colloquially omitted).

{164,10} ho rahaa hai jahaan me;N andher zulf kii phir sarishtah-daarii hai 1) in the world tyranny/darkness is taking place 2) again there is the {court-record-keeping / cord-possessing} of the curls

Notes: andher : 'Darkness, gloom; violence, outrage, wrong, injustice, iniquity; tyranny, oppression'. (Platts p.91) sarishtah : 'Rope, cord, thread, line; series; connextion, affinity; practice, course, custom, usage, form; rites, ceremonies; --office, employment; recordoffice'. (Platts p.653) sarishtah-daar : 'An officer whose business it is to lay petitions before judicial officers and to write down the orders passed on them; chief recordkeeper and court reader'. (Platts p.653) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments about {164,9}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again in the world that same tyranny/darkness is occurring, and its cause is that again the curls have received the post of sarishtah-daar . (238)

Bekhud Mohani: Again the master of the court (the beloved) has made the curls her sarishtahdaar , and the world is being looted. That is, again the beloved has formed an intention of heart-stealing, and the curls are doing their work. (320)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} This is the second of five verses of a verse-set full of legal terminology; for further discussion of the whole set, see {164,9}. The interlocking wordplay makes this verse a particular pleasure. Both andher and sarishtah have excellently exploited double meanings. The world is full of tyranny because the cruel, unjust, irresistible curls are in a position of power: they are the 'record-keepers' in the beloved's 'court of coquetry'. And/or-- the world is full of darkness because of the beloved's black curls, which engulf and bind people in the meshes of their thick black twists and turns.

{164,11} phir diyaa paarah-e jigar ne savaal ek faryaad-o-aah-o-zaarii hai 1) again the piece of the liver submitted a petition 2) there is a single 'complaint' and sighing and lamentation

Notes: savaal denaa : 'To make an application (to); to present a petition (to); to petition'. (Platts p.692)

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Note for purists: Platts uses the technically correct Arabic spelling, su))aal , in which the v is considered to be merely a 'chair' for the hamzah . Most Urdu-vale nowadays ignore this arcane refinement. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments about {164,9}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the piece of the liver has again instigated a claim; again, from all quarters, plaintiffs [faryaadii] have descended in a crowd. (237)

Bekhud Mohani: A fragment of the heart, in the capacity of a plaintiff/prosecutor, has made a complaint, and has created a turmoil of lamenting and sighing. (320)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} JIGAR: {2,1} This is the third of five verses of a verse-set full of legal terminology; for further discussion of the whole set, see {164,9}. In view of the legal terminology that's the unifying feature of this verse-set, we're not surprised to find savaal denaa in the first line, as a 'piece of the liver' submits a petition. (Ghalib's liver-fragments are remarkably active-remember how they also love the wild plunge into the salt-dish in {17,7}.) And then, of course we're not surprised to find faryaad as '[legal] complaint' in the second line-- for right from the start of the divan, in {1,1}, we have faryaadii as a plaintiff or justice-seeker. But then, abruptly, we find that the 'complaint' is linked into a compound with 'sighing' and 'lamentation' [faryaad-o-aah-o-zaarii]; thus we're driven back also to its more common, non-technical meaning of 'complaining, lamenting'. Conveniently, 'to complain' in English also has both a technical legal meaning ('he filed a complaint') and a more general sense of protest against injustice ('he constantly complained about her behavior'). This emphasis on the double sense of faryaad invites close scrutiny of the second line, and another enjoyable layer of subtlety emerges: we are told that there is 'one' or 'a single' [ek] of something that is not only two-fold (the 'complaint' itself, which is both legal and more general), but also threefold (the set called 'complaint and sighing and lamentation'). Does this mean that the 'complaint' itself is single, but is accompanied by constant 'sighing and lamentation'? Or does it mean that the 'complaint' is inextricably intermingled with the 'sighing and lamentation', so that they're really one single phenomenon? Or might it mean that the 'petition' submitted in the first line is what consists entirely of 'complaint and sighing and lamentation'? Or might it mean that when the plaintiff, the 'piece of the liver', submitted its petition, the process was accompanied by a huge clamor-- perhaps from the other liver-pieces and their allies, the heart-pieces-- of 'complaint and sighing and lamentation'? Whichever way we slice it (sorry, sorry!), the verse is sophisticated and amusing-- and surely a bit 'tongue-in-cheek'.

{164,12} phir hu))e hai;N gavaah-e ((ishq :talab ashk-baarii kaa ;hukm jaarii hai 1) again the witnesses of Passion have been sought/sent for 2) the rule/order of Tear-shedding is in force

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments about {164,9}.]

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again before the court the witnesses of passion are appearing. The rule of tear-shedding is in force. Along with tears, the blood of the heart is presenting a fragment of the liver as testimony of passion. (238)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments about {164,9}.]

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} This is the fourth of five verses of a verse-set full of legal terminology; for further discussion of the whole set, see {164,9}. The ambiguities of the i.zaafat come into play in this verse. In the first line, are those witnesses 'of' passion in the sense that they have observed it and will testify about it? Or are they witnesses 'of' Passion in the sense that they are made of semi-personified Passion and are identified with it (as in 'man of sorrows')? And in the second line, the rule of 'tear-shedding'-- is that a rule requiring that tears be shed, or does it refer to rule or governance by a semipersonified entity called 'Tear-shedding'? These semi-personifications aren't at all implausible. In this verse-set, after all, the beloved's curls are court record-keepers, and a piece of the lover's liver is a plaintiff.

{164,13} dil-o-mizhgaa;N kaa jo muqaddamah thaa aaj phir us kii ruubkaarii hai 1) the lawsuit/preliminary there was between heart and eyelashes 2) today again its proceeding/warrant/order is taking place

Notes: muqaddamah : 'Prelude; introduction; premisses (of an argument); preliminary; --affair, matter, case, business... --law-suit, suit, cause, case, proceedings; prosecution'. (Platts p.1055) ruubakaarii : 'Proceeding (of a cause [=case]), a record (in a cause); a warrant, an order' (Platts p.602) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments about {164,9}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the court case that there was between the beloved's eyelashes and the lover's heart, today has been called in the court of coquetry. That is, both parties are presenting their respective proofs and evidence, and rebuttals. Mirza Sahib's inventive temperament couldn't bear not to keep creating new constructions in his verses. Thus this verse-set too is an extreme example of the height of expression. (238)

Bekhud Mohani: The court case of the heart and the eyelashes, in which the heart is the plaintiff and the eyelashes the accused, is today called again.

Arshi: Compare {228,4}. (280)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} This is the last of five verses of a verse-set full of legal terminology; for further discussion of the whole set, see {164,9}. In addition to the obvious legal wordplay, there's one more nice touch: the literal meaning of ruu-bakaar is setting one's 'face-toward-action', which is

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of course perfect for describing a part of the face (the eyelashes) and their cruel or criminal behavior (in lacerating the heart). Arshi is right to suggest a comparison with {228,4}: it concerns a similar court case, and it culminates in a rhyme-word of ruubakaar .

{164,14} be-;xvudii be-sabab nahii;N ;Gaalib kuchh to hai jis kii pardah-daarii hai 1) self-lessness is not without cause, Ghalib 2a) there is something, of which it is the veiling 2b) something is there, that is within a veil

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, this self-lessness is in order to hide the secret of passion. (179)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, this self-lessness is not without cause. There's certainly something or other going on, in order to hide which, this self-lessness prevails. The meaning is that for the concealment of the secret of passion, the veil of self-lessness has come in between. (239)

Bekhud Mohani: The prevailing of self-lessness is not without a cause, for the veiling of which this aspect has been adopted. That is, the heart itself wants to preserve the secrecy of the beloved. Thus self-lessness continues to prevail, because after coming back to consciousness, restlessnesses will reveal the secret. (321)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} As always, I use the spelling 'self-lessness' to distinguish this usefully literal translation from the normal English word 'selflessness' (meaning 'unselfishness'). Everybody likes (2a), and quite understandably-- it fits into the general frame of the lover's (half-conscious) trickiness. Is he tricking himself, or the beloved, and/or the bystanders? It hardly matters-- the lover's deep wish for privacy and concealment (preferably by wandering off into the desert) meshes perfectly with the beloved's yen for respectability and good repute. The lover's state of mystical rapture or trance-- a wandering in the spiritual desert-- satisfies both purposes at once; it is a kind of tactic, one that's adopted for good reason. But I like (2b) even better, in its radical inscrutability. The veiled thing is so obscure that it can't even be named. Is it a real Divine presence? Is it a mere glimmer of something beyond this transitory physical world? Whatever it is, it's powerful-- it's somehow causing or forcing or producing the 'selflessness'. It can only be dimly glimpsed or sensed, behind the veil-- but its undefinability, its dense mysteriousness, make it all the more powerful. It reminds me of a verse of Zafar's: diyaa apnii ;xvudii ko jo ham ne mi;Taa vuh jo pardah-saa biich me;N thaa nah rahaa rahaa parde me;N ab nah vuh pardah-nashii;N ko))ii duusra us ke sivaa nah rahaa [when we erased our self, that veil-like thing did not remain any longer between now that veiled one didn't remain within the veil, no one other than that one remained]

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I've translated it with deliberate awkwardness, to show how multivalent the grammar really is: by the end of the second line, how many entities are left, and which ones exactly?

Ghazal 165 3 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aanii kii composed 1816; Hamid p. 134; Arshi #142; Raza pp. 168-69

{165,1} junuu;N tuhmat-kash-e taskii;N nah ho gar shaadmaanii kii namak-paash-e ;xaraash-e dil hai la;z;zat zindagaanii kii 1) let Madness not be blamed for comfort/calmness, if it rejoiced 2a) a sprinkling of salt on the lacerations of the heart is the pleasure/relish of life 2b) the pleasure/relish of life is a sprinkling of salt on the lacerations of the heart

Notes: taskiin : 'Calming, stilling, tranquillizing, appeasing, soothing, allaying, assuaging; consolation, comfort, mitigation, rest, assurance, peace (of mind)'. (Platts p.324) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word 'pleasure' [la;z;zat] is only by way of sarcasm/taunt [tashnii((]. He says, oh Madness, you wouldn't be blamed for comfort. That is, if I rejoiced, then the blame of self-possession can't be placed for it on you. Rather, my rejoicing is because of the salt-sprinkling on the wound of the heart, not because of comfort. And for the pleasure of life to be salt-sprinkling has the meaning that to remain living through such bad situations is to sprinkle salt on the wound of the heart. And from the sprinkling of salt on the heart, the burning becomes even greater-- where is the 'comfort'? (179)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that to remain alive in such a bad condition as ours, sprinkles salt on the wound of the heart. And from salt being sprinkled on a wound, the burning of the wounds, and the pain, increases, not the comfort. (239)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The word la;z;zat is not by way of sarcasm/taunt, but rather, in its own meaning. Take it to mean that the pleasure of life is in just that: the sprinkling of salt. (322)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY MADNESS: {14,3} Well, we're back at the old pleasure/pain paradox that lies at the heart of passion (and of the ghazal world). That's exactly what Nazm and Bekhud Mohani are disagreeing about, as far as I can tell: Nazm wants to read 'pleasure' sarcastically, while Bekhud Mohani thinks it's used straightforwardly in its normal meaning: the pleasure of life really is in the sprinkling of salt. In favor of Bekhud Mohani is the classic 'salt' verse, {17,7}. In a verse like this the mind can ricochet back and forth indefinitely. This whole pleasure/pain back-and-forth zigzag always reminds me of the wonderful, and equally undecideable, aphorism, 'A sadist is someone who is kind to a masochist'. And of course, the idea that Madness might be subject to 'blame' if it yields to a few moments of comfort or peace is a peculiarly lover-like one. His

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defensive tone makes it clear that he very much resents the 'accusation' that he might ever seek, or even accidently find, any respite from the dire straits that are his life. (After all, the salt-sprinkling process seems to be actually his definition of happiness.) The sound effects are good, with the two aash sounds so resonantly close together, and the aanii kii effects as well.

{165,2} kashaakash'haa-e hastii se kare kyaa sa((ii-e aazaadii hu))ii zanjiir mauj-e aab ko fur.sat ravaanii kii 1a) because of the {tensions / tug-of-wars} of existence, what would a struggle for freedom achieve? 1b) why/how would anyone make a struggle for freedom from the {tensions / tug-of-wars} of existence? 2) for the wave of water, leisure/ease of moving became a shackle

Notes: kashaakash : 'Repeated pulling; pulling backwards and forwards, or to and fro; jostling, hustling; bringing and taking away;... great unpleasantness, or grief, or pain; distraction, dilemma, perplexity, difficulty; struggle, contention, wrangle, squabble; attraction, allurement'. (Platts p.835) fur.sat : 'A time, opportunity, occasion; freedom (from), leisure; convenience; relief, recovery; respite, reprieve; rest, ease'. (Platts p.779) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, from the tensions of existence, the attempt at freedom can't work its will. The movement of water is exactly what becomes a shackle of bondage. That is, however much effort you make to become free from the tensions of the attachments/connections of existence, by that much your bondage keeps increasing, and the effort keeps being overpowered by the tensions. (179)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that to the extent that a person tries to become free from the {creatures / created things} of existence, to that very extent his bondage goes on increasing. By way of a result, his effort becomes overpowered by the tension. (239)

Bekhud Mohani: From the tension of existence the struggle for freedom is powerless to achieve anything. Just take a look at what they call the 'movement' of the ocean wave-- in reality it is a shackle. And he has pulled out this idea because when a wave arises, it begins to have the visual aspect of a shackle. That is, to whatever extent the attempt is made for separation from worldly connections, to that extent this bond becomes tight. The way to the extent that a bird flutters in a net, to that extent the meshes tighten around him. (322)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY There are two main readings of the first line that complement each other cleverly. We can take se to mean either 'because of' (1a) or 'from' (1b); we can also take the subject of the verb to be either the sa((ii itself (1a) or a colloquially omitted ko))ii (1b). (Further mix-and-matching is also possible, so that there can be four readings altogether.) One pivot of this simple, lovely, but bleak verse is kashaakash , with its literal meaning of pulling and tugging (so much related to 'tension' and 'stress') and its extended meanings of anxiety, suffering, etc. The other pivot is fur.sat , with its sense of ease and relief. For fur.sat also implies the

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chance to move freely, and in the case of the wave, free movement means not only a kashaakash , as the waves collide together, roil into one another, hurl each other back-- but also a zanjiir , as the curling wave assumes the round form of a shackle. For a much lighter and more charming reading of the waves' agitated behavior, see {116,9}.

{165,3} pas az murdan bhii diivaanah ziyaarat-gaah-e :tiflaa;N hai sharaar-e sang ne turbat pah merii gul-fishaanii kii 1) even after death, the madman is a pilgrimage-place of children 2) sparks of stone performed rose-scattering on my tomb

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, even upon my death boys came and threw stones, and the sparks of the stones scattered flowers on the tomb. (179)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even after my death, the boys made your madman into a pilgrimage place, and they still even now come to my grave and throw stones. The flowers of the sparks of the stones are offered every day upon my tomb. (239)

Bekhud Mohani: Even after my dying, boys come to the madman's grave, and throw stones. The stones fall on the sepulchre. Sparks emerge, and offer up flowers on the madman's tomb. (322)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH MADNESS: {14,3} We know of course that the village boys throw stones at madmen, including mad lovers. For discussion and more examples, see {35,10}. But why would they make of the mad lover's grave a 'pilgrimage-place'? There's no reason at all for them to have any religious devotion to him or it. The first line sets us up with an intriguing question; then of course, under mushairah performance conditions, we're made to wait as long as possible for an answer. And in the best mushairah-verse style, even in the second line the 'punchword' is withheld as long as possible. To hear 'sparks of stone on my tomb' (the Urdu word order) gives us no help at all. Only at the last possible moment, when we hear the actual rhyme-word 'rose-scattering', are we enabled to make the connection. Then we experience the verse all at once-with a delayed, and thus deepened, rush of pleasure. The 'objective correlative' is the look of tombs of distinguished Sufi saints and other revered figures (including Gandhi) in South Asia. Visitors commonly show their reverence and respect by scattering rose-petals-- so many that the tomb of a particularly venerated figure will sometimes be actually blanketed in them. Here of course the numerous small red sparks made by thrown stones striking the stone tomb resemble the numerous small red rose-petals, so that the boys seem to be showing the reverence appropriate to a 'pilgrimageplace'. And why not? Their continuing to throw stones at the mad lover even after he's dead is, after all, a kind of supreme tribute to his madness: the boys found him so satisfactory a target of their taunts and hostility that no mere commonplace madmen, even live ones, have succeeded in distracting their attention and supplanting him in their-- well, maybe 'affections' isn't quite the right word, but it isn't quite the wrong one either.

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Ghazal 166 5 verses; meter G2; rhyming element: ar kii composed 1816; Hamid p. 135; Arshi #143; Raza p. 169

{166,1} nikohish hai sazaa faryaadii-e bedaad-e dilbar kii mabaadaa ;xandah-e dandaa;N-numaa ho .sub;h mahshar kii 1) rejection/contempt is the punishment of the complainer/plaintiff of the injustice of the heart-stealer 2a) may it not be that the teeth-baring smile would be the dawn of Doomsday! 2b) may it not be that the dawn of Doomsday would be a teeth-baring smile!

Notes: nikohish : 'Spurning, rejecting, despising; chiding; reproach, blame; scorn, contempt; rejection'. (Platts p.1149) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the one who would complain about the unjust beloved-- he is punishable with rejection/contempt and blame. May it not be that the morning of Doomsday too would show a teeth-baring smile toward him! (179)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the punishment of the culprit who makes a complaint about the beloved's tyranny is contempt and blame. I fear-- may it not be that the morning of Doomsday too would, toward that wretch, assume the form of a teeth-showing smile! (240)

Bekhud Mohani: They always give for the dawn/morning the simile of a teeth-showing smile. The lover who would rise up with a complaint against the tyranny of the beloved, his punishment is blame/reproach. And it wouldn't be surprising if what people call the dawn/morning of Judgment Day [qiyaamat] would be not a dawn, but rather, for the complainants against the cruelty of the heartstealers, a teeth-showing smile.... In the eyes of the lover, the cruelty of the beloved has such grandeur that he considers it a crime to complain of the injustice of the beloved, and such a major crime that it alone is the cause of the coming of Judgment Day: it will come for the punishment of such people. (323)

Faruqi: mubaadaa is usually used in two ways. One usage is prayerful ('may the Lord not make it be so!'); in the other usage is suspicion and anxiety ('may it not be that').... In the verse are a number of excellences of meaning. (1) To make a complaint about the beloved's cruelty is, in a legal sense, a crime. On Judgment Day it will be punished. (2) It is a well-known problem in legal interpretation whether the difficulties that befall a man in the world are in truth the fruit of his sins. That is, if in the world he endured trouble, then the intensity of his punishment will be reduced. Accordingly, if the requital of the impatient lover's sin (complaining against the beloved) takes place here, then it's better. (3) So that on Judgment Day he can receive a reward for enduring the difficulties of passion. (4) On Doomsday there will be justice, but that doesn't mean that God the Most High won't be sarcastic toward his foolish servants.

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Now let's consider the verbal excellences.... The repetition of daal has created in the verse a kind of harmony that isn't found in the common run of verses. From its repetition a kind of roughness develops, and to use it in a pleasing way is not within just anyone's power. In the verse there are fifteen words altogether, out of which six words... contain eight uses of daal . This is not one of Ghalib's finest verses, but it's certainly an example of meaning-creation. By meaning-creation is meant the using in the verse of words such that their meanings, whatever they might seem apparently to be, upon reflection would emerge as greater, or various, meanings. Through meaning-creation, a verse comes have depths [tah-daarii]. (288-90)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; TRANSITIVITY QIYAMAT: {10,11} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The first line reports, in legal language, an extreme state of unfairness and lawlessness. The complainer or plaintiff-- the term faryaadii goes right back to {1,1}-- who appeals against the 'injustice' [bedaad] of the 'heart-ravisher' or 'heart-carrier-away' [dil-bar] would seem to be making a charge of theft, and he should be entitled to a hearing, in which the accused would be, if convicted, in danger of punishment. But instead, the line reports that the plaintiff himself is the one in danger of punishment-- and not only in danger of it, but apparently guaranteed to receive it, for the punishment for simply making such a complaint 'is' rejection or contempt. Not only will his case not be heard and judged, but he will be scorned and rejected for even having raised the issue. The abstractness of the grammar-- A 'is' the punishment for B-- makes it impossible to say whether any particular case, past, present, or future, is being described, or whether the law is simply being stated as a general rule. We're obliged to wait-- under mushairah performance conditions, as long as possible-- for further information in the next line. In the next line, however, instead of information we get, in the inshaa))iyah mode, an exclamation. As Bekhud Mohani observes, the comparison of the white line of light that is the first appearance of dawn, to the line of dazzlingly white teeth shown in a smile, is a staple of ghazal imagery. This is not a friendly, lips-upcurved smile, but a horizontal line-- an ominously 'teeth-baring' (literally 'teeth-showing') smile, akin to a sort of snarl. The exclamation itself is conspicuously multivalent: may it not be that 'A would be B', or that 'B would be A'. The first reading fears that the beloved's teeth-baring smile might signal the unleashing of such almighty wrath that it would be (literally or metaphorically) the dawn of Doomsday (2A). The second reading fears that the dawn of Doomsday itself would appear as a teeth-baring smile, echoing or reinforcing the judgment described in the first line (2B). We still can't tell whether any particular such 'crime' is being described here, or whether a mere general statement is being offered. In either case, the lover's fearful reaction shows, unsurprisingly, that it's really his own fate that's at issue. He either has committed, or will commit, or thinks of committing, such a dire offense; or else he so fears to (accidentally?) commit it that even the thought brings an immediate panic reaction that's wildly cosmic in its scope. Cosmic-- and also perhaps a bit comic? That depends on how we read it, and as so often, the tone of the exclamation is left for us to decide for ourselves. For another teeth-baring smile, see {149,1}.

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{166,2} rag-e lail;aa ko ;xaak-e dasht-e majnuu;N reshagii ba;xshe agar bove bajaa-e daanah dihqaa;N nok nashtar kii 1) on the vein of Laila, the dust of the desert of Majnun might bestow woundedness 2) if the farmer would sow, instead of seeds, lancet-points

Notes: resh : 'Wound; sore; scar'. (Platts p.612) reshah : 'Fibre; filament; nerve; vein (of a leaf); stringiness (of a mango, &c.)'. (Platts p.612) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse is a reference to the famous story of Laila's being bled, and Majnun's veins pouring out blood. And the probability is that the author had said ;xaak-e dast-e majnuu;N and the calligrapher and the calligrapher had put in the extra dots to make it dasht . In any case, the gist is that if they would sow in the desert of Majnun the points of lancets instead of seeds, then from there the veins of Laila would sprout-- to this extent passion had created unity between lover and beloved, and lancet and vein. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: reshagii = to sprout, to increase, to be wounded.... If the farmer would sow, instead of seeds, lancet-points, then from the pricking of every thorn, or lancet-point, of the desert of Najd, blood would flow from the veins of Laila. That is, now the unity of lover and beloved has reached such a limit that from Majnun's pain, Laila feels pain. This verse gestures toward the story that when Laila was bled, Majnun's vein spontaneously opened up. In this meaning I agree with Janab Hasrat. Janab Shaukat: 'Now if in the dust of the desert of Majnun lancets are sown, then from them the veins of Laila will grow, because Majnun loves the veins of Laila'.... What a fine reason he has given for the veins of Laila sprouting! If this reason had not been given, it would have been better. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The Lord knows what meaning this 'sowing of lancets in the hand' would have! To sow lancets in the dust has a meaning-that is, that in order to torment him, thorns or lancets would be spread in the road. Apart from this, the word 'dust' would become useless. (323)

Faruqi: In the light of all the aforementioned analysis [by the commentators, and Faruqi's own criticisms of their views], it seems necessary to say that the verse is meaningless/absurd. But the truth is just the opposite. The basic point is that this verse is sarcastic [:tanziyah]. In the first line is a sarcastic claim, and in the second line is a sarcastic condition for it. That is, the verse's meaning is just what the commentators have written, but its intent is different. The intent is that indeed, from Majnun's hand the blood flowed, at the time when Laila was bled. But to the extent that it's a question of Laila herself being affected by Majnun's hardships, that's impossible. If some such impossible thing would happen as that someone would sow lancet-points in the dust of the desert of Majnun, then Laila's veins too would be wounded. That is, to cause Laila to be affected by Majnun's pain is just as absurd an idea as that someone would take up farming in the remote desert where Majnun is, and in addition would sow there, instead of seeds, lancet-points. In the verse is irony ['irony'] of a high order. The perfection of irony is that is just this: that on a literal level, or apparently, it would seem absurd. If you don't consider this verse sarcastic, then in truth it's meaningless/absurd. On the level of irony, it recalls some of Swift's sarcastic essays. (293)

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FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY To open a vein with a sharp instrument, a lancet [nashtar], and let out blood, used to be a common medical treatment thought to be beneficial in a number of illnesses, including madness, which was thought to result from excessive pressure on the brain; for a example of the medical use of the lancet to treat madness, see {14,3}. The first line is awesomely, Ghalibianly, in-your-face opaque. It's so impossible to make anything out of it, that you can't even tell whether the abstract noun reshagii has been made from reshah , which seems appropriate to the shape of the veins, or resh , which might be appropriate to someone walking painfully (barefoot?) in the harsh desert. (See the definitions above.) You're forced to wait desperately-- and, under mushairah performance conditions, as long as conveniently possible-- for the second line to clarify the situation. And does it? Of course it doesn't. When I read Faruqi's commentary, I found myself not as satisfied as he is. He interprets the verse as a sarcastic sneer at Laila's lack of loyalty and devotion to Majnun: her veins would never open for him, the way his opened for her. That's certainly more satisfactory than what most of the commentators say-- but it hardly feels definitive. For after all, the ambiguous situation depicted in the first line is so thoroughly different from the clear-cut story (her vein is opened, he bleeds) on which the verse is based. Why would we think of Laila as wandering (barefoot, so her feet are vulnerable) in the 'dust of the desert of Majnun' anyway, if she's not a true lover? The whole thrust of the traditional story shows us that she in fact is a true lover. If we're going to taunt her for inadequacy, we need a strong and clear reason-- which is exactly what, in this verse, we don't get. Here's another possibility: perhaps Majnun is so identified with his desert that by an extension of his own passion, even the dust of his desert 'loves' Laila. Deserts are damaging environments, but not a single speck of dust in his desert would ever wound Laila! Not unless other impossible things would also happen -- and here we get Faruqi's sarcastic reading of the second line. Not, in effect, till 'all the seas run dry' and 'the rocks melt with the sun'. And then we notice one more dimension: the source of the impossible, paradoxical, deadly danger, hypothetical as it is, is even then not the desert, but the 'farmer', practicing some kind of inhuman but 'human' cruelty quite alien to the behavior of the desert. Surely we are to think of the contrast between the devotion of Majnun's desert to Laila, and the (rhetorical, hyperbolic) cruelty of the human intruder into it. Still, the verse is so difficult and obscure that it's not one of his great ones. For an all-time-great one about Laila and Majnun and Majnun's desert, see {138,1}.

{166,3} par-e parvaanah shaayad baadbaan-e kishtii-e mai thaa hu))ii majlis kii garmii se ravaanii daur-e saa;Gar kii 1) the wing of the Moth was perhaps the sail of the boat of wine 2) from the heat of the gathering, the movement of the going-around of the flagon took place

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Where a gathering would be 'warm', there the presence of a Moth would be necessary, and when the warmth of the gathering is the cause of the goingaround of the flagon, then perhaps the wing of the Moth is the sail of the boat of wine, since only because of the Moth does the warmth of the gathering exist. (180)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that where a gathering is adorned, there a candle is lit; and where a candle is lit, there an army of Moths comes and falls upon it. And since the 'warmth' of the gathering is established as the cause of the movement of the going-around of the flagon, then perhaps the sail of the boat of wine is the wing of the Moth. (240)

Bekhud Mohani: When the Moths began to destroy themselves in the candle, then the turmoil of the party became 'warm'; and when the gathering reached a state of liveliness, then the cups began to go round. From this it can be learned that perhaps the wing of the Moth was the sail of the boat of wine. That is, through its force the boat of wine moved. (324)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} WINE: {49,1} In {49,1} we have a 'wine-duck', which was apparently some kind of actual vessel, even though none of the commentators seem very sure; we also have, in that whole ghazal, the movement of a 'wave of wine'. Here, we have a complex interplay of elements: wind, fire, water all imagined as dependent on each other. In the first verse, the wing of the Moth is depicted not as creating a breeze, such as would be needed by the sail of a ship, but as being or becoming the actual sail itself. At least, this 'perhaps' may be so; the expression is a bit tentative. And indeed it's not at all obvious why it should be so. The moth's wing is so tiny that it doesn't seem to commend itself as a sail, and although we can always connect the Moth to wine (intoxication of passion, etc.), why would we connect its wing with a boat? Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait a suitable while in anticipation, before hearing the second line that will shed more light on the situation. But when we hear the second line, it's conspicuously elliptical: it has nothing at all to say about Moths, candles, or boats. It's only in our minds, not in the verse itself, that the connection is to be found, and only through the power of suggestion or implication. We realize that the wing of the Moth hurls him into the candle, where his fiery death becomes, both literally and metaphorically, fuel for the brightness of the evening. As the party becomes 'hot', its warmth then causes the movement of the going-around of the wine-flagon, just the way the fastbeating heart causes the blood to 'circulate' more quickly. The Moth is the source and emblem of this heat. All this is left for us to put together for ourselves-- the two lines of the verse give us no guidance at all as to how to put them together. This is not exactly wordplay, but fancy, free association, mind-play and meaning-play of some casual, enjoyable kind; the 'perhaps' emphasizes the playful, light, speculative nature of its conclusions. The two occurrences of par , placed so closely together, also create a nice effect of fluttering.

{166,4} karuu;N bedaad-e ;zauq-e par-fishaanii ((ar.z kyaa qudrat kih :taaqat u;R ga))ii u;Rne se pahle mere shah-par kii 1) if I would {present / display} the injustice/cruelty of the relish for wingfluttering-- what strength/power? 2) for the strength of my chief feather {vanished/ 'flew away'} before my flying

Notes: shaah-par (and shah-par ): 'The largest or strongest feather (in a bird's wing)'. (Platts p.719)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The strength/power is not in me that I would be able to {present / display} the injustice/cruelty of the relish for wing-fluttering. That is, I can no longer flutter my wings, because there's no strength in my wing. This verse is by way of an 'illustration' [tam;siil]. (180)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what capacity do I have, that I would be able to {present/ display} the tyranny and oppression of the relish for wing-fluttering? Before it fluttered, the strength of my chief feather gave me a flat refusal. (240)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab Shaukat says, 'The second line is an expression of injustice/cruelty. That is, I myself had a relish for the fluttering of wings. So now where in my is the strength, that I would complain of the injustice/cruelty of the relish for wing-fluttering? For before flying, why did the strength of my chief feather fly away (decline)? Whatever was done to me, was done by the relish for wing-fluttering.' But the expression of injustice/cruelty, and a complaint, are not the same thing. (324)

FWP: SETS == KIH The first line is inshaa))iyah , and certainly seems to express helplessness or regret: the speaker has suffered from the 'injustice' or 'cruelty' of a 'relish for wing-fluttering', and finds himself without the power to 'present' or 'display' it. The verse takes wonderful advantage of the multivalent possibilities of kih , which links the second line in one of a variety of ways to the first line-- 'in that', 'so that', 'because', are only some of the possibilities. Moreover, we also have to decide for ourselves which part of the first line is to be emphasized. Here are some possible ways to make the connection: =I don't have the power to express or display the injustice/cruelty of the relish for wing-fluttering, because my expressive powers deserted me when I lost the use of my chief feather. (How can a bird express its grievances properly without having the use of its wings?) =The injustice/cruelty of the relish for wing-fluttering is inexpressible-- the injustice and cruelty are such that this taste or 'relish' still persists, even though I long ago lost the power to act on it. (Perhaps it's like the pain of a 'phantom limb'?) =The injustice/cruelty of the relish for wing-fluttering is inexpressible-because of this cruel, uncontrollable relish, I've lost the force of my chief feather. (Perhaps I used to flutter it all the time, until its strength gave out before I even started flying?) Then there's the wordplay of the colloquial 'flew away' [u;R ga))ii] to mean 'vanished', which works as a counterpoint to the standard 'to fly' [u;Rnaa]; the verse encourages to enjoy both the similarities and the differences of the two forms.

{166,5} kahaa;N tak ro))uu;N us ke ;xeme ke piichhe qiyaamat hai mirii qismat me;N yaa rab kyaa nah thii diivaar patthar kii 1) how long would I weep behind her tent-- it's a Doomsday/disaster! 2a) in my destiny, oh Lord, was there not a wall of stone? 2b) in my destiny, oh Lord, what was not a wall of stone?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: So that I would have smashed my head open and ended the struggle. (180)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that neither is there so much turmoil in our weeping that we would cause the tent-curtain to float away, and a sight of the beloved would be vouchsafed to us; nor is there such effect in our weeping that she would become restless in the tent and emerge from it, or call us into the tent. And from fate there's not even, instead of a tent-curtain, a stony wall, so that in a state of hopelessness and despair we might beat our head against the wall and die. (240-41)

Bekhud Mohani: If there were a wall of stone, then we could comfort our heart by saying 'it's a stone wall, the sound of weeping doesn't reach her'-- and now, that cruel one does hear, and shows no mercy. (324)

Arshi: Compare {112,5}. (226, 263)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION QIYAMAT: {10,11} This is an inshaa))iyah verse to the maximum, in fact a wildly exclamatory one. Both lines are full of emotion, and it's clear that they lament about the lover's dire situation; but as in so many verses, the lines are grammatically and semantically quite independent, and how exactly to connect the two lines is up to us. Ghalib is of course careful to give us no guidance. Here are some examples of the connections that could be made: =How long would I go on weeping behind her tent, when I know she'll never send for me? Why isn't there a stone wall around, so that I could bash my head against it and end my misery? =How long would I go on weeping behind her tent? Even these flimsy canvas walls are beyond my power to break through, and she'll never send for me-- everything in my life is a stone wall, what is there in my destiny that's not a stone wall (2b)? =How long would I go on weeping behind her tent? If she only lived in a stone house, there would be a convenient wall for me to bash my head against. (Compare {112,5}.) In the first line, the invocation of Doomsday sounds like merely a conventional image for a great, terrible disaster. But in the second line, a direct invocation to the Lord reminds us that Doomsday, the day when the dead will rise up and be judged, is a religious concept. Enjoyably, the lover is so far from paying attention to his religious obligations that he actually reproaches God for not making it convenient for him to commit the religiously prohibited act of suicide.

Ghazal 167 10 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: am hu))e composed 1826; Hamid p. 136; Arshi #191; Raza pp. 263-64

{167,1} be-i((tidaaliyo;N se subuk sab me;N ham hu))e jitne ziyaadah ho ga))e utne hii kam hu))e 1a) through 'imbalances', we became the 'lightest' of all 1b) because of 'immoderations', we became 'trifling' among everybody 2) the more we/they became great/large, so much less/small we/they were

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Notes: i((tidaal : 'Temperance, moderation; evenness, equilibrium;... frugality, temperance, sobriety; a state (of health, &c.) in which the four humours are well balanced, sound health'. (Platts p.60) subuk : 'Light (not heavy); light-footed, expeditious, active, nimble; light, frivolous, trivial, trifling; shallow; futile; unsteady; undignified, degrading, debased; delicate, slim'. (Platts p.633) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: As much as we went beyond our limit, that much we diminished in people's eyes. (180)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to the extent that we transgressed beyond our limit, to that extent we became 'light' in people's eyes. (241)

Bekhud Mohani: Our 'immoderations' made us debased/vile. As our immoderations increased, to the same extent we kept becoming debased/vile. (325)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; SUBJECT? This is the kind of verse that shows the commentators at their least helpful. After checking all the commentators I've been using for this project, I have to report that not one of them devotes more than a sentence or two to this verse, and not one of them disagrees with, or goes beyond, what Nazm says. And yet surely this verse is carefully framed to be full of enjoyable ambiguities! The first line contains one of Ghalib's famous multivalent pluralized abstractions (for more examples see {1,2}) with a wide range of meanings-- does it refer to repeated episodes of the speaker's lacking 'moderation', 'frugality', 'temperance', 'sobriety', or 'health'? Some of these lacks may be thought of as morally reprehensible, but surely a lack of 'sound health' is not. And even more piquantly, the term may refer to a lack of 'normalcy' of temperament, a lack of equilibrium among the four humors of the body-- perhaps even to a form of creative imbalance, an 'artistic' temperament of some kind. Or the 'imbalances' of temperament could even be ascribed to others (to 'all'), since nothing in the line links them explicitly to the speaker; or they could be some kind of broader societal 'imbalances' or states of 'disequilibrium', such that rash judgments may be made without any real justification. Because of this ambiguous pluralized abstraction, the speaker attained the equally ambiguous state of being subuk (see definition above), which has a range of meanings from the desirable ('active, nimble, slim') to the undesirable ('shallow, futile, debased'). Ghalib's other uses of the term confirm this wide range of possibilities: to be subuk-dast in {62,5} is a desirable quality; to be subuk-sar in {126,2} is not. The first line is not through with its ambiguities, however. The phrase sab me;N can certainly mean, as the commentators rightly say, 'among everybody' in the sense of 'in popular opinion'. But it can also mean literally 'among them all', in the sense of the superlative: the leading possessor of some quality among or 'in' [me;N] the whole group being compared. To resolve all these ambiguities, what other recourse do we have than the second line? And even at first hearing, or first glance, it's clear that Ghalib is going to take a wicked delight in tormenting us. There are two separate clauses, each with a masculine plural verb, and an unstated subject. The first line provides two masculine plural subjects: sab and ham . Here are the two primary, obvious readings:

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=to the extent that we became more/greater, we became less/smaller (This is the commentators' reading: others despised us for our vaulting ambitions. But it can also be read as a paradox about ego and pretentiousness.) =to the extent that they became more/greater, they became less/smaller (Because of 'imbalances', we became the most nimble, lively and active of the lot; as for the rest, the more pompous, grandiose, pretentious they became, the less capable they were and the less they really amounted to.) If we're willing to be a bit more free with the grammar, we can also mix and match: =to the extent that we became more/greater, they became less/smaller (As we became 'lighter' and nimbler, our activity and capability increased; as for the rest, they then looked much less fit and impressive by comparison.) =to the extent that they became more/greater, we became less/smaller (The more grandiose and pretentious-- and 'heavy'-- they became, the more 'light' and 'nimble' we seemed by comparison.) When we put together the penumbra of multiple ambiguities in the first line, with these four permutations of the second line, where do we end up? Anywhere or nowhere, or any place in between, just as we please. Verses like this one are really do-it-yourself meaning-machines; that's why I call them 'generators'.

{167,2} pinhaa;N thaa daam sa;xt qariib aashiyaan ke u;Rne nah paa))e the kih giraftaar ham hu))e 1) the net was hidden 'hard by' the nest 2) we had not managed to fly-- when we were trapped

Notes: sa;xt : 'Hard, stiff, rigid, firm, fast; strong, solid; tight;... wretched; difficult, arduous, troublesome; painful, grievous; severe, intense, vehement, violent;... austere, stern, harsh; very cruel, fell; --adv. Very, intensely, violently, severely, excessively extremely, &c.'. (Platts p.644) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: The meaning he has presented in that way is this: that even before he reached maturity he was surrounded by difficulties and tribulations. (129)

Nazm: In Persian, sa;xt qariib is an idiom that means 'very near'. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: The net was spread very near the nest. He had only just formed the intention of flying, when the next thing he knew he was trapped in the net. (325)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS Here Ghalib focuses the whole verse on an idiom that's not even really an Urdu idiom, but a Persian one. It's easy to see why he dragged it bodily into Urdu-- because it was just what he wanted, it was just the thing to give a small, hot, deep, painful center to the whole verse. The verse is otherwise a brief, plain, factual narrative, a story told in simple language as economically as possible. But then, in the midst of it, this one word-- just look at its multiply appropriate meanings!-- compresses within itself a world of sorrow, pain, complaint, indignation. A literal translation would have to be something like 'harshly near', but of course that loses the idiomatic effect entirely. So in order to convey the effect, I've resorted to an archaism: 'hard by' (meaning 'very near') isn't used any longer in English, but it's perfectly familiar to readers of medieval romances. And it has some of the same double sense, though its range of relevant meaning isn't nearly as rich.

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That one word, sa;xt , forms a pivot around which the whole verse turns. For another exploration of its multivalence, see {183,6}. This is one of several verses in which the lover speaks as a bird; for others, see {126,5}.

{167,3} hastii hamaarii apnii fanaa par daliil hai yaa;N tak mi;Te kih aap ham apnii qasam hu))e 1) our existence is the proof of our oblivion 2) we were erased to such an extent that we became our own oath

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1863:] First understand what a qasam is. How tall is its stature? What are its hands and feet like? What kind of complexion does it have? When you can't tell this, you'll realize that qasam is not a body or an embodied thing. It is only hypothetical. Its presence is only in the mind. Its existence is like that of the [mythical bird] Simurgh. That is, it can only be named, not seen. Thus the poet says that when I became my own qasam , then it's as if in that situation my being is the proof of my non-being. (Arshi 296) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 542

Nazm: The idiom is, 'we don't have such-and-such a thing even to swear by' [hamaare paas falaan shai qasam khaane ko bhii nahii;N], or 'not even the name' [naam ko bhii nahii;N].... And it's clear that this kind of existence that would be 'to swear by', or 'strictly nominal', is a proof of oblivion and nothingness. And there's also the idiom, 'we swear off such-and-such a thing' [hame;N falaan shai kii qasam hai]; that is, 'we have no relationship with it'. (180)

Bekhud Mohani: Our existence is proof of our nonexistence because our existence is like the case in which something 'would be only enough to swear by' [ko))ii chiiz qasam khaane bhar kii ho]. That is, our existence is nominal [baraa-e naam]. (325)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH Ghalib is always happy to launch himself into the zigzags of a good paradox, and in the first line he does so with a vengeance. We can only wait-knowing that under mushairah performance conditions, the wait will be as long as possible-- and speculate, and hope for enlightenment in the second line. But in proper mushairah-verse style, the second line too remains completely opaque, until the last possible moment, in the rhyme-word itself, when qasam finally pulls the whole verse together, and reminds us with a sudden burst of amusement of the idiom, and makes us laugh and say vaah vaah . This one reminds me also of the question of whether the beloved's waist exists or not, in {100,3}, and the claim that a scar is a 'token' of a liver {138,7}. He's also played specifically with the idiomatic pleasures of qasam : for some examples, see {89,3}.

{167,4} sa;xtii-kashaan-e ((ishq kii puuchhe hai kyaa ;xabar vuh log raftah raftah saraapaa alam hu))e 1) does anyone ask for news of the harshness-bearers of passion? 2) as if anyone would ask for news of the harshness-bearers of passion! 2) those people, {step by step / all departed}, became head-to-foot sorrow

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Notes: raftah : 'Gone, past, departed; deceased, defunct, lost; -- raftah raftah , adv. Going on, in the act of going, in process of time; step by step, by degrees, gradually; leisurely, easily'. (Platts p.595) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The way sorrow is not apparent and manifest, the same state was that of their sorrow-- that is, those people, melting away, attained oblivion. (181)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why do you inquire about the state of those enduring the harshnesses of passion-- that is, of your own difficulty-afflicted lovers? Those people, as they developed, that is, as they attained oblivion, became head-to-foot sorrow. The meaning is that the way that sorrow and grief are not apparent and manifest things, this same state has become that of those unfortunates who melt away and become hidden from view. (241)

Bekhud Mohani: From raftah raftah the step-by-step change in the lover's situation begins to show itself before the gaze. (325)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani is right to point out the central role of raftah raftah , which pulls the whole verse together with great delicacy and sophistication. The literal meaning of raftah is 'gone' or 'departed', and to repeat the word after 'those people' almost looks distributive ('all those departed people'). The general basic meaning of raftah raftah is something like 'by degrees' or 'gradually', which suggests an answer to the first line (the change in those people is constant and unstoppable, their condition is a foregone conclusion- why even bother to ask for the latest news?). And one specific meaning of raftah raftah is 'step by step'-- which turns its juxtaposition to 'head-to-foot' [saraapaa] into a subtle and clever affinity. The soft sounds of raftah raftah also contribute to a phonetic contrast between the lines: the first line has more harsh, strong consonants (especially in sa;xtii-kashaan , literally 'harshness-pullers'), the second has softer, milder sounds, as the lovers imperceptibly melt away.

{167,5} terii vafaa se kyaa ho talaafii kih dahr me;N tere sivaa bhii ham pah bahut se sitam hu))e 1a) through your faithfulness, there would hardly be amends/recompense! -for in the world 1b) through your faithfulness, would there be amends/recompense? --for in the world 2) even besides/beyond you, many tyrannies came upon us

Notes: talaafii : 'Making amends, reparation, compensation, recompense'. (Platts p.333) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The purport is that your cruelty along can be recompensed by your faithfulness, and the tyrannies that came upon us besides you-- how can there be recompense for them? Here he has expressed the tyranny of his life so that the beloved would be induced to make amends; he wants her to feel even more compassion. (181)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that if you have mercy and make amends for your cruelty, you should do it in such a way that we would have no complaint from a

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whole lifetime. That is, through you, let there be liberation from the cares of the world as well. Mirza Sahib, finding the beloved well-intentioned, makes further claims. (242)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh beloved, I agree that you'll make amends for the cruelties you practiced in the past. But what can I do? In addition to you, other people have inflicted tyranny and violence upon me. How can there be recompense for that? (325)

Arshi: Compare {36,2}, {180,2}. (297, 335)

FWP: SETS == KYA This verse will surely remind Urdu-lovers of Faiz's famous na:zm called mujh se pahlii sii mu;habbat mirii mahbuub nah maa;Ng , with its ringing declaration: 'There are other sorrows too in the world besides love' [aur bhii dukh hai;N zamaane me;N mu;habbat ke sivaa))e]. This sentiment is frequently taken to be part of a radical revision of the ghazal, an introduction into it of deeply untraditional content. Yet the thought isn't new, for we see its director ancestor in the second line of this verse; Faiz also uses the same 'informative' [;xabariyah] style adopted by Ghalib. The similarities are striking-- but so are the differences. Faiz follows up the thought in another 'informative' line: 'There are other comforts besides the comfort of union' [raa;hate;N aur bhii hai;N va.sl kii raa;hat ke sivaa))e], and then the nazm moves on to its conclusion. The context is also broader: Faiz's poem suggests, in other lines, that the sorrows in the world that the lover feels may not be his alone, but may be those of the wretched of the earth, and of the human condition in general ('The gaze returns to that direction too-- what can I do?' [lau;T jaatii hai udhar ko bhii na:zar kyaa kiije]. By contrast, Ghalib appends his line to a clause in the first line that's either a question or an exclamation-- in short, a form of inshaa))iyah speech. Thanks to the magic of kyaa , this clause can be read either as a negative rhetorical question or exclamation (how would there be amends? there would hardly be amends!) (1a); or as a genuine yes-or-no question (would there be amends, or not?) (1b). And then, of course, there's the question of tone. Nazm reads the verse as a form of bargaining: the beloved is prepared to offer a certain amount of kindness, and the lover seizes his chance and claims, abjectly or insinuatingly, that some extra kindness is needed. The verse could be read in a mischievous, tongue-in-cheek way that would make it highly amusing. Bekhud Mohani seems to take it quite seriously: life is grimmer than even the beloved's kindness can atone for, the lover has suffered damage that not even the beloved can repair. Ghalib's line is, in short, like an atom, with protons and electrons dashing around all the time, making it impossible for it ever to be 'fixed' once and for all. Faiz's line is like a brick in a wall: laid on other bricks, it supports still other bricks, in a pattern that makes meaning in larger, clearer units. It's possible to say with confidence what message Faiz's lover is conveying to his beloved; it's not possible to know what Ghalib's lover really has in mind.

{167,6} likhte rahe junuu;N kii ;hikaayaat-e ;xuu;N-chakaa;N har-chand us me;N haath hamaare qalam hu))e 1) we kept on writing the blood-dripping stories of madness 2) although in it our hands became {cut off / pens}

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: In punishment for some deed, for the hands to be cut off-- this is the theme of the second line. And in the first line the poet's responsibility is that he would mention for what reason the hands were cut off. But there can be many things because of which the hands would be cut off (see the commentary on {60,4}). In this case this difficulty confronts the ghazalcomposer-- out of so many situations, which one would he adopt? Because in the ode, the masnavi, etc., the poet's purpose is fixed, and he adopts exactly the aspect that is suitable to that purpose. In the ghazal there is no fixity [ta((ayyun]. One verse has no relationship to another verse. Every verse is an utterance in itself, and is a meaningful expression. The breadth of the ghazal is because with every rhyme and refrain, whatever kind of connection it would accept, you give it exactly that kind of connection. That is, the theme toward which the rhyme and refrain would take you, in exactly that direction you go. In one verse there is the 'description of an affair' [mu((aamilah-e ((aashiqaanah], in another a mystical [.suufiyaanah] theme. Somewhere there is a rakish [rindaanah] tune, in it the mention of the flagon and its gurgling, the burning of the Moth, the tumult of the Nightingale. Then in another verse there is factual statement [;xabar], in another is inshaa . The idea is in this situation the poet intended to versify qalam hu))e -- that is, how would there be connection between the rhyme-word qalam and [the refrain] hu))e , and what should be made the subject of the verb?.... And in such a situation, where many themes would have connection, the poet is compelled to create a .zil((a .... for why would he neglect a theme in which there would be a verbal affinity? Because in the poet's temperament there is naturally a musical sense of affinity. Because of this it's forbidden for him to have an unreasonable prejudice, and beauty of poetry is to pay exactly the amount of attention to .zil((a which would create connection between the two lines or the two phrases. To be greedy beyond this spoils the meaning. A famous characterization by literary experts that has come down to us is that that beloved of Meaning is the life of poetry, and that idiom is her delicate body, and her jewelry is expression [bayaan] and rhetoric [badii((]. Thus the poet who cannot create meaning, who always practices the carving out of expression and rhetoric alone, in the bazar of literature learns the work of the goldsmith.... they are jewelry on a lifeless body. By contrast, if there is the coquetry of a refined meaning and a simple idiom, then although there would be no simile and metaphor and semantic and verbal devices at all, she is a coquettish beauty in whose very simplicity thousands of adornments emerge; and this poet is the lord of the Doomsday of meaning. How much contrary to his own style the author has composed in this verse, since he has adopted the form of a .zil((a ! .... People who dislike the .zil((a , and consider it a commonplace/contemptible [mubta;zal] device, usually reject the zil((a and in such situations adopt the form of a metaphor or simile, which is better.... [extensive further discussion and many examples of 'joining lines' as a way of generating possibilities for shaping a verse] .... Atish's style of poetry is founded on 'joining lines' alone, and he influenced the poets of Lucknow toward this practice; otherwise, a number of people with a poetic temperament composed ghazals, but were not aware of that the lines lacked connection and were two-part. Agha Hajju Sharf, may the Lord bless him, used to say, 'Mir Vazir Ali Saba brought a ghazal to show to his Ustad; at that time I too was present. Saba recited a verse: fa.sl-e gul me;N mujhe kahtaa hai kih gulshan se nikal aisii be-par kii u;Raataa thaa nah .saiyaad kabhii [in the spring she says to me, leave the garden a Hunter never cared for such a wingless one]

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Atish, having heard this verse, said, 'You've used be-par kii u;Raanaa , and in 'joining the line' haven't kept this in mind. Write it like this: par katar kar mujhe kahtaa hai kih gulshan se nikal aisii be-par kii u;Raataa thaa nah .Saiyaad kabhii [having clipped my wing she says to me, leave the garden a Hunter never cared for such a wingless one]' But experience has shown that a number of people have divinely-given temperaments, they compose the whole verse on one single occasion; both lines have the kind of connection of a 'hand and collar'. The ones on whom the Lord has bestowed this ability, have very little need for this kind of practice. And the verse that comes out right, with both lines altogether united in one, has in it the glory of inspiration [aamad], and its informality of expression is such that it is not obtained by 'joining lines'. (181-86)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here, by 'madness' is meant 'passion'. He says, we have kept on writing the blood-dripping narratives of passion in our verses. Although the beloved even caused our hands to be cut off, we didn't cease to versify the past events of love affairs [mu((aamilaat]. One gentleman commentator, to show his ingenuity, has 'joined lines' seventeen times onto this second line of Mirza's. But in the opinion of this humble one [myself], Mirza's first line has achieved preeminence among them all. (242)

Bekhud Mohani: In the states of passion and madness, because of which blood used to drip, we always kept on writing. Although the result of this was that our hands became qalam (this too is a state of madness). (325-26)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY MADNESS: {14,3} WRITING: {7,3} This is a verse of simple, unsubtle wordplay, developed as a classic mushairah verse. The use of qalam honaa in this multivalent way is so common that the word can even be left unstated and merely implied, as in {43,5}. Moreover the antecedent(s) for 'in it' remain unclear. In what exactly do our hands achieve this transformed state (of becoming cut off, or becoming pens)? Because of our own madness in itself? Because the blooddrippingness of the narrative requires or invites us to become participant observers? Because we write till our fingers are blistered and bloody and ready to fall off? Both senses of the verb are suitable and work well in the verse; if they're both taken at once, they even work well together. To my surprise, this minor-seeming little verse seems to get under Nazm's skin; he writes at more length about this one than about any other so far. But he seems to lose track of his own arguments for a while in the middle. He provides no fewer than 17 alternative first lines that Ghalib could have substituted for the present one-- though he doesn't really want to say he should have, because although he wants poets to avoid what he sees as the alluring, understandable, but still excessive vulgarity of an uncontrolled .zil((a -- that is, one without real relevance and connection-- he can't get around the fact that Ghalib makes this one work. His own display of 'joining lines' 17 times so inspires him that he adds another set of no fewer than 21 alternatives that could be used to combine with an entirely different second line for more 'joining lines', though I can't really see what relevance this has to the matter at hand. He also provides a variety of anecdotes about the corrections made by various Ustads on various verses. Then he ends up with a rousing tribute to the superiority of a 'natural poetry' style of composition. I've translated enough of his argument to make the general lines clear-- or at

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least, as clear as I can. I also asked S. R. Faruqi for his thoughts (Sept. 2005) on this commentary: 'As regards [Nazm] Tabataba'i, we know that he is a brilliant commentator, but also misses no opportunity of putting down Ghalib if he can. In the verse in question, Ghalib brilliantly employs (among other things) the .zil((a , or affinity, of likhnaa and qalam . Tabataba'i can have nothing against it, so he enters upon a long description of the mechanics of how to write two connected lines. He says that good poets prefer to use metaphor, etc., but when nothing suggests itself, they try zila. But zila can work only when it aids the meaning and the theme. (This statement is questionable.) Anyway, Ghalib used a zila here contrary to his practice-- this statement is wrong, for Ghalib is very fond of zila-- but made it work because it agrees so well with the theme and meaning. Tabataba'i then proceeds to give examples of lines that could have worked with Ghalib's first line, though not so well. Then he goes on to give other examples from his experience.' In any case, Nazm seems to be riding his own hobby-horse, rather than actually commenting on this particular verse.

{167,7} all;aah re terii tundii-e ;xuu jis ke biim se ajzaa-e naalah dil me;N mire rizq-e ham hu))e 1) oh God, your coldness of temperament! from the terror of which 2) the parts of the lament in my heart became sustenance for each other

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The way that fear makes the blood cold, in the same way the lament, from fear of her being out of temper, didn't reach to the lip. It was in the heart, it became dissipated in the heart itself. This dissolution the author has presented in the phrase that one part of it devoured another part. (186)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from fear of your ill temper, the lament could never come forth, the lament of the heart was dissolved in the heart itself. And one part of it dined on another, the way that out of fear, blood dries up in the veins. (242)

Bekhud Mohani: Is there any limit to your ill temper? From fear of it, pieces of my heart's lament became sustenance for each other. That is, they couldn't come from the heart to the lip. They attained oblivion right there. (326)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION FOOD: {6,4} Why did the pieces of the lament become 'sustenance'-- the fancy Arabic word rizq -- for each other? Perhaps because the waves of the lament devoured each other by cancelling each other out, like echoes or ripples thrown back and recoiling on their own wake, leaving just a brief bit of choppy air or water behind them. Or, more poignantly, because none of them could hope for any 'sustenance' from the cold, cruel beloved, so they had no choice but to find nourishment from each other. If this mutual support was also a form of mutual self-destruction, that too was appropriate to the actual 'terror' of the beloved's coldness and cruelty that they felt. The lover seems to be exclaiming, adjuring God to witness the extent of his suffering. But the more piquant possibility also opens up-- might God also be the addressee?

{167,8} ahl-e havas kii fat;h hai tark-e nabard-e ((ishq jo paa;Nv u;Th gaye vuhii un ke ((alam hu))e

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1a) the victory of the lustful ones is the renunciation of the battle of love 1b) the renunciation of the battle of love is the victory of the lustful ones 2) the feet that rose up, those very ones became their banners

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, exactly in running away from the battle-field of passion, is the victory of the Rival. Those people's foot had hardly been lifted in this field-it was as if for them the standard of victory had become raised, and their life was saved. To construct the lifting of the foot as the lifting of a banner is extremely labored/artificial. He ought to have said this theme in this way: u;T;Thaa vafaa se haath to uu;Nche ((alam hu))e [when the hand was lifted [away] from faithfulness, then the standard became elevated]. (186)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the victory of the people of lust is in this-- that they would abandon the field of passion and flee. And those people would consider in their hearts that at the time of fleeing the field, the foot that was lifted, was as if a standard of victory had been raised aloft. 'Saving your life is true riches' [jaan bachii laakho;N paa))e]. (242)

Bekhud Mohani: [Responding to Nazm:] the inventiveness [vajd] in Ghalib's line is the very same that's in your line. This is an occasion for scorn-- that is, only for 'lifting up'. The word 'lifting up' applies to both a standard and a foot. (326)

FWP: There seem to be two ways of reading the first line: =the lustful ones' 'victory' is really just a successful flight (1a), since they're so cowardly (a sarcastic sneer) =a successful flight is in fact a victory for the lustful ones (1b), since they'll live to lust another day, and that's what they want (a factual observation) A parallel thought-experiment: what if there were a Moth who just flew around the candle for a while, but then didn't fly into the flame, but made a discreet exit instead? Such a Moth could be mocked for cowardice, but he might in fact view himself as prudent and intelligent. As Nazm observes (disapprovingly), the verse is organized around the exploitation in the second line of that fact that 'lifting' [u;Thnaa] is appropriate both for a foot in flight (by contrast, heroes plant their feet in the battlefield and resolve never to move them) and for a banner (by contrast, heroes have real banners to lift, not their own flying feet). Another example of this verb-based wordplay appears in the following verse, {167,9}. For more such examples, see {89}. For Ghalib's only other use of nabard , see {7,1}. There's one more small but piquant touch. If we imagine ourselves as hearing this verse in a mushairah, the word 'banner' [((alam] would be indistinguishable from the word alam , meaning 'pain, anguish, torment; grief, affliction' (Platts p.77). Would we be meant to hear this homonym as a kind of secondary meaning, a kind of echo? Perhaps the lustful don't get off scot-free after all, but suffer their own kind of pain.

{167,9} naale ((adam me;N chand hamaare supurd the jo vaa;N nah khi;Nch sake so vuh yaa;N aa ke dam hu))e 1) in the realm of nonexistence, some laments were [in a state of having been] confided to us 2) those that couldn't get 'drawn' there, having come here became breaths

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Notes: khichnaa : 'To be drawn, dragged, or pulled, &c.;... to be drawn out, be extended, be stretched; to stretch; to be extracted'. (Platts p.872) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, to perform some laments had already been decreed for us from eternity. We were not able to 'draw' them there; having come here, we are drawing those very laments, and the coming and going of the breath is that very lament-drawing. From this verse it is also learned that as with Nasikh, in the author's language in response to jo it is necessary that there be a so . If you remove the so from the line, and instead of yaa;N read yahaa;N , the line remains metrical. And the author's rank is great-- the person who has practice [mashq] in the versifying of words, when he thinks about composing, such matters do not remain hidden from him. Then though both forms are proper, in fact vahaa;N is more correct than vaa;N , and vahaa;N than yaa;N . If the author had rejected so , then there would also have been the advantage that in place of yaa;N , there could have been yahaa;N . But in order to bring in so , he chose to accept yaa;N as well. And the structure gives testimony that this action is deliberate. In this verse dam hu))e is not good, but the theme of the verse is extremely refined/subtle [la:tiif]. (186-87)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we're predestined to ill-fortune. From all eternity, the responsibility of heaving laments had been bestowed on us. Those laments that didn't get 'drawn' there, remained-- having come into the world, they became breaths for me. The meaning is that neither were we happy in nonexistence, nor were we happy having come here. For us, even a breath has the power of a lament. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh heedless one, what you consider to be a breath-- the truth of its nature is that in nonexistence, some laments had been bestowed on us. Some I did there, those that remained have here been named 'breaths'. That is, our lamenting is not of today-- in nonexistence too this was our pursuit. That is, we are ill-fortuned forever. (326)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE Like the previous verse, {167,8}, this one rests on a sort of semantic meaning-play and wordplay between two senses of the verb khichnaa (or khi;Nchnaa ), the intransitive of khe;Nchnaa , 'to draw'. One 'draws' a breath; fortunately we have the same idiom in English. But in Urdu one can also easily and colloquially 'draw', or 'draw out', a lament: utter it, sigh it, heave it, prolong it, drag it forth, etc. And just as in the previous verse, it's up to us to make this connection: the verse gives us naalah khichnaa , and we ourselves pair it with dam khichnaa , and recognize the enjoyable subtleties thus created. In the wake of this equation come many other implications adduced by the commentators: that our every breath is a sigh, and so on.

{167,10} chho;Rii asad nah ham ne gadaa))ii me;N dil-lagii saa))il hu))e to ((aashiq-e ahl-e karam hu))e 1) Asad, in beggary we didn't abandon heart-attachment 2) when we became an asker, then we became a lover of the people of generosity

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: The to proves that the clause before it [is a relative one];.... in Urdu it ought to be considered acceptable in speech [to omit the relative pronoun 'if' or 'when'], for it is attractive to omit this pronoun from a conditional clause. (187)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, even in beggary we didn't give up our lover's temperament. In the state of begging, whoever gave us a coin, we became the lover of that very person. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Asad, we have such an inclination for lover-hood that even upon becoming a Faqir, we kept that pursuit in practice. Formerly we used to love beautiful ones. Now we've become a lover of the people of generosity. And we've begun to take pleasure in their airs and graces. (328)

FWP: A nice wry tone for a closing-verse-- but at whom is the ironic, or amused, or sarcastic, or rueful reflection directed? =At himself, for his absurd insistence on maintaining the role of a lover under even the most inappropriate circumstances? =At himself, for so readily transferring his lover-ship on what seems to be a strictly financial basis? =At his former beloveds, since they were obviously not 'people of generosity'? (If they had been, he wouldn't have ended up as a beggar.) =At his new beloveds, the 'people of generosity' (and/or patrons), since they seem to be buying his loyalty? Needless to say, these possibilities aren't mutually exclusive. Quite the contrary, in fact. For a far more bitter-sounding reflection on the relation of beggar to giver-- or poet to patron-- see {110,8}.

Ghazal 168 3 verses; meter G6; rhyming elements: aanii composed 1821; Hamid p. 137; Arshi #144; Raza p. 244

{168,1} jo nah naqd-e daa;G-e dil kii kare shu((lah paasbaanii to fusurdagii nihaa;N hai bah kamiin-e be-zabaanii 1) if flame wouldn't act as a guard of the coin of wounds of the heart 2) then coldness/grief is hidden in the ambush/blind of tonguelessness

Notes: naqd : 'Prompt, or ready (payment); --good, fine, choice (articles or goods); -of a just standard (coin) --ready money, cash'. (Platts p.1145) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says, the flame is guarding the wound of my heart, that is, it does not permit it to become cold. If it did not have this power, then coldness/grief, in the guise of tonguelessness, would come hiddenly, like a thief, and steal this gold coin and run off. The simile of flame for a tongue is well-known. So the the non-guarding of the flame is that very tonguelessness, and its fruit is coldness/grief: if the flame would not guard it, then the wound of the heart would become cold/melancholy, and the thief of coldness would would steal it away by means of tonguelessness. In this verse he has used for the wound the simile of a gold piece, that is, he has given rupees and gold pieces. Persian-speakers are of the opinion that the would of the heart is a round thing, and in it there is a glittering, and a burning, and for that very reason

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they use 'sun of the wound' and 'dirham of the wound' and 'flame of the wound' and so on. In Urdu poetry, this theme has been taken from Persian poetry alone. In the same way that they consider that a sigh is a long thing, in which there is flame, and smoke too. Longing is some living thing, that sometimes is murdered within the heart itself, and sometimes buried alive with the lover; sometimes it lights a fire and sits nearby it. In short, when the wound of the heart became a gold coin, then the flame, because its eye remains open all night long, is its guardian. And although the author has not referred to coldness as a thief, he has described its deed as like that of thieves-- that is, it remains on watch to steal wealth, as if he had depicted a thief, who would be hidden in the ambush/blind of tonguelessness. All these similes are extremely delicate/refined [la:tiif], but if you look at the fruit/result of the verse, then it's nothing at all. In jo nah naqd-e daa;G both successive parts have the flaw of mutual repulsion [tanaafur].... (187-88)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the flame of passion would not protect the wound in my heart, that is, would not prevent it from being cold, then coldness would take control of it, which is seated like a thief in the veil of tonguelessness and is seeking to take control: that if it finds a bit of heedlessness it would run off with the gold coin of the wound of the heart. The meaning is that if the flame of passion doesn't constantly remain aware of the wound of the heart, then the wound of the heart would become cold. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: [Objecting to Nazm's criticisms:] This is the very same theme which in {86,7} Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i praises with astonishment, and in which he does justice to the author's 'philosophical temperament'. (328)

Arshi: This ghazal has been taken from an ode recorded in Ganjinah-e ma'ni [ganjiinah-e ma((nii]. (264)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} For once I agree with Nazm. There's just too much going on in this verse, and the various domains of imagery aren't-- and perhaps couldn't really have been-- pulled together into a properly tight state of connection. Just look at the domains: the commercial ('coin'); the anatomical ('wound', 'heart', 'tonguelessness'); the martial ('wound', 'guard', 'hidden', 'ambush/blind'); that of temperature ('flame', 'coldness', 'tonguelessness' since flame has a tongue). Even for Ghalib, it would be a tall order to meld all these domains together in a way that would feel inevitable and indissoluble. The 'flame' is acting as a 'guard' of the 'coin' of a 'wound'? Vasmi Abidi says I'm too hard on the verse: he points out (Aug. 2005) that the whole thing can be pulled together by a motif of guarding vs. robbery: the flame is guarding the treasure, while coldness is lurking as a highway robber. He's right about that, but I still find the whole thing confusing, and the imagery not well integrated. By the time you've struggled to put the whole thing into a kind of obscure, not very compelling assertion, you feel let down. You feel like someone who has just put together a complex but not captivating jigsaw puzzle. Or, of course-- to change metaphors-- it could be that a bus has just pulled out, and I missed it. With a poet like Ghalib it's never safe to write things off forever.

{168,2} mujhe us se kyaa tavaqqu(( bah zamaanah-e javaanii kabhii kuudakii me;N jis ne nah sunii mirii kahaanii 1) what expectation/hope do I have of that one, in the time of youth, 2) who in boyhood never listened to my story?

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Notes: kuudak : 'A boy, lad, youth, youngster, stripling'. (Platts p.860) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In childhood the ardor for listening to stories is usually very great. Despite this, he never listened to my story. Now, in his youth, what hope would I have from him? (188-89)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in childhood there's always a lot of ardor for listening to stories. Een at that age, this proud one never listened to my story. Now, in his youth, how can I expect anything from him, that he would hear my story of difficulties? (243)

Bekhud Mohani: From the second line, the beloved's eternal arrogance and unfaithfulness is made plain. (329)

FWP: The verse is inshaa))iyah, framed as a question, either rhetorical or serious. There is a hint of narrative, a sort of back-story: I've known this young man since he was a boy. But as a boy, he would never let me tell him-- what? One possibility: my favorite fairy tales, my best tall tales, the kind of stories that adults often tell to children they are fond of. The implication would be that this child just never liked me; and if he irrationally disliked me even then, why would he change now that he's a youth? The other possibility: that he would never listen to 'my story' in particular, the intimacy-creating personal story, whatever it would have been. The implication would be that this young man has been fending off my attempts at intimacy for years, and is hardly likely to stop now. A third reading: that the question is a serious one, worth considering. It's true that the boy disliked me when he was a child, but now he's older. Might he have learned more about the world, might he now have some glimmering of insight into the nature of passion, might he even take me more seriously now than he did then? In support of this reading is the omission of the little bhii that might so easily and colloquially have come after kuudakii me;N . It's not that 'even in childhood' he didn't pay any attention to me, it's that 'in childhood' he didn't pay any attention to me. So the door is open for a genuine question, and a possible change of heart on the part of the of the beloved youth. In this verse, the beloved is clearly a male adolescent; for more such verses, see {9,2}.

{168,3} yuu;N hii dukh kisii ko denaa nahii;N ;xuub varnah kahtaa kih mire ((aduu ko yaa rab mile merii zindagaanii 1) {casually / causelessly / exactly like this} to give someone pain is not well; otherwise, I would have said 2) 'let my enemy, oh Lord, receive my life'

Notes: yuu;N hii : 'In this very manner, exactly thus; --without any apparent cause or reason, causelessly, &c'. (Platts p.1253) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The word yuu;N hii in place of 'without reason' [be-vaj'h] is in the idiom. (189)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to give someone trouble without reason is not a good thing; otherwise I would certainly have made the prayer, oh God, may my

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difficulties go to the enemy who, having seen my sorrow and grief, is happy. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: The second line tells us that he is passing his life with such difficulty, and he is forced to confront so many disasters, that he's disaffected with life. (329)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH First an irritating verse, then a minor verse-- and finally a brilliant verse, to wrap up the ghazal and remind us what kind of poet we're dealing with. The commentators pay no attention to the multivalence of yuu;N hii (see definition above)-- and yet, how unobtrusively and perfectly it performs! Any and all of the meanings of yuu;N hii work perfectly, one by one or all together. For another-- and only slightly less elegant-- such use of yuu;N hii , see {111,16}. The first line thus provides us with three kinds of scruples: it's not good to cause pain casually, or for no good reason, or 'just like this (pain)'. In classic mushairah-verse style, the first line tantalizes us-- with all these heavy moral scruples, what dire words are being contemplated?-- and then leaves us dangling. Of course, under oral-performance conditions, we have to dangle for as long as is conveniently possible. Then even when we hear the second line, we don't really 'get' it until the very end; the 'punch-word' zindagaanii is withheld until the last possible moment, so that the wit and trickiness of the verse are perceived all at once. It's a wry and wonderful expression of a kind of doubled misery. In Urdu, wishing bad things on one's enemies is a commonplace of colloquial expression. Here, the speaker virtuously hesitates to do so-- alas, he says wistfully, he can't even do that. He wouldn't wish a life like his, with anything like his kind of pain, on even his worst enemy (who perhaps couldn't endure it for a moment). This final, 'just-like-mine' sense of yuu;N hii is only apparent after we hear the end of the second line, so that it comes with an extra jolt. And if we also take his words literally, then his wishing that his own life may be given away to an enemy would also be a form of wishing for death.

Ghazal 169 13 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: osh hai composed after 1826; Hamid p. 138; Arshi #199; Raza pp. 272-73

{169,1} :zulmat-kade me;N mere shab-e ;Gam kaa josh hai ik sham((a hai daliil-e sa;har so ;xamosh hai 1) in my darkness-chamber there's the turmoil/ebullience of the night of grief 2) one candle is a proof/sign of the dawn-- so/thus it is extinguished/'silent'

Notes: josh : 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal; vehemence; enthusiasm; frenzy'. (Platts p.397) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866?:] [The second line]-- this is an 'informative' [;xabar]. The first line-this is an 'inceptive' [mubtadaa]. shab-e ;Gam kaa josh -- that is, darkness upon darkness; the darkness, dense; the dawn, unborn-- as if it had never been created at all. Indeed, there is one proof of the existence of the morning-- that is, an extinguished candle, through this path: that a candle and a lamp are always extinguished at dawn. The pleasure [lu:tf] of this theme is that the thing that has been established as the proof of the dawn, is itself one among the causes of darkness. Thus it's worth seeing-- the house in which a

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symbol of dawn is a strengthener of darkness, how dark that house will be! (Arshi 302) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 843 ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 320 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 274-75

Ghalib: [1866:] A verse of [the great Persian poet] Maulvi Nizami Ganjavi, may God have mercy upon him, fell into the hands of students. They began to make objections to it, based on the rules of grammar. When those objections reached the Maulvi, he said, 'Friends, who took my poetry to school?' Those gentlemen who say that the whole first line cannot be an 'inceptive' [mubtadaa]-- they should be asked, 'Out of this first line, do you declare :zulmat-kade me;N mere to be an inceptive and shab-e ;Gam kaa josh hai to be an 'informative' [;xabar]? Then if that's the case, even so the goal is attained. The second line is undoubtedly another informative. After all, it's also a part of the accepted rules of the art of grammar that one inceptive can have two, or rather a number of, informatives. Indeed, there's another rule, that what precedes a verbal phrase [jumlah-e fa((liyah] is not called an inceptive. The second line of this opening-verse is a nominal phrase [jumlahe ismiyah]. It accepts an inceptive before itself. If we, with a view to this custom, call the first line inceptive, even then there's not necessarily any flaw. In any case, whatever these sahibs might call this first line, I accept it. But my verse does not support it. More than this, what can I write? (Arshi 302-03) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 839-40 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 285-86

Nazm: Ghalib has called an extinguished candle a sign of the dawn because the whiteness of the candle has a similarity to the whiteness of the dawn. After writing this meaning, I looked at [the collection of Ghalib's Urdu letters called] 'Ud-e Hindi. The author has written an extraordinary [((ajiib-o;Gariib] meaning and construction for this verse. He says, [the first passage given above]. (189)

Bekhud Dihlavi: [Quotes the same passage from Ghalib's own letter from 'Ud-e Hindi.] (244)

Bekhud Mohani: In my dark chamber, in my room of grief, the night of grief has spread tyranny/darkness [andher]. If the candle had been burning, then through its gleaming and light it could be known that the night is over and the dawn has come. But it has been extinguished-- there's no way to tell whether it's day or night. (330)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} An elegant, complex verse-- one which, in a piece of rare and great fortune, Ghalib himself has explained with great subtlety. Bekhud Mohani has apparently not read Ghalib's own account, since his commentary is so flat and insufficient, but most of the other commentators have done so, and end up quoting or paraphrasing the first of Ghalib's two letters given above. An extinguished candle is a 'proof' of the dawn, Ghalib says, because people extinguish candles when dawn comes-- or, he claims, when dawn is expected, when it is just around the corner. Thus the extinguished candle, the extinguishing of which actually increases the darkness, is also a sign of hope of the coming of dawn. Yet its basic metaphorical and actual quality as an image of darkness, burnt-outness, and despair, is by no means lost-- as can be seen in the final part of his own analysis above, and also in the unforgettable {169,12}. He points out the paradox with pride and relish: the

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very thing which is a proof and sign of dawn, is an increaser of the darkness- so how dark that house must be! The multivalent contrasts between josh and ;xamosh are also enjoyable. A whole range of contrasts can be adduced: ebullition and liveliness vs. silence; heat vs. coldness; passion vs. burnt-out-ness; vitality vs. deadness. They all operate at once and together, and work perfectly within the context of the verse. Moreover, there's one more piquant reversal: the thing full of all this ebullience, all this vigor, all this josh , is something which is normally dead, cold, dark, silent-- the night of grief. And the thing that's normally both a metaphorical and actual source of light, life, passion, warmth, ebullition-the candle-- is 'silent' and dead. Despite the relatively positive twist Ghalib gives this verse in his letter, deep down it still always reminds me of {138,7}. The second of Ghalib's two letters (quoted above) I found very confusing. Daud Rahbar calls Ghalib's use of grammatical terms 'idiosyncratic and somewhat obscure' (618); he himself translates mubtadaa as 'subject' and ;xabar as 'predicate', which certainly doesn't work. Both letters are addressed to Maulvi Muhammad 'Abd ur-Razzaq Shakir; the second letter is the only one I've seen that goes into such technical grammatical detail. I've translated the objectors as plural, but it could also be only one such sahib, who was consistently receiving the plural of respect. S. R. Faruqi has kindly provided (Sept. 2005) his own thoughts on the second letter: 'The objection made by the unknown critic was so jejune that poor Ghalib had difficulty in answering it. Any fool can ask a question that a wise man can't answer. While in English we divide a sentence into subject and predicate, the matter is somewhat more complex in Urdu. Here we have the 'inceptive' [mubtadaa] : the part of the sentence which (generally) occurs at the beginning and tells us that something or fact or event will follow; and the 'informative' [;xabar] : the thing or fact or event, etc., that is introduced by the inceptive. Thus :zulmat-kade me;N mere is an inceptive-- something is going to be narrated or reported about the ;zulmat-kadah . Then shab-e ;Gam kaa josh hai is the event or fact signalled by the inceptive. Ghalib's critic made the objection that that the first line was complete, with both inceptive and informative. Hence the second line was grammatically redundant. Ghalib makes the following replies: 1. A sentence that begins with a noun-statement needs no inceptive, so my second line is complete in itself, being entirely informative. It begins: ek sham((a hai ; this is a noun statement and needs no inceptive. 2. An inceptive can have two or more informatives. Hence the inceptive :zulmat kade me;N mere has the following informatives: shab-e ;Gam kaa josh hai and ek sham((a hai , etc. Ghalib's answers were perfectly reasonable, but he could have said that ordinary rules of inceptive and informative do not apply on two-line verses. But he wanted to give a grammarian's reply.'

{169,2} ne muzhdah-e vi.saal nah na:z:zaarah-e jamaal muddat hu))ii kih aashtii-e chashm-o-gosh hai 1) neither the good news of union, nor the vision of beauty-2) it's been a while, that there has been peace between eye and ear

Notes: The spelling ne instead of nah is there to permit the syllable to be metrically long. aashtii : 'Peace, concord, reconciliation, agreement'. (Platts p.56) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, the time has gone when if the eye saw the sight of beauty, then the ears felt jealousy/envy: 'let us too hear the good news of union'. Or if sometime the good news of union reached the ear, then the eyes felt jealousy/envy: 'they have heard the good news of union already, and we haven't yet succeeded in having a vision of beauty'. (189)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, now neither do the ears obtain good news of union, nor do the eyes attain a vision of beauty. For some time, the eye and ear have had mutual agreement between them. (244)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, now the eye is not jealous/envious, that 'the ears hear the name of the beloved, and we are deprived'; nor is the ear jealous/envious of the eye because of the sight of the beloved. That is, both are deprived. (330)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH 'UNION': {5,2} What a great mushairah-verse this must have been. The first line sets us up for a classic ghazal lament-- alas, how I suffer! I have no hope or rewards at all, my wretchedness is complete, what can I do but lament, etc. etc. We in the audience can easily think of lots of conventional ways for the second line to develop. When we finally (after the ritual delay) are allowed to hear the second line, even up to the halfway point we think we're right. 'It's been a while'-- and we're expecting 'since I saw that cruel one', or something of the sort. But then the verse veers completely off course. We can't get it until the very end, and then we suddenly figure it out. It turns out to describe not further wretchedness, or more laments, or something else dire-- but a small matterof-fact consolation prize. Things are so totally awful, says the lover, that the eye and ear no longer have any goodies to quarrel over, so nowadays they are reconciled and get along very well. He no longer has to put up with their jealousies and mutual complaints. Any harassed parent would know what he's talking about. His misery as a lover has at least brought him the relief of peace and quiet-- no more whining, no more bickering, nothing to set his teeth on edge. What price domestic harmony?

{169,3} mai ne kiyaa hai ;husn-e ;xvud-aaraa ko be-;hijaab ay shauq haa;N ijaazat-e tasliim-e hosh hai 1) wine has made self-adorning beauty unveiled 2) oh ardor, indeed, there is permission/dismissal of the 'taslim' of awareness/sense

Notes: ijaazat : 'Permission, liberty, leave, authority, sanction; leave to depart, dismissal; authority or liberty to do anything'. (Platts p.23) tasliim : 'Saluting, greeting; salutation, obeisance, homage... ; delivering, consigning; committing to the care of; surrender, resignation; conceding, acknowledging, granting; assenting to, accepting'. (Platts p.324) hosh : 'Understanding, judgment, intellect; sense, discretion; --mind, soul'. (Platts p.1241) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: There is permission to confide the awareness and senses to that one's custody, because the sense-stealingness of wine has created a veil. (189)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, wine has made self-adorning beauty unconscious. Oh ardor of the heart of the lover, now you too have permission, that you too for a little while may sacrifice your awareness and senses to that unveiled beauty. (244)

Bekhud Mohani: In the intoxication of wine the beloved, who keeps her self-adornment in mind, has become unveiled. Oh ardor, now what do you see! This is the very time for the sacrifice/offering of the awareness and senses. That is, in her becoming unveiled is a hint that now the time for my becoming self-less has come. The necessary consequence emerges that when the beloved becomes unveiled, no one can remain in his senses. (330)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS VEIL: {6,1} WINE: {49,1} Here is another of what I call 'generators', in which the possible permutations of meaning are simply too manifold and complex even to be set down in a list. Just look at the possibilities in the second line. First of all, ijaazat can mean both 'permission' (to do something entirely unspecified) and 'dismissal'. Then, the range of meanings for tasliim is so staggering that I haven't even tried to translate the word: it can mean greeting or saluting a superior (as though perhaps that person were just arriving); or delivering up something to the care of somebody else; or surrendering or yielding something in a more general way; or conceding or acknowledging something. Every one of these meanings can be paired with hosh (itself a complex word) in a variety of ways. And are any (others) of these abstract entities to be semi-personified as independent agents, such as 'ardor' seems perhaps to be? The multivalence of the two i.zaafat constructions also makes for maximum flexibility. Is permission/dismissal being given 'to' the taslim, or 'for' the taslim (whatever the 'taslim' may be)? And is it the taslim/salutation 'made by' the (active) awareness, or the taslim 'of' the (passive) awareness? And what is the role of 'ardor'-- is it some sort of agent being given a cue for action, or merely an observer to whom the lover is privately commenting? The verse could be enjoining an increase of conscious awareness, so that the lover can (sneakily?) fully take in the rare sight of the beloved unveiled; or it could be enjoining an abandonment of conscious awareness, since the beloved's intoxication means that the lover is 'off duty' and can lapse into self-less ecstasy. And so on-- and on. As if these weren't enough piled-on ambiguities, we also have to decide for ourselves the relationship between the two lines. The first line seems to trigger the address to 'ardor' in the second line, but why exactly? Is it because of the beloved's drunken obliviousness (so that she won't know if the lover is staring at her)? Or is it because of the beloved's own warmth of intoxication (so that she's now willing to show her unveiled self to the lover)? And what exactly does her being 'self-adorning' have to do with her being 'unveiled'? Are the two related (her being self-adorning is somehow connected with her being unveiled), or mutually exclusive (normally she is self-adorning, but when she is unveiled she is seen unadorned)? And then, needless to say, we could be speaking either of a human beloved, or of the divine Beloved, so that a wide range of mystical possibilities are fully available. There is also a small but piquant sound effect. The first line begins with 'wine has made' [mai ne kiyaa hai]. Only by a single nasal does that phrase differ from the extremely common 'I have made' [mai;N ne kiyaa hai]. In a mushairah performance, wouldn't the listeners tend to hear, especially on the first recitation, a kind of rhyme or echo of 'I have made'?

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With all these metaphysicalities, the verse still doesn't feel like an annoying exercise in puzzle-making, the way {168,1} does. It feels (elusively and delusively) simple, and full of, well, ardor. Some editions (including Hamid) have yaa;N instead of haa;N . As always, I follow Arshi.

{169,4} gauhar ko ((uqd-e gardan-e ;xuubaa;N me;N dekhnaa kyaa auj par sitaarah-e gauhar-farosh hai 1) {look at / to see} the pearl in the knot at the lovely ones' neck-2) at what a height is the star/fortune of the pearl-seller!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: dekhnaa has two meanings: one is an imperative, addressed to a listener; and the other is an infinitive, and in that case 'for the pearl-seller to see' is meant, and he has expressed jealousy/envy of him. (189)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to see a pearl garland on the necks of beautiful ones has been vouchsafed-- at what a height is the star of the pearl-seller! (244)

Bekhud Mohani: Look at how glittering nowadays is the fortune of the jeweler, that the beloved has worn around her neck a pearl garland brought by him! That is, he feels jealousy/envy of his fortune: that 'he's better than we are'. (331)

Arshi: Compare {106,4}. (232, 303)

FWP: Compared to the dense, unresolvable knot of meanings of {169,3}, how clever, controlled, and charming this little verse is. It's really a nicely turned display of wit. It has a very enjoyable double meaning, but not a triple or quadruple or indefinitely complex one. (We deserve a break.) Nazm points out the two possibilities of dekhnaa , but then doesn't comment on the more important doubleness of the second line. The first meaning is the one the commentators all get. The pearl-seller is very lucky. Since astrological influences pervade the world of the ghazal, this means that his 'star is in the ascendant', his star is at a 'height' that brings him good fortune. He is lucky because the beloved has condescended to wear his pearl in a necklace, and even luckier because he seems to have the chance actually to see her doing so. The commentators tend to insist on the poet's jealousy/envy of him, but even if we don't overdo that possibility, the very possibility of the pearl-seller's own (metaphorical or real) presence-- so un-obvious, so unnecessary or even inappropriate-- adds another implicit gaze besides the speaker's, and thus creates a piquant complication in the verse. The second meaning hinges on the beloved's tallness; for more on this, see {38,4}. The beloved is wearing the pearl not in a garland such as the commentators mostly envision-- they use maalaa -- but specifically in a 'knot' at her neck, something like a choker or collar. Thus the pearl-seller's finest pearl, the 'star' of his collection, is at a 'height' off the ground that moves the lover to rapturous admiration of the beloved's tall, elegant, cypress-like stature. Not one of the commentators I'm consulting for this project shows the slightest sign of getting this second meaning-- although without it, the verse would be really lame. This kind of thing still amazes me, though by now of course I should be used to it. ;xubaa;N is technically plural, but it often seems to be used as a kind of abstract singular.

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{169,5} diidaar baadah ;hau.slah saaqii nigaah mast bazm-e ;xayaal mai-kadah-e be-;xarosh hai 1) vision/appearance, wine; spirit/'stomach', Cupbearer; gaze, intoxicated [one] 2) the party/gathering of thought is a wine-house without commotion

Notes: diidaar : 'Sight, vision...; look, appearance; face, countenance, cheek'. (Platts p.556) ;hau.slah : 'Stomach, maw; crop, craw; (fig.) capacity; desire, ambition; resolution; spirit, courage'. (Platts p.482) ;xarosh : 'Loud noise, cry, call, shout, yell; tumult; crush'. (Platts p.489) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the first line there is no i.zaafat anywyere. He shows the aspect of the gathering of thought: there vision/appearance is the wine, the gaze is the wine-drinker, ambition/spirit is the Cupbearer. (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The imagined gathering is a kind of wine-house in which there is no sort of turmoil and commotion. The meaning is that the gathering of thought is an extraordinarily enjoyable scene. (245)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if you would turn your attention to the heart, then both divine and worldly passion would become visible, and with such glory/appearance that you wouldn't be able to endure it, and the gaze would remain intoxicated. That is, the glory/appearance place of thought is more than the beloved's gathering in one respect: that if the beloved would appear before you, then if you have the endurance for the sight, then-- well, you've seen it; if you don't have the endurance, then you won't see it and you'll remain deprived of the sight. But in the gathering of thought, it's not like this. Here, as many glories/appearances come as your ambition/spirit permits. (331)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The first line initially offers nothing but confusion: a string of six nouns and no accompanying grammar whatsoever. And needless to say, Ghalib didn't punctuate his verses. But we're not at a loss-- as we reflect on the line we easily notice that the odd-numbered words are from the mental/sensory domain, and the even-numbered ones are from the domain of wine-drinking. With that realization, it doesn't take long to group them into three sets of pairs, one from each domain, and to notice that they're apparently being linked or even equated. After getting that far, however, we still can't really tell where the second line is going. And under mushairah performance conditions, we will be made to wait as tantalizingly long as possible before we're allowed to find out. Then even when we hear the second line, it remains a bit enigmatic. All the elements of the wine-house have their counterparts in the mind-- in fact, the 'gathering of thought' actually 'is' a wine-house, with only one difference: it is a wine-house without clamor, tumult, outcries [;xarosh]. But what are we to make of that description? Several possibilities present themselves: =the mental wine-house is better than the physical one, because it isn't full of noisy outcries, confusion, crowds; the drinker can just concentrate on his own intoxication

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=the mental wine-house is inferior to the physical one, because it lacks the hustle and bustle, the ebullience, the vibes, the raunaq , that are so much a part of a good evening at the wine-house. =the mental wine-house is basically just like the physical one; the only difference that can be detected-- a discrepancy in the noise level-- is immaterial Then if we're in the mood to ponder, each of the pairs in the first line also admits of subtlety. How abstractly are we to read diidaar ? How literally are we to read ;hau.slah ? And the whole wine-house scene-- is it good? bad? desirable? inadequate? ruefully funny? melancholy? romantic? mystical? pathetically limited? infinitely inspiring? Etc. etc. We readers have to invent the whole tone of the verse-- and invent it afresh with every reading. Every reading is, after all, another glass in the wine-house of the imagination. A glass that I lift in a toast to Ghalib. I've loved this verse since the first time I heard it. Compare {223,2}, a more ambiguous, and perhaps more sinister, vision of the same situation. For another treatment of the bazm-e ;xayaal , see {229,2}.

{169,6} ay taazah-vaaridaan-e bisaa:t-e havaa-e dil zinhaar agar tumhe;N havas-e nai-o-nosh hai 1) oh fresh-arrivers at the 'spread' of the desire/affection of the heart 2) beware, if you have a desire/lust for flute and drink

Notes: bisaa:t : 'Anything that is spread out; surface, expanse, expansion; carpet; bedding; chess-cloth or chess-board, dice-board; --goods, wares, &c.' (Platts p.154) havaa : 'Affection, favor, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p.1239) havas : 'Desire, lust, concupiscence, inordinate appetite; --ambition; -curiosity'. (Platts p.1241) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By taazah-vaaridaan is meant youths. In Arabic, havaa means 'longing, desire'. By nai-o-nosh is meant listening to the flute and drinking wine. (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says: oh youths, you have newly become imprisoned in sensual desires. Beware, if you wish to listen to the flute and drink wine! (245)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh you who have just set foot in the gathering of the longings of the heart! That is, oh youths, if you want to listen to the melody of the flute (the pleasures of the world), then take care! (331-32)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} Well, here it is: the most linear, sequential verse-set in the whole divan, It actually has narrative coherence, organic unity, an internal progression, and all that. If you mixed up the order of the verses, you might actually damage the poetic effect-- which is a pretty rare degree of continuity, as verse-sets go. The verse-set is framed as a warning against the doomedness of romance and desire, and against the terrible, traitorous beauty of the senses. It's couched in the form of a solemn, extended admonition to newcomers-- almost the kind of puritanical sermon that the Preacher would deliver. But of course, it's so

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suffused with poignance and nostalgia that it ends up becoming more of a back-handed compliment, more of a lament. The 'fresh-arrivers' have come to a 'spread' [bisaa:t]-- a word most cleverly and suitably multivalent. It often means a feast or dining- cloth, as well as all the meanings in the definition above; all these possibilities evoke various domains of pleasure and desire [havaa]. Take warning, says the second line, if you have a desire [havas] for the flute and for 'drink'-- which here surely means 'alcoholic drink', just as it can in English ('Do you drink?'). The verse unabashedly and firmly points beyond itself, obviously to later verses in the set. So it urges us, in effect, to move right on, rather than pausing to meditate at length. As a small and subtle pleasure, however, it offers us the intriguing juxtaposition of havaa and havas . The two clearly have a large domain in common, more or less that of 'desire' in English, which similarly can mean all kinds of desires, including sensory, sensual, lustful, and romantic. So it could be that we're meant to read them as roughly synonymous, and to take them as placed where they are because of their different metrical possibilities. But there's also a distinct difference of nuance. The penumbra of havaa inclines toward love, and that of havas toward lust. In the light of this distinction, should we rethink the two lines? Is the first line addressed to those who are new to 'love' (the 'desire of the heart'), and who therefore are in danger of falling victim to a kind of sensory 'lust' (for music and wine)? As so often, it's left up to us to decide.

{169,7} dekho mujhe jo diidah-e ((ibrat-nigaah ho merii suno jo gosh-e na.sii;hat-niyosh hai 1) look at me, if you might have an {admonition/warning}-seeing eye/gaze 2) listen to my words, if you have an advice-hearing ear

Notes: Note: In the second line, the word baat is so thoroughly understood that it can be colloquially omitted. It's what merii is modifying. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: With regard to those two things, the flute and the 'spread' [nashr], in the second verse he says, 'why do you look toward wine-- look at my state, and take a lesson; and why do you listen to the flute-- incline your ear and listen to my words. (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Look at me, and look at my state, and receive a lesson; And in preference to the flute, listen with the ear of the heart to my advice

Bekhud Mohani: If Nature has bestowed on you an eye that would look at the wretched state of others and learn a lesson from it, then look at me; and if you are ready to listen to anyone's advice, then listen to mine-- that is, do what I say, because what I say is true. Because I've already done it all, and I'm now 'stretching/yawning' [;xamyaazah lenaa] (see {12,2}). (332)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM This is the second verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}. The two lines present themselves as strongly parallel. They seem to be giving virtually the same message, and merely inviting attention through two different senses. Yet subtle differences also present themselves. 'Look at me' is an ambiguous remark. It can mean 'pay attention and stop gazing around

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the room'. But of course it can also mean 'take a look at me, my own situation is an illustration'. Similarly, 'listen to my words' may mean little more than 'pay attention, I'm talking to you'; but it can also be read with an emphasis on 'my words'-- a claim that what I say is authoritative and comes with the full weight of personal experience. How does the speaker's appearance (look at me!) compare with his advice (listen to me!)? The two might seem to be in contradition ('do what I say, not what I do'). Is the speaker a rake and a longtime party-goer who has spent his life pursuing wine, women, and song, and is now trying to save the newcomer from falling into the same way of life? Has he seen the error of his ways, but found it too late to save himself? Is he simply too burnt-out to pursue the 'desire of the heart' any more, and so finds it easy to warn others against his own former follies? Or is he by any chance someone who has escaped by the skin of his teeth, and lived a virtuous life far from wine and flute, and wants to offer other endangered young people the same way out?

{169,8} saaqii bah jalvah dushman-e iimaan-o-aagahii mu:trib bah na;Gmah rahzan-e tamkiin-o-hosh hai 1) the Cupbearer, with his glory/appearance-- an enemy of faith/integrity and awareness/intelligence 2) the musician with his melody is a highway-robber of dignity and understanding/judgment

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Then there's also a wordplay of 'collecting and scattering'. (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: With such glory-manifesting, the Cupbearer has in truth become an enemy of faith/integrity and awareness; and the musician with his sweet-voicedness is a loot-taker and carrier-off of dignity and understanding. (245)

Bekhud Mohani: The state of the gathering of the world is that the moment the Cupbearer shows his face, faith/integrity and wisdom take leave; and the moment the musician takes up his tune, the senses take flight. That is, having heard the melody, and having seen the Cupbearer's face, neither do the senses remain undisturbed, nor do wisdom and faith/integrity remain sound. (332)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM This is the third verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}. Like the previous verse, this one is build on strong and obvious parallelism-which makes small differences all the more piquant and noticeable. Most conspicuously, while the musician uses his 'melody'-- his proper professional equipment-- to destroy the listeners, the Cupbearer doesn't use its counterpart, the 'wine' which it's his duty to serve, and which has been alluded to in {169,6}. Instead, it's his jalvah , that favorite Ghalibian word: officially it means 'appearance', but in fact it means 'glorious appearance' or 'glory'. Thus this verse pursues the 'eye vs. ear' parallel lines of {169,7}, and even in the same order. The Cupbearer thus does double duty: the sensual trio of 'wine, women, and song' of English carousal can be reduced to two: the Cupbearer provides both wine, and beauty (very probably the androgynous beauty of a young boy); and the musician provides melody; usually he's a placeholder for both instrumental music and song.

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{169,9} yaa shab ko dekhte the kih har goshah-e bisaa:t daamaan-e baa;Gbaan-o-kaf-e gul-farosh hai 1) Either at night you/we used to look/see-- that every corner of the 'spread' 2) is the skirt of the gardener and the fist of the flower-seller

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [No comments on this particular verse.] (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Either at night the spectacle was taking place before the eyes, such that every single corner of the dining-cloth, in its decoratedness with flowers, had become the skirt of the gardener and the hand of the flower-seller. (245)

Bekhud Mohani: Now, at night, every corner of the carpet of the gathering was becoming, because of the abundance of flowers, the skirt of a gardener or the hand of a flower-seller. (332)

FWP: This is the fourth verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}; and for discussion of the 'spread' as well. The introductory yaa which seems so peculiar is meant to correlate with its partner at the beginning of {169,11}. The two make an 'either-or' set [yaa yih yaa vuh] not exactly of mutually exclusive alternatives, but of two possible moments in time: if you choose to look at night, it's this; if you choose to look at dawn, it's that. The skirt of the gardener is of course gathered up in his hand, to make a sort of hammock in which to carry a great mass of freshly picked flowers, in a huge piled-up heap. The fist of the flower-seller offers quality rather than quantity: a small bouquet or the most exquisite blooms, carefully chosen and arranged to appeal to the connoisseur. Thus what the line is 'really' saying, in the heresy of paraphrase, is that the gathering is as full as possible of fresh flowers. But of course, the flowers are never mentioned-- which has several advantages. First, it makes the reader work a bit, which creates a buzz in the brain that is enjoyable in itself. And second, it has the advantage of smuggling in people: the gardener, the flower-seller, who are lowly servants- if even they are (implicitly, metaphorically) there, how crowded and lively the gathering must be! Ghalib has thus effortlessly peopled his 'spread' and given it the requisite 'brilliance' [raunaq] that a good party must have. (Compare the effect of the presence of the pearl-seller in {169,4}.) In our tour of the senses, we've had eyes and ears, the taste of wine for the tongue, and now, with all those gorgeous flowers, it's the nose's turn, and we add some delights for the sense of smell.

{169,10} lu:tf-e ;xiraam-e saaqii-o-;zauq-e .sadaa-e chang yih jannat-e nigaah vuh firdaus-e gosh hai 1) the grace/elegance of the gait of the Cupbearer, and the relish of the voice of the lute 2) this is a heaven of the eye; that, a paradise of the ear

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [No comments on this particular verse.] (190)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The intoxicated gait of the Cupbearer trampled one under foot, and the sound of the lute and zither drew one in. On one side it was equal to a heaven for the sight; and on the other side the ears were obtaining a pleasure equal to that of a paradise. It was as if these were Houris; and those, sweet-voiced birds. (245)

Bekhud Mohani: If because of the swaying gait of the Cupbearer it was a heaven, then from the sound of the lute it was a paradise for the ears. That is, it seemed as if we are seeing the springtime of Heaven, and the musicians are the melodyproviders of Heaven. (332

FWP: This is the fifth verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}. Now the glory of the senses reaches a crescendo, and we party-goers literally think we're in heaven. We're almost translated out of the realm of the evening gathering entirely. Which is just as well, because naturally we're heading for a fall.

{169,11} yaa .sub;h-dam jo dekhiye aa kar to bazm me;N ne vuh suruur-o-soz nah josh-o-;xarosh hai 1) Or else come into the gathering at the break of dawn, and look 2) there is neither that joy and burning/ardor, nor turmoil and commotion

Notes: The spelling ne instead of nah is to make it a long syllable, to suit the meter. soz : 'Burning; heat, inflammation; ardour, passion; affection; heart-burning, vexation'. (Platts p.698) josh : 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal; vehemence; enthusiasm; frenzy'. (Platts p.397) ;xarosh : 'Loud noise, cry, call, shout, yell; tumult; crush'. (Platts p.489) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That hustle and bustle, and heart-attraction, and festivity of the night-- the morning's state of sadness, and desolation, and bleakness. They are two opposite moods. The former delights the listener, and the latter saddens him. The former opens out his temperament, and the latter contracts it. For this reason, the last two verses of this verse-set are the most eloquent-- because their effect is contraction/sadness of the temperament, and that contraction which occurs after an opening-out has a greater effect. (190)

Bekhud Dihlavi: At dawn if you come and look, then in the gathering an extraordinary sadness and lack of brilliance [be-raunaqii] is found. Neither those sounds of instruments, nor the burning and melting of the people of the gathering, nor the turmoil and commotion of the gathering. (246)

Bekhud Mohani: Now if you come at dawn and look, then neither can that hustle and bustle be seen, nor that brilliance [raunaq]. (332)

FWP: This is the sixth verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}. This introductory yaa is a follow-up from the one in {169,9}, and ties the two together as an 'either-or' construction.

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Everybody emphasizes the starkness and awfulness of the scene at dawn, and indeed they're right. But there's just enough leeway in the description to allow for a bit of complexity. Apart from suruur , the other three descriptors -- soz and josh and ;xarosh -- all have negative as well as positive resonances. They can evoke the things that make you tired of a big lively party after a while-- the irritation, the hyperactivity, the clamor, the noise and crowding, the general assault on the senses. Anybody who's ever gone home early from such a bash will remember the feeling. This touch of vexation spices up the verse, and makes it much more evocative. I also love the way those three nouns so easily bridge the gap between describing physical conditions-- burning, boiling, loud noise and tumult-and their mental or emotional metaphorical counterparts. The 'great party' may be a heaven, but it also shows some little overtones of a hell. It reminds me of the elegant unresolvability of {169,5}.

{169,12} daa;G-e firaaq-e .su;hbat-e shab kii jalii hu))ii ik sham((a rah ga))ii hai so vuh bhii ;xamosh hai 1) burned by the wound/scar of the separation of the companionship of the night 2) one candle has remained-- thus it too is extinguished/silent

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [See his comments on {169,11}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: Instead of all those moods and equipment of enjoyment, this can be seen: one candle remains, burnt by the companionship of the night and saddened/chilled by the wound of separation-- and that too, like the wretched heart of the lover, is extinguished. (246)

Bekhud Mohani: Only one candle is to be seen, from which it's possible that it too has been burnt out by the events of the night, and it shouldn't be considered to have been extinguished on the coming of dawn. Rather, burning in grief at the scattering of the heart-bewitching company of the night, it has become burnt out. (332)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} This is the final verse of a seven-verse verse-set; for discussion of the whole verse-set, see {169,6}. How satisfyingly this verse evokes the extinguished candle of {169,1}, and Ghalib's own comments about the burnt-out candle as a herald (?) of dawn. We have almost come full circle. The majority of lines in the ghazal world are end-stopped, but there are still plenty of ones that show enjambement-- that carry over their grammar into the next line. Few, however, carry it over as drastically and dramatically as this one. Because English is a subject-verb-object language, and thus has prepositions, while Urdu is a subject-object-verb one and has postpositions, I can't really retain the word order of the first line; but it would go like this: {wound-of-separation-of-companionship-of-night}-by burned The word 'burned' is delayed as much as possible and comes at the very end, so that it feels like the end of a long, slow, complex process-- and after it's all over we realize that all we've got is one gigiantic adjective. The whole long line only means 'wound-burned' (with some description of the wound)-there's no other grammar whatsoever.

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That final 'burned' thus hits harder than its English counterpart-- but also seems to desperately reach forward, to beg for access to its noun and verb and the whole of its grammatical meaning, all of which have been carefully deferred to the second line. At the end of the first line, we in the audience are left with nothing but a burnt-out X for company. How irritating it must have been to the audience in the mushairah to have to wait for the second line. No doubt they could guess what a feminine singular burnt-out thing might be-but still, how frustratingly the first line denies itself to us, how little it really gives us. The effect is to focus everything on that single candle; located at the center, it is the pivot on which the verse turns. It comes to us carrying a kind of shoulder pack of suffering, the whole first line's worth of massive adjectival past action. But then in the second line, it just stands there-- it 'has remained', it 'is silent' (meaning, by extension, 'extinguished'). No present or future action is to be expected from it. We don't know what it's thinking or feeling, if anything. It's over, it's history, it's done for. You may not entirely like the wild noisy party, but in this verse-set, the only alternative is radical silence and desolation.

{169,13} aate hai;N ;Gaib se yih ma.zaamii;N ;xayaal me;N ;Gaalib .sariir-e ;xaamah navaa-e sarosh hai 1) these themes come into the mind from the 'hidden' 2) Ghalib, the scratching of the pen is the voice of an angel

Notes: ;Gaib : 'Absence; invisibility; concealment; anything that is absent, or invisible, or hidden (from sight or mental perception); a mystery, secret; an event of futurity; the invisible world, the future state'. (Platts p.774) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if these themes that emerge from your pen are themes of the 'hidden', then you ought to consider the scratching of the pen to be the voice of an angel. (191)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The truth is that having written such a wonderful ghazal, Mirza Sahib's writing this closing-verse is absolutely not to be counted as boasting; rather, it's the true state of affairs. He says, such lofty themes come from the 'hidden' into my mind-- oh Ghalib, the sound of my pen ought to be considered the voice of an angel. (246)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, these themes come into my heart from the Lord. The sound of my pen is the voice of Gabriel. That is, I am the Prophet of Poetry, I sometimes have inspiration and sometimes have revelation. (332)

FWP: SETS == POETRY WRITING: {7,3} The complexities of ;Gaib (see definition above) leave the poet, and the commentators, lots of wiggle room. The source can be mystical, religious, unknown, hidden, or completely vague. For another example of the mysteries of ;Gaib , see {98,10}. The second line too can be read with a variety of tones, from the extremely arrogant to the relatively humble: =Since I'm a directly inspired by the Lord, my writing is in the revelatory voice of an angel =Since my ideas come from a realm of mystery, and angels come from a realm of mystery too, the two must surely be connected

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=Since I'm so deeply creative and inventive, I consider my own ideas to be equal to the voice of any angel =Since there are no real angels (or Gods?) in the world, the best I can do, ruefully or despairingly, is to divinize the scratching of my own pen Moreover, there's nothing in the verse to restrict the frame of reference to the speaker alone: it could be a truth, inspiring (God talks to us!) or melancholy (we invent our own 'angels') as we choose, of all human experience. As Bekhud Dihlavi observes, if it's boastful, it's still no more than than the truth, especially coming at the end of a brilliant ghazal like this one.

Ghazal 170 7 verses; meter G17; rhyming elements: aar nahii;N hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 139; Arshi #145; Raza pp. 244-45

{170,1} aa kih mirii jaan ko qaraar nahii;N hai :taaqat-e bedaad-e inti:zaar nahii;N hai 1) come, for my life does not have stability/establishedness 2) I don't have strength for the cruelty of waiting

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If he had said 'come quickly' instead of merely 'come', then it would have been better; but there was no scope in the scansion [vazan]. (191)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, come, and come quickly, for my miserable life has no endurance and stability left. Now I have no strength left to endure the cruelty of waiting. (246)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] My opinion is there isn't as much of, and as refined/subtle, a meaning in 'come quickly', as is present in that simple 'come'. (333)

FWP: I think that Nazm is just being persnickety, and that Bekhud Mohani is right; in this case, any metrical difficulties could easily have been overcome. The radical simplicity of the verse goes well with the simple, inshaa))iyah imperative, 'come', in the first line. The speaker is presenting the case so starkly because it's too late for him to worry about any other kinds of 'cruelty' or flirtation the beloved might have in mind. With his tenuous hold on life, 'waiting' itself is more 'cruelty' than he can bear. It's too late for embroidering the truth, or for elaborating his complaints and protestations. There's so little time left that she should just 'come'.

{170,2} dete hai;N jinnat ;hayaat-e dahr ke badle nashshah bah andaazah-e ;xumaar nahii;N hai 1) they/we give Heaven in exchange for the life of the world 2) the intoxication/wine is not {according / in proportion} to the intoxication/hangover

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Notes: badlaa (source of ke badle ) : 'To change, alter; to exchange, barter; to substitute one thing for another'. (Platts p.140) nashaa [variant of nashah]: 'Intoxication (lit. and fig.), drunkenness; -headache or crop-sickness (from over-drinking); --intoxicating liquor or drug, an intoxicant'. (Platts p.1139) ;xumaar : 'Intoxication; the effects of intoxication, pain and headache, &c. occasioned by drinking, crapulence, crop-sickness; headache or sickness (arising from want of sleep, &c.); languor'. (Platts p.493) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, those troubles that are in the life of the world-- they cannot receive compensation by going to Heaven. Then he gave an illustration [mi;saal] of this: that person who would have experienced the trouble of a great hangover [;xumaar], if he would get a little wine, then what intoxication [nashah] will he experience? (191)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in recompense for the life of the world, Heaven will be bestowed. But the recompense for worldly troubles cannot be received from Heaven. And the illustration of this saying he presents as: the one who would have experienced to the extreme the difficulty of the decline of intoxication, and after that a little wine would be given to him-- what intoxication will he experience? (246)

Bekhud Mohani: [Nazm's interpretation, or:] Heaven cannot compensate for the life of the world, because the pleasures of this place are considerably greater than the pleasures of that place. There, there will be full power over Huris. Here, there is the complete danger of dealing with beloveds. There is there fear of being displaced by the Rival, the fear of separation, the thought of disgrace, the anxiety of waiting, etc. etc. These things are such as give pleasure to mankind. And the world knows that when there is full control over the thing desired, then ardor no longer remains. (333)

Josh: The rule is that to whatever extent the intoxication [nashah] has abated, to that extent the drinking of wine gives comfort. He has given the illustration of life as a hangover [;xumaar] and Heaven as intoxication [nashah]. (292)

Mihr: Only the habitual drinker can properly realize, that when intoxication [nashah] abates, with regard to body and mind what a doomsday occurs. However severe the hangover [;xumaar] would be, if to that extent wine would not be available, then the troubles will not be removed. Exactly this reality has been presented in this verse. (562-63)

FWP: SETS == A,B The first line tells us merely that 'they' (or 'we') give A in exchange for B. The sense of 'in exchange for' [ke badle] is neutral (see definition above); there's not the smallest hint as to whether this exchange is good or bad, desired or undesired, fair or fraudulent. Nor do we know who or what the (masculine plural) subject is-- God? Human destinies? Theologians? We could also be doing the exchange ourselves. The second line presents an 'illustration' [mi;saal]-- something offered as an aphorism or colloquial saying or lively example drawn from the real world. Except, of course, that this particular one, when juxtaposed to the first line, is undecideable. It has the logical form of 'C is not in proportion to D'. Both

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C and D are complex, multivalent words, and the relationship between them is also variable (does 'not in proportion to' mean too great, too small, or something else?); so that it's possible to choose among their meanings, and match them up interpretively with A and B, in a number of ways. The commentators generally seem to rely on the cultural notion of a hangover cure, something like 'the hair of the dog that bit you': according to how bad your hangover is, and/or how much your previous intoxication has abated, that's how much wine you should then drink, in order to restore your equilibrium. On this reading, the re-intoxication or fresh wine (of Heaven) is not 'in proportion to' the hangover or previous intoxication (of worldly life). But why is it not? Maybe because it's insufficient, since the 'hangover' of earthly life was so bad that Heaven doesn't suffice to make up for it (as most commentators claim). Or maybe because it's unsatisfying, since the 'intoxication' of earthly life was so full of relish that Heaven can't match it (as Bekhud Mohani argues). And there are still many more possibilities, since both nashah and ;xumaar have a variety of meanings: both can mean 'intoxication' in general, and both can refer to the unpleasant side effects or aftermath of intoxication (see definitions above). The former can also mean an 'intoxicant'; the latter has more overtones of a physical hangover. Here are a few additional readings: =We're only allowed to have a brief, brilliant time of 'intoxication' in the world, and then we're stuck with a hugely disproportionate 'hangover'-- a draggy, headachey interval that we're forced to spend in Heaven =Indeed we're a bit 'hung over' from our life in the world, but the 'cure' offered by a stint in Heaven isn't at all suitable or appropriate-- what we need for a hangover cure is more of the same wine, not something else completely different =We give up all claims to Heaven, in favor of living in and for this world; for we know that Heaven's not all it's cracked up to be. Visions of Heaven (or maybe even Heaven itself) can be compared to bad wine: the 'intoxication' isn't delightful enough to compensate for the 'hangover'. This verse belongs to the 'snide remarks about Paradise' set; for discussion, see {35,9}.

{170,3} giryah nikaale hai terii bazm se mujh ko haa))e kih rone pah i;xtiyaar nahii;N hai 1) weeping sends me out of your gathering 2) alas, that there's no control over the tears!

Notes: Here, nikaale hai is an archaic variant of nikaaltaa hai . *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This meter [vazan] is not among the familiar ones. For this reason, the calligrapher has drawn the first line into a familiar meter, and in all the manuscripts has written tirii . But in this there's the problem that the second foot should have been faa((ilaat ; instead, it becomes mufta((ilun . It's necessary that the author would have written terii . And in this case the meter remains established, so that the final ye would be shortened, and the medial one would remain long. (191)

Bekhud Mohani: My weeping sends me out of your gathering. Alas, that I don't have control over the turbulence of the weeping! Otherwise, I wouldn't have wept, and I wouldn't have been sent out. [Or:] My tears don't stop; for this reason I leave the gathering, so that the secret of passion would not be disclosed.

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[Or:] The lover is weeping, and the beloved, out of irritation or fear of the disclosure of the secret, has sent him out. Now he mourns: alas, I don't manage even to weep. (333-34)

Faruqi: Now let's turn to the meaning. What the commentators have written is very fine. I simply want to add one or two additional points. There's no control over weeping; that is, tears keep emerging. The result of the coming out [nikalnaa] of the tears is that I am being forced to come out [nikaalnaa] from your gathering. That is, I have no control over the tears, but I am in the control of the tears-- and that too in such a way that when they come out, then I too come out. Then, the thrust of 'I have no control over weeping' is to suggest that I have no control over weeping, but I have control over something else. That thing can only be my coming out [nikalnaa]. But that too is not in my control, because it's this weeping itself that is sending me out of your gathering. If I had control over the tears, then I would send them out [nikaalnaa], the way they have control over me and are sending me out. But if I sent out, then they would become apparent, and the result would again be that I would be forced to leave the gathering. It's a fine verse. (296)

FWP: Faruqi does a lovely job on the subtleties of the intransitive nikalnaa and its transitive counterpart nikaalnaa , and the nuances of leaving/emerging versus expelling/sending out, for lovers and tears. This verse is the first one so far (and probably the last) in which I part company with Arshi. In the manuscripts and early sources, 'your' in the first line is spelled tirii (with no medial ye ), and that's how Arshi faithfully gives it. However, by modern orthographic standards, that doesn't scan, and it should unquestionably be terii (the standard spelling, with the medial ye ). I've decided just to render it in the modern standard style, to make the line scan. I'm all the more comfortable doing this since Ghalib himself generally adheres pretty faithfully to scansion-reflecting orthography; this verse is a rare exception. FOR METER FANS: Why is the line given in a non-scanning form? Nazm argues that it's because the meter is a relatively rare and unfamiliar one (which indeed it is). It sounds abrupt, odd, and counterintuitive to anyone used to the more common metrical patterns. So the calligraphers-- all of them-- have unconsciously (?) altered the spelling to make the scansion at that point sound like that of a more common meter. Of course, there are many other points at which they haven't altered the spelling, so why this one in particular? Maybe one early calligrapher did so, and the rest unconsciously copied his (mis)reading since it 'felt' right (even though it prevented the line as a whole from scanning). Anyway, it's quite implausible to think that Ghalib composed a non-scanning line and left it that way through four editions of the divan; so whatever the orthographic issues may be, the actual pronunciation of terii (long - short) is clear enough. If you want to pursue the question further, Faruqi in his discussion of this verse provides a much longer and more detailed consideration of all the orthographic issues involved, and of different manuscripts with different spellings for different verses, and so on (pp. 294-96).

{170,4} ham se ((aba;s hai gumaan-e ranjish-e ;xaa:tir ;xaak me;N ((ushshaaq kii ;Gubaar nahii;N hai 1) the suspicion of grief/offense of mind/temperament about us is futile 2) in lovers' dust/ashes, there is no 'dust'/vexation/grief

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Notes: ranjish : 'Grief, &c. (= ranj ); indignation, offence; unpleasantness, coolness'. (Platts p.600) ;xaak : 'Dust, earth; ashes'. (Platts p.484) ;Gubaar : 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storm;... impurity, foulness; (met.) vexation, soreness, ill-feeling, rancour, spite; affliction, grief; perplexity'. (Platts p.769) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The author's meaning is that there is no vexation in the composition [:tiinat] of lovers, but to say 'dust' [;xaak] instead of 'composition' is to fall below the level of idiom. In this situation they say 'a composition made of water and clay' [:tiinat sarisht-e aab-o-gil] ; from the bringing of the word 'dust', there has appeared a flaw in the presentation of the meaning. And now, the meaning of this verse is that although the lovers have died and become dust, not even in their dust is their any vexation; and this is only a 'poetic claim', for which there is need of a cause. (191)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] If it's a 'poetic claim' that after dying there's no vexation in the lover's dust, then why won't it be a 'poetic claim' that there's no vexation in the composition of lovers? It's this way: it's not even proper to the honor of true lovers that they would remain vexed with anyone-- and of all people, with the beloved! Because the meaning of passion is besides this beloved, a person wouldn't even think of anyone else for a moment. (334)

Faruqi: Although some commentators have written that the meaning of ;xaak is 'composition' [:tiinat] (perhaps because in Arabic the word for 'earth' is :tiinat ), the truth is that ;xaak absolutely doesn't mean :tiinat , and [Nazm] Tabataba'i's objection remains justified. In truth, the point to which Tabataba'i was alluding is one that the commentators have ignored. ;xaak with the meaning of 'composition' [:tiinat] doesn't exist, but the meaning of 'mold' is certainly there (Steingass). Thus the meaning of the second line is that in the mold in which lovers were shaped, or were poured-- that is, in their nature-- there is absolutely no vexation.... There is one more possibility as well. In Urdu as well as in Persian, ;xaak can mean 'ashes' [;xaakistar].... Thus, suppose that the lover was burnt to ashes by the fire or passion or the fire of separation. The beloved suspects that he must certainly have vexation in his heart, that his life was lost in the passion for her. Now the lover says, don't suspect us of being vexed, there's not any vexation/dust even in the lovers' ashes-- so how would it be in the heart? It becomes very interesting and meaningful: the meaning is 'ashes', but in it there's also a suggestion of 'composition' [:tiinat].... But Tabataba'i made another objection: he says that to say that in the lovers' temperament there is no vexation is only a 'poetic claim', and required a cause; otherwise it remains unestablished. One response to this is that when ;xaak is taken to mean 'ashes', then it becomes a sign of exaggeration, and no proof is required for it. (298-99)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY All this subtlety is very well, but surely the chief relish of this verse lies in the mental jolt we get from the second line: 'in lovers' dust, there is no dust'. That's definitely the first reading, both in the dictionary and in one's colloquial sense of the words. Compared to the immediacy of this meaning, everything else is secondary and has to be worked out afterwards. First we are struck by such a paradoxical statement, then we work it out and find

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several different ways to undo the paradoxical effect. But without the initial punch, the verse would have much less energy. Even after you've figured out all the appropriate wordplay and secondary meanings, it's still fun to reread that second line and re-experience something of the original jolt. By no coincidence, the first line works elegantly with all the possible meanings of ;Gubaar . If it means 'dust', then suspicions of us are futile because we don't exist any more; if it means 'grief' or 'vexation', those are both very proper words to use in rejecting any 'suspicion' that one might be cherishing a grudge or feeling a lingering 'offense'. The grammar of the second line, in its flat absoluteness, also suggests that not only is there contingently (by happenstance or personal choice) no sense of grievance, but there's no possibility of one either: in lovers' dust there simply 'is' no such thing.

{170,5} dil se u;Thaa lu:tf-e jalvah'haa-e ma((aanii ;Gair-e gul aa))iinah-e bahaar nahii;N hai 1a) from/through the heart arose the enjoyableness of glories/manifestations of meanings 1b) with/from the heart, experience the enjoyableness of glories/manifestations of meanings 2) other than the rose, there's no mirror of the spring

Notes: lu:tf : 'Delicacy; refinement; elegance, grace, beauty; the beauty or best (of a thing); taste; pleasantness; gratification, pleasure, enjoyment; --piquancy, point, wit'. (Platts p.957) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The mirror in which the beauty and radiance of the spring is to be seen, is the rose; in the same way, the mirror in which the glory/manifestation of meaning is to be seen, is the heart. (191)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the glory/appearance of meanings can be seen in the mirror of the heart the way spring shows its beauty and radiance in the mirror of the rose. (247)

Bekhud Mohani: If you want to see the spring, then look at the rose; and if you want to see reality, then look at the heart; that is, the way spring is apparent through the rose, in the same way the glories/appearances of reality are apparent in the heart. [Or:] The rose is the mirror of the spring, so one ought to experience [u;Thaanaa] the enjoyableness of the spring with heart and soul [dil-o-jaan se]. By rose is meant the world, and things present in the world. That is, if you want to see the glory/appearance and the radiances of the True [divine] Beloved, then look at the world and the things present in the world, because just as spring itself can't be seen, in the same way the True Beloved too can't be seen. (334)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} MIRROR: {8,3} The first line is a terrific piece of work-- two quite different readings, each of which meshes with the second line in several possible ways. Most of the commentators seem to go with (1a), reading u;Thaa as the perfect of u;Thnaa , to 'arise, rise up'. On this reading, the 'enjoyableness' [lu:tf] (of the glories/appearances of meanings) is what 'arose'. By contrast, (1b) reads

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u;Thaa as the intimate imperative of u;Thaanaa , to 'cause to rise up', or to 'experience', 'endure', or many other such meanings (see Platts p.20). Then of course dil se can mean 'from the heart', 'with the heart', or 'by means of the heart', as part of a description of the source of the enjoyableness. But more generally, it can also mean merely 'wholeheartedly', especially in (1b), as Bekhud Mohani demonstrates when he turns it into dil-o-jaan se , 'with heart and soul', meaning something like 'with all your heart'. Then we have to ask ourselves how the two lines connect. Do they describe similar or parallel situations, as Nazm and other commentators maintain? On this view, heart is to glories/manifestations of meanings as rose is to spring. Or are we to take the contemplation of spring and the natural world as primary, as a model for our own secondary, derivative mental activity? Or are we to take our own pursuit of the glories/manifestations of meanings as primary, with the rose mirroring the spring as merely a smaller, simpler, illustration? In short, there's a 'blooming, buzzing confusion' that's perfectly evocative of the spring-- a profusion of plurals, a tangle of twisting greenery, glories/appearances, and meanings that can't be made to settle assuredly into any one design. Do meanings spring up organically, like roses? Is the heart a generator, or a reflector, or both? Are hearts roses, or roses hearts, or we meant to notice their differences as well as their similarities?

{170,6} qatl kaa mere kiyaa hai ((ahd to baare vaa))e agar ((ahd ustuvaar nahii;N hai 1) she's made a vow to slay me, finally 2) alas-- if the vow is not firm!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the beloved has made a vow. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, somehow or other, with great difficulty, she has made a vow of slaying me-- that is, she has said, 'we will certainly slay you'. Alas-- if this vow is not strong, then it will be a great cruelty. (247)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved has indeed taken a vow to slay me (to kill me with airs and graces). But alas-- if she doesn't fulfill the vow, then what? That is, in this verse two moods can be seen. (334)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION Bekhud Mohani calls this a verse of 'two moods', but they're so complex and convoluted that there could be one, or three, or some permutation thereof. For his wishing the beloved to slay him and finish off his wretched life is itself profoundly despairing (he has nothing to live for, since she'll never be his, so he might as well get it over with, as in {20,1})-- and also profoundly hopeful (what could be more ecstatically and mystically blissful than not only to die, but to die for her, and at her behest, and even by her own hand?). Thus her vow is, on the whole, an excellent thing-- something obtained 'finally', probably not as a favor, perhaps just as a caprice, but still longdesired and valuable. And the poor lover-- the very moment he registers this seemingly auspicious vow, he at once sees the cloud outside the silver lining. Instantly it occurs to him that she might not fulfill her vow-- and instantly he's lamenting, he's miserable. From that one fact, the power of implication enables us to flesh out the circumstances of his life. First, it shows that he knows the beloved,

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and he knows her utter unreliability when it comes to promise-keeping, so that to hear her is to disbelieve her. Second, it shows that his life is so miserable that even the thought of losing his escape-hatch plunges him into grief. Third, it shows that bleakness and despair is his habitual mental climate-- even when he gets good news, he at once assumes that it can't be true. Fourth, it shows how worn-down and passive he is-- if she won't slay him, he seems quite unable to think of any other way to get the job done. All this, in scarcely more than a dozen very simple words-- but Ghalib manages to charge them, through the clever use of inshaa))iyah speech, with complex and contradictory emotions. For a continuation of the discussion of oaths and trustworthiness, see the next verse, {170,7}. For more famous (and much wittier) use of vows and their 'firmness', see {20,3}.

{170,7} tuu ne qasam mai-kashii kii khaa))ii hai ;Gaalib terii qasam kaa kuchh i((tibaar nahii;N hai 1) you've taken/'eaten' a vow against/about wine-drinking, Ghalib-2) there's no trusting your oath!

Notes: qasam khaanaa ( kii ) : 'To take an oath, to swear (by); to make a solemn declaration'. (Platts p.791) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It's surprising-- you, and a vow against wine-drinking? To 'eat' [khaanaa] an oath about anything is an idiom, and to swear off it is what is intended. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, you've taken a vow about wine-drinking. Your vow doesn't prove that you've sworn off wine-drinking, or adopted wine-drinking. And when both these aspects are shining forth in your vow, then we absolutely don't trust your vow. (247)

Bekhud Mohani: He says, you've taken a vow to renounce wine-drinking. But how would we believe that you would remain firm in your resolve? For a number of times you have taken a vow, and then were not able to remain true to your vow. (335)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS Literally what has been taken is a vow 'of' or 'about' [kii] wine-drinking; thus Bekhud Dihlavi insists on the ambiguity of whether the vow is to reject or to adopt it. Platts agrees with him, and also adds the possibility of 'swear by'. On any of these readings, the humor lies in taking the second line as a generalized put-down: we don't care whether you swear for or against winedrinking, or swear by it-- your word is no good, we just don't trust it at all, no matter what vows you take! But most commentators interpret kisii chiiz kii qasam khaanaa as to 'swear off' the thing in question, and certainly that's the normal, idiomatic way it's used. And with that we have a much funnier reading of the verse, one that's truly sarcastic and wicked. The implied situation is that Ghalib has just offered to take some kind of vow about something. The speaker replies scornfully, 'Hah! Why, you actually swore off wine-drinking-- that's how reliable your vows are!' The speaker is mocking Ghalib with a notorious, flagrant example of a foolish, soon-broken vow that is now legendary among his friends. The making and breaking of that vow were so egregious that he'll never be allowed to live it down. Anybody who actually swore off winedrinking-- well, his oath is no good forever. Perhaps because he didn't in fact

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keep the vow; or else because he was inherently unable to keep the vow; or else because nobody could possibly keep such a vow; or else because such a vow is foolish, appalling, or incomprehensible in the first place. There's also the nice affinity between 'drinking' wine and 'eating' the vow. For an even cleverer play on the 'eating' of a vow, see {89,3}.

Ghazal 171 3 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: il hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 140; Arshi #146; Raza p. 170

{171,1} hujuum-e ;Gam se yaa;N tak sar-niguunii mujh ko ;haa.sil hai kih taar-e daaman-o-taar-e na:zar me;N farq mushkil hai 1) from the assault/crowd of grief, to this extent I've obtained {abasement / 'low-headedness'} 2) that between the thread of the garment-hem and the thread of the gaze, the difference/distance is difficult [to tell]

Notes: hujuum : 'Assault, attack; effort; impetuosity; --crowd, throng, concourse, mob; a swarm'. (Platts p.1221) sar-niguun : 'Downcast, dejected; depressed; mean, abject, vile; --backward, inverted; prone; head-downwards; upside-down, topsy-turvy'. (Platts p.648) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: From the burden of grief, the head has sunk down to the garment-hem; now the thread of the garment-hem has become so juxtaposed to the thread of the gaze that it's difficult to distinguish between them. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, so much grief has fallen to my lot that from the burden of it my head has sunk down to the hem of my robe in such a way that a difference is not perceptible between the threads of the robe and the thread of the gaze. (247)

Bekhud Mohani: From the abundance of grief my head has bowed down in such a way that it is difficult to distinguish between the thread of the gaze and the thread of the garment-hem. That is, now my head doesn't get lifted up from my knees. (335)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse offers two kinds of wordplay. The first is based on the multivalence of sar-niguunii (literally, 'low-headedness'). As can be seen from the definition above, it has a wide range of meanings, all of which work cleverly with the second line. Why is my head so greatly lowered? Perhaps because (1) I've been assaulted by a vicious mob of griefs, and they have beaten me down under their onslaught. Or perhaps because (2) my griefs including many humiliating memories and realizations about my abject sufferings, so that my head is bowed in embarrassment; I can't possibly look anybody in the eye. Or perhaps because (3) I've been made truly 'vile' or 'mean' by my desperate passion, so that I feel not just social embarrassment but moral shame: I am not worthy to raise my head. Or perhaps (4) I've been so undone by grief that I'm literally 'topsy-turvy', my whole life is 'upsidedown'. Any-- or all, since they're not mutually exclusive-- of these possibilities would beautifully and wittily interact with the second line.

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Then the second line offers us an excellent 'objective correlative': both the garment-hem, literally, and the gaze, metaphorically, are associated with a 'thread'. The garment-hem is not just made of (threads of) fabric, but also is probably embroidered or otherwise decorated with a fancy border that would involve the addition of special 'threads'; and in a long, dignified robe, the garment-hem is located as low as possible, somewhere down near the ankles. And the gaze is a metaphorical 'thread' that is so strongly established as such that it can actually be used for book-binding purposes, as in {10,12}. (From being so clearly a thread, it can also become a hair, as in {172,2}.) The commentators point out the meaning, but not the cleverness or wit. For another extravagant depiction of this hunched-over position, see {172,1}.

{171,2} rafuu-e za;xm se ma:tlab hai la;z;zat za;xm-e sozan kii samajhyo mat kih paas-e dard se diivaanah ;Gaafil hai 1) from the repair of the wound, the purpose/meaning is the pleasure of the wound of the needle 2a) don't consider that the madman is heedless of the respect/attention due to pain 2b) don't consider that the madman is heedless because of attention/regard to pain

Notes: paas : 'Watching, guarding, taking care (of), observing; observance, consideration, attention (to), regard, respect'. (Platts p.217) ;Gaafil : 'Unmindful, forgetful, neglectful, negligent, heedless, inadvertent, inattentive, remiss, thoughtless, careless; indolent; imprudent; senseless, unconscious'. (Platts p.768) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In place of ma:tluub the author has used ma:tlab , from the [metrical] requirement of the verse. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, by having the wound stitched up, my goal [ma:tluub] is the pleasure of the wound of the needle. And having obtained that pleaure, when I become self-less [be-xvud] and entranced, and then return to my senses and writhe with pleasure, don't consider that the madman has become heedless because of the pain of the wound. (247-48)

Bekhud Mohani: If the madman has caused his wounds to be stitched up, then his intention is not health. Rather, he wants to experience the pleasure of the needle as well: {87,6}. (335)

Arshi: Compare {87,6}. (228, 265)

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} This verse is a fraternal twin of {87,6}, although the greater abstraction of its second line-- in this one, no Other with his cynical or naive eye-- seems to make it slightly less excruciatingly physical. But we're back at the old 'pleasure of pain' paradox, around which so many ghazal verses revolve. The second line plays neatly with the possibilities of paas , seconded by the ambiguities of the wonderfully versatile little postposition se . Thus paas-e dard se ;Gaafil honaa can mean 'to be heedless of the consideration due to pain' (2a): that is, not to treat pain with all the consideration it deserves (in

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this case, by seeking out every possible kind of it). Or it can mean 'to be heedless, from the consideration of pain' (2b): that is, to neglect his duty as a lover, because of excessive attention to pain (in this case, by having his wound sewn up, an improper act for a lover). Bekhud Dihlavi tries to read 'heedless' [;Gaafil] as referring to a state of mystical trance that the lover goes into while the wound is being sewed up. This is really stretching the meaning of ;Gaafil a bit too far, I think.

{171,3} vuh gul jis gulsitaa;N me;N jalvah-farmaa))ii kare ;Gaalib cha;Taknaa ;Gunchah-e gul kaa .sadaa-e ;xandah-e dil hai 1) in the garden in which that rose would display its glory/appearance, Ghalib 2) the cracking/bursting of the rosebud is the voice/sound of the laughter/smile of the heart

Notes: cha;Taknaa : 'To break, to crack with a report, to split, burst, explode; to burst or open (as a bud), to bloom'. (Platts p.426) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The bud of a rose has a similitude with the heart. The meaning is that from its coming, the heart of the garden {becomes delighted / bursts into bloom} [baa;G baa;G ho jaanaa]. There, consider the bud a cracking/bursting, that the voice/sound of the laughter of the heart has been raised. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the garden in which that rose-bodied one would, oh Ghalib, come for a stroll-- when from the effect of her heart-attracting beauty the rose-buds burst open, from them the voice/sound of the hearts laughter emerges. The meaning is that having seen her, the heart of the garden too {becomes delighted / bursts into bloom} [baa;G baa;G ho jaanaa]. {248}

Bekhud Mohani: Having seen the beloved, his heart {becomes delighted / bursts into bloom} [baa;G baa;G ho jaanaa]. From this, the thought has taken root in his heart that whatever garden the beloved enters, there it's wrong to consider that the opening of the buds is 'blooming'; rather, the buds' heart is bursting with the turmoil of joy. (335)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} There's a whole set of bud/rose/laughter imagery that's very well established in the ghazal world. The closed bud is 'narrow' [tang] like a 'narrow' or unhappy heart; then when the bud opens out it 'laughs' or 'smiles'; but of course its opening out is also the beginning of its momentary, fugitive bloom of full beauty, after which it will wither rapidly into death. See for example {155,2}, in which the rose's anxiety/scatteredness (of petals) is brilliantly evoked. The commentators take the verse as expressing joy and awe, with everybody in the garden captivated by the beloved's beauty. But the nuances of the cracking/bursting [cha;Taknaa] shouldn't be ignored. The bud's opening is a brief little explosion of sound or motion-- and in the next instant, that moment is gone forever. That's what the joy of the heart is-- a brief moment of sheer delight, followed by an opening-out into a kind of 'bloom'-- and in a few days the petals fall, and it's all over. Nor is it any ordinary rose, it's 'that rose'-- the human of Divine beloved. But how exactly is 'that rose' different from ordinary roses? Perhaps because its glory/appearance is more potent? Perhaps because it's crueller and more

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deadly to its lovers? Perhaps because it kills more quickly (which may even be a good thing)? Moreover, 'that rose' doesn't display its glory/appearance in any ordinary garden, either. Rather, the first line is careful to specify that the effects described in the second line happen in the particular garden [jo gulistaan] where 'that rose' would or might choose (in the subjunctive) to display itself. As so often, we're left to put together the mood of the verse from a variety of complex elements: a special rose, a particular garden, a manifestation of joy which is also a conspicuously momentary one and a prelude to decline and death. Which prevails, the joy of that brilliant cha;Taknaa , or the sorrow of its instant, irrevocable loss? The opening of the bud is like the 'dance of a spark' in {78,6}.

Ghazal 172 3 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: uu mujhe composed 1816; Hamid p. 140; Arshi #148; Raza p. 173

{172,1} paa bah daaman ho rahaa huu;N baskih mai;N .sa;hraa-navard ;xaar-e paa hai;N jauhar-e aa))iinah-e zaanuu mujhe 1a) I, the desert-wanderer, {am becoming / have become} to such an extent {reclusive / passive / foot-with-garment-hem} 1b) although I, the desert-wanderer, {am becoming / have become} {reclusive / passive/ foot-with-garment-hem} 2a) the thorns of the feet are the polish-marks of the mirror of the knees, to me 2b) the polish-marks of the mirror of the knees are thorns of the feet, to me

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, when the feet are brought close to the knees, the thorns that are lodged in the feet have become the polish-marks of the mirror of the knees. In this verse too, except for the simile, there's no pleasure in the meaning. (192)

Bekhud Mohani: A lover of desert-wandering is, because thorns have lodged in his feet, deprived of desert-wandering. Having placed his feet on his knees, he looks at the thorns lodged in his feet and says, because of these wretched things a desert-wanderer like me is sitting here with curled-up feet! He looks at them and is irritated. [Or:] My practice was desert-wandering. Now that I have abandoned desertwandering and remain ensnared in my thoughts, these very thoughts have become thorns for my feet. That is, the way that when thorns are lodged a person cannot walk, in the same way, in the incompleteness of these thoughts I am deprived of desert-wandering. [Disputing Nazm:] The meaning that has been mentioned [by him] is reversed. Now there remains the pleasure of the meaning: about this I have to say that to people who are mad for work, sitting on the ground is torture. Mirza has captured a picture of such an individual: {149,1}. (336)

Faruqi: The meanings of paa bah daaman kardan are: (1) to withdraw into seclusion; (2) to endure something with patience; (3) to content oneself with something (Steingass). [Other similar citations are provided.] Thus the meaning of paa bah daaman honaa is to abandon coming and going, to

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adopt seclusion. ho rahaa huu;N has two meanings: (1) ho kar rah gayaa huu;N , that is, now there's no expection of changing this state; and (2) ho gayaa huu;N , that is, formerly there was one state, now there's another state. This change could be deliberate, or involuntary.... 'Mirror of the knees' actually means 'kneecap' (Steingass).... This meaning is so rare that I've only seen it in two other places: [a verse by Nasikh, and Tilism-e Hoshruba].... He's called the kneecap the 'mirror of the knees', then assumed the mirror to be a mirror in which the face is seen. Now when from being bone it has reached the stage of being a mirror, then he has assumed polish-marks in the mirror as well.... In the light of the above discussion, the interpretation of the verse becomes this: I was a desert-wanderer. Desert-wandering is a cause of madness. In such a state, when I was wandering aimlessly around, who had the leisure or opportunity to look at his face in a mirror, and ascertain his condition? Now I've renounced desert-wandering, and I sit leaning my head on my knees. The reason for the renunciation of desert-wandering can be anything at all-a lack of madness, weariness, despair, etc. I sit leaning my head on my knees, as though I am looking at my face in the mirror of the kneecaps. The excellence of a mirror is in its polish-marks. They often give for the polishmarks of a mirror the simile of thorns. Ghalib himself has a verse: {56,2}. Now when I look at the mirror of the knees, I feel that the thorns that lodged in my feet in the state of desert-wandering are the polish-marks on this mirror. That is, this mirror has become worthy of being looked into because thorns had lodged in my feet. Now neither do thorns lodge in my feet, nor do I sit like this with my feet curled up and my head leaning on my knees because I'm able to see my face in the mirror of the knees. Because of desertwandering, the mirror of my knees became polish-marked. And now, when desert-wandering has been renounced, even then the thorns are showing their qualities [jauhar]. It's a verse in Ghalib's special style. (302-04)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH, TRANSITIVITY, WORDPLAY MIRROR: {8,3} This verse makes good use of the complex possibilities of baskih , which can mean either 'to such an extent' or 'although'; needless to say (this being Ghalib), both senses work excellently with the second line. On the first reading, I am so inactive now that even the thorns lodged in my feet from my old desert-wandering days have now become polish-marks on a mirror-- and my knees, which I no longer need for any other purpose, have become the mirror (1a). On the second reading, even though I'm now inactive and reclusive, I still have my souvenirs of the old days of desert-wandering-- but now I make use of the thorns and my knees in new ways, to serve new purposes (1b). And then, in a kind of 'transitivity, there are also two readings of the second line. We can read 'A is B', 'thorns are polish-marks', as everybody does; but we can equally well read 'B is A', 'polish-marks are thorns': even though I've given up desert-wandering and sit staring at my knees and feet, I still feel the ordeals and sufferings of the road. As Faruqi points out, it's not clear whether the abandonment of desertwandering was deliberate (I no longer wish to practice it) or took place under some kind of compulsion (I'm too worn out for it). And beyond that, we don't know whether the verse exults in this new condition (I now seek inner insight instead of mere outer vistas), grieves over it (alas, I can no longer wander, and I'm stuck with nothing to contemplate but my own face), or simply reports it neutrally, as another development in life.

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Then, the 'to me' at the end calls the whole thing into question-- would anybody else agree with me? Or am I simply making up a fantasy of some kind, to console myself or rationalize my behavior? There's also an aspect of sheer exaggerated depiction of the hunched, bentover, knees-drawn-up stance of the speaker. The speaker is now so helplessly immobile and despairing that his head and eyes are always cast down to the maximum degree possible. His knees are thus in such close proximity to his feet that they are joined or assimilated with them, since the thorns in the feet appear as polish-marks in the mirror of the knees. And his gaze is so fixed downward that he stares fixedly at his knees the way people look into a mirror. In fact the position depicted is the same as the hunchedover one also imagined-- equally extravagantly-- in {171,1}.

{172,2} dekhnaa ;haalat mire dil kii ham-aa;Goshii ke vaqt hai nigaah-e aashnaa teraa sar-e har muu mujhe 1a) look at the state of my heart, at the time of embracing 1b) look at the state of affairs, at the time of my heart's embracing 2) the end/'head' of your every hair is a familiar/knowing/known gaze, to me

Notes: aashnaa : 'Acquaintance; friend; associate; intimate friend, familiar; lover.... knowing, known; attached.... friendly, attentive'. (Platts p.57) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Among poets who compose in Persian and Urdu the idea has grown up that they always tangle up hearts in curls. From this, the author has extracted the theme that when the heart has remained for years entangled in curls, then there's a longtime friendship between the curls and the heart, and the end of every hair of the curls has become a familar gaze, and it well knows the heart's familiar condition. And if we take 'the end of every hair' as unrestrictive [((aam], then the meaning is still suitable-- that is, at the time of embracing your every hair-end will become a familiar glance to see the condition of my heart. (192)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time of embracing, the state of my heart will be worth seeing; that is, this is the very heart that has already been enchained for years by your curls. Thus it considers your every hair to be a familiar gaze, and a friend very well knows the state of a friend's heart. (248)

Bekhud Mohani: In the midst of union, the lover is saying to the beloved, at this time the state of my heart is worth seeing: your every hair seems to me to be a familiar gaze. That is, your every hair is is acting as a gaze full of love. That is, when merely one gaze full of love from you used to render me mad, now your every hair has become a loving glance. Now you yourself guess what the state of my heart is right now. He expressed it, and expressed it very well. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Persian and Urdu poets may certainly have taken up that idea, but that has not a hair's breadth [baal baal] of relevance to this verse. The meaning he has presented is nothing more than a far-fetched account; his second meaning too doesn't appeal to the heart. The Lord knows what he gains from all this scratching away with his pen!.... [Shaukat says:] 'When my heart will embrace you, then your every hair will become the thread of a glance of familiarity-- that is, you'll obtain enjoyment, and you yourself will become familiar with the drawing power of the heart.' The idea that 'you'll obtain enjoyment'-- although it's true, it's not worthy of being said. (337)

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FWP: SETS == A,B There are an unusual number of ways to put this verse together. Taking the first line alone, how should we connect the adverbial phrase of time with the main verb? Here are some possibilities =while we are embracing, look at the state of my heart (1a) (adverbial phrase applies to 'look' =look at the state my heart gets into while embracing (during an embrace) (1a) (adverbial phrase applies to the heart's state) =look at the state of my heart: while embracing, every... (1a) (enjambement takes the adverbial phrase on into the second line) =look at the state of things, at the time of my heart's embracing (apparently a purely mental or spiritual event) (1b) (taking kii to modify ham-aa;Goshii ) Then we also have to make the classic 'A,B' decision: how do we connect the second line with the first? Here are some possible ways: =Look at the state of my heart while embracing: it considers your every hairend to be a familiar gaze (because we're so intimate) =Look at the state of my heart while embracing; I'm sure you can see it clearly, because your every hair-end is a familiar gaze (and you know me so well) =Look at the state of affairs: when my heart embraces you, it makes me feel familiar with your every hair-end (as with a friend's gaze) =Look at the state of my heart: when we embrace, in my mind your every hair-end becomes a familiar gaze (which just shows that I'm a madman) And what is the 'objective correlative' of all this? It's the well-established likening of the gaze to a thread-- or, in this case, a hair. On the 'thread of the gaze' [taar-e na:zar] see {171,1}. This might be considered a verse of erotic suggestion, since it speaks of a '(mutual) embrace' [ham-aa;Goshii]. If I understand Bekhud Mohani correctly, he's reproaching Shaukat for hinting at some kind of sexual pleasure to be experienced by the beloved. (He agrees that it's there, but doesn't feel that it ought to be mentioned.) For more on verses of erotic suggestion, see {99,4}. However, the extreme abstraction and complexity surely prevent it from being sexy in any direct and emotional way. The sound-play of sar-e har and muu mujhe also adds a small nice fillip.

{172,3} huu;N saraapaa saaz-e aahang-e shikaayat kuchh nah puuchh hai yihii bahtar kih logo;N me;N nah chhe;Re tuu mujhe 1) I am {entirely / from head to foot} the maker/harmony/instrument of the design/melody of complaint-- don't ask anything [about it]! 2) it's best that among people, you would not touch/tease/play me

Notes: saaz : 'Making, effecting, preparing; feigning;-- maker;... concord, harmony; a musical instrument'. (Platts p.625) aahang : 'Design, purpose, intention; method, manner; sound, concord, melody'. (Platts p.111) chhe;Rnaa : 'To touch, lay the hand on, pass the hand over; to meddle with, molest, interrupt, disturb, trouble annoy, tease, torment, worry, irritate, vex, excite, provoke; to touch up, stir up, incite, stimulate.... -- to tune (an instrument preparatory to playing on it), to strike the chords, to begin playing'. (Platts p.468) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, I'm an organ that is filled with the raga of complaint; if you touch me, then I will give vent to that raga. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I'm an instrument that is filled with the raga of complaint about you. The best thing is that you would not tease me in front of others. If you touch me, then the raga of complaint about you will begin to emerge from my heart. (248)

Bekhud Mohani: I am an instrument filled with melodies of complaint. That is, I am entirely complaint. It's also proper that you not touch me in front of others. Otherwise whatever is in my heart, I will go ahead and say, and you'll be angry with me. And this will be a cause of happiness for the Rivals. (337)

Arshi: Compare {142,1}, {177,2}. (261, 266, 319)

Faruqi: [See his comment about this verse when discussing {147,2}.]

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY; WORD The first line is of course full of wordplay. And it's both very clear in its general sense (I'm full of complaint) and very unclear about what is being set up for the second line. After all, saaz can mean 'maker, making, instrument, tune'-- and how can we possibly know which way the second line is going to require us to jump? Joined to it is aahang , which itself is multivalent (see definition above). Then the line ends in the inexpressibility trope (don't ask!), and that doesn't get us any further at all. So we wait with real anticipation for the denoument. Even in the second line, in classic mushairah performance style, the punchword is withheld until the last possible moment. But then-- what a treat! How gorgeously this verse makes use of every part of the complex meaning of chhe;Rnaa ! The two little lines burst open with a rush, like petals of a sudden huge sunflower. What we end up with is several domains of meaning, joined at the center by chhe;Rnaa . =The physical: don't 'touch' me, don't lay a hand on me, especially in front of other people, because 'from head to foot' my whole body is quivering with complaint and ready to burst out with it. =The emotional: don't 'tease' me, don't torment me, 'don't ask me about anything' in front of others-- save it for when we're alone, because I am full of complaints about your behavior. (And it's behavior that probably includes 'teasing' and tormenting me.) =The musical: don't tune or 'play' me 'among people', in front of an audience, like a normal musical instrument-- I'm a special musical instrument, entirely full of the melodies of complaint. After we hear the second line, we realize that each of the three main senses of chhe;Rnaa picks up on and emphasizes a different phrase that the other two senses can't so enjoyably exploit. The physical reading turns 'from head to foot' [saraapaa] into a vigorous description, not just the usual 'entirely'. The emotional reading turns 'don't ask anything' [kuchh nah puuchh] into a preparation for a private conversation-- and perhaps also an example of the kind of pestering or 'teasing' that is one of the grounds for complaint-instead of leaving it merely as the standard 'inexpressiblity trope'. And the musical reading turns 'among people' [logo;N me;N] into a strong suggestion of an audience before whom one might 'play' an instrument, rather than just the commonplace 'in public'. The closest cousin to this verse is {177,2}.

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Ghazal 173 11 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aat me;N aave composed 1833; Hamid p. 141; Arshi #206; Raza pp. 279-80

{173,1} jis bazm me;N tuu naaz se guftaar me;N aave jaa;N kaalbud-e .suurat-e diivaar me;N aave 1) the gathering in which you would coquettishly enter into conversation 2) life would enter into the frame/figure/model of the face/aspect of the wall

Notes: kaalbud : 'The body (of a man or animal); the frame; the heart; --figure, form, mold, model'. (Platts p.803) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The theme is very famous among the poets, that in the beloved's lip and mouth is the quality of life-bestowingness. For this reason, if through her conversation life would enter into the face/aspect of the wall, it wouldn't be strange. guftaar me;N aanaa with the meaning of 'to converse' is not the idiom of Urdu, it's a translation [from Persian]. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the gathering in which you converse with airs and graces-- the pictures that hang on the walls of that house come to life. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: Having seen in himself the life-giving power of the beloved's words, the lover says, if you would begin to converse coquettishly in a gathering, then life would enter into the pictures painted on the wall. (337)

FWP: The commentators give us a meaning that can be put into a prose paraphrase without any real loss. You'd think that little alarm bells would begin going off in their heads-- uh oh, what is going on in this verse that I'm missing? Why would anyone say 'vah vah!' on hearing this verse? It seems to have no kick, no punch! Then you'd think that they'd scrutinize the verse with extra care, especially the second line, which is obviously where the action has to be (it has all the i.zaafat forms and other complexities). As soon as they did so, the delightful doubleness of the second line would hit them. For whatever reasons, they didn't do so, but that certainly won't stop us from widening and deepening the verse for ourselves. Anyway, on the first reading I didn't 'get' this verse either, so I did just what I recommended, dear reader. The alarm bells sounded, and I zeroed in on that second line, and really, it wasn't rocket science. Once we start playing around with it and pushing it here and there, the second line clearly has two possible readings. The first is the one everyone spells out: that life would enter into the 'face' or aspect of the very wall. But then-- that meaning hardly requires kaalbud . What other possibilities does kaalbud open up? Since it can mean 'model', right there we've got it. One's life would assume the form of, would take as a model or pattern, the wall. In other words, the listeners would be petrified, dazed, entranced by her dazzling conversation. They'd be frozen in place, as immobile as a wall; probably their faces would be pale and blank, like a whitewashed wall, too. Needless to say, there's plenty of precedent for such a reaction: just consider {116,8}, in which the pattern for human behavior in the beloved's street is the prostrate, open-mouthed 'stupefaction of a footprint'.

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So: the wall comes alive, and/or the people are petrified into walls. Life and death bounce back and forth, when the beloved is around. Really, aren't two meanings more than twice as enjoyable as one? The moral is (since I'm being teacherly) that you can do this sort of thing yourself, even if you don't know Urdu perfectly. Just keep poking and prodding each word and phrase, looking for alternatives, and don't be satisfied until you get a real 'zing' of some kind. This is Ghalib, after all. He was a genius poet in this genre, and he knew it. His verses are twisty rivers full of rapids and whirlpools, not prosy shipping canals that convey a single fixed load of meaning from point A to point B. Sorry for this rant; once in a while I need to sound off.

{173,2} saa))e kii :tara;h saath phire;N sarv-o-.sanobar tuu us qad-e dilkash se jo gulzaar me;N aave 1) like (a) shadow the cypress and pine would wander together 2) if you with that heart-attracting stature would come into the garden

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse the word se possesses an extraordinary pleasure/refinement, and it's an extremely idiomatic word. And the author is the first person who has used se in this situation. All the other poets always versify it in this way: us qad ko agar le ke tu gulzaar me;N aave . (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the cypress and pine would wander together with you like a shadow, they would no longer remain rooted in the garden, if you with your heart-attracting stature would come even one time into the garden. Here the meaning of se is 'with' or 'together with'. The connoisseurs of language [ahle zabaan] often use it idiomatically in this way. This verse of Mirza's is the 'high point of the ghazal'. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart-attractingness of the beloved's stature has had an extremely powerful effect on the lover's heart, and he considers that there's no one on whom it wouldn't have such an effect. (338)

FWP: The first line is cleverly arranged so that we can read it as a single thought: saath phire;N can easily mean that the two trees would wander together around the garden. They would be like a 'shadow' because if they were close together they'd both, being tall, dark, and slender, look like each other's shadows, and also because they'd then 'shadow' each other, or follow each other closely (in a way similar to the idiomatic usage in English). So we're thinking that the second line might give us a reason why the two would want to wander so closely together in this way. And under mushairah performance conditions, of course, we have to wait for further information. Then when we finally get to hear the second line, we realize that we need to go back and reinterpret the word saath to mean not 'with each other' but 'with you'. The beloved's tall slender stature, which of course is traditionally compared to that of the cypress, would so captivate the cypress and pine that they would wander around behind her like her shadow. The innovative use of se that the commentators discuss-- is one that elides the difference between 'accompanied by' and 'by means of', both of which are part of the normal range of meaning of that versatile little postposition. Fortunately some of the effect can be captured in English by 'with', which can also have both senses ('with a friend' and 'with a hammer'). NOTE FOR GRAMMAR FANS: For the beloved's stature, should we read is , or us ? Both make plausible meanings. Arshi doesn't commit himself, and

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Hamid recommends is . I've followed my usual rule: when at all in doubt, go for us . 'This' applies to the area of time and space immediately around the speaker, while 'that' applies to all the other time and space in the universe. Obviously, there's a lot more 'that' in the universe than 'this', so 'that' is a kind of linguistically 'less marked' form, which is appropriate when we have to remain in some doubt as to which form to use.

{173,3} tab naaz-e giraa;N-maayagii-e ashk bajaa hai jab la;xt-e jigar diidah-e ;xuu;N-baar me;N aave 1) then pride at the heaviness/valuableness/nobility of the tears is appropriate 2) when the fragment of the liver would come into the blood-scattering eye

Notes: giraan-maayah : 'Weighty, ponderous; precious, of great value, valuable; of noble birth or stock'. (Platts p.902) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: They are hardly tears at all, if there would be no blood in them. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we will consider our tears priceless at that time, when the tears will come mixed with fragments of the liver into the blood-scattering eyes. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover feels pride at the valuableness of his tears when with the tears fragments of the liver too would flow. That is, when he would weep from the heart, and would weep the tears of the 'people of pain'. (338)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE JIGAR: {2,1} For once there's no question about the relationship of the two lines: they present themselves labelled at the beginning in the most emphatic way. But of course, they're intriguingly backwards: then X will be appropriate, when Y takes place. (This same structure is also used in {173,9}.) And of course, under mushairah performance conditions, after the correlative clause in the first line, we'll have to wait in suspense until we're permitted to hear its corresponding relative clause in the second line. When we finally hear the source of the pride, we realize that all three meanings of giraan-maayagii work elegantly with the second line: a fragment of the liver would be heavy; and it would be valuable (nobody lives long once the liver is gone); and it would be nobly-descended (being born of the liver, the blood-maker, is much more aristocratic than simply being created as blood). Bloody tears, though extravagant for anybody else, are normal for the lover; they hardly count for much. But if one could weep an actual fragment of the liver-- what cachet! For before the fragment of the liver can be wept as tears, the liver must basically have disintegrated and turned to blood-- a sign that the lover's passion has reached its final stage, and his triumphant, inevitable death is near. Still, the effect of what I call grotesquerie works to distort the verse's impact. A 'fragment of the liver' is a kind of morsel or chunk, with a definite physical presence (and even its own desires, as in {17,7}). How can it be imagined as being shed like a tear? The 'objective correlative' side of the imagery becomes almost disgusting. Are little hunks of bloody flesh raining down from the lover's eyes? On the face of it, this is exactly what the second line says-- except it says that they come 'into' the eyes, which is if possible even more disgusting. We can rationalize this image away into pure abstraction no doubt, but having to do so is annoying and distracting, and badly weakens

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the verse. But then, what bothers me probably didn't bother Ghalib at all, so we're certainly talking about 'audience response' here.

{173,4} de mujh ko shikaayat kii ijaazat kih sitamgar kuchh tujh ko mazah bhii mire aazaar me;N aave 1) give me permission for complaint-- {since / so that}, tyrant, 2) you would get even/also some relish/amusement in my affliction

Notes: aazaar : 'Sickness, disorder, disease, infirmity; trouble, affliction; injury, outrage'. (Platts p.45) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I will do the lamentation and complaint, you'll have the pleasure and find enjoyment. The 'high point of the ghazal' (=fruit/produce [;haa.sil] of this ground) has come in this verse. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This other verse too [in addition to {173,2}] is the 'high point of the ghazal' (=fruit/produce [;haa.sil] of this ground)-- when is it vouchsafed to anybody to compose such valuable verses in such lax [sust] grounds? He says, if you want to experience the relish/amusement of your tyranny, then give me permission to complain. If I endure your tyranny and cruelty with patience and silence, then how will you know which of your cruelties is the most effective and which subtle injustice gave the worst wound? (249)

Bekhud Mohani: I am not silent because your tyranny has no effect upon me, but rather because I consider it impermissible to lament without your permission. I don't ask permission to lament in order to defame you, or because I lack fortitude. Rather, my purpose in this is that you would receive relish/amusement in tormenting me. (338)

FWP: It's the position of that bhii that perplexes me. The question is, what exactly does it apply to? From its position, it ought strictly to apply to 'relish/amusement' [mazah]. But surely the beloved already gets some such feeling out of tormenting the lover. (Otherwise, why would she do it?) So why this suggestion? Would she get pleasure only from his complaining aloud, and not from his silent suffering? Or only from his complaining, not from his suffering without complaint? If bhii were differently positioned, other possibilities would emerge-- tujh ko bhii (I already get pleasure from my suffering; let's arrange things so that you do too); and mire aazaar me;N bhii (you already get other kinds of pleasure from having me as your faithful lover; you might as well get pleasure from my suffering too). But I don't see why we would reposition what Ghalib has so clearly positioned. Instead, we can invoke the idiomatic usage of bhii that renders it almost invisible, just a kind of emphasizer and sentence-balancer: yih bhii ko))ii baat hai , and other such phrases. Probably that's how we can best read it here. Still, I don't see the special excellence that Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi praise. Maybe there's something idiomatic going on that I just don't get.

{173,5} us chashm-e fusuu;N-gar kaa agar paa))e ishaarah :tuu:tii kii :tara;h aa))inah guftaar me;N aave 1) if it would obtain a sign/gesture from that spell-casting eye 2) like a parrot, the mirror would enter into speech

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Notes: fusuun : 'Enchantment, incantation, fascination'. (Platts p.781) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The beloved's eye famously has the quality that it would speak through a sign/gesture. So when that sign/gesture would be visible in the mirror, the mirror too will speak like a parrot. Here the author has rejected the word 'speaking' [su;xan-go] in favor of 'spell-casting' because for a mirror to speak is unusual and magical. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if it would obtain a sign/gesture from her spell-casting eye, then the mirror too, like a parrot, would begin to speak. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: First of all, the association of parrots with mirrors is well-known; often they put a picture of a parrot on the back of a mirror. The second meaning is also that when she speaks in signs/gestures, then those with understanding consider that a sweet-speaking parrot is warbling. (338)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} Bekhud Mohani says that people often put a picture of a parrot on the back of a mirror. And pet owners (and experimenters) often provide parrots with mirrors, to see how the birds will react. (Do they recognize themselves? Do they talk to the mirror-parrot as to another bird?) So parrots and mirrors have their own relationship already. For more on such parrot-and-mirror verses, see {29,2}. The mirror is a passive, dead, reflector, while the parrot is an active, living, sound-producer, so the two are radically different. Yet there's a strong similarity as well: the mirror is an imitator of one's appearance; the parrot is an imitator of one's voice. The beloved's smallest sign or gesture is so potent that it overrides the boundaries between the two: when the mirror perceives/reflects the beloved's gesture, it 'becomes' a parrot, and begins to speak. What is the nature of the 'sign/gesture' that inspires the parrot? =It could be simply that the irresistible beauty of the beloved's every eyelash-flicker moves the parrot to transcendance. Her gesture, reflected in the mirror, might not even have been intended for the parrot in the first place. =It could be that the beloved has given a particular sign of command to the parror: 'Speak!' (since this event is hypothetical anyway, and all the verbs are in the subjunctive). Her imperiousness and powers of command at once compel the parrot's obedience. =It could be that the beloved is a magician, and has deliberately enchanted the parrot, and the sign is a magic invocation of some sort. This wouldn't be at all surprising, either metaphorically (in English too, we use 'enchanting' for beauty), or literally-- for though magic is forbidden to good Muslims, we know that the beloved is an 'idol' and/or an 'infidel'. Who if not she would have access to all the powers of darkness?

{173,6} kaa;N;To;N kii zabaa;N suukh ga))ii pyaas se yaa rab ik aabalah-paa vaadii-e pur-;xaar me;N aave 1) the tongue of the thorns has dried up from thirst, oh Lord 2) may one (person) with blistered feet come into the thorn-filled valley!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: If they would pierce the blisters, then their thirst would be relieved. (193)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the dry-tonguedness of the thorns is because of thirst. If the water from the blisters would be obtained, then their thirst would vanish. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: The destroyedness of the desert of madness is an unbearable sight. So send someone with Majnun-like qualities. [Or:] He sees that he himself has blistered feet, and says, the thorns are in this state through thirst; oh Lord, if you permit, then I would fill them up. (339)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE The tips of thorns are their 'tongues', a nice bit of wordplay that permits them to be thirsty (since they live in the desert) and also justifies their being so sharp and narrow (they have dried up from thirst). At the end of the first line 'oh Lord!' [yaa rab] sounds like a commonplace exclamation; only when we get to hear the second line do we realize that it is an actual vocative addressed to the Lord, so that the second line appears to be a kind of prayer. The speaker feels compassion for the thirsty thorns, and appeals to the Lord to have refreshment sent to them. Above all, the word 'one' [ek] energizes the verse. It makes it clear that one single blister-footed person would be a sufficient supply for the whole thirsty valley full of thorns-- which means that that person's feet would be simply two big blisters, and also that that person wouldn't waver or turn back, but would definitely traverse the whole valley. Obviously, this 'one' person is a very special one. But who is it? Bekhud Mohani mentions two possibilities: it could be a famous lover-- Majnun, or someone like him; but it could also be the speaker himself, who is too refined and modest to volunteer for the job more overtly. Either way, the mystical and sacrificial overtones resonate with Sufi notions of the 'path', and so on. This is also what I call a verse of 'grotesquerie'-- one in which the vivid physical imagery that it evokes is so morbid as to damage its larger allegorical effects. Do we really want to imagine somebody's feet covered with such gigantic blisters that they could saturate a whole valley-full of thorns? Do we really want to envision those huge serum-filled cushions of flesh being pierced into ribbons by hundreds of thorns? Do we want to imagine how that would feel to the owner of the feet? Yet if we don't take the imagery seriously, we vitiate the power of the verse.

{173,7} mar jaa))uu;N nah kyuu;N rashk se jab vuh tan-e naazuk aa;Gosh-e ;xam-e ;halqah-e zunnaar me;N aave 1) why would I not die of jealousy/envy when that delicate body 2) would come within the embrace of the curve/coil of the circle of the sacred thread?

Notes: ;xam : 'A bend, curve, crook; a curl, knot, ringlet; a coil, fold, ply; crookedness, curvature; bending, flexure; --the part of a noose which encircles the neck, a noose; --the upper arm'. (Platts p.493) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The beloved is a Hindu, and seeing the sacred thread draped around his neck he feels jealousy/envy. (193)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my beloved is a sacred-thread-wearing Hindu. Seeing the sacred thread on his shoulder I feel jealousy/envy, that that delicate body did not come within my embrace, and would be in the curve/coil of the sacred thread. It's something that one could die over. (250)

Bekhud Mohani: The idol-worshiping beloved has put on a sacred thread.... The sacred thread wraps itself around him as we would do, and we feel jealousy/envy. (339)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH RELIGIONS: {60,2} The first line leaves us with tantalizingly incomplete grammar, through enjambement; under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait in suspense to find out what exactly that 'delicate body' is doing that's so mortally unbearable. Even when we're finally presented with the second line, it begins by misguiding us. For the ghazal world is full of imagery about the circles, snares, nooses, etc. of the beloved's curls; the sequence ;xam-e ;halqah evokes all these thoughts in our minds, and we're expecting some such denouement for the verse-- it might even be that the lover's jealousy is so extreme that he can't stand to see the beloved's neck embraced even by her own curls. In classic mushairah-verse style, the punch-word is withheld until the last possible moment: not until we hear zunnaar are we able to interpret-- and simultaneously obliged to reinterpret-- the verse. Then we notice the many, and richly evocative, meanings of ;xam (see definition above). With that single word the sacred thread is imagined (1) as a 'bend, curve, crook', as though it were a body that embraced the beloved; (2) as a 'curl, ringlet', as though it were itself a charming ensnarer of lovers (and beloveds); and (3) as a 'noose', reminding us that the beloved is also a murderer and might even carry a convenient rope with her. The sacred thread is also a symbol of piety and religious devotion-- is the lover jealous of the beloved's apparent love of God? Compare {205,8}, in which the lover can't bear to confide the beloved 'even to the Lord'. Since only male upper-caste Hindus wear the sacred thread, this verse is one of the small number in which the beloved is unambiguously male; for the full set, see {9,2}.

{173,8} ;Gaarat-gar-e naamuus nah ho gar havas-e zar kyuu;N shaahid-e gul baa;G se baazaar me;N aave 1) if the lust for gold would not be a despoiler/ruiner of honor 2) why would the-beloved-who-is-the-rose come from the garden into the bazaar?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The cause of affinity is that the pollen that is in the rose, they call the 'gold of the rose' [zarr-e gul]. Consider the intention of the verse to be that the rose blooming and the 'gold of the rose' showing is as if in the lust for gold a hand would be opened out. The outcome of which is that it is necessary to come into the bazaar; otherwise, why is one confronted with the destruction of honor? The bud that was closed like a fist is gone; when the hand is opened to take gold, then the beloved has become a prostitute [baazaarii] , and honor and pride have gone. (194)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the rose lusts for gold-- that is, the pollen that is in the rose, they call the 'gold of the rose'. Now the rose has a desire that that gold should be increased. Thus from the lust for gold, she was compelled to go into the bazaar to be sold. And in that situation, the destruction of honor is clear-that is, she's become a public [baazaarii] beloved. (250)

Bekhud Mohani: If the people of the world didn't have a lust for gold, then the beloved-whois-the-rose wouldn't be compelled to come into the bazaar. That is, only remaining in the garden was good for the rose; there is where it flourished.... [Or:] Mirza calls the garden itself a bazaar, and says, if there were not a lust for gold-- that is, if the rose didn't long for the pollen-- then it wouldn't have come into the garden at all. He has called the blooming of a flower the opening of a hand, and the pollen 'gold of the rose'. That is, if the belovedwho-is-the-rose didn't open its hands and take the gold, then it wouldn't have become a public [baazaarii] beloved. (339)

FWP: The whole verse is inshaa))iyah , and carefully keeps its parameters as broad as possible. Its best effects are founded on two enjoyable bits of verbal affinity: that pollen is called 'gold of the rose', and that a prostitute is called a 'bazaar' [baazaarii] woman. In the first line, it's impossible to say who feels the 'lust for gold', and whose honor is being destroyed; and by no coincidence, in the second line it's impossible to say whether the beloved's 'coming into the bazaar' is a free choice or the result of duress. In addition, the unusual i.zaafat of identity (Ae B means 'A who is B') radically identifies a human beloved with a flower, thus keeping all our options open. Here are the main possibilities: =The rose itself has a lust for gold, grounded in the affinity between gold [zar] and pollen [zarr-e gul]. Pollen is golden, so the rose may desire it for that reason. But pollen appears only when the rose is fully blooming, which is the time when it is brought to market; so the rose has prepared the conditions for its own sale in the marketplace. =Humans in general have a lust for gold, so they brutally rip the richly blooming rose from its honorable home in the garden and sell it in the marketplace; thus they destroy their own honor and/or that of the rose. =Beloveds have a lust for gold (and other worldly enticements), and this ultimately induces them to sell their honor and move from the privacy of a 'garden' to the public marketplace. There are also some nice sound echoes: gar and gar and zar and baazaar .

{173,9} tab chaak-e garebaa;N kaa mazaa hai dil-e naalaa;N jab ik nafas uljhaa hu))aa har taar me;N aave 1) then the relish/pleasure of tearing the collar exists, lamenting heart 2) when one breath/moan/moment, entangled, would come in every thread

Notes: nafas : 'Breath, respiration; --the voice or sound from the breast; --a moment, an instant'. (Platts p.1144) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Here, by 'tearing of the collar' is meant the torn-ness of the collar; that is, the pleasure of tearing is that the breath too would be drawn out with the collar, and breathing would be finished. (194)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh lamenting heart, the pleasure of tearing the collar is that with the thread, the breath too would be drawn out, and when the 'thread of a breath' [taar-e nafas] would break and emerge. (250)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh my lament-producing heart, the pleasure of tearing the collar is when with every lament one breath too would be drawn out. That is, the pleasure of madness is that a person would not remain alive and would give his life. (339)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} This verse has the same grammatical and rhetorical structure as {173,3}: the correlative clause is first, the relative one second. Thus suspense is maximized. But what really energizes the verse is the wordplay involving an idiomatic metaphor so well-known that it's not even used in the verse. Only its separate pieces are there-- and in fact it's even more enjoyable that way, since we have the creative pleasure of putting it together for ourselves. Bekhud Dihlavi uses the phrase outright: he speaks of the 'thread of a breath' [taar-e nafas]. A breath, like a thread, is linear and has a beginning and an end; one also pulls in or out, or 'draws' [khe;Nchnaa], a breath, as one does in English too. Ghalib makes excellent creative use of such metaphors: remember the literalness of the 'thread of the gaze' [taar-e na:zar] in {171,1}, which was compared to the thread of the garment-hem. In this verse, In addition, nafas itself has several meanings (see the definition above). The meaning of 'breath or respiration' is the most obvious, of course. But 'the voice or sound from the breast' could almost be (especially in the lover's case) a kind of subtle moan or groan, so it works well with the address to 'lamenting heart' in the first line. And if we take the meaning, by extension, of 'a moment', then the rhetorical thrust of the verse becomes even sharper: the real pleasure of 'tearing the collar' is when you can tear away the breaths or moments of your life along with it. On nafas versus nafs see {15,6}.

{173,10} aatish-kadah hai siinah miraa raaz-e nihaa;N se ay vaa))e agar ma((ri.z-e i:zhaar me;N aave 1) my breast is a fire-temple, through/from a hidden mystery/secret 2) oh alas-- if it would come into the scene/place of manifestation/revelation!

Notes: ma((ri.z : 'Place of the appearance, or occurrence, or manifestation (of a thing); scene (of); place of meeting'. (Platts p.1048) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The secret that has made the breast into a fire-temple-- if it would become manifest, then what places would it not set on fire? (194)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the heat of a hidden secret my breast has become a firetemple. If that secret would become manifest, then no telling where fires will be started. (250)

Bekhud Mohani: The secret of love, from the hiding of which the heart is becoming a firetemple-- if it would become manifest, then what would happen? In the whole world a fire would be seen leaping up. (340)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION RELIGIONS: {60,2} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7}

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The idea of the lover's burning, secret passion as a fire is a fundamental metaphor of the ghazal world; but to call his breast a fire-temple is a new twist, and plays very cleverly with several theological possibilities. First, only Zoroastrians are allowed to tend and visit the sacred fire, so that the fire-temple too, like the lover's breast, is a private place, the repository of a powerful mystery/secret that must not be allowed to emerge. Second, to Zoroastrians fire is pure, and must not be polluted by the touch of certain ritually defiled things, so it must be kept away from the many contaminants of the outer world, the way the lover too must shelter his passion from the 'people of the world'. Third, a fire-temple is where the initiated go to worship and commune with the fire, and humbly learn its mysteries; which is just how the lover treats his passion. The second line, inshaa))iyah of course, is a vigorous exclamation of dismay, of foreboding-- so energetic that it's easy to lose sight of how completely unspecific it really is. The commentators are sure that the lover's fear is that the fire in the breast, if released, would become a conflagration that would consume the world. Yet that's only one possible foreboding; there are plenty of others with fully as much claim on our attention: =the fire/mystery is now safely controlled-- it might burst its bonds and become destructive (as the commentators fear) =the fire/mystery is now secret-- it might become public knowledge =the fire/mystery is now pure-- it might be rendered impure =the fire/mystery is now mystical or transcendant-- it might become merely physical =the fire/mystery is now in the hands of reverent initiates-- it might become available to the ignorant and the exploitative And just to add to the complexity, is it the fire-temple, the breast, or the mystery/secret that is in danger of becoming manifest? The grammar would permit any of them to fill that role. And when the lover exclaims in dismay at the prospect of manifestation, is he worried about the effects on one of those three entities, or on himself, or on the world at large? There are also the sound effects of juxtaposing ma((ri.z and i:zhaar -especially after the first line has given us miraa raaz . Although they all look quite different on the page, to the ear they sound almost like transpositions of each other.

{173,11} ganjiinah-e ma((nii kaa :tilism us ko samajhye jo laf:z kih ;Gaalib mire ash((aar me;N aave 1) please consider it to be an enchantment/talisman of the treasury of meaning 2) that word which, Ghalib, would come into my verses

Notes: :tilism : 'A talisman; enchantment, magic; a mystery; mystical devices or characters; an image (or other object) upon which such devices or characters are engraved or inscribed (contrived for the purpose of preserving from enchantment, or from a variety of evils, &c.)'. (Platts p.753) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It is a treasury because numerous meanings are in it; and it is an enchantment because various aspects emerge from it. It's obvious that an enchantment is broken with difficulty, and is astonishing/stupefying. In the same way, my difficult poetry is solved, and through its meanings astonishment is created. In short, the simile of an 'enchantment' for a word is extremely eloquent [badii((]. (194)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that my poetry is understood with great difficulty; and after being understood, its meaning creates a kind of astonishment. (250)

Bekhud Mohani: An 'enchantment' is a building that, in order to keep a treasury, is made with such devices that the non-knower would not be able to set foot in it; and if he would leave, then he would emerge only by dying. Indeed, the knower reaches it, and also takes out the treasury.... Oh Ghalib, consider the word that would come into my poetry to be an enchantment of a treasury of meanings. That is, my poetry is understood with difficulty. But when it is understood, then one learns that a treasury has been obtained. (340)

FWP: SETS == POETRY The word 'enchantment' [:tilism] with its wide range of meanings is at the heart of this verse. The definition given by Platts contains begins with the idea of a 'tilism' as a 'talisman' (a direct borrowing)-- something to ward off enchantment, along with other dangers, by means of either Divine or magical power. That's a piquant meaning in its own right: such a 'talisman' could be a small object, or even a special phrase, or even a single word-- and a 'talisman of the treasury of meaning' could be any single word from Ghalib's poetry. But the dominant meaning of 'tilism' in classical Urdu literature comes from the dastan world, and especially from the story of Hamzah. Since I've explained all this elsewhere, I won't go into it at length: this account (in PDF form) is the most detailed one. The commentators have pointed out some of the associations of a 'tilism', or enchanted world-- amazing, even stupefying, events and sights; mystery; inaccessibility; a general incomprehensibility that reduces one to helplessness; the inability to get out by any normal means. Nazm suggests that such a 'tilism' is usually made in order to conceal and protect some (magical or other) treasure; this is possible, but by no means necessary. 'Tilisms' can be like labyrinths: a labyrinth may conceal some treasure, or it may merely be designed to create confusion, mystery, helplessness, fear. The difference is that finding the way out of a labyrinth, though it may be magically facilitated, in principle can also be accomplished by human cleverness (a long ball of string, a trail of breadcrumbs, etc.). By contrast, a 'tilism' is a completely magic world, and one can only emerge from it by magical means or by Divine assistance: by finding the right object, by performing the right action, or-- of course-- by saying the right word. The invocation of a 'tilism' is thus more multi-faceted than the commentators allow, for a 'tilism' is inherently a sort of fake, a simulacrum of a world: the things you find in it are almost never what they seem. When the it's broken it bursts like a bubble, and almost everything in it vanishes (though sometimes one particular special thing, the object of the hero's quest, survives). So in this verse Ghalib has identified his poetry with a complex and morally ambiguous kind of 'enchantment'. And he's left us to revolve all the various possibilities in our mind-- and after they've all revolved once, we have to revolve them again, still without finding any way to pin them down-- lots of revolution, but no resolution. We wander around in the possibilities of this verse the way one would wander in a labyrinth-- or a 'tilism'.

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Ghazal 174 10 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aal achchhaa hai composed after 1847; Hamid p. 142; Arshi #217; Raza p. 296

{174,1} ;husn-e mah garchih bah hangaam-e kamaal achchhaa hai us se meraa mah-e ;xvurshiid-jamaal achchhaa hai 1) although the beauty of the moon at the time of its fullness is good 2) my moon with the sun's radiance is better

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: In the second line is a 'claim that includes a proof' [da((vaa-e muta:zammin-e daliil]: he has called the beloved a moon with the sun’s radiance so that a reason would emerge for giving her preference over the full moon. (158)

Nazm: The way the sun is better than the moon. (194)

Bekhud Mohani: He says that the moon is good only at its greatest fulness. He has called the beloved a 'moon with the sun's radiance' because just as the sun never diminishes, in the same way my beloved's beauty too always remains in the same state. Then, why has he called her a moon? The reason for this can be said to be that the moon's light is pleasing, while the sun's light is not. He used the simile of the moon because from the glory/appearance of the beloved, the eyes, and the burning of the heart, are pleased. He used the simile of the sun only so that it would be clear that there would be no lack in her beauty, as there is in the moon's. (340)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES Long ago, when I used to knock myself out trying to translate Ghalib, this was one ghazal I worked on obsessively, though I never published it. Anyway, I note my version here for pleasure and nostalgia: The moon at its fullest is good. My moon bright as sunlight is better. She won't even give me a kiss, She keeps her eye on my heart, She feels the goods she can get for free are better. If it breaks I can get another from the bazaar. Compared to the Cup of Jamshid my cup of clay is better. A gift freely given doubles the pleasure. The beggar who does not ask is better.

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When I see her my face lights up. She thinks the invalid is better. Let's see what favor it brings to lovers! A pundit has said that this year will be better. His axemanship won Farhad a chance to talk with Shirin. In any case, for everyone to have a skill is better. A drop that makes it all the way to the river becomes the river. A task is worth undertaking when its outcome is better. [verse omitted] Oh, we know the truth about Heaven! Still, to keep the heart happy, Ghalib, such a notion is better. In this ghazal Ghalib takes advantage of the fact that the Urdu comparative of good [achchhaa] is '[more] good than/from X' [kisii chiiz se achchhaa]. Therefore he's able to make the refrain shift at will from the one to the other. English, with 'good' and 'better', hasn't got a prayer of keeping up. So I cheated, as you'll notice, in order to keep 'better' at the end of all the verses. (Or rather, to put it more elegantly, I chose to preserve the regularity of the refrain even at some sacrifice of the literal meaning.) I also omitted the nextto-last verse, since it wasn't worth the hassle of explaining it in footnotes. It's very liberating to have this present space to work in, and not to be bogged down any more in (vain) attempts like the above. What a ravishing, flowing, light-hearted, irresistible ghazal this is! It makes me happy every time I read it, it's so swingy. The rhythm and swing are a kind of unifying tone for it, along with its relatively long and influential refrain. Its verses mostly aren't profound and deeply metaphysical, but who cares? Ghalib can create all kinds of effects when he wants to. And without this playful, witty ghazal, his divan would truly be the poorer.

{174,2} bosah dete nahii;N aur dil pah hai har la;h:zah nigaah jii me;N kahte hai;N kih muft aa))e to maal achchhaa hai 1) she doesn't give a kiss, and at every moment/glance her gaze is on the heart 2) she thinks/says to herself that if it would come for free, then the merchandise is good

Notes: la;h:zah : 'A look, a glance; --a moment, the twinkling of an eye; a minute'. (Platts p.954) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: With the word 'kiss' they use 'to give' and 'to take'; for this reason, the poets always versify a kiss as the value/price of the heart, and the heart as on sale for a kiss is a shopworn theme. But here, the excellence of the idiom and the style of the construction have made this theme fresh. (194).

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Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza has created a picture of the beloved's greediness/avarice. (251)

Bekhud Mohani: From this verse it's also understood that lover and beloved are both tricksters, and both take each other's measure. The lover's idea is that if success is not obtained, there's no gain in hanging oneself. The beloved says, if I give a kiss and take the heart, then what do I gain? Let's see who comes away with the prize! Such a great theme, Mirza has expressed in a verse that outwardly has no special rank. 'She says in her heart'-- that is, she's a trickster, she doesn't say it with her tongue. (341)

FWP: The double meaning of la;h:zah , both primarily 'glance' and (only by extension, it seems) 'moment', is perfect here, especially the way it's bumped right up against nigaah . The colloquialness of the beloved's tricky thoughts is another delight. There are really several ways we could read her remark: =anything you get for free is a good deal (don't look a gift horse in the mouth, just take it and run) =if you get a thing for free, then that's excellent (a smart shopper will always hunt for the best bargains) =if this particular thing is available for free, then it's worth the price (this thing is basically worthless) Compare the lover's own (playfully?) dismissive judgment about himself in {162,11}.

{174,3} aur baazaar se le aa))e agar ;Tuu;T gayaa saa;Gar-e jam se miraa jaam-e safaal achchhaa hai 1a) [they/we] brought more/another from the bazaar, if it broke 1b) [someone] would bring more/another from the bazaar, if it would break 2) than the Cup of Jamshid, my cup of clay is better

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: How excellently he has preferred the cup of clay over the Cup of Jamshid cannot be sufficiently praised; and it is an entirely new idea, that has never been seen anywhere before. (125)

Nazm: The meaning is that too much formality [takalluf] is a cause of trouble [takliif]. (194)

Bekhud Mohani: Our clay cup is better than the Cup of Jamshid because if it would break, then one would bring another from the bazaar; and if the Cup of Jamshid would break, then it would not be able to be repaired, nor would another such cup come to hand. That is, 'in formality is trouble' [takalluf me;N takliif]. With such beauty Mirza has proved the cup of clay to be better than the Cup of Jamshid. (341)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH This is a cleverly framed mushairah verse. The first line carefully withholds all notion of what it might be that would break, and even any clear indication of who might go to the bazaar, so we have no clues at all. We have to wait in curiosity and suspense for the second line.

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And like a proper mushairah verse, the second line withholds its punch-word until the last possible moment. Even when we hear about the Cup of Jamshid, we can't guess what the other term of comparison will be. Then when we finally hear it, when all at once we 'get' it, the result is so amusing, so witty-- and, up to a point, so right. (What price magical world-vision, compared to throwaway convenience and a free mind?) What's not to like, in a casual, lazy, elegant little charmer like this?

{174,4} be-:talab de;N to mazah us me;N sivaa miltaa hai vuh gadaa jis ko nah ho ;xuu-e savaal achchhaa hai 1) if they/he/she/we would give without a request, then in it extra pleasure is obtained 2) that beggar who would not have a nature/habit of asking is good

Notes: sivaa : 'Besides, other than, over and above, further than'. (Platts p.690) ;xuu : 'Nature, disposition, temper; habit, custom; way, manner'. (Platts p.494) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the ghazal and ode one should keep in mind that after the opening-verse no such similarity would be created as has come about in this verse of the author's, such that someone who had not heard other verses would consider it an opening-verse. That is, miltaa and achchhaa -- these two words seem to be rhymes, and hai the refrain . The person who has a correct taste will certainly recognize that from it looseness is created in the construction of the verse, since after the opening-verse the rule is that both lines should be different. Undoubtedly, with regard to the ground this verse has sufficient difference, but if there were not even as much similarity as it has, then it would be better. The meaning of the verse is clear: that if something is given when it's asked for, then what good is that-- whatever is in one's fate, that will certainly be obtained. If something is given without being asked for, then what a thing [kyaa puuchhnaa]-- how happy the heart becomes-- how well he has expressed contempt for the asking! (195)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the bitterness of asking spoils the taste of the sweetness of bestowing. The thing that would be bestowed without being sought-- its pleasure is inexpressible. That beggar whose habit would not be of asking, is good. In this verse the 'seating' of the refrain has been done so masterfully that it's impossible to praise it enough. (252)

Bekhud Mohani: That thing that would be acquired without asking-- the one who gets is obtains more pleasure. That Faqir is good who would not wish to ask. [Or:] That giver is good who would not wait to be asked, that Faqir is good who would not ask. (341)

FWP: The first line is arranged for maximum ambiguity. Who is doing the giving? The masculine plural subjunctive is as broad as possible: it could go with 'they', with 'you', with 'we' (which of course is often used for 'I'), or with 'he' or 'she' as applied to someone receiving the plural of respect. Nor does the first line tell us who would receive the 'extra' pleasure, the giver or the recipient (or possibly both). And depending on how we interpret the subject in the first line, the second line can be either a thought or observation by that same subject, or else part of a two-line reflection provided by an unspecified speaker.

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What with all these quibbles, nuances, and fastidious refinements, the tone of the verse becomes amusingly aristocratic. We are at several removes from the idea of begging in order to get food to satisfy real hunger-- that would be commonplace and vulgar. In this verse begging is a kind of esthetic as well as moral experience, and is being evaluated as such. It is almost an art form: both giver and receiver should perform with grace and sophistication, in order to maximize their pleasure. NOTE FOR FANS OF GHAZAL TECHNICALITIES: Nazm's complaint is that this verse could be taken as a kind of 'false opening-verse'; it could confuse the person who saw it in isolation into thinking that it came from a ghazal with a rhyme of aa and a refrain of hai . (By contrast, a second 'true' opening-verse is quite permissible, and is a flashy sign of extra virtuosity.) But really, how much of a problem is that? Who even notices such small details? I'm not sure that anybody cared even then, except for people with a serious commitment to nit-picking.

{174,5} un ke dekhe se jo aa jaatii hai mu;Nh par raunaq vuh samajhte hai;N kih biimaar kaa ;haal achchhaa hai 1) from seeing her, the radiance that comes upon the face-2) she considers that the sick person's condition is good

Notes: dekhe se would nowadays be replaced by dekhne se *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The excellence of this verse is manifest in its own right; no other words can go beyond it. (125)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The lover cannot in any way express to the beloved his troubles during the time of separation, because when it is the time of trouble, then the beloved isn't there; and when the beloved is there, then the trouble no longer remains. (252)

Bekhud Mohani: This is not a verse, it is a masterpiece of poetry. (341)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 As Bekhud Dihlavi observes, the lover is in a classic catch-22 situation: being separated from the beloved makes him (mortally?) ill, but when she then comes to his bedside, her presence so cheers him that he hardly looks ill at all. Since the situation the two are in is left entirely vague, there are several possibilities: =He's in fact mortally ill, but when she comes in his face brightens so much that she thinks he's in fine shape-- but she's wrong, he's really done for. =He was sick before, but when she comes in he at once recovers; she rightly judges the improvement in his condition. =He's only 'sick with passion', not physically ill, and the term 'sick person' is used teasingly or sarcastically-- for whenever she glances at him, he looks fine. She comes in and makes a sort of snap judgment about his condition-- is that because she's casual and basically indifferent, and can't be bothered to investigate more closely? Is this her only visit, or does the verse report on something that happens time after time? Does she know, or care to discover, anything further about his welfare than the glow on his face? All these questions are left for us to contemplate; nothing in the verse gives us the slightest clue.

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{174,6} dekhiye paate hai;N ((ushshaaq buto;N se kyaa fai.z ik barahman ne kahaa hai kih yih saal achchhaa hai 1) let's see what grace/favor lovers find from idols 2) a Brahman has said that this year is good

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: As if he is so immersed in longing for the beloved that he remains oblivious to the affairs of the world-- so much so that if a Pandit has pronounced this year good, then he considers the sole meaning of its being good to be that perhaps this year beloveds might be gracious to lovers, not that this year there would be no famine or pestilence or wars, etc. etc. (159)

Nazm: It's a very clear verse, and it's a good verse. (195)

Bekhud Mohani: Some Brahman has said that this year is good. So now the idea comes to the lover, let's see, this time what grace/favor comes to lovers from beautiful ones. (342)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR RELIGIONS: {60,2} What a sly and witty little verse! The first line is impossible to interpret without waiting for the second, it seems to express an entirely conventional ghazal longing. Under mushairah performance conditions, we'll be given time for the suspense to mouht, before we're allowed to hear the second line. And then when we do, how ravishing it is! Hali's point is well-taken of course: that to a lover, the very idea of a year's being 'good' can have only one possible meaning that's of any interest at all. The lover's wild myopia, his form of tunnel vision, is funny in itself. But even more enjoyable is the 'energizing' of the first line: we only now suddenly realize that what looked like an entirely conventional reference to 'idols' in the first line is actually meant literally. For who would be a better authority on the behavior of 'idols' than Brahmins, who are 'idol-worshippers' by (Muslim) definition?

{174,7} ham-su;xan teshe ne farhaad ko shiirii;N se kiyaa jis :tara;h kaa kih kisii me;N ho kamaal achchhaa hai 1) the axe made Farhad a speech-sharer with Shirin 2) of whatever kind, or in whomever, it might be, accomplishment/excellence is good

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the first line there is 'obscurity' [ganjalak], and in the second one a 'clash' [tanaafur], and between the two lines the connection is not good either, and the theme too is nothing at all. (195)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Farhad was a young laborer, and his beloved Shirin was a woman from a greatly wealthy family and was extremely lofty in rank. But his accomplishment in stone-carving gave Farhad access to Shirin and made him a speech-sharer with her. In the world, accomplishment is an extraordinary thing. People of accomplishment have access even to kings. (253)

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Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] There's no knowing what 'obscurity' is in the first line; the line is clear. Indeed, in kih kisii me;N there's no doubt a 'clash', two 'k' sounds have come together. The lines themselves are telling of their connection; the Lord knows where this 'lack of connection' is! Now there remains the theme. It is not such as would be able to be presented in proof of Ghalib's accomplishment [kamaal]. But no fault can be seen in it. There is certainly this merit: that the poet has molded into a poetic form a common idea-- that no matter what kind of accomplishment it may be, it is good. And he also showed the importance of accomplishment-- that where is Farhad the stone-cutter, and where is a princess and queen like Shirin. It was accomplishment alone that made the two speech-sharers. (342-43)

FWP: It's an angular, awkward, disquieting verse, isn't it? The commentators take it at face value, as a small sententious lecture on the virtues of education and self-improvement. They ignore the conspicuous ways in which this moral lesson is undercut. The first line seems problematical on the face of it. One problem is the role of the 'speech-sharing' between Farhad and his beloved Shirin. In the version(s) of the story that I've usually encountered, Farhad and Shirin never really met each other at all-- he falls in love by seeing her from a distance, and she is unaware of his passion until his funeral procession passes by her window. Since there are so many versions of the story in various genres and languages, no doubt there are some in which the two do converse, but Ghalib must have known that any 'conversation' that they had was peripheral at most, and figured not at all in Farhad's doom-- which was based on a task, and a lie, arranged entirely by Khusrau. The second, and more obvious, problem in the first line is the role of the 'axe' itself. A reference to Farhad's 'axe' makes anyone who knows the story think first of his great, impossible task or ordeal of stone-cutting (he's not called 'Kohkan' for nothing)-- and then of his use of the axe to commit suicide (see for example {3,6}). Neither of these axe episodes has any bearing on conversation with Shirin, and both of them-- monumental, grim, and deadly- loom over Farhad's whole fate. So after we've heard the first line, we're left puzzled by its incongruities, its perverseness, its generally unbalanced quality. We're hoping the second line will bring us some clever, witty, philosophical resolution or explanation of these problems-- but even if it doesn't, after the first line we're at least very much on the alert for future problems, for things that are not what they purport to be. Then what do we find in the second line? A sort of faux-naif, Pollyanna-ish truism. Everything in the first line has already conspired to 'problematize' the second line, and such an impossibly un-problematical, such a blandly problem-denying, second line is screaming loud and clear, 'Doubt me!' Needless to say, we do. Even without the highly doubt-demanding first line, the very tone of the second line would demands disbelief. Is it really always good for everybody to have any skill? And in this case, haven't we just seen a major, big-time counterexample-- a case in which somebody's skill probably didn't get him the good claimed for it (conversation with his beloved), and definitely did get him deceived and killed? Doesn't the second line have the false good cheer of someone trying to skate smoothly over a horrible moral and ethical chasm? Ghalib has set up for us a deliberately sententious little maxim that he not only invites us, but unmistakably and forcefully enjoins us, to doubt. Is he speaking ironically, or with radical cynicism? But then, of course, we can also have doubts about our doubts. This is, after all, a lover speaking. For Farhad to imagine himself in communion with his beloved through his hope and passion, through the reward promised for his

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stone-cutting ordeal-- what could be more lover-like? And for Farhad then to die of love-- for a true lover, what better fate is possible? It's just conceivable that, since the lover's whole cult of pleasure-in-pain is the bedrock of the ghazal world, the lover is speaking with complete seriousness, urging everybody to go out and learn a skill, so they can perhaps be lucky enough to attain a degree of 'accomplishment' that will permit them to attain the fate of Farhad. For another example of Ghalib's complex, unresolvable thoughts about Farhad and Shirin, see {42,6}.

{174,8} qa:trah daryaa me;N jo mil jaa))e to daryaa ho jaa))e kaam achchhaa hai vuh jis kaa kih ma;aal achchhaa hai 1) if a drop would mingle with the sea, then it would become the sea 2) that task is good of which the outcome/end/origin is good

Notes: ma;aal : 'A place (and a state or condition) to which a person or thing returns, and to which he (or it) ultimately comes; end, aim, event, consequence, termination, issue, tendency'. (Platts p.983) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The image [tam;siil] of the drop and the sea has been taken from the Sufis, but it has also extremely much pleased the poets. No one has omitted it, so much so that this theme has become shopworn. Now, whoever versifies it, the verse itself becomes devoid of relish/pleasure. The author too has composed with this theme a number of times, and the best one is {21,8}, because the relish of the idiom has spiced up a flavorless theme. (195-96)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the branch/offshoot to move toward its source/origin [a.sl] is better than all other actions in the world. (253)

Bekhud Mohani: When the drop merges with the sea, then it no longer has any further fear that the earth or the air might swallow it up. In the same way when a man would merge his individual self with the Lord, then he no longer fears oblivion, and he becomes protected from all the world's changes. That task of which the result would be good, only that one is good-- that is, for a person only to merge into the source is good. (343)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION DROP/OCEAN: {21,8} The commentators are all convinced that the verse is recommending such a merger, but if we look closely at the grammar, it's not. The first line actually uses two subjunctive verbs, the effect of which is to render the proposition extremely tentative-looking. (More common, and more assertive, is a subjunctive 'if' verb paired with a future 'then' verb.) After such a tentative first line, the second line moves to radical abstractness. A certain kind of 'task' or 'action' is defined as 'good'-- but we're not told whether the action described in the first line falls within this definition or not. The process of deciding is made remarkably subtle and elegant by means of the word ma;aal , which is related to avval and has a strong connotation of returning to one's origin. The task is good of which the aim or purpose-- or 'return to origin'-- is good. There's a doubleness here of teleology on the one hand (the sense of a final purpose or goal), and source on the other (the sense of a return to some primal condition).

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So we're still left to ask, is it good for the drop to merge, in either a teleological or an originary way, into the sea? The Indo-Muslim Sufistic chorus answering affirmatively is loud and clear, and just about unanimous. It seems almost perverse to consider any other possibility. I offer only two small bits of counterevidence: the unusually tentative grammar of the first line, and the conspicuous set of verses in which Ghalib insists on the virtue of using only one's own resources, and the shame of borrowing or being dependent. For more on such verses, see {9,1} I certainly don't think that Ghalib meant for us to conclude that the drop should not merge with the sea. But it's also clear that in this verse (unlike some others) he didn't set up-- as he certainly could have-- a resonant endorsement in favor of doing so. He's taken care to leave the question open, to force us to decide for ourselves, bringing to bear the evidence of our own temperaments and our own lives. Here's my attempt at a translation (1985).

{174,9} ;xi.zr sul:taa;N ko rakhe ;xaaliq-e akbar sar-sabz shaah ke baa;G me;N yih taazah nihaal achchhaa hai 1) may the Great Creator keep Khizr Sultan green/flourishing 2) in the Shah's garden, this fresh new/young plant is good

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: It is in praise of Khizr Sultan, son of Bahadur Shah Zafar. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Prince Khizr Sultan was a son of Bahadur Shah Zafar; this verse is in his praise. (253)

Bekhud Mohani: May the Mighty Lord keep Khizr Sultan happy and thriving, may he flourish well. In the King's garden this small plant (child) is very good. (343)

Arshi: Khizr Sultan was Zafar’s son and Ghalib’s pupil. He was born in 1831, and on September 23, 1857, was killed by a bullet from Major Hudson. Since this ghazal is from after 1847, this verse should not be understood as connected with the birth of Khizr Sultan. (318)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Besides the (rare) personal flattery of two royal patrons, the verse is based entirely on wordplay around ;xi.zr , which means 'green' in Arabic. It of course also evokes Khvajah Khizr, who wears green robes and is associated with water and fertility. In the verse, sar-sabz -- literally 'green-headed'-- and baa;G and taazah and nihaal all echo these associations. That doesn't make it a very interesting verse, since even minor poets can spin out such sets of associations by the yard. But it makes the verse slightly less mediocre than it would otherwise be-- which isn't saying much. It's easy to see why Ghalib might have recited this verse at court, but I wonder why he included this verse in his published divan editions.

{174,10} ham ko ma((luum hai jannat kii ;haqiiqat lekin dil ke ;xvush rakhne ko ;Gaalib yih ;xayaal achchhaa hai 1) we know the reality/truth of Paradise, but 2) to keep the heart happy, Ghalib, this idea is good

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Notes: ;haqiiqat : 'Essence (of a thing), essential property or quality; truth, reality, fact, true or real nature or state or circumstances or facts; gist; pith; -rightness, sincerity; --account, narration'. (Platts p.479) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning is, what is Paradise? They've shown to the uncomprehending a green garden. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, we know the truth/reality of Paradise, but to keep the heart amused/distracted, this idea is good. In this closing-verse Mirza has used a Doomsday-like mischievousness [qiyaamat kii sho;xii]. (253)

Bekhud Mohani: We are acquainted with the truth/reality of Paradise. That is, it's the goal of the Ascetics' worship. What do lovers have to do with it? That is, lovers of the Lord consider only the attainment of the sight and self of the Lord to be their goal.... [On Nazm's reading:] In a rakish mode [rindaanah ma;zaaq] this reading is certainly attractive. But the first reading [of mine] seems to be more suitable. (343)

FWP: It's easy to see why this verse would get people's attention. Hali includes it in his discussion of Ghalib's religious views (75), and the commentators generally read it as a religious statement of some kind. It belongs in what I call the 'snide remarks about Paradise' group; for the whole set, see {35,9}. But nobody points out the cleverness of its structure. The first line seems to set us up to expect a much more conventional kind of verse: 'yes, we know the truth of Paradise, but...' Then in the second line we would expect to hear 'we have no hope of getting there', or 'we just can't manage to be virtuous', or words to that effect. The use of ;haqiiqat gives an implication of 'truth' or 'reality' that lends itself well to such a reading-- the 'truth' of Paradise might well be completely unchallenged, for all we know in the first line. For an example of exactly this kind of structure in a verse, see {161,4}. Under mushairah performance conditions, we would have to wait in expectation to hear the second line. And when we do hear it, our expectations are shattered in an instant: how unexpectedly stark and toughminded it sounds! The speaker knows 'the truth' about Paradise, but also knows that the idea of it is useful in cheering people up. On the face of it, the speaker sounds like an atheist recognizing the social utility of religious fictions. Bekhud Dihlavi hastens to describe this as the most extreme-amusingly, he says 'Doomsday-like'-- 'mischievousness' [sho;xii], a term and concept that take us right back to {1,1}. Bekhud Mohani prefers to read the verse as similar to {10,1}, so that what is being debunked is only the relative, anthropomorphic, unduly literal-minded 'Paradise' of the Ascetic, which we self-less mystics can view only dismissively. On this reading, the speaker patronizes the naive 'Paradise'believers not because they're believers, but because they're naive. The verse carefully doesn't tell us whose heart is to be kept happy (the speaker's, or those of the naive common people?), nor does it define 'this idea' (religion in general, or naive literalism in particular?). As he does so often, Ghalib leaves us to decide for ourselves.

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Ghazal 175 7 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: ii nah sahii composed 1821; Hamid p. 143; Arshi #149; Raza p. 245

{175,1} nah hu))ii gar mire marne se tasallii nah sahii imti;haa;N aur bhii baaqii ho to yih bhii nah sahii 1) if no peace/satisfaction occurred from my dying, so be it 2) if there would be even/also another test remaining, then also/even this-why not, indeed?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If on the basis of this verse Ghalib would claim to be the 'Lord of Poetry' [;xudaa-e su;xan], then the Lord is a witness, that it's fitting. Then just look-neither is there any excellence in the art of meanings, nor any beauty of the art of expression, nor any elaborations of the art of rhetoric. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: [He quotes Nazm's first sentence.] The truth is that this opening-verse is just as peerless as Mirza Sahib's poetry is. He says, I took the test of faithfulness with such success that as a result I gave my life. If you're not satisfied even with this, and you don't believe me to be perfectly faithful, then any other test that might be in your mind-- let it be tried out on my corpse. That is, for you and my passion for you I gave my life. Now if you wish, my corpse can remain in your street till Doomsday. (253)

Bekhud Mohani: From bhii the meaning also emerges that to give one's life is the greatest test of all. But if in your view it doesn't figure, then let even it go and use any test that you care to.... [As for Nazm's verdict,] only an infidel will have any doubt about Ghalib's being the 'Lord of Poetry'. (344)

FWP: SETS == BHI; IDIOMS The refrain of this ghazal, nah sahii , is part of a larger set of extremely colloquial expressions using sahii ; for further discussion, see {9,4}. For the purposes of this ghazal, I'm going to translate the expression variously, but I'll always italicize the translation to emphasize the idiomatic quality, as I did in {148} with its mirror image expression, hii sahii . In the first line, we can't tell who it was who experienced no peace/satisfaction from the lover's dying. If it was the (human) beloved, then the situation is straightforward: she wanted more chances to torment or 'test' her lover, and is exasperated that the process was ended by his death before she was through working her will on him. His reaction is to offer himself (and/or his corpse) for any further toll she might want to exact. This is the reading the commentators seem to adopt. But it's equally possible that it's the lover himself who experienced no peace/satisfaction from his own death. In that case, there are several possible reasons: =he wanted to complete the beloved's tests, but was unable to do so =he wanted to be left in peace in the grave, but was still harassed by the unsatisfied beloved =he wanted to attain union with the divine Beloved, but was unable to do so

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Then we might also want to ask, what exactly is the 'this' in yih bhii nah sahii ? The colloquialness of the expression makes it something like the verbal equivalent of a resigned shrug of the shoulders. So that the 'this' might be: =the beloved's continued harassment =the need for more tests =the next test =the lover's own lack of peace/satisfaction And of course, the bhii can mean either 'even' or 'too', which allows for a variety of nuances. In short, we're left with a verse so untranslatably colloquial that Nazm's observation that it has no other action, no other charms, and yet is brilliant, begins to make sense.

{175,2} ;xaar-;xaar-e alam-e ;hasrat-e diidaar to hai shauq gulchiin-e gulistaan-e tasallii nah sahii 1) there is at least every thorn of the grief of the longing for sight/beauty 2) if ardor is not the flower-picker of the garden of peace/satisfaction, then so be it

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If not the roses of peace/satisfaction, then are the thorns of longing a small thing [kyaa kam hai]? (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if ardor would not be able to become the flower-picker of the garden of peace/satisfaction, then so be it. In this regard the longing for sight/beauty is enough. The meaning is that if ardor did not obtain peace/satisfaction, then at least the longing for sight/beauty did not desert him. For peace/satisfaction, is the longing for sight/beauty a small thing? (254)

Bekhud Mohani: If ardor, in the garden of peace/satisfaction, did not pick flowers, then so be it. There are still the thorns of the longing for sight/beauty. That is, in love, is it a small thing that we have the longing for sight/beauty? If we had been successful in obtaining sight/beauty, then it would have been indescribable. (344)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. At the end of the first line, to hai is also idiomatic: although literally it means 'then is', its colloquial sense is 'at least there's X' or 'after all, there's X'. The 'flower-picker' may or may not be the same gardener who cares for the garden, but in any case he's picking flowers probably to sell and certainly to use for some special purpose. So he'll be systematic rather than casual: he won't just gather a few for pleasure, but will take care to choose all the best ones, and not to leave any of them behind. Thus it's piquant (which literally means 'pricking') and amusing that the lover actually emphasizes his possession of 'every thorn' [;xaar ;xaar], with as much jealous care as any 'flower-picker' could possibly use. On the one hand, he is very like the flower-picker (in that he too carefully collects and bears away, with jealous care, every one of the growing things that he has selected); on the other hand, he's very unlike the flower-picker, since he's a peculiar and perverse creature, a 'thorn-picker', and his monopoly of thorns seems to be something he's determined to retain.

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For an even more elegant and haunting conflation of thorns and flowers, see the wonderful {214,6}.

{175,3} mai-parastaa;N ;xum-e mai mu;Nh se lagaa))e hii bane ek din gar nah hu))aa bazm me;N saaqii nah sahii 1) the wine-worshipers {only with / with only} the wine-cask pressed to the lips, became [content, successful] 2) if one day the Cupbearer did not appear in the gathering, then so be it

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of lagaa))e hii bane is that there is more pleasure in exactly that, and that to drink to one's heart's content must be achieved in that way. If the Cupbearer were there, then he would have served it one swallow at a time. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh wine-worshipers, even after waiting for the Cupbearer, it was still necessary to drink wine with one's lips pressed against the cask; if one day the Cupbearer would not be present in the gathering, then so be it. That is, if there were a Cupbearer, then he would fill flagons and decanters from the cask, and from the flagons and decanters he would pour wine into glasses and present it. If in his absence drank with our lips pressed against the cask, then what was wrong with that? (254)

Bekhud Mohani: The rakish ones [rind] are waiting for the Cupbearer. How could Mirza bear to wait? He rose, and pressed the cask of wine to his lips. And he says to the other wine-lovers, 'Come on, you drink too, it's the most enjoyable way. If one day the Cupbearer isn't here, would we not drink wine? Look-- for once, we drank to our heart's content. If one day the Cupbearer isn't here, then so be it. Drink wine. As if the drinkers would wait for the Cupbearer!' (344)

FWP: SETS == HI; IDIOMS For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. Continuing the trend of the ghazal, this third verse too is extremely idiomatic. The phrase lagaa))e hu))e hii bane (with the hu))e colloquially omitted) literally means 'only having placed, became'. Only 'having placed' the cask of wine against their mouth, did they finally bannaa -- 'become', be completed or perfected, be content, be in good order (see Platts p.172 for the complexities of this multivalent little verb; and see {191,1} for a look at similar idiomatic expressions). But the idiomaticness doesn't end there, for this verse is also a clever textbook case of the doubleness of hii . I've tried to show the two possibilities in the translation. It can be restrictive ('only with'), meaning that the drinkers are very demanding and will be content only if they are able to place their lips directly against the cask itself; they will not be satisfied with lesser substitutes like glasses and flagons. Or it can be intensive ('with only'), meaning that the drinkers are not demanding but are modest in their desires: they don't require the presence and services of a Cupbearer and the formal elegance of glasses and flagons, but only access to the wine-cask itself. Needless to say, both senses of hii work elegantly (though of course differently) with the acceptance of the Cupbearer's absence expressed in the second line. The vision of the drinkers with their lips pressed to the cask, oblivious to all else, also has enjoyably (and amusingly) erotic overtones: think of {116,1},

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in which the lover mischievously demands that a kiss be explained 'with the lips' [mu;Nh se]. For other amusing wine-cask examples, see {133,2}.

{175,4} nafas-e qais kih hai chashm-o-chiraa;G-e .sa;hraa gar nahii;N sham((-e siyah-;xaanah-e lail;aa nah sahii 1) the breath of Qais, that is the 'light of the eye' of the desert/wilderness-2a) if it is not the candle of the black-chamber of Laila, then so be it 2b) if there is no candle in the black-chamber of Laila, then so be it

Notes: chashm-o-chiraa;G : 'Dearly beloved; --a beloved object; light of the eye'. (Platts p.433) lail;aa : 'Of or relating to night, nocturnal; --one who does anything by night'. (Platts p.975) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He has called Laila's house a 'black-chamber' by way of contempt-- that is, when Qais would not be shedding [light] in it, then how is it a house? In addition to this, her name too is Laila, and we also hear that she used to live in a black tent. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the desert/wilderness, the breath of Qais was the 'light of the eye'. If Qais was not successful in obtaining entry into the black chamber of Laila, and was thrown out of there, then so be it. Laila's house has been called a black chamber for three reasons. One is that Majnun did not obtain entry there; he has called it a black chamber out of contempt. The second point is that Laila's color/complexion is said to be black; with regard to this, her house too ought to be a black chamber. The third wordplay is that Laila always lived in a black tent. (254)

Bekhud Mohani: The nafas of Qais is the sigh of Qais.... The gist is that to be a perfected lover is itself a grace/benefit. If the beloved doesn't value the lover, this does not weaken him. The weakness and ill-fortune are those of the beloved alone, in that she did not value such a lover. (345)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS CANDLE: {39,1} For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. This verse continues the idiomatic wordplay of the ghazal: chashm-ochiraa;G literally means 'eye and lamp'-- a perfect bit of interplay between colloquial and literal that luckily we can almost capture in English with 'light of the eye'. The commentators point out the literal meaning of lail;aa , and some of the 'dark' imagery associated with her, so that the elaborate light/dark wordplay (and meaning-play) is a great pleasure in itself. But there are much more complex things going on here as well. As so often, we have to decide for ourselves how the two lines are related. Both lines are enticingly (and undecideably) full of nouns that invite comparisons. But whose point of view is the verse adopting, and what sort of triangular relationships (Qais, desert/wilderness, Laila) is it creating? Is the 'light of the eye' being likened to the 'candle', or contrasted with it? Here are some (though not all) of the possibilities: =The (fiery) breath of Qais is the 'light of the eye' of the desert/wilderness, but it is not the candle of Laila's black-chamber (2a), and that has to be accepted. (And then we also have to decide, why is this so? Because she

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doesn't love him enough? Because she's held prisoner by her in-laws and thus can't constantly lose herself in visions of him? Because he'll never be allowed to visit her?) =The (fiery) breath of Qais literally lights up the whole desert/wilderness-that's why Laila doesn't mind if there's no candle in her black-chamber (2b) =The (fiery) breath of Qais literally lights up the whole desert/wilderness-that's why he doesn't mind if there's no candle in Laila's black-chamber, since he already has all the light he needs to imagine her, or to catch a glimpse of her, or even to approach her black-chamber =The (fiery) breath of Qais is the 'light of the eye' of the desert/wilderness, so he shouldn't mind if it's not the 'light of the eye'-- or 'candle'-- in Laila's black-chamber. (The desert/wilderness loves him more passionately than Laila does, so he should console himself with that; on the desert's jealous love, see {3,1}.) There are really an indefinite number of such possible readings, created partly by the two possible readings of the second line, and above all by the fact that we don't know how exactly to put the two lines together. The idiomatic nah sahii is the ambiguous icing on the layer cake. Somebody is shrugging his/her shoulders resignedly (or defiantly? or cheerfully? or indifferently?-- we don't know the tone either) about something, but who, and what?

{175,5} ek hangaame pah mauquuf hai ghar kii raunaq nau;hah-e ;Gam hii sahii na;Gmah-e shaadii nah sahii 1) upon one crowd/tumult is supported/established the radiance/vitality of the house 2) the lamentation of grief at least-- if not the melody of joy, then so be it

Notes: hangaamah : 'A convention, an assembly, a meeting; a crowd; --noise, tumult, commotion, confusion, uproar'. (Platts p.1238) raunaq : 'Brightness, splendour, beauty, elegance, grace, ornament; freshness, prime; colour, composition; flourishing state or condition'. (Platts p.608) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The world's joy and grief are both contemptible; one ought to treat them as diversions. In the view of the mystic knower, both joy and grief have the same form. (196)

Bekhud Dihlavi He says, both the world's joy and grief are baseless. Besides this, in the eye of the mystic knower, neither has joy any existence, nor has grief any substance. Indeed, for the radiance/glory of the house, there is a need for the adornment of gatherings. Whether it be a joyous party or an assembly of mourning, in both cases people gather together. (254)

Bekhud Mohani: For the radiance/flourishing of the house, the melody of joy is not necessary; the lament of grief is enough. No matter what, a crowd/tumult is necessary, nothing more, so that the heart would not sink.... By 'house' is meant 'heart'. (345)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. This verse continues the idiomatic trend of the ghazal by adding the related form hii sahii ; on this, see {9,4}.

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It's hard to get a sense of the mood of this verse. It could be cheerful ('we make the best of things, we get together and have good times at funerals too'). It could also be ironic or sarcastic ('oh sure, we're fine-- you can see how lively and bustling the house is, and that's all that's needed to keep up our reputation among the neighbors'). It could be mystical or philosophical ('after all, life in this world is so brief and transient, gatherings of joy and grief come crowding in on each other's heels'). It could be stoical and bleak ('we have to carry on and think of the children, we can at least distract ourselves from grief with all the hustle and bustle'). It could be bitter ('people don't give a damn what becomes of their neighbors, as long as they get their entertainment value out of it'). It's that 'one' that focuses the complexity. Is it 'one' as opposed to two (joygatherings and grief-gatherings are depicted as similar)? Or is it 'one' as opposed to none (something has to be going on to keep up the vitality and 'flourishingness' of the house)? There's certainly a traditional value placed on the 'liveliness' or 'hustle and bustle' of the house [ghar kii raunaq]. This verse asks, what price 'hustle and bustle'? Is the busy coming and going of grief just as good as that of joy? Needless to say, it gives no answer.

{175,6} nah sataa))ish kii tamannaa nah .sile kii parvaa gar nahii;N hai;N mire ash((aar me;N ma((nii nah sahii 1) neither a longing for praise, nor a care for reward 2) if there's no meaning in my verses, then so be it

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: One time Maulvi Abd ul-Qadir Rampuri, who was a great jester by temperament, and who had for some time been connected with the Fort of Delhi [=the Court], said to Mirza [Ghalib], 'I don’t understand one of your Urdu verses'. And at that moment he composed two lines of verse and recited them before Mirza: pahle to ro;Gan-e gul bhai;Ns ke a;N;De se nikaal phir davaa jitnii hai kul bhai;Ns ke a;N;De se nikaal [First take the essence of the rose out of the eggs of buffaloes-And other drugs are there; take those out of the eggs of buffaloes.] Hearing this, Mirzaa was quite astonished, and said, 'Far be it from me-- this is not my verse!' Maulvi 'Abd ul-Qadir said, keeping up the joke, 'I myself have seen it in your divan! And if there's a divan here, I can show it to you right now.' Finally Mirza realized that in this guise the Maulvi was objecting to his work, and was insisting that there were verses like this in his divan. Mirza has alluded to this kind of nit-picking here and there in his Urdu and Persian divans. In Urdu, at one place he says: {175,6}. The opening-verse of another ghazal is: {141,1}. (112) ==another translation: Russell and Islam, p. 40; the above translation of the verse is that of Russell and Islam

Nazm: If some non-connoisseur would give something, then let him not give; if some ignorant person would offer praise, then let him not offer it. (197) [See also his comments on {5,3}.]

Bekhud Mohani: Someone has said that Mirza's verses are meaningless/absurd. In reply to this he says, 'all right, they are meaningless/absurd, so be it; I have no longing for

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praise, nor any care for reward; if anybody says such things, it causes me no grief'. (345)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; POETRY For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. I've talked about the larger question of Ghalib and 'meaningless' verses in {141,1}. Note for grammar fans: The plural hai;N is used with 'meaning' not because the 'verses' are plural and have separate 'meanings'; in this case, I don't think that's even intended as a secondary sense. Urdu writers just traditionally use ma((nii in the plural, even if the meaning is clearly singular.

{175,7} ((ishrat-e .su;hbat-e ;xuubaa;N hii ;Ganiimat samjho nah hu))ii ;Gaalib agar ((umr-e :tabii((ii nah sahii 1) consider only/especially the joy/sociability of the companionship of beautiful ones to be a 'stroke of luck' 2) if, Ghalib, there occurred no natural lifespan, then so be it

Notes: ((ishrat : 'Social or familiar intercourse, pleasant and familiar conversation, society; pleasure, enjoyment, mirth'. (Platts p.761) ;Ganiimat : 'Plunder, spoil, booty; a prize; a boon, blessing, a God-send; a piece of good luck, good fortune; abundance; convenience; accommodation'. (Platts p.773) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Although ((ishrat and .su;hbat mean the same thing, the Persian divan has used ((ishrat with the meaning of 'happiness' or 'joy'; for that reason, this i.zaafat will become correct. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the happiness that is obtained in the companionship of beautiful ones, that is not stable for even a moment/breath-- oh Ghalib, consider it a 'stroke of luck'. If it has no enduringness, then so be it. (255)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, granted that a natural lifespan is much desired. But when it can't be obtained, then the enjoyment of the companionship of beautiful ones is itself a 'stroke of luck'. That is, their companionship will be in exchange for a natural lifespan. (345-46)

FWP: SETS == A,B; HI; IDIOMS; For discussion of nah sahii , see {175,1}. If we take the cleverly placed little hii to be restrictive ('consider only...'), then the implication is that we should value only the joy/sociability of the companionship of beautiful ones, and should regard a natural lifespan as worthless by comparison, so that we don't care a bit of we don't have it. And if we take the hii to be an intensifier ('consider especially...'), then we are urged to console ourselves with the joy/sociability for the loss of a natural lifespan, even if its loss causes us real sorrow. Either sense of hii works beautifully with the multifarious possibilities of ;Ganiimat . Literally, it is 'something taken from an enemy' [;Ganiim], and its classic sense was plunder acquired on the battlefield. That meaning itself works well: since fate is against us, let's wrest away from it-- and value-whatever we can get. The meanings like 'blessing' and 'God-send' and 'good fortune' are equally appropriate: we should gratefully appreciate the joy/sociability vouchsafed to us.

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There's also a sort of wry colloquial sense in Urdu that I learned about only after the fact. I used to think that a ;Ganiimat was an unambiguously good thing, so I'd use it to compliment people: I thought it was an elegant touch to show off my vocabulary by describing somebody's visit as a ;Ganiimat . But I noticed that whenever I did, there'd be a moment of silence, then genuine laughter all around, as though I'd made a slightly shocking but also witty remark. When I finally got somebody to explain this reaction, I learned to my embarrassment that the colloquial sense is something like 'as good as we're going to get' or 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth' or 'we're lucky to have even this much'. And that meaning too-- if it was current in Ghalib's day-- also fits in wonderfully well. Then, of course, a basic question remains: how do we connect the two lines? Is A the cause and B the effect (the companionship of beautiful ones cuts short one's life)? Is B the cause and A the effect (if one is doomed anyway, one should value the brief pleasures of beauty and sociability)? Or are both A and B parallel parts of the same larger reflection on the nature of life? Nazm is being rather nit-picking about ((ishrat . In Urdu generally, it seems to mean joy first, and sociability as a distant second. Compare the usage in {17,5}, where the primary meaning is definitely 'joy'.

Ghazal 176 7 verses; meter G16; rhyming elements: am aage composed 1826; Hamid p. 144; Arshi #192; Raza p. 264

{176,1} ((ajab nishaa:t se jallaad ke chale hai;N ham aage kih apne saa))e se sar paa;Nv se hai do qadam aage 1) with an extraordinary joy we have moved ahead of the Executioner 2) {so that / since}, like our/his own shadow, the head is two steps ahead of the foot

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: If the sun would be at the back of some walker, then the shadow of his head is somewhat in advance of his feet. That is, here the ardor for the slaying is such that like my shadow, my head is two steps in advance of my feet; as he has said previously, that 'door and walls have devoted themselves to their shadow' [an inaccurate reference to {58,7}?]. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we go running after the Executioner toward the execution-place with such happiness that as our feet are advancing very quickly in the ardor for execution, the shadow of our head is going two paces ahead even of them. If the sun is situated toward the back, then the shadow advances ahead. (255)

Bekhud Mohani: We feel such happiness at being slain without any crime, by the order of the beloved or of some tyrant, that we are going ahead of the Executioner in the way that the shadow of our head goes two paces ahead of the shadow of our feet. (346)

Arshi: Compare {45,4}. (171, 297)

FWP: This one is constructed like a puzzle, and it takes a while to figure out what might be going on. There's some kind of a triangle involving the speaker, the

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Executioner, and a shadow, but whose shadow? Is it the speaker's, the Executioner's, or simply an abstract example of a shadow? The adjective apne could either apply to the 'we' or to the Executioner [us ke apne]. And how exactly do we interpret the kih ? It seems that we have to read the first se in the second line as short for jaise , but is there any other way of reading it? Here's what seems to be the most obvious reading: we walk ahead of the Executioner the way the head of our/his own shadow moves ahead of the foot of our/his own shadow. (That is, we're inseparable from him, but we're also both nobler and more eager than he is.) Almost certainly there should be other readings, but I'm not sure exactly how to put them together. I'll ask around. Also, of course, the idea that the head is somewhat separated from the feet is all too appropriate to a situation in which the speaker is about to be decapitated. And there's the related wordplay of 'foot' and 'pace'. Arshi suggests a comparison to {45,4}, which is thematically apt. But I suggest looking at {208}, with its refrain of mire aage , to see all the clever ways Ghalib uses aage when the fit is upon him.

{176,2} qa.zaa ne thaa mujhe chaahaa ;xaraab-e baadah-e ulfat faqa:t ;xaraab likhaa bas nah chal sakaa qalam aage 1) Destiny wanted me 'wrecked' by the wine of love 2) it only wrote 'wrecked', that's all-- the pen could not move onward

Notes: ;xaraab : 'Ruined, spoiled, depopulated, wasted, deserted, desolate; abandoned, lost, miserable, wretched; bad, worthless, vitiated, corrupt, reprobrate, noxious, vicious, depraved'. (Platts p.487) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, it wanted to write 'wrecked by the wine of love', but in writing 'the wine of love' the pen was not able to move; for this reason, I remained only 'wrecked'. Here, the theme's remaining incomplete has given great pleasure, and an expression of the incompleteness of every single state always gives pleasure. And the reason for the pen's being unable to move is only intoxication and drunkenness, which has arisen from the writing of the word 'wrecked'. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here the incompleteness of this sentence has created an extraordinary pleasure, and usually the expression of the incompleteness of every state is more pleasurable, by comparison to the completeness of this state. (255)

Bekhud Mohani: He finds the effects of passion in himself incomplete. He expresses this. To be 'wrecked by the wine of love' is such a great blessing/boon that the Lord himself doesn't want to give it to anyone. The Lord has reserved love especially for himself. (346)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} WRITING: {7,3} Among the people I know, 'he was really wrecked' means that he was extremely drunk. Since slang varies so much and changes so fast, this may not be part of your own lexicon. But at least it makes for the best available translation, and succeeds in getting across the general sense of the Urdu: the contrast between being 'wrecked' in the sense of 'very drunk', and 'wrecked' or in the more general sense of 'ruined' or 'destroyed'. For other examples in which ;xaraab is used to mean 'drunk', see {114,5} and {152,4}.

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The verse tells us not just that the pen of Destiny 'did not' move on, but that it 'could not' move on. Nazm amusingly proposes that the mention of such 'drunkenness' has intoxicated the very pen of Destiny itself. Bekhud Mohani suggests that God has halted the movement of the pen, in order to withhold mystic secrets from the speaker. Another possibility might be that Destiny feels awed by such a fate, or greatly moved at the thought of it, so that it's unable to continue writing. Not surprisingly, the need for us to invent our own reasons for the halting of the pen is one of the energizing pleasures of the verse, since in the process we're obliged to endow the verse with a tone or mood as well. The idea of a badly-written fate also takes us, needless to say, right back to {1,1}.

{176,3} ;Gam-e zamaanah ne jhaa;Rii nishaa:t-e ((ishq kii mastii vagarnah ham bhii u;Thaate the la;z;zat-e alam aage 1) the grief of the age swept away the intoxication of the joy of passion 2) otherwise, we too used to formerly/afterwards enjoy the pleasure of sorrow

Notes: aage : 'In future, hereafter, henceforth, again; for the future; next in time or place, then, afterwards; thereupon, after that; formerly, in former times, already'. (Platts p.72) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the grief of the age has now removed all intoxication; otherwise, we too used to enjoy the pleasure of the grief of passion. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the sorrow and grief of the world has overcome all intoxication; otherwise, we too used always to enjoy all the pleasures of passion. (255)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, that the grief of the world has removed the intoxication of passion. Otherwise, we too used to take pleasure in the cruelty of the beloved. Mirza tells us that the joy of passion and the cruelty of the beloved are exactly the same thing. That is, in love the greatest source of pleasure is the beloved's cruelty. [Or:] In the face of the grief of the world, the grief of passion does not endure. (346)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES Since the basic sense of aage is 'next to', by extension it can mean both 'in the future, from now on' and 'after that, thereupon' (see the definition above). By no coincidence, both temporal possibilities work beautifully with the first line. If we take aage to mean 'in the future', then the lover used to feel the 'intoxication of the joy of passion' in the past, and now feels it no longer. Worldly suffering, the 'grief of the age', has entirely swept away that former intoxication. If we take aage to mean 'after that' or' thereupon', then the lover used to enjoy a sequence of two events: first the 'intoxication of the joy of passion,' and afterwards, or thereupon, the 'pleasure of sorrow'. Apparently they went well together, and are remembered with nostalgia-- for alas, they belong to a time before the 'grief of the age' swept them both away. The first line is speaks of the 'grief of the age' and the 'intoxication of the joy of passion', while the second line speaks of the 'pleasure of sorrow'. All those multiply abstract i.zaafat constructions (plus one kii that works just as

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flexibly) leave tremendous room for ambiguity. Which reminds us that here too, as so often, we have to decide for ourselves the relationship of the two lines with their three abstractions. How directly or indirectly is the 'intoxication of the joy of passion' connected to the 'pleasure of sorrow'? (All we know about their relationship is that the removal of the former seems to imply the loss of the latter.) And does the 'grief of the age' remove the 'intoxication' by itself replacing it (as Bekhud Mohani suggests), or does it simply 'sweep it away' by using some kind of metaphorical broom? Through juxtaposing 'grief', 'joy', 'pleasure', 'sorrow' (in that order), and adding 'intoxication' (which can be a source of either joy or sorrow), and throwing in 'passion' (which is invariably a source of both joy and sorrow), the verse ensures that we'll be bouncing around among contradictions and paradoxes, grasping finally at the sameness-in-difference handholds that are all we have to anchor ourselves. In short, it's business as usual in the ghazal world.

{176,4} ;xvudaa ke vaas:te daad us junuun-e shauq kii denaa kih us ke dar pah pahu;Nchte hai;N naamah-bar se ham aage 1) for the Lord's sake, do justice to that madness of ardor 2) such that we arrive at her door ahead of the Messenger

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Having written a letter, we feel so much ardor for a reply to it that we arrive at her door before the Messenger. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having written a letter, such a heartfelt ardor is born for a reply to it that we arrive at the beloved's door even before the Messenger. (256)

Bekhud Mohani: The madness of our ardor too is worthy of praise, that we always arrive at the beloved's door before the Messenger. That is, our ardor has now arrived at the level of madness. (347)

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} WRITING: {7,3} The commentators are sure that the verse evokes only one situation, but actually it's pretty open-ended. There are several things that could be going on: =the beloved has summoned a Messenger because she wishes to send someone a letter; the lover responds to the summons even faster than the Messenger can =somebody unknown has sent a Messenger with a letter to the beloved; the lover is lying in wait by her door to intercept him =the Messenger will be admitted to the presence of the beloved, and the lover hopes somehow to join him =the lover now feels that his own letter is insufficient to his passion, and he wishes to correct or supplement it before it's shown to the beloved Of course, all these are bizarre and somewhat mad kinds of behavior-- but then, that's exactly what the first line is calling on us to notice: the lover's 'madness of ardor'. For another case study of crazy eagerness in connection with the Messenger, see {46,4}.

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{176,5} yih ((umr bhar jo pareshaaniyaa;N u;Thaa))ii hai;N ham ne tumhaare aa))iyo ay :turrah'haa-e ;xam bah ;xam aage 1a) these confusions/disarrangements that we have borne for our whole life-1b) since we have borne these confusions/disarrangements for our whole life-2) oh curls with twist upon twist-- may they/we come before you!

Notes: pareshaanii : 'Dispersion, scattering, confusion, disorder, derangement, perplexity, bewilderment, perturbation, distraction; distress, embarrassment, trouble, misery'. (Platts p.259) aa))iyo should here be read as an archaic variant of the subjunctive, aa))e;N :turrah : 'Hair, or a fringe of hair, on the forehead; a forelock; a curl, ringlet.... (met.) the best, of the cream (of a thing)'. (Platts p.752) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: May they come before you, and may you yourself suffer for it, and you're welcome to them, etc. (197)

Bekhud Dihlavi: 'May it come before you' is a kind of curse.... Mirza says, oh beloved's curls full of twists, since we have [jo ham ne] endured confusions/disarrangements our whole life long because of you, may it come before you-- that is, may the Lord avenge your giving us this trouble. (256)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, fie upon you, love! Even if the tyrant cursed, then it was in such a way that the curse turned into a blessing. Because confusion/disarrangement is itself a quality of curls. (347)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; WORDPLAY This is one of the many verses that engage in wonderful word- and meaningplay involving pareshaanii , in its literal sense of 'disorder, disarrangement', juxtaposed to its metaphorical sense (by an obvious extension) of 'worry, anxiety'-- mental disorder or arrangement. The commentators point out that 'may X come upon you' is a kind of curse. The speaker wishes that the pareshaaniyaa;N may come 'upon' (literally, 'before') the beloved-- or, more precisely, upon her curls. Why such an apparently hostile wish? Needless to say, we're left to figure out for ourselves exactly what is going on. Here are some possibilities: =Since we've suffered all our life from 'anxiety and trouble' over you, oh entirely twisting curls, may we have justice: may the same 'disorder and disarrangement' afflict you in your turn! (Since the curls are so entirely twisting, if they became disordered it would be a truly alarming task for them to sort themselves out again, so this would make a very satisfactory punishment for them.) This reading emphasizes a quest for justice. =Since we've already endured these pareshaaniyaa;N for a whole lifetime, and now they've finally killed us, it's your turn, oh curls-- you're a perfect home for them, you take them on! This reading expresses the passing on of a legacy; it doesn't tell us anything about whether this legacy is a favor, a curse, or something else; and it glosses over the double sense of the word most elegantly. (For more cases in which the lover worries about what will happen to this or that when he's gone, see {57}.) =These very pareshaaniyaa;N that have been afflicting me-- may these very ones be passed on to you! (This is a kind of literal-minded curse.)

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=Since we've borne a lifetime full of 'anxiety and trouble', oh curls, may we be rewarded by appearing before you-- you who have such an affinity with 'disorder and disarrangement', you might appreciate us at last. The versatile little jo can be read in two ways. It can be taken as the relative, yih jo pareshaaniyaa;N ham ne , so that it directly applies to the pareshaaniyaa;N (1a). Or it can be read more freely as a kind of 'since' or 'in that': jo ham ne yih pareshaaniyaa;N (1b). By now I hardly have to point out that both senses work very cleverly-- though differently-- with the second line. For another wonderful parallel drawn between the beloved's long dark curls and the lover's long dark thoughts, see {71,2}; though the word pareshaanii doesn't literally appear in the verse, it hovers noticeably right in the background. A subtler case in point is {111,8}, which again juxtaposes-- by the strong power of implication-- the beloved's tangled curls and the lover's anxious thoughts.

{176,6} dil-o-jigar me;N par-afshaa;N jo ek maujah-e ;xuu;N hai ham apne za((m me;N samjhe hu))e the us ko dam aage 1a) since one wave of blood is wing-fluttering in heart and liver 1b) the one wave of blood that is wing-fluttering in heart and liver-2) we in our presumption/arrogance, formerly [were in a state of having] considered it [to be] a breath

Notes: za((m : 'Thinking, presuming, speaking from belief; --self-assertion; presumption, assurance, arrogance; pride, vanity'. (Platts p.616) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: He says, that which we had formerly considered a breath, is the wingfluttering of a wave of blood. That is, grief has made the heart and liver into blood. People of [poetic] temperament will say, how will the breath go into the liver, and it's not as if the heart is a lung [riyah]! And in Persian they call the lung shush , and in Urdu phaphe;Raa . But no poet has used any of these three words, because they are uneloquent [;Gair fa.sii;h]. It's a strange chance: when the Urdu word seems uneloquent, then at that time the poet takes a word from Persian or Arabic-- here, the Arabic and Persian words too are not worthy of being taken! (198)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that which we were considering a breath is the wing-fluttering of a wave of blood. The meaning is that grief has turned the heart and liver to blood. (256)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] This meaning does not emerge from the words. Mirza says, we in our presumption-- that is, error-- had considered it to be breath. In reality, it turned out to be a wave of blood. That is, what we had considered to be breath was turned out in reality to be the wing-fluttering of a single wave of blood. That is, the inflow and outflow of breath is based on the movement of blood; the moment this is shut down, life has reached its end. Thus in reality the movement of blood and man's life have been established as one single thing. (347)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} In his high metaphorical mode, Ghalib has 'wing-fluttering' verses (see {6,2}); and 'wave of blood' verses (see {46,5}). Here the two are juxtaposed

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most strikingly, as the 'wave of blood' is seen to be 'wing-fluttering'. But that's not the end of the remarkable play of metaphors, for this wingfluttering blood-wave both is and is not identified with the lover's 'breath'. It was identified with his breath in the past: he 'used to think' the two things were the same, so it's clear that he doesn't think this any more. And we can tell that even in the past his belief was in error: it was a mere 'assumption' or 'belief' on his part, and maybe even a sign of 'arrogance' or 'pride', as we see from the meanings of the unusual (and of course carefully chosen) word za((m . (In English, 'presumption' too can have both these senses.) In the present, the identification is rejected as emphatically as possible (we 'formerly' 'used to have' this 'presumption'). As in the previous verse {176,5}, the clever use and positioning of jo in the first line gives two possible readings. Why is this former 'presumption' now rejected? Because we used to think we were alive, and now we realize we are really only a kind of zombie, sustained by blood-waves instead of breaths? Because we used to think our grief was endurable (or at least that we were enduring it), and now realize that it has instead destroyed us irrevocably? (The idea that someone's heart and/or liver turned to blood has something like the colloquial force of 'he ate his heart out' in English.) There's also the question of tone: are we speaking ruefully, sorrowfully, bitterly, humorously, detachedly? Only the reader can/must decide. This verse also has a kind of visual playfulness. Look at the words it offers us in the second line: ham and za((m and dam . They all rhyme, and they also all evoke the missing word that hovers just overhead and shapes the mood of the verse: ;Gam . A slightly skewed dot in za((m could even put it right there on the page; but we hardly need that. We know it's there.

{176,7} qasam janaaze pah aane kii mere khaate hai;N ;Gaalib hameshah khaate the jo merii jaan kii qasam aage 1) she takes an oath of/against coming with my funeral procession, Ghalib-2) she who always used to take an oath by my life, formerly

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Once [yaa], such love that she always used to swear by my life; now [yaa], such hatred/contempt that she refuses to come with my funeral procession. (198)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, once [yaa] there was love and oneness to such an extent that she always used to swear by my life; now [yaa] such hatred/contempt has arisen that a clear refusal is made even of coming to with my funeral procession. (256)

Bekhud Mohani: Here, 'takes an oath' has two meanings: (1) Now we will never come during your lifetime. (2) We won't even come on your funeral procession. (348)

FWP: This is one of a set of verses based on idiomatic wordplay involving qasam (for the whole list, see {89,3}). Both lines are based on the nuances of this single word. The first line entertains us with a certain kind of idiomatic ambiguity that Ghalib has explored elsewhere as well: the fact that to take an oath 'of' [kii] something, or of doing something, can have two senses. It can mean to swear not to do something (that is, to 'swear off' it). But it can also mean to do something. Here, the beloved may have taken an oath not to come to the lover's funeral procession, in order to show her rejection of him, as the

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commentators say. But her oath may also have been something like 'I'll dance on your grave!', meaning that she vows to outlive him, to hasten or even contrive his death, and to celebrate that happy event by savoring the occasion of his funeral procession. Under mushairah performance conditions, we're given a good long time to enjoy the witty back-and-forth ambiguities of this first line before we get to hear the second one. And once we do-- the mood changes immediately. For in the idiomatic uses of qasam , if there's no verb involved, but only a person or thing, then the effect is to invoke that thing as a symbol of extreme value (to 'swear by' it), in order to solemnize an oath in the most impressive manner possible. She used to 'swear by' the lover's life, as her dearest possession. What bleakness, what pathos, in the degree of the change from then to now! Our mental pleasure has suddenly been undercut by a reminder of the most intense emotional love, hatred, and suffering. For more examples of such cleverly multivalent uses of qasam , see {123,6} and also {170,7}. Both are light-hearted, witty, and amusing, without the sudden bleak reversal that we see here.

Ghazal 177 13 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa hotaa hai composed after 1847; Hamid p. 145; Arshi #218; Raza pp. 296-97

{177,1} shikve ke naam se be-mihr ;xafaa hotaa hai yih bhii mat kah kih jo kahte to gilaa hotaa hai 1) at the word 'complaint' [shikvah] the unkind one becomes angry 2a) don't say even/also this, that 'whatever you say, it is a reproach [gilaa]' 2b) don't say even/also this, that 'whatever we say, there is a reproach [gilaa]'

Notes: gilah : Complaint; lamentation; reproach, blame; accusation; remonstrance: - gilah-shikvah , s.m. Complaint, &c.'. (Platts p.914) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Don't let fall from your lips even this utterance, that is, that 'whatever you say, then it is a complaint'-- for if not a complaint, then the name of a 'complaint' has come upon your tongue. In the first line the author has abandoned the word gilah and adopted shikvah . Although in this situation too the line is metrical, still it has occurred in such a clumsy [;saqal] construction that only a poet can understand it. (198-99)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she has come to have such a hatred for the word 'complaint' that if even this is said, that she has come to have a hatred for 'complaint', then she considers even this remark to be a complaint. (256)

Bekhud Mohani: In his heart he says, that uncompassionate one becomes angry at the word 'complaint'. Then, stopping himself, he says, what have I done! I ought not to have said even this, because this too is one kind of complaint. He has composed a very subtle/refined verse. (348)

FWP: SETS == BHI; CATCH-22 SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7}

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In the first line we learn that the cruel beloved gets angry at the very word 'complaint'-- literally, at the 'name' of complaint. We tend to interpret that as we normally would in English-- that she becomes angry at the least little breath of complaint, at the very smallest hint of any accusation against her. Only when we finally hear the second line do we pick up on the nuances we missed the first time around. In proper mushairah-verse style, the punchword is held back for as long as possible. When we finally hear the word gilaa (which is spelled that way in order to maintain the rhyme) we belatedly realize that the lover is absolutely serious when he says that she hates the very 'name' of complaint. For the lover is carefully reminding himself not only not to use the word that she hates-- the word shikvah -- but also not to use the synonym gilaa either. The fact that he's so minutely parsing his vocabulary choices is what makes us realize-- with amusement both at her furious nit-picking and at his desperate quest to avoid offending her-- what the first line has really told us. On the face of it, it's not about substance (the beloved resents being reproached) as we had assumed, but actually about the use of a 'name' (the beloved resents the word 'complaint' itself). This verse in fact describes a sort of 'catch-22' situation. Because the beloved hates 'complaint' so deeply, she in effect angrily complains about the use of 'complaint'. And the lover, for his part, is hardly able to avoid making a complaint about her furious obsession with avoiding complaint. The kahte in the second line could go with either an implied 'you' (2a) or an implied 'we' (2b). The lover is certainly talking to himself in the intimate tuu in either case, but the two readings generate two different things that he might be admonishing himself not to say. The first admonition is not to point out the beloved's inconsistency ('you hate the word complaint, but every word you speak is a complaint!'). The second admonition is against protesting the impossible situation this puts him in ('but every word I say, you take as a complaint!'). This is also where the cleverness of the bhii comes in. If we take bhii as 'even', then he's lamenting that not only can't he use shikvah, he can't even use (the presumably less detested word) gilaa . If we take it as 'also', then the two lines are parallel items in what might well be a long series of admonitions to himself: remember that she hates the word shikvah ; and also don't use the word gilaa ; and so on. The verse thus makes rhetorical use first, of the similarity of shikvah and gilaa -- they are synonyms that basically mean 'complaint', and that are even linked into a single compound noun (see the definition above); and second, of the their difference-- they are quite separate words, and may rsdily be distinguished and treated differently. For another case of such clever play with matched synonyms, see {177,3}. This verse always reminds me of one of Momin's: be-vafaa kahne kii shikaayat hai to bhii va((dah-vafaa nahii;N hotaa [she has a complaint about being called 'faithless' even so, she's not pledge-faithful] This verse too would repay a detailed analysis (especially of the possibilities of to bhii ), but I'll refrain from getting started on it here. The juxtaposition of kah kih in the second line is also piquant: these two common little words should normally be spelled identically, but have been specifically differentiated in Urdu orthographic practice-- the root of kahnaa is spelled, when it appears in isolation, with two separate h letters rather than one (and never with a tashdiid ). By putting these two monosyllables right together the verse makes us notice that they are both the same and different-just as it makes us notice the same similarity-in-difference connection between shikvah and gilaa .

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{177,2} pur huu;N mai;N shikve se yuu;N raag se jaise baajaa ik ;zaraa chhe;Riye phir dekhiye kyaa hotaa hai 1) I am full of complaint in the way that a musical instrument is full of melody 2) {just a bit / please} once touch/tease/play me, then see what happens

Notes: ;zaraa : 'A little; --a little while, short time; a slight or trivial matter; --adv. Just, would you just, please, kindly'. (Platts p.577) chhe;Rnaa : 'To touch, lay the hand on, pass the hand over; to meddle with, molest, interrupt, disturb, trouble annoy, tease, torment, worry, irritate, vex, excite, provoke; to touch up, stir up, incite, stimulate.... -- to tune (an instrument preparatory to playing on it), to strike the chords, to begin playing'. (Platts p.468) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1860:] Listen to it from the beginning: I sent your ode, after providing correction for it. An acknowledgement [rasiid] for it came, many deleted and rearranged verses came, their defects were inquired about; the defects were explained [by me]. In place of the defective words, non-defective words were written [by me]: 'there, Sahib, write these verses too in the ode'. Even now, no answer to this letter has come [from you]. I gave to Shah Asrar ulHaq the paper directed to him. What he said orally, has been written to you [by me]. On Hazrat's [=your] part, not even this letter received an answer. A verse: {177,2}. I reflect that both letters were sent without postage stamps-- it's impossible to believe that both were lost [because no one would steal them for the stamps]. Well, now after many days, how would a complaint be written [kyaa likhaa jaa))e]; why would stale curry [baasii ka;Rhii] come to a boil again? 'Servitude is helplessness' [bandagii be-chaaragii]. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum, vol. 3, p. 988-89 ==another translation: Daud Rahbar, pp. 178-79

Nazm: The meaning of chhe;Rnaa is 'to torment' and 'to begin to play a musical instrument'; and 'to broach the subject' [;zikr chhe;Rnaa] is also an idiom. Here, all these meanings are intended. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am filled with complaint in the way that a musical instrument is full of melody, and just once touch/tease/play me a bit, then you'll see what happens. That is, to what an extent I complain, and what kind of grievances come to my tongue. In idiomatic speech, they call the beginning of conversation che;Rnaa , and the beginning of playing a musical instrument too. And also the kind of joke/jest which the other man would take badly. (256-57)

Bekhud Mohani: I am full of complaint in the way that an instrument is full of melody. Just touch/tease/play me a bit and see, and I'll make such complaints as wouldn't be able to be listened to. (348)

Arshi: Compare {142,1}, {172,3}. (261, 266, 319)

FWP: The verse relies chiefly on the wonderful multivalence of chhe;Rnaa , as the commentators note. Its three main meanings-- 'touch', 'tease', 'play [an instrument]'-- are all here perfectly appropriate and full of resonance. (The

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third sense imagines no doubt not a wind instrument but a stringed instrument, such that one 'plucks' the strings.) A huge turmoil of complaint is barely contained with me, says the lover, and the slightest touch will bring it out-- just try it and see! As with similar expressions in English, this can be both a straightforward request ('I want to make my complaint, please give me the occasion') or a threat ('you don't want to hear my complaint, be careful not to provoke it'). The literal meaning of ;zaraa is 'a little', from which comes its idiomatic usage as a form of politeness, to soften a request by minimizing it. We use similar structures in English: 'will you just open the window a bit?' is politer than 'will you open the window?', because of both the 'just' and the 'a bit'. Conveniently, ;zaraa has both senses, and they're both excellently relevant to the line. Another example of such clever use: {193,5}. In this verse the analogy between the lover full of complaint, and the instrument full of music, is made as directly and emphatically, and has further pleasures of its own. An instrument is designed to produce music-that's its whole goal in life, and it's judged and valued only according to the quality of the music it produces. It seems then that the lover must be similarly designed for complaint, and must have his chief excellence and self-expression in producing it. A musical instrument that remains unplayed is only latently itself, and never reaches its real potential; similarly, the lover must long for the touch/tease/plucking that will evoke his torrent of complaint. A stringed instrument vibrates in proportion to the nature, placing, and force of the plectrum with which it is played; the lover too must long to quiver when touched/teased/plucked by the beloved. Arshi suggests a comparison with {142,1}, in which the warning is against 'repeatedly digging' matters of complaint, because 'fire' is suppressed in the heart; the risk seems to be the eruption of a volcano. By contrast, in {233,17} the warning is that the lover, if subjected to chhe;Rnaa , is ready to produce a 'typhoon'. But by all odds the closest cousin to this verse is {172,3}, which also warns against the chhe;Rnaa of a musical instrument.

{177,3} go samajhtaa nahii;N par ;husn-e talaafii dekho shikvah-e jaur se sar-garm-e jafaa hotaa hai 1) although {she doesn't / I don't} understand, look at the beauty/elegance of the recompense-2) at the complaint of wrong-doing, she becomes {eager / 'hot-headed'} for oppression

Notes: talaafii : 'Making amends, reparation, compensation, recompense'. (Platts p.333) jaur : 'Wrong-doing, injustice, oppression, violence, tyranny'. (Platts p.396) jafaa : 'Oppression, violence, cruelty, injury, injustice, hardship'. (Platts p.382) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, she/he is young, and this action is not understood by her/him. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when we complain to the beloved about her wrong-doing, although because of her youthfulness she can't understand the aspect of our utterance, nevertheless this beauty/elegance of recompense is worth seeing-- or rather, it's worthy of praise: that she becomes even more eager for oppression. (257)

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Bekhud Mohani: If she is youthful and doesn't understand that I take pleasure in her tyranny, and that I only complain of injustice so that she'll become even angrier and will show even more oppression than formerly, nevertheless it's still a fortunate coincidence that she doesn't understand for what purpose I complain-- and she still becomes angry. (348)

FWP: Who it is who doesn't understand? The commentators maintain that it's the beloved, and explain that she's 'youthful' [kam-sin] and thus (apparently) naive. It's equally possible, of course, that she's too indifferent (think for example of {19,2}) to devote much real attention to the matter; or she may even be too hostile to the lover to bother listening to him in the first place. It's equally possible, however, that it's the lover who doesn't understand. What he can't understand might be the emotional logic of her behavior-perhaps he's 'youthful' and naive himself (as he seems to be in {14,4}), and doesn't yet know her-- as we do-- in all her radical untrustworthiness. Or else perhaps what he can't understand is the 'elegance of recompense' [;husn-e talaafii] itself-- how does it come about that in her seemingly random cruelty and indifference she just happens to behave in such a 180-degrees perverse way, answering a complaint about X not with Y or Z, but precisely with more X? There's also a sense in which this verse is like {177,1}, which played with the similarities and differences of shikvah and gilah . Here too, jaur and jafaa are very close synonyms, and indeed are often linked into jaur-o-jafaa . It's easy to read them as identical: 'accused of X, she responds with even more X'. But an even more subtly enjoyable example of 'elegance of recompense' would be 'accused of X, she responds with Y'-- and then we notice that Y is something different from X in only the smallest degree. Or it could be that she doesn't even care what she's been accused of-- perhaps the very fact of someone's being presumptuous enough to complain in the first place is sufficient to make her (literally) 'hot-headed' for violence.

{177,4} ((ishq kii raah me;N hai char;x-e mukaukab kii vuh chaal sust-ruu jaise ko))ii aabalah-paa hotaa hai 1) on the road of passion, the starry sphere has that gait-2) slow-moving, just as is someone with blistered feet

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By saying mukaukab -- that is, 'star-possessing'-- he has made manifest the sphere's being blister-footed, and he's given for the stars the simile of blisters. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on the road of passion the starry sky moves the way someone with blistered feet moves, very slowly and with difficulty. By calling the sky the 'starry sphere' he has established its being blister-footed. (257)

Bekhud Mohani: On the road of passion the starry sky moves slowly, like a person on whose feet there would be blisters. between the stars and blisters there is a simile. (348)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE To the lover, that one who walks painfully 'on the road of passion', the nights of separation-- and they're the only kind of nights he really knows-- seem to

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go on forever (as witness their immeasurableness in {97,2}). The night sky in its slow turning seems to creep along the way a person with blistered feet walks. And why is its movement like that? The 'objective correlative', the hinge on which the two lines pivot, is the equation of the stars with blisters. After all, they look white, as blisters often do; they are round and small and numerous, as blisters often are. The heavenly sphere is above us; if it moved, its 'feet' would be visible from below-- the soles of its feet, in fact, which are precisely the most plausible places for blisters. It may sound a little strange for the stars to have feet, but after all, they have eyes (see {14,8} for proof). Although the verse doesn't develop the kind excessive physical vividness about the blisters that {39,3} itself does, I'd still put it in the 'grotesquerie' category (for more on this, see {39,3}). To look up at the stars and see them as blisters on the feet of the night sky-- who needs it? The worst of it is that, as in {69,1}, to imagine blisters on feet is to imagine their bursting-- and do we really want to envision a rain of the fluid from burst blisters coming down on us from the celestial sphere? Of course, the reply can be made that the lover thinks of everything in the light of his own situation, and since he himself constantly has blistered feet from his barefoot wandering in the desert, that's the only way he can think of to account for the extreme slowness of the sphere's movement. Which is true, but it doesn't really get rid of the problem. For if we don't link the stars and the blisters tightly together, the verse's structure has no connection, no raison d'etre: why then would the stars move like a blister-footed person rather than like a dammed-up river, or a child's top that's losing momentum, or any other slow thing in the world?

{177,5} kyuu;N nah ;Thahre;N hadaf-e naavuk-e bedaad kih ham aap u;Thaa laate hai;N gar tiir ;xa:taa hotaa hai 1) why wouldn't we {stand / remain/ be chosen} as the target of the arrow of cruelty/injustice? -- for we 2) ourselves pick it up and bring it, if the arrow is misguided

Notes: ;Thahrnaa : 'To stand; to stand still; to stand firm; to be stationary; to be fixed; to be stopped; to be congealed, be frozen; to stop, rest, pause, cease, desist; to stay, remain, abide, wait, tarry; to last, endure; to be ascertained, be proved, be established; to be settled, be agreed upon, be concluded; to be fixed on, be determined, be resolved; to prove to be, to turn out'. (Platts p.365) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, we have such ardor for the arrow of cruelty/injustice that if it misses, then we ourselves pick it up and give it to the archer, [saying] that, 'please shoot this arrow again, and don't leave us in a state of not being the target'. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we are such an ardent seeker of the arrow of tyranny that if some arrow misses, then we run and pick up that arrow and present it as an offering to the archer, [saying] that 'please take it, please shoot it again, and please don't leave us without having made us the target of the arrow of tyranny'. (257)

Bekhud Mohani: Why would we not be made the target of the arrows of tyranny? We've come to have such a taste for enduring tyranny that when her arrow misses, then we ourselves pick it up and always give it to the murderer. That is, by always pestering her, we teach her to practice tyranny. (349)

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FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES The commentators are sure that the lover picks up the arrow and returns it to the beloved, begging her to shoot it again; they even supply him with lines of dialogue for the occasion. That scenario works perfectly well, but I can also imagine a more abstract one: fate, destiny, the heavens are against me; the arrows of misfortune are raining down on me. And I am such a natural, foreordained target that I not only attract them but actually invite them-- so much so that if they somehow miss me I go and helpfully fetch them into my vicinity, where they should by rights have landed. The real pivot of the verse is the wonderfully versatile verb ;Thaharnaa . By no accident, all of its three main senses (see the definition above) work perfectly with the second line. The sense of 'to stand still' defines the ideal behavior of a target; the sense of 'to remain' is justified by the act of fetching back, and thus claiming, the arrows that have missed; the sense of 'to be chosen' is just what the lover's rhetoric is arguing for.

{177,6} ;xuub thaa pahle se hote jo ham apne bad-;xvaah kih bhalaa chaahte hai;N aur buraa hotaa hai 1) it would have been well if, from earlier on, we had been our own illwisher 2) for we want the good, and the bad happens

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, since the contrary of the wishes always happens, if we had wanted our own ill, then something good would have happened. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is giving a proof of Mirza's mischievousness of temperament. (257)

Bekhud Mohani: Momin Khan 'Momin' says, maa;Ngaa kare;Nge ab se du((aa hijr-e yaar kii aa;xir to dushmanii hai a;sar ko du((aa ke saath [we will always from now on pray for separation from the beloved after all, Effect feels enmity toward the prayer]. (349)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES GOOD/BAD: {22,4} Plenty of verses play with opposites, and plenty play with the particular pair good/bad. This verse however has a special claim to fame: it plays with both well/ill and good/bad, and does its work so deftly that the two pairs of contrasts don't feel forced or heavy-handed. The first line sets up a complex, thought-demanding, seemingly paradoxical claim, In a proper mushairah performance, we would have to wait in expectation, trying to figure out where the verse was going and what the poet was going to do with it. Then the quiet, stark simplicity of the second line comes as-- well, not as a revelation exactly, because there's no real surprise in it. But as a kind of shock of the real. The line feels so direct and apparently naive that it hits us with a strong effect of truth.

{177,7} naalah jaataa thaa pare ((arsh se meraa aur ab lab tak aataa hai jo aisaa hii rasaa hotaa hai

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1) my lament used to go beyond the heavens, and now 2) the one that comes as far as the lip-- only/especially such a one is arriving/attaining

Notes: rasaa : 'Arriving, attaining; causing to arrive (used as last member of compounds); quick of apprehension, acute, sharp, penetrating, skilful, capable, clever; --mixing or mingling (with); amiable; well-received, welcome'. (Platts p.591) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse 'my' is unnecessary, and is useless. If in place of this word there were the word 'formerly' [pahle], then the beauty/elegance of the contrast with 'now' in the verse would have been greater. And the author here indeed intends a contrast-- that is, formerly there was such turmoil and commotion that the lament went as far as the heavens, and now there's such weakness and failure that it comes with difficulty as far as the lip. (199)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, once [yaa to] there was such a mood that my lament passed through the seven celestial spheres and arrived at the Gate of Responsiveness; now [yaa ab] through weakness and inability my condition is such that the lament that is extremely arriving/attaining comes as far as the lip. Otherwise a commonplace lament becomes lost in the breast itself and remains there. (257-58)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] In this verse 'my' is not redundant. From not saying 'my', the verse becomes somewhat vitiated. By saying 'my' he has created force. That is, not anyone else's lament-- it is my lament through which the importance of a lament is manifest. The verb 'used to go' itself tells us that it's the state of a former time; to say 'formerly' was not necessary. To say 'my' was better than to say 'formerly'. (349)

FWP: The obvious reading is the one that the commentators offer: formerly my laments were very powerful, and reached to the highest heavens and even beyond; while now, presumably because of my extreme weakness, even the strongest and most (relatively, or purportedly) 'successful' of my laments can barely reach as far as my lips. But the first line doesn't end, as it easily could have, in 'but now' [par ab], which would have helped to lock that reading into place. Instead, it ends in 'and now' [aur ab], which pointedly refuses to contrast the two situations in any other way than temporally. We also notice that he first line doesn't attribute to that wild, showy, beyond-the-heavens lament any special success. Moreover, the word rasaa also gives us a strong hint of another reading. My laments used to be wild and fierce, I used to roar and rage and create a turmoil that was audible throughout the universe. By now, however, I've learned better: in fact the most successful, the most 'reaching', 'attaining', 'penetrating', etc. (see the definition above) kind of lament is not the noisiest- rather, it's the quiet, subtle kind that (only) reaches to the lip. Is this because mystical insight has taught me that there's no need to shout in order to be heard by God? Is it because the beloved hates it when I yell and scream? Is it because whispered laments succeed in relieving my heart, without splitting my eardrums-- and that makes them as 'successful' as any laments can possibly be? As so often, it's left for us to decide on the kind of advantage-- if in fact it really is an advantage-- that makes whispered laments so particularly 'successful'.

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As a possible case in point, consider {5,3}, in which the lover speaks of a former state in which his fiery sights burned the wings of the imaginary bird, and a present state in which he's 'beyond' even that.

{177,8} ;xaamah meraa kih vuh hai baarbud-e bazm-e su;xan shaah kii mad;h me;N yuu;N na;Gmah-saraa hotaa hai 1) my pen, since it is the Barbud of the gathering of poetry/speech, 2) in the Shah's praise is [habitually] melody-making like this

Notes: baaarbud : 'Name of a famous Persian musician, native of Jahram, a town near Shiraz'. (Steingass p.141) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of the verse-set is clear. In the first verse the word baarbud is attractive in the way that a plectrum is on the string of a lute [rabaab]. Here, the obvious words were 'musician', 'singer', etc. The author rejected them and used baarbuud --just look, in the imagined [majaaz] there's more beauty than in the reality [;haqiiqat]! And the aspect of making the word fresh that the author has here devised-- it is worth remembering. That is, for someone to say 'you are a tyrant'-- better than that is 'you are Chingiz [=Genghis Khan]'. Someone has truly said that 'a fresh word is equal to a theme'. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Barbud is the name of a famous singer. He says, my pen is such that in the gathering of poetry it is a Barbud in praise of the King it makes melody in this way, that is... (258)

Bekhud Mohani: Barbud was, in the court of Khusrau Parvez, a peerless and inventive musician.... My pen, that in the gathering of poetry holds the rank that Barbud held in the pleasure gathering of Khusrau, in praise of the King makes melody like this... (350)

FWP: WRITING: {7,3} There is certainly a verse-set coming, and overwhelmingly the commentators think that it starts with the present verse. But Arshi marks it as beginning with the following verse, {177,9}. (Everybody agrees that it ends with {177,12}.) In this case it's easy to see how the disagreement could have arisen. For the present verse is an unusually specialized creature, neither fish nor fowl. It certainly seems to be acting as a prologue, since that yuu;N is so suitable for introducing additional material-- and, of course, since we're biased by knowing that exactly such additional material is coming right along. But at the same time, if the verse is indeed an introduction then it might well be considered to be somewhat liminal, and not really a part of the set of verses that it's introducing. As always, I follow Arshi. On behalf of Arshi's view it could be pointed out that this verse isn't limited to being read as a dedicated preface; if it weren't followed by a verse-set, we would feel quite comfortable reading the yuu;N as meaning 'like this' in a general way-- that Ghalib's pen goes on producing superior verses the way Barbud produced superior music, as a matter of normal practice. After all, this is the eighth verse in the ghazal, so we could certainly be looking backward instead of forward. Nazm's commentary is brilliant here. The 'someone' who made that famous remark was Shah Jahan's poet laureate Abu Talib Kalim (see {17,2}).

{177,9} ay shahinshaah-e kavaakib-sipah-o-mihr-((alam tere ikraam kaa ;haq kis se adaa hotaa hai

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1) oh King of Kings with constellations for armies, and the sun for a banner, 2) by whom is justice [able to be] rendered to your benevolence?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of the verse-set is clear. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Oh King of Kings, it's as if the stars are your soldiers, and the sun is your banner. You are such a great kind-- by which person can justice be rendered to your kindnesses? (258)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh King of Kings whose army is countless like the stars, whose banner, like the flag of the sun, waves over the whole world-- who can render justice for your kindnesses as they deserve? (350)

FWP: This is the official first verse-- official according to Arshi, that is, and therefore to me as well-- of a four-verse verse-set that extends from {177,9} to {177,12}. However, many editors place the beginning of the verse-set one verse earlier; for discussion, see {177,8}. This ghazal dates from sometime after 1847, when Bahadur Shah was in the last years of his life as an British-pensioned 'emperor'. His extremely limited powers, cramped quarters, quarrelsome family, and increasingly dire financial straits were clear to everybody. For him to be praised in these extravagant, cosmic terms was very much in the tradition of court eulogies and odes. How would it have seemed to him to hear it, and to Ghalib to compose it? Might there have been an undercurrent of bitterness on one side or the other, or would it have been impossible to avoid the effect of irony, or would such phrases have been so stylized that they hardly even registered? (Not so long ago, after all, people used to routinely end their business letters with 'your most humble and obedient servant'.) We do know that Ghalib and Bahadur Shah really didn't like each other that much. Bahadur Shah preferred Zauq as his Ustad, and only grudgingly accepted Ghalib after Zauq's death in 1854. Ghalib considered the Emperor to be much less generous than was proper, as we know from his letters; he found some of the Emperor's special literary assignments to be a real burden. He worked for money, not love. So here is Ghalib doing some literary 'work'-- some judicious flattery of the traditional kind. He needed the money. Always, throughout his life, he needed the money. Praising patrons was an acceptable way to obtain it-- in fact, almost the only way, since entering into any (other) kind of 'service' was fraught with humiliation. (For the classic example, see {22,2}.)

{177,10} saat iqliim kaa ;haa.sil jo faraaham kiije to vuh lashkar kaa tire na((l-bahaa hotaa hai 1) if we collect the fruit/produce of the seven continents 2) then that is the horseshoe-expense of your army

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This is a Persian idiom, that they say haft iqliim , and [the normal plural form] haft iqliimhaa is wrong. And in Urdu it's contrary to this, but the words saat iqliim have entered into the idiom. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the fruit/produce of all the seven continents would be collected, then it is as if it's the expense of your army's horseshoes. (258)

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Bekhud Mohani: If the income of the whole world would be gathered in one place, then the cost of shoeing your army's horses would be able to be paid. (350)

FWP: This is the second verse of a four-verse verse-set that begins with {177,9}. For discussion of the verse-set as a whole, see {177,9}.

{177,11} har mahiine me;N jo yih badr se hotaa hai hilaal aastaa;N par tire mah naa.siyah-saa hotaa hai 1) in every month, when from the full moon comes this crescent moon 2) on your doorsill the moon is like a forehead [bowed down in prostration]

Notes: naa.siyah : 'Forelock over the forehead;-- the forehead'. (Platts p.1115) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: And the full moon's becoming like a forehead and turning into a crescent moon is a shopworn theme. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when in every month the moon, after becoming full, diminishes gradually and takes on the aspect of a crescent moon, this is because it is bowing its forehead at your door. (258)

Bekhud Mohani: Every month the moon, which goes from full to crescent, does this because it bows its forehead at your door.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] In Urdu the theme has not been used so extremely much that we would be able to call Mirza's verse 'shopworn'. Indeed, if today anybody would compose it, then it wouldn't be inappropriate to call it shopworn. (350)

FWP: This is the third verse of a four-verse verse-set that begins with {177,9}. For discussion of the verse-set as a whole, see {177,9}.

{177,12} mai;N jo gustaa;x huu;N aa))iin-e ;Gazal-;xvaanii me;N yih bhii teraa hii karam ;zauq-fizaa hotaa hai 1) if I am presumptuous/audacious in the rules/customs of ghazal-recitation 2) this too is only/especially your {taste/relish}-enhancing generosity

Notes: gustaa;x : 'Presumptuous, arrogant, insolent, audacious, impudent, saucy, uncivil, rude; cruel; abrupt'. (Platts p.910) aa))iin : 'Body of laws, code; enactment, edict, ordinance, canon, decree, rule; custom, manner'. (Platts p.116) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: The meaning of the verse-set is clear. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if I break the rules of ghazal-recitation and become a praiser of you, this is because of your generosity; that is, your generosity keeps increasing the taste for praise-recitation. (258)

Bekhud Mohani: If in ghazal recitation I do shameless things, then this too is your blessing especially/alone. (350)

FWP: SETS == POETRY

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This is the fourth and final verse of a four-verse verse-set that begins with {177,9}. For discussion of the verse-set as a whole, see {177,9}. What is the gustaa;x behavior to which the verse refers, and what ghazal 'laws' or 'norms' are being violated? S. R. Faruqi proposes (Nov. 2005) that while Ghalib ought to have composed a whole ode to the King, the King's generous encouragement has moved him simply to insert a few verses in a ghazal, then to return to the ghazal's normal themes of passion.

{177,13} rakhyo ;Gaalib mujhe is tal;x-navaa))ii me;N mu((aaf aaj kuchh dard mire dil me;N sivaa hotaa hai 1) Ghalib, hold me excused in/for this bitter-voicedness 2) today the pain in my heart is somewhat extra/beyond

Notes: sivaa : 'But, besides, other than, over and above, further than... ; -- adj. Additional, more; better'. (Platts p.690) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1858:] -- {177,13} -- Protector of servants! First of all it is written to you that you are to convey my salaams in the service of my old friend Mir Mukarram Husain Sahib, and tell him that up till now I'm still alive, and beyond that I myself don't know my condition. (Arshi 321) == Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 280

Nazm: That is, hearing my bitter utterances, don't be displeased, for it's from a cause that counts as an excuse. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, having heard my bitter cries, don't be displeased and vexed, this is due to a cause that counts as an excuse. That is, today in my heart the pain has become somewhat greater; for this reason pain-filled verses are emerging from my tongue. (258)

Bekhud Mohani: If today my lament is more troubling, then pardon me-- today the pain of my heart has increased. (350)

FWP: It's a strange closing-verse to put right after a verse-set of fulsome praise to the King. Of course it can always be read broadly, to apply in a general way to the whole group of verses that he's been reciting; but the 'this' does tend to focus our attention on the verse-set. It makes you wonder, once again, how such a verse really seemed to its composer, and to its audience. Would they be so used to such ghazal commonplaces of 'pain in the heart' that this particular juxtaposition would hardly even register? Would they be deeply conditioned by a lifetime of stylized ghazal language to eschew all personal interpretations? After all, if Ghalib expected the Emperor to take it personally, it would be a very foolish move on his part, since it would undo all the good that he might have hoped to do himself through the eulogistic verse-set. So perhaps we notice it more than the original audience did. That wonderfully idiomatic kuchh gives the whole second line an easy, colloquial flow. It makes for an effect of judiciousness: I don't complain because of pain in my heart, I'm used to that. But today the pain is somewhat worse, somewhat excessive, beyond the normal bounds. And the heart seems to have its own direct connection to the voice-- perhaps 'normal' pain makes the voice merely pain-filled, while this 'extra' pain adds the effect of bitterness.

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Ghazal 178 10 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: uu kyaa hai composed after 1847; Hamid p. 146; Arshi #219; Raza p. 298

{178,1} har ek baat pah kahte ho tum kih tuu kyaa hai tumhii;N kaho kih yih andaaz-e guftaguu kyaa hai 1) at every utterance you say, 'what are you?!' 2) you yourself say-- what is this style of speech?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1859:]-- {178,1}-- If we are a true Faqir, and the seeker of this ghazal has a mature taste, then this ghazal will have arrived before this letter. There remains the salaam, and that we will send ourselves. (Arshi, p. 321) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 720 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar p. 99

Ghalib: [1859, to Shiv Nara'in 'Aram':] From where will I send the Hindi ghazals? The printed editions of theUrdu divan are incomplete [naaqi.s]. Many ghazals are not in it. The handwritten [qalamii] divans, which were perfect and complete, were looted [in 1857]. Here, I've told everybody that wherever they might see it for sale, to buy it; I wrote to you as well. And keep one more thing in your mind: a ghazal of mine of fifteen or sixteen verses [bait] is very rare and unusual; they are not more than twelve verses [bait] or less than nine verses [shi((r]. The ghazal from which you wrote five verses [shi((r], it's of nine verses [shi((r]. One friend of mine has somewhat more than is in the printed Urdu divan; he has collected scattered manuscript leaves from here and there. Thus pinhaa;N ho ga))ii;N , viiraa;N ho ga))ii;N [={111}]-- this ghazal has come to me from his hands. Now I've written to him, and I'm writing to you; having written the letters, I'll let it go. When one ghazal or two ghazals come to me from him, then I'll include them in this letter and send it. This letter will be sent off either today, or tomorrow.... Miyan! I consider you my son. It doesn't depend on the writing or not writing of letters; your place is in my heart. Now I test my temperament [:tab((a-aazmaa))ii karnaa], and the ghazal that you've sent, I'll write it down. May the Lord grant that I would remember all nine verses! {178, 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 3, 9, 10} It's your victorious fortune that the nine verses came to mind. One ghazal is this, and two ghazals those that should arrive very soon, a warehouse [godaam] for three weeks has been accumulated in your possession. If you ask, then I'll also send both odes. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1070-72 ==a partial trans.: Daud Rahbar pp. 112-13.

Nazm: 'What are you?'-- that is, what position/power do you have? And here kyaa is not meant to ask a question, but rather to express a taunt, for the interrogative is also used as a taunt. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having heard my every utterance, you pronounce, 'what position/power do you have?' That is, you consider me extremely low and

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vile. I inquire from you yourself, please tell me, what manner of conversation is this? (259)

Bekhud Mohani: One ought to read har ek with astonishment and regret and emphasis. There can be emphasis on tum as well-- that is, not some other, but you! (351)

Arshi: From this letter of 19 April 1859 we learn that Mirza Sahib regularly published his poetry in Shiv Narayan's newspaper. (321)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; EXCLAMATION; KYA The power and disdain are all on the beloved's side, but the lover isn't entirely helpless either. Rather than seeking to find an answer for such an insulting (rhetorical) question, he actually counterattacks. The counterattack doesn't, of course, seek to retaliate in kind by actually abusing or insulting the beloved. In fact, there are several things that it could be doing, based on several ways of reading the kyaa : =In a mild, reasonable, perplexed way, he inquires about this puzzling behavior of hers that he doesn't understand =In a sorrowful, reproachful tone he gently appeals to her better nature-- is this any way to talk to a true and devoted lover? is this style of speech one that does you credit? =With exasperation and even a flash of anger, he flings her own kind of rudeness right back at her-- what do you mean by this! for shame! how could such ill-bred and unworthy speech cross your lips! Whatever tone we choose for the lover's speech, his witty riposte-- using as it does exactly her own kind of rhetorical question-- gives the verse its relish.

{178,2} nah shu((le me;N yih karishmah nah barq me;N yih adaa ko))ii bataa))o kih vuh sho;x-e tund-;xuu kyaa hai 1) neither in flame this coquetry, nor in lightning this grace/style 2) someone tell me, what is that quick-tempered mischievous one?

Notes: karishmah : 'Wink, nod, glance; looking languishingly through half-shut eyes, amorous look or gesture, side-glance, ogling, blandishment, coquetry'. (Platts p.825) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if because of the quick temper I call her 'flame,' then in flame where is this coquetry? And if because of the mischievousness I call her 'lightning', then in lightning where is this grace/style? (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if because of the quick-temperedness I would call her 'flame', then in flame where is this coquetry? And if because of the mischievousness I would declare her to be lightning, then in lightning where is this manner and this grace/style? I don't understand what that quick-tempered mischievous one really is. If anyone can tell, then please tell me what she is. (259)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, nothing can be given as a simile for the beloved. (351)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH The first line seems to be spoken by someone who is musing to himself, mulling over some kind of riddle. As he cudgels his brains, he rejects two possible solutions: 'flame' is not the answer because it lacks 'this' coquetry; 'lightning' is not the answer because it lacks 'this' grace/style. What is the 'this'? While the speaker is trying to solve the riddle, we listeners are trying

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to work our way back and deduce what the question would have been in the first place. Under mushairah performance conditions, of course, we would be given an interval between the lines-- one that would enhance our curiosity and suspense. Then when we finally get to hear the second line, we find the speaker still flailing around, appealing for help to all and sundry: 'I give up', he says, 'somebody tell me!' And finally, after holding back the information (in classic mushairah-verse style) until the last possible moment, the line gives us the question, or the riddle: 'what is that quick-tempered mischievous one'? The question is not 'who', because we're not interested in her personal identity so much as in her essence-- in her fiery, electric, elemental nature. And now we know-- though even now, only by inference, since the second line is in the inshaa))iyah interrogatory mode. It's not that she resembles flame and lightning, but that they resemble her-- or rather, they don't really resemble her, because in addition to their qualities she has qualities that they lack. She is more 'mischievous' than fire, more 'quick-tempered' than a bolt of lightning. For another look at the beloved's supernatural heat and radiance, see {24,3}. The direction of comparison is thus-- as so often, and so piquantly, in the ghazal world-- from the beloved to the natural world, rather than the other way around.

{178,3} yih rashk hai kih vuh hotaa hai ham-su;xan tum se vagarnah ;xauf-e bad-aamozii-e ((aduu kyaa hai 1) there's this jealousy/envy-- that he [habitually] converses with you 2) otherwise, what fear is there of the enemy's bad {teaching / being taught}?

Notes: aamozii : 'Teaching; learning; taught'. (Platts p.83) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Let him say a hundred thousand extremely bad things about me-- I don't care. I only feel jealousy/envy: 'why does he converse with you?'. (200)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I remain anxious and brooding out of jealousy/envy because he converses with you. Otherwise, I care nothing about the bad teaching/learning of the enemy. No matter how he may abuse me to you, I'm not afraid of that. (259)

Bekhud Mohani: I don't at all feel any fear that from his insults and slander you and I would have a falling-out. Rather, I feel jealousy/envy at why he speaks with you at all. In the guise of love, how a plea is being made for her not conversing with the Rival! (351)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR The commentators explicate one possible reading of the verse-- and it's the more pedestrian, obvious, uninteresting one. In their view, the fear that the lover strongly-- maybe even a little too strongly-- denies, is that the enemy may do 'bad teaching' and put undesirable thoughts into the beloved's head. Even a quick glance at Platts, however, will show that aamozii can mean not only 'teaching', but also 'learning'-- or, more precisely, 'being taught' (see the definition above). And it's that sense of 'being taught' that opens up the verse in all its amusingness. For if the 'enemy' regularly converses with the beloved, the real danger is that he may become 'taught' by her in some bad way. Where else except from her could he pick up so many cruel and wicked tricks, so many deadly-

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effective taunts, so much scandalous gossip? After all, we already know what the beloved is capable of: she is unkind to all parties, and is nobody's friend (see {42,1}; she is not only unfaithful but a radical 'denier of faithfulness' (see {97,6}). The lover is so aware of all this that he brings his complaint right to the beloved herself. And what might she say in reply? Perhaps the hapless lover would get the kind of response described in {19,2}.

{178,4} chipak rahaa hai badan par lahuu se pairaahan hamaare jeb ko ab ;haajat-e rafuu kyaa hai 1) the robe is sticking onto the body with blood 2) now what need does our neck-opening have for repair?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse one error is that he did not give any reason for the blood flowing out. That boys struck him with stones and made the blood flow; or that he himself has bashed his head against a wall, or wept tears of blood, or kept beating his breast till he wounded it, or when tearing his collar scratched himself with his fingernails-- all these are possible. But from not providing a reason, an unenjoyableness has been created in the verse. (20001)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse the excellence has been created that because of madness, the cause of the outflowing of the blood is not known to Mirza Sahib himself. For this reason, he cannot express it. No telling whether at the time of tearing the collar his breast has been scratched by his fingernails, or it was because of boys' throwing some stone; or he may have heedlessly fallen into some thorn-bushes, or wept tears of blood. From their not being mentioned, all these specific causes become more enjoyable. (259)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] I want a hundred-thousand-fold to understand, but I don't understand. My worthless opinion is that not to mention any special reason is precisely eloquence [balaa;Gat]. If the reason is specified, then all these ideas that Nazm mentions, and those that remain (for example, for the lancet to slip when he is being bled for the frenzy of his madness)-- how could they be contained within one verse? The verse is a depiction of the state of a madman-- there is a 'proof' in it, but with the power of madness. And this was just the thing that ought to have evoked love. I'm astonished at how Janab the Commentator sees unenjoyableness in such a focused and attractive verse.... On the state of a madman, this verse is peerless. (352)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} Bekhud Mohani likes nothing better than to take on Nazm, so it's no surprise to see him join battle here. But it's unusual to see him joined by Bekhud Dihlavi, who usually borrows heavily from Nazm. I can hardly recall that Bekhud Dihlavi has done anything like this since all the way back in {1,1}. The discussion illustrates the fine line in a verse between the kind of bland, un-grounded vagueness criticized by Nazm (a substantial flow of blood, sufficient to saturate a whole garment, requires some explanation), and the kind of desirably subtle multivalence envisioned by the two Bekhuds (the reader is left to decide, enjoyably, which of the many possible causes have produced the sticky blood).

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This is also a verse of what I call 'grotesquerie', one in which the somewhat revolting physicality detracts from the literary effect. The vision of the lover's whole body coated in blood, such that his robe is literally plastered to his skin with sticky blood, is, to me at least, distracting and off-putting. That verb chipaknaa is so strong, so plain, so vivid! And its being in the present progressive tense makes the whole thing seem to happen before our eyes. The inshaa))iyah second line asks a question that has two obvious answers. On the direct physical level, perhaps the lover's clothing indeed doesn't need any stitching any more, because it adheres so well to his body by means of the sticky blood. (Though in that case it will probably stiffen and cease to adhere once the blood has thoroughly dried-- though, again, if the blood is constantly flowing, perhaps it will never dry.) And on the more abstract level, if the lover is now so far gone that his whole body is bathed in blood, he'll never need to worry about his garments any more, since he'll soon be wrapped only in a shroud-- so indeed, why should he bother about his torn collar?

{178,5} jalaa hai jism jahaa;N dil bhii jal gayaa hogaa kuredte ho jo ab raakh justajuu kyaa hai 1) where the body has burned, the heart too will have burned 2a) since you now rake/poke the ashes, what is the 'search' [for]? 2b) if you now rake/poke the ashes-- this is hardly a 'search'!

Notes: kurednaa : 'To scratch, scrape, rake, poke, stir (a fire, &c.); to scrape or scratch up (with a rake or other instrument); to grub up or out, to explore'. (Platts p.830) justajuu : 'Searching, seeking; search, inquiry, quest, scrutiny, examination, investigation'. (Platts p.381) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Among Urdu-vale there are very few people who can look at a book on rhetoric [balaa;Gat] and understand it; rather, they themselves have decreed some faults of poetry according to their own taste, the foundation of which is on wordplay [jugat].... Such nit-picking people will certainly say about this verse of the author's, 'Is it a chicken, that it pecks at [kurednaa] the ground?' The meaning of the verse is that from the burning of grief I have burned and become ashes. The heart too will have burned up. The practice of stealing hearts has put in your mind the illusion that the heart will not have burned, and it ought to be searched out and taken away for burning. And this theme is unreal from start to finish, and is not one of the normal actions; for this reason it's unpleasurable. In verse, something that has passed away gives more pleasure. (201)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, where the body has burned, there the heart too will have burned. Now, since you are sitting there and raking/poking the ashes, what is your 'search', for what are you seeking? (259-60)

Bekhud Mohani: The poet composes not merely his autobiography, but also the history of his times [jag-biitii]. Mirza too is Indian [hindii], and neither Arab nor Persian. Among the Hindus there's the custom of burning the corpse, and among them only/especially the woman has been accepted as a lover.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Hazrat the Commentator has given such a meaning that the power of investigation can't be content with it. About this

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verse he has decided that this theme is entirely unrealistic and is not one of the normal actions. But after looking at what the unhappy Bekhud has written, probably [;Gaaliba:n] nobody will any longer doubt that this theme is entirely realistic. A historical event has also come to mind-- here it seems necessary to write it too: EVENT: When Ala ud-Din brought his army against Rana Chitor for Padmini, and destiny defeated the Rajputs, then Padmini took her husband's head in her lap and became a Sati. When Ala ud-Din arrived in the royal palace, then in Padmini's place he saw a heap of ashes, which he was absentmindedly poking here and there with the tip of his sword, and Padmini's spirit, in the 'language of her state', was saying to him, {178,5}. Another historical example of enmity and revenge is worth keepin in himd. when in battle Hazrat Hamzah, the uncle of the Prophet, was martyred, then Hindah chewed on Hazrat Hamzah's liver; and beyond that, what she did-good manners doesn't permit it to be written. While such events are there, to call such themes unrealistic and abnormal is great presumptuousness. The words of the verse have not required anybody to close his eyes, while explaining the meaning, to all the world besides lover and beloved. Janab Hasrat: kurednaa is a commonplace/vulgar [((aamiyaanah] word. [Hasrat has not said this in his commentary, however.] In this situation, no other word of this meaning will be able to be found. And eloquence [balaa;Gat] will not permit the use of any other in this situation. This word is on the tongues of common people, just as it is on the tongues of the elite. (353-54)

FWP: SETS == KYA SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} That plain, forceful, physical, almost chicken-scratching word kurednaa indeed seems to be at the center of the verse. The commentators read it as describing a search for something that might be lying there amidst the ashes- something like a scorched, blackened, shrivelled heart. But kurednaa has another sense as well: that of poking up a fire, of stirring up embers-- of seeking to rekindle old passions. And it has a final sense of groping around in something, exploring it-- a sense that is elegantly echoed in justajuu . Needless to say, all those senses work well with the protean question justajuu kyaa hai . The range of meaning here is even greater-- in fact, it's truly remarkable: =what or whom are you searching for? =what is the meaning of 'search' itself? (in a situation of such total devastation and impossibility, can there even be such a thing?) =it's not as if this is a 'search'! this is hardly a 'search'! (it's something else entirely-- cruelty? attempted torture? idle curiosity? passing nostalgia?) =what a search it is! (how extraordinary, or quixotic, or doomed, or admirable, or infuriating, etc. etc.) And these questions are real, and arresting, and quite compelling once you start thinking about them; in all their inshaa))iyah glory they open up a whole range of possibilities. They open them all up-- and, needless to say, don't shut any of them down. All the words beginning with jiim create a nice kind of sound effect, and culminate of course in justajuu . There's also a kind of rushed sense in which jalaa hai jism jahaa;N dil bhii sounds as if what has burned is 'the body, the world, the heart too'. Of course you go back and retrospectively redo your reading of jahaa;N , but the first time through, you almost have the sense of a cosmic conflagration. Compare the radical nature of the destruction in {5,2}; and the 'digging/investigation' in {13,7}. But above all this verse reminds me of {17,8}: it could very well embody the 'repentance of that quick-repenter'.

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{178,6} rago;N me;N dau;Rte phirne ke ham nahii;N qaa))il jab aa;Nkh se hii nah ;Tapkaa to phir lahuu kyaa hai 1) we are not convinced of [its] running and coursing through the veins 2) when it did/would not drip from the eye itself/alone, then-- it's not blood at all!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Poets always compose many themes of being acquainted with grief. The author has composed it with a new aspect, and the excellence of construction and the informality [be-takallufii] of presentation have increased elegance [takalluf] of the meaning. (201)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we don't consider to be blood that which would run and course in people's veins and would be considered to be the cause of life. What flows from the eyes after becoming a lover of someone-- that we know as 'blood'. (260)

Bekhud Mohani: If blood runs and courses in the veins, then we consider it to be nothing. When blood is worthy of being called 'blood', then in the grief of passion it would flow out by way of the eyes. That is, in trials and disasters, for the heart to turn to blood is worthy of praise. (355)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH Here is a classic mushairah verse. The first line doesn't tell us what's being discussed; we can no doubt guess that it's probably blood, but we can't think why the speaker would doubt, or even deny, that it circulates. Under mushairah performance conditions, of course, we'd have to wait as long as conveniently possible to hear the second line, so that we'd have plenty of time to wonder and theorize. Then even when we hear the second line, we really can't tell where it's going-- until finally, at the last possible moment, we get the punch-word and the whole thing falls into place. And then, also in mushairah-verse style, once we 'get' it we know we've got it all; there's no need to brood about any complexities of meaning. A mushairah verse has one good punch, and delivers it at the end; and that's quite a sufficient trick for a two-line poem to perform. The colloquial, emphatic lahuu kyaa hai is hard to capture in translation. 'As if it's blood!'; 'It's hardly blood!'; 'How would it be blood?!; 'It's not blood at all!'-- these are some of the possibilities. Grammatically, the phrase could also be a straightforward question-- 'What is blood?'. Even though that's not the operative meaning here, the question hovers in the air, and makes us realize that the second line provides in a negative form, the lover's own definition. The lover's notion of blood has nothing to do with any properties like circulation (and thus life-sustainingness). He not only has no interest in such an idea; he actually finds it so peculiar as to be unbelievable. His kind of blood isn't idly and foolishly 'running around' all day in the veins, or circulating sensibly throughout the body in a sustainable and sustaining way. His kind of blood runs in only one direction: out. The only way the lover will consent to recognize blood, is to ask whether it can be used to express passion, in the form of bloody tears. Rather than judging blood by its ability to sustain life, he judges it by its ability (as a sign of extreme grief and physical breakdown) both to evoke death, and to help bring it about.

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{178,7} vuh chiiz jis ke liye ham ko ho bihisht ((aziiz sivaa-e baadah-e gulfaam-e mushk-buu kyaa hai 1) that thing for which Paradise would be precious to us 2) besides/beyond rose-colored, musk-scented wine-- what is it?

Notes: sivaa : 'But, besides, other than, over and above, further than... ; -- adj. Additional, more; better'. (Platts p.690) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, wine is beyond all the blessings of Paradise. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in Paradise the greatest blessing is wine, and only for the sake of wine do we hold Paradise dear. (260)

Bekhud Mohani: A rake says, 'we have no interest in anything in Paradise [jannat], it is only dear to us because in it there is rose-colored and musk-scented wine-- and a lot of it. (355)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The elegant use of sivaa makes for several spectacular readings: =That thing for which we'd value Paradise-- beyond wine, what is it? =That thing for which we'd value Paradise-- other than wine, what is it? =The thing for which we'd value Paradise more than we value wine-- what is it? And all these questions, we notice, might or might not be rhetorical. A rakish or rindaanah reading would of course take them as rhetorical, such that the answer to each of them would be a resounding 'nothing!'. But a mystical reading might use such questions to introduce the transcendant and immanent presence of God, the power of self-lessness or be-;xvudii , and so on. The wine is presented with lingering, sensuous enjoyment-- its rosy color, its musky aroma are dwelt upon. Meanwhile, the rest of Paradise passes by almost unnoticed; even the possibility of our valuing it is presented in the subjunctive [ho]. (But as a final complication, the wine itself can always be taken as a metaphor for the 'intoxication' of the Divine presence.) This is one of the group of what I call 'snide remarks about Paradise'; for discussion, seen {35,9}.

{178,8} piyuu;N sharaab agar ;xum bhii dekh luu;N do chaar yih shiishah-o-qada;h-o-kuuzah-o-sabuu kyaa hai 1) I would drink wine if I would see even a few casks 2) what is this 'glass' and 'flagon' and 'cup' and 'flask'?!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the description of wine-drinking, there won't be any poet who has not made use of exaggeration-- and that too, unpleasurable [be-lu:tf]. But they don't leave off composing on this theme. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the drinking of wine I have become established as one of such lofty capacity [:zarf] that for me to be happy with a glass and a flagon and a cup and a flask is absolutely impossible. Indeed, if there would be a few casks present, then I would drink wine. (260)

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Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Human nature is happy with an abundance of something it ardently craves, and unhappy with a shortage; thus this is not even exaggeration/hyperbole. Then to speak of its being 'unpleasurable'-- if these words are taken in their intended sense, then the meaning will be: for 'cask', 'venerable mystically-learned elders'; and for 'glass' and 'flagon' and 'flask', '[sufi] shaikhs of a low degree'. (355)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR WINE: {49,1} What a truly funny verse! It almost demands to a tone of indignation. The speaker urgently wants some wine. And he's not unreasonable, he doesn't disdain small vessels-- why, he'd be perfectly content to drink if he could see 'even a few' casks somewhere in the vicinity. He wouldn't insist on having the large number of casks that would really satisfy him. Or else we can read it 'a few even of casks'-- not to speak of a few of any other (large) vessels that he might actually prefer. But why are people pestering him with these useless little thimbles, these microscopic glasses and flagons? How could any real wine-drinker take them seriously? Surely nobody should have to put up with such nonsense! He rejects them one by one, and as a group-- he asks 'what are they?!'. This is of course a scornful colloquial dismissal. Could it also even be a genuine question, like that in {162,10} ('what are these tiny little things?-- I've never seen such doll-house toys before')? No, it couldn't, says S. R. Faruqi. I happened to show this commentary to him (Nov. 2005), and he said he fully agreed with my take on the verse-- right up to this point. He said it was unduly frivolous of me to try to torture the second line into being a naive question. He said he thought my main weakness as a commentator was to be sometimes a bit too playful, too freewheeling, too sho;x (his word). I record his comment so that the reader can take these cross-cultural perspectives into account. Perhaps if I were an ahl-e zabaan type by birth, I'd be more disciplined by cultural constraints-- which itself might be both good and bad. I'd certainly love to know Urdu the way I know English; but then, the commentators all knew Urdu that way-- and look at the very limited results. Anyway, I just do the best job I can, according to my own understanding, as I go along. That's the nature of a commentary, after all. (Besides, it's fun.) Given the general humorlessness of the commentarial tradition, I'm glad to be able to provide a small antidote. And most of whatever little I know, I've learned through working, and discussing, and arguing, with SRF. My debt to him is incalculable, and our disagreements have always been even more revelatory to me than our agreements. For other enjoyable 'wine-cask' verses, see {133,2}

{178,9} rahii nah :taaqat-e guftaar aur agar ho bhii to kis umiid pah kahye kih aarzuu kyaa hai 1) strength for/of speech did not remain; and even if it would exist 2a) with/upon what hope/expectation would you say, 'what is [your] longing?' 2b) with/upon what hope/expectation would you say what your longing is?

Notes: The omission of the tashdiid in ummiid is a permissible change in spelling, made to fit the meter.

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The polite imperative kahye (scanned long-long to suit the meter) is here used as a form of subjunctive. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Woe to the self-restraint!-- that in a state of longing I was finished off, so that not even the strength for speech remained, but I never emitted a single syllable of ardor from my lips. Alas, the despair!-- which turned the expression of desire into blood, and permitted it to remain within the heart. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I was a man of such self-restraint that in a state of longing itself I gave up my life, and never brought a word of the longing to my lips. Now the strength for speech no longer remains. But when I had control over the power of speech, even then I never allowed a word of despairing passion to come as far as my lips. (260)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the heart is constantly making the demand, 'oh tyrant, have mercy on me, and present to the beloved the petition of longing'. But the lover says, 'with what hope?-- she's not one to melt in any way'. (355-56)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE This is one of the many verses in which speech itself is spoken about, often paradoxically (there's no strength for guftaar , but then there's the speech proposed by kahye ). Here, the dialogue in the second line might be with some sympathetic friend, or even with the beloved herself. In that case, the situation is like that of {52,1}: the beloved has come, but 'at what a time!'-- when it's entirely too late. With what expectation [umiid] would anyone now even bother asking him, 'what's your longing?' None, of course, since it's doubly too late: he can't talk, and even if he could, he can't live long enough for any such longing to be satisfied (even if anybody wanted to satisfy it, which is by no means clear). An alternative possibility is that he might simply be talking to himself, contemplating his own situation. Not only is he too weak for speech, but he's also in a state of despair: there's no hope [umiid] left of any satisfaction, so even if he could speak, why would he bother to put his hopeless longing into words?

{178,10} hu))aa hai shah kaa mu.saa;hib phire hai itraataa vagarnah shahr me;N ;Gaalib kii aabruu kyaa hai 1) he's become the King's companion-- he goes around giving himself airs 2) otherwise, what honor/dignity does Ghalib have in the city?!

Notes: mu.saa;hib : 'A companion, an associate, a friend; favourite (of a prince)'. (Platts p.1041) itraanaa : 'To behave with pride or self-conceitedness, or boastfulness, or arrogance, or insolence; to give oneself airs'. (Platts p.15) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To make a sand-grain into the sun, and a drop into the sea, and the low into the high, is a shopworn theme., which people always use in the informative [;xabariyah] style. Look at the power of the author's literary skill [inshaapardaazii], that he has presented that very same old theme in the inshaa))iyah style! (202)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, becoming a 'companion' to the King has made Ghalib vain; now he goes around putting on airs. Otherwise, before this, who in the city knew him? What a fine closing-verse he has composed! And what a well-adorned [mura.s.sa((] ghazal he has written! (260)

Bekhud Mohani: How he has praised the King, and in what a new manner! And how he has expressed his poetic creativity [;Gazal-afzaa))ii]! (356)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE In the second line the speaker is asking a question, as Nazm points out. And as all the commentators observe, it's basically a scornful, negative, rhetorical one. (What honor does Ghalib have in the city? Why, none at all, of course!) As Bekhud Mohani observes, the whole effect works beautifully as a subtle form of praise for the King. It's so much more elegantly framed than the over-the-top hyperbolic flattery of, say, {177,10}. And just think how many ideas are conveyed by implication: =The King's favor is such an honor that it causes any recipient to give himself airs =This is true even in the case of a real nobody like Ghalib =Other people want the King's favor and keep an envious eye on anyone who receives it =Thus other people gossip about Ghalib and jealously seek to sneer at him This is one of the relatively few verses in the divan in which the speaker really doesn't seem to be the lover/poet persona; here we can't really even imagine, as we so often can, that he's talking to himself. The speaker really does seem to be a jealous person enjoying a round of spiteful gossip.

Ghazal 179 4 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: ye hote composed after 1847; Hamid p. 147; Arshi #222; Raza p. 299

{179,1} mai;N u;Nhe;N chhe;Ruu;N aur kuchh nah kahe;N chal nikalte jo mai piye hote 1) that I would tease her, and she would say nothing! 2) she would have started in, if she had [been in a state of having] drunk wine

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, it's surprising that I would tease her and she would say nothing. Here [in the second line] it would have been better [in idiomatic usage] to cut out the word 'wine'. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that I would tease her and in reply to this she wouldn't abuse me-this is surprising! It seems that at that time she hadn't been drinking wine; thus she understood that I was teasing her. (260-61)

Bekhud Mohani: At first he says, that I would tease her and she would remain silent-- I don't understand this. Then he himself reflects-- yes, indeed, the reason for her not becoming angry is that at that time she was not extremely drunk (when lovers tease beloveds, they hear abuse). (356)

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FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; FILL-IN WINE: {49,1} That idiomatic form chal nikalnaa is one that I had to ask people about, since I thought it might have some kind of double meaning. But apparently it doesn't; it just means 'to begin, to start doing something'. Sometimes, according to S. R. Faruqi, it can have slight erotic overtones. In the first line, the lover seems to be muttering to himself in amazement. We can't, of course, tell what kind of amazement. Is he relieved to escape so lightly, or disappointed that his witticisms produced no reaction, or simply surprised at her unusual quiescence? Under mushairah performance conditions, we of course have to wait for the second line and hope that it will enlighten us. Even when we hear the second line, however, we can't tell what alternative behavior on her part the lover might be envisioning. The commentators are sure that what she would have started doing is abusing the lover, but the verse is careful to leave the question open. Perhaps if she had been intoxicated, she might have started flirting, or teasing the lover in return, or doing something else that we can't tell from the verse but that long experience has taught the lover to expect. Since the whole verse is a sort of thoughtful mumble that the lover is saying to himself, it's not surprising that it remains cryptic. We readers have to do the work ourselves, by supplying the missing elements of behavior according to our own experience. The intimacy of the verse is what hooks us: it's as though we're overhearing the lover as he talks to himself, trying to make sense of her behavior (and thus of his own prospects too).

{179,2} qahr ho yaa balaa ho jo kuchh ho kaashke tum mire liye hote 1) whether you are a calamity, or you are a disaster-- whatever you are 2) if only you were for me!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is whether you are a calamity or you are a disaster-- whatever you are, if only you were in my destiny! And to seek out calamity and disaster for oneself is a rare/choice [naadir] theme. In addition to this, the beloved's mischievousness of temperament and combativeness, and his own ardor and longing-- in composing this verse he has captured a picture of both these things. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I've been specially selected for calamity and disaster, and you are entirely anger and entirely mischief. If only you had been written in my destiny-- and especially, if only you had become mine! The excellence with which he has sketched a picture of the beloved's mischievousness and illtemper, and his own ardor and longing-- it's impossible to praise it enough. (261)

Bekhud Mohani: The Rival has called the beloved a calamity and a disaster. She, being displeased, repeats his very words. The captive lover says, 'all right, so be it, indeed. Whether you are a calamity or a disaster, whatever you may be, if only you were mine!' That is, how would the Rival know your worth? If you had become mine, then I would have valued you as you ought to be valued. (356)

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Arshi: Compare {234,4}. (311)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; TRANSLATABLES The lover is eager to accept the beloved no matter what she is-- whether she's a 'calamity' or a 'disaster'. Perhaps these are two ends of a spectrum ('I'll take X whether it's black or white')-- in which case the range of possibilities is from 'calamity' to 'disaster'. Or perhaps they're thoughtfully chosen, as the attributes that best sum her up. Or perhaps they're just the first two possibilities that spring to mind when thinking of her. No matter how we read them, their synonymousness is so witty and clever that it's impossible not to relish it. Still, the verse presents itself as the cri de coeur of a sincere, naive lover. It consists of the simplest one- and two-syllable words, with no fancy rhetorical tricks or adornments whatsoever. Whatever amusement we in the audience find in the first line, the lover shows no sign of even noticing it, much less sharing it. He's too consumed with the simple longing that the beloved would be written into his destiny, would be 'for him'. As Nazm observes, he's thus ardently wishing upon himself calamities and disasters-- a 'rare' and 'choice' theme indeed. Despite its wit, we can surely call this, structurally at least, a verse of 'unattainable simplicity'. It's reminiscent of the verse by Momin for which, according to Hali, Ghalib would have traded his whole divan: see {5,1}.

{179,3} merii qismat me;N ;Gam gar itnaa thaa dil bhii yaa rab ka))ii diye hote 1) if in my destiny there was this much grief 2) oh Lord, if only you had given me a number of hearts too!

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To demand a number of hearts is a rare/choice eloquence, and this has made the verse rare/choice [naadir]. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if such an abundance of sorrow and grief had been written in my destiny, then, oh Lord, in hearts too-- instead of one, if only you had bestowed on me ten or twenty! So much grief can't be contained in one heart. Its rareness/choiceness of expression is worthy of praise. (261)

Bekhud Mohani: The first excellence of this verse is that he demands a number of hearts, and this is a new idea. The second excellence is that 'this much' [itnaa] is only 'this much' of a word, but in this verse, to envision the expanse of its meaning is impossible. It doesn't tell us how much the grief is, but says that it's 'this much', such that for enduring it a number of hearts are necessary. Within the scope of 'this much', the extremest grief of passion, and the greatest possible grief of daily living [rozgaar]-- all this is included. (357)

Mihr: Compare {62,6}. (225)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION Bekhud Mohani outdoes himself on this verse-- his analysis of 'this much' is excellent. He says we can form no concept of the amount of grief, and basically he's right; but we do get a small bit of help from 'too' [bhii]. Since the lover asserts that he should have been given 'a number of' hearts 'too', we

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can deduce that he has already been given 'a number of' times the normal individual amount of grief. Mihr suggests a comparison with {62,6}, in which the lover longs for 'a number of' not hearts but 'pure-blood-scattering eyes'. That image becomes grotesque, while the present verse does not: the extra hearts would be internal, and also we're not really made to envision them in any physical detail.

{179,4} aa hii jaataa vuh raah par ;Gaalib ko))ii din aur bhii jiye hote 1) he ['she'] would surely have {agreed / been persuaded}, Ghalib 2) if we had lived some days even/also more

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: 'To come on the road' [raah par aa jaanaa] is an idiom; it's meant to convey 'to agree, to be persuaded' [maan lenaa]. (202)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, gradually she would have been persuaded by our words. You died in haste-- otherwise, you should have lived some days more and pleaded with her. (261)

Bekhud Mohani: aa hii jaataa is telling us that it was necessary that that would happen; how long would that pitiless one not have agreed? aur bhii jiye hote -- that is, you had endured difficulty for many days; now it wouldn't have been very long until she became gracious. But you were in a rush [to die]. (357)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH The first line sets up a casual, colloquial assertion: he would have seen the light, he would have (literally) 'come onto the road'. Since the 'he' is in the masculine singular, and the statement is so vague, the speaker could be talking about any of the stock characters of the ghazal world. After all, every single one of them is masculine except (usually) the beloved, and even 'she' is always grammatically masculine. Under mushairah performance conditions, we're left to wonder what kind of 'agreement' the lover might be seeking, and from whom. As the second line progresses, we continue to wonder, for 'some days more as well' remains entirely opaque. In classic mushairah-verse style, this one withholds its meaning until the last possible moment-- until the rhyme itself, when there's no scope at all for postponing it any longer. Not until we hear jiye does the meaning of the whole verse suddenly come together for us all at once. Suddenly we get it; and once we've got it, we also realize that we've got it all; there's nothing more to 'get', no need for further review and reflection. The lover is dying, or already dead-- though we know this only by implication. (For other verses in which the dead lover speaks, see {57,1}.) Even in death, he remains obsessed by the great quest that governed his life: persuading the beloved to show him favor. On one reading, even now he's dauntlessly-- and crazily-- optimistic, boasting about his closeness to success. It would have been impossible, he thinks, for her to hold out much longer. He was getting to her! He was definitely just about to succeed, he thinks. She would surely have been persuaded, he thinks-- if only he had managed to live a little longer! He can't bear to think of her cruelty as inexorable, or of his loss of her as irrevocable; he holds the realization at bay by dwelling on fantasies of success.

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On another reading, he speaks in a tone of despair. How cruelly ironic that he should die just then, when he was on the point of success! How can he bear not to have had a chance to complete his task of persuasion! If only-- he tortures himself, in frustration-- he could have lived a bit longer! As so often, it's left up to us to choose a tone for this emotional, highly exclamatory verse. The grammar of the second line, however, emphasizes the time interval: he needed to live not just 'more' [aur], which would have done the grammatical job perfectly well (as in {66}), but aur bhii , 'even more', which emphasizes the length of time required. (As does 'some days' [ko))ii din] itself; the whole thing might even amount to a fairly long period.) Once the lover truly gives up, and ceases to obsess about his chances of persuasion, he's more than ready to depart: the classic example is {20,1}.

Ghazal 180 7 verses; meter G14; rhyming elements: aam ke composed 1853; Hamid p. 148; Arshi #231; Raza p. 327

{180,1} ;Gair le;N ma;hfil me;N bose jaam ke ham rahe;N yuu;N tishnah-lab pai;Gaam ke 1) the Other(s) would take, in the gathering, the kisses of the cup 2) we would remain, {like this / causelessly, for no particular reason}, thirsty-lipped for a message

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: This is a verse in a situation of longing, and by 'gathering' is meant the beloved's gathering, and by 'message' is meant the 'sought-for message', and he has brought in the word 'thirsty' because of wordplay with the word 'cup'. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the gathering is held regularly every day. Every day you go on joking with the Others, you go on giving to the Others, with your own hand, cups full of wine. We are thirsty-lipped for the sought-for message; that is, we remain deprived. Not even by accident are we ever invited to the gathering of coquetry. Longing drips from the words. (261)

Bekhud Mohani: The extremity of complaint, the limit of longing drips from it. That is, we who are in every way worthy of it, would never even be invited. 'Like this'-that is, so much indifference toward us would be established as permissible, that not even false inquiries would be made. 'Might take the kisses of the cup'-- from this there passes before our eyes the scene at the time of winedrinking, with the Rivals in a state of delightedly drinking wine, and the longing of the deprived rakish one [rind]. (357-58)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The two lines contrast the situation of the true lover with that of the Others, but how? The commentators' consensus is that he's not invited to the beloved's gatherings at all: he just stays home and tortures himself with visions of how much fun they're having. If we look carefully, however, we see that there are a number of possibilities =the Others are invited to her gatherings; we are not =the Others attend her gatherings; we do not (even if we're invited)

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=the Others drink wine; we do not =the Others flirtatiously 'kiss' the wine-cups; we do not We are, in short, much harder to please than the Others are; they will settle for a nice evening of sociability and drinking, while we are 'thirsty-lipped' not for wine or company or flirtation, but only for a 'message'. Of course, the verse doesn't tell us what the 'message' is about-- but then, it's not hard for us to come up with some ideas. Moreover, the whole thing is presented in the subjunctive mode, depicting something that 'might' or 'would perhaps' occur. This element of uncertainty adds to the multivalence of the verse. Could all this be hypothetical? If so, the lover may be planning his tactics for the future. Or else the first line could be construed as 'Others may take...' or 'Let others take...', while the second line would proposes the behavior that we ourselves would then adopt. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}.

{180,2} ;xastagii kaa tum se kyaa shikvah kih yih hathka;N;De hai;N char;x-e niilii-faam ke 1) what complaint is there to you about woundedness/sorrowfulness! --for these 2) are the stock-in-trade of the blue-colored sphere

Notes: ;xastah : 'Wounded, hurt; broken; infirm; sick, sorrowful; --fragile, brittle'. (Platts p.490) hathka;N;Daa : 'Ready at the hand (of); familiarly acquired and ever at command; --s.m. An art, or accomplishment; a handicraft, profession; --a habit, custom, knack'. (Platts p.1219) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the complaint is not to you, there's a complaint to my own destiny. And the word 'blue-colored' in this verse is only for the sake of the [rhyme of the] verse [bait]; it plays no part in the meaning. In elucidation [taaviil], we can say that a blue color is inauspicious, and is a sign of grief. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we don't complain to you of our ruin and destruction. This is the doing of the tyrannical and cruel ways of that inauspicious sky. That cruel one night and day keeps inventing new excuses and occasions [for oppression]. (261-62)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] How would I say that this word is for the sake of the [rhyme of the] verse, and plays no part in the meaning! 'Azure-robed' [arzaq-pairahan] in the meaning of 'trickster' [makkaar-o-((ayyaar] is common. [Three illustrative Persian verses, from Sa'adi, Jami, and Hafiz.] The word hathka;N;De kept tugging on his sleeve, but the pitiless commentator wouldn't listen for even a moment. This verse has no need for 'elucidation'-- and the 'elucidation' that was given is entirely inappropriate: this verse has no scope for 'inauspiciousness'. (358)

Arshi: Compare {36,2}, {167,5}. (185, 335)

FWP: SETS == WORD Bekhud Mohani has been waiting for a chance like this, and does he ever love it! He's got Nazm dead to rights: he skewers him, then twists the knife in the wound.

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This is the third of Arshi's group of three related verses; for each of them, he's been recommending comparison with the other two. And he's exactly right, of course-- they're a natural group to compare, and they really do shed light on each other. This is what I call a verse of 'word exploration, centered on hathka;N;De -and what a fine rich center it is! It shows (if showing was at all needed) that Ghalib is just as able and willing to play with the possibilities of colloquial Indic words as with those of fancy Persian ones. Every one of its meanings (see the definition above) is relevant to the first line, each in its own individually nuanced way. I'm rather proud of myself for coming up with 'stock-in-trade' as a rough translation. With its literal connection to merchandise and selling, and its colloquial sense of habitual activity or readily expected behavior, this phrase captures as many as possible of the senses of hathka;N;De . It would have been good to work in 'sleight-of-hand' too, in order to pick up the 'hand' imagery, and the evocation of the sky as an 'azure-robed' trickster.

{180,3} ;xa:t likhe;Nge garchih ma:tlab kuchh nah ho ham to ((aashiq hai;N tumhaare naam ke 1a) we will write a letter, although there might be no purpose/goal 1b) we will write a letter, although there might be no result/success 2) we are, after all, a lover of your name

Notes: ;xa:t : 'Writing, character, handwriting... a letter, epistle'. (Platts p.490) ma:tlab : 'A question, demand, request, petition; proposition; wish, desire; object, intention, aim, purpose, pursuit, motive'. (Platts p.1044) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: 'There being no purpose/goal' means that although there might not be a new theme to write in every letter, your name will appear. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if no new theme for writing a letter would come to hand, then so be it. We are a lover of your name. We write your name in the heading of the letter, and if there's no purpose/goal, then there isn't. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: Although there would be no necessary thing to write in the letter, we will certainly write the letter, because we do not care about the letter itself, nor about a new theme. We are, after all, a lover of your name; in it your name will appear again and again. [Or:] ma:tlab nah ho means that the purpose would not be achieved [ma:tlab nah nikle]. (358-59)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH WRITING: {7,3} Bekhud Mohani points out that the double meaning in the first line: ma:tlab nah ho , which is most easily read as 'there would be no purpose/goal' (in writing the letter) (1a), can also mean ma:tlab nah nikle , a 'purpose/goal would not be achieved' (by writing the letter)-- that is, it would be fruitless (1b). Another enjoyable subtlety, as Mehr Afshan Farooqi points out (Dec. 2005), is the double meaning of ;xa:t as both letter in the sense of 'epistle' or written message, and letter in the sense of 'character' (by which Platts means 'letter of the alphabet') or 'handwriting'. So the speaker might just be proposing to

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write the 'letters' of the beloved's adorable name, perhaps over and over, as lovers often do-- an activity that of course goes even more elegantly then with the second line. We can almost convey the multivalence of ;xa:t with 'letter', since it has the sense both of 'epistle' and of 'letter of the alphabet'. But then we have to add 'handwriting' to the possibilities as well. In the second line is a textbook case of the beauties of to . It balances the sentence so gracefully, colloquially, and untranslatably, that there's no way I can do it justice; 'after all' is much more cumbersome and limited. Imagine taking it out, and just think how much plainer and cruder the feeling of the words would be then. In good mushairah-verse style, the first line is piquant but uninterpretable, until we're allowed, after the usual delay, to hear the second-- which itself can't be understood until the last possible moment, with the simple, forceful naam . For a similar example of the lover's pleasure in merely mentioning the beloved, see {53,11}.

{180,4} raat pii zamzam pah mai aur .sub;h-dam dho))e dhabbe jaamah-e a;hraam ke 1) last night I drank wine by Zamzam, and at daybreak 2) I washed the stains on the pilgrimage robe

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, raat ko pii . To omit ko is now not in the idiom, but in the author's early years they used it without ko in both Delhi and Lucknow. Nasikh says [an example]. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, last night, seated by the well of Zamzam, we drank wine-- and that too, we drank in the state of having put on the pilgrimage robe, when the renunciation of all sins is considered necessary and indispensable! Then at down, we washed the stains that had fallen on the pilgrimage robe from drops of wine, and became pure and clean. In this verse he has captured a picture of rakishness [rindii] and mischievousness [sho;xii]. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if someone goes to the Ka'bah, then it is with the intention of worship. We went with the intention of enjoying wine-drinking by the well of Zamzam. And that the stains too would be washed there. In rakish wit [rindaanah ma;zaaq], this is a peerless verse. (359)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} WINE: {49,1} Here is a verse in which tone is everything-- and yet, what is the tone? We're left to assign one for ourselves. The commentators quite plausibly choose a rakish [rindaanah] one: the tone of bravado, of a self-consciously wild-andcrazy schoolboy prank ('You should have seen what we did last night-- we got drunk and went to the Cathedral and poured a bottle of wine into the holy-water font!'). But that's far from exhausting the possibilities. The verse reports two scenes. The first has four elements: night, wine, drinking, and Zamzam; on the basis of the second line, we assume the presence of one more as well: a pilgrimage robe. The second scene has three elements: daybreak, a stained pilgrimage robe, and the washing of the robe; on the basis of the first line, we assume the presence of one more as well:

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Zamzam. It's easy to draw up a number of contrasting pairs: night vs. day; the sacred requirements of the pilgrimage setting vs. the impure act of winedrinking; (impure) wine vs. (pure, sacred) Zamzam water; drinking vs. washing; a 'pure' and clean pilgrimage robe vs. a wine-stained one; a winestained pilgrimage robe vs. a washed one. The most complex sequence is that of the initially 'pure' pilgrimage robe, which then becomes a wine-stained one, which then becomes a washed one-and one washed in Zamzam water! What in the world are we to make of that? =The washing (in Zamzam water) is a true ritual cleansing, so that the robe and its wearer are re-purified, and the pilgrimage can continue =The 'washing' is a tongue-in-cheek joke or mockery, and demonstrates the wearer's rakish disdain for mere external pilgrimage rituals =The washing is a mere ordinary washing: the speaker notices that his clothes are stained, so since he's beside a well, he washes them; he reports this to us matter-of-factly, as part of a chronicle of events =The whole sequence of events is an abstract Sufistic allegory, conveying truths about mystical experience and the primacy of the 'inner' [baa:tin] over the 'outer' [:zaahir]. The drinking of wine at such a maximally pure place and time is such a major defiance of all religious rules! Yet it seems to be accommodated with matter-of-fact ease-- within the small space of the one line that reports it. Beyond that, we have no larger context whatsoever. Does the speaker really succeed in 'washing out', either literally or metaphorically, those spots in his pilgrimage robe? Does he, in short, get by with it? And if so, what exactly is the 'it' that he gets by with? Obviously, Ghalib meant for different readers to react variously to this verse, according to their own views and perceptions.

{180,5} dil ko aa;Nkho;N ne pha;Nsaayaa kyaa magar yih bhii ;halqe hai;N tumhaare daam ke 1a) how the eyes ensnared the heart!-- perhaps 1b) as if it was the eyes that ensnared the heart!-- but [rather] 2) these too are links of your net/snare

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, how the eyes have tormented the heart! But the additional meaning is, what have my eyes done-- they have trapped the bird of my heart! Perhaps the lover's eyes too are links of your net/snare. This meaning emerges with difficulty from these words; it has not been presented well. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how your eyes have ensnared our heart! But thus it is proved that our eyes too are links of your net/snare. The meaning is that the lover's eyes make him absorbed in the beauty of the beloved; thus it is proved that the eyes are links in the net/snare of the beloved. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: To call one's own eyes links in the net/snare of the beloved is a new idea-and is this excellence a small thing? By saying only kyaa , he directs the hearer's attention to however many, and whatever kinds, of sufferings that have come upon the heart. In this verse, this word is meaning-producing [ma((nii-;xez]. The verse is not defective in the presentation of its meaning. Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i did not deign to give it his attention. (359)

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. FWP: SETS == KYA; MAGAR Here's a clever combination of the possibilities of kyaa with those of magar . If we read the first line, with the commentators, as an exclamation of amazement at the ensnaring power of the eyes, then the line is perfectly set up to hypothesize a reason: 'perhaps' it happened that way because they're links in your net/snare (1a). But we can also read the first line as an indignant negative exclamation (as if the eyes did it! it was hardly the eyes that did it! the eyes didn't do it at all!), then the line is perfectly set up to invoke the meaning of magar as 'but': it wasn't the eyes themselves that did the damage in their own right, but rather their role as links in your net/snare (1b). On either reading, the question of whose eyes they are, the lover's or the beloved's, is also of course enjoyably left open. Eyes are round like the circular meshes in a net; the beloved's eyes too can be net-meshes just as plausibly as they can be shooters of glance-arrows. But if it's the lover's own eyes that have betrayed him, and have allied themselves with the ensnarer-then his situation is even more piquant, and his captivity is hopeless indeed.

{180,6} shaah ke hai ;Gusl-e .sa;h;hat kii ;xabar dekhiye kab din phire;N ;hammaam ke 1) there's news of the King's 'bath of recovery' 2) let's see when the fortune of the bath-house would turn

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By din phirnaa is meant for fortune/destiny to become favorable. (203)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, there is 'fresh news' [;xabar garm] of the King's 'bath of health'. Let's see when the fortune of the bath-house becomes favorable. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: There's news that the King's 'bath of health' is about to take place. Let's see when the fortune of the bath-house becomes favorable. (359)

Arshi: [Ghalib includes the first line, slightly altered, in a letter reporting Bahadur Shah's illness illness in July 1853 and final recovery in December.] (336)

FWP: What would it mean for the fortune of the bath-house to change-- or, literally, to 'turn around'? Perhaps simply that having the King come to bathe, especially on such an auspicious occasion as his recovery from an illness, would in itself constitute a great honor and pleasure for the bathhouse. Or perhaps the auspiciousness of having the King come to bathe would result in other improvements in the bath-house's fortune: perhaps the King or other nobles would endow the bath-house with some kind of improvements in honor of the occasion. Or perhaps even the cosmos itself, the hand of fate and destiny itself, would mark the happy event by decreeing an upswing in the fortune of the bath-house. And maybe, if the fortune of even a lowly and inanimate bath-house is to be so improved by the King's 'bath of recovery', the King will take the hint and realize that the fortune of the poet who celebrates his recovery could also use a bit of enhancing. A good verse for comparison is {169,4}, in which the fortune of the pearlseller is imagined as rising to a 'height'.

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{180,7} ((ishq ne ;Gaalib nikammaa kar diyaa varnah ham bhii aadmii the kaam ke 1) passion, Ghalib, made us useless/worthless 2) otherwise, we too were a person of use/capability/desire/passion

Notes: nikammaa : 'Without work, unemployed, idle; --unprofitable; base; --poor, not fertile'. (Platts p.1149) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1862:] There's a parcel from Lalah Balmukund 'Besabr' that came days ago, and still as yet I haven't even opened it. Ten or fifteen ghazals of the Navab Sahib's are lying around-{180,7} [but with 'weakness' [.zu((f] substituted for 'passion' [((ishq]] That ode of yours came yesterday. Today, before the sun is high, I've looked it over [and corrected it], made an envelope for it, and sent a man to the post office with it. (Arshi 336) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 338 ==another Eng. trans: Russell and Islam, p. 280

Ghalib: [1867:] {180,7}: I'm sixty-five years old. Decline in strength, weakness of intellect, thoughts of death, grief of the end. I'm now no longer as you've seen me. The work [kaam] of poetry and prose goes on simply through the force of fifty years of practice [mashq]; otherwise, where is the brilliance of the true temper of thought [jauhar-e fikr ki ra;xshandagii]? An old wrestler describes the holds, but can't exert the force. Anyway, convey my salaam to the Hakim Sahib, and tell him that he should regularly send his poetry, with no formality. After I have given correction, it will regularly be returned to him. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 786

Bekhud Dihlavi: It's a clear and simple verse, and then it's not devoid of pleasure. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: Passion made us useless. Otherwise, like others, he too were a man of use/capability. From this verse it necessarily emerges that passion doesn't leave any man fit for use/work. (359)

Arshi: [In an essay read at the Delhi Society, and in conversations with friends in the 1860's, Ghalib quoted the verse in the changed form. When one friend asked him about the change, he replied, 'The word ((ishq was connected with that time. Now I am ashamed of the word.'] (337)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The first line gives us nikammaa , and of course we recognize it as meaning generally 'worthless'. But still, there are lots of directions in which the second line could go, lots of kinds of misery, suffering, and debility that could be adduced as examples. In good mushairah performance style, we have to wait for further revelation until we hear the second line. And even then, the second line withholds its punch-word until the last possible moment: kaam . Only then do we realize that the opposition between kaam and its derivative opposite, nikammaa , is at the heart of the verse. The word nikammaa points us to the most common meaning of kaam : something like 'action, act, deed, work, doing, handiwork, performance; work, labour, duty, task, job'. Ghalib's own use of the verse in letters also points us in that same general direction.

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But the position of kaam as a 'punch-word' invites us to give it particular attention, and then of course we recall its double meaning: it also has, through both Persian and Sanskrit, a powerful range of 'desire'-related meanings: 'inclination, wish, desire, longing, inordinate desire; affection, love, passion; sexual passion; lust'. (For more discussion of these double meanings, see {22,5}.) And how that second sense enriches the verse! The first reading enjoyably emphasizes the opposition-- and the connection-- between usefulness and uselessness; in the first line, it focuses our attention on nikammaa . But the second reading emphatically reminds the audience that it was 'passion' itself that wrecked us-- in the first line, it focuses our attention on ((ishq . For 'otherwise', before we became useless, we were a person as full of 'desire' and 'longing' and even 'passion' as anybody else. It was passion, in short, that made us useless, 'poor', 'not fertile'-- and thus incapable of passion.

Ghazal 181 7 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aa))ii composed 1855; Hamid p. 149; Arshi #232; Raza p. 338

{181,1} phir is andaaz se bahaar aa))ii kih hu))e mahr-o-mah tamaashaa))ii 1) again/then spring came with {this kind of / such a} style/manner 2) that sun and moon became spectacle-viewers

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: [Commenting on the whole ghazal:] In this season the air, like wine, creates intoxication. Now, what need is there to drink wine? (204)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, once again the spring season has some with such a fine style that sun and moon have become its spectacle-viewers. (262-63)

Bekhud Mohani: Again spring came in such a way that the sun and the moon became absorbed in the spectacle. (360)

Shadan: This is not a ghazal; rather, it's a verse-set or an opening-verse expressing happiness at the companionship of Zafar Shah. (406)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} The commentators tend to treat this as something like a verse-set, though most of them don't use the term. Many of them present all the verses together, and comment on them as a group. Bekhud Dihlavi identifies the ghazal as including a verse-set that begins with the second verse (263). Shadan actually asserts that it's not a ghazal; Chishti pointedly refers to it as a 'poem' [na:zm] (730), while Mihr calls it a 'solid/fixed poem [mustaqil na:zm], with all its verses continuous' (599). It's easy to see why they do so, since the whole ghazal obviously does have an unusual degree of unity. To me the whole ghazal certainly feels like a verse-set; but Arshi doesn't mark it as such, so obviously Ghalib didn't either. S. R. Faruqi describes it (Dec. 2005) as a continuous ghazal. This ghazal has a similar sense of something even more than flowingness-- a sense in fact of rushing along, of a continued strong, eager flow of thought and feeling from one verse to the next. The ghazal wants to be read as a whole, and that desire just oozes out of it, no matter whether we officially call it a verse-set or not. The verses, if taken one by one, are quite unGhalibianly simple and plain.

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In some ways it's reminiscent of {49}, which with its unifying 'wave of wine' has a similar feeling of thematic unity and of rushing along from verse to verse. But many verses of {49} are individually powerful and brilliant, while none of the verses in the present ghazal have as much force. It can perhaps best be compared with the verse-set beginning with {162,4}; though that one too seems to have somewhat more striking individual verses. Obviously, it culminates in rejoicing at the King's restored health, in {181,7}. So perhaps, since the whole cosmos joins in celebration, it should be considered a form of ode to the King in his restoration to health. And in that specificity of context it can be compared to the elegy for Arif, {66}; and to the more generalized elegy in {139}.

{181,2} dekho ay saakinaan-e ;xi:t:tah-e ;xaak is ko kahte hai;N ((aalam-aaraa))ii 1) look, oh dwellers of the region of dust 2) this is what they call 'world-adornment'

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh dwellers of the region of dust, look at the spectacle-- this is what they call the adorning of the whole world. (263)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh people of the world, look-- this is what they call the adorning of the world. (360)

Josh: Oh people dwelling on the ground, look-- this is what they call adorning the world. (306)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. This verse strongly presupposes the prior presence of {181,1}, since otherwise the 'this' in the second line has no meaning; only through the previous verse do we know that it refers to the sudden inrush of spring. The verse has notable sound effects: ;xi:t:tah-e ;xaak in the first line, with its scrapey consonants like clods of dirt, is contrasted with ((aalam-aaraa))ii in the second, with its mellifluous long vowels and sense of flowingness.

{181,3} kih zamii;N ho ga))ii hai sar-taa-sar ruu-kash-e sa:t;h-e char;x-e miinaa))ii 1) for the earth has become, from end to end 2) a rival/peer of the surface/expanse of the enamelled/azure sphere

Notes: miinaa))ii : 'Of enamel, enamelled; -- s.f. Enamel'. (Platts p.1108) miinaa : 'Heaven, paradise; the sky, the azure vault; --a blue colour; --a false gem of a blue colour; a glass globule or bead;... enamel'. (Platts p.1107) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, on the earth greenery and roses have grown to such an extent that the earth has become equal to the cover of the surface of the enamel-colored sphere. (263)

Bekhud Mohani: So that the whole earth and sky have become equal to enamel-work. (360)

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Shadan: ruu-kash = 'making ashamed' [sharmindah kun] . (406)

Josh: That is, the earth, from beginning to end, with the enamel-color from the spring, is making the sky ashamed. (306)

FWP: This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. This verse strongly presupposes the prior presence of {181,2}, since it begins with 'for', or 'since' or 'in that' [kih]-- which makes fine sense if we think of it as continuing the thought of {181,2}, and makes no sense at all otherwise. The 'enamelled' (or perhaps 'azure') sphere is the sky, with its brilliant shades of blue, white clouds, and silvery stars. Since the earth is now all green-- see the next verse, {181,4}, for confirmation-- it's an equal or rival in its vivid, pervasive coloring. As a rule I rely on Platts, supplemented by Steingass, and rarely do they mislead. But apparently they do mislead in this case, so I'm recording their definitions just to show that nobody's perfect. Platts offers, ruu-kash : 'Having or presenting an exterior different from the interior; --anything whose exterior and interior differ; --cover of a mirror' (602). Steingass agrees: 'Anything whose exterior and interior differ' (596). Not only do modern dictionaries tend to offer for ruu-kash , as Tahira Naqvi and other members of the Urdulist have pointed out, definitions like 'rival', but the commentators seem broadly to agree. And when I checked with S. R. Faruqi, he agreed too, and said (Dec. 2005) that that meaning is common in Persian too; he observed that the definition by Platts and Steingass was apparently based on another definition, as 'lining', given in the early Indo-Persian dictionary burhaan-e qaa:ti(( . Other verses for comparison: {15,12}; {112,8}.

{181,4} sabze ko jab kahii;N jagah nah milii ban gayaa ruu-e aab par kaa))ii 1) when the greenery didn't get space anywhere 2) it became scum/moss on the face of the water

Notes: kaa))ii : 'Green scum on stagnant water, water-moss'. (Platts p.808) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, greenery was begotten to such an extent that it covered the whole earth, and now when no space on earth remained for its growth, then out of necessity it began to manifest itself in the form of scum on the water. (263)

Bekhud Mohani: There occurred such an abundance of greenery that when no space any longer remained on earth, then it became scum on the water. (360)

Josh: That is, on the whole earth there was nothing but greenery and more greenery, but the movement of growth didn't come to an end. The new greenery, having been unsuccessful in its search for space, congealed as scum on the surface of the water. (306)

FWP: This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. This verse seems to presuppose the previous verses, not logically-- since it's grammatically complete-- but semantically, since the questions of what

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greenery we're talking about, and why it would need extra space, and why that fact is worth mentioning, can only be answered with reference to the ghazal as a whole. Here's an attempt to turn the repellent-- the smelly, oozy green scum that congeals on stagnant water-- into something charming: an essence of greenness, a verdant force of spring that is bound to burst out everywhere and in all forms. Does this movement of anti-grotesquerie succeed? (Or rather, in a verse as slight as this one, does the question even matter?)

{181,5} sabzah-o-gul ke dekhne ke liye chashm-e nargis ko dii hai biinaa))ii 1) for seeing the greenery and the rose 2) it has given sight to the eye of the narcissus

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the eye of the narcissus is considered to be blind. But now, the Gardener of the World has graciously bestowed sight upon it, so that it would be able to see the spectacle of the abundance of the greenery and roses. (263)

Bekhud Mohani: The Lord, who adorned the world with spring, because of the greenery and flowers, bestowed light in the eye of the narcissus, so that it would be able to see the springtime of greenery and roses. (360)

Josh: The eye of the narcissus is normally blind. But in order to see this spring, Nature has given sight to it too. Since this ghazal has ended with the good news of the health of the auspicious King, he has thus in every verse continuously [musalsal] used the theme of spring.

FWP: This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. For another example of the blindness of the narcissus, with discussion, see {56,4}. But who has now given to its blind eye the power of sight? The verse omits the subject, as of course is colloquially permissible if the subject is clear from the context. The commentators tend to be convinced that the giver is God. But there's no context that would cause us to suppose so; their view seems to be based mainly on pious assumptions. The only way the verse can obtain the necessary context is by presupposing the presence of earlier verses in this ghazal. The earlier verses contain no reference to God; rather, the giver of sight seems most plausibly to be the power of Spring itself. This makes perfect sense, since after all the narcissus is a flower, and what else has spring been doing in this ghazal except multiplying and empowering greenery and flowers?

{181,6} hai havaa me;N sharaab kii taa;siir baadah-noshii hai baad-pemaa))ii 1) in the air is the effect of wine 2a) {'measuring out' / drinking} the breeze is wine-drinking 2b) wine-drinking is {'measuring out' / drinking} the breeze

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Hali: This verse is in praise of spring. In it 'measuring out the breeze' has generated two meanings. They call doing a task in vain 'measuring out the breeze'. Thus one meaning of it is that the air of the spring season is so joyproducing that it's as if the effect of wine has appeared in it. And since this state exists, wine-drinking is merely measuring out the breeze-- that is, it's a useless task. In this situation wine-drinking will be the subject, and 'measuring out the breeze' the predicate. The other meaning is that 'measuring out the breeze' should be taken as the subject, and wine-drinking as the predicate, and just as 'measuring out wine' [baadah-pemaa))ii] means drinking wine, in the same way 'measuring out the breeze' means drinking the breeze. In this situation the meaning will emerge that nowadays even to inhale the air is to drink wine. (133)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, nowadays in the breeze of greenery and roses is an intoxication like that of wine. They all, without having drunk anything, sway back and forth. In such a situation, to drink wine is a futile action. (360)

Shadan: When in the air of this time is the effect of wine, and it makes one drunk and intoxicated, then to drink wine is a useless task [kaar-e be-kaar]. (407)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY WINE: {49,1} This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. What a lovely job of explication Hali does! Most of the commentators are content simply to paraphrase it. Although pemaa has the literal sense of 'measuring out', it can be used for the process of gradually traversing something, such as a flow of wine-- thus, in effect, drinking it. A parallel use: in qaumii tarannah Iqbal concludes with the line, hotaa hai jaadah-pemaa phir kaaravaa;N hamaaraa -- 'again our caravan is 'road-measuring', that is, 'gradually traversing the road', or, in effect, moving along.

{181,7} kyuu;N nah dunyaa ko ho ;xvushii ;Gaalib shaah-e dii;N-daar ne shafaa paa))ii 1) why wouldn't the world feel happiness, Ghalib 2) the faith-possessing King obtained health

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In the first line of the closing-verse, there was the word 'world'. Through affinity with it, in the second line he has brought in the word 'faith'. (204)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, how would the world-- that is, the whole era-- not obtain happiness, the faith-possessing King has recovered his health after illness. (264)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, why wouldn't the whole world be happy? Because that King has obtained health, who is faith-possessing. (360)

FWP: This whole ghazal has an unusual degree of internal coherence; for discussion, see {181,1}. This tightly woven little ghazal, really a sort of ode, has now reached its triumphant conclusion, in a rhetorical question that connects a universal

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cosmic springtime to the King's restored health. Compare this verse to {180,6}, composed two years earlier, no doubt to celebrate a different recovery. As Nazm points out, the wordplay of diin and dunyaa , 'faith' and 'world', is well established. The two words have a fine alliterative quality (more evident in the Urdu script, in which all three letters in the former are also contained in the latter); they are paired opposites that help to define each other. Here, of course, as Nazm also implies, there's no reason for the 'faith' in the second line except the echo the 'world' in the first line. That is certainly a sign of weak construction. But then, it's hardly worth finding fault. This isn't really a 'ghazal' in the true Ghalibian mode. If he normally composed ghazals of such perfunctoriness and such third-rate quality, I wouldn't be interested enough to write this; and you wouldn't be interested enough to read it. To feel the full force of the contrast between this and a real 'Ghalibian' ghazal, just go right on to {182,1}.

Ghazal 182 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aalii hai composed 1821; Hamid p. 149; Arshi #150; Raza p. 242

{182,1} ta;Gaaful-dost huu;N meraa dimaa;G-e ((ajz ((aalii hai agar pahluu tihii kiije to jaa merii bhii ;xaalii hai 1) I am a negligence-{lover/friend}, my 'mind'/pride of weakness is lofty 2) if {withdrawal / 'a vacant side'} would be made, then my place too is empty

Notes: ta;Gaaful : 'Unmindfulness, heedlessness, forgetfulness, neglect, negligence, inattention, inadvertence, indifference, listlessness'. (Platts p.328) ((ajz : 'Powerlessness, impotence, weakness, helplessness, submission, wretchedness'. (Platts p.759) pahluu tihii : 'Drawing aside, withdrawing (from); evasion, shirking, neglect'. (Platts p.289) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, weakness and humility have assumed such a dominance in my temperament that I am pleased only by inattentiveness and unkindness toward me. To 'make the side empty' is as if to make a place empty for me, for I consider aversion to be kindness. (204)

Bekhud Mohani: pahluu tihii = inattentiveness. There is so much humility in my temperament that the inattentiveness of the people of the world suits me. If you are inattentive to me, then my place too would depart. That is, it only pleases me when someone doesn't honor me; if in truth you want to show me honor, then don't direct your attention toward me. I will consider that you have shown me great respect. (361)

Faruqi: In the verse there are two pivotal expressions, 'mind' [dimaa;G] and 'an empty side' [pahluu tihii]. 'Mind' has a number of meanings. The one that's helpful to our purposes is 'pride, arrogance'. [Examples of modern Urdu idiomatic usage of this kind.] Thus the meaning of 'mind of weakness'

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becomes 'pride and arrogance about weakness'. And meraa dimaa;G-e ((ajz ((aalii hai becomes 'I have extremely much pride in my weakness'. Here too Ghalib, as is his habit, has used metaphor upon metaphor. For the mind to be lofty is a metaphor. It means 'to be very intelligent, for the mind to be very powerful'. Then for 'mind' to mean 'pride, arrogance' is another metaphor. Ghalib has combined the two and made a third: 'for the mind of weakness to be lofty'. The meaning of 'an empty side' [pahluu tihii] people have taken to be 'inattention, ignoring, unkindness', etc. In fact, its meaning is 'shunning, avoiding'. It's true that this meaning suggests 'inattention', etc., but 'inattention' etc. is not the real meaning of this idiom.... Some people dislike negligence. But I, on the basis of my weakness, like negligence. This is my distinctive quality; thus I also pride myself on it. Thus if you would shun me, then you'll find my place empty as well. That is, on the basis of my 'negligence-friendship' and pride in weakness I won't have anything to do with you, and you won't find anyone else like me. Thus my place will surely remain empty. Another interpretation is this. Negligence is pleasing to me, and it's also such that I'm very proud of my weakness. Thus if you would shun me, I too will make my place in the gathering empty. If I were only a 'negligence-friend', then perhaps your shunning would not seem bad to me. But since I'm also proud of my weakness, where you shun me, I too rise from my place and leave. The point is that 'negligence' and 'to make the side empty' are two separate things. Negligence is that someone wouldn't pay attention to us; and 'to make the side empty' is that someone would shun us, upon seeing us would move away, would avert his eyes, would withdraw. Negligence is pleasing to us, but we don't care for shunning. Negligence is pleasing because in it deliberate inattentiveness and disregard are not proven. Because of my weakness and humility I am happy that you show me negligence, you don't straightforwardly disdain me. But shunning is deliberate; in it there's an element of disdain. Thus where you shun me, then I leave my place empty. A third interpretation can be this: that I am arrogant about my weakness, and arrogant to such an extent that because of it even negligence pleases me. Because the claim of weakness is that you would absolutely overturn your individuality, and would cherish the thing (for example, negligence) that your individuality would reject. Thus if you shun me, then I'll be even happier, and I'll consider that you've emptied a place for me. Since tahii means empty [;xaalii], between pahlu tahii and jaa merii bhii ;xaalii hai the relationship of iihaam and .zil((a always remains established. (307-08)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Well, here is a madly Ghalibian verse, and what a treat after the perfunctory little {181}. The first line is so ostentatiously abstract and multivalent that it's quite impossible to figure it out on its own. What is a 'negligence{lover/friend}'? Someone who is involved with 'negligence', no doubt-- but how? By accepting it from others without demur, as the commentators generally maintain? Or by pointedly showing it toward others at every opportunity? Or by cherishing 'Negligence' as a friend or lover for his/her/its own sake? The first line gives us not the slightest ground for choosing any one possibility over the others. Nor, of course, can we decide what it means to claim that one's 'mind/pride of weakness is lofty'. It's the kind of thing Ghalib puts together when he wants to keep us guessing. We know it's going to be something paradoxical and perverse, but what beyond that can we possibly say? We're obliged to

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wait-- and under mushairah performance conditions, that wait will of course be as long as possible-- for the second line. But as we've been secretly fearing, the second line offers simply a new pair of compared-and-contrasted complexities. The verb kiije is an archaic form of the passive, kiyaa jaa))e , 'would be made'; from it we can get no hint of who or what might be doing the 'withdrawing'-- or literally, with the usual elegant Ghalibian wordplay, the 'making vacant of the side'. If this 'withdrawing' is made, then 'my place too is empty'-- if there's withdrawing going on, then I am a part of it. But who or what might be doing with withdrawing, and what is the sequence of events? The grammar is consistent with two possibilities: the withdrawal might come first, then the emptying of my place (X withdraws, then notices that my place has suddenly become empty too, since I have instantly reacted to his withdrawing by my own withdrawal); or else the emptying of my place might come first, then the withdrawal (X withdraws-- and in the process notices that my place is already empty, since I had previously withdrawn unnoticed, or perhaps had never been there at all). Either sequence of events is consistent with the quite inscrutable qualities of being a 'negligence-friend' whose 'mind/pride of weakness is lofty'. And what might be the point of such 'withdrawing'? It might of course be a sign of arrogance, disdain, rejection (on the part of the beloved? by some patron?); but it might also be a sign of diffidence, modesty, humility, weakness-- in fact of exactly the kind of 'pride in weakness' that the speaker attributes to himself. And is the 'withdrawing' identical with being a 'negligence-friend', or some kind of consequence of it? And what is the tone of the verse-- proud, humble, ironic, matter-of-fact? There are so many such questions, and we're given so little material with which to answer them, that we really end up inventing the verse for ourselves.

{182,2} rahaa aabaad ((aalam ahl-e himmat ke nah hone se bhare hai;N jis qadar jaam-o-subuu mai-;xaanah ;xaalii hai 1) the world remained populated/inhabited, from/with the nonexistence of people of courage, 2) to the extent that the glass and flagon are filled, the wine-house is empty

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: This thought might perhaps have arisen in someone else's heart as well, but the illustration [tam;siil] has made it an entirely untouched theme, and has lifted the verse to an extremely high level. That is, if there were people of courage in the world, who would consider the world to be a mere nothing and would have no affection for it, then the world would become desolate. Thus one ought to know that the world appears populated because people of courage are not to be found. That is, just as in a winehouse the fact that glass and flagon remain filled with wine proves that there's no wine-drinker, in the same way the world's being settled and populated proves that there are no people of courage in it. (126)

Nazm: The gist is that to the extent that glass and flagon are filled, to that same extent the wine-house is empty. That is, the glass and flagon's becoming brimful of wine are the cause of the wine-house's becoming empty. This is an illustration [tam;siil] of how the world's remaining populated is a proof of the non-existence of people of courage, and their non-existence is is the cause of the inhabitedness of the world. If they existed, then because of their generous presence the world's remaining populated would be difficult-- the

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way because of the generous presence of glass and flagon, the wine-house's remaining full is difficult. (204)

Hasrat: Compare {91,3}.... This too is worth reflecting on: that if in the beloved's gathering, along with other people there would also be someone who loves her truly, then it's certain that the beloved will address herself to others and neglect that one. It is illuminated to the 'people of the heart' that this negligence is better than [a show of] affection. (142)

Bekhud Mohani: If people of courage existed in the world, then because of their generosity the world would not remain populated-- whatever they found, they would give away; no regime would remain established. Just look-- to the extent that the glass and flagon are filled, to that same extent the wine-house has become empty. The inhabitedness of the world is a proof of the non-existence of people of courage; and their non-existence is a cause of the world's inhabitedness. He has said a new thing, and by giving an illustration [tam;siil] has made his thought into a mirror. (361)

FWP: SETS == A,B WINE: {49,1} The commentators, following Hali, generally agree on reading the two lines independently, with the second one acting as a straightforward illustration of the first: =because the world remained populated, [it's proved that] people of courage don't exist =because glass and flagon are full, [it's proved that] the wine-house is empty In other words, if people of courage existed, the world wouldn't or couldn't remain populated. My own inclination is to treat the grammar as showing enjambement: =with/from the nonexistence of people of courage, the world remains populated =[only] to the extent of 'the glass and flagon are full, the wine-house is empty' In other words, the world remains populated only in a limited and material sense, in a trivial way that misses its whole real purpose: it's like a wellarranged wine-house with no drinkers. If there were 'people of courage' in the world, it would only then fulfill its true destiny; its rich, well-organized resources would be used appropriately for higher purposes. Although mine is a minority reading, I think it makes better sense of the tense shift between the two lines-- and also a more thoughtful meaning in general.

Ghazal 183 9 verses; meter G11; rhyming elements: aanii merii composed 1826; Hamid p. 150; Arshi #200; Raza pp. 266-67

{183,1} kab vuh suntaa hai kahaanii merii aur phir vuh bhii zabaanii merii 1) when does she listen to my story? 2) and then that too, from my own lips?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: The author has contrived two levels of listening: one, listening; and the other, to listen from my own lips. This feat is the cause of the excellence of the verse, and in meaning such subtle details always give pleasure. All the other words of the verse are are so intertwined [dast-o-garebaan] that it seems that both lines emerge in the very first thought-- he was not compelled to take any trouble [takalluf], such that first he would have composed the lower line, then after thought achieved the upper line. (204-05)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the first difficulty and trouble is that she doesn't listen at all to my story-- that is, to the state of my difficulties. And then along with this, difficulty is piled on difficulty and trouble on trouble, for when does she listen to it from my own lips? The 'seating' of the words, the trimness of the construction, the elegance of the expression, the loftiness of the thought-- in this opening-verse all these things have been beautifully put together. It's beyond all praise. (265)

Bekhud Mohani: When does the beloved listen to my story (the state of my heart) at all? And that too, from my own lips? The flowingness of the verse is worthy of praise. In this poem is the clarity of prose. (361)

Shadan: The whole verse is shaped in the mold of colloquial speech [bol-chaal kii zabaan], and it is entirely a verse of inspiration [aamad]. It is extremely clear and flowing. (408)

Josh: In this brief ground, to pull out an unforced and informal opening-verse is worthy of praise. (307)

FWP: Here is a simple little verse, yet entirely inshaa))iyah in structure, so that its questions continue to resonate. But are they rhetorical? ('Of course she doesn't ever!') Cynical? ('As if she'd ever deign to do anything of the sort!') Ruefully amused? ('I really don't know why I keep wasting my life on her.') Despairing? (Think of {20,1}.) There's one more possibility-- the tone could be deeply suspicious. What if she's now apparently eager to hear my tale of woe, and that too from my own lips? But I'm not a total fool. I ask myself what she can be up to, and how probable it is that she's sincere. And needless to say, the answer isn't pretty. Think of the similar, morbidly ominous question in {97,5}. Is it paranoid? (But then, paranoids have enemies too.) Verses of mood are very much in the tradition, after all, and this seems to be a fine example. The fact that we have to decide on the mood for ourselves is no surprise-- it's completely par for the Ghalibian course. In Karachi an elderly gentleman once asked me, in a slightly superior way, whether I liked Ghalib or Zauq better. He nodded knowingly when I chose Ghalib. All you foreigners, he said, like Ghalib because you like fancy pyrotechnics and awkward, unidiomatic convolutions of language. And this is because you're not native speakers of Urdu, not real ahl-e zabaan , so you're not able to appreciate the subtle charms of simple, accurate, fluent, colloquial speech. He smiled at me with sympathy for my tone-deafness. I smiled at him with sympathy for his blindness to the joys of metaphysical subtlety. Nowadays, I'm working on ways to appreciate simplicity and complexity both. Ghalib obviously did, so why shouldn't we? We outsiders who devote years to this poetry eventually become insiders of a sort. And nowadays there are no real insiders left anyway-- Ghalib's literary and linguistic world,

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like Shakespeare's, is one that we all have to work to understand. Even-- or especially-- in the case of (deceptively) simple verses like this one.

{183,2} ;xalish-e ;Gamzah-e ;xuu;N-rez nah puuchh dekh ;xuu;N-naabah-fishaanii merii 1) the pricking/anxiety of blood-scattering side-glances-- don't ask! 2) look at my pure-blood-shedding

Notes: ;xalish : 'Pricking, pain; care, solicitude, anxiety; apprehension, suspicion, misgiving;-- putting a stop to, interruption'. (Platts p.492) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the blood-scattering of the side-glances has created a wound in the liver, so that I am weeping with tears of blood. (205)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why do you ask me about the state of the scratching of the bloodscattering side-glances? How can I express the pricking/anxiety of it? It has made a wound in the heart, and an abcess in the liver. Seeing this, I am weeping tears of blood. (265)

Bekhud Mohani: He says to the beloved, all right, don't ask what the pricking/anxiety of the blood-scattering side-glances has done. Just look at the spectacle of my blood-shedding. (361)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY Here is the 'inexpressibility trope'-- something in the first line is so far beyond words, so inconceivably extreme, that it's beyond not only explanation but even any attempt at explanation. Thus you shouldn't 'ask'-instead, you should 'look'. But just what kind of contrast is intended? Here are some possibilities: =Don't ask with your lips-- instead, use your eyes and look =Don't ask about her behavior-- instead, consider my behavior =Don't ask about the pricking/anxiety-- instead, look at the results of it Then in the second line, the dekh -- which is primarily and most obviously an intimate imperative-- could also be read as dekh kar , with the kar colloquially deleted. This reading creates a reversed time sequence: instead of 'don't ask, look!' we have 'having looked, don't ask!'. There's also the piquant similarity-and-contrast between the way her sideglances are 'blood-scattering' and I am-- through my tears and/or wounds-'blood-shedding'. Are we thus in cooperation, or are we in competition; or am I merely an utterly vulnerable victim, with her side-glances as arrows? The verse is so stingy with its information that it doesn't even tell us whose side-glances they are (though of course we can guess). The verse is entirely focused on replacing speech ('don't ask') with sight-and that too a vivid sight, a vision of two sprays of bright blood. Beyond that basic physical image, what is the mood or tone of the verse? Proud, rueful, agonized, matter-of-fact, melancholy? As so often, it's been left up to us to interpret the feeling-tone verse for ourselves.

{183,3} kyaa bayaa;N kar ke miraa ro))e;Nge yaar magar aashuftah-bayaanii merii 1a) as if, having mentioned me, the friends/beloved will weep! 1b) having mentioned me, will the friends/beloved weep? 1c) having mentioned me, how the friends/beloved will weep!

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2) perhaps/but-- my distractedness of speech

Notes: aashuftah : 'Distracted, disturbed, distressed; disordered; uneasy, wretched, miserable; enamoured, deeply in love'. (Platts p.57) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, after having mentioned my qualities [va.sf] how they will weep. And this type of omission after kyaa commonly occurs-- [for example] mai;N ne tumhaaraa kyaa kiyaa , that is, kyaa nuq.saan kiyaa . (205)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what quality is there in me, having mentioned which my friends will weep after my death? But/perhaps there is my distractedness of speech, perhaps having remembered this they might weep. Distractedness of speech has here been said because of humility. The truth is that the mischievousnesses of Mirza Sahib's expression are so incomparable and unique that no [other] poet's style can reach the special character of his style. (265)

Bekhud Mohani: An individual is downcast at the thought [that] in me there's no quality such that anybody, remembering it after my death, would weep. In this state something comes to mind, and he says, perhaps they'll remember my tangled speech and weep. (362)

FWP: SETS == KYA; MAGAR The first line provides a classic threefold use of kyaa , the kind we've seen so often. But look at the second line! First, the double sense of magar (as either 'but' or 'perhaps') helps the line easily accommodate any of the three senses of kyaa . But even more ravishing is aashuftah-bayaanii merii . The phrase, verbless as it is, itself forms an example of 'distractedness of speech', it 'enacts' the condition it describes. And how beautifully it both echoes and contrasts with the bayaa;N karnaa that the friends/beloved might be doing in the first line. When they mention me, their speech is apparently fluent, selfcontrolled, and unhindered; my 'distractedness of speech' is just the opposite. Yet in its wildness and pathos it's my only claim to fame-- the only reason that, when they mention me, they might weep (or not, as the case may be). Nazm thinks that meraa has to modify a colloquially omitted masculine noun like va.sf . I don't see why it can't be considered to modify bayaa;N itself.

{183,4} huu;N z ;xvud-raftah-e baidaa-e ;xayaal bhuul jaanaa hai nishaanii merii 1) I am one who is gone-from-himself {into / by means of / away from / of} the desert of thought 2) to forget is my mark/sign/token

Notes: baidaa : 'A desert, an uninhabited dangerous region'. (Steingass p. 217) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, I go out of thought, and that my friends forget me is also my sign/token. By 'thought' is meant 'the friends' thought'; and he has imagined this to be a field, and has described himself as being 'carried away from himself' from this field. (205)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that I go out of my friends' thought, and for my friends to forget me is itself my sign/token. (265)

Bekhud Mohani: I have become carried away from myself in the desert of thought, and my self-lessness proves this-- that is, my falling silent like young people. My remaining deeply lost says that I'm always absorbed in some thought. [Or:] I am lost in the desert of thought; those people who forget themselves, find me. That is, I'm always absorbed in my own thoughts and preoccupations, and only those people can understand my state who are in this state themselves. (362)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT How much richer and more provoking can an i.zaafat be, than the one in the first line? It's like a pivot around which the various meanings of the line keep turning. Here are some of the possibilities: =I am one who is gone from himself into the desert of thought-- somehow I can't keep my mind from wandering off into that desolate, abstract wilderness =I am one who is gone-from-himself by means of the desert of thought-- the desert of thought itself swoops down upon me, seizes me, and transports me away from myself into its own strange landscape =I am one who is gone from himself away from the desert of thought-somehow I have been lured or dragged away from the desert of thought where I was wandering =I am the gone-from-himself one who is of the desert of thought-- that's how you can distinguish me from all the other gone-from-themselves ones This remarkable range of possibilities is Ghalib's reward for cleverly and tantalizingly hooking up one abstraction to another, so that it's impossible to narrow down the ways in which the i.zaafat is to be construed. Then the second line sets up one of his magnificent plays with paradox. A nishaanii is exactly what is used to find, or identify, or remember somebody- and my sign/token is 'to forget'. Who is to do the forgetting? Nazm is quite sure that it's the speaker's friends; but nothing in the verse gives us that information. It's obviously very plausible that a gone-from-himself one might do his own forgetting. He might even lose himself completely, as in {161,8}. For an even more unforgettable example of a paradoxical negative nishaanii , consider the empty finger in {50,2}. On the power of thought in relation to the desert, there's also the haunting {5,4}.

{183,5} mutaqaabil hai muqaabil meraa ruk gayaa dekh ravaanii merii 1) {opposite / face to face} is my {opposite / resembler} 2) s/he stopped, having seen my motion/flowingness

Notes: mutaaqaabil : 'Opposite; face to face'. (Steingass p. 1165) muqaabil : 'Fronting, confronting; opposing, contending; opposite;... -corresponding, matching; resembling, like'. (Platts p.1053) ;hariif : 'A fellow-worker (in one's craft or ordinary occupation), an associate, a partner, a mate;--a rival, opponent, adversary, antagonist; an enemy'. (Platts p.477)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Ghalib: [1866:] Who would't know opposition [taqaabul] and contradiction[ta.zaad]? Light and darkness, joy and grief, comfort and misery, and existence and nonexistence. The word muqaabil in this line means 'returning-place, refuge, source, goal' [marja((]; like ;hariif ['rival, enemy'], in which the meaning of 'friend' is also comprised. The interpretation of the verse is that we and the friend, through temperament and habit, are opposites of each other. She, seeing the flowingness of my temperament, stopped. (Arshi 304) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 844 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 275

Nazm: The meaning of this verse the late author himself has expressed, the gist of which is that by muqaabil is meant the beloved, who stopped because of his flowingness of temperament-- that is, she became angry. His quickness at repartee and witty anecdotes displeased her, and between flowingness and stopping there is an opposition. In short, the beloved-- my opposite and contradiction-- and I are mutually contradictory. (205)

Bekhud Mohani: My ;hariif is not my mutaqaabil , but rather my muqaabil . That is, he doesn't have the strength to confront [muqaabilah karnaa] me. He becomes a muqaabil . Finally, seeing my flowingness (speech), he is compelled to fall silent. (362)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES; WORDPLAY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The complex relationships between oppositeness and resemblance are so strongly established that we run into them every time we do a 'compare-andcontrast' analysis. Here, they're delicately embedded in a kind of dancing mobile of wordplay. To juxtapose two things, to set one of them 'over against' the other, is to prepare them for a demonstration of either similarity or difference-- or usually both. In English we say, 'so-and-so is my opposite number', meaning someone with a corresponding position in a different organization. A 'face-off' is a competition. People who resolve to confront each other 'face to face' might be planning a duel; but might also be working to achieve reconciliation and trust. In Urdu, Ghalib points to the word ;hariif , which can mean 'rival' but also 'partner' (see the definition given above.) He does this to elucidate the word muqaabil , which has exactly the same dual possibilities. So having seen my movement or 'flowingness', why does the muqaabil then stop? Here are some possible reasons: =Because he's my rival and is intimidated by my superior (poetic? conversational?) abilities =Because he's my stubborn opposite and is determined to do the opposite of whatever I do =Because he resembles me, so he knows that I am speaking just the way he would speak =Because we're companions, and he knows that we have to take turns holding the floor, so that when I speak he falls silent and listens =Because she, the beloved, is reflecting (positively? negatively?) on my flow of words In short, the wordplay and meaning-play in the first line provides a number of possible explanations that might account for the 'oppositional' behavior in the second line.

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The first part of Ghalib's letter seems to be evoking these multiple possibilities, especially through its invocation of the multivalance of ;hariif . But then suddenly he shifts his ground, and announces to his correspondent what he calls 'the interpretation'. Does this represent a friendly concession to a questioner who is confused by the verse's complexity? It's impossible to tell. Mohamad Khan also points out (Jan. 2006) that the first line is very flowing, while the second one seems to stop. That's an excellent observation. In the first line the long vowels and the smooth velar l-sounds, and the convergence of word boundaries with foot boundaries, all work for a melodious effect. Then the second line immediately stops the movement with-- very appropriately-- ruk ; and then again with dekh . Thus the sound effects cleverly echo, and reinforce, the semantic ones.

{183,6} qadr-e sang-e sar-e rah rakhtaa huu;N sa;xt arzaa;N hai giraanii merii 1) I possess the worth of a stone beside the road 2) my heaviness/expensiveness is harshly/severely abundant/cheap

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: giraanii means heaviness, and also expensiveness. He says that my worth is like that of the stone that would lie beside the road, and everyone, coming and going, steps on it in passing. That is, I am indeed of 'heavy' worth, but like that stone I am worthless; thus, how cheap is my heaviness/expensiveness! (160)

Nazm: The way in a stone on the road there is 'heaviness' but also extreme 'abundance/cheapness', in that they receive the kicks of travelers, the same is the situation of my 'heavy/expensive' worth. (205)

Bekhud Mohani: I'm a possessor of honor and worth, but extremely low/base, like the stone lying in the roadway, that constantly receives kicks from travelers. He laments his worthiness, and complains against the movement of time. (363)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The first line is piquant, but we can't tell where the verse is going-- why do I possess the (negligible) 'worth' of a stone in the road? Surely I am more valuable than that, at least in my own eyes? It almost sounds like a riddle. The second line, in classic mushairah performance style, withholds the answer to the riddle until the last possible moment. Not until we hear giraanii can we make the connections. Then we are rewarded with a delightfully elegant show of wordplay: stones beside the road are both 'heavy' [giraa;N] and 'abundant' [arzaa;N]; while I, in a beautifully engineered paradox, am both 'expensive' [giraa;N] and 'cheap' [arzaa;N]. And on another reading, my problem may be that my very worthiness, my 'heaviness' in value [giraanii], is all too 'abundant'. I pride myself on my (poetic?) worth-- but so do all too many others. The final touch of wordplay is sa;xt , which can refer to either physical hardness or unyieldingness-- exactly the qualities of a stone-- or a sort of moral harshness or severity, as in {167,2}. In this latter sense it imparts a tone of melancholy, bitterness, or lament about the stone-like 'cheapness' and 'abundance' of the speaker's worth. For more verses full of 'stone' wordplay, see {62,5}.

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{183,7} gird-baad-e rah-e betaabii huu;N .sar.sar-e shauq hai baanii merii 1) I am a whirlwind/demon of the road of restlessness 2a) a wind of ardor is my quality/voice 2b) my quality/voice is a wind of ardor

Notes: gird-baad : 'A whirlwind, a devil or a demon'. (Platts p.903) .sar.sar : (from .sarr , 'to sound') 'A cold boisterous wind'. (Platts p.744). 'A cricket; a cold, boisterous wind'. (Steingass, p. 785) baanii : 'Peculiar disposition or mental constitution; natural temper... any property or virtue, &c. upon which one prides or plumes oneself; fabric, structure'. (Platts p.128) baanii : 'Sound, note, voice; speech, word, language, discourse; precept, doctrine'. (Platts p.128) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: I am restless like a whirlwind [baguulaa], and am a gird-baad of the roadway of restlessness; and the quality [baanii] of that skill/craft [hatka;N;Daa] is the 'wind of ardor'. (205)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am restless like a whirlwind, and am a gird-baad of the roadway of restlessness. The quality of my restlessnesses is the 'wind of ardor'. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: I am a whirlwind of the road of restlessness, which has arisen through the windstorm of ardor. That is, excess of ardor has made me severely restless. (363)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY The assertions here are so simple, flat, and multivalent, that they can be connected in various ways. For baad-gird can mean either a whirlwind or a demon, and nothing in the verse enables us to rule out either meaning. If I'm a whirlwind, then my characteristic quality/disposition is the 'wind of ardor'; and if I'm a demon, then my voice is the (sound of the) 'wind of ardor'. Intriguingly, in English idiom we have the whirling funnel-shaped 'dustdevil', which also seems to conflate the two possibilities. And what is a whirlwind or demon 'of' the road of restlessness? Given the multivalence of the i.zaafat , here the 'of' can mean 'generated by', 'living in', 'equivalent to', or merely 'associated with'. With all those possibilities crammed into an extremely short and simple verse, we have no means of resolving such radical ambiguities. Yet the verse is haunting, isn't it? I think it is a verse of mood. Its resonance is not due to any precise meaning, but rather to its starkness, its evocative imagery, and its very ambiguity. I suspect that Bekhud Mohani is using the Arabic baanii , meaning 'source' or 'builder'; but that one is masculine, so it can't work here.

{183,8} dahan us kaa jo nah ma((luum hu))aa khul ga))ii hech-madaanii merii

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1) in that her mouth did not become {known / apparent} 2) my 'knowing-nothing-ness' {became apparent / 'opened'}

Notes: hech-madaan : 'Knowing nothing, perfectly ignorant; --an ignoramus'. (Platts p.1244) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Since the beloved's mouth is nonexistent/nothing [hech], the person who would not (?) know her mouth is a 'nothing-knower' [hech-madan]. (205)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, her mouth is nonexistent/nothing [hech]. Thus it didn't become apparent to me, and I don't know it; and the one who would not know her mouth is a 'nothing-knower' [hech-madan]. Thus my 'knowing-nothing-ness' became apparent to everybody. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: When the beloved's mouth was not able to be known by me, then the secret of my 'know-nothing-ness' became apparent. (363)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse offers a spectacular display of paradox. If I don't know something as crucial and desirable as the beloved's mouth, then I am a hopeless 'knownothing', an ignoramus, one who doesn't know what should be known. (This is the reading of the two Bekhuds and many other commentators.) But in the ghazal world, the beloved's rosebud mouth is so exquisitely small that it's nonexistent; for more on this 'beloved has no mouth' motif, see {91,4}. So that if I indeed do know her mouth, which itself is 'nothing', then I am a 'know-nothing' in exactly the opposite sense: I am one who knows what should be known-- namely, 'nothing'. I think this is Nazm's reading, though in that case there's an error of calligraphy: the 'would not know' should really be 'would know', without the nah . (If this is not Nazm's reading, then I don't understand what Nazm is saying.) There's also a lovely secondary word- and meaning-play with which most commentators content themselves: the juxtaposition of nah ma((luum honaa and khulnaa . This clever pairing exploits the fact that ma((luum honaa means not only for something to be 'known', but often, colloquially, for something to 'appear' or 'seem' or 'be apparent' (think of ma((luum hotaa hai kih ...). Whereas khulnaa means not only 'to open' but also 'to be revealed', 'to be apparent', 'to become known'. So the not-becoming-apparent of her mouth results in the becoming-apparent of my 'knowing-nothing-ness'. Which invites us to ask, apparent to whom? Are there observers present, who are testing or judging my degree of knowledge of her mouth? And of course as a final flourish, khulnaa is something that a mouth does. Her mouth is so small, so ultimately 'closed', that it is invisible or nonexistent-- which caused my 'knowing-nothing-ness' to become 'open'. How I longed to see her mouth itself become 'open', for words or even for a kiss! Instead, the radical 'closedness' of her mouth was what 'opened' the knowledge of my own state. For more examples of extreme wordplay involving khulnaa , see {14}.

{183,9} kar diyaa .zu((f ne ((aajiz ;Gaalib nang-e piirii hai javaanii merii 1) weakness has made me helpless, Ghalib 2) my youth is a disgrace to/of old age

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: That is, in youth there is such weakness that if someone had this weakness even in old age, then he ought to be considered a disgrace to old age. (206)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, in youth I have become weak and strengthless to such an extent that even old men are not so feeble and frail. My youth is a disgrace to old age. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: In youth, weakness has made me so oppressed that old age would be better than my youth. (363)

FWP: As the commentators explain, my youth is a time of such feebleness that it is a 'disgrace to old age': even an old man would be ashamed to be such a helpless wretch as I have become. Or else, thanks to that versatile i.zaafat , my youth brings down upon me 'the disgrace of old age'-- my youth is marked, prematurely, by the kind of humiliation, shame, and 'disgrace' that old age would have brought at its own distant time.

Ghazal 184 3 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aanii maa;Nge composed 1816; Hamid p. 151; Arshi #147; Raza p. 185

{184,1} naqsh-e naaz-e but-e :tannaaz bah aa;Gosh-e raqiib paa-e :taa))uus pa))e ;xaamah-e maanii maa;Nge 1) the shape/form/image of the coquetry of the playful/mocking idol in the Rival's embrace 2) would require the foot of a peacock instead of the pen of Mani

Notes: tannaaz : 'Playful, mirthful; --one who ridicules, a derider, mocker, scoffer'. (Platts p.753) maanii : 'Name of a celebrated (Chinese) painter'. (Platts p.986); also: 'Rare, uncommon'. (Steingass, p. 1145) maanii : [from Sanskrit] 'Thinking, being of opinion, fancying, imagining... ; --proud, haughty, arrogant, disdainful; indignant, angry, resentful, sulky'. (Platts p.986) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, having embraced the Rival, the image of her show of coquetry wants, instead of the 'hair of the pen' [muu-e qalam], a pen of the 'foot of the peacock' to be in the painter's hand. The cause for similitude is that all the parts of the peacock are beautiful and a cause for pride and coquetry, but its foot is very unattractive and for its beauty is a cause of shame and defectiveness. (206)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the picture of that playful/mocking idol in the embrace of the Rival seems so ill-appearing and awkward that in order to capture it there needs to be a hair of the pen of the foot of the peacock in the hand of Mani. The meaning is that the way a peacock's wings and feathers and limbs of the body are beautiful and attractive, and are an established cause for pride and

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coquetry, in the same way its feet are discolored and ugly and a cause of shame and have appeared as a defect in its beauty and radiance-- in this same way, in the state of embracing the Rival, the state of her coquettish picture appears. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: If after embracing the Rival she would want to cause her picture to be captured, then instead of the pen of Mani a pen of the foot of a peacock will be suitable. That is, after union with the Rival the charm that was a peacock's wing no longer remains in her; rather, it has become a peacock's foot. (364)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} WRITING: {7,3} Look at the wordplay and especially the sound effects-- we have the juxtapositions of naaz and tannaaz ; paa-e and pa))e ; maanii and maa;Nge , not to speak of all the alliteration. But what else do we have? Trying to use the foot of a peacock as a pen would result in thick, awkward, ill-controlled lines; it could only be done playfully or mockingly. Obviously, for any serious writing one should use one of the peacock's feathers instead, and make a 'quill pen' out of it. Such awkward misuse of what can (and should) instead be used much more beautifully and effectively is what we see in the coquettish beloved as she embraces the Rival-- and does so playfully or mockingly, with one eye on the effect she's creating, not in any genuine or serious way. Mani is the proverbial, archetypal 'great painter', and is often invoked as such in the ghazal tradition; his name gives rise to an extended Persian meaning of 'rare, uncommon'. What about the Sanskritic maanii ? It's got just the polyvalence Ghalib enjoys exploiting. I'm tempted to suggest it; but S. R. Faruqi reminds me that such a Sanskritic word could never appear with an i.zaafat, so I'm stuck. Faruqi comments further (Feb. 2006): It's a stunning verse, if verses could be of one line only: the first line is marvellous. The second line has a good theme, but poor execution. The peacock's feet are supposed to be ugly, and he is supposed to weep when, while dancing, he happens to glance at them. So if somebody were to make a painting of the but-e tannaaz while she was in the embrace of the Rival, the painting would require not so much Mani's brush (for the beauty of the beloved) as the claw of the peacock (for the ugliness of the Rival). That's all very well, but I still have some kind of an uneasy feeling about this verse; I keep wondering if there could be more to it somehow.

{184,2} tuu vuh bad-;xuu kih ta;haiyur ko tamaashaa jaane ;Gam vuh afsaanah kih aashuftah-bayaanii maa;Nge 1) you're the kind of bad-tempered one who would consider amazement [to be] a spectacle 2) grief is the kind of story that would demand distracted-narrative-ness

Notes: ta;hayyur : 'Astonishment; amazement; wonder'. (Platts p.313) aashuftah : 'Distracted, disturbed, distressed; disordered; uneasy, uneasy, wretched, miserable'. (Platts p.57)

Nazm: In amazement, it's necessary for there to be silence. The meaning is that if I remain amazed and silent, then you consider it a spectacle; and if I put aside astonishment and silence and bring to my tongue the grief of the heart, then you are disaffected with the 'distracted-narrative-ness'. (206)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in amazement, silence is required and necessary; and you're such a bad-tempered one that you consider my amazement and my silence to be a spectacle. And grief is the kind of story that for it 'distracted-narrative-ness' and disorderedness of speech are appropriate. If I put aside amazement and silence and bring to my tongue the grief of the heart, then you are displeased and disaffected. (266-67)

Bekhud Mohani: My life has fallen into great jeopardy. You're such a bad-tempered one that if I remain lost in excessive grief, then you consider it a spectacle, and my amazement has no effect on you. And if I don't narrate the story of grief, then you become angry at my 'distracted-narrative-ness'. And in the state of grief, narrative necessarily becomes tangled. The gist is that neither by remaining silent, nor by telling the state of the heart, can I have any effect. (347)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 TAMASHA: {8,1} This is a real 'catch-22' verse: there's no way out for the poor lover. The commentators have explained his predicament well.

{184,3} vuh tab-e ((ishq tamannaa hai kih phir .suurat-e sham((a shu((lah taa nab.z-e jigar reshah-davaanii maa;Nge 1) that heat of passion-- the longing is that again/then, {like / with the aspect of} a candle 2) flame would, as far as the pulse of the liver, demand fiber-runningness

Notes: reshah : 'Fibre; filament; nerve; vein (of a leaf)'. (Platts p.612)

Nazm: That is, I long for that heat of passion the fire of which, like the flame of a candle, would do 'fiber-runningness' down to the liver. To say 'the pulse of the liver' is not devoid of elaboration and [a need for] special pleading [tasaama;h], because there's no pulse in the liver. But here he has taken 'pulse' in the meaning only of 'vein', and by 'liver' is meant the inner part of the breast. In this aspect [.suurat], there's no unattractiveness in saying 'pulse of the liver'. (206)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have a longing and yearning for such a heat of passion that its flame, like a candle, would run down to the liver. (265)

Bekhud Mohani: Again I have a longing for such a heat of passion that its flame would convey its effect as far as the vein of the liver. That is, the way in the wick of a candle flame catches fire upward, and finally the wick of the candle burns, in the same way the flame of the heat of passion would burn me to ashes from head to foot. (Then he realizes that even previously such a thing had already happened.) (364)

FWP: CANDLE: {39,1} JIGAR: {2,1} The lover longs for a state in which 'flame' would demand or require, as in the case of-- literally, with the aspect of-- a candle, 'fiber-runningness' down as far as the 'liver-pulse'. The wick of a lighted candle steadily carries the flame down along its own 'fiber', guiding the flame ever deeper into the candle's heart (or 'liver-pulse') while its heat burns and melts everything in its path until it finally consumes the candle entirely.

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But then, what's the grammatical connection between the rest of the verse, and the initial 'that heat of passion' [vuh tab-e ((ishq]? It seems to be a freefloating exclamation of some kind, but what kind exactly? Here are some possible contexts for it: =The lover no longer feels such 'heat of passion', and wistfully longs to know 'again' [phir] its deadly ravages; for another case of such nostalgia, see {234}. =The lover does feel just such a 'heat of passion', and only longs for it to reach its fatal culmination quickly and put him out of his misery =The lover now feels a 'heat of passion' far more unbearably intense; he ruefully wishes for the old days in which his passion would behave like a 'normal' flame, like a candle-flame, instead of assuming its strange new form; see for example the fire imagery in {5}. Because of the opaqueness of the grammar, it would also be possible to think of other arrangements. There might be an i.zaafat on ((ishq , giving us 'the longing of that heat of passion'; and thus generating its own set of further possible readings for the two 'of's. And how about breaking the line differently, so that we get either 'that heat of passion is longing' or, alternatively 'longing is that heat of passion' [vuh tab-e ((ishq tamannaa hai]? In either case, the versatile little kih would be quite capable of introducing an illustrative or explanatory clause; and it would be no more ambiguous than it is already in the main-line interpretation. I'm not going to start teasing out all the possible readings of all these possible permutations, but it's hard to deny that they might exist. The verse offers a nice touch of wordplay: davaanii looks exactly like divaanii , a shortened form of diivaanii , 'madness', that is used when poets need it for metrical reasons. And although the verse makes no specific reference to madness, the lover's 'heat of passion' is never all that far from 'madness in every fiber' in any case.

Ghazal 185 3 verses; meter G18; rhyming elements: aa))ii hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 151; Arshi #152; Raza p. 178

{185,1} gulshan ko tirii .su;hbat az-baskih ;xvush aa))ii hai har ;Gunche kaa gul honaa aa;Gosh-kushaa))ii hai 1) your companionship has pleased the garden to such an extent 2) every bud's being {a rose / extinguished} is an embrace-opening

Notes: gul karnaa : 'To extinguish (a candle or lamp)'. (Platts p.911)

Nazm: That is, in the garden the roses that bloom open an embrace for you. (206)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the garden has felt so pleased with its joy and gracedness at your companionship that the blooming of every bud is the opening of an embrace in ardor for you-- that is, out of the longing to be close beside you. (267)

Bekhud Mohani: The buds said this, or rather, in the ardor to unite with you they opened an embrace. (364)

FWP: Can it really be so simple, can it be such a one-dimensional little verse? The only form of complexity that I can find is the alternative sense of gul honaa

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as the intransitive form of gul karnaa , 'to extinguish'. And even that doesn't seem to create any very exciting possibilities.

{185,2} vaa;N kungur-e isti;Gnaa har dam hai bulandii par yaa;N naale ko aur ul;Taa da((vaa-e rasaa))ii hai 1) there the crest/plume of independence is, at every breath/moment, on a height 2) here the lament's claim of access is more {inverted / stupid / wrong}

Notes: isti;Gnaa : 'Ability to dispense with, independence (in point of fortune), opulence; content'. (Platts p.49) kungur or kungurah : 'A pinnacle, spire, turret, tower; --a crest, plume (upon a helmet, &c.); jewel, or ornament (in a crown)'. (Platts p.855) ul;Taa : 'Reversed, turned back; inverted, head-downwards, upside-down, topsy-turvy; reverse, perverse; contrary, opposite; stupid; wrong'. (Platts p.75)

Nazm: That is, her crest of the roof of independence keeps becoming farther away; and the lament makes a reversed claim of access. (206)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, her crest of independence keeps becoming loftier 'twofold in the day, fourfold by night'. And day by day our lament keeps becoming lower. That is, now it doesn't even more from the heart to the lips. It loses courage and remains only in the breast. (267)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that at every lament her indifference keeps becoming even greater. Thus the lament has the claim, 'we obtain access'. Since the beloved, considering that the present indifference can't endure the effect of that lament, has made an effort and adopted even more indifference. The lament with this claim, the beloved in this state-- our life is leaving us. (365)

FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE; OPPOSITES There's an enjoyable range of wordplay and meaning-play between bulandii and ul;Taa . Here are some of the contrasts: with every breath, or at every moment, =her indifference becomes loftier and more high-headed; the lament's claim of access becomes more topsy-turvy and head-downward =her indifference becomes more successful; the lament's claim of access becomes more foolish and wrong =her indifference becomes more overpoweringly apparent; the lament's claim of access becomes more perverse and contrary As Bekhud Mohani observes, it's also possible that it's the lament itself that's working in reverse and increasing her high-headedness with every breath [dam] the lover puts into his lament.

{185,3} az-baskih sikhaataa hai ;Gam .zab:t ke andaaze jo daa;G na:zar aayaa ik chashm-numaa))ii hai 1) to such an extent grief teaches styles of restraint 2) {whatever / whenever a} wound {came / would come} into view-- there is a single {reproof/ 'eye-display'}

Notes: chashm-numaa))ii karnaa : 'To reprove'. (Platts p.433)

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Nazm: Grief is teaching the lesson of restraint-- whatever new wound appears is the 'eye-display' of that Ustad. The cause for a wound's similitude with an eye is obvious. (207)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the grief of passion is giving me education in restraint. Whatever new wound arises in the heart. it serves as the 'eye-display' of that Ustad-that is, the grief of passion. (267)

Bekhud Mohani: chashm-numaa))ii : To show an eye [aa;Nkh dikhaanaa]; to browbeat/threaten [ghuraknaa].... Whatever wound is created in the heart, one ought not to consider it a wound; rather, it does 'eye-display', that 'be warned, don't renounce restraint!'. It's not strange that this would be a new theme.

FWP: As Nazm and the other commentators expect us to know already, a wound is like an eye because they're both round, and they both conceal their major depths behind a deceptively small surface opening. So the similarity between a wound and an 'eye-display' is well established. Moreover, there's the idiomatic meaning for chashm-numaa))ii of 'browbeat' or 'threaten'; on this point Bekhud Mohani is supported by Chishti, who adds 'to scold' [;Daa;N;T ;Dapa;T karnaa] (738); and Mihr, who also proposes the ideally relevant 'to look angrily at' [;Gu.s.se se dekhnaa] (606). But that's far from sufficient information. What's the exact relationship among the 'grief' and the 'restraint' in the first line, and the 'wound' and the reproving 'eye-display' in the second line? As so often, it's left for us to decide. Here are some possibilities: = each wound that comes into existence is itself a reproving 'eye-display' by Grief, reminding the lover of the need for restraint in lamenting about his wounds = each wound that comes into view is itself a reproving 'eye-display' by Grief, reminding the lover that wounds shouldn't come into view at all, but instead should remain hidden = each apparent 'wound' that comes into view is not really a wound at all, but a reproving 'eye-display', since Grief is constantly and sternly monitoring the lover's behavior = whenever any wound comes into view, Grief gives the lover a sternly reproving 'eye-display' to chastise him for this lack of restraint = whenever a wound comes into view, Grief need only give the lover a single 'eye-display' of reproof, since he's such a disciplined pupil already that he requires no more than a glance to chastise him Or else we can read the first line not as a personification of an active Grief, but as a more general reflection. In that case it's the lover himself, having learned from his grief the lessons and 'styles' of restraint, who admonishes and polices his own behavior in the second line.

Ghazal 186 5 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: uu kii composed 1826; Hamid p. 152; Arshi #193; Raza p. 265 {186,1} jis za;xm kii ho saktii ho tadbiir rafuu kii likh diijiyo yaa rab use qismat me;N ((aduu kii 1) that wound for which there might be able to be a device/means of darning/stitching 2) write it, oh Lord, in the fate/destiny of the enemy

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Notes: Nazm: That is, I want a wound for which stitching would not be able to be done. (207)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a wound for which stitching would be able to be done, and for which there would be hope of a cure-- that's not useful for me. Write that wound in the fate of the enemy. I long for a wound such that upon seeing it, even the physician would wash his hands of obtaining a cure. (267)

Bekhud Mohani: On the First Day, a pain-seeker of lofty courage says, oh Provider, the wound that can be cured-- write it in the fate of the enemy. That is, I want pain with no cure. The pain that would have a cure-- give it to my enemy. (365)

FWP: What is the speaker-- the lover, we assume-- up to in this verse? There are several possibilities: =The lover is being generous. Since he knows his enemy (the Rival? the Other?) is a weaker person, he chivalrously asks the Lord to be kind to the poor man, to spare him, to give him a lesser wound, and to give the lover himself the worst kind. =The lover is being selfish. Since he wants the 'best' kind of wound-- the deepest, the most incurable, the one that produces the most exquisite suffering-- for himself, he urges the Lord to relegate the second-rate wounds, the possibly curable ones, to the enemy =The lover is being cruel. Since a wound for which there 'might' be able to be a cure [ho saktii ho] imposes on the wounded person the extra suffering of suspense (will he live, or will he die?), the lover is vindictively wishing on his enemy the worst kind of uncertainty. Or, most probably, the lover is making a show of generosity and chivalry, while really acting on selfish or even cruel motives. The basic 'pain = pleasure' paradox of the lover's psyche makes many such compexities possible. Compare {168,3}, which is even more clearly grappling with the ethics of what to wish one's enemy.

{186,2} achchhaa hai sar-angusht-e ;hinaa))ii kaa ta.savvur dil me;N na:zar aatii to hai ik buu;Nd lahuu kii 1) It's good, the image/imagining/idea of the hennaed fingertip 2) in the heart comes into view, {indeed / at least}, one drop of blood

Notes: Hali: The word 'then' which is in the second line produces the meaning that because of weeping and weeping blood from the eyes, in the heart not a single drop of blood remained. Thus he considers the image of the beloved's hennaed finger a lucky break, for because of it a drop of blood can be seen in the heart. (160-61)

Nazm: For the fingertip to become red with henna and turn into a drop of blood-what a good simile it is!.... The beauty of the fingertip was seen through the eye; another excellence in this simile is that the fingertip that would become equal to a drop of blood-- how delicate that fingertip must be! And implication is always more eloquent than explication.... The redness of the drop, and the form of the drop, both come together to make a cause of similitude.... Most importantly, this is a new simile; no one has versified it

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before. Then look at the author's splendid skill/experience [shaan-e mashshaaqii], that having found a new thing, he doesn't emphasize it.... How the word to has revealed the situation of speech-- that is, this verse is spoken by one whose blood has already dried up, and he is comforting his heart with an imaginary thing! (207)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {48,6}. (109) From this verse the conclusion necessarily emerges that although from constantly enduring the sufferings of passion not a trace of blood remains in the body, and we have no strength left at all, still the image of her, the memory of her, can't by any means be erased from the heart. (366)

FWP: Nazm observes that her hennaed fingertip could resemble, in color and shape, a drop of blood. Or else her imagined fingertip might poke or prod the heart, somehow contriving to elicit one last barely-surviving drop of blood. Or else the very thought itself (of her fingertip) might goad or stimulate the heart and elicit that last blood-drop. In the second line, how to translate that colloquial, vital, but elusive to ? Positioned where it is, t's not part of an implied 'when-then' or 'if-then' structure. It qualifies na:zar aatii hai -- but how, exactly? I feel its force in Urdu, but I can't find a single satisfying counterpart expression for it in English.

{186,3} kyuu;N ;Darte ho ((ushshaaq kii be-;hau.slagii se yaa;N to ko))ii suntaa nahii;N faryaad kisuu kii 1) why do you fear the lovers' lack of spirit/guts/'stomach' ? 2) here no one listens to anybody's lament

Notes: ;hau.slah : 'Stomach....; desire, ambition; resolution; spirit, courage'. (Platts p.482) kisuu kii is an archaic form of kisii kii .

Hali: Here, the meaning of 'lack of enthusiasm' is 'shallowness' [kam-:zarfii]. He says to the beloved, Why do you fear that we lovers will get fed up with your oppression and tyranny and complain against you to the Ruler or to the Lord? Because even if we do so, no one listens to anybody's complaint. (161)

Nazm: That is, even if through lack of spirit and lack of endurance they do complain against you, then who listens?.... [As for the archaic kisuu kii , examples are given to show] that even out of the necessity of rhyme the use of these words is not correct. (208-09)

Bekhud Mohani: I am astonished-- if the lovers, out of lack of courage, are not ready to endure your tyranny, then why do you halt your tyranny? Here, the state of things is such that nobody listens to anybody's lament-- so what is there to fear? (366)

FWP: Why would the beloved 'fear' her lovers' complaints in the first place? Perhaps she might fear God and the coming Judgment Day, when their complaints would be heard in the Divine Court (think of {111,7}). Perhaps she might fear being accused of murder (think of {21,9}), after she had tormented them to the point of death. Perhaps she might simply fear that if they collapsed and died on her, she'd have no more fun enjoying their convulsions (think of {8,3}). Or perhaps if she tormented them to death she'd

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simply miss their crowding around her, their humility, their devotion (think of many of the verses of {57}). Whatever the reason, the speaker finds her fears absurd, or at least inappropriate. For 'here'-- in the beloved's domain, or in this world in general-- it's a flat rule: no complaints are heeded. The rule is so flat that it cuts two ways: she herself shouldn't heed, or 'fear', the lovers' moaning and groaning; and also she needn't 'fear' that anybody else will heed it either. Behind this formulation is surely the lover's indirect complaint to her: you never listen to my words, you never pay any heed to me! The charm of the verse is that this rather humdrum, routine complaint has been cleverly turned into a flat 'rule'. Why is the rule stated so flatly? Surely, for its very much greater (and more amusing) rhetorical effect. We all know that often a particular statement works better-- more ironically, more suggestively, more multi-dimensionally-- if it's phrased in the abstract ('It's not as if anybody does any work around here'; 'Nobody's asking anybody for any favors'; 'There's a law that says all retired New Yorkers have to move to Florida'). Here such an operation has been performed by the amused or aggrieved lover-- and indeed, tone is everything in a verse like this. Is the lover speaking accusingly, or ruefully, or matter-of-factly? As so often, we're left to decide for ourselves.

{186,4} .sad ;haif vuh naa-kaam kih ik ((umr se ;Gaalib ;hasrat me;N rahe ek but-e ((arbadah-juu kii 1a) a hundred pities!-- that unsuccessful/useless one who, for one [whole] lifetime, Ghalib 1b) a hundred pities!-- [we are] so useless/unsuccessful that, for one [whole] lifetime, Ghalib 2a) would remain in [a state of] longing for one {conflict/dispute}-seeking idol 2b) we remained in [a state of] longing for one {conflict/dispute}-seeking idol

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, the state of that one whose longing is unsuccessful is worthy of pity-- he who for years would be passing his life in longing for a conflict-seeking idol. (268)

Bekhud Mohani: The state of that unsuccessful one is worthy of pity, who would have yearned his whole life long for some cruel, angry-tempered, conflict-seeking beloved, and would never have been successful in obtaining the airs and graces of the beloved. (366)

Josh: He says, oh Ghalib, I feel pity for that one unsuccessful in love, who for his whole life remained longing for a quarrelsome beloved, but his longing would have remained in his heart alone.... her conflict-seeking paid no attention to this one of unsuccessful longing. (311)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} These last two verses of the ghazal constitute a verse-set; Arshi correctly marks it as such in his first edition, but omits the mark (surely by accident) in his second edition. I am grateful to S. R. Faruqi for pointing out to me (March 2006) this omission. Some commentators and editions of the divan (including Hamid) reverse the verse order, showing this one as {186,5} and turning Arshi's {186,5} into

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{186,4}. One reason for this choice may be that they feel awkward seeing a closing-verse appear in penultimate position, as the next to last verse rather than the final one. However, such a positioning is rare but by no means unknown, and presents no theoretical or practical problems. In any case, as always, I follow Arshi. The commentators all agree on the reading 1a-2a, which indeed is very defensible and is, idiomatically speaking, the first one that springs to mind. But when we take even a second look (much less a third or fourth as of course we ought to), it's easy to see another cleverly contrived interpretive possibility. We notice that the verb in the second line, rahe , is not only the third person subjunctive but also the plural perfect form for all three persons. We would then need a colloquially omitted subject for it, and the only one that makes sense here would be 'we'. In order to make it all work, the grammar of the first line would then be implicitly ham vuh naa-kaam hai;N . Lest it be argued that that's too much of a stretch, fortunately we can point to very similar usages: ham vuh ... hai;N in {23,1}; and even more persuasively (since the verb is omitted), ham vuh ((aajiz kih in {123,8}. So once we assume a colloquially-omitted ham , which is quite permissible, we're in business; and now we have two perfectly good readings instead of one. This remains a relatively minor verse-- it's hard to find much else going on in it. The beloved's combative temperament has no really satisfactory connection with the lover's behavior, beyond the mild one of increasing its pathos and doomedness. So all the more in such a verse, the pleasure of finding a second meaning cleverly tucked away to spring out on us, instead of being limited merely to a single meaning (and that too a particularly pedestrian and prosy one), feels like a ;Ganiimat .

{186,5} dashne ne kabhii mu;Nh nah lagaayaa ho jigar ko ;xanjar ne kabhii baat nah puuchhii ho guluu kii 1) the poignard would never have shown its face/mouth to the liver 2) the dagger would never have inquired about the situation/idea/words of the throat

Notes: Nazm: By dagger and poignard are meant the airs and graces and conflict-seeking and cruelty of the beloved. (209)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the knife would never have come into contact with the liver-- that is, would not have shown affection to it. And the dagger too would never have inquired about the state of the throat-- that is, would not have given it attention. By poignard and dagger is meant the airs and graces and tyranny and injustice of the beloved. (268)

Baqir: That unsuccessful lover to whose liver the cruel beloved's poniard would never show even its face, and about whose throat the dagger would never even inquire-- his [vain] longing is worth seeing! Asi and [Nazm] Tabataba'i have written this verse before the closing-verse; from this arrangement the interpretation of the verse becomes absolutely clear. (458)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; WORDPLAY JIGAR: {2,1} This is the second and last verse of a two-verse verse-set; moreover, some commentators reverse the order of this verse and the preceding one; see {186,4} for discussion of all such matters.

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So the commentators read this verse as a further description of the sad situation of the lover in {186,4} who would remain all his life vainly longing for a conflict-seeking beloved. This is certainly very tempting, for otherwise it's hard to see how to read those parallel nah ho constructions. The subjunctive is so ambiguous-- 'might not', 'would not'-- and the context impossible to provide, leaving us no tone of voice. This is what might be called an 'extreme verse-set verse'-- one which almost can't be read except as part of a verse-set. Very few verses in verse-sets are so radically dependent on context for their very intelligibility. There's of course the nice wordplay of body parts ( mu;Nh , jigar , guluu ) and of conversation ( mu;Nh , baat , puuchhnaa , guluu ). But that hardly suffices as a focus for the whole verse. Indeed, this wordplay too works much more cleverly if we interpret the verse in the light of {186,4), because then a wistful and vain longing for 'conversation' even with weapons (poignard, dagger) is explained by the lover's adoration of an aggressive, conflict-seeking beloved.

Ghazal 187 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar ke composed 1816; Hamid p. 153; Arshi #153; Raza p. 203

{187,1} siimaab pusht-garmii-e aa))iinah de hai ham ;hairaa;N kiye hu))e hai;N dil-e be-qaraar ke 1) quicksilver gives help/support to the mirror; we 2) are [in a state of having been] made amazed/stupefied by the restless heart

Notes: Nazm: He says, quicksilver gives help/support to the mirror; that is, with the aid of quicksilver the mirror is a mirror. In the same way, the restless heart has made us, like the mirror, into head-to-foot amazement. (209)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way through quicksilver the mirror is illumined and takes on an aspect of amazement, in the same way the restless heart has made us into head-to-foot amazement. The meaning is that through quicksilver the mirror obtains the ability to show reflections, in the same way through the restlesshearted lover people obtain the power to be exalted by the beloved's glory/appearance. (268)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning is that finally restlessness takes on the aspect of amazement. (366)

FWP: SETS == A,B MIRROR: {8,3} The commentators are sure that the verse intends to present us with similarities between the mercurial mirror and the restless-hearted lover. But of course, the verse simply presents us with two flat statements, and provides no connection between them. So we have to figure out their relationship for ourselves. This kind of structure also forces us to decide for ourselves which aspects of the mirror and lover are being compared and/or contrasted, and exactly how. Here are some possible relationships of resemblance: =quicksilver-- another name for mercury-- is constantly moving and flowing; similarly, so is the restless heart

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=quicksilver is the essence of the mirror; similarly, heart-restlessness is our essence =quicksilver helps the mirror respond to the beloved's beauty; similarly, the restless heart helps us to do so =the mirror responds to the beloved's beauty with amazement (see {63,1}); similarly, so do we =constantly-moving quicksilver causes the mirror to be unmoving with amazement at the beloved's beauty; similarly, our constantly-moving heart causes us to be unmoving with amazement at the beloved's beauty And here are some possible relationships of contrast: =quicksilver helps/supports the mirror; by contrast, the restless heart renders us helpless with amazement =quicksilver renders the mirror active and properly functional (that is, reflective); by contrast, the restless heart renders us passive and stupefied (with amazement) =a 'real' mirror uses a separate backing (a layer of quicksilver) to make it work; by contrast, we use our own restless heart to enable us to 'mirror' the beloved's beauty For another complex example involving mirrors and amazement, see {116,8}.

{187,2} aa;Gosh-e gul kushuudah baraa-e vidaa(( hai ay ((andaliib chal kih chale din bahaar ke 1) the embrace of the rose is opened/expanded, by way of leave-taking 2) oh Nightingale, move on, for the days of spring [have] moved on

Notes: Nazm: The flowers have opened an embrace so that they would fall on each other's necks and take their leave. (209)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the blooming of the flowers is the spreading of arms for an embrace. Oh Nightingale, come quickly and embrace them, the days of spring are about to leave, in the time from morning to night. The meaning is that the time of enjoyment and comfort in the world is extremely brief, the way spring no sooner comes than it takes its leave. (269)

Bekhud Mohani: In the blooming of flowers is a gesture that [says], 'oh Nightingale, come and embrace us, for spring is departing'. (367)

Arshi: Compare {228,5}. (267, 280)

FWP: When the rose opens out from a tight little bud into a full, wide bloom, it's most often said to 'smile' or 'laugh' (see for example {80,1}). But it can also be said to be opening its arms for an embrace. Since Ghalib is Ghalib, he often makes this the paradoxical 'embrace of leave-taking'-- the embracing ones come closer and closer together, as a sign of preparation for going farther and farther apart. More 'embrace of leave-taking' verses: {57,6} and {74,1}. Are the roses embracing the spring days, or the spring itself, or the garden, or (as Bekhud Mohani maintains) are they preparing to embrace the nightingale? The beauty of it is that we don't know-- or care; there's a kind of mysterious depth in our not knowing, in the embrace being just there, opened, melancholy, elegiac. This is a verse of mood, rather than one of analytical subtlety. The rose's very opening-out, its acceptance, its reaching toward life, is also a sign of its imminent withering and death. And surely the

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rose itself realizes its fate, since the 'embrace of leave-taking' is above all for its own doom. Is there a real connection between the two lines? Real enough, because it's emotional: since there's nothing at all that can be done to save the rose, or save the garden from the coming winter, the only thing to be done is to 'move on'-- just the way the days of spring have moved on. In its bleak moodiness the verse reminds me of {27,3}. But of course, as Arshi suggests, the perfect verse for comparison-- one almost a twin in many ways-- is {228,5}.

Ghazal 188 2 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aanah chaahiye composed 1816; Hamid p. 153; Arshi #155; Raza p. 203

{188,1} hai va.sl hijr ((aalam-e tamkiin-o-.zab:t me;N ma((shuuq-e sho;x-o-((aashiq-e diivaanah chaahiye 1) {union is separation / separation is union} in a state/world of dignity and restraint 2) a mischievous beloved and a mad lover are needed

Notes: tamkiin : 'Gravity, dignity, majesty, grandeur, greatness, authority, power'. (Platts p.337) .zab:t : 'Keeping, taking care of, guarding, defending, watching over, ruling, governing; regulation, government, direction, discipline; restraint, control, check'. (Platts p.748)

Nazm: That is, if in the beloved's nature there would be self-regard and dignity, and in the lover's temperament there would be restraint and endurance, then even in union there's a separation-like unenjoyment [be-lu:tfii]. The pleasure is when she would be mischievous and shameless, and he would be mad and insolent [gustaa;x]. (205)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in the beloved's nature there's self-regard and dignity, and in the lover's temperament there's the quality of endurance and restraint, then even in union itself there will be a kind of unenjoyment, like separation. The pleasure in this is that a mischievous and shameless beloved, and a mad and insolent lover, would be able to enjoy the delight of life. (269)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved thinks of her glory, her dignity. The lover, out of regard for courtesy or the grandeur of the beloved, is controlling his ardor. The result of this was that even union turned into separation. In our view, the beloved ought to have mischievousness, and the lover ought to be mad through an extreme of ardor. Thus the pleasure of union is that the beloved would be mischievous, and the lover would be restless, shameless, insolent. (367)

FWP: SETS == A,B; TRANSITIVITY 'UNION': {5,2} Here's another Ghalibian gem of many facets and multivalent meanings. In the first line, we can read either 'A is B' or 'B is A', in the kind of transitivity that Ghalib so often creates and exploits. We also notice that the qualities of 'dignity' and 'restraint' are basically desirable ones (in general, and in Indo-

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Muslim elite culture in particular); though of course they might not be so in the context of this particular verse. So in a state or world of dignity and restraint, perhaps 'union' is 'separation' (A is B), because those very qualities form a barrier to uninhibitedness and self-surrender (as the commentators, following Nazm, generally agree). But is this state of affairs desirable, or undesirable? The line gives us no clue. Or perhaps, in such a state of dignity and restraint, 'separation' is 'union' (B is A). This might be so because lover and beloved have a mutual belief in the importance of dignity and restraint, so that these common values become a deep bond, a form of 'union', between them. Or it might be so because, given their attitudes, 'separation' is all the 'union' they'll ever know, so they don't regret (or even realize?) the loss of (conventional, vulgar, bodily) 'union'. The two lines are semantically independent, and we're given no clue as to how to connect them. The commentators maintain that the second line describes something oppositional to the first line, a correction of its error: lover and beloved ought not to be full of dignity and restraint, but rather the beloved ought to be mischievous and the lover mad. This reading is perfectly possible. But it's equally possible to read the second line as describing conditions necessary to achieve the situation described in the first line. If it's desirable for lover and beloved to have 'dignity' and 'restraint', in order to achieve some special and remarkable kind of union/separation, then perhaps the maintenance of such 'dignity' and 'restraint' in fact constitutes a supreme, paradoxical degree of 'mischief' and 'madness'. The aloof, non-touching, lovers, who exchange perhaps only the briefest glances, may experience a kind of deeply rapturous communion that no ordinary physical 'union' can come close to matching. Anybody can have physical sex, but how many people can manage (or endure) to raise the emotional stakes so high that what they have makes physical sex irrelevant, or even impossible?

{188,2} us lab se mil hii jaa))egaa bosah kabhii to haa;N shauq-e fu.zuul-o-jur))at-e rindaanah chaahiye 1) if sometime a kiss from that lip will be obtained-- then, indeed 2) {an excessive/extravagant ardor / an ardor for excess/extravagance} and a rakish/profligate courage are needed

Notes: fu.zuul : 'Excess, redundance.... ; a busy, meddling spirit; impertinent interference; folly; --adj. Excessive, extravagant, exorbitant; redundant, superfluous, exuberant; unnecessary, needless, useless'. (Platts p.782) rindaanah : 'Dissolute, lewd, disorderly, licentious, profligate, rakish, like a debauchee'. (Platts p.600)

Nazm: The Urdu of the elders was such that they used to say 'in you [tujh] street' and the meaning was 'in your [terii] street'... [and so on; thus 'from that [us] lip' really means 'from that one's [us ke] lip']. (210)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, sometime a kiss from her lip will be obtained. Indeed, in that connection an ardor that has gone beyond the limit, and a rakish courage, are required. (269)

Bekhud Mohani: Ardor that has gone beyond the limit, and a rakish courage, are necessary. If these would exist, then one day or another a kiss from her lips will surely be obtained. That is, the beloved does not refuse. Indeed, we need courage.

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[Nazm is wrong:] this is considerably more powerful than that [example that he gave], because it alludes to the lips, or puts a finger on the lips, and would say that these lips take away the life. Now let justice be done: in which is there more effectiveness? This is not contrary to habitual usage, but is exactly the habitual usage itself. (367-68)

FWP: Bekhud Mohani is surely right: the ominous, evocative 'that lip' is at the heart of the verse, looming like a thundercloud. A lip deadly in its beauty? A lip deadly in the words that fall from it? A Divine lip? A lip of stone? A lip of cruelty and tyranny? A lip from which scorn and mockery would emerge? A lip that would open, to bare vicious teeth? A lip already kissed by the Rivals and the Others, and thus devalued? We aren't given the slightest hint. The only thing we can gather from 'that lip' is that the lip is unique, recognizable immediately with no further identification. And if the lip itself is dangerous and very possibly dubious, so are the qualities needed to get a kiss from it. Both fu.zuul and rindaanah have strikingly negative associations on the whole; see the definitions above. It's true that a good case can be made for something like 'daredevil', 'rakish', 'hell-raiser', with the possibly favorable sense of having an extreme degree of courage. But still, the general effect is of excess, of trouble-making, of courage applied in a wild or destructive way, of 'folly' and 'profligacy'. What else can it remind us of but the devil-may-care spirit of {115,8}? The careless, casually concessive haa;N works perfectly-- and untranslatably-- in both cases. The lover as very ready to concede the 'folly' and 'profligacy' of what he's doing; after all, he knows his life is forfeit anyway, and he hardly cares.

Ghazal 189 10 verses; meter G14; rhyming elements: aa chaahiye composed after 1821; Hamid p. 154; Arshi #186; Raza pp. 259-60

{189,1} chaahiye achchho;N ko jitnaa chaahiye yih agar chaahe;N to phir kyaa chaahiye 1a) please desire good/beautiful ones as much as you may please/desire 1b) however much one needs/desires [something], one needs/desires good/beautiful ones 1c) good/beautiful ones need/want as much as they need/want 2) if these/this would want [something or someone], then what else is needed?

Notes: chaahnaa : 'To wish, desire, will; to want, demand, require, need; to be inclined to; to tend to; to be about to (with perf. part. of following verb); to intend; to like, love, be enamoured of; to choose, approve; to pray, ask for, crave, entreat, to attempt, try'. (Platts p.420) chaahiye : '(the precative form of the aorist of chaahnaa , used as a phrase), Is necessary, is needful or requisite, is proper or right; it behoves; should or ought (=Lat. opus est, necesse est; debet; oportet; --pl. chaahiye;N : see Hind. Gram. 439, et seq.): -- kyaa nah chaahiye , What is not wanting (to me), what do I not want, I want everything; --nothing is wanting (to me), I have everything'. (Platts p.420)

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Nazm: That is, if one would want [chaahe] something in the world, then one would want the good ones. And if they themselves would want, then right then the goal is attained. Then any other blessing can either come or not come [chaahe aur ko))ii ni((mat ho chaahe nah ho]. (210)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in the world you would feel love for anyone, then it would be for beautiful ones. And if these people themselves too would want someone, then there's not even the need for any other blessing. (269)

Bekhud Mohani: Even if beautiful ones would not want you, then even so, however much you can, show love for them. And if they would want [you], then how inexpressibly good [kyaa kahnaa]. In the world, what is better than this?.... If the beloved should come to have the opinion that she ought to love good ones, then what can be done? How would she be our destiny? (368)

Shadan: Whatever can be the limit of desire, to that limit desire beautiful ones; or, you ought to desire them [chaahnaa chaahiye]. And if these too would begin to desire you, then what can be better than this? It is a clear, enjoyable, and good opening-verse. (415)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; WORDPLAY Reading (1a) in an expanded form becomes aap jitnaa chaahiye , achchho;N ko chaahiye (as much as you might desire/wish-- as in chaahe;N -- please desire/want good ones). This reading looks grammatically straightforward, and some of the commentators seem to prefer it. But it's actually not an open-and-shut case, because chaahiye , though structurally the polite imperative of chaahnaa , is in practice never used as such. That's why it is free to mean, with a verb, 'ought to' [mujhe kaam karnaa chaahiye]; or with a noun, 'need' [mujhe ro;Tii chaahiye]. This repurposing also makes semantic sense, since in practice one never says 'please want some cookies', but 'please take some cookies' or the like, because of the primal truth that (as my philosophy professor used to put it) 'you can do what you want, but you can't want what you want'. If somebody says to you chaa))e chaahiye , you'll interpret it not as 'please want tea' (with a polite imperative verb), but as 'do you need/want tea?'-- as shorthand for kyaa aap ko chaa))e chaahiye . Reading (1b) in an expanded form becomes aap ko jitnaa chaahiye , achchho;N ko chaahiye (however much you need/want [something?], you need/want good/beautiful ones). This reading relies on the common use of chaahiye with a noun as 'to need'. Reading (1c) in an expanded form: achchho;N ko jitnaa chaahiye , utnaa hii chaahiye (however much good/beautiful ones need/want, that's how much they need/want). This reading relies on the same common use of chaahiye as (1b), except that it takes the 'good ones' as those to whom the need is ascribed. The second line uses the straightforward verb chaahnaa : if 'this one' (with a plural of respect) or 'these ones' would want, then-- another idiomatic use of chaahiye appears: literally, 'then what is needed?'; and colloquially, something like 'what could be better?' or 'what more could one want' or or 'nothing more is required' or 'that's the end of the matter'. (For an example of the multiple possibilities of a phrase like this, see Platts' analysis of kyaa nah chaahiye above.) But of course, this (possibly) happy description could equally well apply to the situation of the good/beautiful ones, rather than to that of the lover.

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This whole verse is a wonderful play on the almost untranslatable versatility of chaahiye , 'to need/want', which takes ko ;and chaahnaa , 'to want/desire/wish', which is straightforward except for having been stripped of its polite imperative. No matter what we do with the first line, it comes out colloquial-feeling but still rather oracular, and maddeningly hard to pin down. The native speakers who have confidently explained it to me, like the commentators, go for some combination or conflation of (1a) and (1b), coupled with an agreed-upon simple reading of the second line as describing a happy ending for the lover. Yet I don't see how they can so confidently rule out (1c); after all, if we saw achchho;N ko kyaa chaahiye then everybody would know it meant 'what do good ones need/want?' And really, how different from is this from (1c)? And how can they reject the variant reading of the second line in which no 'happy ending' is envisioned? After all, the ambiguity of the grammar makes it clear that the phrase may perfectly well apply to the satisfaction of the good ones, not to that of the lover; the whole verse may well be a wry meditation on the powers of the cruel, selfish, indifferent 'good ones'. Since this verse is built up completely from interlocking idioms, I want to tread carefully, since I'm very aware of my limitations as a non-native speaker, and since the consensus of native-speaker opinion is pretty clear, and is against me. But then, the desire in the last century of Urdu critical tradition to find 'the' meaning of a verse and then stick to it rather than complicating it, is so strong and entrenched that I've been fighting it for years, and I'm not going to stop now. So I do maintain that this verse is not simple and clear but multivalent, and that its clever use of seemingly everyday idioms is just one more example of Ghalib's usual trickery. I conclude that Ghalib intended to drop us into a thicket of meanings-- and, as usual, leave us there to flail around.

{189,2} .su;hbat-e rindaa;N se vaajib hai ;ha;zar jaa-e mai apne ko khe;Nchaa chaahiye 1) toward the company/society of rakish ones, wariness is suitable/proper 2) in place of wine, one ought to 'draw' oneself

Notes: ;ha;zar : 'Caution, wariness, vigilance, care; prudence; --fear'. (Platts p.475) khe;Nchnaa : 'To draw, drag, pull; to attract, to draw in, suck in, absorb... to draw out, to stretch; to extract; to pull off, strip off (the skin, &c.); to draw tight, to tighten... ; --to draw away or aside (from), to hold aloof... ; --to drag out, to endure, suffer, bear'. (Platts p.887)

Nazm: That is, don't 'draw' the wine, 'draw' yourself away from the company of wine. And by the drawing of wine is meant 'to drink'. That is, he has translated mai-kashaan ; and perhaps in the author's opinion, to translate Persian literally into Hindi is proper, although it would be contrary to idiom. It is proved by experience that a poet who composes poetry in another language as well-- his own language becomes spoiled. An English poet whose name was Dryden used to say longingly, 'why did I study Latin, and compose poetry in it? -- for my own language has become spoiled'. (210)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the company of rakish ones, prudence is proper and necessary. Instead of 'drawing' the wine, you ought to 'draw' yourself away from the wine. That is, you ought to shun the company of rakish ones. And from wine drinking, abstinence is necessary. (269)

Bekhud Mohani: You ought to shun the company of rakish ones. And instead of 'drawing' wine, you ought to 'draw' yourself. That is, you ought to remain separate and aloof.

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[Disagreeing with Nazm:] To make a literal translation from Persian into Hindi is, in the author's opinion, undoubtedly proper. From this his intention is to adorn the treasury of his language with the jewels of colorful idioms, as Mir, Sauda, all the inventive craftsmen have done. To consider that this is contrary to Urdu idiom is not devoid of connivance [tasaama;h]. (368)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} WINE: {49,1} You'd think red warning lights would flash in the commentators' brains before they'd settle for a reading that was as prosy, pedestrian, and moralistic as 'don't drink wine, and withdraw from the company of wine-drinkers'. This is the ghazal world, after all, and on top of that, it's Ghalib! But then, these are the same people who brought us the truly depressing misreading of {90,3}, and for basically the same reasons. What one ought to show is not a sense of flat rejection, as the commentators will have it, but ;ha;zar , 'caution, wariness, prudence' and the like. That alone ought to alert us against a moralistic reading, since it's a much more subtle attitude, and much more flexible. If it were truly about wine, it might suggest that one should have a drink or two, but not indulge in drunken binges. But when we look more closely, the first line isn't about wine at all, it's about sociability-- it's the .su;hbat , the 'company' or 'society' of rakish ones, toward which this 'caution' is enjoined. We might not notice this subtlety at once, but after we read or hear the second line, how can we fail to do so? For the second line has a plain meaning: don't 'draw' (or pull toward yourself, or drink) wine-- as you would do in the lively 'company' of the rakish ones-but 'draw' (or pull toward yourself, or drink)-- yourself, The real opposition is between companionship and solitude, between becoming part of a lively group and remaining severely alone. And how excellently that fits in with the whole group that I call the 'independence' set. How perfectly the various meanings of khe;Nchnaa reflect the ways one should dig into the self, and wrestle with it-- draw it in, suck it in, absorb it, strip off the skin, draw it tight, endure it, suffer it. This is just what Ghalib so often urges: let whatever you are or do be truly your own; something inferior that is your own is preferable to something superior that is borrowed from someone else. Besides 'draw yourself', the meaning of 'draw yourself away' is also certainly there, and works very well with the idea of being wary about socializing, so that you 'hold yourself aloof' from company. The reason I call it secondary is that it doesn't have the piquant parallelism with wine that the first meaning does. 'Don't 'draw' wine, 'draw' the self!' is far more precise and energized (and thus more captivating) than 'Don't 'draw' wine, 'withdraw' the self'. (I think of Thoreau: 'Read not the Times. Read the Eternities.') 'Draw' can mean much more than drink: in {56,6} it appears to mean 'serve' or 'lay out on the table'; and in {119,5} it means something like 'experience'-and it appears in a line that serves very well to reinforce the larger point I'm making.

{189,3} chaahne ko tere kyaa samjhaa thaa dil baare ab us se bhii samjhaa chaahiye 1) what did the heart consider/understand desire for you to be? 2) finally now with it too an 'understanding' is needed

Notes: samjhaanaa : 'To cause to know, or understand, or comprehend; to give to understand, to inform, to explain (to), to describe, to account for; to give or render (an account); to impress (on the mind of), to remind; to convince, satisfy; to undeceive; to apologize; to instruct, to advise, to reason with, to

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remonstrate or expostulate with, to admonish, to warn; to correct, punish, chastise'. (Platts p.675) samajhnaa : 'To come to an understanding (with, -se), to look (to one, for explanation, or payment, &c.), to settle accounts (with, either fig. or lit.), to be even'. (Platts p.675)

Nazm: In the second line samajhnaa has the meaning of inquiry/investigation [baazpurs]; that is, he advises the beloved, please just inquire about its nature also: what did it think when it felt passion? (210-11)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what did the heart consider desire for you to be? That is, had it considered it a game, had it considered it simple-- what had it considered it? Now please just take a bit of vengeance for that desire on that ineffectual heart. The meaning is that if there was not the strength and endurance for the restraint of passion and the shock of separation, then what was it thinking when it engaged in passion? (270)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart had considered it a game to engage in love for you. This is its punishment for that: subject it to a good dose of tyranny! (369)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS This verse, like {189,1}, plays with the multiple and idiomatic meanings of chaahnaa and chaahiye ; it also adds a similarly idiomatic play with samajhnaa , which has a colloquial range somewhat like that of 'come to an understanding with' in English, so that it can include 'settle accounts with', 'teach a lesson to', 'punish', etc. Even richer and more explicit are the possibilities of the related samjhaanaa (see above); samjhaa chaahiye is so strongly idiomatic that I'm not sure whether the derivation should be considered to be from samajhnaa or samjhaanaa , but for purposes of interpretation it doesn't seem to make much difference. The commentators assume that the lover is asking, or even urging, the beloved to take some action with regard to the lover's heart-- to interrogate it, to expostulate with it, to punish it. This is a plausible reading, because then the verse reminds us with wry indirection that the heart is no longer at the lover's disposal. It's left him completely to go and live with the beloved-- so now the only way he can communicate with it, even to reproach it for its folly, is to pass the message on through the beloved. That makes the hectoring tone of the first line, and the ominous tone of the second line, even more amusing, since they come from a person who has to scold and threaten on sufferance, and at second hand. It's also possible that the lover is merely muttering the second line to himself. (The bhii here is probably merely emphatic, rather than an indication that other things also have to be subjected to the 'understanding' as well.) Either way, the effect is delightful and very funny. The first line is an open-ended (rhetorical?) question; the second is an understated threat, so that the whole verse is a cleverly inshaa))iyah performance.

189,4} chaak mat kar jeb be-ayyaam-e gul kuchh udhar kaa bhii ishaaraa chaahiye 1) don't tear open the collar, apart from the days of the rose 2) some sign from that direction too is needed

Notes: ishaarah : 'Sign, signal; beck, nod, wink, nudge, gesticulation; pointing to, indication, trace, mark; allusion, hint, clue; insinuation, inuendo; loveglances, ogling; dumb-show'. (Platts p.55)

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*Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: The simile of tearing open the collar is commonly used for the blossoming of a flower. He says that one ought to do every task with the counsel of nature [nechar]. Thus, until the flower tears open its collar, don’t you tear open your collar either. The pleasure of this is that for madmen, the turmoil of madness is usually increased in the spring. (161)

Nazm: That is, when spring would come, and bloomingness would tear its robe, consider that a sign from the Unseen World that you yourself too ought to tear your collar, in these days robe-wearing would pass away; and the sign is a claim by nature. In this verse the meaning of 'tearing the collar' gives great pleasure, for this is a new style of construction. (211)

Bekhud Mohani: In spring the buds' ripping of the collar is from a sign of Nature, and this sign is for the lover, that now the time for ripping the collar has come. Apart from spring, to rip the collar is a form of wilfulness, and madness. He's composed a peerless verse. For the force of madness to increase in the spring is a natural thing. (369)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} This is a verse of implication, for the idea at the heart of it is nowhere stated within it. Everybody in the ghazal world knows that the lover is inclined to tear open his collar-- because he's mad, and/or suffocating, and/or in despair. The first line suggests that this should only be done in 'the days of the rose', but we can't tell why, since the lover's wretched condition is a year-round state of affairs. The second line is, in proper mushairah performance style, uninterpretable until the last possible moment, when we are given the excellently chosen word ishaarah (spelled ishaaraa to suit its role as a rhyme-word). The lover needs a sign, a gesture, a romantic hint, from over there 'too'-- and the 'too' makes us realize what it is about the rose in the 'days of the rose' that provides such a sign. When the rose splits its tight closed bud into a number of outward-reaching, separate petals, it has metaphorically torn open its collar, and this gesture deserves a similar response from the lover. But these connections are made on the fly, only in our minds; it's the mental buzz we get from our own creative processes that creates such pleasure in a verse like this. In another wonderful twist, the sign should be from 'that direction' or 'that side' [udhar]. Does that mean from the rose itself, or from the power of Nature, or God, or whatever is speaking to the lover through the rose, from a place beyond it? As so often, the question is left open for us readers to decide for ourselves. Nor are we given the slightest clue about what the rose's ambiguous 'sign' might mean. Does the rose then share the lover's madness, or suffocation, or despair? Or does the rose set an example of selfsacrifice and ripeness-is-all, as its moment of greatest beauty prepares it for imminent death? As so often, Ghalib has left us with nagging questions, and no way to answer them.

{189,5} dostii kaa pardah hai begaanagii mu;Nh chhupaanaa ham se chho;Raa chaahiye 1) a veil/curtain for friendship/affection is strangeness/estrangement/shyness 2) you ought to leave off hiding your face from us

Notes: begaanagii : 'Strangeness, the being foreign or not domestic; estrangement; shyness'. (Platts p.210)

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Nazm: That is, when you hide your face and become a stranger, then in this veiling affection is found. This is, so to speak, a taunt directed at the beloved, through which trick she would leave off veiling herself, and he would attain his goal. (211)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in that you veil yourself from us like a stranger and hide your face-in this veiling affection shows a glimmer, and the viewers feel a suspicion. Thus you ought to leave off hiding your face from us. Mirza Sahib wants through this trick to attain his goal. (270)

Bekhud Mohani: You veil yourself from us, and through this your intention is that the secret of love would not be revealed. This is the aspect that reveals more secrets. People consider that there's something there-- otherwise, why do you need this veiling from him? Thus if you will meet us without veiling, the way you meet strangers, then no one would have any suspicion. Mirza has told the world a new thing, and with such forcefulness that it begins to seem that it's a mistake to act against it. (369)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} Why ought you to leave off hiding your face from us? Here are some possible reasons: =because people will think that if you're hiding then there must be something to hide, so they'll become suspicious of your carefully hidden face (this is the commentators' general reading) =because we know that such a show of aloofness is really a disguise for attraction-- you ought to stop using that disguise, since it only reveals to us most piquantly how fond you are of us! =because we know that you really are fond of us, and you know it too, so there's no need for coyness or shyness, and it's time to stop pretending =because a show of aloofness usually cloaks friendship or intimacy, and in fact, oh cruel tyrant, you hate us-- so you should cease to send false signals by veiling yourself from us; you should show your disdain openly, by not bothering to veil yourself A wide range of moods and arguments; as usual, we're left to make our own choices. But the striking, cryptic first line resonates and keeps on resonating. How can there be an end of what it might mean? For another such ambiguous meditation on the nature and uses of pardah, see {198,2}.

{189,6} dushmanii ne merii khoyaa ;Gair ko kis qadar dushman hai dekhaa chaahiye 1) enmity for/from me caused the Other to be lost 2) how much of an enemy he/she is! -- it's worth seeing!

Notes: Nazm: dekhaa chaahiye , that is, this thing is worth seeing, that in enmity toward me he erased his own self too. (211)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in enmity toward me the Other erased his own self. It's worth seeing, to what an extent he/she is my enemy. (270)

Bekhud Mohani: The thing worth seeing is that in enmity to me, the enemy destroyed his own self. That is, it was such enmity that in brooding about my destruction, he accepted his own ruination.

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[Or:] God is great-- what a harsh enemy the beloved is to me! Such that when the Rival showed enmity toward me, the beloved renounced all relationship with him. That is, [she reflected,] 'why would he maintain a relationship, even of enmity, with our enemy?'. (369)

Arshi: Compare {100,1}. (228-29, 289)

FWP: In the first line, all we really learn that some kind of enmity somehow ruined or finished off the Other, and that that enmity involved 'me', the speaker. But was it enmity 'for' me, as the commentators quite plausibly maintain; or was it enmity 'from' me, in the form of some subtle trap or intrigue that I had contrived? In Urdu, 'my enmity' [merii dushmanii] can go either way. The second line has no explicit subject, which means the subject is to be understood from the context. Under normal circumstances, we would carry over the subject from the first line, so that we'd be continuing to reflect on the situation of the Other. This is what Nazm does. But Bekhud Mohani inserts a new implied subject for the second line: the beloved. This could be justified on two grounds: because the Other is already finished off and done for in the first line, so it doesn't make sense for us to continue to explore his situation in the second line; or else because the lover's obsession with the beloved makes her always a hovering, readily available, implied subject. We're thus left with several possibilities: =the Other was ruined by his enmity for me-- how remarkable such a selfdestructive degree of enmity is! =the Other was ruined by his enmity for me-- how remarkably much the beloved hates me, to punish him for this! (This is Bekhud Mohani's interpretation, reinforced by Arshi's comparison with {100,1}.) =the Other was ruined by my enmity for him, that's how effective an enemy I am! But far more worthy of note is what a remarkable enemy the beloved is- she's ready to turn on any of her lovers at the smallest provocation, which is how I could manage my trick. (See {42,1}, or even more to the point, {38,1}.) Undecidable no doubt, but not very profound. The ambiguous word- and meaning-play with dushmanii and dushman is sufficient to make the verse clever, but not particularly compelling.

{189,7} apnii rusvaa))ii me;N kyaa chaltii hai sa((ii yaar hii hangaamah-aaraa chaahiye 1) in {one's/my} own disgrace, as if any effort succeeds! 2) only/emphatically a tumult-{adorning/creating} beloved is needed

Notes: Nazm: We may want a hundred thousand times to make ourselves disgraced, but no effort succeeds. This field is in the hands of only/emphatically the beloved. That is, she would make whomever she chooses impatient and restless, and then disgrace him. (211)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we can't through our own efforts even make ourselves disgraced. Even our ill-fame is dependent on her tumult-creatingness. That is, whomever she might choose, by showing him the smallest glimpse she would make him agitated and restless, and this would become the cause of agitation and restlessness and ill-fame and disgrace. (270)

Bekhud Mohani: In love, where many things are contrary to intelligence, when love becomes extremely great then in some hearts is born a longing for a Majnun-like

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madness and ill-repute. He says that our disgrace is not within our range of possibility; this can take place only through the beloved's tumultcreatingness. That is, she should be such a fight-seeker, so bad-tempered, so heedless, that ill-repute would come about. (369)

FWP: As a rule, Ghalib places great emphasis on independence and self-reliance (for more on this, see {9,1}); here, by contrast, is a unique and amusing counter-example. Here is one situation in which self-reliance simply doesn't work. But what situation is it, exactly? The commentators are sure that it's one in which the lover wishes to achieve disgrace, but is unable to manage it on his own. That's perfectly plausible, but the grammar would equally well support the idea that he's speaking from within a state of disgrace, and is unable to do something while he's in it-- whether he would wish to increase it, to mitigate it, to conceal it, or something else, we can't tell. It's even possible that the 'disgrace' is in the eyes not of the world but of the beloved, so that it's a question of his falling somehow from her favor. Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait hopefully for enlightenment in the second line. The second line does at least provide us with a panacea: whatever is wrong in the first line, can be fixed by having a beloved who is, literally, 'tumultadorning' or 'tumult-gracing'. But can't we also push the suffix aaraa a bit further, toward 'tumultcreating'? I argued for making the same move in {111,2}, where bazmaaraa))iyaa;N were invoked in a context in which an active sense ('episodes in which gatherings were adorned/decorated/arranged by somebody') seemed more substantial and compelling than a passive sense ('episodes in which beautiful women appeared decoratively at gatherings'). I think it makes sense, so I want to present it strongly as a possibility. Even if we stay mostly with 'tumult-adorning' or 'tumult-gracing', we undoubtedly have a piquant and appropriate line. Real 'disgrace', and/or action by one in a state of disgrace, depends entirely on the agitational powers of a beloved: she needs to be one both to 'stir up trouble' through her beauty and flirtatiousness, and then to 'adorn' the turmoil she herself has evoked. (For if she doesn't stir it up, where will it come from? Not, in this verse, from the lover!) A beloved should be, in short, a real hell-raiser. That way all eyes are upon her in shock and amazement, so that the lover's attainment of 'disgrace' becomes a sure thing instead of an impossibility. Alternatively, she should be a real hell-raiser because then she can goad her disgraced lover into some sort of (unspecified) action. Either way, her transcendant powers of 'mischievousness' hover over this amusing but rueful little verse.

{189,8} mun;ha.sir marne pah ho jis kii umiid naa-umiidii us kii dekhaa chaahiye 1) he whose hope would be dependent on dying-2) his hopelessness {is / would be} worth seeing

Notes: Ghalib: [1850:] I owe you the answer to a letter, but what can I do, I'm feeling very grief-stricken and melancholy. Now living in this city displeases me, and so many obstacles and barriers have accumulated that I can't leave it. In short, my sorrow and misery are such that now I live only on the hope of dying [marne kii tavaqqu(( par jiitaa huu;N]. Alas! -- {189,8}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p. 1090 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p.72

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Ghalib: [1859:] Brother! Even before this I considered that these possessions had been murdered, and that the one and a quarter lakh [=125,000] of gold rupees that has been given in addition to the amount agreed upon is the blood-price of the possessions in Delhi. The day before yesterday I sent the sheet with the complete list of possessions, along with the letter addressed to Nazir-ji ['the Manager']. Well, this shot too missed its mark. Maulana Ghalib, may God have mercy upon him, very finely says, {189,8}. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 779 ==another trans.: Russell and Islam, p. 223 [with more background information] ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 225. Daud Rahbar identifies Nazir-ji as "the addressee's maternal uncle, Husain Mirza. He had been the manager of the Delhi real estate holdings of the Kings of Avadh. His family had also owned property in Delhi which had been confiscated by the British in the aftermath of the Muslim [sic] uprising of 1857 and which the family had petitioned to have restored to them." (pp. 577-78)

Ghalib: [1866?:] His Excellency has come up with a new way to entrap me. He has scattered the seed of seeing [the Indo- Persian prose romance] buustaan-e ;xayaal . How could I have the strength to fly? What the hell [balaa se]-- if I become entrapped, then I would pick up the seeds that have fallen to the ground under the net! Sir, the truth is that the 'griefs of {livelihood / the whole world}' [;Gam-haa-e rozgaar] have surrounded me [see {20,7}]. I can't take a breath, they have made me so oppressed. I've thought over everything in a hundred ways, but the heart has found no comfort at all. Now I think two things: one is that as long as I live I'll continue to weep like this; the other is that finally, one day or another, I'll die. This is the short and the longt of it, in my heart. The result of it, is peace. Alas: {189,8}. [This passage is full of uncapturable rhymed prose effects.] ==Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 620-21

Hali: Perhaps nobody would have expressed the extremity of despair beyond this, or with such excellence as this. (126)

Nazm: That is, if the hope would be attained by dying, then what of it? (211)

Bekhud Mohani: The limit of hopelessness would be that the fulfillment of a man's hope would depend on his death.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Oh Lord, what connection does this meaning have with the verse? The worthy commentator has not been pleased to take a glance at the word 'dependent'. Some people say, 'he whose hope is this-what will his hopelessness be?'. That is, it is somewhat greater. The reply to this is that when the words are looked at, they are beautiful; but alas that there's no meaning in them. (370)

Arshi: Compare {95,6}. (225, 289)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION The comparison with {95,6} is absolutely perfect. The present verse seems less complex and subtle than {95,6}, but the similarities are very strong. Depending on where we place the emphasis in the first line, here are some possible readings: =If this (that is, dying) is his hope, then his current state-- of hopelessness and general despair-- must be so extreme that it's worth seeing. =If his only hope is in dying, then how utterly, hopelessly miserable he must be to find himself still alive, and as yet unable to die!

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=If this is his hope, then if we ever had a chance to see his hopelessness, his despair-- what a sight that would be! Of the three letters in which this verse is quoted, the first two are undoubtedly grim. But the third one, with its amusing imagery of a bird being caught by the alluring bait of a Persian romance, and its wittily rhymed prose, is much more cheerful. It reminds us that Ghalib quotes his own poetry not just to saturate the letter with its emotional content, but also to show off its literary effects.

{189,9} chaahte hai;N ;xuub-ruuyo;N ko asad aap kii .suurat to dekhaa chaahiye 1) you want beautiful-faced ones, Asad 2) your 'face'/aspect/guise/situation is worth seeing!

Notes: .suurat : 'Form, fashion, figure, shape, semblance, guise; appearance, aspect; face, countenance; prospect, probability; sign, indication; external state (of a thing); state, condition (of a thing), case, predicament, circumstance; effigy, image, statue, picture, portrait; plan, sketch; mental image, idea;--species; specific character, essence;--means; mode, manner, way'. (Platts p.747)

Nazm: When some individual would seek to transgress beyond his limit, then to chasten him they say, 'just look at your 'face' [;zaraa mu;Nh to dekho]-- is this worthy of that?'. (211)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, here's something new-- just look at the spectacle! Hazrat Asad too claims to be attracted by beautiful ones! Just please consider his face/aspect. That is, when would any beautiful-faced beloved feel attraction for such an unappealing face? (271)

Bekhud Mohani: Here's something new-- you want beautiful ones! Just please look at your face. That is, it's a miracle of the Lord-- love between you, and beautiful ones! (370)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This verse marks the beginning of a two-verse verse-set that includes {189,9-10}. Many editors, including Hamid, not only don't mark this verseset, but also reverse the order of the final two verses of the ghazal. As always, I follow Arshi. The wonderfully protean .suurat is a word that ranges constantly from the physical ('face') through the all-purpose ('aspect') to the abstract ('state of affairs'). And here the second line is so vague, yet so charged and forceful-it's really a moral imperative, something like 'ought to be seen'-- that the whole effect is to call attention to the crucial importance of .suurat (with of course the wordplay of 'looking at' [a face] as a piquant reminder of its literal meaning). But what is it exactly about the first line that demands the disdainful, exclamatory corrective of the second line? Here are some possibilities: =you want beautiful ones-- but your own 'face' is 'worth seeing' for the sheer contrast with such beauty =you want aristocratic ones-- how do you have the 'face' to (or, the nerve to; or, the gall to) aspire so high? =you want disdainful ones-- but your 'situation' or 'condition' is one of humility and powerlessness =you present yourself as a lover-- you, in the 'guise' or 'semblance' of a lover, provide a sight worth seeing!

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=you aspire to be a lover-- it will be amusing to see how your 'plan', your 'idea', turns out! And so on, and so on. The perfect verse for comparison: {161,1}, in which .suurat plays an almost equally protean role in making the verse slippery and multivalent. But then, this verse is also the beginning of a verse-set; so it should also be read in conjunction with {189,10}.

{189,10} ;Gaafil un mah-:tal((ato;N ke vaas:te chaahne-vaalaa bhii achchhaa chaahiye 1) oh heedless one, with regard to those moon-{like/faced} ones 2) a good/beautiful desirer/lover too is needed

Notes: :tal((at : 'Appearance, aspect, countenance, face'. (Platts p.753)

Nazm: What-- with that face/aspect [.suurat], do you desire moon-like ones? The word chaahiye is, in the idiom of the people of Lucknow, used for plural and singular both, but in Delhi the idiom has now become itnii chiize;N chaahaahi))e;N . (211)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh heedless one, for these moon-faced ones a desirer too ought to be beautiful and stylish. (271)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh foolish one, lovers of these beautiful ones too ought to be good/beautiful; not that every 'man in the street' [har kas-o-naa-kas] would begin to love/desire [them]: {158,6}. (370)

Chishti: It is entirely clear that the beautiful ones [;xuub-.suurat] of the world are usually attractive and are drawn toward lovers. Who feels attraction for ugly ones [bad-.suurat]? According to Dagh : daa;G kii shakl dekh kar bole aisii .suurat ko pyaar kaun kare [having seen Dagh's form, she said who would love such a face/aspect?] (744)

FWP: This verse marks the end of a two-verse verse-set that includes {189,9-10}; for discussion, see {189,9}. And in fact, it doesn't really work very well on its own; it really needs to be read in conjunction with {189,9}. It's true that it has the wordplay of chaahne-vaalaa and chaahiye , but by Ghalibian standards that's hardly exciting. The idea of the lover's (physical) unattractiveness, as humiliatingly and reprehensibly contrasted with the beloved's attractiveness, underlies this verse-set; it's not the only possible idea, but from the two verses taken together it emerges very markedly. I've found myself vexed by it, and have been thinking about it lot. I realized that I couldn't come up with any other classical ghazal verses in which the lover's physical unattractiveness was particularly invoked. Then I noticed that Chishti had come up with one by Dagh-- but that particular one simply reinforced my feeling that such a theme was aberrant, uninspiring, trifling, silly, vulgar. (Take a look at the verse and see if you don't agree.) I asked myself if this feeling was just some kind of puritanism or strict traditionalism on my part. That's possible, of course, but I think I can also defend my view on what might be called ghazal-theoretical grounds. A

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concern over the lover's physical appearance has several disadvantages as a ghazal theme: =Because one's appearance lends itself to remediation and endless fussing, such a theme risks turning the eager lover into an implied physical selfimprover: a reader of beauty magazines, a buyer of cosmetics, a fashion maven, etc.; this way lies silliness and vulgarity. =Because this concern implies that the beloved is so cheaply won, so 'normal', that she can be put off by physical unattractiveness-- and, conversely, can presumably be won by a better appearance and physical facade. This is unworthy of the radically bitchy and/or inaccessible beloved whom we know so well. =Because this concern would implicitly lead to the beloved's potentially loving the lover's beauty just as he loves hers, it creates a strong symmetry between the two, and thus 'normalizes' their relationship even further. It thus flies in the face of the radical-- and absolutely necessary-- inequality of lover and beloved in the ghazal world. =Because only a human beloved would use such superficial criterion of judgment, it rules out the hovering possibility of a divine Beloved. Thus I've been careful to bring out alternative possibilities. For {189,9}, it wasn't hard to do. But for this verse, I don't have all that much to work with. Perhaps the verse is speaking of an ideal world? Oh heedless, foolish lover, do you think that someone ordinary (not actively ugly, just normal-human) can ever win such a radiant beauty? She deserves nothing but the best! No wonder you can't get her attention. (Granted, this isn't very interesting, but it's something.) If Ghalib wrote this kind of simplistic and unappealing verse very often, I'd be outta here. But then, as we all know, he doesn't.

Ghazal 190 10 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa;N mujh se composed 1816; Hamid p. 155; Arshi #158; Raza pp. 185-86

{190,1} har qadam duurii-e manzil hai numaayaa;N mujh se merii raftaar se bhaage hai biyaabaa;N mujh se 1) at every footstep, the distance of the {destination / halting-place} is apparent/manifest through/from me 2) with/through/from my pace/movement, the desert flees from/through me

Notes: Nazm: That is, the same gait with which the wilderness is fleeing, that is a gait like mine. That is, as much as I move, by just that much the road becomes farther away, and at every step the distance of the destination keeps on increasing. (212)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to the extent that I move forward, just that much the destination keeps becoming farther from me. It seems that with the same gait with which I am traveling-- with that same gate the desert too is fleeing ahead of me. (271)

Bekhud Mohani: With every single step the destination keeps becoming farther from me. The desert too is fleeing with just the same gait as mine. That is, I have lost the

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road-- as much as I go forward, to that extent the destination keeps growing farther. (370)

Faruqi: That is, however fast the speed may be, the desert will keep becoming distant at that very speed. Accordingly, the speed of the movement is the same, and the existence of the desert is comprised within its very nonexistence. (From ;Gaalib par chaar ta;hriire;N , p. 68)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS What a brilliant, enigmatic verse! It might also be described as a tribute to the versatility of the protean little postposition se , with its basic 'from / with / by means of' range being pressed into service to yield such a multiplicity of meanings. It brings us two possibilities for the first line: =at every footstep, the distance of the destination is apparent/manifest, through me-- that is, I am the means through which which the distance (to some unknown, possibly collective goal) becomes revealed or apparent =at every footstep, the distance of the destination from me is apparent/manifest-- that is, what is being revealed or made manifest is the distance between the destination and me And look at some of the possibilities it opens up for the second line! Since this line contains two occurrences of se , each half becomes versatile-- not to say elusive-- quite independently of the other half. The first half: =with my pace/movement-- that is, to the extent of my movement =through my pace/movement-- that is, by means of my movement =from my pace/movement-- that is, because of my movement And the second half: =the desert flees by means of me-- that is, the desert uses my movement to enable it to flee =the desert flees because of me-- that is, it seeks to escape from me We're presented with all these mix-and-match complexities, with so many ways to put them together that I won't even try to list them. As Faruqi suggests, the unreachability of the desert may become part of its essence, like the uncapturability of the Anqa. Or maybe not-- maybe the desert flees because it fears me; or maybe the desert's fleeing is a function of my movement, since it moves only by drawing energy from me. Moreover, 'distance' might be a short form either of 'greatness of distance' (provoking the exclamation how far it is!); or of 'exactness of distance' (answering the question, how far in fact is it?). And as if all this weren't enough, we're also forced to decide for ourselves about the relationship of the two lines. Is the 'destination' in line one the same as the 'desert' in line two? We have no way to tell. For a normal traveler in the desert, a 'destination' would probably be an oasis, or some sort of halting-place, that would be beyond the desert, or at least different from the desert around it (in having water, or some other distinctive way). But for a lover, of course, the desert itself might well be a 'destination', and it would be a source of further wretchedness if he were not even able to reach it. For another memorable, gnomic verse about footprints, movement, and the desert, see {11,1}.

{190,2} dars-e ((unvaan-e tamaashaa bah-ta;Gaaful ;xvushtar hai nigah rishtah-e shiiraazah-e mizhgaa;N mujh se 1) the lesson of the title of the spectacle is better with negligence/heedlessness 2) the gaze is the thread of the stitched-binding of the eyelashes, through me

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Notes: Nazm: That is, my gaze has become the thread of the stitched binding of the eyelashes. The result is that because of being fond of negligence, it does not emerge from the eyes; and to take a lesson from the spectacle of the world is better with negligence. And he has brought in the world 'title' in order to create exaggeration-- that is, the whole spectacle is a volume, and who's in the mood to look at it? Here he's negligent about looking even at the title of the spectacle. (212)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even to take an instructive lesson from the spectacle of the world is better with negligence. That is, to look at the beginning of the spectacle with an averted gaze is enough to draw a conclusion. Therefore my gaze has become the thread of the stitched-binding of the eyelashes. The meaning is that I am so fond of negligence that my gaze too does not emerge from the veil of the eye, and does not derive a lesson from the marvels of the world. (271)

Bekhud Mohani: We've made our gaze into the stitched-binding of the eyelashes. Upon the world and the things in the world we don't cast even a cursory glance. Because it's good to see them through the eye of the heart-- thus I've closed the outer eye. That is, one ought to meditate on His reality and consider Him important. These [wordly things] are neither worthy of being looked at, nor worthy of having the heart given to them. (371)

FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} TAMASHA: {8,1} WRITING: {7,3} Usually it's the beloved who shows 'negligence', rather than the lover; but don't forget {182,1}, in which being a 'negligence-{lover/friend}' seems to be a point of pride for the lover. The imagery in the second line-- the gaze, and the thread used for the stitched binding of a book-- has been discussed comparatively in {10,12}, with other examples. But this is the only verse to add 'eyelashes' to the mix. The eyelashes of closed eyes easily evoke the stitched binding of a book; the thread that does this stitching is-- in a maneuver somewhat hard to visualize- the gaze itself: it is imagined to be, above all, lowered-- the gaze occupies itself in twisting in and around the eyelashes, 'binding' rather than 'opening' the book of sight. And all this is done exemplarily, deliberately, 'through me'. Thus the present verse seems to be part of what I call the 'independence' group-- a set of verses endorse the use of one's own resources, even if inferior, rather than those of others, no matter how desirable. In the present verse the whole world becomes a single 'spectacle' of such a nature than not only it but even its 'title' or introduction-- and not only its title, but even whatever 'lesson' might be provided by that title-- should be regarded with disregard, heeded with heedlessness, treated with disdain or 'negligence'. The 'book' wordplay-- 'lesson', 'title', 'thread', 'binding'-- is of course conspicuous as well.

{190,3} va;hshat-e aatish-e dil se shab-e tanhaa))ii me;N .suurat-e duud rahaa saayah gurezaa;N mujh se 1) through/from/with the wildness/fear/madness of the fire of the heart, in the night of solitude

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2) {like / in the form of} smoke, the shadow remained in flight from/through me

Notes: va;hshat : 'Loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; -wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism; --timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror; --distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) .suurat : 'Form, fashion, figure, shape, semblance, guise; appearance, aspect; face, countenance;... state, condition (of a thing), case, predicament, circumstance;... means; mode, manner, way'. (Platts p.747)

Nazm: In the night of solitude, my shadow, becoming wild/mad from the fire of the heart, kept fleeing the way smoke flees from fire. (213)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the nights of separation my shadow, becoming wild due to the fire of the heart, flees in the way that smoke flees from fire. The meaning is that in the night of solitude even my shadow didn't remain with me-- it too left me solitary. (272)

Bekhud Mohani: In the night of separation my shadow became fearful because of the fire of the heart, and fled the way smoke flees from fire. The night of separation was dark. Not to speak of anybody else-- the lover can't see even his shadow. In the state of senselessness, the suspicion occurs that because of the heart's restlessness the shadow has become fearful and fled. (371-72)

Arshi: Compare {153,10}. (269)

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} Thanks to the wonderfully multivalent meanings of va;hshat , we have several possible visions of what is going on: =the shadow flees in fear because of some quality ('ferocity' or 'madness') displayed by the fire of the heart =the shadow flees because of something it feels ('fear' or 'dread' or 'horror') when it encounters the fire of the heart =the shadow is caused to fly upwards, and thus metaphorically to flee, 'by means of' the violence ('wildness' or 'fierceness') of the fire of the heart-- this fire sends it shooting upward like smoke Thanks to the multivalent meanings of se , all these readings can easily be accommodated. And in the second line, the shadow can be imagined to flee either 'from me' (as the commentators have it), or 'by means of' me-- since it's my 'fire of the heart' that drives the shadow away. And thanks to the multivalent meanings of .suurat-e , the shadow can flee either simply 'like' smoke (as the commentators have it); or, more provocatively, 'in the form of' smoke-- a reading which works far more enjoyably with the 'fire of the heart'. Arshi has indeed found in {153,10} the perfect verse for comparison.

{190,4} ;Gam-e ((ushshaaq nah ho saadagii-aamoz-e butaa;N kis qadar ;xaanah-e aa))iinah hai viiraa;N mujh se 1a) may the grief of lovers not be simplicity-{-teaching to / -taught by} idols! 1b) might/would the grief of lovers not be simplicity-{-teaching to / -taught by} idols? 2a) to what an extent the mirror-chamber is desolate {through / because of} me!

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2b) to what extent is the mirror-chamber desolate {through / because of} me?

Notes: aamoz : 'Teaching; learning; taught (used in compounds)'. (Platts p.83)

Nazm: In the first line is a prayer, that is, may the Lord not cause the grief of lovers to teach simplicity to the beautiful ones, and cause them to leave off adornment and ornament. First, from my dying how desolate the mirrorchamber has become, since now in it the glory/appearance of beauty is not to be seen; and in mourning for me the beautiful ones have left off looking in the mirror and adorning themselves. (212)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, may the Lord not cause the grief of lovers to instruct beautiful beloveds in simplicity, and cause these people to renounce ornament and adornment. First, merely from my own dying, how desolate the mirrorchamber has become! Now the glory/appearance of beauty is not seen in it. That is, in mourning for me the beloveds have entirely renounced looking in the mirror and decorating themselves. (272)

Bekhud Mohani: This too is a new idea! Everybody in the world longs for the beloved to mourn for him. (372)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS IDOL: {8,1} MIRROR: {8,3} The commentators' meaning is only one of a number of formally undecideable choices created within a cleverly arranged 'meaning machine'. In the first line especially, the ambiguities are multiple. 'X Y nah ho ' can open up a whole range of possibilities. =X would not be Y (in some particular situation yet to be specified) =would X not be Y? (the colloquial interrogative form of the above) =X might not be Y (an expression of 50/50 possibility, it might or might not be) =might X not be Y? (the colloquial interrogative form of the above) =may X not be Y! (a prayer or wish that can apply in general or to some particular situation) When in this complexly structured line we consider the 'X', we realize that ;Gam-e ((ushshaaq can, thanks to the versatility of the i.zaafat , mean with equal ease either 'grief for lovers' (which is felt by somebody else), or 'grief of lovers' (which is felt by the lovers themselves). And then when we consider the 'Y', saadagii-aamoz-e butaa;N , we realize that aamoz has the double meanings of both 'teaching' (as the commentators prefer) and 'taught'; and when the i.zaafat is factored in, the result is a phrase that can mean either 'teaching simplicity to idols' or 'taught simplicity by idols'. We hope, a little wistfully perhaps, for further illumination in the second line. The second line, also inshaa))iyah , is not eager to help us out. It exclaims over, or questions, a completely different situation: the desolation of the 'mirror-chamber' because of me. Nazm, whom the other commentators more or less follow, envisions two possibilities: that after the lover's death the mourning beloveds, who have been taught simplicity, no longer go into the 'mirror-chamber' and brighten it with their radiant presence; and/or that the mourning beloveds no longer use a mirror, because they no longer adorn themselves. This second meaning feels weak, because it's made only by pretending that 'mirror-chamber' is the same as 'mirror'-- which is a reductionist thing to do, especially when it brings no poetic benefit.

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(Although Nazm might point to {73,1}, in which a 'mirror-chamber' is combined with a reference to the 'polish-marks' on a real metal mirror.) Let's consider the 'mirror-chamber' that Ghalib has so pointedly placed right in the center of the line. In {10,5} we have a 'mirror-chamber', and it's clearly one of those 'Shish Mahal' rooms that exist in Rajput palaces, with walls and ceilings tiled with small variously angled inlaid mirror fragments or mirror or glass tiles, so that a torch or even a candle carried into the room creates a series of shifting, dancing, endlessly self-reflecting flashes of radiance. (In {10,5} the effect is compared to that of the sun shining on a field of dew.) This effect is created by any kind of fire-- and right in the previous verse, {190,3}, we've been reminded of the lover's 'fire in the heart'. So it's also possible that the idols teach simplicity to the lovers, which causes them to restrain or repress their fiery grief, thus leaving the mirror-chamber desolate: their fire remains within them, rather than making a dazzling show that would brighten the mirror-chamber. It seems a bit baroque, I admit, and there's no particular connection with 'idols'. But then, the commentators' favorite meaning makes no special use of the word 'idols' either. In short, in this verse simplicity is something that either might be taught by 'the grief of lovers' (as felt either by or for the lovers) to idols; or else might be taught by idols to 'the grief of lovers'. In either case, the verse then asks about, or exclaims at, the extent to which the mirror-chamber has become desolate, as the lover says, 'because of me'-- since it is devoid either of the beloved's beauty (as sun), or of the lover's burning heart (as fire). Ultimately, it doesn't seem to make much difference which we choose. The point is how elegantly difficult, how endlessly rearrangeable, the verse is. It's kind of fascinating in its own way, like a kaleidoscope, but it's not deeply exciting or memorable. We notice the clever, unstoppably shifting patterns of the device, but we aren't overwhelmed with delight by anything very special that emerges from it.

{190,5} a;sar-e aablah se jaadah-e .sa;hraa-e junuu;N .suurat-e rishtah-e gauhar hai chiraa;Gaa;N mujh se 1) from the effect of blisters the road of the desert of madness 2) {like / in the form of} a string of pearls is {illumined / a light show} through me

Notes: chiraa;Gaa;N : 'Lamps; lights; a display of lamps, a general illumination'. (Platts p.428)

Nazm: From the blisters on my feet the road of the desert has become illumined like a string of pearls. The phrase 'the effect of blisters' is intended to mean that blood drips onto the road of the desert, which has made it a light-show and like a string of pearls. (212)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in desert-wandering, the blisters on my feet have burst. Blood drips from them onto the road of the desert of madness. That road becomes a lightshow like a string of pearls. (272)

Bekhud Mohani: The way in a string of pearls is found a state like that of a light-show, in the same way the road of the desert of madness too is becoming a light-show through the blood of my blisters. (373)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE MADNESS: {14,3}

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Well, here's an example of what I call 'grotesquerie'. As the mad lover wanders barefoot in the desert, his blistered feet are pierced by thorns. They then ooze drops of liquid so radiant that the road seems to have lamps placed along it, it seems almost to be a carefully planned illumination, a 'lightshow'. The commentators, one and all, firmly insist that the liquid in question is blood. But of course, in that case it wouldn't be appropriate to compare it pointedly to a 'string of pearls', which would be white rather than red. (Ghalib could have used rubies quite as easily) It seems more probable that the reference would be to the clear serum or fluid with which blisters are often filled. For after all, it's hard to believe the verse would be imagining an infected blister full of whitish-yellow pus. Ugh, you'll be saying, why does she have to go into such unappetizing detail? But of course that's exactly my point-- verses like this are not so effective, because we have trouble 'poeticizing' what to us (though maybe not to Ghalib) is a sort of yucky, 'too much information' vision of bursting blisters leaking fluid all along the road. Maybe, as S. R. Faruqi would gallantly maintain, the problem lies only with us moderns, or us Westernized types. Certainly there's nothing inherently problematical about blister imagery-- it forms part of a seamless continuum with burning hearts and bloody tears and so on. But there's something about the degree of detail that becomes off-putting in some cases-- though not in others. It's an intriguing case study in the poetics of audience response.

{190,6} be-;xvudii bistar-e tamhiid-e faraa;Gat huujo pur hai saa))e kii :tara;h meraa shabistaa;N mujh se 1) may/might/would self-lessness be the bedding of the introduction/arrangement of completion/rest/ease 2) my bedchamber/'night'chamber is filled, like (a) shadow/shade, with me

Notes: tamhiid : 'Arranging, disposing; arrangement, disposition, adjustment, settlement, management; confirmation; preliminary, preamble, introduction, preface, preparative; pleading an excuse'. (Platts p.337) faraa;Gat : 'Freedom (from business, &c.), cessation (from work, &c.), finishing and ceasing (from), disengagedness, leisure, rest, repose; freedom from care or anxiety, ease, convenience, comfort, tranquillity, happiness'. (Platts p.777) saayah : 'Shadow, shade; shelter, protection; apparition, spectre; influence (of an evil spirit)'. (Platts p.631)

Nazm: He says, may it be my fate for self-lessness to be the bedding of the preface of completion, for thanks to it, my bedchamber is filled with me the way a shadow is a flat/fallen [pur-uftaadah] thing. That is, it's a fine thing, whatever self-lessness has caused me to lie flat, senseless, like a shadow. The dictionary meaning of tamhiid is 'spreading', and and this is part of the affinities with 'bedding'. And as a term, they use it for expressing some ideas that come before some task, and upon which that task depends; and this is the meaning that the author intends-- that is, self-lessness is the 'preface' of the obtaining of completion/leisure. The dictionary meaning of faraa;Gat is 'to be empty', and this is part of the affinities with 'full'; and as a term it is used to mean 'rest, ease', and this is the meaning intended here. huujiyo is the established word; the late author has transformed and shortened it into huujo . (212-13)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning of this verse is that in the state of self-lessness, through ease and rest, I would be lying on my bedding in my house-- may the Lord make it so! (272)

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Bekhud Mohani: May self-lessness continue to be fated to receive the bedding of completion/rest/ease, for in its beneficence my bedchamber is full the way something shadowed is full of shadow. That is, be grateful to self-lessness, through the beneficence of which today I am in my own house and the embrace of my bedchamber is filled with me. The conclusion is that as long as awareness remained, I was not fated to remain in my own house; it's the grace of self-lessness that I was able to remain here.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] This usage [of huujo] is judicious. The elders of Delhi used to die for the excellence of the theme, and considered words to be fit for their manipulation. (372)

Faruqi: [He discusses the grammar and history of the verb in the first line, and demonstrates from early manuscript and printed versions that the original reading could arguably have been ho jo . He also agrees about the wordplay that Nazm points out.] The question can arise, if my bedchamber is filled, like a shadow, with me, then from that how will self-lessness be obtained? The answer to this is that as long as I wandered around in the state of wildness and madness, I had no relationship to bedchambers and resting-places. Now that I've come and sat down in my own bedchamber, it's clear that I've already renounced wildness/madness. Now I'm in the stage of passion that's the stage of absorption and stupefaction. It's clear that now self-lessness, and the resulting attainment of freedom from wildness/madness, distraction, and desolation, will be my hope. The second answer is that as long as I was aware of my existence and my being, there was madness/wildness and tumultuousness in me. Now when I am about to attain self-lessness, it's clear that I will obtain freedom/release from my own existence too. When my bedchamber will become filled with my shadow, then I will have selflessness and then perfect repose. When I will have no awareness of existence (self-lessness will exist), then freedom/release too will be attained. This is all very well, but what does 'my bedchamber is filled, like a shadow, with me' mean? The commentators have tried very hard to solve this difficulty, but without result.... In reality, the phrase on which to concentrate is 'with me'. My bedchamber is filled 'with me' the way my shadow is filled with me. Now it's clear that nobody plays any part in anybody's shadow except the person whose shadow it is. That is, few things are more personal and individual than the shadow. The shadow is dark-- that is, entirely filled up-- because darkness fills up an empty place.... Now with what thing is the shadow itself filled up? It's clear that it's filled with that thing of which it is a shadow. Thus I pervade my bedchamber like a shadow. The whole bedchamber is filled with me, the way in my shadow only my body or my existence is operative. The simile is very eloquent [badii((], but it is so farfetched that the pleasure has been lessened. (309-12)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY As Nazm and Faruqi observe, this verse is a particularly brilliant network of affinity sets. I'd like to add even more than those they mention. To take them in order: ='self-lessness'; 'my'; and 'me' ='bedding'; 'spreading out or arranging' [tamhiid]; rest [faraa;Gat]; bedchamber ='introduction' [tamhiid]; and 'completion' [faraa;Gat] ='emptiness' [faraa;Gat]; and 'filled, full' ='shadow'; and 'night'-chamber [shabistaa;N]

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Since tamhiid participates in two such sets, and faraaGat in three, we have the subtle pleasure of watching them shift back and forth among their meanings, effortlessly changing gears as we redirect our attention. Even for Ghalib, this array of word- (and meaning- ) play is exceptional. My bedchamber is filled with me the way a shadow is filled with me. Since a shadow isn't really substantial, isn't really 'filled' with anything, couldn't that also mean that I'm not really in my bedchamber? If I'm becoming self-less, perhaps I'm not really anywhere? Perhaps the whole vision is a kind of dream? Or could it be that my bedchamber is filled with me the way it itself is (also?) filled with shadow. That would be because I'm so shadowy, so notthere, so pervasive and evasive and flimsy and protean and already thinning out into self-lessness. Or could it be that I fill my bedchamber the way a 'shade' in the sense of a 'specter' or 'apparition' or other ghost visitor might fill it-- ominous, hovering, a last lingering reminder of another era of passionate vigils and nights of tossing and turning? Would the bedchamber uneasily sense my presence? Would it be waiting, hoping, for me to move on into another and fully 'self-less' world? The real multiplier of possibilities is that phrase saaye kii :tara;h , 'like a shadow' or 'like shadow'. Here are some of its possibilities: =my bedchamber is filled with me in the manner that (a) shadow is filled with me =my bedchamber is like (a) shadow in that both are filled with me =my bedchamber is filled with me the way it is filled with (a) shadow =my bedchamber is filled with me as if I am (a) shadow =my bedchamber filled with me is like (a) shadow (Note to grammar fans: do you doubt that an adverbial phrase like saaye kii :tara;h can be taken to apply to the object of a postposition, 'me', rather than to the subject, the bedchamber? I don't blame you a bit, I had some doubt myself. To overcome it, consider the first line of the next verse, {190,7}.) That second line! It lodges in my mind and won't go away. To me, it suffices all on its own to make this really a verse of mood. Of course, I don't know what it actually means, and all the cleverness of the commentators doesn't persuade me that they really know either. My own analytical efforts too feel somewhat beside the point; I can't put my heart into the kind of nuktah-chiin analysis that I usually enjoy. In this verse, the mood is too powerful. Maybe you feel it too, and you know what I mean. If you don't feel it, then there's no point in my going on and on; I don't think I can put it into words. It's just the penumbra of mystery: pur hai saaye kii :tara;h meraa shabistaa;N mujh se - my night-chamber, like shadow, like a shadow, is filled with me.

{190,7} shauq-e diidaar me;N gar tuu mujhe gardan maare ho nigah mi;sl-e gul-e sham((a pareshaa;N mujh se 1) if in the ardor of sight/vision you would strike [through] my neck 2) may/might/would the glance be scattered like the extinguishing/flame of a candle, from me

Notes: diidaar : 'Sight, vision... look, appearance; face, countenance, cheek; interview'. (Platts p.556) gul : 'A rose; a flower; a red patch (on anything);--snuff (of a lamp or a candle)'. (Platts p.771)

Nazm: They use gul-e sham((a to mean both 'the extinguishing of a candle' and 'the flame of a candle'. Here both meanings have connection: that is, the way they put out a candle with a snuffer [gul-giir] and smoke comes out of it and

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spreads around, in the same way if you strike through my neck in the ardor of sight, then my glances, like smoke, would emerge and become scattered. Or the way that after the candle's 'head'/wick is trimmed, its flame becomes brighter and its illumination spreads, in the same way after my 'trimming' [qalam honaa], in the ardor of sight my glances will spread in all four directions. (213)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if in the state of ardor for vision you would even cut off my head, then my glances will emerge and spread out to search for you in all directions the way after a candle's wick is trimmed its flames become brighter and cast more light. (272)

Bekhud Mohani: My ardor for vision has now already reached a limit. And the state is that if in punishment for this sin of ardor my beloved would even cut off my head, then I won't feel it. Rather, from her doing that the ardor for vision will increase further, the way when a candle's wick is trimmed its light becomes more brilliant. In addition to this, the way when a candle is snuffed out its elements become scattered and dispersed, my glances too will in their ardor become scattered, and one glance will become a number of glances. (373)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; YOU AND I CANDLE: {39,1} Well, Nazm has described the two senses of gul-e sham((a , and indeed they're the obvious and surely correct things to describe. Those two possibilities are surely what Ghalib had it in mind to invoke. But I find this verse not just unappealing but actually off-putting. Thus it earns a place in the set that I call 'grotesquerie'. It offers us two possible visions. One vision is that of a person being suddenly decapitated, by having his neck struck right through; this is the state, we're to think, of a candle that has been abruptly snuffed out. We are supposed to compare the scattering and dispersion of his last lingering glances, during and right after his death, to the way dark smoke suddenly appears and diffuses in the air when a candle is snuffed out. But what gets in the way of this highly esoteric and attenuated image is the much stronger and more vivid image of how, if a person's head were to be suddenly struck off, a huge gush of blood would burst out and redden everything in the vicinity. Blood itself is so ghazal-like an image that it keeps wanting to manifest itself, to make its presence felt in the verse. But we're required to ignore the unignorable gushing and 'scattering' of blood everywhere, and instead are to consider only the hard-to-envision 'scattering' of glances. Here Ghalib is being too clever by half, and getting in his own way. The other vision, even harder to imagine, is that of a person being suddenly decapitated, as analogized to the state of a candle whose wick has just been trimmed. When the wick of a candle is trimmed, the candle flame suddenly leaps up and burns more brightly. Thus we're supposed to imagine that the dying (and dead?) lover's glances would suddenly shoot out and scatter all around the room more radiantly, more ardently, than even during his lifetime. Here the imagery is even more perverse. Trimming the wick of a candle makes it work better as a light source, and happens to it repeatedly as a normal part of its life; are we to think the same thing about decapitation, in the case of the lover? Does he regularly get his neck or head 'trimmed'? To compare decapitation to the trimming of a candle wick is genuinely grotesque. There is a strong 'yuck' factor, and it's not counterbalanced by any significant poetic merit. In Ghalib's defense it can of course be said that the second line that envisions the scattering of the glances is in the subjunctive-- it thus describes

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something that might or might not happen, something that is being tentatively hypothesized, or wished for, or thought about. So we can always remind ourselves that all this can be the extravagant wishful thinking of a morbidly infatuated lover, envisioning the delicious moment of his death-which would occur in a kind of orgiastic 'ardor of sight'. Note for grammar fans: if you think it strange that 'in the ardor of sight' should describe the mere object of a postposition, 'me', rather than the subject of the sentence, 'you', then I agree with you. But if we try to imagine the beloved so consumed with longing to decapitate the lover that she herself feels such an 'ardor of sight', then we run into even worse problems. Whose glance would then be 'scattered'? Not hers, since she's the murderer and not the murderee, the snuffer/trimmer and not the candle; and if it's his, then we lose the connection with the first line (her 'ardor of sight' then has no relationship to his 'glance'). There's a similar grammatical situation in the previous verse, {190,6}.

{190,8} bekasiihaa-e shab-e hijr kii va;hshat hay hay saayah ;xvurshiid-e qiyaamat me;N hai pinhaa;N mujh se 1) the wildness/madness/fear of the helplessnesses of the night of separation- alas! 2) (my) shadow/shade/shelter is hidden in the sun of Doomsday, from me

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place;--loneliness, solitariness, dreariness;--sadness, grief, care;--wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism;--timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror;--distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) saayah : 'Shadow, shade; shelter, protection; apparition, spectre; influence (of an evil spirit)'. (Platts p.631-32)

Nazm: That is, having become mad/wild from the helplessness and sorrow of the night of separation, my shadow has fled from me, and has gone and hid in the sun of Doomsday. Although shadow flees from sun, my shadow has fled from me in such a way that it became hidden in the sun-- and in the sun of Doomsday. (213)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the sorrow and helplessness of the night of grief, my shadow showed madness/wildness toward me and fled in such a way, and felt fear to such an extent, that it went and hid in the sun of Doomsday. Besides the fact that the shadow flees from sun, my shadow was in such flight from me that it went and hid in the sun of Doomsday. (272-73)

Bekhud Mohani: This is like the proverbial case when someone would advance a knife toward a goat, and from extreme fear and agitation and panic it would flee toward a wolf. The point is that the end/conclusion of this night will be when the sun of Doomsday would emerge. In this way he has expressed a famous idea. (373)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} QIYAMAT: {10,11} Is it 'the' shadow-- my own personal shadow-- or even more radically, is it 'Shadow' or 'Shade' itself that is fleeing and hiding from me? Both possibilities are open. But even more intriguingly, why is (the) shadow fleeing and hiding? The versatility of va;hshat is perfect; here are some of the possibilities that it opens up:

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= The shadow is 'fearful' of the 'helplessnesses' that the night of separation imposes on me, and doesn't want to share them. Perhaps the absolute darkness of my night deprives the shadow of any existence (since there's no light to define and reveal it). Perhaps it's afraid that where I am, dawn will never come. = The shadow has actually been driven 'mad' by the 'helplessnesses' of that terrible night, so that it's running frantically away in what is surely a suicidal direction. = I myself am 'wild', mad, ferociously and primitively violent, in the 'helplessnesses' of that terrible night, to the point that even my own shadow fears to remain in my company, and flees at all costs. = Even in the darkness of night I can find no shelter, no rest, no coolness of 'shade' or comfort-- the darkness itself torments me. It seems that my 'helplessnesses are so profound that all 'shade' has fled from me, and I'll find no peace, no 'shelter', till Doomsday. Why 'helplessnesses', rather than merely 'helplessness'? Ghalib is fond of these pluralized abstractions; for more examples, see {1,2}. The dangerous powers of human thought, especially thought about va;hshat , are well established; for the locus classicus, see {5,4}. Perhaps it's not surprising that the shadow is desperate to get away.

{190,8} bekasiihaa-e shab-e hijr kii va;hshat hay hay saayah ;xvurshiid-e qiyaamat me;N hai pinhaa;N mujh se 1) the wildness/madness/fear of the helplessnesses of the night of separation- alas! 2) (my) shadow/shade/shelter is hidden in the sun of Doomsday, from me

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place;--loneliness, solitariness, dreariness;--sadness, grief, care;--wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism;--timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror;--distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) saayah : 'Shadow, shade; shelter, protection; apparition, spectre; influence (of an evil spirit)'. (Platts p.631-32)

Nazm: That is, having become mad/wild from the helplessness and sorrow of the night of separation, my shadow has fled from me, and has gone and hid in the sun of Doomsday. Although shadow flees from sun, my shadow has fled from me in such a way that it became hidden in the sun-- and in the sun of Doomsday. (213)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the sorrow and helplessness of the night of grief, my shadow showed madness/wildness toward me and fled in such a way, and felt fear to such an extent, that it went and hid in the sun of Doomsday. Besides the fact that the shadow flees from sun, my shadow was in such flight from me that it went and hid in the sun of Doomsday. (272-73)

Bekhud Mohani: This is like the proverbial case when someone would advance a knife toward a goat, and from extreme fear and agitation and panic it would flee toward a wolf. The point is that the end/conclusion of this night will be when the sun of Doomsday would emerge. In this way he has expressed a famous idea. (373)

FWP: NIGHT/DAY: {1,2} QIYAMAT: {10,11}

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Is it 'the' shadow-- my own personal shadow-- or even more radically, is it 'Shadow' or 'Shade' itself that is fleeing and hiding from me? Both possibilities are open. But even more intriguingly, why is (the) shadow fleeing and hiding? The versatility of va;hshat is perfect; here are some of the possibilities that it opens up: = The shadow is 'fearful' of the 'helplessnesses' that the night of separation imposes on me, and doesn't want to share them. Perhaps the absolute darkness of my night deprives the shadow of any existence (since there's no light to define and reveal it). Perhaps it's afraid that where I am, dawn will never come. = The shadow has actually been driven 'mad' by the 'helplessnesses' of that terrible night, so that it's running frantically away in what is surely a suicidal direction. = I myself am 'wild', mad, ferociously and primitively violent, in the 'helplessnesses' of that terrible night, to the point that even my own shadow fears to remain in my company, and flees at all costs. = Even in the darkness of night I can find no shelter, no rest, no coolness of 'shade' or comfort-- the darkness itself torments me. It seems that my 'helplessnesses are so profound that all 'shade' has fled from me, and I'll find no peace, no 'shelter', till Doomsday. Why 'helplessnesses', rather than merely 'helplessness'? Ghalib is fond of these pluralized abstractions; for more examples, see {1,2}. The dangerous powers of human thought, especially thought about va;hshat , are well established; for the locus classicus, see {5,4}. Perhaps it's not surprising that the shadow is desperate to get away.

{190,10} nigah-e garm se ik aag ;Tapaktii hai asad hai chiraa;Gaa;N ;xas-o-;xaashaak-e gulistaa;N mujh se 1) from a hot/warm gaze/glance a single/special fire drips, Asad 2) the straw-and-woodchips of the garden are a {lamp-display /light-show}, {through / because of} me

Notes: nigaah : 'Look, glance, sight, view, regard; consideration; --look, aspect (of); --watching, observation, attention;--custody, care'. (Platts p.1150) garm : 'Hot, warm; in a state of heat; burning; glowing: fervid; ardent, zealous, fervent; excited; eager, intent on; fiery, choleric, virulent; active, lively, brisk'. (Platts p.905) ek : 'One, single, sole, alone, only, a, an; the same, identical; only one; a certain one; single of its kind, unique, singular, preeminent, excellent'. (Platts p.113) chiraa;Gaa;N : 'Lamps; lights; a display of lamps, a general illumination'. (Platts p.428) ;xas-o-;xaashaak : 'Sticks and straws, litter, rubbish'. (Platts p.489) ;xaashaak: 'Sweepings, chips, shavings, leaves, rubbish, trash'. (Platts p.484)

Nazm: That is, my warm/hot gaze has lit a fire in the garden; but we do not learn anything of why the gaze is warm/hot. (214)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Asad, when in separation from the beloved I've gone for a stroll in the garden, in my body a fire has started, and on seeing the flowers such a

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flame has shot out of my eyes that the dried grass and woodchips of the garden have become a light-show. (273)

Bekhud Mohani: As Insha says, mire bhaave;N gulshan me;N aatish lagii hai na:zar kyaa pa;Re ;xaak gulhaa-e tar par [with regard to my presence, fire has started in the garden my gaze had hardly fallen, alas, on the moist roses] (374)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY FLAME/STRAW: {21,5} Just look at the complexities we'll have to choose among, in order to put this verse together! The whole first line demands to be considered almost literally word by word: First, nigah (shortened from nigaah for metrical reasons) can refer to either a single 'look' or 'glance', or a steady continued 'gaze' or 'watching'; or it can mean 'care' or 'attention'. Second, garm has a wide range of meanings, ranging from the mild ('lively', 'brisk') through the emotional ('ardent', 'excited'), to the dangerous ('fiery', 'virulent'). Third, consider that little word ik (short of course for ek ) that appears so centrally in the first line, and emerges at such an emphatic point in the meter. If we take it to mean 'single', then it's elegantly counterpoised to the Persian plural chiraa;Gaa;N in the next line. If we take it to mean 'preeminent' or 'excellent', that too works well with its powers as described in the second line. And if we take it to mean 'unique' or 'singular', then we are well prepared for its behavior in the very next word, as it 'drips'. Fourth, of course is that 'dripping' of the fire. As a rule, 'dripping' is a highly unlikely thing for a flame to do: flames go up and drips go down; flames shoot out in tongues and drips shape themselves into little spheres; flames pop and crackle, drips merely go 'plop'. Then, of course, fire will roast you, drips will drown you-- is that a difference (in means), or a similarity (in ends)? What in the world does it mean for fire to 'drip'? Fire is not the oddest of Ghalib's dripping things, however: remember there's also the 'to be a desert' that 'drips' in {17,2}. In the second line, what strikes us is an astonishing conversion. Something maximally trashy and rubbishy has been made into something maximally elegant and sophisticated; something merely crudely inflammable has been made into not one but many spectacular flames; something that's natural and a mere byproduct has been made into something that's artificial and an elaborate product of artistic skill. And of course we discover the whole array of fire wordplay: 'hot/warm', 'fire', 'light-show', and the kindling: 'driedgrass-and-woodchips'. Then, all these effects are created 'through me' or 'from me' or 'by means of me' [mujh se]. Which opens up, once again, various choices. The rich patron who sponsors a theatrical show can quite well say, 'the show is put on by me'. The choreographer can make the same claim; so too can the dancers. In the case of the creation of this light-show, we'll have to decide for ourselves how closely involved the speaker might be, and what his role might be-- is he merely commanding the show, or is he spinning it out of his own burning heart's blood? Is he doing it effortlessly, or even involuntarily, with a single glance (as in {5,4}), or is he doing it carefully over time, with 'watchfulness'? And of course we'll also have to decide what his mood might be, whether 'lively', 'ardent', or 'virulent'. As so often, Ghalib gives us a set of building blocks and then goads or charms us into creating the verse-- or rather, many permutations of the verse-- for ourselves. For another meditation on ;xas-o-;xaashaak and fire, see {210,5}.

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Ghazal 191 9 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aa))e nah bane composed 1853; Hamid p. 156; Arshi #226; Raza pp. 323-24

{191,1} nuktah-chii;N hai ;Gam-e dil us ko sunaa))e nah bane kyaa bane baat jahaa;N baat banaa))e nah bane 1) she's a nit-picker; the grief of the heart wouldn't be able to be narrated to her 2) how would a thing succeed, where a thing having been contrived/fabricated wouldn't succeed?

Notes: baat bannaa : 'To be successful, prove a success, answer well; to gain credit or honour, to prosper, flourish'. (Platts p.117) baat banaanaa : 'To talk much; to make up a story; to invent excuses, to concoct, fabricate; to talk grandly, to boast'. (Platts p.117)

Ghalib: [1862:] [In a letter, Ghalib quotes {191:1, 2, 5, 8, 4, 9}. For more on the letter, see {161,1}.]

Nazm: baat kaa bannaa and ban pa;Rnaa are in the sense of 'for devices/strategems to succeed'; and baat kaa banaanaa is in the sense of 'twisting and turning a matter in order to cause one's purpose to succeed'. He says, she's such a nitpicker that I would want a hundred thousand times to contrive to recount to her the sorrow of my heart-- she realizes this, and cuts me off. (214)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that mischievous one is a nit-picker. To narrate to her the grief of the heart-- it just doesn't happen. That is, she will seize on every single word, and then add an objection.... baat banaanii means 'to tell a lie'. The meaning is, because of ner nit-picking our lie will become apparent to her, and the thing will be spoiled. (273)

Bekhud Mohani : baat bannaa = for a desire to be accomplished. baat banaanaa = to express one's purpose. The beloved is a nit-picker-- she objects to every single word. To narrate to her the grief of the heart is not an easy task, nor does it yield any result. In such a place, where even expressing one's purpose would not cause a desire to be accomplished, what hope can there be? (374)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Here's a well-known and very popular ghazal. The whole ghazal is, because of its refrain, greatly shaped by idiomatic expressions involving baat bannaa , often with the baat colloquially omitted (for another example of the same idiom, see {70,3}. This particular verse also features the especially suitable baat banaanaa (see the definition above), made from the transitive form of the same verb. The second line of the verse also cleverly integrates baat banaanaa into another common idiomatic pattern displayed in banaa))e nah bane ; for discussion of this structure, see {191,8}. The result is a classic second line with almost tongue-twisting sound effects, a wonderfully circular feeling when you recite it, and a kind of radical untranslatability. The framing structure kyaa bane baat jahaa;N baat ... nah

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bane [how would a thing succeed, where a thing wouldn't succeed?] can hardly fail to be present in your ear and mind, interrupted only by banaa))e , which itself works, in terms of both sound and meaning, as a kind of embellishment of the theme. What exactly is the problem being expressed in this inshaa))iyah line? The beloved is a nit-picker, so you can't get anywhere when you talk to her and try to tell her the 'grief of the heart'. But the precise involvement of falsehood versus truth remains undecideable. =she's a nit-picker-- thus she detects and unravels the grandiose falsehoods with which I try to impress her, so that my situation is hopeless =she's a nit-picker to such a degree that not even carefully framed fancy falsehoods would impress her, so what hope is there for a helplessly truthful, inarticulate, suffering lover like me? =she's a nit-picker about style, and only enjoys fancy rhetoric and floridly embellished verbiage-- and even that doesn't ultimately succeed with her, so what hope can any lover have? Ajit Sanzgiri has suggested to me that the 'nit-picker' can be the 'grief of the heart' itself-- it is strict and scrupulous, and refuses to be embellished or rhetorically dressed up in any way, even to please the beloved. I think this is possible, but not as persuasive as the primary reading, since personifying the 'grief of the heart' is not very common in itself-- much less envisioning it as a 'nit-picker' (which is the obvious and perfect behavior for the beloved). But who can say that this reading too doesn't hover at the edges of the main meaning, especially in view of the positioning and grammar of the first half of the first line? This one is really a verse of convoluted idiomatic wordplay, and its great charm is the astonishing second line. The following verse, {191,2}, has a similar structure.

{191,2} mai;N bulaataa to huu;N us ko magar ay ja;zbah-e dil us pah ban jaa))e kuchh aisii kih bin aa))e nah bane 1) I do call her, but, oh passion of the heart, 2) may something come over her, such that she can't stand not to come!

Notes: ja;zbah : 'Passion, rage, fury; violent desire'. (Platts p.378) ja;zb : 'Drawing, attraction; allurement; absorption'. (Platts p.378)

Nazm: kisii par ban jaanaa is that person's being involved in a difficulty. (214)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I do call her, but there's no hope that from my calling she will come. Alas, emotion of the heart-- if you would help me a bit, and cast such an attraction over her that she wouldn't be able to stand not to come, then she can come. (273)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh attraction of the heart, through your claim I call her, but now it's your task that she would become so restless that she wouldn't be able to endure not to come. (374)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} Like the previous verse, this one has a second line that is full of sound and script effects and idiomatic (and almost untranslatable) wordplay. In that one we had bane (twice) and banaa))e ; here we have ban jaa))e , bin aa))e , and

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bane . Above all the ban and bin not only look the same in (normal, nondiacriticized) Urdu script, but come enjoyably close to rhyming. The commentators generally feel that the 'passion of the heart' is being addressed because it's expected to achieve the effect envisioned in the second line. The derivation of ja;zbah from ja;zb , with its sense of 'attraction' or 'drawing', readily points in that direction. But it's also clear that the verb ban jaa))e is intransitive, so that no instructions are being issued to the 'passion'. Thus it's also possible that the lover is just communing with himself, desperately longing, in the wild tangle of his own emotions, for the beloved too to feel something of that same desperate longing (though he knows she doesn't and probably won't). In that sense the 'passion of the heart' is the most congenial companion, and thus is addressed as a sympathizer, a companion in misery. Consider the next verse, {191,3}, in which the lover is definitely longing for something from a position of helplessness ('oh if only... !'). Like the previous verse {191,1}, this one really pleases through the cleverly twisted, idiomatic wordplay in the second line.

{191,3} khel samjhaa hai kahii;N chho;R nah de bhuul nah jaa))e kaash yuu;N bhii ho kih bin mere sataa))e nah bane 1) she's considered it a game-- may she not abandon it, not forget it! 2) if only it would even be that she couldn't stand not to torment me!

Notes: Nazm: If only it would be that without tormenting me she would have no peace. (214)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even the tyranny and cruelty with which she treats me, she considers a game. Thus I fear lest she might leave off the tyranny, or forget it. If only it would be that she would have no peace without tormenting me, and every day, regularly, she would keep tormenting me! (274)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {60,6}. (133) The beloved is young, and torments me. But she doesn't consider it necessary to torment me-- rather, where there are other games, this game too is one among them. And from her tyranny I get pleasure-- may the Lord grant that she not forget, or leave off! May she herself get such pleasure from tormenting me that she wouldn't be able to stand not to torment me. Janab Shaukat [writes], 'the beloved fears lest the lover might leave her. What-- as if such a thing can happen!' What a beautiful idea he has expressed. (374)

FWP: The verse begins with a report from the lover. She plays with me, he says, the way a cat plays with a mouse-- she considers it a 'game' to torment me. He thus sets up strong grounds for complaint. We won't be surprised if he goes on to lament her cruelty, beg for better treatment, threaten to seek refuge in death, or the like. But then the whole rest of the whole verse goes on to obsess only about losing this torment. Since it's a childish game, she might capriciously abandon it, or she might casually forget about it. The one thing the lover really longs for is that this playful torment at her hands could be guaranteed to continue. After all, anything is better than being ignored by her (as we're reminded in {148,2}). And as so often, we're also back to the old painequals-pleasure paradox that lies at the heart of the ghazal world.

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The second line of the verse reveals a simpler form of the same wordplay as that of the previous verse, {191,2}. Instead of ban - bin - bane we have only bin - bane ; but in the immediate aftermath of the previous verse and the astonishingly complex second line of the first verse, even this much soundplay and script-play still resonates enjoyably. Bekhud Mohani approvingly cites Shaukat's alternative reading of the first line, which is one of fear on the beloved's part: 'she has considered it [=my expressions of devotion] a game-- [she thinks,] may he not forget, may he not leave off!'. But this reading doesn't seem to offer any connection at all with the second line, so I don't think it's really sustainable.

{191,4} ;Gair phirtaa hai liye yuu;N tire ;xa:t ko kih agar ko))ii puuchhe kih yih kyaa hai to chhupaa))e nah bane 1) the Other wanders around carrying your letter {like this / casually / for no particular reason} such that if 2) anyone would ask, 'What's this?', then it wouldn't be able to be hidden

Notes: Nazm: Urdu poets have used ;Gair as the name for the Rival.... otherwise, in the idiom it is an adjective, nor is it especially reserved for the Rival.... He taunts the beloved: since you wrote the Other an ardent letter, he doesn't take care about hiding it-- he'll disgrace you. This theme is very new and true. (214)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my Rival wanders everywhere carrying your letter, in such a way that if anyone would ask him, 'what is this in your hand?' then he can't even hide it. The meaning is that one day or another the Rival will surely disgrace you. (274)

Bekhud Mohani: It is an attempt to make the beloved disaffected with the Rival. It shows the Rival's small-mindedness [tang-:zarfii], that he goes strutting around. The Rival has absolutely no respect for your honor. (375)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE WRITING: {7,3} Just when the three previous verses have lulled us into expecting a pattern-setup in the first line, amusing show of word-play and sound-play and scriptplay in the second line-- we suddenly confront something completely different. We are now given a most unusual verse-- one that apparently has no wordplay, sound-play, or script-play at all. This is the kind of verse that the commentators delight in; basically, they try their best to convert almost all verses into this kind. It's also, for the same reason, the kind of verse that I don't much care for. It's basically a single clear, plain, prose statement, in normal prose order, with minimal complications. I simply can't think of anything interesting to say about it. For an example of an equally selfish and exploitative use of public space by the beloved herself, see {201,5}. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}.

{191,5} is nazaakat kaa buraa ho vuh bhale hai;N to kyaa haath aave;N to u;Nhe;N haath lagaa))e nah bane 1) may evil/bad come upon this delicacy! if she's kind/good, then so what? 2) if she would come to hand, a hand wouldn't be able to be laid upon her

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Notes: Nazm: Composing this verse, the author has shown a picture of delicacy. There's no doubt at all that the word nazaakat is wrong, because naazuk is a Persian word, and he has made its abstract form nazaakat according to the Arabic pattern. But the Urdu users blindly follow the Persian elders in doing this; thus in Urdu too from chaahanaa they've made chaahat , and from rang , rangat ; and the idiom, and the usage of elders, have made all these words correct. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, her utter delicacy has left her incapable of this-- so that if she would fall into the hands of any ardent lover, then no ardent lover would be able to succeed in obtaining union. (274)

Bekhud Mohani: She has a good temperament, but she's so delicate that no longing can be fulfilled. Even if she would be obtained, then through fear of her delicacy nothing would be able to be achieved. He's said it in such a way that the beloved's imagined picture begins to pass before the eyes. [Disapproving of Nazm's attitude:] The usage of elders and the entry into the idiom is itself an absolute proof of a word's eloquence [fa.saa;hat]. The elders of Iran kept an eye on the scope of their language, and proved themselves to be renewers. They never failed to use this [ability], although there wasn't as much necessity for creating words in Persian as there is in Urdu. But what cure is there-- the worthy commentator is bemoaning this! And he considers it necessary to make the language dead, and to narrow the circle of its scope! (375)

Josh: A verse of Sayyid Insha's too on this theme is worthy of comparison: nazaakat us gul-e ra((naa kii dekho ay inshaa nasiim-e .sub;h jo chhuu jaa))e rang ho mailaa [Look at the delicacy of that attractive rose, oh Insha if the dawn breeze would touch it, the color would be soiled] (316)

FWP: GOOD/BAD: {22,4} Ghalib naturally doesn't expect us to subsist for more than one verse without wordplay-- in contrast to the prosy {191,4}, this one offers us good/bad in the first line, and also in the second line the two even more enjoyably different idiomatic uses of haath , which I've tried to capture through more or less similar English idioms. Arshi, who usually doesn't give many diacritics, provides a zer that establishes the first word of the verse as is rather than us . In this case, it doesn't seem to make much difference. In this verse, the beloved's extreme delicacy seems to be a kind of sadistic cosmic joke on the lover, for which the beloved is blameless; if anything, she's 'kind' rather than complicit. Compare {20,3}, in which the same delicacy is the basis of a teasing bit of repartee directed at the beloved herself-- it's made to call into question not only her physical strength, but also her moral fiber.

{191,6} kah sake kaun kih yih jalvah-garii kis kii hai pardah chho;Raa hai vuh us ne kih u;Thaa))e nah bane 1) who can say, whose is this {glory/manifestation/blandishment}-doing 2) that one has loosed/lowered a veil/curtain such that having been lifted it would not become [lifted]

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Notes: jalvah : 'Manifestation, publicity, conspicuousness; splendour, lustre, effulgence'. (Platts p.387) garii : 'Acting, doing; practice; trade, office (used as last member of compounds)'. (Platts p.907) jalvah-garii : 'Clearness, conspicuousness; splendour; affectation, blandishments'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: To lower a veil is a metaphor for the world of contingency, and this very metaphor has given glory [jalvah] to the theme of the verse. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, who can tell whose jalvah-garii this is. Having created the world of contingency, he has placed such a curtain that this pardah can't be lifted up through anyone's lifting it [kisii kii u;Thaane se u;Th hii nahii;N saktaa]. (274)

Bekhud Mohani: The same thing that in the first line he's called jalvah-garii , in the second line he calls a curtain/veil. That is, that very same beauty of the world is the curtain/veil that has kept the supernatural appearance [jaal] of the True Beloved hidden. (376)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} VEIL: {6,1} It's a meditative and lyrical verse, with an alluring, deceptive simplicity. The first line asks one question (whose is the jalvah-garii , who owns or controls it?) within another question (who can say whose it is?). We are poised in suspense, looking forward to at least some kind of answer in the second line- after, of course, the suitable mushairah delay. Instead, the second line slams the curtain down on us once and for all. Then once we have time to reflect, we realize that we can't really even tell exactly what kind of answer is being given in the second line. Above all, we can't tell who is the 'that one', and what relationship s/he has to the rest of the verse. There can certainly be two candidates for 'that one', the curtaindropper: it could be the jalvah-garii itself (the thing we're looking at); or the owner of the jalvah-garii (the one we're asking about); or the one who can tell us who the owner is (the one 'who can say'). Thus the reason we can't learn about the jalvah-garii owner might be, =because 'that one' (that is, the one who can tell us who the owner is) has deliberately denied us the information by slamming a curtain down to block all our inquiries =because the jalvah-garii owner himself/herself has decided to drop a curtain and deny us such knowledge =because the very working of the jalvah-garii itself might constitute the dropping of an unliftable curtain, no matter who the owner or operator might be; compare the abstract role of the varaq-gardaanii , 'card-shuffling', in {81,2}. The commentators generally insist on reading this verse mystically, and it's not hard to see why. But since one of the meanings of jalvah-garii is 'affectation, blandishments', it's also perfectly possible to see the dropping of the unliftable veil as the coquettish device of the beautiful beloved-- and when she's chosen to be veiled, the lover can't dare to even imagine lifting her veil. There's also the excellent wordplay and meaning-play between the 'manifestation' in the first line and the 'curtain/veil' in the second line.

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191,7} maut kii raah nah dekhuu;N kih bin aa))e nah rahe tum ko chaahuu;N kih nah aa))o to bulaa))e nah bane 1) should I not wait expectantly for death-- for it wouldn't refrain from coming? 2) should I desire you-- for if you wouldn't come, then you wouldn't be able to be [successfully] called?

Notes: Ghalib: [1853:] Brother, I am greatly surprised at you, that you felt a hesitation about the meaning of this verse [bait]. Two questions have come into it that he has asked of the beloved by way of reproach and insinuation. Should I not wait for death? Why should I not? I will indeed wait for it, for it can't not come. For this is one of the things thing to the honor [shaan] of death, that one day it will indeed come. The wait will not be in vain. Should I desire you? What a fine idea! Why should I desire you, when if you don't come, you can't be called? That is, if you would come of your own will, then you'd come, and if you wouldn't come, then what power would anyone have to call you? As if this helpless one says to the beloved, now I've left you and have become a lover of death. It has the virtue that without being called, it doesn't refrain from coming. Why would I desire you, when if you don't come, then I can't call you? The thing is that if in reading 'should I desire you since you wouldn't come' [tum ko chaahuu;N kih nah aa))o] this utterance comes into the mind joined together, then a person is astonished. tum ko chaahuu;N is separate, kih nah aa))o to bulaa))e nah bane -- this phrase is separate. You didn't pay attention, otherwise the mood of this reproach and insinuation would of itself have become apparent to you. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, p. 1117

Nazm: He says, why shouldn't I wait for death, since it won't refrain from coming. I can't bear it that I would call you and if you wouldn't come, then even my calling wouldn't bring about the result. That is, if you yourself would refuse to come, then how would I have the nerve to call you? The suggestion is that the coming of death is better than your not coming. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that meeting with you is more difficult than the coming of death. (274)

Bekhud Mohani: To wait for death is useless, because it will come in any case. Indeed, I ought to love you, because if you don't come, then you wouldn't even be able to be called. That is, the claim of courage is that a man should do that task which would be very complicated. The people of courage can't manage to do even a commonplace task. Mirza Dagh says: kyaa naak me;N dam hai dil-e dushvaar-:talab se vuh kaam biga;Rtaa hai jo mushkil nahii;N hotaa [how the last breath draws near, because of the difficulty-seeking heart! that task goes awry which is not difficult].... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] 'If you yourself would refuse to come, then how would I have the nerve to call you?'-- the Lord knows what the connection of this meaning is to the first line! And those interpretations that have been made-- they are amusing. (376-77)

FWP: SETS == KIH; PARALLELISM The two lines are parallel, but with intriguing differences. The action proposed in the first line is something like 'looking out for', death [maut kii

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raah dekhnaa], literally, to 'watch the road' by which it's expected to come. So it suggests an eagerness and attention and desire that are stronger than merely passively 'to await'. But neither is it the same as chaahnaa , to 'desire' or 'love', in the second line. Are we to pay attention to the similarities, or the differences? Both, no doubt, since this is Ghalib. Moreover, nothing in the grammar rules out doing both activities at once. Nor does anything in the grammar establish any other relationship between the lines: the idea that death is a new beloved who might supplant the old one; or the alternative idea that waiting for death is a mere counsel of despair because of the beloved's inaccessibility; or Bekhud Mohani's notion that the man of courage should love the beloved actually because of her inaccessibility-- these and other such interpretations can be present only by implication, since the verse itself doesn't formally produce them. There's also the elegant multivalence of kih -- 'since, because'? 'for'? 'in that'? 'such that'? 'the one who'? The particular (causal or non-causal) relationship between the clause before it and the clause that it introduces is always open to mediation by each semantic situation in which it occurs. For an excellent example of such flexibility, just compare the use of kih in the next verse, {191,8}, where it clearly means something like 'the one that'. NOTE FOR GRAMMAR FANS: This radically inshaa))iyah verse is a kind of textbook of the subjunctive-- no fewer than five instances occur. Along with two idiomatically-used past participles, they are the only verbs in the verse. Their flexibility is cleverly exploited: the first subjunctive in each line is a proposed action that the speaker is seriously considering, so that in English it would have the sense more or less of 'should I...?'. By contrast, the other subjunctives all simply describe, in the classic subjunctive way, actions might or might not happen. (This isn't a distinction of first person versus third person, but a genuine case of two possible senses.)

{191,8} bojh vuh sar se giraa hai kih u;Thaa))e nah u;The kaam vuh aan pa;Raa hai kih banaa))e nah bane 1) that burden has fallen from the head-- [the one] that having been lifted, wouldn't become lifted 2) that task has confronted/befallen-- [the one] that having been done, wouldn't become done

Notes: Nazm: First, the theme is extremely good; second, by making the structure of both lines similar he has made the verse even more trim. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In both lines he has expressed his difficulties. The verse is clear and simple, and extremely eloquent. (274)

Bekhud Mohani: The way in this verse a picture of the mood/state of a person's becoming on some occasion entirely helpless is seen-- it is rarely seen [elsewhere]. (377)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; IDIOMS; PARALLELISM Here's the clearest example in the whole divan of the common, colloquial idiom that has the form banaa))e nah bane , u;Thaa))e nah u;The , and the like. The form also appeared in the second line of {191,1}, but since there it was amalgamated with another idiom, baat banaanaa , it's easier to get a sense of it here; see also the second line of {191,9}, with lagaa))e nah lage . The logic underlying the usage is illustrated by Bekhud Dihlavi in his commentary on {191,6}. As can be seen in Bekhud Mohani's commentary on {191,9}, the idiom can be used in the habitual as well (though the

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subjunctive is more common). Forms like u;Thaa))e nah u;The , 'having been lifted, would not get lifted', and banaa))e nah bane , 'having been done, would not get done', are deliberately paradoxical-seeming; the use of transitive and intransitive forms of the same verb creates not only a spinningone's-wheels effect, but also some good sound and rhythm effects as well. This idiomatic construction is at the heart of the whole ghazal; other verses gesture toward it without presenting it as transparently as in the present case. (It's also suggested, though not so clearly, in {29,4}.) A PERSONAL ANECDOTE: The time is a quarter century ago, the place is Lahore; I've just arrived, bent on reading Ghalib straight through and learning to analyze Urdu meter. A friend introduces me to a gentleman whom I'll call Falan (as in falaa;N ) Sahib, who is a teacher in a boys' school, and is interested in Urdu literature. When he learns that I'm studying Ghalib, Falan Sahib asks me if I know this present verse, and what I think it means. I reply by describing, as well as I can in my somewhat clunky Urdu, what I now call the 'fill-in' device: the way the very abstractness of the verse both enables and compels each reader to interpret it uniquely, in whatever way most deeply speaks to his or her own inner life. 'Oh,' says Falan Sahib compassionately, 'I used to think that myself, but then I had the good fortune to hear from So-and-so Sahib, who has spent decades making a careful study of Ghalib, what the real meaning of the verse is. Would you like me to tell it to you?' 'Oh yes, please do!' I say eagerly. Inwardly I'm thrilled at my good fortune, for isn't this exactly what I've come here to Lahore for-- to absorb the special traditional wisdom of the real ahl-e zabaa;N , to study at the feet of cultural insiders who have grown up with the ghazal since their infancy? 'Well,' says Falan Sahib, 'you know how in all the pictures of Ghalib, he's wearing one of those tall Turkish hats?' 'Yes,' I say a little pallidly, feeling the first small chill of premonition but pushing it firmly away. 'One day,' says Falan Sahib, 'Ghalib went to visit his beautiful beloved. But they were interrupted. Somebody knocked on the front door, and Ghalib had to flee by the back door. As he hurried away, his tall hat fell off. His dilemma was that if he stopped to pick it up, he would be seen; but if he left it lying there, the hat itself would be recognized. So the hat was the burden that fell from the head, and picking it up was the task that couldn't be done.' By now I'm really irritated-- just because I'm a foreigner, does he think I'm a moron? I keep my head down until I can control my expression; then I look up coolly, waiting for him to burst out laughing. But he's looking benevolent, pleased at having generously shared his superior knowledge with an amateur. I prolong the pause as much as I possibly can, searching his face for the smallest sign of irony or humor. But since there isn't any, I finally manage to say in a heartfelt tone, kamaal hai ! This he takes as an awestruck tribute, and also as no more than his due. And then even while the general social conversation continues, I realize that Falan Sahib has given me a remarkable gift. He's given me a charter, a sanad , for my own work on Ghalib. Fran, I say to myself, never mind that you're very far from being a culturally authentic ahl-e zabaa;N type -- you just go ahead and interpret Ghalib freely, from your own perspective, as best you can. Because nothing you could come up with in your entire life would be half as silly as what Falan Sahib has just said. Falan Sahib's gift has been both a comfort and a spur to me over the years, and I'm glad to share it with other cultural outsiders too. Such (quite artificial) 'natural poetry' tendencies also crop up sometimes in the commentators, though rarely to this degree: for a similar 'fill-in' example, and further discussion, see {70,3}.

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Surely this is also a verse of mood. It's so simple, but it feels ineluctable. The moment when the iron enters your soul, when you first know that you will die, when you first lose someone or something you can never replace. That moment of first awareness of something like a block of granite-- the 'burden' (of awareness? of vulnerability? of doom?). It used to be manageable, you used to have it balanced on your head. But now it's irrevocably fallen: you can't even lift it, and there it is monumentally beside you and with you, from now on.

{191,9} ((ishq par zor nahii;N hai yih vuh aatish ;Gaalib kih lagaa))e nah lage aur bujhaa))e nah bane 1) there's no control/power over passion-- this is that fire, Ghalib 2) that having been lit, would not catch fire; and having been extinguished, would not become [successfully extinguished]

Notes: Nazm: That is, if you wish that passion would also be kindled in the beloved's heart, then no power controls this; and if you wish to extinguish your own kindled fire, then this too doesn't happen. He has composed a whole adorned [mura.s.sa((] ghazal, and this is the color/mood of ghazal-recitation [;Gazal;xvaanii]. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, if we would wish that in the beloved's heart too we would cause the fire of passion to spring up, then this is not possible; and if we would wish to extinguish our own kindled fire, then this too doesn't manage to happen. (275)

Bekhud Mohani: Passion is a fire over which no one has control. That is, neither is it within a man's power to light that fire, nor is it possible to extinguish it once lit. The gist is that being lighted it doesn't get lit [lagaa))e nah lagtii hai]; nor being put out does it go out [nah bujhaa))e bujhtii hai]. It is a divinely bestowed gift, the creation and elimination of which is in the power of the Lord. Atish says: yih daulat hai usii ke ;haq kii ho jis ke muqaddar me;N mai-e ulfat nah ;xam me;N hai nah shiishah me;N nah saa;Gar me;N [this wealth belongs only to one in whose destiny it would be the wine of love is neither in the cask, nor in the glass, nor in the flagon] (377)

FWP: As Nazm observes, this whole ghazal is a terrific one for recitation, and this is surely its most memorable and recitable verse. It's elegantly balanced between two extremes: it is as lucid, semantically clear, and instantly comprehensible as {191,4}, while avoiding that verse's sense of prosiness and triviality. And it has an enjoyable layer of idiomatic wordplay in the second line (for discussion see {191,8}), though it isn't pushed as far as in, say, {191,1}. The verse is both saying something coherent and paraphrasable (which always delights the commentators), and saying something arresting and thought-provoking (which delights all of us); it's also saying that something elegantly (with an enjoyable but not overpowering degree of wordplay), and with a rhythm and energy that nobody could resist. Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi want to specify a context ('alas, I can't make her love me, nor can I stop loving her'); Bekhud Mohani favors a more abstract and universal reading. As usual, every reader can make his or her own choice(s). For the verse itself is as abstract as it can possibly be, and gives no

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warrant for even claiming it's about the lover's personal situation at all. It speaks-- ruefully? sadly? detachedly? with wry amusement?-- not of this one's passion or that one's passion, but of the nature of passion itself.

Ghazal 192 5 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aanii kare composed 1816; Hamid p. 157; Arshi #156; Raza p. 197

{192,1} chaak kii ;xvaahish agar va;hshat bah ((uryaanii kare .sub;h ke maanind za;xm-e dil garebaanii kare 1) if Madness/wildness would desire, with/in nakedness, to rip-2) like the dawn, the wound of the heart would act as a collar

Notes: Nazm: That is, in a state of nakedness if Madness/wildness would long to rip open the collar, then like the dawn, the wound of the heart too would become a collar and be ripped. (215)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the madness of the heart, in a state of nakedness, would long to rip open the collar, then it is perfectly assured that like the dawn, my wound of the heart too would become a collar and be ripped. (275)

Bekhud Mohani: If in a state of nakedness Madness would want the collar to be ripped, then the wound of the heart, like the dawn, would become the rip in the collar. That is, in the beginning of madness a man tears his clothing; and now there is nakedness, so if the fervor of madness would increase, then the result is that Madness would rip open the wound of the heart like a collar. That is, the beginning of madness is with garment-tearing, and its culmination is with giving up one's life. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The Lord knows what kind of commentary this is! If someone would not have himself understood the original verse, then even after seeing this commentary he'd still be tearing his hair. (378)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} MADNESS: {14,3} The dawn is a long straight slash of bright orange light on the horizon (thus 'the crack of dawn'); the wound in the heart is a deep slash too, and bright red with blood. Thus they both have the shape of the traditional neck-opening of a kurta (a shape for which 'collar' is not an ideal word; 'placket' would be better, but it's too obscure). So if a semi-personified Madness, already naked, would still wish to rend its garments and rip its collar open, it will actually have more powerful, more radiant, more evocative material to rip. For the wound in the heart would do 'collarness' [garebaanii], or act as a collar, making itself available for further rending and tearing; thus Bekhud Mohani's exegesis. Moreover, the wound in the heart would act as a collar 'like the dawn' [.sub;h ke maanind]. This could be read in a general way: just as the long straight bright slash of dawn is quickly opened up by the hand of time to reveal broad daylight, so the wound in the heart will be quickly ripped open by Madness to reveal more bright blood (and signal the death of the madman). But more piquantly, it could also be taken quite literally: when naked Madness looks around for a 'collar' to rip, it finds two volunteers standing by: the wound in the heart, and the slash-line of dawn. Or rather, it finds the

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dawn first, for the wound does its collar-ing 'like the dawn'. There seems to be a non-temporal hierarchy though, since the line is really about the role of the wound, and the dawn enters the picture only in a casual simile. The dawn makes itself available too, but it's the wound that's really worth our attention. Compare {62,8}, which also likens the wound to the dawn-- and also to the disadvantage of the latter.

{192,2} jalve kaa tere vuh ((aalam hai kih gar kiije ;xiyaal diidah-e dil ko ziyaarat-gaah-e ;hairaanii kare 1) that state/world of your glory/appearance is such, that if thought would be given 2) it would make the eye/sight of the heart a {pilgrimage-place / shrine} of amazement/stupefaction

Notes: Nazm: That is, from the thought of your glory/appearance, amazement comes over the heart. (216)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the state/world of your glory/appearance is such that if even a thought of it would come, then amazement would come over the eye of the heart. (275)

Bekhud Mohani: The subtlety of the meaning is that when merely from thinking of the glory/appearance amazement overpowers one, from that it ought to be guessed what your glory/appearance and you yourself must be like. (378)

FWP: JALVAH: {7,4} Obviously, something in the first line has very powerful effects. It is something grammatically singular. But is it the 'state/world' [((aalam], the 'glory/appearance' [jalvah], or the 'thought' [;xiyaal]? Any of the three would work well, with intriguingly different implications; the latter is particularly Ghalibian in its metaphysicalness. In the case of the latter (the 'thought'), since kiije is an archaic form of the passive, we have no indication who might be doing the thinking. If it's the beloved, to whom the verse is addressed, then because of her irresistible power and beauty every 'thought' from her is efficacious, like a royal command: if she would actually deign to devote a passing thought to the lover, the effect would be so transforming as to turn the 'eye of his heart' into a shrine-- because of its matchless good fortune, it would become the wonder and amazement of the age, and other lovers would make pilgrimages there. But what are the odds that she would vouchsafe to him such a magnificent favor? More probably, it's the lover himself by whom the 'thought' would have to be done. If he thinks about the beloved's glory/appearance, it won't be long before the 'eye of his heart' is in a state of amazement of even helpless stupefaction-- a state so extreme that word would get around, and other lovers and mystics would come to visit this great shrine to the lover's entrancedness and the power of the beloved's glory. (Or, alternatively, the eye of his heart would become a pilgrimage-place for no less an entity than Amazement itself.) By the time we're this far along in the divan, we don't at all doubt the power of the human mind to achieve such romantic and/or mystical feats. After all, we saw one of the greatest examples way back in {5,4}.

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{192,3} hai shikastan se bhii dil naumiid yaa rab kab talak aabgiinah koh par ((ar.z-e giraa;N-jaanii kare 1) the heart is hopeless even/also of breaking, oh Lord-- for how long 2) would a glass/mirror make a claim [of superiority] over a mountain in 'heavy-lifedness'?

Notes: aab-giinah : 'Lit. 'Possessed of lustre or clearness'; mirror, looking-glass; drinking-glass; bottle;--wine; diamond'. (Platts p.2) giraa;N : 'Heavy, weighty, ponderous; great, important, momentous; difficult; burdensome, grievous;--precious, valuable; dear, expensive'. (Platts p.901)

Nazm: 'Mountain' is a metaphor for the harshness and intensity of grief, and he has given for the heart the simile of a glass. The word shikastan has made the verse clang: he takes into an Urdu construction other Persian words, but the use of a Persian verb is considered undesirable, and besides the late author's I haven't seen it in anyone else's work, whether poetry or prose. (216)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, how long will we sit and build castles in the air, from the longing that our stony-hearted beloved will one day or another break the glass of our heart with the stone of cruelty? We despair even about that-- that she would devote any attention to the breaking of our heart. (275)

Bekhud Mohani: giraa;N-jaanii = 'tough-lifedness' [sa;xt-jaanii] ... How long will this glass, like a mountain, express its 'tough-lifedness'? The image for grief, with regard to intensity and harshness, is a mountain; and in comparison to it, the heart with regard to its delicacy is a glass. The verse expresses a mystery of human nature: that although from the world's griefs and difficulties the delicate human heart endures the most extreme suffering, still for it to entirely despair is extremely difficult. From 'even' [bhii] the meaning emerges that it is not contented with the failure of a whole world-full of longings. It despairs even about becoming completely hopeless-- because from becoming hopeless, too, a kind of peace comes, because a person no longer remains restless in pursuit of a goal. (378)

FWP: SETS == WORD MIRROR: {8,3} In classic mushairah performance style, this verse withholds its punch-word until the last possible moment. The first line begins to ask a question that, with enjambement, is only answered in the second line. But even before we get the whole sense, the first line is confusing. For what does it mean to be hopeless 'of' or 'from' [se] breaking? That the heart longs to break, but is unable to do so? That the heart has already broken, but has found the results insufficient to its more radical death-wish? That the heart doesn't care whether it breaks or not, because it knows despairingly that it won't make any difference? We hope for some clarification in the second line; but we also suspect, this being Ghalib, that we won't get it, and we're right. Even as the second line moves forward, only at the last moment, when we hear giraa;N-jaanii do we suddenly get the full jolt. The verse is organized around the multivalent possibilities raised by that one superbly chosen compound word. Although I've translated it as literally as possible as 'heavy-lifedness', the giraa;N in the phrase can also mean, by different kinds of intuitively

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plausible extensions, 'important', or 'grievous', or 'precious'. Each of these three senses is beautifully appropriate in the context, and each works elegantly, though of course differently, with the first line. Most of Ghalib's mirrors are metal; for a glass one, see {16,2}. But the mirror in {16,2} is already broken, while the mirror in this verse seems almost provokingly reluctant to shatter as it ought to. Or if it's not a mirror, then it's a wine-glass or drinking-glass of some kind, and thus equally shatterable. (We have something of the same ambiguity in English: a 'glass' can be a looking-glass, or else a drinking glass.) At first glance, the question looks rhetorical: how long can a 'glass', the most fragile thing in the world, claim superiority in toughness, in unbreakableness, over a dense, invulnerable mountain? Not for a moment: it would shatter instantly under stresses that the mountain would never even notice. And yet when we link the glass to the heart, it may claim superiority over the mountain not necessarily-- or not only-- in toughness, but in 'importance', or 'grievousness', or 'preciousness'. Thus the question may not be rhetorical at all, for the heart may indeed outrank the mountain by some of these criteria. In that case, the 'how long?' becomes a real question, to which the answer is uncertain; and so, as usual, Ghalib leaves us to chew on the question in our minds. Moreover, if the heart is the 'glass', what is the 'mountain'? A brilliantly suggestive verse for comparison is the second one in the divan, {1,2}, which offers us not only the (implied) vision of a dark mountain, but also sa;xtjaniihaa , 'tough-lifednesses', which is a more extravagant (though less elegantly multivalent) cousin of giraa;N-jaanii .

{192,4} mai-kadah gar chashm-e mast-e naaz se paave shikast muu-e shiishah diidah-e saa;Gar kii mizhgaanii kare 1) if the wine-house would be broken by the eye of the one intoxicated with coquetry 2) the hair of the glass would be an eyelash for the eye of the wineglass/flagon

Notes: Nazm: The eye that is becoming intoxicated with the wine of coquetry, if in comparison to it the wine-house would be defeated, then the lines that are in the glass would become eyelashes for the glass, and with that eye the wineglass would see her intoxicated eye and become amazed. So much embellishment [ta.sannu((]-- and the theme is nothing at all. (216)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if her eye intoxicated with coquetry would break apart the winehouse, then the lines that would be in the glass of wine would become eyelashes for the eye of the flagon, and with that eye the flagon of wine would see her eye that is intoxicated by the wine of coquetry and would become amazed. (275)

Bekhud Mohani: That eye that is intoxicated not with wine, but with the wine of coquetry-- if the winehouse would be broken by it, then those lines that would be made on the wineglass would act as eyelashes for the eye of the wineglass. That is, the wineglass would let down, as a curtain, the screen of the eyelashes of the wineglass-lines. That is, it would become ashamed and lower its eyes. In brief, the meaning is that from the effect of the sharp glances emerging from her intoxicated eye, lines would be made on the wineglass, and would be put on the glass and flagon-- that is, while she is there, no one would any longer even have any need for wine. (379)

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Faruqi: He has given for a wineglass the simile of an eye, but an eye that's naked because it doesn't have the shadow of eyelashes. An eye that's naked can't hide its face in shame, because it's eyelashes alone that do the work of covering the eye. Now when the eye of the wineglass became ashamed, how would it hide its shame, when it doesn't even have any eyelashes? Thus with the breaking of the wine-house, the wineglass too becomes broken (it breaks- that is, lines appear in it). Now that there are lines in it (that it, having appeared on the face of the wineglass), they work as eyelashes to hide the eye of the wineglass. That is, a mental mood (shame) influenced a bodily state. Such a thing often happens: a mental mood manifests itself in the form of a change in the physical or bodily elements. In the light of this commentary the aspect of 'delicacy of thought' has come into the verse, but even now no special excellence has appeared. Because to give for a wineglass the simile of an eye is no very eloquent [badii((] or suitable thing. Furthermore, to declare a line, or some lines, appearing in a wineglass to be eyelashes is suitable neither with regard to form nor with regard to meaning. By hook or by crook one can give for a wineglass the simile of an eye, but the lines don't appear on the wineglass's face or on the lip of the wineglass, so that the idea of eyelashes would be able to be completed. Lines appear in the body of the wineglass, while the essence of eyelashes is that they would create shade for the eye, or would be able to do so. Thus this simile is very loose. But there's still one aspect more. In the first line, please consider 'if'. It's clear that this is a conditional marker. That is, by means of it we make it clear that the utterance that comes after it is not real, but rather gives information about the possibility of the event.... That is, the eye intoxicated with coquetry may endure thousands of intoxications, but there's no assurance that it will break the wine-house. Indeed, if it would break it, then the lines of the wineglass will protect the wineglass the way eyelashes protect an eye. If the question would be raised as to how in the world the lines in the wineglass would protect the wineglass, the answer is that the thing in which lines appear is not in fragments, but is only crazed or cracked, and the possibility remains that if it had not cracked, then it would have broken into fragments. After the lines have appeared, then the possibility of breaking into fragments becomes less. Despite this kind of hair-splitting [muu-shigaafii] about the theme of the 'hairlines' [muu] in the wineglass, [Nazm] Tabataba'i's view remains to a large extent correct. It's evident that unless the affinities are appropriate and the theme has depth [tah-daarii], the verse doesn't work. (314-15)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} I agree with Nazm and Faruqi; this kind of thing makes even me tired. If one extreme of Ghalib's style is flat and boring simplicity, the other extreme is this kind of wildly obscure, convoluted, and unrewarding tangle of meanings. What's really remarkable is how rarely he strays unattractively far toward either end of the spectrum.

{192,5} ;xa:t:t-e ((ari.z se likhaa hai zulf ko ulfat ne ((ahd yak-qalam man:zuur hai jo kuchh pareshaanii kare 1) love has written an injunction to the curl with the down/writing of the cheek 2) it is entirely accepted-- whatever disorder/anxiety it might do

Notes: ;xa:t:t : ' A line, a streak, or stripe, a mark; lineament; --writing, character, handwriting, chirography; a letter, epistle; --down on the face, incipient beard, &c.; beard; moustaches'. (Platts p.490-91)

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((aari.z : 'Appearing, showing or presenting itself, happening, befalling, occurring; ... --the side of the face, the cheek'. (Platts p.756) ((ahd : 'Injunction, charge, mandate; will, testament; --compact, contract, covenant, agreement, engagement, obligation, promise; bond, league, treaty; --a vow, an oath'. (Platts pp.766-67) qalam : 'A reed; reed-pen, pen; a pencil; a painter's brush; --an engraving tool; --a mode of writing, character, hand- writing; ... a section, paragraph (of a chapter in a book); --the upper part of the beard tapering to a point'. (Platts p.794)

Nazm: That is, on his cheeks this is not down [;xa:t:t], but rather my love has written an injunction to the curl that whatever disorder/anxiety it would have to do toward me, it should do; this is entirely acceptable to me. The author has in the word yak-qalam composed a second wordplay: first, there are the lines of the beard [qalame;N] on the cheeks; second, they write letters [;xa:t:t] too with pens. This verse too is not devoid of unpleasing embellishment [ta.sannu((]. (216)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the down that appears on his cheeks is not really down, but rather my love has written an injunction to his curls, that whatever disorder/anxiety it would have to do with regard to me, it should do; it is completely [sar-taasar] acceptable to me. (276)

Bekhud Mohani: The word yak-qalam is extremely suitable because the curls are near the down/pen [qalam] and the letter/down [;xa:t:t] too is written with a pen. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] God knows what embellishment [ta.sannu((] means! If 'theme-creation' and 'embellishment' are the same thing, then it's not necessary to say anything; otherwise, poetry considers it a theme. (380)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY WRITING: {7,3} This is one of the small set of verses in the divan in which the beloved is clearly marked as an adolescent boy; for the full set, see {9,2}. On the Persianized construction yak- to express intensity and sweep, see {11,1}. This verse, like the previous one {192,4}, is overgrown with tangled vines of wordplay; but perhaps because it's simpler and more concrete, it's less aggravating. (At least, Nazm seems to find it so, since his denunciation is less vehement, and I feel the same way.) ;xa:t:t as a line of writing likhnaa , to write ((ahd , a written document qalam as pen ;xa:t:t as down on the cheek ((aari.z as the cheek qalam as a part of the beard zulf as a curl of hair pareshaanii as disorder, tangledness Just savor the complexity. There's nothing much more to the verse-- but then, does there have to be? Within two short lines of poetry, such a network is pretty remarkable.

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Ghazal 193 5 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aab to de composed after 1821; Hamid p. 158; Arshi #187; Raza p. 261

{193,1} vuh aa ke ;xvaab me;N taskiin-e i.z:tiraab to de vale mujhe tapish-e dil majaal-e ;xvaab to de 1) she, having come in a dream, might/would at least give peace to restlessness/agitation 2) but the heat of the heart might/should at least give me the power/ability to sleep!

Notes: Ghalib: [1862:] Fifty years ago the late Ilahi Bakhsh Khan devised a new ground. As commanded, I wrote [likhnaa] a ghazal. The 'high point of the ghazal' was {193,4}. Its closing-verse was {193,5}. Now I see that somebody has written an opening-verse and four [other] verses, and joined them to that closingverse and the 'high point of the ghazal' and made a ghazal, and people go around singing it. The closing verse and one other verse are mine, the other five verses are by some fool [ulluu]. When singers would alter a poet's verses in his lifetime, what would prevent the musicians from jumbling up two dead poets' verses? [He goes on to discuss such a case.] (Arshi 290-91) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 395 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, p. 32.

Nazm: In the first line to has the meaning of possibility; that is, her coming in a dream is possible. And in the second line the word to is to express a major concern-- that even for a sleep/dream to come is a big thing. (216)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's possible that she would come in a dream and give comfort to restlessness in passing, but it's not possible that the heat of my heart would permit me to sleep. This cruel one-- that is, the heat of my heart-- is crueler than that tyrant. (276)

Bekhud Mohani: I have hope that she will come in a dream and give me comfort. But if only the convulsions of the heart would let me sleep! When my eyes won't even close, then how would I see her in a dream? And when I wouldn't see her in a dream, then how would my restlessness diminish? (380)

FWP: This whole ghazal is a display of the versatility of yet another small idiomatic particle, to , which literally means 'then'. It's used in dozens of colloquial constructions, and this verse gets its chief punch from juxtaposing two of them. Since to de is the refrain, this opening-verse is well equipped for such a feat: each line ends with the same phrase, yet each occurrence of the phrase in its semantic context has quite a different meaning, as Nazm rightly points out. I've tried to convey something of the effect with 'at least', which doesn't work entirely but is not hopeless either. 'X would at least do this, but Y might at least do that!' gives something of the flavor, if we assume that the second clause is spoken sarcastically, and Y probably won't do whatever it is. The sarcastic use in the second line is somewhat similar to the sense in the next verse, {193,2}.

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For a more sadistic vision of the beloved's dream-appearance in relation to the lover's sleep, compare {97,3}.

{193,2} kare hai qatl lagaava;T me;N teraa ro denaa tirii :tara;h ko))ii te;G-e nigah ko aab to de 1) your weeping in affection/intimacy does murder-2) anyone should give temper/sharpness/'water' to the sword of the glance like you!

Notes: aab : 'Water; water or lustre (in gems); temper (of steel, &c.); edge or sharpness (of a sword, &c.); sparkle, lustre; splendour; elegance; dignity, honour, character, reputation'. (Platts p.001)

Nazm: That is, the tears from your eyes create in the sword of the glance such aabdaarii that I am slain. In this verse the meaning of to is that no matter how much anyone else might produce attraction in a glance, to give aab to the sword like this is something that no one else knows. (216-17)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Here the word to creates the meaning that other tyrannical beloveds don't at all know how to give aab-daarii to the sword of the glance as you do. (276)

Bekhud Mohani: lagaava;T : for there to be no love, and for the expression of love to be made.... When you, while expressing your false love, weep, then in your glance the effect further increases.... and the lovers fall into your net of deception. (381)

Arshi: Compare {10,11}. (291)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; WORD As Nazm points out, this verse features another-- and different-- use of the idiomatic to ; for more uses, see {193,1}. Here it is a kind of sarcastic vaah vaah sense-- 'bravo! everybody should do it the way you do it!'-- with a strong suggestion of 'as if anybody else could! let them just try!' and the like. This is a classic mushairah-verse: the whole verse builds up, while remaining uninterpretable, to the final punch-word aab , which is of course withheld until the last possible moment. And it's also what I call a 'word' verse, since aab becomes the strong-- and the only-- focal point of the verse. Other meanings and affinities radiate out from it like spokes on a wheel. Its sense of 'water' has an affinity with 'tears'; its sense of 'temper' (as in steel) and 'sharpness' have affinities with the 'sword' and the 'murder'; its sense of 'sparkle' and 'luster' go well with the 'glance' of the beloved's bright eyes. Arshi's suggestion of {10,11} as a verse for comparison is an excellent choice; for another play on aab and the 'sword of the glance' see {227,3}.

{193,3} dikhaa ke junbish-e lab hii tamaam kar ham ko nah de jo bosah to mu;Nh se kahii;N javaab to de 1) having shown only/especially a movement of the lip, finish us off 2) if you won't give a kiss, then with your mouth do somehow give an answer!

Notes: kahii;N : 'Somewhere; anywhere; wherever, whithersoever;--ever, anyhow, by any chance; ever-so-much, far, greatly; --may be, perhaps, peradventure'. (Platts p.886)

Nazm:

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kahii;N means 'someplace or other', but here it means 'somehow or other', and this too is the idiom. In this verse to appears in two places. In the first place it is for the connection of a conditional statement, and in the refrain it is for creating anxiety/concern about the answer. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, use only/especially the movement of the lips as a sword. and slay us. We are a seeker of a kiss. If you don't agree to give a kiss, then give a clear refusal-- that is, refuse to give a kiss, and we will be slain. (276)

Bekhud Mohani: If you won't give us a kiss, then don't give it-- give only an answer. That is, refuse, and finish us off. 'To finish off' has two aspects. On the one hand, you refused, and our life left us. Second, in a kiss there is great pleasure; if you won't give one, then at least refuse-- in the very movement of your lips we will be finished off; that is, we die over your coquetry. For us the movement of your lipis itself a deadly coquetry. (381)

FWP: What is the relationship between the two actions mentioned in the first line? We can tell their internal order (the kar construction always comes before the finite verb), but there's no way to know whether they are two components of a single action being urged on the beloved ('come on, move your lips and finish us off!') or whether they're two separate actions ('you've already started to slay us by moving your lips, so now finish the job!'). Here are some of the possible scenarios in which the first line could be uttered: =the beloved has started to give a kiss, but then has stopped =the beloved has started to say something, but then has stopped =the beloved has closed her lips to show that she won't give him a kiss =the beloved has made some other gesture, not with her lips, to refuse him a kiss =the beloved's lips seem to tremble slightly =the beloved hasn't yet opened her lips at all And in addition to all these possibilities for the beloved's behavior, there are also at least several for the lover's behavior as well: =the lover will be slain by the sight of the beloved's lips quivering and moving =the lover will be slain by the sound of the beloved's voice when she speaks =the lover will be slain by the beloved's words when she refuses to give him a kiss What a ravishing lot of possibilities, and how many ways there are to make the connection between the lines! As Nazm points out, the second line contains two to occurrences. The first is an official usage in which it introduces the 'then' part of an 'if-then' clause structure. The second marks an urgent appeal, such as also appears in {193,4} (though the same idiomatic use in {193,5} is attenuated into a polite request). In the present verse, the equally idiomatic kahii;N adds urgency, perhaps almost desperation, to the appeal. The beloved is here a kind of anti-Jesus figure: Jesus's special miracle is to breathe or blow on the dying and miraculously restore them to life, as in {9,7}; while hers is to quiver her lips and at once almost miraculously finish the lover off. But the best verse for comparison is the amusing {116,1}, which is also fixated on the movements of the beloved's lips.

{193,4} pilaa de auk se saaqii jo ham se nafrat hai piyaalah gar nahii;N detaa nah de sharaab to de 1) serve us drink, Cupbearer, from [our] cupped hands, if you hate/despise us 2) if you don't give us a glass, then don't give it-- but give us wine!

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Notes: Ghalib: [1862:] Fifty years ago the late Ilahi Bakhsh Khan devised a new ground. As commanded, I wrote [likhnaa] a ghazal. The 'high point of the ghazal' was {193,4}. [See his remarks in {193,1}.]

Nazm: That is, if you consider me a Muslim and a [non-Hindu] 'barbarian' [mlechh] and if you are disgusted by serving me drink from your own glass, then serve me only from cupped hands. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's clear that we are a Muslim. If you think that your glass would become polluted, then don't give it to us. We are a seeker of wine. Serve us from cupped hands. The verse is rakish [rindaanah], but what a fine one he's composed! (276)

Bekhud Mohani: From saying in this way, 'serve me from cupped hands', the restlessness of a rake [rind] and a picture of extreme ardor begin to appear before the eyes. And one also learns that the habit of wine-drinking has reached such a limit that now even contempt shown to his religion has no effect on him. (381-82)

Josh: It can't be expected from Mirza that among the rhymes of aab and javaab , he wouldn't bring in the rhyme of sharaab . The theme of the verse is rindaanah. He says, if you might think that from putting the glass to our lips it would become impure and polluted, then serve us from cupped hands. We are interested in the wine, not the glass. (319)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION WINE: {49,1} The whole verse is a heartfelt cry and plea-- give us wine at all costs! It doesn't matter, Cupbearer, if you hate us; if you aren't even willing to give us a glass, then don't give us one. but sharaab to de , at all costs give us wine! This desperate devotion to wine is what the commentators mean by calling the verse rindaanah , or 'rakish'. (This isn't the only verse in which Ghalib separates the wine from the wineglass: for other examples see {133,2} and {178,8}.) The commentators cited above all read this verse in terms of Hindu pollution rules, as does Shadan (p. 436); but a few honorable exceptions don't offer such a reading: Baqir (p. 474); Chishti (p. 857); and Mihr (p. 269). In fact the idea isn't very plausible in terms of the ghazal setting-- how could a Cupbearer in a wine-house full of Muslims be imagined to maintain Hindu purity/pollution rules in the first place? And why would such a Cupbearer 'hate' the speaker, with apparently personal intensity, if it was merely a question of generalized religious pollution? It's far more helpful to remember that the beloved can always be imagined as either a literal or a metaphorical Cupbearer (of the wine of passion, etc.), and/or the Cupbearer can be addressed as a beloved. The Cupbearer's assumed 'hatred', whether real or coquettish, fits much better into a relationship of passion than into a mere fear of ritual pollution. Ghalib singled out this verse as the 'high point of the ghazal'. It's unusual for us to have such information about his own literary judgment. That means this ghazal is a good one for further study and reflection. For example, I find that I'm inclined to like {193,3} better than this one. (There's also a similarity of thought and structure between the second lines.) Does my preference just reflect a slightly different literary taste, or am I missing something that would greatly enhance the power of this verse? Am I just preferring the multivalent and cerebral over the simple cri de coeur? In any case, I thank Vasmi Abidi for most valuable advice and helpful errorcorrection on this verse.

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{193,5} asad ;xvushii se mire haath paa;Nv phuul ga))e kahaa jo us ne ;zaraa mere paa;Nv daab to de 1) Asad, my hands and feet swelled/expanded with happiness 2) when she said, 'just please press my feet a bit'

Notes: phuulnaa : 'To blossom, blow, flower; to bloom, flourish, to be in health and spirits; --to swell, be inflated, be puffed out; to swell out, to expand (with joy), to be pleased; to be puffed up (with pride, &c.)'. (Platts p.292)

Nazm: [He discusses the uses of daabnaa versus dabaanaa .] And in this verse to is redundant [zaa))id]; by redundant is not meant that it's for padding [bhartii], but rather that in this situation to speak redundantly has entered into the idiom. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that the arrival of my hands at her feet is a proof that through good fortune the time of the fulfillment of longing has come. (276)

Bekhud Mohani: The hands and feet 'swell/expand' with happiness at a time when some such thing would happen for which a person would feel a fierce longing, but for the fulfillment of which there would seem to be not even a possibility. (382)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; WORDPLAY This verse is a one-trick pony, but at least it's a nice trick. For one's 'hands and feet to swell' is, idiomatically, a sign of great happiness, and in the first line we take it in its usual metaphorical sense. In proper mushairah-verse style, the kicker is withheld until the last possible moment: only at the very end of the second line do we realize that what is making my own hands and feet swell, is the prospect of being able to press on her feet. Thus we have the two occurrences of 'feet', and above all the enjoyable opposition of 'to swell' versus 'to press down upon'. To touch one's hands to someone's feet is an expression of great submission and respect-- and the lover's desperate humility is such that he regards it as an amazing joy. We non-South-Asians seem to go our whole lives without needing our feet pressed, but South Asians are constantly performing this service on each other: younger people are supposed to do it to their elders as a sign of respect and affection, and rich people have servants do it for them. The pressee lies face up on a bed, and the presser sits on the foot of the bed (if an intimate) or squats beside the bed (if a servant). The action is a kind of squeezing, pressing, and massaging of the feet, ankles, and legs below the knees. It feels nice, but probably you have to be a traditional South Asian to experience the full cultural flavor. On the double meaning of ;zaraa as both 'a little bit' and 'please', see {177,2}.

Ghazal 194 6 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements aar-e bistar hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 159; Arshi #160; Raza p. 192

{194,1} tapish se merii vaqf-e kashmakash har taar-e bistar hai miraa sar ranj-e baalii;N hai miraa tan baar-e bistar hai 1) through my heat/agitation, every thread of the bedding is a legacy/permanency of tension/struggle 2) my head is a trouble to the pillow, my body is a burden to the bedding

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Notes: tapish : 'Heat, warmth; distress (esp. that caused by heat); affliction; agitation; palpitation'. (Platts p.309) vaqf : 'Standing, stopping, staying, halting, waiting; pausing (over); being intent (upon), endeavouring fully to understand; --bequeathing for pious purposes; tranquillity; firmness; constancy; permanency... --a bequest or legacy for pious purposes, a religious or charitable endowment'. (Platts p.1197)

Nazm: From my writhing every thread of the bedding is in distress; my head is a torment for the pillow, my body is a mortal disaster to the bedding. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from my writhing every single thread of the bedsheet has become involved in distress; with regard to the pillow, my head has become a torment, and my body has become a disaster for the bedding. (277)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I writhe so much that in the bedding nothing but wrinkles upon wrinkles have begun to be seen; neither does my pillow have stability in one place, nor does my bedding. (382)

FWP: My bedding has suffered sorely from the 'heat' and 'agitation' of my bad nights: I've twisted and pummelled it and beaten it into submission. The 'legacy' of those nights is thus the dire condition of the bedding-- the bedding has been so maltreated that it can no longer even do its job; it finds my head a 'trouble' and my body a 'burden'. The verse is very simple in its meaning, but it has a penumbra of implications: =If the bedding itself can't, even at second hand, endure my heat/agitation, how much more intolerable must my own condition be! =My condition is utterly solitary and helpless: not only do I not have the beloved to brighten my nights, I don't even have a friend or companion, so that only the state of my bedding remains to testify to my suffering. =In my madness, my wretchedness is such that I project it even onto the bedclothes: nobody loves me, everybody hates me, even the bedding finds my company a source of suffering. Compare the very different attitude of the bedding toward the lover in the next verse, {194,2}. Another verse that even more oddly combines a vaqf and bedding: {15,11}.

{194,2} sarashk-e sar bah .sa;hraa daadah nuur ul-((ain-e daaman hai dil-e be-dast-o-paa uftaadah bar-;xvurdaar-e bistar hai 1) the teardrop {of the one with the given-to-the-desert head / with the givento-the-desert head} is the light of the eye of the garment-hem 2) the heart {of the hand-and-foot-less fallen one / that has fallen hand-andfootless} is the glory/boast/servant of the bedding

Notes: be-dast-o-paa : 'Without hands and feet'; without power or authority; without resources; helpless'. (Platts p.203) uftaadah : 'Fallen, lying flat or horizontally; lying waste or untilled (land); poor, wretched, helpless'. (Platts p.61) bar : 'Breast, bosom, chest... ; --fruit'. (Platts p.143) bar-;xvurdaar : 'Happy, enjoying long life and prosperity; receiving a daily allowance; glorying, boasting'. (Steingass p. 172)

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bar-;xvurdaar : 'Prosperous, successful, happy, enjoying long life and prosperity; blessed with a family of sons; --male issue, son, child'. (Platts p.143)

Nazm: The tear is the pupil of the eye of the garment-hem, and the bedding is the desired object of the invalid; that is, the tear always remains in the garmenthem; and from the sick heart's always remaining fallen on the bedding, it has acquired affection for the bedding. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, every one of my tears is the pupil of the eye of the garment-hem; and my sick heart has become the cherished offspring of the bedding. The meaning is that because of excess of weeping, the garment-hem has acquired affection for the tear; and the bedding of sorrow has come to have heartfelt affection for the sick heart. (277)

Bekhud Mohani: The tear, which always keeps desert-wandering in the wilderness of the garment-hem, is the pupil of the eye of the garment-hem; and my heart, sorrowful and oppressed, is the cherished one of the coquetry of the bedding. That is, I always remain sick and always weep; the tears keep falling on the garment-hem, and the oppressed heart can't move from the bedding-- as if for the tears the garment-hem, and for the heart the bedding, are the embrace of a mother.... Saying 'light of the eyes' is also because the glance goes afar off; thus its being lowered with the force of the tears makes this desertwanderer the light of the eye of the garment-hem. (383)

Faruqi: 'Desert' and 'garment-hem' indeed have a wordplay, because they say 'the outskirts of the desert' [daaman-e .sa;hraa], but... in this verse there's no cause to suppose that 'garment-hem' is a metaphor for 'desert'.... The weeping person's intention or thought was that he would weep so many tears that they would become a stream of tears and reach to the desert. Or the tears would have emerged so forcefully that it would be as if their intention would reach to the desert. But they came only to the garment-hem and stayed there. Their coming to the garment-hem and staying there can be that in reality the tears didn't have enough strength to reach to the desert. Or else that the garment-hem was so wide that the tears got lost in the midst of it. In both cases, the poet's tone can be called sarcastic; and this sarcasm is directed toward himself. The tears remained only in the garment-hem, as though they were very dear to the garment-hem.... In Urdu they use bar;xvurdaar to mean 'offspring' or 'dear son'. But in Persian this meaning doesn't exist.... bar;xvurdaar-e bistar is a Persian construction. According to Ghalib's point of view, to suppose that in this construction the Urdu meaning is present will be entirely incorrect.... Ghalib's opinion was that if a Persian word would come to have an Urdu meaning, then it shouldn't be in a [Persian] construction.... Thus keeping in view Ghalib's normal practice, in this verse the term ought to be considered to have its Persian meaning alone. In various Persian dictionaries [the meanings include:] (1) happy and prosperous; (2) having a long life; (3) receiving a daily stipend; (4) proud and boastful; (5) household goods, utensils, etc.; (6) one whose desires have been fulfilled and whose needs have been satisfied; (7) obtaining advantage from, receiving from, somebody (Steingass, shams ul-lu;Gaat , bahaar-e ((ajam ).... For the verse under discussion, the most suitable meanings are (3) and (7).... But neither should the Urdu meaning of bar;xvurdaar be neglected. A son is also called a 'light of the eyes'. Thus between nuur ul-((ain and bar;xvurdaar [as son] there's the pleasure of a .zil((a . Ghalib's mischievousness has taken

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advantage of the word daadah [as daadaa , 'paternal grandfather'] as another .zil((a as well.... Both lines are divided into two parts, and the first parts of both lines are metrically identical, and internally rhymed ( daadah , uftaadah ); in this way an attractive parallelism arises in the verse.... The teardrop emerges from the eye, and there is water in it. In this regard to call the tear the 'light of the eye' gives extra pleasure. One of the special features of the heart is 'fallenness' [uftaadagii]; in this regard, to call the heart 'hand-and-footless' is also not devoid of pleasure. (316-19)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; WORDPLAY The two lines are intriguingly parallel, in ways that help the reader put them together. As an extra treat, the first line has daadah , and the second line has -taadah , in the same metrical position: one that spans the midpoint of the line. The effect is to give the verse a particularly rich sense of internal rhyme. The body wordplay is obvious: 'teardrop'; 'head'; 'eyes'; 'heart'; 'hand and foot'; 'breast' [bar]; there's also another 'head' [sar] in 'teardrop' [sarashk]; Ghalib might have pronounced it sirishk , in which case the aural rhyme would be lost, but the visual wordplay would remain intact. Other forms of wordplay are pointed out by Faruqi. I can't see much going on in the verse besides the wordplay. The most promising place to look would be the paradoxical 'teardrop' of the 'desert'devoted head. But not much can be done with it, because in order for the tears to constantly fall on the garment-hem, as the logic of the verse requires, the eyes can't be aimed off into the distance, gazing toward the desert. So we're reduced to a 'desert' that exists only in a 'head', and thus works only as a generalized metaphor for madness or grief. We can always invoke {17,2}, but then the second line absolutely refuses to offer us any connection: it's concerned only with the lover's helplessness and the devotion of the bedding. So complex, interlocked wordplay remains the verse's stock in trade-- and not such a bad one, either, for a poem two lines long. Compare the very different attitude of the bedding toward the lover in the previous verse, {194,1}.

{194,3} ;xvushaa iqbaal-e ranjuurii ((iyaadat ko tum aa))e ho furo;G-e sham((a-e baalii;N :taala((-e bedaar-e bistar hai 1) bravo to the prosperity/felicity of affliction! you've come to visit the sick-2a) the light/glory of the candle of the pillow is the wakeful fortune of the bedding 2b) the wakeful fortune of the bedding is the light/glory of the candle of the pillow

Notes: iqbaal : 'Prosperity, good fortune, auspices, felicity; prestige'. (Platts p.63) ranjuurii : 'Affliction, anguish; sickness'. (Platts p.600) furo;G : 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780) bedaar : 'Awake, wakeful, sleepless; watching, watchful, vigilant, alert: -bedaar-ba;xt , adj. Fortunate'. (Platts p.207)

Nazm: The custom of lighting a candle at the head of the bed of a sick person is famous among poets; and among the qualities of a candle is wakefulness as well. He says, what a good thing this sickness is, that you came to see me!

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Now I consider the candle at the head of the bed to be my wakeful fortune, that when it fell on the bedding of sickness, the fortune glowed. (217)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that my sickness is a means of good fortune, in that you have come to inquire about me. (277)

Bekhud Mohani: How can the good fortune of sickness be expressed, in that you have come to inquire about me. Now the light of the candle burning at the head of my bed is is the glow of the fortune of the bedding. That is, now it's not a candle that has been lit, but rather my fortune is shining. [Or:] the wakeful fortune of the bedding is for me a candle at the head of the bed. (383)

FWP: SETS == A,B The first line offers us the paradox of the 'prosperity/felicity' of 'affliction/anguish'. But instead of leaving us in perplexity, the line then at once proceeds to explain: the beloved comes to visit the sick lover, and naturally he considers any amount of illness a small price to pay for such bliss. Perhaps the lover is even a bit delirious, because he imagines that the flame of the candle beside his bed is really the bright, radiant 'wakeful' fortune of the bedding. A 'wakeful' fortune is a metaphor for a lively, active one that is 'on the job' and alert to bring you advantage; thus the common name Bedar Bakht. So the bedding, designed for and associated with sleep, has an enjoyably paradoxical 'wakeful' fortune. It has this fortune either in its own right, since even physical objects rejoice in the presence of the beloved, or else as an emblem and means of the lover's own wakeful fortune. Or, since transitivity is possible in 'A=B' contexts like that of the second line, it might also be-- as Bekhud Mohani observes-- that the radiant fortune of the bedding (and, by extension, of the sick lover who lies in it) is so dazzlingly bright that it seems to mimic, or augment, or act as, the candle placed at the head of a sick person's bed. The second line is thus a baroque elaboration of, and meditation on, the paradoxical good fortune described in the first line. Not a terrible verse, but not exactly unforgettable either. For a far more satisfying use of the 'A,B' structure, see the next verse, {194,4}.

{194,4} bah :tuufaa;N-gaah-e josh-e i.z:tiraab-e shaam-e tanhaa))ii shu((aa((-e aaftaab-e .sub;h-e ma;hshar taar-e bistar hai 1) in the typhoon-place of the turmoil of the agitation/distraction of the night of solitude 2a) a thread of the bedding is a ray of the sun of the dawn of Doomsday 2b) a ray of the sun of the dawn of Doomsday is a thread of the bedding

Notes: i.ztiraab : 'Agitation, perturbation, restlessness, distraction, anxiety, anguish, trouble, chagrin; precipitation; flurry'. (Platts p.59) ma;hshar : 'A place of assembly or congregation; ... the day of the place of congregation, the day of judgment'. (Platts p.1009)

Nazm: In the first line there are four i.zaafat constructions one after the other, and in the second line there are three; and in Urdu the i.zaafat itself is an imitation [of Persian], not that there would be so many of them in a row! For there to be more than three i.zaafat constructions is among the faults, but nevertheless these don't seem as bad as the bah in bah :tuufaa;N-gaah . But

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even this isn't as bad as the use of a Persian verb in an Urdu construction-for example, in [the second line of {88,3}]; or in [the second line of {15,7}].... The meaning of the verse is that in the night of grief there is so much agitation and darkness that it's as if every single thread of the bedding is a ray of the sun of Doomsday. Every single white thread is glittering in that darkness the way a ray of sun does-- but this ray is of the sun of Doomsday, because of the turmoil of restlessness. (218)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the night of separation there is so much agitation, and such darkness, that every single thread of the bedding has become a ray of the sun of the dawn of Doomsday. That is, every single white thread in this dark night is glittering the way a ray of the sun glitters. But this ray is a ray of the sun of Doomsday, because the turmoil of restlessness has become present in it. (277)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Poets of that time used to use such a bah without hesitation. And even today in the work of the elders of Lucknow it sometimes passes before our eyes. It's true that the rule has been accepted that to have more than three i.zaafat constructions in one place is a fault. But it's hard to find rules that would govern in every situation. Where i.zaafat constructions seem heavy to judges of poetry, they are faults; and where they would increase the glory of the poetry, to call them faults is no proof of poetic judgment. First the poetry ought to be considered, as to whether in hearing or reading it seems bad or not. (384)

FWP: SETS == A,B QIYAMAT: {10,11} This verse is structurally very similar to the previous one, {194,3}. In each case the first line sets up a situation, and the second line provides an extremely elaborate, baroque, 'A=B' illustration of that situation. In each case, the equation in the second line includes a total of four i.zaafat constructions. In each case one term of the equation is the lover's bedding; but that's hardly surprising, since it's the refrain of the whole ghazal. In each case the other term of the equation is something unexpectedly bright and radiant that is juxtaposed strikingly with situations associated with 'bedding'- with sickness, ill-fortune, darkness, sleep or the restless lack thereof. If placed beside the previous verse, however, this one shines like-- well, a ray of the sun of the dawn of Doomsday. It makes a much richer and poetically more compelling effect-- not at all by virtue of its structural properties, but by virtue of its theme and semantic context. In {194,3}, the second line is devoted to celebrating the amazing fact that the beloved has come to visit the sick lover. Such a visit is a fine thing no doubt, but it's limited in its possibilities and meanings; even if we suppose the beloved to be God, a polite sickbed-visit from God is not the most thrilling possibility the imagination could entertain. In the present verse, by contrast, the two lines offer a far more complex set comparisons. The differences are marked: the 'typhoon' (1) is contrasted with the 'sun' (2); the 'night' (1) with the 'dawn' (2); 'solitude' (1) with an 'assembly' or 'gathering' (2). But the similarities are also strong: the 'turmoil' and 'agitation' of the lover's night (1) are also conspicuous qualities of Doomsday (2). And above all, the 'A=B' equation becomes incomparably richer in the present verse. The commentators prefer (2a), the more straightforward reading: the darkness of the lover's night is so radical and complete that even the dim whiteness of the bedding glimmers in his eyes like the dazzling light of the intense sun that will rise on Doomsday.

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But how sad that they overlook the chilling, thrilling reverse reading of (2b), in which the lover's night of darkness, turmoil, and agitation is so intense that by comparison he hardly notices Doomsday-- the dawn of the Doomsday sun is, to him, no more than the dim gleam of one more thread in his bedding. (Doomsday-rays as bedding-threads are thus trivial and humble companions; they are small means in his pursuit of far more important ends.) The equation of Doomsday-rays with bedding-threads can be either a metaphor (this is how he himself perceives things) or else, more strikingly, a flat statement of cosmic reality. Compare for example {62,8}.

{194,5} abhii aatii hai buu baalish se us kii zulf-e mushkii;N kii hamaarii diid ko ;xvaab-e zulai;xaa ((aar-e bistar hai 1) {now / right now} comes the scent, from the pillow, of her musk-filled curls 2) to our vision/sight/show, the dream of Zulaikha is a reproach/shame to the bedding

Notes: ab : 'Now, presently, just now, now-a-days, a little while ago, recently. -- abbhi , adv. Even now, yet, as yet, still'. (Platts p.1) diid : 'Seeing, sight, vision; show, spectacle'. (Platts p.556) diidaar : 'Sight, vision (= diid ); look, appearance; face, countenance, cheek; interview'. (Platts p.556) ((aar : 'Disgrace, reproach, ignominy, shame; bashfulness, modesty'. (Platts p.756)

Nazm: That is, like Zulaikha, for the beloved [diidaar] to appear in a dream is a disgrace for me and a reproach to my bedding. Because this is the bedding the pillow of which is now/still impregnated with the scent of that amber[perfumed]-curled one. That is, last night itself was a night of union. It's also worthy of note that if in place of baalish se he had said takyo;N se then there would have been no flaw in the meter. But the late author abandoned takyah and said baalish , although takyah is the word in the idiom. From this his literary style is apparent, that in poetry he gives preference to a Persian word over a Hindi idiom. Another grammatical matter is that in us kii zulf-e mushkii;N kii the presence of kii in two places is not free of repetition. We cannot call it a flaw, nor can we call it an error; no poet has escaped it. But where the situation would be such that there would be two feminine words together, and there would be an i.zaafat , as here where buu is feminine and zulf too is feminine, then where possible one word ought to be changed and made masculine, and here that was possible. (218)

Hasrat Mohani: Now from the pillow the perfume of the beloved's amber[-perfumed] curls comes. That is, not much time has passed since the night of union. In such a situation, to achieve the vision of the beloved only in a dream is for our bedding a cause of reproach. (150)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even now from the pillow the scent of her oiled curls is coming; that is, it's an event of the night itself when union was vouchsafed to him. Like Zulaikha, for Hazrat Yusuf's vision to be in a dream is a source of disgrace to us, and a cause of reproach to the bedding. (277)

Bekhud Mohani: To see the beloved's vision in a dream, like Zulaikha, is a reproach to me and to my bedding. Because tonight itself was a night of union; in the pillows the perfume of her amber-scented curls still remains. (384)

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Yusuf Ali: According to [the great Persian poem by] Jami, Zulaikha is a beautiful Princess, a daughter of a king of the West (Maghrib). In her youth she dreamt a dream, in which she saw a handsome man, as noble and true as he was handsome, and she fell in love with him. So deep and constant was her love that she pined away for the love of the ideal man of her dream.... She had a second and a third dream, and in the third, she had the courage to ask the man in the vision his name and country. He did not tell her his name, but he said he was the Wazir of Egypt. [She pursues this clue; the real Wazir of Egypt is a eunuch, but she is encouraged by a voice from the Unseen to insist on marrying him anyway; thus she happens to see Yusuf, and then contrives to buy him at a slave auction, and the Qur'anic story begins.] ==(Yusuf Ali, Appendix VI, Allegorical Interpretation of the Story of Joseph, pp. 594-99)

Baqir: Right now from my pillow the perfume of the beloved's oiled curls is coming, as if no great amount of time has passed since the night of union. Like Zulaikha to be only a dream-sharer with Yusuf in a dream, for our vision and bedding is a cause of disgrace and reproach. The meaning is that we consider the attainment of union in the world of dreams to be a cause of reproach. (476-77)

Shadan: Zulaikha saw Yusuf in a dream. And exactly that situation was present with us. Thus, up till now the perfume of her amber[-scented] curls is coming from my pillow. What do I need with a vision [diidaar] of her in a dream? Just now it was the night of union. Therefore a vision of her in a dream is for me and for the bedding a cause of disgrace and reproach, since she had come. (439)

Josh: That is, from the pillow of our bedding right now the scent of her perfumed curls comes, as if the occasion of union is very fresh. Zulaikha's dream, in which she had had a vision [diidaar] of Hazrat Yusuf, for us and for our bedding is a cause of reproach. That was only adream, and this event is reality. The idea is that, like Zulaikha, to obtain a vision in a dream-- neither do we consider good, nor does the bedding of love consider good. (320)

Chishti: Only to this extent, that like Zulaikha we would see our beloved only in a dream-- contentment cannot be obtained. Our beloved comes to us; thus last night she had come, and today, still the perfume of her curls is coming from our pillow. (759)

Mihr: Like Zulaikha to see the beloved in a dream and to take pleasure in the vision [diidaar] of the beloved is for our bedding a cause of reproach. That is, we would never content ourselves with lying down on the bedding, going to sleep, then the beloved showing her glory/appearance to us in a dream, the way according to the common story Zulaikha in a dream saw the glory/appearance of Hazrat Yusuf. Our beloved herself keeps coming to see us-- just yesterday she was with us. The perfume of her musk-filled curls can be smelled on our pillow.

FWP: This is a verse unusual in its erotic suggestiveness and even specificity; for a list of other such verses, see {99,4}. It also belongs to the 'snide remarks about famous lovers' set; for discussion see {100,4}. And it's also conspicuous for the remarkable agreement of the commentators on a single interpretation. There must be some commentator somewhere who disagrees, but none of the ones that I'm using; and certainly the mainstream shows a

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strong and clear consensus. The verse will thus be a good case study, because I think the commentarial consensus is wrong, and it's convenient to argue against a group of opponents who basically speak with one voice. In the traditional story, based on Jami, Zulaikha's dreams of Yusuf occur long before she's met him, and are romantic, idealistic, and almost mystically pure; on the basis of these dreams she weeps, pines, suffers, and sacrifices her worldly and erotic prospects by marrying a eunuch. In the second dream, Yusuf enjoins upon her strict chastity, though he does promise her in return some kind of reciprocity in the long run. For details, see *the Alexander Rogers translation (1910)*. Her dreams, in short, are full of romantic and mystical longing and suffering, and are inspired by someone she's never met. They're like the dreams of the lover in the ghazal, only more so. So why would such dreams be called 'a reproach to the bedding'? The commentators say that 'Zulaikha's dream' is one that the lover himself might have had, or fears to have, or is trying not to have-- but in any case, one that he's contemplating and firmly rejecting as disgraceful. And why so? Because, the commentators say, he's just spent an erotic night with the beloved, so he not only doesn't need to dream of her, but really ought not to do so-- it's apparently a bit vulgar, or unnecessary, or improper, or even insulting to her (because it implies that her recent real presence isn't enough). But this reading really isn't very satisfactory. For if the dream is like 'Zulaikha's dream', it would be a dream of suffering love-in-separation, and why would a thoroughly satisfied lover have to spend so much energy thinking and worrying about having such a dream in the first place? Why would the lover bother to brood about the comparison between imaginary apples (Zulaikha's lonely dreams of longing) and real oranges (his just-nowended night of lovemaking with the beloved)? And above all, how un-loverlike of him to smugly take for granted the superiority of physical satisfaction! He actually seems to sneer at Zulaikha's lonely dreams of a distant beloved, the way the 'people of the world' sneer at the lover himself. How can this be? Not to worry-- it can't. For there's a delightful and irresistible way out. Once we realize that the first line is a trick, and that we've been the victim of a bait-and-switch operation, things fall into place at once. For in fact it's not apples and oranges, it's apples all the way down. The lover too is a dreamer, and the first line is his dream; and in the second line he boasts about the superiority of his dream over Zulaikha's. The lover thus compares Zulaikha's yearning, unfulfilled dream not with his own real physical satisfaction (and the weird and farfetched possibility of his then having a dream like hers), but with his own allegedly very different, more potent dream. Just look, the lover exultantly says-- in my vision/sight/show/spectacle [diid], I can actually smell her perfume on my pillow this very minute! How much better does it get! Zulaikha's dream, he says, is absurdly and pathetically limited (and un-erotic)-- my own dream is far more vivid, satisfying, sensual, and generally superior. That's why to my vision/view, or in my view, or in my opinion (as the verse takes full advantage of diid ) her dream is a 'disgrace to the bedding', and fails to evoke the full richness of the beloved's erotic presence the way my vision/show/dream does. The lover's vision even alerts us to its dreamlike quality through its synesthesia: what the lover can 'see' is not the beloved herself, but merely the scent of her perfume. And where there's diid , there's also implicitly the much more common and semi-synonymous diidaar , as the commentators' own language makes clear, so that the conflation between 'vision' and 'vision of the beloved' and 'beloved' can't help but make itself felt. Of course, we also know that the desperate lover is probably protesting too much: where the diidaar is only a diid of perfume, we're not so far away from Zulaikha's dream after all. In his heart the lover surely even realizes this, which is why

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his attempt to distance himself from Zulaikha's situation is so forceful (and also perhaps, depending on the tone in which we choose to read the verse, so rueful or even self-mocking.) In short, to recognize that the lover too is imagining or dreaming takes full advantage of the richness of diid , and makes for a more piquant, rakish, complex verse, with a sharper wit and greater connection. The only reason I can think of that this reading didn't occur to the commentators is that they fell into the clever trap of the realistic-sounding first line because of their 'natural-poetry' desire for a real night of union for the lover (although real, erotic, satisfying sex is such a rara avis in the ghazal world that that prospect in itself should have set off alarm bells in their heads). For another example of such a clever trap in the first line, into which the commentators also readily fall, see {90,3}.

{194,6} kahuu;N kyaa dil kii kyaa ;haalat hai hijr-e yaar me;N ;Gaalib kih betaabii se har yak taar-e bistar ;xaar-e bistar hai 1) how would I say what the state of the heart is, in separation from the beloved, Ghalib! 2) for from restlessness, every single thread of the bedding is a thorn in the bedding

Notes: Nazm: [This is one of the very few verses about which Nazm offers no comment.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, how can I describe what state my heart's in, in separation from the beloved! To put it briefly, from my constant writhing my bed has become so full of wrinkles that every single thread of the bedding has become, to the touch, a thorn in the bedding. (278)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, what can I say about what happens in separation from her! To put it briefly, when I lie alone in the bedding, every thread of the bedding seems to be a thorn. That is, I constantly writhe, and can't find rest in any position-- as if I am writhing on thorns. (384)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} What delightful, echoing internal rhyme in the last line, with the extended sequence of taar-e bistar ;xaar-e bistar ! It gives the feeling of cycling back and rolling over on itself, and thus helps enact the idea of restlessness, of tossing and turning. Think of the pleasure of hearing this one at a mushairah. It's not rocket science, this one-- Nazm just lets it pass in silent disdain. But then-- not every enjoyable verse has to be rocket science. It's fun to recite, and makes a fine thumping conclusion for what is often a highly baroque and cerebral ghazal. Here every thread of the bedding is a thorn-- while only two verses ago, in {194,4}, it was nothing less than a ray of the sun of the dawn of Doomsday. Is this a great genre, or is this a great genre?

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Ghazal 195 2 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: an nah ho jaave composed 1816; Hamid p. 159; Arshi #161; Raza pp. 192-93

{195,1} ;xa:tar hai rishtah-e ulfat rag-e gardan nah ho jaave ;Guruur-e dostii aafat hai tuu dushman nah ho jaave 1) there's a danger-- may the relationship/thread of love not become {pride / a neck-vein}! 2) the pride/arrogance of friendship is a disaster-- may you not become an enemy!

Notes: rishtah : 'Thread, string, line; series; connexion, relationship, kin; relation by blood or marriage; alliance, affinity'. (Platts p.593) rag-e gardan : 'Vein of the neck; (fig.) pride'. (Platts p.598)

Nazm: He addresses the beloved: you've come to have a frightful amount of pride over my friendship-- may it not be that it would turn toward enmity, and this relationship/thread of friendship would become a neck-vein for you! And they call pride a 'neck-vein'-- that is, may it not be that in pride you would, like an enemy, hold your head aloft and look down your nose [gardan ;Te;Rhii rahnaa] at me. And 'there's a danger'-- that is, there's this danger to me. And the omission of 'this' [yih] in the line undoubtedly seems bad. (219)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In a state of pride and arrogance and anger and wrath the neck-vein always swells. He says, the beloved is so proud over my friendship that now I've begun to fear that, God forbid, the relationship/thread of love might become a neck-vein-- that is, love would turn to enmity. (278)

Bekhud Mohani: I fear lest the relationship/thread of affection might become for me a neckvein. That is, I fear that I might become proud over your love; and in love, for pride to come about is an extremely bad thing. May it not be that you would become an enemy! The fear of your becoming an enemy is for two reasons: one, that pride is not pleasing to the Lord, so that he might somehow punish the pride. The second is that he is proud of the fact that the beloved loves him. May it not be that this attitude would displease the beloved, so that she would consider it an insult to her beauty and become my enemy! (385)

Faruqi: [Disagreeing with Nazm and Hasrat Mohani:] Why would the beloved be proud that her lover (that is, the speaker) is faithful? To be proud of the lover's faithfulness is not among the customs of the beloved in the ghazal. The beloved can be proud that her lovers are many, but to her the lover's faithfulness and endurance of hardship are meaningless.... The second difficulty is that on this reading the connection between the two lines becomes very weak.... unless we also assume that the beloved's pride at the lover's faithfulness will in the future turn into love. And in assuming this there are several difficulties. In the verse there's nothing that gives us a basis for assuming that the beloved's pride will turn to love. The second difficulty is that 'pride' and 'neck-vein' are the same thing; thus they seem to be redundant. To say that the pride of friendship is a disaster, there's a danger

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that the relationship of affection might turn to pride, is to labor the point beyond all necessity. Thus the meaning of this verse that Bekhud Mohani has given is better.... Now please consider 'neck-vein'. This is a metaphor / idiom. Its meaning is 'pride'; with regard to the dictionary meaning there is wordplay between rishtah and rag . With regard to the dictionary meaning, the meaning also emerges that the rishtah-e ulfat (because of pride) can become a noose for the neck. That is, the rishtah-e ulfat turned into pride, and on that basis we earned your enmity, and this rishtah became a noose for our neck. To use a metaphor in the dictionary meaning, and to keep the metaphorical meaning established as well-- this is the special style of Ghalib and Mir. (320-22)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} Faruqi's analysis is excellent; I can't think of anything to add to it.

{195,2} samajh is fa.sl me;N kotaahii-e nashv-o-numaa ;Gaalib agar gul sarv ke qaamat pah pairaahan nah ho jaave 1) consider that in this season there's a shortfall of growth and flourishing, Ghalib 2) if the rose would not become a robe/mantle for the stature of the cypress

Notes: Nazm: What a remarkable exaggeration, such that within the scope of the exaggeration he's shown an attractive vision too! But by the rose becoming a robe for the stature of the cypress is meant not that one rose would grow so tall that it would become the cypress's robe, but rather the author's intention is that the branches of the rose should so flourish that they would become wrapped around the cypress and cause it to wear a robe of flowers. And in this exaggeration there's the excellence that nothing impossible is necessary. And if by 'rose' one rose would be intended, then the exaggeration moves toward impossibility, and this is a fault in exaggeration, and this fault has always been described by writers as a fault, but the poets of Persia and Hind perhaps consider it a verbal device, and don't avoid it. Everybody has been heard committing this fault. The late author himself takes no care against speaking of impossibilities [mu;haal-go))ii]; for example, we've seen this verse: {120,5}. That is, she's so blood-shedding that her horse swims in a river of blood. It's only impossible exaggeration. [Further discussion, with examples from Vazir, Nasikh, and Momin.] (219)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, in the spring season one ought to consider it a shortfall of growth and flourishing, if the rose vines don't grow and spread and cause the cypress to wear a robe of flowers. The extreme excellence of the thought and of the placing of the words is worthy of praise. (278)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Ghalib, if the branches of the roses don't grow and embrace the cypress and cause it to wear a colorful robe of flowers, then consider that there's a shortfall of growth and flourishing. That is, in growth and flourishing the springtime state is that from the abundance of roses the cypress would become rose-attired. (386)

FWP: Well, if there's something special going on in this verse, it eludes me. We're left with the 'rational' choice of a rose-vine twining so lavishly around a cypress that it becomes a robe, or the 'exaggerated' choice, denounced in advanced by Nazm, of a single gigantic rose becoming overwhelming

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enough to be a robe for a cypress. And I suppose the proverbial tallness of the cypress, and the idea of a 'shortfall' in growth, bounce off each other to a degree. There's also a small sound-play in the sequence of pah pai , which are almost homonyms. So maybe it's just a 'spring is here!' kind of verse, and its charm is meant to lie in its exclamatory, inshaa))iyah structure and perhaps its mood. But it's still pretty forgettable.

Ghazal 196 7 verses; meter G19; rhyming elements: ai nahii;N hai composed 1826; Hamid p. 160; Arshi #194; Raza p. 265

{196,1} faryaad kii ko))ii lai nahii;N hai naalah paaband-e nai nahii;N hai 1) there's no melody/tune for/from a complaint 2) a lament is not bound/guided by the flute

Notes: paa-band honaa : 'To be clogged or fettered, &c.; to be bound (by), be ruled or guided (by), to observe, follow, conform (to)'. (Platts p.213)

Nazm: That is, only the utterance that's from the heart creates an effect; and in verbal devices and ornamentation there's no attraction. (221)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for a lament there's no need of any melody. That is, in uncontrollableness there's no place for ornamentation. The lament of the heart is not bound/guided by the flute. The meaning is that the effect that's in the sigh of the heart is not present in artificial complaint and lamentation. (278)

Bekhud Mohani: As if the beloved or someone else has said, you don't even know how to weep. In answer to this he says, sir, one who weeps, will weep in whatever way the tears come to him. This is not a song, in which there would be rules of measure and tune, and need for an instrument. [Or:] The author has with great beauty given the lament preference over melodies. That is, a lament is a natural thing. It's free from man-made rules. Thus there's no need for a flute.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] It's true that an utterance that's from the heart will have an effect. But no connection between it and this verse is apparent. (386)

FWP: NOTE FOR METER FANS: Every time I read this verse and come to the second line, my instincts scream in protest, and only by an effort of will can I bring myself to accept it. It's a pretty rare meter, and this is the only time in the divan that Ghalib uses it. It's flexible in a highly unusual way: the third and fourth syllables, normally both short, may be replaced at will by one long syllable. The first line of the verse is in the more common form of the meter, with the two short syllables. The second line of the verse is in the equally permissible but less common variant form, with one long syllable instead. Of all the lines in the ghazal, the only other ones that are in the variant form with the one long syllable are the second lines of {196,3} and {196,7}. I'm glad Bekhud Mohani took aim at Nazm, because he's perfectly right. What Nazm says is the classic, fundamentalist 'natural-poetry' doctrine, and

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this verse certainly doesn't support any such reading. In fact an obvious and powerful pleasure of this gnomic verse is that we can't tell how to read it. Does the verse imply that complaints and laments are worse than music, or better than music, or can't we tell? =If they are worse, then the verse could be the lover's rueful apology for the tunelessness and roughness of his complaints-- 'I really can't help it, laments are simply like that, they pay no attention to musical rules, they don't follow any flute'. =If they are better, then the verse could be the lover's proud boast of superior authenticity-- 'Musicians try to charm you by following their melodic rules, they are helplessly bound to their flutes-- but I don't give a damn about them, I have my own sources of authority, I have more important things on my mind!' =If we can't tell, the verse could be a simple, neutral observation-- 'I've noticed that complaints don't have tunes, and laments don't follow musical rules' (with the further implied question, what do we make of that observation?) My favorite verse for comparison, one that's also somewhat enigmatic in its tone: {71,1}.

{196,2} kyuu;N bote hai;N baa;G-baan tuu;Nbe gar baa;G gadaa-e mai nahii;N hai 1) why do gardeners sow gourds 2) if the garden is not a beggar/mendicant of wine?

Notes: tuu;Nbaa is a variant of tumbii : 'A long white gourd, Lagenaria vulgaris; a small hollow gourd (in which medicants carry water, &c.; cf. tumbaa ; a kind of pipe or musical instrument (made of the gourd) played on by snakecharmers, jugglers, &c.'. (Platts p.336)

Nazm: From these very gourds the mendicant's begging-bowl is made; and from the inner parts, wine. In short, the garden makes these gourds into beggingbowls, and begs, and receives wine as alms. (221)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why do gardeners sow gourd-vines in the garden, if they don't intend to make begging-bowls from them? From this effort it is proved that the garden too is a beggar for wine. The meaning is that the pleasure of strolling amidst greenery and flowers is very well obtained after drinking wine. (278-79)

Bekhud Mohani: From gourds begging-bowls are made, and from the inner parts, wine. Mirza says that the gardeners' sowing of wine proves that the garden wants to beg for alms of wine. (386)

FWP: SETS == WORD WINE: {49,1} You thought you knew why gardeners planted gourds, but here's a whole new perspective on their motives: this verse might be credited with 'elegance in assigning a cause'. But the verse is really one of what I call 'word-exploration', and the crucial word is of course tu;Nbaa . Every one of its meanings comes in handy in justifying the verse's rhetorical question. Such gourds are used: =in general, to securely carry water-- or if need be, other beverages, like wine =to provide the kind of inner pulp from which wine can be fermented

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=as part of the standard, emblematic traveling equipment of (religious) mendicants, in which they carry, as Platts puts it, 'water, &c.'; they beg for their food (and drink if necessary) =to make rough wind instruments used by snake-charmers, jugglers, and other such street-theater performers, who use them to do tricks for small coins, almost like beggars (begging for wine?); this is a secondary meaning, but I don't see why it can't hover on the periphery of our minds All these reasons imply, through a very inshaa))iyah rhetorical question, that the garden begs for wine. Why does it beg for wine? Does it itself want to drink the wine, or be watered with it? (Are its own grapes somehow part of its intoxication?) Does it want, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests, to have us drink the wine before we go to visit it, so that we're in the proper mood of carefree rakishness? Does it want us to bring wine with us when we stroll in the garden, so that we drink toasts to the roses and fling intoxicating drops here and there? Or is the question possibly literal in the first place, and the answer might be, say, that the gardeners want to make and drink the wine themselves? As usual, we're left to enjoy the multivalent possibilities of the gourds, and to decide for ourselves what they really mean. For a more extended meditation on gardens and intoxication, see {49}.

{196,3} har-chand har ek shai me;N tuu hai par tujh-sii ko))ii shai nahii;N hai 1) although in every single thing, You are 2) but no thing is like You

Notes: shai : 'A thing, object; a matter, an affair; an article, &c.'. (Platts p.738)

Nazm: The meaning of sii is for a simile. That is, you are beyond all physical similes. (221)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, despite Your manifestation of Your power in every thing, no thing has been engendered in the world that is like You. That is, You are beyond all physical similes. The verse is immersed in the flavor of Sufism, and is very fine. (279)

Bekhud Mohani: Although there's no doubt that in every thing is the manifestation of Your power, nothing in the world is such that we would be able to call it a simile and illustration of You. That is, betweey You and the world of things there's the distinction between Maker and made, between Creator and created. (38687)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION NOTE FOR METER FANS: If the meter of the second line bothers you, see {196,1} for a discussion. There's a textual discrepancy in this verse that's perhaps partly caused by its unusual metrical pattern: many editions, including Hamid, insert to before ko))ii in the second line, thus restoring the more usual form of the meter (and also seeming to give the second line a more colloquial balance). But as always, I follow Arshi; and there's really no problem, since several lines in this ghazal have the same unusual scansion, and the paradoxical force of the verse is, if anything, enhanced by the absence of to . The paradoxical quality of the verse is enhanced by its repetition: there are two occurrences of har , two of shai , two of hai , and two forms of tuu . There's also a particularly enjoyable wordplay in the sequence har chand har ek : apart from the normal reading as two two-word pairs, and the repetition

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of har , the real delight is that har means 'every', and chand means 'some' or 'a number of', while ek is of course 'one'. This wordplay is most elegantly appropriate to the content of the verse. For another example of such numberwordplay in a very similar context, see {20,10}. Here the beloved does seem to be God, or at least an extremely God-like being; for more such verses, see: {20,10}.

{196,4} haa;N khaa))iyo mat fareb-e hastii har-chand kahe;N kih hai nahii;N hai 1) indeed, don't {fall into / swallow} the deceit/trick of existence 2) although they would say that it is, it is not

Notes: fareb : 'Deception, deceit, fraud, trick, duplicity, treachery, imposture, delusion, fallacy; allurement, beguilement, &c.'. (Platts p.780)

Nazm: Yes, yes, don't by any means be deceived! If anybody says something, don't accept it. Otherwise you'll become ensnared in such an enchantment [:tilism] of illusions that you'll remain deprived of the glory/appearance of reality. This whole verse is for the disclosure of a warning. (221)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, indeed, beware-- don't fall into the trick/deceit of existence! Although people might say that existence is, you should consider that it is not. (279)

Bekhud Mohani: Beware-- don't fall into the deceit/illusion that the world's existence, or your own, is existence. No matter what anybody might say, don't believe it. The truth is that the world has no reality at all, it's nothing but a mere illusion. The doctrine of the sect of Sophists is that nothing is real, the world is an illusion. And this is the opinion of the Sufis too: that when everything is the glory/manifestation of one single being (the Lord), then it's incorrect to consider the world and the beings in the world to be real. If only one being (the Lord) exists, then if you are persuaded of the existence of every other thing, then your whole life long you'll keep wandering around lost. (387)

Arshi: Compare {100,3}, {141,7}, {208,3}. (229, 260, 299, 333)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT The i.zaafat in fareb-e hastii does brilliant work in complexifying this little verse. There are several ways to read it. The 'deceit/trick of existence' might mean: =the deceit/trick that is practiced by (a semi-personified) Existence, in order to fool us humans: Existence throws dust into our eyes, so that people think the world, human life, etc. exist, even though they are really nothing more than a shadow-play of some kind =the deceit/trick that itself constitutes existence: people think that being, life, the world around them exists, but it doesn't; counterintuitively, existence itself doesn't exist =the deceit/trick that pertains to existence: people are credulous about everything, but life itself is inherently tricky and you shouldn't follow their foolish example; even when they affirm something, no matter what it may be, they're always misled and wrong. (Since subjects can be colloquially omitted in Urdu, what we really have in the second line is a kind of generalized affirmation, 'is!' and negation, 'is not!'.) Arshi offers some excellent verses for comparison; I would only add {162,4}, which seems to try seriously to see through the trick.

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{196,5} shaadii se guzar kih ;Gam nah rahve urdii jo nah ho to dai nahii;N hai 1) pass over/through/beyond joy, so that grief would not remain 2) if there would be no April, then there is no December

Notes: guzarnaa is a variant spelling of gu;zarnaa . gu;zarnaa : 'To pass, go, elapse; to come to pass, to happen, to befall; to pass (by or over, par ); to pass (through, par se , or se ); to pass (before, or under, or in review, se ), to be put or laid (before, se ), be presented; to pass (over, se ), to overlook, to omit; to abstain (from), desist (from); to decline; --to pass (beyond), to surpass; to pass away, to die'. (Platts p.901) urdii bihisht : 'The second Persian month, mid-spring, April; the third day of every month, which the old Persians celebrated by a festival; the angel who presides over the mountains; fire'. (Steingass p. 36) dai : 'Name of the tenth month of the solar year; winter, or the first month of it, December; name of the ninth (?) day of the month; name of an angel presiding over the affairs of the month dai, and of the eighth, fifteenth, and twenty-third day of every month'. (Steingass p. 550) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if you don't make yourself habituated to the joy of spring, then the grief of autumn too would not exist. (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, withdraw yourself from happiness, then you won't feel grief. That is, if you don't obtain the joy of spring, then why will you be sad and sorrowful at the grief of autumn? urdii is a month of spring, and dai of autumn. (279)

Bekhud Mohani: urdii bihisht is the name of a spring month; dai is the name of an autumn month. If you abandon the thought of happiness, then there won't be grief either. If spring wouldn't come, then autumn too wouldn't come. That is, if a man would no longer long for happiness, then he wouldn't know any grief either. (387)

FWP: SETS == WORD What an excellent effect is achieved with minimalist means, in this verse of what I call 'word-exploration'. The heart of the verse is the superbly complex se gu;zarnaa (see the definition above), which can mean one of three sometimes overlapping but in principle distinct things: =(1) pass over, overlook, omit, abstain from =(2) pass through, pass under, be presented to =(3) pass beyond, surpass So the verse advises us to reject joy; or to pass through joy in some linear way; or to transcend the whole concept of joy in some qualitative way. By doing so, by rejecting or passing through or transcending joy, we'll find that grief would not remain-- it too would be rejected or passed through or transcended. The exact mechanism of this is still a bit ambiguous, so we look hopefully to the second line for enlightenment. But of course, the two lines are grammatically quite separate, and we're left to decide for ourselves how to juxtapose them.

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The Persian months are not very familiar to Urdu-knowers, so the commentators identify them. From the above definitions it's clear that they are opposed in several very basic ways: April versus December; spring versus winter; a name for an early day of the month versus a name for a later day of the month. Just as with joy versus sorrow, the two evocative monthnames seem to suggest a markedly Stoic view: we should somehow dispense with the desirable (joy/spring/youth), in order to escape from its opposite, the undesirable (grief/autumn/age). Yet strong similarities and continuities also make themselves apparent. Grief and joy are both emotions, April and December are both months; these names identify particular points among others along a much larger and more significant spectrum. If one rejects one point on the seamless spectrum of emotions, one moves away from the whole spectrum, into some kind of emotion-free realm; similarly, one can't simply reject one month without rejecting the whole ordering of the year and sequence of time. Thus a Sufistic reading is just as readily available as a Stoic one. And both, of course, are well supported by the various complex nuances of se guzarnaa . For more discussion of such complexities , see {152,7}.

{196,6} kyuu;N radd-e qada;h kare hai zaahid mai hai yih magas kii qai nahii;N hai 1) why does the Ascetic reject/('vomit) the flagon? 2) this is wine-- it's not the vomit/vomiting of a fly!

Notes: radd : 'Returning; restitution; rejection, repulsion; casting off, turning back, averting; resistance, opposition; disproving, refutation;--vomiting'. (Platts p.590)

Hali: The vomit of a fly-- that is, honey. To the Ascetic, who considers it in accordance with religious merit to drink honey and despises wine, he offers temptation toward wine, and emphasizes that the detestable thing is not wine, but rather that thing which is obtained from the vomiting of a fly. (161)

Nazm: Oh Ascetic, don't reject the flagon of wine! This isn't the vomit of a bee, which you consider a great boon. (222)

Bekhud Mohani: In saying radd-e qada;h one more pleasure is that it is an extremely famous idiom of which the meaning is 'objection'. (387)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE, MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY WINE: {49,1} Well, as they say in the Urdu proverb, 'where is Ghalib, and where is fly vomit?' (On this expression see {219,9}.) Who could think of a verse like this, except a highly unconventional poetic genius? Can't you just feel that he must have started, in the classic way, with the rhyme-word qai , and then gone on from there? This verse certainly belongs to what I call the 'grotesquerie' set. But there's much more to it than that. For this is a delightful, highly amusing mushairah-verse. The first line is unexceptionable: the ghazal world is full of protests by the rakish lover/drinker about the way pious people reject wine. The word radd has a whole set of suitable meanings that well describe the way the Ascetic might be expected to react to wine (see the definition above). How exactly, we wonder, will the second line rebuke his rejection? After a suitably long delay, we get to hear the second line; but in proper mushairah-verse style, it

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withholds its punch-word until the last possible moment-- and what a shocker that word is! Only after we've heard the word qai do we go back in our minds and recall that one of the secondary or tertiary meanings of radd is also 'vomit'. In effect, we now 'get' a whole different first line. Here too, as so often, Ghalib gives us three or four lines' worth of poetic enjoyment, within two lines' worth of words. Sura 16 of the Qur'an is called 'The Bee'; its two relevant verses are these: 'And thy Lord taught the Bee to build its cells in hills, on trees, and in (men's) habitations; Then to eat of all the produce (of the earth), and find with skill the spacious paths of its Lord: there issues from within their bodies a drink of varying colours, wherein is healing for men: verily in this is a Sign for those who give thought.' (Qur'an 16:68-69) Thus, as Hali and Nazm emphasize, honey is considered not just neutral, but an especially blessed substance, while wine of course is forbidden. Ghalib mischievously reverses these valuations by calling honey the 'vomit' or 'vomiting' of a bee. (The word magas is cognate to makkhii , and literally means a 'fly'; a bee is normally called a 'honey-fly' [shahad kii makkhii].) This description actually isn't so far from the words of the Qur'an-- except that through the word 'vomit' the idea has been made to seem deliberately disgusting. Yet it has also been linked with the activity of the Ascetic toward wine, so now we subliminally feel that his act too a certain off-putting association. The verse vigorously defends wine-- not in any elaborate or rational way, but simply by naming it: it's wine, you foolish Ascetic! To say and hear its name is enough to justify it. What more could we need?

{196,7} hastii hai nah kuchh ((adam hai ;Gaalib aa;xir tuu kyaa hai ay nahii;N hai 1a) you are not existence, nor are you in any way nonexistence, Ghalib 1b) there is no existence, nor is there any nonexistence, Ghalib 1c) it is not existence, nor is it in any way nonexistence, Ghalib 2a) after all, what are you, oh 'It is not'? 2b) after all, then what is there, oh 'It is not'? 2c) after all, then what is it, oh 'It is not'?

Notes: kuchh : 'Something, somewhat, anything, aught; some, any; a little, a few; ever so little; whatever; in any manner or degree, at all'. (Platts p.819)

Nazm: He's done an extraordinary piece of mischief in this verse-- he's made 'It is not' into a name. He says, neither is there purely existence, as in the case of necessity, nor is there simply nonexistence, as in the case of impossibility. That is, you exist, and also do not exist, so you ought to be named 'It is not'. (222)

Hasrat: Because he's used the words 'is not', 'is not', again and again in the refrain of the ghazal,by way of mischievousness Ghalib has adopted 'Is not' as his own name. (152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, when you say that there is neither any existence nor any nonexistence, then tell us-- after all, what are you, oh 'It is not'? The meaning is that he's made the phrase 'It is not' into a name. He says, oh Hazrat 'It is not', you are neither purely existence, like the Necessary Existence, nor are you nonexistence, like the impossible; in this situation it's necessary that Your Excellency's noble name should be 'It is not'. (279)

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Bekhud Mohani: Out of mischievousness, Mirza has named himself 'It is not'. About existence he says, 'it is not'; about nonexistence he says, 'it is not'. Then, oh 'It is not', after all what are you? That is, when you're neither this nor that, what should we consider you to be? (388)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; OPPOSITES This verse sets up what must be close to a maximum amount of paradox, in what must be close to the fewest possible words. The subject is omitted, as is permissible; and since the subject is something masculine singular, it can be 'he', 'it', or 'you' in the intimate form. Then in the second line, the second word can be read either as 'you' in the intimate [tuu] or 'then' [to], which means that the second line cleverly declines to resolve the question of subject. Then to add a final flourish of 'mischievousness' or ambiguity, Ghalib addresses-- as we can tell by the vocative ay -- someone (or something) called 'It is not'. The words appear to be a quotation, so that 'It is not' seems to speak, and thus to exist; but of course the words themselves may easily be construed to deny the existence of the speaker 'It is not'. And of course the speaker is literally 'Is not', since here too the subject is colloquially omitted. (Unfortunately, that rendering tends to give a petulant, childish-quarrel flavor in English that the original doesn't have in Urdu, so I decided not to use it.) The '(It) is not' whom Ghalib is addressing could thus be himself or the beloved; it's harder to think of the addressee as God, since 'It is not' isn't a characteristic divine utterance, and seems an inappropriate way to address the principle of life. The supreme example of this kind of open-ended 'generator' verse-- and one that's also full of ambiguity about who or what exists-- is {32,1}.

Ghazal 197 2 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: am hai composed 1826; Hamid p. 161; Arshi #195; Raza pp. 265-66

{197,1} nah puuchh nus;xah-e marham jaraa;hat-e dil kaa kih us me;N rezah-e almaas juzv-e a((:zam hai 1) don't ask about the prescription for salve/ointment for wounds of the heart 2) for in it a fragment of diamond is a great/major element

Notes: Nazm: And the remaining elements are salt and musk-- that is, the things that would make a wound further increase. (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for the wound of the heart, the prescriptionfor salve that has been devised-- don't ask about it. Because in that prescription a great/major element of the medicines is a fragment of diamond. The meaning is that for the wound of the heart, it's necessary to use a salve from which the wound would keep on increasing 'twofold by day, fourfold by night'. (280)

Bekhud Mohani: He says that the cure for the wound of the heart is death. [Or:] If the meaning of 'wound of the heart' would be 'the wound of the pain of love', then the cure for love is that however much it would be increased, however much of the beloved's tormenting there would be to endure, it's so much to the good. (388)

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FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY The commentators generally take it that the diamond-fragment would be used to scrape or deepen the wound, either perhaps in a medical sense (to remove infected tissue, etc.); or else in a masochistic sense to heighten the pain/pleasure of the wound (a purpose for which the lover often uses his fingernails, as in {15,8} and {19,1} and other verses). But on a darker reading, it's equally possible that the diamond-fragment is an evocation of the bits of diamond that are used like a poison, to pierce the intestines and cause death from internal bleeding-- a very lover-like death, in fact. For the great example of such a use, see {2,1}-- where the diamond is a 'gift' among wounds that are also 'gifts', so that suffering seems to be a gift, but so does death. And in the present verse, suffering is part of the prescription-- but so is death. Are they parts of one single process (you suffer worse and worse until you finally die of the wound), or is the latter an antidote for the former (you suffer so badly that you then seek the relief of death)? In the world of the ghazal, with its pain/pleasure equations, it's hardly possible to tell the two apart.

{197,2} bahut dino;N me;N ta;Gaaful ne tere paidaa kii vuh ik nigah kih bah :zaahir nigaah se kam hai 1) in many days your heedlessness created/engendered 2) a kind of single 'glancelet' that manifestly/outwardly is less than a glance

Notes: nigah is a shorter form of nigaah ; it is permissible to shorten the word in this way for metrical convenience, as in the present case :zaahir : 'Outward, exterior, external, extrinsic, exoteric; appearing, apparent, overt, open, perceptible, visible, perceived, plain, evident, manifest, conspicuous, ostensible; --the outside, the external appearance; the external, or outward, or extrinsic state, or condition, or circumstances'. (Platts p.755)

Nazm: The great beauty of this verse is that it has shown a picture of the heedlessness of the beloved. A second pleasure is that in one glance there would be such density that the glance would be less than another glance. Another subtle pleasure is that nigah is less than nigaah because the latter has an alif and the former doesn't. (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, after many days your heedlessness has created a glance thatlooks to be less than a glance. The meaning is that formerly only heednessness-- that is, you deliberately averted your eyes. But now, having left off that coquetry, you've begun to make a show of affection. That is, formerly you never even looked in my direction. Now you look, but with a swift/sharp glance. (280)

Bekhud Mohani: For a time, she showed heedlessness toward us; she never even looked in our direction. Now she's begun shyly, shamefacedly, to give us side-glances. Even now she doesn't gaze at us fearlessly. The glance that falls on us from an askew direction seems to be less than a glance. But in reality it's somewhat more than a glance. That is, her giving us sidelong glances is more heart-bewildering than her meeting our eyes. The way Mirza mentions the glance-- for commentary on it, it's proper that a few verses be written: Mir says this line: phirtii hai;N de nigaahe;N mizhgaa;N ke saa))e saa))e [she wanders around giving glances from the shelter of the eyelashes];

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Ghalib says, {111,10}. Dagh says, sharm se aa;Nkh milaate nahii;N dekhaa un ko ho ga))ii;N paar kaleje ke nigaahe;N kyuu;Nkar [from shame she didn't meet his eyes and look at him how did the ghances go through and beyond the liver?] (388-89)

FWP: SCRIPT EFFECTS: {33,7} What an enjoyable and entirely Ghalibian verse! After a long delay, and a great amount of heedlessness, what do you finally send in my direction? Here are three different ways to read the second line, that take fine advantage of the double sense of bah :zaahir as either 'manifestly, clearly' or 'outwardly, seemingly': =a glance that is obviously less than a real, full glance-- since it emerges after long delay from your heedless eyes; so I reproach you for your ungenerous behavior =a glance that is outwardly/apparently less than a glance-- but to the inner, initiated eye and heart, so much more; so I celebrate your mystically powerful gaze =a 'glancelet' that is obviously less than a glance-- since nigah is clearly a shorter word than nigaah , as Nazm points out, this is a 'script-play' to relish entirely in its own right This latter reading is a particular favorite of mine. I believe it's the only verse we've seen so far in which Ghalib is makes special and playful use of something as commonplace (and normally meaningless) as a metricallyrequired spelling change.

Ghazal 198 3 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aa nahii;N karte composed after 1838; Hamid p. 161; Arshi #209; Raza p. 284

{198,1} ham rashk ko apne bhii gavaaraa nahii;N karte marte hai;N vale un kii tamannaa nahii;N karte 1) we don't approve of envy/jealousy, not even our own 2) we die, but we don't {long for her / 'do her longing'}

Notes: Nazm: That is, the way avarice for one's own wealth is the extreme of avarice and deprivation, so the same is true of the extreme of envy/jealousy: when we feel a longing for union, we ourself become jealous of ourself. (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in passion for her, we've come to feel envy/jealousy even over ourself. Thus we've accepted the sacrifice of our life, but we've given up longing for her. That is, if we long, then she will come or will call us there, and in both those situations my eyes will see her, and we'll feel envious; our hands will touch her hands, we'll burn with envy; our feel will fall on the earth of her street; we'll be jealous. Thus we've left off longing for her. (288)

Bekhud Mohani: We have so much envy/jealousy that not to speak of the Rival, it doesn't even please us that we ourself would long for her. Although we're dying, we don't long to meet with her, (390)

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FWP: INDEPENDENCE: {9,1} Bekhud Dihlavi labels this not a ghazal but a verse-set, but he seems to be alone among the commentators in taking that view. The commentators unite to provide one reading, which is basically that of {153,1}; thus in its intensely paradoxical way this reading makes perfect Ghalibian sense. But notice that {153,1} also makes heavy use of wordplay: without the clever triple use of dekhnaa , its enjoyableness would be much diminished. The same clever use of wordplay energizes the present verse as well, in a subtle but thus all the more amusing way. If we don't approve of envy, including our own, then we're speaking in what might almost pass as a Ghalibian mainstream: this verse is part of the set that I call 'independence' verses (for more on these verses, see {9,1}). And notice what the result of our rejection of envy is: in the second line, we repudiate all interest in something that belongs to somebody else: we reject, literally, 'her longing' [un kii tamannaa]. Since we radically disapprove of all envy, why should we envy or covet something that's so clearly hers-- her very own longing? This ambiguity around which the wordplay turns is a little harder to convey in English, since 'her longing' would normally mean 'the longing felt by her'. In Urdu, un kii tamannaa can mean either 'the longing felt by her' or, perhaps even more commonly, 'the longing felt for her' (by somebody else). A closer case in English would be something like the ambiguity of 'his memory is unreliable' (in his own mind) versus 'his memory lingers on' (in the minds of others). In short, I'm suggesting a parallel with {197,2} and so many other Ghalibian verses, in which the overt meaning and the wordplay interact in complex and doubly enjoyable ways.

{198,2} dar pardah unhe;N ;Gair se hai rab:t-e nihaanii :zaahir kaa yih pardah hai kih pardaa nahii;N karte 1) {secretly / 'behind the curtain/veil'} she has a hidden connection with the Other 2a) outwardly, there's this concealment/veil: that she doesn't do pardah/veiling [from him] 2b) outwardly, there's this concealment/veil: that 'we don't hide/veil [things]'

Notes: pardah : ;A curtain, screen, cover, veil, anything which acts as a screen, a wall, hangings, tapestry;... secrecy, privacy, modesty; seclusion, concealment; secret, mystery, reticence, reserve; screen, shelter, pretext, pretence'. (Platts p.246)

Nazm: That is, when she makes it clear [:zaahir] to me that she doesn't keep pardah with such-and-such a person, this is an outward concealment [:zaahir kaa pardah]; in reality, she has a hidden connection with him-- otherwise, why would she not keep pardah with him? Another aspect of her not keeping pardah is that she doesn't hide herself; that is, she doesn't have the habit of hiding anything. (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in secret [pardah] she feels inner love for the Other. Her not keeping the customary pardah with him is in order to conceal her inner love. That is, if while keeping pardah she furtively met with him, then she would

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become disgraced and ill-famed. Now, she is before him, with the intention of concealing her inner love. (280-81)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved secretly has a connection with the Rival. That is, she secretly meets with him, and when she says 'we come before the Rival; if there were anything to it, then we would keep pardah', then this is only a show of concealment [pardah]. One more verse of the author's with this gist is presented: {189,5}. (390)

FWP: SETS == WORD VEIL: {6,1} The spelling pardaa is used to accommodate the rhyme. There are many such instances of course; I only mention this one because it's so clear, in case anybody wants a good and solid example of the kind of thing classical ghazal poets do all the time. This is what I call a verse of 'word-exploration', in which the many meanings and uses of a single word are cleverly deployed. Most of the possibilities are pretty well elucidated by the translations and definition given above. The intricacies give rise to very amusing paradoxes: the beloved has a 'behind the veil' relationship with someone before whom she uses no veil; she veils her behavior by proclaiming her rejection of veiling; and so on. There's also the wordplay of the 'Other' versus one's own (those before whom one would not use a veil); and of the 'outward' [:zaahir] as opposed to the inner (which would lie behind the veil). There's just one thing that might be confusing: the culturally-specific idea of 'keeping pardah from' somebody. The basic idea is that a woman would 'keep pardah' from any male outsider for whom she might be assumed to be a possible sexual partner. Thus if she doesn't keep the usual social kind of pardah from the Other, she is signalling that she has placed him in some noneligible category, like that of a younger relative, or a servant, or a casual and sexually neutral friend of some kind. Of course, the signal might also be false, a possibility that the verse richly exploits. Bekhud Mohani is right to point to {189,5} as a wonderful companion piece, equally full of cleverly engineered paradox and complexity.

{198,3} yih baa((i;s-e naumiidii-e arbaab-e havas hai ;Gaalib ko buraa kahte ho achchhaa nahii;N karte 1) this is a cause of despair to the possessors of desire/lust 2) you {abuse / speak badly of} Ghalib-- you don't do well

Notes: Nazm: That is, Ghalib was a lover-- when you abused him, then what hope could the lustful Rival have from you? (222)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Ghalib was your true lover. When you abuse him, then the lustful Rival will lose heart as a result, and become hopeless. (281)

Bekhud Mohani: Some friend of the beloved's explains to her, 'You abuse Ghalib, who is your true lover; this is not good. Its effect will be that lustful people will become hopeless and sidle away, for where lovers find no respect, how can people like us survive there? And you'll become like a Yusuf without a caravan, when you're deprived of the desirers who are the ornament of beauty.' (390)

FWP: GOOD/BAD: {22,4}

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Really, isn't a very interesting meaning, is it? Why should it even be worth mentioning if the lustful lose hope, when that's bound to happen sooner or later? Just look for example at {38,1}, which plays with similar ideas in an incomparably livelier and more complex way. Why should the lustful lovers' plight deserve a whole two lines? Of course, there's also the good/bad wordplay. But even then, the verse doesn't-- by Ghalibian standards-- do much with it.

Ghazal 199 4 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: ii;N hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 162; Arshi #162; Raza p. 202

{199,1} kare hai baadah tire lab se kasb-e rang-e furo;G ;xa:t-e piyaalah saraasar nigaah-e gul-chii;N hai 1) wine makes, through your lip, the aquisition/gain of the color/aspect of splendor 2) the line on the glass is entirely the gaze of a Flower-picker

Notes: kasb : 'Acquirement, acquisition (by labour), earning, gain; industry, employment, occupation, trade, profession, handicraft; art, skill; prostitution, harlotry'. (Platts p.833) furo;G : ' Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780) saraasar : 'From end to end, from beginning to end, all, the whole, wholly, entirely, throughout, out and out'. (Platts p.650)

Nazm: That is, your lip is the flower, and the wine is the Flower-picker, and the line on the glass is the gaze of the Flower-picker. And the word 'entirely' [saraasar] is put in to complete the verse [as padding]. (223)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, wine wants to obtain from your red lips a mischievousness of color. The line on the glass is the thread of the Flower-picker's gaze, that is gathering your flower-like lips. (281)

Bekhud Mohani: Your lips, with regard to their colorfulness and moistness, are flowers, and the wine is the Flower-picker. He mentions as proof of this that the line on the glass is entirely the Flower-picker's desirous gaze. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] 'Entirely' gives a sense of emphasis.... and another of its pleasures is that in the whole going-round of the flagon-- that is, in the shape of the circle-- there is a line. Momin says: ab unhe;N likhte hai;N ham ;xa:t me;N saraasar dushman jin ko likhte the sadaa yaar saraapaa i;xlaa.s [now we write to him in a letter, 'oh entire enemy' to whom we always used to write, 'oh wholly devoted friend'] (391)

Faruqi: baadah has two meanings: (1) wine, and (2) a wineglass. rang has a number of meanings; among them the following are to our purpose: (1) portion, fate; (2) power and strength; (3) style, manner, aspect. Now let's take furo;G : in Arabic it means 'to be through with some task', and in Persian (1) splendor, glow, (2) glitteringness, (3) radiance, (4) flame. If in the light of these meanings we reflect on the verse, then two meanings emerge. If we take 'wine' to mean 'wineglass', then the meaning becomes: when the wineglass reaches your lip, then it obtains the aspect of radiance or

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fire. That is, when the radiance of your lip is reflected in the wineglass, then it seems that it's not a wineglass, it's a flame. He gives the wineglass as a simile for the eye, and for the flower a simile of a flame or a lamp. Thus the meaning of the second line becomes that the wineglass, having reached your lip, became radiant, as if it became a lamp. That is, the eye of the wineglass became brightened. On this basis it is doing the work of a Flower-picker, because the Flower-picker too brightens his garment-hem with the lamp of the rose. And if the wineglass is a Flower-picker, then the line on the glass will certainly be called the gaze of the Flower-picker. And for this reason too: that the gaze too is considered to be a line; and for this reason too: that the line on the wineglass has become radiant from the radiance of the wine, the way a glance becomes radiant. If we look at it from another angle, then it's also not necessary to suppose the wineglass to be a Flower-picker. It's sufficient to say merely that from the colorfulness of the lips, the wineglass has become radiant, and the line on the wineglass, like the gaze of the Flower-picker has become full of color. If we take baadah to mean 'wine', then the meaning becomes that when the wine reaches your lips, then on the basis of the redness of your lips it itself too obtains the style of radiance or flame. It's obvious that when the wine is radiant, then the line on the class will also be radiant. And on the basis of this radiance the line on the glass is radiant the way that the gaze of the Flower-picker is illumined by the radiance of the rose. Here it's not a garden, but it's thanks to your lips that that the line on the glass is obtaining pleasure like that of the glance of the Flower-picker. To make the wine into flame, and the line on the glass illumined like a gaze, is the charisma of the beloved. A reason for the affinity is also that the beloved's lips and the wine are both called flowers, and people use flame or a lamp as a simile for a flower. Another point is that where wine or the wineglass obtains access to the beloved's lip, the line on the glass is watching this from afar; thus the line on the glass has the quality of a gaze. Thus in both lines is the connection not of 'this, therefore that', but rather of 'this also, and that also'. (327-28)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} There may be something interesting going on in this verse, but if so it eludes me. I don't see that the two lines have much real connection-- the whole idea of wine as a Flower-picker is simply so physically ungrounded, so hard to put together visually in one's imagination (does the wine have red blobby 'hands' that reach out and pick the flowers, like a creature in a horror movie?). There would need to be some special care given to justify it and make it work. And no such care is apparent. On the contrary in fact: the idea of the line formed by wine in the glass as resembling a 'gaze' is equally uninviting (since when do gazes go round in circles?), and doesn't cohere well at all. Faruqi does as much for the verse as is humanly possible, but I still can't make myself take it seriously. Once we've struggled to 'get' the complex connections that he manages to set up, what have we got? What's behind all the arbitrary and unmotivated-seeming wordplay? I still don't buy it.

{199,2} kabhii to is dil-e shoriidah kii bhii daad mile kih ek ((umr se ;hasrat-parast-e baalii;N hai 1) sometime this tumultuous/faint heart too should receive its due 2) since for a whole lifetime it has been a {longing/grief}-worshipper of the pillow

Notes:

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shoriidah : 'Disturbed (in mind), distracted, mad, frantic; desperately in love; faint; dejected'. (Platts p.736) daad : 'Statute, law; equity; justice; crying out for justice, complaint; revenge'. (Platts p.499) ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) parast : 'Adoring, worshipping; devoted (to), attentive (to)'. (Platts p.248)

Nazm: To be 'for a whole lifetime it has been a longing-worshipper of the pillow' means, for one thing, that for a long time there has been the longing to place the head on a pillow; for another thing, that there's such weakness that the head can't be lifted up from the pillow, and in this situation it wouldn't be strange if the word 'heart' was an error by the scribe, and the author had said 'head' [sar]; but the meaning of the verse is clear in any case. (223)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The rule is that in a state of madness and wildness, sleep doesn't come. He says, sometime my tumultuous/faint heart should receive justice, for it has been absorbed for years in longing for the pillow. The meaning is that in reality when there's a lessening of the madness of passion, the head will become acquainted with the pillow, and sleep too will come. (281)

Bekhud Mohani: Sometime our wild heart should receive its due, since for a whole lifetime it's longed to put its head on the pillow and sleep-- that is, we have a longing to put our head in your lap and sleep.... [Agreeing with Nazm's theory of scribal error:] Undoubtedly, that seems to be the case. (391)

FWP: If the heart deserves 'its due', or satisfaction of some kind of just claim, what does that mean, and how does the heart come to deserve it? Here are some possible readings: =Because the heart is so dejected, so burnt-out with passion, it longs to rest; the lover's wild behavior has never yet permitted it to do so, but surely one day its time will come, and its yearning for the pillow will be satisfied =Because the heart is so weak, faint, and dejected, it cannot sustain the lover in anything except the role of an invalid; after a lifetime of being confined to bed and thus symbolically 'worshipping' the pillow, surely its patience and endurance deserves some kind of reward =Because the heart is so wild and turbulent with passion, it maintains a kind of secret dedication to a vision of peace and rest-- and death; perhaps one day its self-sacrificial devotion will be rewarded It's not a very compelling verse. Still, it's surprising that Nazm is so ready to assume that it incorporates a scribal error that Ghalib presumably never noticed in the course of all the four divan printings that he oversaw; and it's even more surprising that Bekhud Mohani, usually so eager to disagree with him, here warmly supports his view. No doubt 'head' would be a more conventional and obvious choice (in view of 'pillow') than 'heart'-- which is why we shouldn't be surprised that Ghalib avoids it. It's true that in this case Ghalib doesn't seem to make much use of the unconventional 'heart'; but then, substituting 'head' wouldn't do much for the verse either. It's just an early, perhaps perfunctory, verse; Ghalib at nineteen was writing great numbers of such experimentally cerebral verses-- and what were the rest of us doing at nineteen?

{199,3} bajaa hai gar nah sune naalah'haa-e bulbul-e zaar kih gosh-e gul nam-e shabnam se punbah-aagii;N hai

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1) it's appropriate if she/it would not hear the laments of the plaintive Nightingale 2) for the ear of the rose is cotton-filled with the wetness of the dew

Notes: Nazm: They always give for the rose the simile of an ear, and when dew falls on it, it's as if it has put cotton in its ear. Then, how would it hear the Nightingale's lament? This verse is of the same type as one that has already appeared: {101,7}. And the idea is that in the verse the mention of the rose and the Nightingale and the candle and the Moth, and so on, gives beauty as long as some aspect of a symbol [tam;siil] would emerge clearly from it.... But where the symbol would not emerge clearly from it, and where it would seem that the purpose of the verse is only discussion of the state of the rose and Nightingale, then that verse becomes devoid of pleasure.... And both these verses of the author's too are of exactly this type.... But most of the author's work is free of this unpleasurableness-- as compared to other poets, whose work is usually full of this kind of verses. (223)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the rose can't hear the lamentation of the grieving Nightingale, it's pardonable, because the rose's ear has been closed up with drops of dew as though it had stuffed cotton in its ear; now it can't possibly hear the Nightingale. (281)

Bekhud Mohani: If the rose (that is, the beloved) can't hear the lament of the wretched and suffering Nightingale (the lover), then there's no cause for astonishment; since its ears, because of the tyranny of the dew, are cotton-filled. (392)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} Here's a classically piquant mushairah-verse. The first line sets up a provocative assertion: at once we ask, why is it appropriate? Usually it's not considered appropriate, it's something the poor Nightingale grieves over, as an additional source of his solitary suffering. Why won't the beloved listen to the lover, and what's her justifiable reason? Under mushairah performance conditions, we're made to wait as long as possible for that second line; and even then, not until the last possible moment do we get the punch-word that makes the whole thing suddenly comprehensible. When we do hear that punch-word, we realize with amusement that the first line has deliberately sent us off down the wrong path in our speculation, so that we can have a sudden burst of explosive 'getting-it' pleasure. Usually the beloved won't 'listen to' [sunnaa] the lover's laments: it's a choice she makes, for reasons that have to do with her attitude toward the lover. But sunnaa can also mean 'to hear', with a convenient ambiguity that's hard to capture in modern English (since 'hear me!' is archaic). We only now realize that the rose is deaf (she can't hear), rather than heedless (she won't listen) as we had at first assumed. And she's deaf because of drops of silvery, shining dew that resemble little balls of cotton stuffed into her petal-filled 'ears'. This would seem to mean that the rose is innocent-- how can she be expected to control the fall of the dew? And yet as we think about it further, the image of the cotton ball exerts its own power as well. Cotton balls never get into people's ears by accident-they must be put there for some purpose. Might the rose have an earache, or feel a chill? Or might she have contrived to use the drops of dew as earplugs, to spare her the annoying moans and groans of her tedious lover? Needless to say, it's left up to us to decide.

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The cotton balls and drops of dew are nicely balanced in other ways as well: dew is wet, while cotton is used to dry things and keep them dry; dew is produced by universal natural process, while cotton balls are specialized human creations; dew is really colorless, with a temporary silvery glint in the light, while cotton balls have their own essential white. There are also some elegant sound effects in the second line: gosh-e gul nam-e shab-nam is a wonderful phrase to say, with its forceful initial consonants so enticingly balanced with the metrical stresses. In particular, the repetition of nam (since dew is literally 'night-wetness') is well arranged: the first one almost vanishes because of its i.zaafat , while the second rebounds with extra vigor. Then in punbah we have an evocation of both the consonants of nam : the nuun is written, while the sound converts itself, for phonetic reasons, to a miim in recitation.

{199,4} asad hai naz((a me;N chal be-vafaa baraa-e ;xudaa maqaam-e tark-e ;hijaab-o-vidaa((-e tamkii;N hai 1) Asad is in the death-agony-- go along, faithless one, for the Lord's sake! 2) it's an occasion for the abandoning of concealment/veiling and the seeingoff of dignity

Notes: naz((a : 'The agonies of death; the last breath; expiration'. (Platts p.1136)

Nazm: That is, if concealment appears, then at such a time, renounce it; and if dignity and self-respect forbids that, then at such a time, bid farewell to them too. (224)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Asad is absorbed in the pain of the death-agony. Oh faithless one, for the Lord's sake, go along to see him! This is a time to renounce shame and concealment, and bid farewell to dignity and self-respect. (281)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover is dying, and the beloved's friends too are moved by his condition- and moved in such a way that they adjure her for the Lord's sake. By calling her 'faithless one' they want to influence her toward mercy-- and they too are convinced of her faithlessness, because they go on to say that this is not a time to care about shame and dignity. The lover's state, and the extent of the beloved's modesty and dignity, are revealed through this verse. (392)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION VEIL: {6,1} The beloved is urged to go and say farewell to the dying lover, because this is an occasion to 'abandon' concealment, and to 'see off' dignity. She would thus be doing three acts of farewell at once: to the lover, to concealment, and to dignity. But can one really 'see off' concealment and dignity the way one 'sees off' a person, and what does it mean to do so? Is this wordplay, or meaning-play? Surely it's both, and the complexity greatly enriches the verse. The beloved would thus be doing three acts of farewell-- if she did them. But the verse gives us little cause for hope. Someone is exhorting her to behave kindly, but will she pay any attention? Is she even listening? After all, that someone is addressing her as 'faithless one', and the very definition of a faithless one implies great concern with his or her own reputation and dignity, and no concern for the claims of loyalty and devotion. This is, in a sense, a verse about the beloved visiting the lover-- for the full set, see {106,2}-- but it's a very negative and hypothetical one. For a more optimistic-- in the ghazal world, at least-- look at her deathbed visit, see {52,1}.

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Ghazal 200 3 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: ez hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 162; Arshi #163; Raza p. 182

{200,1} kyuu;N nah ho chashm-e butaa;N ma;hv-e ta;Gaaful kyuu;N nah ho ya((nii us biimaar ko na:z:zaare se parhez hai 1) why wouldn't the eye of idols be absorbed in heedlessness-- why wouldn't it be? 2) that is, that sick one abstains from the gaze

Notes: parhez : 'Abstaining (from), keeping aloof (from), abstinence, abstemiousness, forbearance, continence, control of the passions, caution, sobriety, temperance, moderation'. (Platts p.258)

Nazm: 'That sick one'-- that is, the eye of idols. One point here worth reflecting on is that with the word ta;Gaaful the meaning was completed, but there was a need to add something to complete the line-- and in such situations the words that are added are usually padding, and are devoid of pleasure. For example, if someone were unpracticed [kam-mashq], he would here have inserted 'at every hour' [har gha;Rii], or 'night and day' [raat din], or 'when seated together' [ham-nishii;N], etc., and these words, like a padding of old rags, would seem bad. But with what excellence the author has completed the line! That is, he has brought in kyuu;N nah ho and repeated it, and thus he has increased the beauty. (224)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why wouldn't the eye of beautiful ones be absorbed in heedlessness? It certainly ought to be absorbed in heedlessness. That sick one-- that is, the eye of beautiful ones-- abstains from the gaze. A 'sick eye' [chashm-e biimaar] is a description of the eye of the beloved. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: They always call the beloved's eye 'sick', because the way a sick person's eye, through extreme weakness, is not raised, in the same way the beloved's eye, through the intensity of shame and pride, is not raised. The beloved's eye certainly ought to be absorbed in heedlessness, because it is 'sick', and nature has taught that sick one to abstain from looking. (392-93)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; REPETITION; WORDPLAY IDOL: {8,1} Here we have a verse that makes excellent use of both wordplay and implication. The first line asks a piquant question-- why wouldn't the beloved make a practice of avoiding direct eye contact? (Although butaa;N is a Persian plural, it's often treated as though it referred to only one beloved.) Usually this is something the lover rails against and complains about-- why does he now seem to justify it, with even the extra emphasis given by an argumentatively, or even defiantly, repeated final phrase? The repetition amusingly and colloquially suggests both that he knows he's making an unpopular case, and that he's determined to make it. Under mushairah performance conditions, we then have to wait as long as can be arranged, before we hear the second line. And even then, as usual, the line withholds its punch-word until the last possible moment, so that the meaning hits us all at once, most delightfully. As Bekhud Mohani points out, the beloved traditionally has the 'eye of a sick person' [chashm-e biimaar] because her gaze is languid, lowered, averted.

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Thus it won't surprise us if 'that sick person', her eye, lives soberly and abstemiously, and abstains from strong intoxicants, spicy foods, etc. The medical (or sometimes religious) associations of parhez are conspicuous and strongly marked. Thus the 'sick person' abstains from 'the gaze', as a prudent precaution or perhaps through a direct order from the physician. Whose gaze? Naturally, this being Ghalib, we can't tell. Is it the hot, wild, demanding gaze of one or more lovers that might be a health hazard, or the intoxicating, conquering, and perhaps energy-draining gaze of the beloved herself? Either way, the beloved's lowered or averted eyes are a sensible medical precaution. Perhaps that's why her eyes are not just heedless, but 'absorbed in heedlessness' in what sounds like a very deliberate and systematic way. The whole effect is thoroughly enjoyable, and if anybody had any doubts about the radical primacy of wordplay in Ghalib's ghazals, verses like this should serve to put them to rest. A verse like this has absolutely no coherence at all, no raison d'etre, without the interlocking wordplay, so deeply assumed that it's not even fully present in the verse, of chashm-e biimaar and parhez . For another verse that plays on chashm-e biimaar without actually using the phrase, see {22,4}.

{200,2} marte marte dekhne kii aarzuu rah jaa))egii vaa))e naakaamii kih us kaafir kaa ;xanjar tez hai 1) while dying, the longing to see will remain 2) alas, failure! for that infidel's dagger is sharp

Notes: Nazm: If only there were a dull knife for my murder-- so that however long it took to cut my throat, that's how long I would look at her. This is a much-used theme. (224)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even while my breath is leaving me, the desire for sight won't be able to be fulfilled. Alas, failure! If only that infidel's dagger had been dull. If only she cut my throat bit by bit, with difficulty, then my longing for sight would be completely and perfectly fulfilled. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: [Discussing Nazm's objection:] Undoubtedly this theme is not new. If Mirza created any freshness in it, it was only in the repetition of marte marte , or in not using 'murderer' or 'tyrant' in place of 'infidel'. When the word 'infidel' would be for the beloved, then in it a special mood is created, the pleasure of which only the heart knows. (393)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; MUSHAIRAH INFIDEL: {21,12} Well, this is clearly another mushairah verse. The first line could go in some very abstract or emotional directions about how passion continues after death, in the grave, and so on; or it could turn into another 'beloved visits the dying lover' verse like {52,1}. Not until after the maximum possible delay, under mushairah performance conditions, are we allowed to hear the second line-- and of course the line reveals its own sense, and makes the verse suddenly interpretable, only with a 'sharp' thrust at the last possible moment. The verse is also right on the edge of being what I call a verse of 'grotesquerie'. Are we really to imagine the lover's head being slowly sawed off with a blunt dagger, inch by inch, while blood squirts out in all directions-- and his blissful eyes remain fixed on the beloved's irritated face

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as she energetically saws away? This is so improbable and repugnant that it's poetically counterproductive. Maybe we should imagine that she stabs him in the heart, slowly, slowly, with her dull dagger, while he smiles beatifically at her even as he slowly, slowly collapses, bleeding gracefully all over his shirt. Is that repugnant? Less so, no doubt. But the whole process of having to translate the verse into physical action like this is distracting at best, and off-putting at worst. And if we don't translate the imagery into physical action, where's the vitality, the specificity, of the verse? Compare this verse to {20,4}, in which the beloved is imagined as a careless, amateurish archer-- the kind who would no doubt use a dull knife.

{200,3} ((aari.z-e gul dekh ruu-e yaar yaad aayaa asad joshish-e fa.sl-e bahaarii ishtiyaaq-angez hai 1) having seen the cheek/'ariz' of the rose, the face/aspect of the beloved came to mind, Asad 2) the ebullition/heat/turbulence of the season of spring is {desire/longing/ardor}-producing

Notes: ((aari.z : 'Appearing, showing or presenting itself, happening, befalling, occurring; intervening, preventing, barring; --an occurrence, accident, casualty; an obstacle, impediment, bar; --the side of the face, the cheek; -reviewer of an army or of a body of soldiers, a muster-master; general of an army'. (Platts p.756) ruu : 'Face, countenance; appearance, aspect; surface (of the earth, &c.); sake; cause, reason; colour, pretence'. (Platts p.602)

Nazm: To see dekh on an occasion for dekh kar is proper in poetry, but the poet's weakness can be perceived. (224)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having seen the blooming flowers, oh Asad, we recall our friend's rose-colored cheek. The spring season is a producer of the turmoil of ebullition. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: Having seen the cheek of the rose, the beloved's colorful face came to mind. The turmoil of the spring season is ardor-producing. If by the cheek of the rose we take the presence of springtime in the world to be intended, then the meaning will be that the colorful glory/manifestation of creation inclines us toward the glory/manifestation of the True Beloved. [In reply to Nazm:] To use dekh on an occasion for dekh kar is now not proper, it is rejected [matruuk]. In Mirza's time dekh and dekh kar were considered equally correct. The poetry of his contemporaries testifies to that. There are so many examples of it that it seems to be the normal custom. Thus to call it 'the poet's weakness' is a proof of unawareness. (393)

FWP: SETS == WORD The commentators basically give the most obvious (and, to my mind, least interesting) meaning: when I see the face/cheek of the rose I think of the beloved's face, and the springtime makes me restless. But I think it's clear that there's more going on in the verse than just that. This is what I call a verse of word-exploration, one that pivots around the multiple meanings of a single crucial word. Here the word is of course ((aari.z , embedded for even more flexibility in the i.zaafat construction ((aari.z-e gul . Once we realize that the whole verse has been set up to

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endlessly bounce off or spin off from this one key word, we see how well its multiple possibilities work: =when I saw the cheek/face of the rose, the radiant face of the beloved came to mind =when I saw the rose appear and show itself, then the beloved's appearance/aspect came to mind =when I saw the rose as a barrier or impediment (to mystical knowledge? to transcendance of the merely physical?), then the beloved's aspect came to mind-- the beloved who is herself also such a barrier; or the Beloved who is Himself the reality behind the barrier =when I saw the rose as a general reviewing the troops of spring, then the imperious and imperial aspect of the beloved came to mind Needless to say in this kind of verse, the second line with its multi-purpose (physical and metaphorical) words joshish and ishtiyaaq , and its noncommittal grammar (which doesn't connect itself in any one specific way to lover, beloved, or rose), is broad and versatile enough to allow for all these readings, with room to spare. Compare {27,8}, another subtle verse about a situation in which the beloved comes to mind.

Ghazal 201 9 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: ar hai kyaa kahiye composed 1853; Hamid p. 163; Arshi #227; Raza pp. 324-25

{201,1} diyaa hai dil agar us ko bashar hai kyaa kahiye hu))aa raqiib to ho naamah-bar hai kyaa kahiye 1) if he's given his heart to her-- he's human, what can you say? 2) if he became a Rival, then {he would be one / let him be one}-- he's a Messenger, what can you say?

Notes: Ghalib: [1853:] Brother, here the King has established a mushairah in the Fort, on the 15th and the 29th. His Majesty fixes one pattern line for Persian, and one for Rekhtah. This time, when the mushairah of the 30th of Jumadi us-Sani [April 9, 1853] took place, the pattern line for... Rekhtah was ;xumaar-e ((ishq hame;N kis qadar hai kyaa kahiye , na:zar hai kyaa kahiye , ;xabar hai kyaa kahiye . I wrote one ghazal in Persian and one in Rekhtah according to the pattern [{201}], and another in Rekhtah in which I brought out a different aspect [.suurat] of the pattern [{209}]. I am writing out all three ghazals for you. Read them, and show them to Miyan Taftah too. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1124-28. ==another trans: Russell and Islam, pp. 83-84.

Nazm: When the Messenger saw the beloved, he too became a Rival. Hearing this state of affairs, he is saying the verse. In short, an expression of praise of the beloved necessarily emerges. That is, he wrote his heart-burning and recourse-seeking in a letter that was sent off. But having seen her, the Messenger lost his own heart; now he too has become a Rival. Her heartdeceiving beauty necessarily emerges. (224)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the Messenger too has become infatuated with her heart-attracting beauty, and out of his humanness has given his heart to our beloved, in this

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he's done no wrong. He ought not to be blamed. Our beloved's heartattracting beauty in itself is of such fierceness that whoever sees it becomes our Rival; in this deed the Messenger has done no wrong. He's written an extraordinarily attractive closing-verse. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: If the Messenger became a lover of the beloved, it's no cause for astonishment-- after all, he's only human. If he lost his heart, then what of it? If he at length became our Rival, then so what? He's our Messenger, why should we be angry with him? From this verse the meaning also emerges that the beloved is so beautiful that whoever sees her helplessly loses his heart. (393-94)

Arshi: This ghazal was first printed in the Dihli Urdu Akhbar of 27 April 1853, with other ghazals from the mushairah. (330)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; PARALLELISM The rhyming elements of this whole ghazal set up what often becomes the 'inexpressibility trope', an exclamation about how something can't be described, or a claim that nothing can be said about it, or a kind of colloquial 'don't even ask' sense (accompanied by rolling one's eyes). The extremely expressive and idiomatic kyaa kahiye can do this and other tricks as well, as we see in the course of the ghazal. Just to show that he can turn it all on and off at will, Ghalib gives us {201,3}, which is carefully engineered to strip out all these secondary effects and integrate the refrain with perfect matterof-factness into the grammar of the line itself. For examples of the flexible uses of kahiye itself, see {209}. Here there's all that, plus a kind of idiomatic shrug of the shoulders, and all the implications that the commentators have brought out. There's also a nice wordplay and meaning-play-- the job of the Messenger is to carry and present words, so 'what can you say?' has an enjoyable affinity with his task.

{201,2} yih .zid kih aaj nah aave aur aa))e bin nah rahe qa.zaa se shikvah hame;N kis qadar hai kyaa kahiye 1) this contrariness/obstinacy-- that today it wouldn't come, and that it wouldn't fail to come 2) to what extent we have a complaint against fate! -- what can you say?

Notes: .zid : 'Contrariety, opposition, the spirit of contrariness; persisting, persistence, insistence, perseverance, pertinacity, obstinacy'. (Platts p.748)

Nazm: God is great! This contrariness of fate, such that it will certainly come, but it doesn't come today-- so look what kind of a complaint! (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the coming of death is an inevitable and necessary thing-- one day or another the wretch, without being summoned, will certainly come and confront you. But it shows us such contrariness that today, in the night of separation, it doesn't come when we call it. For our whole lifetime we'll make this complaint against it. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: My God, my God-- how contrary death is! It will certainly come, but today-in separation from the beloved, or in the night of difficulty-- it won't come. What can we say, about what kind of a complaint we have against it! That is, a complaint to the maximum limit. (394)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY

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How contrary can you get! In the first half of the first line we could easily be hearing about the beloved, but then the second half of the first line dispells that possibility once and for all. So we are prepared to relish the second line, with its rueful humor that both sharpens and diffuses the force of the complaint. Death won't come when you want it, and yet it will come-- almost certainly, given its perversity, when you don't want it. An enjoyable companion piece for this verse, one that cleverly follows through on its complaint, is {208,11}.

{201,3} rahe hai yuu;N gah-o-begah kih kuu-e dost ko ab agar nah kahye kih dushman kaa ghar hai kyaa kahiye 1) he remains {like this / casually / at his own pleasure}, in and out of season-- so that now, the street of the friend, 2) if you don't say that it's the house of the enemy, then what will you say?

Notes: The spelling kahye for kahiye reflects the needs of the meter. *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Whenever you look, appropriately and inappropriately, the Rival is present in the beloved's street, as if he's made a house in her street. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at times appropriate and inappropriate, whenever I've seen the Rival, I've found him in the beloved's street. Now how would we not say that the friend's street has become his house? In the dark, in the light, he's always to be seen hanging around there. (282)

Bekhud Mohani: Whenever you see the Rival, he's to be seen in her street. Now if we don't call that street the Rival's house, then what will we call it? From saying this, a picture of the trouble of the lover's heart-- his hatred, anger, and desperation-- passes before the eyes. (394)

FWP: FRIEND/ENEMY: {4,3} Here's a verse that cleverly opts out of the idiomatic, colloquial 'what can you say' that is used so effectively in most of this ghazal; for more on this, see {201,1}. The second line has been carefully engineered to integrate the refrain with perfect matter-of-factness into the grammar of the line itself. In view of how the rest of the ghazal has been working, this nullification is itself a novelty and a spirce pf enjoyment. When added to the friend/enemy word- and meaning-play, it's surely enough of an accomplishment to justify its two small lines. NOTE FOR METER FANS: In the second line the first kahye has to be scanned as long-short, contrary to normal pronunciation which is more like short-short-flexible. But the second one, in the refrain, can be scanned normally, since as a special feature of this meter in the penultimate syllable the official one long syllable can be replaced at will by two shorts. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}.

{201,4} zahe kirishmah kih yuu;N de rakhaa hai ham ko fareb kih bin kahe bhii unhe;N sab ;xabar hai kyaa kahiye 1) bravo, {wink / side-glance}! that she's seduced/tricked us {like this / casually / at her pleasure} 2) that even/also without its being said, she knows everything-- what can you say?

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Notes: kirishmah : 'Wink, nod, glance; looking languishingly through half-shut eyes, amorous look or gesture, side-glance, ogling, blandishment, coquetry (Platts p.825) fareb : 'Deceiving, cheating; alluring, seducing, captivating, winning'. (Platts p.780)

Nazm: That is, her side-glances and hints to me are such that I've been seduced; and the account of the seduction comes in the second line-- that is, in my heart I realized that without anything being said, she knew all about my love; there was no need to say anything. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, all her airs and graces express the idea that she knows the state of our heart. So what need remains to tell her the state of our heart? (283)

Bekhud Mohani: How can the signs/hints of the beloved's eyes be described [kyaa baat hai]! They are such that we are deceived into thinking that she herself knows our condition, and we remain without telling the state of our heart. He has said fareb in the sense that now the lover is aware that she constantly goes around showing such attractions to everybody; in her heart there's no love for anybody. (394)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; KIH What a lovely, playful, subtly clever verse! It takes excellent advantage of the possibilities of fareb as meaning either 'seducing, captivating' or 'tricking, deceiving'. It also makes good use of the even more complex possibilities of kih as being either a loose connective meaning (in this case) something like 'since, because, in view of the fact that', or else a more general 'quotation' marker that can identify not only words spoken, but also thoughts entertained or ideas conveyed. In this latter sense it does the duty of quotation marks in English (or in modern Urdu) but a broader duty as well, since it can apply to indirect discourse as well as direct. For further discussion of such complex uses of kih , see the next verse, {201,5}. Thus we're provided with two enjoyable readings: =with her side-glances she has seduced us in such a way that she in fact knows everything about our situation, without anything being said (because we're so utterly and transparently smitten) =with her side-glances she has tricked us into thinking (erroneously) that she knows everything about our situation, without anything being said (because her side-glances convey such an illusion of empathy and intimacy) And on either reading, kyaa kahiye is made to work doubly, to brilliant effect. First, it works as an idiomatic exclamation of astonishment at her behavior, which is beyond all words (the inexpressibility trope). And second, it works as an actual question: in such a situation, what should or would one say? Perhaps nothing at all: on the first reading, there's no needs for words because she knows it all already; and on the second reading, words would be of no use, because she's such a heartless conniver, as Bekhud Mohani suggests. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}.

{201,5} samajh ke karte hai;N baazaar me;N vuh pursish-e ;haal kih yih kahe kih sar-e rahguzar hai kyaa kahiye

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1) she deliberately asks about his situation, in the bazaar, in such a way 2) so that he/one would say this: that 'this is the roadside, what can you say?'

Notes: Nazm: The excellence of this verse is that it bears witness to the beloved's being tricky/devious [((ayyaar] and mischievous in her temperament. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that coquettish one considers that 'Mirza Sahib, because of his dignity [va.z((a-daarii], will be embarrassed to speak to me on the street, and in reply will say that this is not the occasion for conversation.' (283)

Bekhud Mohani: In his heart he is telling to some confidant, the state of the beloved's trickery/deceit [((ayyaarii]. (394)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; KIH This is a good chance to continue our discussion of the complexities of kih . In the previous verse, {201,4}, we saw that one of its meanings was as a very flexible form of quote-marker (as is the case in the second instance here). But in the present verse the first instance of kih has to mean something like 'so that, in order that'. (This is a logical reversal of the 'since, because' sense in the previous verse.) How do we know which way kih goes in any one case? Sometimes through grammar: in the present verse, the subjunctive kahe is a good clue, while in the previous verse the indicative hai is another. But in other cases, the meaning could genuinely go either way, and has to be puzzled out through sheer semantic context; which makes it a great tool for a brilliantly sadistic word-gamer like Ghalib. Here the beloved torments the lover with a show of sympathy-- but a cleverly impossible one. She makes him an offer he can't accept. She asks how he is, right in public, in the marketplace. She knows perfectly well he'll have to say, 'we're out here in the street, how can I tell you anything?' Once again kyaa kahiye works both as a rhetorical part of his expostulation, and as an exclamation of shock and idiomaic indescribability (the inexpressibility trope). Such a beloved deserves a lover like the Other in {191,4}. There's also a nice wordplay between 'that' [vuh] in the first line and 'this' [yih] in the second. The colloquial flavor of vuh in the first line is hard to translate-- when she 'does that situation-inquiry', the 'that' really, idiomatically, means 'such'. The yih in the second line is straightforward, but can mean either 'he ('this one') would say', or 'he (subject omitted) would say this'. However it doesn't make much difference either way in this case.

{201,6} tumhe;N nahii;N hai sar-e rishtah-e vafaa kaa ;xayaal hamaare haath me;N kuchh hai magar hai kyaa kahiye 1) you have no thought for the end/beginning/aim of the thread/connection of faithfulness 2) there's something in our hand, but what is it? please say!

Notes: sar : 'Head, top, pinnacle, tip, end, point; front, face; origin, beginning; head, chief; intention, end, aim; inclination, will, desire, love'. (Platts p.648) rishtah : 'Thread, string, line; series; connexion, relationship... alliance, affinity'. (Platts p.593) *Platts Dictionary Online*

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Nazm: This verse's style of construction is new, and its theme too is fresh. The freshness of its theme is that sar-e rishtah-e vafaa is assumed to be a physical thing: he asks the beloved, tell us what is in our fist; and the inventiveness of the construction is that he's asked what's in the fist, but has also named the thing that's in the fist-- that is, 'there's something in our hand, but what is it? Tell us, since you have no thought for the sar-e rishtah-e vafaa '. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you have absolutely no thought for the rishtah-e vafaa , you've entirely forgotten its mystery/secret. So for heaven's sake [bhalaa] tell me what's in my fist! Such a supreme height of expression and such stylishness of thought have been made present in this verse that he has established the non-physical as physical. And the crest-jewel of it is that he has earlier even named it, and despite having given the name he says, 'there's something in our hand, but you tell us what it is, you have no thought for the rishtah-e vafaa '. (283)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, besides the beloved's being pitiless and ill-tempered, there's a subtle allusion to her simplicity as well. That is, even having been told, she is unaware of the reality that the lover is forcefully gripping the sar-e rishtah-e vafaa . But the beloved hasn't the smallest sense of it. (395)

FWP: The commentators treat the verse as a kind of parody of a classic children's game-- 'guess what's in my hand!'. As they point out, the idea is that even when already prompted in the first line, the beloved is so radically indifferent to the sar-e rishtah-e vafaa that she still can't guess the answer. That works, but I think there's more going on as well. Though it's more complex than the average mushairah-verse, this verse too has a deceptive, misleading first line that the listener must then radically reinterpret when-- in oral performance, after a suitably suspenseful delay-- the second line is finally vouchsafed. The first line invites us to abstractness and conventionality. The word sar has such a variety of abstract meanings (see the definition above) that we really hardly know where to go with it. Then the same is true of the word rishtah , which in normal usage more often means 'relationship' than 'string'. When we come to vafaa , we easily move to an abstract meaning, because her heedlessness of a 'relationship of faithfulness' is so much more plausible than her heedlessness of a 'string of faithfulness'. We can now see that the lover is berating the beloved for her faithlessness, and we're prepared for some further elaboration of the usual complaints or laments in the second line. Thus the first part of the second line comes as a kind of abrupt shock of incomprehensibility. Have we blundered into a different verse entirely, and is this a children's game? Not until the very end of the second line, and even perhaps for a few moments afterwards while our minds race to put it all together, do we 'get' what's going on. Now suddenly we have the unfolding enjoyment of all the layers: it's a child's game, it's a taunt and complaint. In addition, it also has the wittiness noted by the commentators, that the beloved has already been told the answer-- though, like us, she probably misunderstood it as abstract (something about a 'relationship') rather than concrete (something about a 'string'). Or of course she might not have been paying attention at all, which is always a major risk when the lover is reproaching the beloved. So has he 'got' her, with his wit and his cute but sharp-edged childish taunt? Or has she 'got' him, since she's so indifferent she hasn't even bothered to listen to all that barbed wit?

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There's one further enjoyable feature of this spectacular verse. We've seen how different verses in the ghazal play with the refrain, turning on and off its idiomatic and literal meanings at will. This verse provides a new wrinkle: while {201,3} turns the whole refrain into a single phrase of completely unidiomatic semantic 'normalcy', this verse turns the refrain into two separate bits of such 'normalcy': the kyaa becomes part of the phrase hai kyaa , or 'what is it?' (with the 'it' colloquially omitted), while the kahiye is left alone to mean 'please say'.

{201,7} unhe;N savaal pah zu((m-e junuu;N hai kyuu;N la;Riye hame;N javaab se qa:t((-e na:zar hai kyaa kahiye 1) she, at a question, has the assertion/assumption of madness-- why would you fight? 2) we, from the answer, avert our eyes-- what can you say?

Notes: zu((m : 'Asserting, assertion; thinking, presuming, speaking from belief; -self-assertion; presumption, assurance, arrogance; pride, vanity'. (Platts p.616) qa:t((-e na:zar : 'Turning away the eyes, averting the regard or attention (from); leaving off attending (to) or considering; abstraction'. (Platts p.786) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: By the 'assertion of madness' is meant that on hearing my question she says, 'you've gone mad'. And by 'averting the eyes' is meant, what reply would I give to her words? This theme is not the reason for the excellence of the verse; rather, the similarity of construction in both lines has created beauty in the verse. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, that mischievous one, having cast a glance at me and my question, has considered, this person has gone mad, who asks me such a foolish question! And I have absolutely no hope of a reply; after the question I don't even long for her to graciously bestow on me an answer to my question. To whom else is it vouchsafed to make the two lines parallel [do-la;xt], with such construction, such trimness, such naturalness of speech? (283)

Bekhud Mohani: The structure of both lines is similar; for this reason the verse seems pleasing. (395)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; PARALLELISM The commentators point out the wonderful, unforced parallelism of structure between the two lines, and the idiomatic fluency with which they're put together. I'd only add that the kyuu;N la;Riye at the end of the first line, though it's grammatically a polite imperative, has a shrug-of-the-shoulders idiomatic effect like that of kyaa kahiye , in that it's a generalized expression, and it's not clear who might say it, or about whom. It can also be said about oneself. Thus the beloved might be saying to herself, 'he's a madman, why bother to quarrel with him?'; or of course she might say or think 'he's a madman', and he then thinks 'why quarrel with her?'. And do we avert our eyes from any possibility of an answer (we're so sure we won't get one, that we've given up on it in advance)? Or do we avert our eyes from the particular answer she gives us out of despairing selfpreservation (since it's such a dire and discouraging one)? Or do we avert our eyes out of genuine indifference (since we're stubbornly determined to keep on loving her no matter what she says)? Or do we avert our eyes out of

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courtesy (since we're almost embarrassed for her sake at her hostile overreaction)? This ambiguity of tone is a classic Ghalibian effect. It's the eyes we avert, rather than the ears, so perhaps we already know that we won't get an answer in words, but in some non-verbal way-- gestures, shows of indifference, nasty looks? Thus the 'what can you say?' at the end becomes all the more piquant, since it applies to an impossible response to an unexpressed, unsaid answer to a hopeless question. It's thus part of the semantic flow of the line, and also an expressive invocation of the 'inexpressibility trope'. As Bekhud Dihlavi says, who else but Ghalib can make all this look so easy?

{201,8} ;hasad sazaa-e kamaal-e su;xan hai kyaa kiije sitam bahaa-e mataa((-e hunar hai kyaa kahiye 1) envy/jealousy is the punishment for accomplishment in speech-- what can be done? 2) tyranny is the price of the wealth of skill/craft-- what can you say?

Notes: bahaa : 'Price, value;... -- bahaa-e ;xuun , s.m. Blood-money'. (Platts p.177) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: In this verse too the beauty is only because of the similarity of the construction and ornamentation [of the two lines]. They say kyaa kiije and kyaa kahiye on an occasion of feeling weakness. (225)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse too is of the same excellence [as the previous one]. He says, for the accomplishment of speech, the birth of envy is inescapable-- it is duress, what can be done? And the value of the wealth of skill/craft is daily tyranny, what complaint can be made? Both verses are the high point of the ghazal. (283)

Bekhud Mohani: It's great duress, it's a great Doomsday, that nowadays in return for being an accomplished poet people begin to feel envy, and if they see some skilled person, then instead of kindness they show him tyranny. That is, nowadays they envy people of skill, and give them sorrow-- and what kind of respect?! (395)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; IDIOMS; PARALLELISM; POETRY COMMERCE: {3,3} Nazm rightly emphasizes both the parallelism, and the enjoyably exclamatory use of idioms, that give this verse its oomph. As Bekhud Dihlavi notes, the verse seems to follow naturally from its predecessor, {201,7}; he also singles it out as the high point of the ghazal. And of course the idioms are not just generally appropriate in mood-- able to express ruefulness, vexation, frustration, a shrug of the shoulders, wry amusement, or whatever other tone you want to read them in-- but also specifically appropriate to the semantic content of each line. The first line decrees an action, a 'punishment', and its idiomatic ending resigns itself in terms of another action, expressed in an archaic form of the passive-- 'what can be done?'. The second line seems to evoke a mercantile transaction: there is a 'price' for a kind of 'wealth' or 'property', so that 'what can you say?' is appropriate to a situation of bargaining or negotiation. And of course the 'wealth' is that of poetry, literally 'speech', itself, so 'what can you say?' acquires a whole extra dimension of delightfully complex relevance. Moreover, the first line speaks of a 'punishment', and bahaa in the second line is not just a word for 'price' but also part of the common phrase 'blood

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money' [;xuun-bahaa], or the price paid to atone for a murder, that permits one to avoid a physical 'punishment'. I don't know if Ghalib would have expected this phrase to pop into his audience's heads, and thus provide one more form of connection between the two lines. But since it popped into mine, I thought I'd just mention it. Bekhud Mohani insists that the verse is a complaint against the way the world in general treats poets 'nowadays'; needless to say, there's no such indication of temporality in the verse itself. Moreover, 'envy/jealousy' is often felt by rival lovers, not just by rival poets; and 'tyranny' is particularly appropriate to the beloved's behavior. So the verse might also ruefully refer to the way the lover's reward for his poetic skill is jealousy from his rivals and cruelty (also of course often a sign of favor, acceptance, and attention) from the beloved herself.

{201,9} kahaa hai kis ne kih ;Gaalib buraa nahii;N lekin sivaa-e is ke kih aashuftah-sar hai kyaa kahiye 1a) who has said that Ghalib's not bad, but 2) except for this: that he's disordered in the head-- what can you say?!

Notes: lekin : 'But, but still, on the other hand, however, notwithstanding, nevertheless, yet'. (Platts p.975) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if he wouldn't be mad, then what can be said about him at all? [Discussion of the Arabic word sivaa being used with a Persian i.zaafat and also an Indic ke , and the nuances of this in terms of Urdu idiom.] (226)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The reference of 'who' is toward the beloved. He says, she's said that Ghalib is not a bad man, but it's a pity that he's mad, and about it/him what can be said. (284)

Bekhud Mohani: Some friend of the beloved's has said something to her about Ghalib. At this she has gotten angry, and the gentleman friend has seen her altered mood and turned the direction of the conversation: 'I didn't say that Ghalib is not bad-- I said that he's a madman, so what can be said about him?' (396)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; EXCLAMATION, IDIOMS It's clear that the commentators-- these and others-- can't agree on who's saying what to whom. Which isn't surprising, is it? Ghalib has obviously rigged the verse that way. I can't figure out any one clear reading either. Here are some of the possibilities: =Who has said, 'Ghalib's not bad, but except for the fact that he's disordered in the head, what can you say?' =Who has said, 'Ghalib's not bad'? But except for for the fact that he's disordered in the head, what can anybody say? =Who has said, 'Ghalib's not bad'? But except for for saying 'He's disordered in the head', what can anybody say? =Who has said, 'Ghalib's not bad'? [He is bad, of course.] But except for the fact that he's disordered in the head-- he's indescribable [in his excellence]! ( kyaa kahiye , like kyaa baat hai , can also be used for the indescribability trope.) If you see actual quotation marks in an edition of the divan, remember that they're only those of some modern editor trying to 'help' you by ruling out all readings other than his own. Ghalib would never be so destructive of his own multivalence as to stoop to such folly. But no matter how we choose to parse

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the implicit quotation marks, one clear and excellent feature remains: the interaction of kyaa kahiye with every one of the possibilities is jaunty, idiomatic, clever, amusing, and absolutely appropriate. For another treatment of the 'disordered head', see {159,7}. For another multivalent use of kyaa kahiye , see {209,1}.

Ghazal 202 9 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aanii mujhe composed 1826; Hamid p. 164; Arshi #198; Raza p. 267

{202,1} dekh kar dar-pardah garm-e daaman-afshaanii mujhe kar ga))ii vaabastah-e tan merii ((uryaanii mujhe 1) having seen me {secretly / behind the curtain} eager for 'skirt-spreading' 2) my nakedness, having bound me to the body, went away

Notes: daaman-afshaan : 'Spreading or expanding the skirts (of the robe); walking proudly, or gracefully'. (Platts p.502) afshaanii : 'Sprinkled, scattered over, &c.; --s.f. Scattering, sprinkling, dispersion'. (Platts p.62) vaabastah : 'Bound, restrained; --referred back (to); related, connected (with), depending (on); -- s.m. A manservant; a relative, or connexion; a dependant; an adherent'. (Platts p.1171) tajarrud : 'Stripping or denuding oneself; cutting oneself off from society, living in solitude; solitude; celibacy'. (Platts p.311) mujarrad : 'Bare; mere; only; solitary, alone; --single, unmarried; --bodiless, incorporeal; immaterial'. (Platts p.1003)

Nazm: In this verse the theme is mysticism; 'nakedness' is a metaphor for withdrawnness [tajarrud], and 'skirt-scattering' for the breath. That is, I was a hermit [mujarrad], I had no relationship to physicality [jismaaniyat]. But seeing me eager for skirt-spreading, my solitude connected me to the body and took leave of me. That is, having seen me absorbed and eager in the numbering of breaths in the world of bodies, withdrawnness imprisoned me in the cell of the body and took its leave. That is, the person who would have an ardor for skirt-spreading-- what connection would he have with withdrawnness and nakedness? In the word dar-pardah he has made the wordplay that breathing too has a connection with veiling of the bosom. The author's intention is what has been explained, but tangledness and knottedness have befallen his meaning-- that is, after being eager for skirtspreading, what does it mean for nakedness to take leave? Nakedness cannot be associated merely with the skirt, nor can there be skirt-spreading either. (226)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse is about mysticism. He says, I was a hermit, I had no connection at all with physicality. But having seen me eager for skirt-spreading, my withdrawnness ensnared me in the prison of the body, and it itself took its leave. By nakedness is here meant being without relationship. (284)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] That nakedness is a metaphor for withdrawnness is correct. But that skirt-spreading is a metaphor for breath, is incomprehensible. Because skirt-spreading is from the renunciation of relationship; if it is intended as breathing, then the renunciation of relationship won't remain; rather, its meaning will become the control over

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relationship. Probably when writing the meaning of skirt-spreading, the learned commentator was thinking of 'wing-fluttering' [par-afshaanii], thus this meaning was written. Furthermore, the commentator's conclusion tells us that seeing me absorbed and eager in breath-numbering in the physical world, withdrawnness left me in the prison of the body. The Lord knows what this means! Because what relationship does the hermit have with the physical world, and thus with breath-numbering?... Now it remains to ask, while there is skirt-spreading, how can there be nakedness? The answer to this is that Mirza has taken nakedness in the sense of 'withdrawnness'. And the intention of skirt-spreading is the cutting of relationships with the world, and the effort and restlessness for things of the spirit. This is the aspect of meaning; there remains the verbal aspect, and it is not worth much attention, because the author's goal is a mirror. (397-98)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY VEIL: {6,1} The verse clearly relies on wordplay ('behind the curtain', 'skirt-spreading', 'body', 'nakedness'), but that's almost the only thing that's clear. The first line obviously centers on 'skirt-spreading', which seems to have two opposite idiomatic meanings: worldly grace or elegance (as Platts observes and many commentators seem to assume); or Bekhud Mohani's sense of worldrejection, which would presumably be based on taking afshaani to mean 'scattering, dispersing'. I don't know how well established Bekhud Mohani's sense is. (Of course, it would be very Ghalibian to have it both ways.) Then the second line is the main puzzle in itself. The full prose form would be something like mujhe vaabastah-e tan kar ke merii ((uryaanii chalii ga))ii . We think, what was that again? Why did 'nakedness' do this to me, and how, and what exactly is it that it did? Nazm rightly observes that the line is obscure and convoluted: it relies on poorly grounded hyper-abstractions that are almost impossible to visualize. For a discussion of the uses-- and positioning-- of the word 'nakedness' [((uryaanii], see {6,1}. It thus also creates an apparent major problem of connection. How do the two lines fit together? The commentators read 'nakedness' [((uryaanii], a plain and literal word, as though it were 'withdrawnness' [tajarrud], a much more complex one that indeed has the kind of multiple dimensions (nakedness, withdrawal or solitude, and celibacy) that would resonate more effectively with the first line by suggesting some reasons for punishing the speaker's 'skirt-spreading' (or else, on Bekhud Mohani's reading, for deliberately frustrating his mystical quest). I can't think of a way to improve on the 'withdrawnness' reading. But it doesn't leave me very satisfied with the verse itself.

{202,2} ban gayaa te;G-e nigaah-e yaar kaa sang-e fasaa;N mar;habaa mai;N kyaa mubaarak hai giraa;N-jaanii mujhe 1) I became a whetstone of the sword of the glance of the beloved 2) fortunate am I! what a blessing 'heavy-lifedness' is to me!

Notes: giraa;N : 'Heavy, weighty, ponderous; great, important, momentous; difficult; burdensome, grievous; --precious, valuable; dear, expensive'. (Platts p.901)

Nazm: I am so tough-lifed [sa;xt-jaan] that slashes of the sword of the glance keep occurring and I am alive-- like a whetstone, on which as many times as the sword is scraped along it, it doesn't get cut. In the second line he says as a taunt, bravo to me-- my heavy-lifedness is a great blessing, since it has made me a whetstone of the sword of the beloved's glance! (226)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have become so tough-lifed that I endure the wounds of the sword of the beloved's glance and am alive, as if I am a whetstone, such that no matter how much you scrape the sword along it to sharpen it, it doesn't get cut. In the second line he says sarcastically, my tough-lifedness has become a great blessing for my life, since it has made me a whetstone for the sword of the beloved's glance. (284)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, they were fortunate who were slain by one single glance. We are unfortunate, that slashes are constantly made at us and we're nowhere close to dying. This verse is like {60,1}. (398)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION In true mushairah-verse style, the punch-word is withheld until the last possible moment. Why did I become a whetstone? We're never really told, but the exclamation at what a blessing it is to have 'heavy-lifedness' at once pulls it all together. A stone is heavy; heavy things are hard to wear away, hard to kill; and heaviness is a quality of suffering (my heart is 'heavy'). Being a whetstone for the beloved's glance is a piquant notion in other ways as well. The sword that is scraped repeatedly along the whetstone is off-duty, it's casual, it's even intimate, since it's only preparing for its real duties elsewhere. The more it scrapes along the whetstone, again and again, the better prepared the sword is not to make any other repeated strokes: it's being sharpened to slash through anything else with a single swift stroke. Thus my role is unique. Is this role as a whetstone a blessing (I'm the only one at whom the glance-sword is directed over and over again), or a curse (everyone else is killed painlessly with one blow)? Is it a sign of my superior virtue, devotion, and 'tough-lifedness' (no one else could endure what I endure), or a token of my failure (wouldn't it be more lover-like to die at once, after a single glance?) As the commentators observe, the tone of the exclamatory second line works wonderfully when it's sarcastic. But of course, it could perfectly well be read quite straightforwardly: the fundamental pain-is-pleasure paradox of the ghazal world looms before us once again, and can be flipped back and forth any number of times. I don't think the verse Bekhud Mohani recommends is really very much to the point. More suggestive is a comparison with other verses that play enjoyably with the imagery of stones; on these see {62,5}.

{202,3} kyuu;N nah ho be-iltifaatii us kii ;xaa:tir jam((a hai jaantaa hai ma;hv-e pursish'haa-e pinhaanii mujhe 1a) why would there not be unkindness by her? my temperament is calm/collected 1b) why would there not be unkindness? her temperament is calm/collected 2) she considers me to be absorbed in inquiries of concealment/secrecy

Notes: ;xaa:tir jam((a : Collected, composed, comforted, assured, contented, confident, tranquil, at ease; satisfactory; --collectedness or peace of mind, composure, content, satisfaction, confidence, assurance, encouragement'. (Platts p.484)

Nazm: By 'inquiries of concealment' the author's meaning is that the visions that come sometimes in the imagination, and sometimes in dreams, or through her unkindness the state I'm coming to be in-- that's what I'm absorbed in.

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And due to this she's calm/collected, if she doesn't show kindness. If you want to know the truth, then from the words 'inquiries of concealment' the author's intended meaning doesn't emerge. (227)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from her side, how would there not be a manifestation of unkindness? That cruel one is calm/collected. That is, she considers that I am always conversing with a vision of her, and am becoming intoxicated with mental 'inquiries of concealment'. (284)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is confident, considering I am becoming absorbed in the pleasure of 'inquiries of concealment' of signs and thoughts and visions and dreams. Thus if she doesn't show kindness toward me, it's fitting... [Disagreeing with Nazm's criticism:] If in this verse: {91,2} [and another by 'Urfi] there's no defect in the meaning, then Mirza's present verse too is presenting its meaning. (398-99)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS What's really enjoyable about the verse is the elegantly ambiguous placement of us kii , right in the middle of the first line between two appropriate feminine nouns, so that it can with equal ease apply backward to create 'her unkindness', or forward to create 'her temperament'. Who is calm/collected, and about what? Here are some possibilities: =Why wouldn't she be unkind? I am quite calm/collected about her unkindness, since I know it's just because she thinks I'm lost in another world and am not paying any attention to her. =Why wouldn't she be unkind? She sees that I'm quite calm/collected, and thus considers that I'm lost in another world and not paying any attention to her. =Why wouldn't there be unkindness? She is quite calm/collected about showing it, since she thinks I'm lost in another world and am not paying any attention to her. And then, why would my inattention result in her unkindness? Perhaps she's simply 'off duty', and freely giving rein to her naturally unkind disposition. Or perhaps she deliberately seeks to punish me for disrespectfully ignoring her: her unkindness is meant to summon me back from that other world in which I'm absorbed. Moreover, since jaantaa hai means 'she considers', there are additional ambiguities. She might be wrong in her view: she thinks I'm off in another world, but I'm actually observing her closely. And finally, of course, what are the 'inquiries of concealment/secrecy'? The abstractness of the nouns, and the i.zaafat that links them, together open a hugely wide field. Are they inquiries that are conducted in secret? Inquiries that are about particular concealed things? Inquiries that are about the nature of secrecy itself? Inquiries that pertain to concealment in some other, unspecified way? The verse carefully makes sure that we have absolutely no way to tell.

{202,4} mere ;Gam-;xaane kii qismat jab raqam hone lagii likh diyaa min-jumlah-e asbaab-e viiraanii mujhe 1) when the fate of my house of grief began to be inscribed 2) he/they/it wrote me down as {among/singularly/largely/wholly} the cause(s)/material(s)/luggage of desolation

Notes: min-jumlah : 'Among, among all; in all; from among all or the whole, out of the whole (of); from among; out of; --upon the whole; --totally, universally'. (Platts p.1069)

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asbaab : 'Causes, motives, means; resources; --s.m. sing. Implements, tools, instruments, apparatus, materials; goods, chattels, effects, property; furniture; articles, things; commodities, appliances, machinery; stores, provision; funds; necessaries; baggage, luggage; cargo'. (Platts p.47)

Nazm: That is, the Writer of Destiny [kaatib-e taqdiir] decreed me to be the cause [sabab] of the desolation of my own house. (227)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on the day of the eternity without beginning [roz-e azal], the Writer of Destiny had inscribed the fate of my house of grief; at that time he also decreed me to be the cause of the desolation of my own house. The meaning is that the desolation of my house has a connection with my own self. (284)

Bekhud Mohani: When the fate of my frame of dust [=body] began to be written down, then my being itself was decreed to be a cause of my existence. That is, Nature has placed the matter of oblivion too right within the matter of life. (399)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS WRITING: {7,3} Verses like this show Ghalib's wickedly light touch at its best. Not only does it sound easy and colloquial, but it also admits of a truly exceptional number of readings. I think it's right up there with {32,1} in the major-league ambiguity rankings. Just consider the possibilities of min-jumlah : 'among'; 'from among them all'; 'on the whole'; 'totally'. And then look at the even more extensive possibilities of asbaab : from the logical and abstract ('causes', 'motives') through the unclassifiably intermediate ('materials', 'necessaries') to the concrete and specific ('tools', 'furniture', 'appliances', 'luggage'). Just choose one from Column A and one from Column B, and mix and match as you please: among the [unique] from among all the on the whole totally

Causes motives materials necessities tools furniture appliances luggage

So the possibilities range from making the speaker the sole, total 'cause' of the desolation, to making him one among the 'materials', or even just part of the 'luggage'. And what is the 'house of grief' itself? Bekhud Mohani maintains that it's the body. That's always possible, but 'desolation' is especially a quality of ruined houses, so the straightforward reading is very compelling in itself. An obvious choice for comparison is the brilliant {10,6}.

{202,5} bad-gumaa;N hotaa hai vuh kaafir nah hotaa kaash ke is qadar ;zauq-e navaa-e mur;G-e bustaanii mujhe 1) that infidel is [habitually] suspicious-- if only I didn't have 2) to this extent, a taste for the voice of the garden bird!

Notes: Nazm: In her temperament there is so much jealousy/envy that when I feel ardor for the Nightingale, even this doesn't please her. The theme has no pleasure, but on this very theme the author has elsewhere said, as has already passed before us, {60,10}. (227)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have an ardor for listening to the melodies of the sweet singers of the garden, and that infidel is [habitually] suspicious of this ardor of mine. Oh, if only I didn't have this ardor! (285)

Bekhud Mohani: The Nightingale's voice pleases me because in the Nightingale's song is pain, and because of similarity (that is, I too am one of the people of pain, with the temperament of a lover), in hearing his voice I feel pleasure. At this, that infidel (the beloved) becomes suspicious. That is, 'while I'm here, he feels that he doesn't love me completely; if he did, then he wouldn't pay attention to anyone else'. Seeing this state of the beloved's, the lover feels a longing: 'if only I didn't have such a taste for lamentation!'. (399)

Arshi: Compare {60,10}. (203, 301)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; EXCLAMATION This unpretentious little verse surrounds itself with a nice set of overtones and implications. We first have to realize that the 'bird of the garden' par excellence is the Nightingale, who is himself a lover (of the rose) and thus a fellow-sufferer with other tormented lovers. And the lover has the taste 'to this extent', which seems in the context to be a substantial one. The verse points up the lover's dismal situation: even something so innocent as his listening to a bird sing is enough to excite the beloved's possessive jealousy and cruelty. And then, his response is not resentment, defiance, or stoicism-- but a morbid wish that he didn't have even this innocent, simple little desire, since it angers her (however unreasonably). There's also a clever Catch-22 here: the beloved's cruelty and suspicion make the lover mournful, and incline him toward the melancholy songs of the Nightingale; but this inclination on his part is exactly the kind of thing that reinforces her jealousy, and thus increases her cruelty and suspicion.

{202,6} vaa))e vaa;N bhii shor-e ma;hshar ne nah dam lene diyaa le gayaa thaa gor me;N ;zauq-e tan-aasaanii mujhe 1) alas-- even/also there, the tumult of Doomsday didn't let me take a breath! 2) the taste/relish for ease of body had taken me into the grave

Notes: Nazm: In this ground, this verse is the 'high point of the ghazal'. To be awakened from the sleep of the grave by the tumult of Doomsday is a commonplace theme, which many people already have used on many occasions. The excellence of this verse is that the reason for going into the grave is very fresh-- that is, a relish for pampering of the body. It is the spirit/life of this verse, which has made a dead theme alive; and with it a witness to the author's miraculousness of speech has come to hand. How well he has expressed the evil of the pampering of the body and the pursuit of comfort! (227)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's a pity that even/also in the grave the tumult of Doomsday awakened me. I had gone into the grave in order to sleep to my heart's content and find rest. It's a peerless verse. (285)

Bekhud Mohani: bhii means that in the world I had found no rest. I hoped that in the grave I would sleep at my ease, but there too I didn't manage to get any rest. nah dam lene diyaa means that not even for the smallest moment did I manage to

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find complete rest, before the tumult of Doomsday awakened me. The late Zauq has also well said, ab to ghabraa ke yih kahte hai;N kih mar jaa))e;Nge mar ke bhii chain nah paayaa to kidhar jaa))e;Nge [now, feeling anxious, we say that we will die if even having died we find no peace, then where will we go?]... [Nazm is wrong about the 'evil of pampering the body and seeking rest'.] Not at all! Mirza shows that for a man there is peace neither here, nor anywhere. This is almost exactly the verse recorded here, that Mirza Rafi Sauda has written: yaa;N fikr-e mu((ashyat hai vahaa;N da;Gda;Gdah-e ;hashr aasuudagii ;harfiyyat nah yaa;N hai nah vahaa;N hai [here, there is worry over livelihood; there, the commotion of Doomsday there's not the smallest bit of carefreeness either here or there] (400)

FWP: SETS == BHI; EXCLAMATION DOOMSDAY: {10,11} This is a member of the set of 'dead lover speaks' verses; for others, see {57,1}. Both meanings of bhii come elegantly into play: we can read either 'there too' (such that 'there' is just one more member of a list of places); or 'even there' (such that 'there' is in a special class by itself). Needless to say, both readings work most enjoyably with the rest of the verse. Bekhud Mohani points out that 'didn't let me take a breath' is powerfully and colloquially emphatic: not even for a moment did the speaker get any sleep, before being rudely awakened. There's also the amusing wordplay: how many 'breaths' would one expect to take in the grave, anyway? The tone of the verse-- plaintive, aggrieved, annoyed-- is perfect for someone deeply in need of sleep who is woken by some infuriating triviality. The fact that the infuriating triviality is the clamor and tumult of Doomsday is even more delightful-- to the speaker, Doomsday is not an awesome, terrifying confrontation with Divinity, but merely a vexation that interferes with the far more important matter of his getting his beauty sleep. In the argument between Nazm and Bekhud Mohani, I think Bekhud Mohani has it right. Nazm's reading is one-dimensional, and generates simply a moral disapproval of physical laziness. Bekhud Mohani's reading is much richer, and has room for the kind of rueful humor ('no rest for the weary!') that can also be read into the mood of the verse. For as in so many exclamatory verses, tone is crucial. Is the speaker more annoyed than amused, or more rueful than annoyed? Is he laughing at himself, or at human folly generally? Or is he simply aggravated at the noisy neighbors who insist on having their inopportune Doomsday? As usual, we're left to decide for ourselves; and as usual, all the choices have their own pleasures.

{202,7} va((dah aane kaa vafaa kiije yih kyaa andaaz hai tum ne kyuu;N sau;Npii hai mere ghar kii darbaanii mujhe 1) the promise of coming would be faithfully upheld? what style/measure/guess is this? 2) why have you confided/entrusted to me the doorkeepership of my house?

Notes: andaaz , andaazah : 'Measure, measurement; quantity; weighing, weight; degree, amount; valuing, valuation, value; rough estimate; conjecture, guess; proportion, symmetry; elegance, grace; mode, manner, style, fashion, pattern; carriage, bearing, gait'. (Platts p.90)

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Hali: While waiting for faithfulness to the promise, he presents his not going anywhere as 'You've confided the doorkeeping of my house to me'. It's an entirely fresh expression. (162)

Nazm: That is, with the promise of coming that you've made, I can't emerge from my house at all-- I've become a Doorkeeper! Here, kyaa would seem better than kyuu;N . It wouldn't be strange if it would be a copyist's error. (227)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Only kyuu;N is good, kyaa is not good. Because in kyaa there's a glimpse of anger and blame. That is, 'what a fine thing, you've decreed that I'm to be a Doorkeeper!'. And from kyuu;N the heart's perplexity and restlessness can be learned, and love drips from the tone too. (401)

FWP: SETS == KYAA This is one of the set of verses about the beloved's visiting the lover; for others, see {106,2}. It's also almost a limit case of inshaa))iyah speech-- a sort of passive subjunctive, followed by a radically ambivalent exclamation or question, followed by another question. The first part of the first line proposes-- but pointedly doesn't affirm-- that the beloved might uphold her promise of coming to the lover's house. Then the second part of the first line opens out, thanks to the radical multivalence of both kyaa and andaaz . Here are some of the possible ways to read yih kyaa andaaz hai : =what am I expecting will happen? (the whole idea of such promise-keeping is very bizarre and confusing) =what are you really up to here? (surely it can't be that you're actually proposing to uphold your promise?) =what kind of assumption is this for a lover to make?! (don't be silly, she'll never uphold her promise!) =what kind of style/behavior is this for a beloved?! (as if you'd really uphold your promise!) Needless to say, all these possibilities work in different, piquant ways with the second line. Her confiding to him the 'doorkeepership' of his own house could have been an explicit command: 'You stay home and wait-- I'll be coming over'. In that case, he asks why she has given that command, and whether it really, even conceivably, means that she might actually intend to come over. Alternatively, his 'doorkeepership' could be an implicit effect of her subtle hints and his guesses and desperate hopes: 'I can't possibly leave the house, if there's even the smallest chance that she might drop by'. In that case, his question is perhaps even a reproachful one-- why is she raising hopes that both he and she know are false, but which he can't stop himself from vainly entertaining? Is she just being sadistic? Compare her cruelty in {97,3}.

{202,8} haa;N nishaa:t-e aamad-e fa.sl-e bahaarii vaah vaah phir hu))aa hai taazah saudaa-e ;Gazal-;xvaanii mujhe 1) indeed-- the ecstasy of the coming of the spring season-- bravo! 2) again the madness/melancholy/frenzy of ghazal-recitation has come afresh to me

Notes: haa;N : 'Yes, aye; indeed, verily; by the by, forsooth'. (Platts p.1216)

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saudaa : 'The black bile (one of the four humours of the body), atrabilis; melancholy; hypochondria; frenzy, madness, insanity; love; desire, concupiscence; ambition'. (Platts p.695)

Nazm: Indeed, oh ecstasy of spring, bravo-- you're beyond words [teraa kyaa kahnaa]! Please just warm me up a bit more, so that I would recite ghazals. (227)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, indeed, oh ecstasy of the spring season, you're an indescribable marvel [terii kyaa baat hai]! Having seen your gradual arrival, again the madness of ghazal-recitation has come to me afresh. That is, through your help I've become inspired for ghazal-recitation. (285)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh ecstasy of the spring season, you're beyond words [teraa kyaa kahnaa]! Please just warm me up a bit more. Again the ardor for ghazal-recitation has been born in me. (401)

Arshi: Compare {24,6}. (301)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; POETRY The first line is heavily exclamatory, and the commentators generally take it straightforwardly: oh how fine, the spring season has come! The delights of the coming of spring do, after all, form a classic ghazal theme. And yet-what is that quite unnecessary 'indeed' [haa;N] doing there, if not suggesting some further thoughts, some reservations, some additional depth? As so often, we have to wait-- and under mushairah performance conditions, that wait is as long as can reasonably be contrived-- for the second line to give us further insight. And in the second line, the word saudaa works strongly to create an effect that is, if not entirely negative (since madness is the lover's natural domain), certainly no better than ambivalent. A sarcastic reading ('oh, thanks a lot, springtime-- I really needed that!') readily emerges, and feels richer and more amusing than the straightforward one. (Though the latter remains quite possible, of course, since the 'madness' could be an 'ambition' or 'desire'.) Another possible implication would be that the only thing spring means to the speaker is a fresh attack of madness, like a seasonal malarial fever. Other people may rhapsodize over the birds and the bees and the flowers and the breezes, but the poet knows only the saudaa , literally the 'black bile', of his art. And what he's forced to, in his fresh creative (?) 'madness', is not even necessarily poetic composition, but only 'recitation'. Is the season calling him back from his apathy, and whipping him arbitrarily into a frenzy? Think of Eliot's 'April is the cruellest month.'

{202,9} dii mire bhaa))ii ko ;haq ne az sar-e nau zindagii miirzaa yuusuf hai ;Gaalib yuusuf-e ;saanii mujhe 1) God gave my brother a life {entirely anew / starting over} 2) Mirza Yusuf is, Ghalib, a second Joseph to me

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Yusuf's life took place a second time, as if a second Yusuf was given. (227)

Bekhud Dihlavi: Mirza Yusuf was Mirza Sahib's older brother, who in his youth had gone mad. He has written this closing-verse in appreciation of his companionship.

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The meaning is that from his finding a second life, a second Joseph has been given. (285)

Bekhud Mohani: The Lord gave health to my brother Yusuf Mirza, or saved him from a disaster; as if a second Yusuf was given to me. [Or:] The way Hazrat Yusuf's brothers had pushed him into a well, his emerging from the well was equal to becoming alive a second time-- of the same kind is my Yusuf's attaining of health. (401)

Baqir: Mirza Yusuf Ali Khan was Ghalib's brother. For thirty years he remained insane. Ghalib loved him very much. It seems that he had become healthy. By way of love, ths joy of this has been expressed in this verse. (490)

FWP: This ghazal was composed, according to Raza, in 1826-- which is said to be the year in which Mirza Yusuf, Ghalib's beloved older (and only) brother, went mad. (On Ghalib's life in this period see Russell and Islam, p. 44.) So it occurred to me that this verse might refer to Mirza Yusuf's madness. I developed a whole theory to this effect, invoking what Ghalib wrote in Dastanbu (trans. by Khwajah Ahmad Faruqi, p.54) when Mirza Yusuf died of a fever in 1857: This kindly but unfortunate man spent sixty years of his life in happiness and sorrow; for thirty years he was sane and for thirty years he was mad. During the days of his sanity he restrained his anger and during the days of his madness he gave pain to no one. This was his custom. He died on the 29th of Safar, 1274 AH. Someone asked me, the afflicted, the date of the death of Mirza Yusuf, who lived his life a stranger to his own self. I answered this question by sighing, and said [the chronogram] 'diregh diwana'. This account suggests that the year in which Mirza Yusuf went mad was a hinge in his life, a time when he had a life-- one of madness-- given to him 'anew' [az sar-e nau]. From then on, he 'lived his life a stranger to his own self'-- another phrase that resonates with this verse, in which his 'new life' seems so sharply cut off from his old one. Moreover, the literal meaning of az sar-e nau is something like 'from a new head'-- how sadly appropriate for someone who has gone mad! He was thus 'a second Joseph' not just in belovedness, but almost literally, since he had lost his old personality. So much for free-wheeling creativity! This interpretation, which was never unproblematical (the tone of the verse seems to jar with it), is in fact impossible. Here as so often, S. R. Faruqi's analysis of the situation (Sept. 2006) has been invaluable: The first thing to note is that Raza has erred in dating this ghazal to 1826. It first appears in the Sherani manuscript (1826), so the ghazal need not be dated to 1826 itself: it could be from any date between 1821 and 1826. More important, not all the verses are in the Sherani manuscript. Some, including this one, were added much later, perhaps in April 1828, in Calcutta. As regards Mirza Yusuf's illness, the exact date is not known, but he fell ill around 1825-26, maybe in early 1826, and Ghalib seems to have left Delhi shortly thereafter. Mirza Yusuf's illness was nothing else but his mental derangement. He was incontinent, went naked, and didn't recognize his wife, daughter, or mother. He was reportedly 28 years old at the time. Since he was 2 (lunar) years younger than Ghalib, having been born in 1214 (=1799/1800), his madness could have started in 1214 = 28 = 1826/7. Treatment didn't have any effect. Finally he was put under the care of an elephant driver who was also an ((aamil (white magician of a sort). This treatment lasted five months, if not more.

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While Ghalib was in Calcutta in April 1828, he received a letter written by Mirza Yusuf himself-- a letter that apparently bore almost no trace of madness. Ghalib writes that Mirza Yusuf seemed to be two-thirds cured. Naturally, he was extremely happy. In this letter he wrote that his brother's recovery was dearer to him than his father's rising up from the dead would have been. (Source: naamah'haa-e faarsii-e ;Gaalib , urduu tarjamah , trans. by Partav Ruhela, Karachi, Idarah-e Yadgar-e Ghalib, 1999, pp. 84-85.) It is clear that the verse refers to the recovery of Yusuf as reported by Yusuf himself in 1828. This is the only verse in the divan that mentions Mirza Yusuf, and one of the extremely few verses that mention anybody in Ghalib's private life. Thus it belongs in the company of {66,1}.

Ghazal 203 5 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: ab mujhe composed 1816; Hamid p. 165; Arshi #164; Raza p. 173

{203,1} yaad hai shaadii me;N bhii hangaamah-e yaa rab mujhe sub;hah-e zaahid hu))aa hai ;xandah zer-e lab mujhe 1) even/also in joy I remember the clamor/tumult of 'oh Lord!' 2a) a { slight / soft / 'under the lip'} laugh/smile has become the prayer-bead necklace of the Ascetic to me 2b) the prayer-bead necklace of the Ascetic has become a { slight / soft / 'under the lip'} laugh/smile to me

Notes: hangaamah : 'A convention, an assembly, a meeting; a crowd; --noise, tumult, commotion, confusion, uproar; sedition, disturbance, disorder; an affray; assault'. (Platts p.1238) ;xandah : 'Laughing, smiling; a laugh; laughter;--a laughing-stock'. (Platts p.494) zer-e lab : 'Under the lip, slightly uttered, inarticulate, mumbled; in an under-tone, in a whisper, softly; inarticulately'. (Platts p.620)

Nazm: The meaning of yaa rab in Persian idiom is that of a cry to the Lord for help, and by the prayer-beads of the Ascetic is meant the hidden zikr that is done very softly on the lips. He says that even in joy I haven't forgotten the clamor of yaa rab ; my hidden smile is as if it's the prayer-bead necklace of the Ascetic. (228)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, even in joy I remember the clamor of yaa rab . Even my smile is as if it's the Ascetic's hidden zikr. The meaning is that in no state do I remain heedless of remembering God. (285)

Bekhud Mohani: The word bhii is full of meaning. That is, I used always to lament anyway; nowadays some additional distresses have come upon me, the deep impression of which is still on the heart. Even in a state of happiness, when the image of those distresses appears before me, as it often does, with that thought I writhe and begin to call on the Lord. So when this is my state in the clamor/tumult of joy, it can be guessed what kind of difficulties and troubles those must be, and what state my heart must be in. (402)

FWP: SETS == A,B} SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4}

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Here's a classic 'A,B' verse, with two readings of the striking second verse, each of which works elegantly, though of course differently, with the first line. The curving necklace of prayer-beads (I'm avoiding the specifically Catholic term 'rosary') can readily be analogized to a smile. Here are two readings of that smile: =(2a) a small, secret smile has become the Ascetic's prayer-necklace to me because what he does with his prayer-necklace, I do with my private zikrembodying smile =(2b) the Ascetic's prayer-necklace has become a small, secret smile to me because the thought of the ostentatious outward piety of the Ascetic, who makes a great show of using his prayer-beads, amuses me-- unlike him, I can and do remember the Lord even in seemingly distracting or discordant circumstances The grammar of the verse also makes it possible that I'm envisioning the Ascetic's prayer-beads as forming the curve of a small, superior, reproachful smile directed at me-- even in the midst of pleasure I can sense his condemnation. But this meaning isn't as complex and Ghalibia-feeling as the others.

{203,2} hai kushaad-e ;xaa:tir-e vaabastah dar rahn-e su;xan thaa :tilism-e qufl-e abjad ;xaanah-e maktab mujhe 1) the opening/cheerfulness of the connected/'bound' temperament is {in / about / dependent upon} the pledge of poetry 2a) the enchanted-world of a combination lock was a school-room to me 2b) the school-room was the enchanted-world of a combination lock to me

Notes: kushaad : 'Opening, loosening, untying; expansion; cheerfulness'. (Platts p.835) vaabastah : 'Bound; restrained; --referred back (to); related, connected (with), depending (on)'. (Platts p.1171) dar : 'In, into, within, among; on, upon; per; at, near, close by; under; of, concerning, about'. (Platts p.508) rahn : 'Pledging, pawning; a thing deposited as a pledge, a pledge, a pawn'. (Platts p.610)

Nazm: He says, it's as if my school was the enchantment of a combination lock, or a factory in which combination locks are cast, so that in my heart, from the effect of that school, a combination-lock chamber has grown up. Thus it always remains closed, and if it ever opens, then it's through poetry. The way when the letters of the setting of a combination lock are dialed it successfully clicks and opens, and until that is done the lock remains closed.... In the structure too of this verse Persianness has disproportionately prevailed; the i.zaafat constructions don't seem so bad, but the one word dar has greatly intruded into the simplicity of the verse. But one excuse on the author's side is well warranted: that Persianness had become so prevailing [;Gaalib] over him that he no longer distinguished between Urdu and Persian. (228)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, at the time of composing a verse, or at the time of hearing a good verse, the bud of my temperament opens into flower. (286)

Bekhud Mohani: The happiness of my sad heart depends on poetry. Because for me, even the school was the enchantment of a combination lock. That is, even in childhood, when I wasn't absorbed in poetry and composition, my heart never used to open out. (402)

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Faruqi: The meaning of the first line can also be that we have pledged the 'opening of the bound temperament' in order to obtain poetry. That is, we only obtained poetry when we had sacrificed the 'opening of the bound temperament' and the repose of the heart. That is, because of poetry we have obtained mental sadness and melancholy of heart. Now the meaning of the second line becomes, that to me the school-room was the enchanted-world of a combination lock. That is, in school there were no doubt letters and speech, but they were like a combination lock, and a combination lock is like an enchanted-world, since it can't be opened by every individual. For this, the 'conqueror of the enchanted-world' is needed. Thus the letters and speech that I obtained in school could not result in the opening of my temperament. I wasn't able to become the 'conqueror of the enchanted-world'. If the combination lock had opened, then I would have succeeded. That was not able to happen, and now by means of poetry, that is by using letters and speech, I am expressing my knowledge. That is, the thing that I didn't obtain is exactly what I am using. I am compelled to pay for it by washing my hands of the 'opening of the temperament'.... The word dar [in its other sense of 'door, gate'] is a wonder, because it is a word of .zil((a with 'opening', 'bound', 'lock', and 'room'.... He's composed an uncommon verse. (324-25)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; POETRY This is the kind of verse I call a 'generator', because it can be put together in such a remarkable number of very different ways. Here are some of the main ones for the first line: =the happiness of a suitable, pre-destinedly poetic temperament depends upon its being pledged to poetry =the happiness of a melancholy temperament depends upon its being pledged to poetry =the melancholy temperament's (chance of) happiness has been, in my case, pledged or pawned for the sake of poetry, and thus lost to me And for the second line: =the enchanted-world of the combination lock was a school-room to me because it taught me a positive lesson: that the right set of letters and words can achieve a sudden, powerful, magic effect =the enchanted-world of the combination lock was a school-room to me because it taught me a negative lesson: that in the very act of successful operation the instant result is separation and isolation of the formerly united parts of the lock (as in {48,2}) =the school-room was the enchanted-world of a combination lock to me because it taught me a positive lesson: that one who learns the right set of letters and words can achieve a 'magic' poetic effect =the school-room was the enchanted-world of a combination lock to me because it taught me a negative lesson: that no amount of learning of mere letters and words can succeed unless one somehow has special 'magic' access to the predestined opening formula All these excellent and fascinating ambiguities-- and more besides, if you care to generate some-- are created by the juxtaposition of a number of extremely suggestive metaphorical words: 'pledged', 'poetry', 'enchantedworld', 'combination lock', 'school-room'. Each of these words has nuances and associations that spin out in a number of possible directions, from very the cheerful and affirmative to the entirely bleak and negative. Moreover, they're joined by the smallest and vaguest possible grammatical links: 'is', 'was', and a few i.zaafat constructions: in the second line in particular, 'A was the B of C' (or equally 'the B of C was A') can go in so many directions! And as so often, needless to say, you're left to decide for yourself exactly

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how the two lines are to be connected to each other. Additionally, the 'to me' suggests the further qualification that I might be totally wrong about everything, and all these notions just seemed so to me in my madness or despair. As Faruqi observes, the wordplay (and meaning-play too of course) in this verse is also astonishing. He makes the point about the multiply appropriate double meaning of dar as 'door, gate'. Then, we have the 'opening' of a 'bound' temperament. We have an 'enchanted-world' [:tilism] (translated this way to avoid the ambiguities of the English word 'enchantment') that is, in the stories of Amir Hamzah and other such dastans, very difficult to 'open' and enter-- and all but impossible to get out of once you are 'closed' inside it (unless you are the predestined breaker of the enchantment). We have a combination lock that, when its dials are aligned so that the mechanism meshes or 'closes' on itself most perfectly, instantly 'opens'. We have a school-room, a 'closed' world into which children may go reluctantly, but which may 'open' out before them a new world of knowledge. Thank you, all my teachers in many 'school-rooms', for making it possible for me to have poetry like this in my life, and thank you, Ghalib, for 'opening' such magic worlds.

{203,3} yaa rab is aashuftagii kii daad kis se chaahiye rashk aasaa))ish pah hai zindaaniyo;N kii ab mujhe 1) oh Lord, from whom is justice/recompense owed for this/that distractedness? 2) now I feel envy of the ease of prisoners

Notes: aashuftagii : 'Distraction, perturbation, uneasiness; misery'. (Platts p.57) daad : 'Statute, law; equity; justice; crying out for justice, complaint; revenge'. (Platts p.499) daad denaa : 'To dispense justice; to do justice (to), to appreciate, to give due praise (to), to praise duly'. (Platts p.499) aasaa))ish : 'Ease, rest, repose, quiet, tranquillity; convenience, comfort; indulgence, enjoyment'. (Platts p.47)

Nazm: chaahiye , that is, maa;Ngiye ; and from 'now' the meaning emerges that when I was in prison, then I had an ardor for desert-wandering; now that I'm in the desert, I feel envy of the people in prison. (228)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Lord, from whom would I expect justice/recompense for my desert-wandering? Because when I was in the prison cell, the ardor for desert-wandering used to keep me restless, and now that I am a wanderer in the desert, I envy the people in the prison. (286)

Bekhud Mohani: The second line tells us that the one to whom the troubles of prisoners would seem to be repose, and such repose that he would envy it-- what kind of troubles, what kind of difficulties, must he be enduring, and what must be passing through his heart! (403)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The commentators take the obvious interpretation, and of course it works. But the structure of the verse makes it equally clear that we're invited to go beyond the obvious. The first line is inshaa))iyah , and spectacularly interrogative: it asks the Lord from whom justice or recompense would be expected, for 'this'-- or 'that', as an equally possible reading-- 'distractedness'. We thus can't tell what kind of 'distractedness' is meant, or by whom it is or

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might be felt, or from whom there might be possible 'justice' or 'recompense'. Under mushairah performance conditions, we have to wait, our curiosity piqued, for the second line. The second line, also inshaa))iyah , is spectacularly exclamatory. It doesn't address the question asked in the first line in any straightforward way. But it does present two available candidates for the slots of 'distractedness'-sufferer and 'justice'-provider that were created in the first line: I myself (the speaker), and 'prisoners'. How are we to assign these two parties to these slots? As usual, we're left to decide for ourselves. Here are some possibilities: =From whom might I claim justice/recompense for this extreme degree of distractedness? I formerly thought that a prisoner's lot was the most painful one, but now I realize that it's possible to suffer indescribably much more-and since I'm not in an outwardly painful situation, like a prisoner, no one can understand my distractedness. =From whom might I claim justice/recompense for my distractedness? Certainly not from the prisoners, since their distractedness is nothing at all compared to mine, so they can't understand and sympathize and do 'justice' to what I suffer. =From whom might I claim justice for my distractedness, oh Lord? Prisoners are justly punished for their crimes, and without being guilty of any crime I'm suffering far more painfully than any real criminals-- so where can I, an innocent person, find justice? =From whom might I claim justice/recompense for my distractedness, oh Lord? If not from you, then certainly not from anyone else, since who can understand what I suffer? =From whom might the prisoners claim justice/recompense for their distractedness? Certainly not from me, since their distractedness is nothing at all compared to mine. The sense of 'justice' as in 'do justice to'-- to acknowledge, recognize, validate, admire-- exists in daad denaa as well; see the definitions above. A verse with similar-- or even richer-- structural ambiguities: {35,8}

{203,4} :tab((a hai mushtaaq-e la;z;zat'haa-e ;hasrat kyaa karuu;N aarzuu se hai shikast-e aarzuu ma:tlab mujhe 1) the temperament is ardent for the pleasures of grief/longing, what can/would I do? 2) to me, 'desire/longing' intends/means 'the breaking/deficiency of desire/longing'

Notes: ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) aarzuu : 'Wish, desire, longing, eagerness; hope; trust; expectation; intention, purpose, object, design. inclination, affection, love'. (Platts p.40) shikast : 'Breaking, breakage, fracture; a breach; defeat, rout; deficiency, loss, damage'. (Platts p.730)

Nazm: Here, he has used ;hasrat to mean hopelessness and vain longing. He says, I find so much pleasure in hopelessness and vain longing, that I hope that hope would be cut off, and I would have the pleasure of vain longing. In this verse ma:tluub in place of ma:tlab is the idiom; both these words are used in colloquial Urdu.... In short, the refrain doesn't accept that connection. It ought to have been aarzuu se hai shikast-e aarzuu ma:tlab miraa . Atish too has said something similar: dahan-e za;xm-kushtagaan se hai mere qaatil ko marhaba ma:tlab [by the wound-mouths of the wounded ones to my murderer, congratulations is intended/meant] (229)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my temperament is ardent for longing and vain longing. That is, through longing and vain longing I obtain the pleasure of life. I hope only with this intention: that it would be broken, and I would obtain the pleasure of vain longing to my heart's content. (286)

Bekhud Mohani: I'm under duress. My temperament is ardent for the pleasure of failure. I don't feel longing so that it would be fulfilled, but rather so that it would not be fulfilled, and the pleasure of deprivation would be vouchsafed to me. (403)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; DEFINITION Here's a classic example of the clever use of multivalent vocabulary: ;hasrat means 'grief', or 'longing', or 'desire', while aarzuu means 'desire', or 'longing', or 'hope', or 'expectation'; shikast means either 'breaking' or 'deficiency'. So the crucial second line can be read in at least the following ways =through longing/hope/purpose, my goal is the defeat of longing/hope/purpose (when I realize that I'll never get what I long/hope/seek for) =by 'longing' I really mean 'the defeat of longing', since only by longing and having that longing prove vain can I achieve the feeling of defeated, lost, longing that I crave: thus I 'long' for the defeat of longing =by 'longing' I really mean 'the deficiency of longing', because there's never enough longing to suit me, and so I always 'long' for more =what I really seek are the pleasures of grief/longing [;hasrat], so as far as 'desire/longing' [aarzuu] goes, my only wish is that it would be proved vain, so as to increase my grief/longing The result of such nuktah-chiinii and casuistry is a vexatious kind of ambiguity. How many ways are there to parse a set of words that mean both 'longing' and other things? The verse refuses to give us much help in doing so: it even, in the second line, cultivates an aphoristic resonance. It also offers itself as a paradox: if 'longing' is equated with 'the defeat of longing', isn't that like a 'catch-22' situation, or a snake swallowing its own tail? After a while the reader becomes both confused and irritated by the hovering cloud of possibilities. The parsing of 'longing' becomes like running around and around in a tube while batting away a swarm of gnats. And the real source of vexation is that there doesn't seem to be anything behind it all, anything that makes the verse worth struggling with. It feels like cheap (metaphysical) thrills on the poet's part.

{203,5} dil lagaa kar aap bhii ;Gaalib mujhii se ho gaye ((ishq se aate the maana(( miirzaa .saa;hib mujhe 1a) having applied/bestowed the heart, he/she too, Ghalib, became like only/especially me 1b) having applied/bestowed the heart, you too, Ghalib, became like only/especially me 2a) he/she used to be a prohibitor of passion, Mirza Sahib, to me 2b) you used to be a prohibitor of passion, Mirza Sahib, to me

Notes: Nazm: aap bhii , that is, he himself; here aap is not as an address. He has called Ghalib 'Mirza Sahib' by way of a taunt. Here the author has used .saa;hib with the rhyme of ma:tlab on the basis of the common idiom of speech. [Discussion of the Arabic and Persian pronunciation, etc.] (229)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, having given his heart, Ghalib too became a lover like me. Let someone ask him, Mirza Sahib, you always used to advise the renunciation of passion-- why have you put the noose of the snare of passion around your neck? Here the word aap is not for address. (286)

Bekhud Mohani: Some such individual whom Mirza Sahib always used to forbid to engage in passion, now having seen Mirza himself as a lover, and restless just like himself, says, Mirza Sahib used to forbid me-- now the truth has been revealed: now his own state too is just what ours is. (404)

FWP: This unusual closing-verse contains not only the usual pen-name, but an extra echo of it in the form of 'Mirza Sahib'. And just as in all closing-verses we have to decide whether 'Ghalib' is addressing himself or being talked to, or talked about, by others, we have to make the same decision for 'Mirza Sahib'. The commentators generally decide that someone else is speaking to Ghalib in both lines; this is the reading that I've called (1b) and (2b). This is an obvious and intuitive reading in the light of the grammar, but to me it feels untrustworthy because we have no idea who the speaker might be. No character in the ghazal world comes to mind as a possible speaker. For it would have to be someone who was a serious lover before the lover-persona ('Ghalib') was, and whom the lover-persona ('Ghalib'), who was not then in love, used to try to wean away from his passion. The second line clearly describes the previous steady-state situation ('you used to forbid me') when the lover-persona was not yet a lover, but the speaker was; while the first line depicts a change of state only for the lover-persona ('now you too have become a lover like me'). This is the kind of thing the lover-persona usually says to or about others (his confidant becomes a Rival, his Messenger becomes a Rival, and so on)-- but who is empowered to say it to him? Only perhaps Majnun or some other great lover of the past-- but for that reading, we'd certainly need for him to be named in the verse itself. Thus I take aap as short for something like vuh apne-aap , 'he himself' or 'she herself'. Ghalib is addressing himself in the first line, observing that he/she has now become a lover 'like me'. Then in the second line he's meditatively addressing himself again, as 'Mirza Sahib', recalling (meditatively? ironically? amusedly?) how urgently that person used to forbid Ghalib to give way to passion. And now he/she's gone and done it him/her-self! The person Ghalib is ruminating about could be a confidant, a Messenger, the Advisor, or even the beloved herself. (For examples in which the beloved herself falls in love, see {13,2}. It's true this double self-address is a bit unusual, but then, it's unusual to have an extra pseudo-pen-name in the closing-verse in the first place. And a double self-address isn't half as unusual as the sudden appearance of an existentially prior, unnamed Superlover in the ghazal world.

Ghazal 204 10 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: an kii aazmaa))ish hai composed 1852; Hamid p. 166; Arshi #224; Raza pp. 313-14

{204,1} ;hu.zuur-e shaah me;N ahl-e su;xan kii aazmaa))ish hai chaman me;N ;xvush-navaayaan-e chaman kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) in the presence of the King is the test of the people of poetry 2) in the garden is the test of the sweet singers of the garden

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Notes: Nazm: At the mushairah in which the author recited this ghazal, the King was present. (230)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that for all the accomplished ghazal-composing poets of the court, their test is a test like that of the sweet-singing creatures of the garden. At the mushairah in which Mirza Sahib recited this ghazal, the King was illuminating the gathering. (286-87)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, today in the King's presence is the test of the poets. (405)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; POETRY This clever little verse implies that just as the birds of the garden are at home in the garden and have a natural right to live and thrive there, so the poets belong in the presence of the king and he ought to maintain them generously as adornments of his court. The commentators tend to assert that this ghazal was composed for a mushairah at which the King was present, and that certainly sounds possible. But I don't know if it's really true or not. Arshi, who usually provides us any relevant historical information, has nothing to say about this verse. Given the commentators' 'natural poetry' bias and the fact that none of them presents any evidence, I'm keeping my mind open on the question. He might, after all, have meant simply to show the ghazal to the King informally.

{204,2} qad-o-gesuu me;N qais-o-kohkan kii aazmaa))ish hai jahaa;N ham hai;N vahaa;N daar-o-rasan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) in stature and tresses is the test of Qais and Kohkan 2) where we are, there is the test of scaffold and rope

Nazm: That is, whatever mischief and disaster there is for Farhad and Majnun, it is the stature and curls of Laila and Shirin. But we are involved with a tyrant who draws us up on the scaffold. As a punishment for passion for her stature, and in return for madness for her curls, she has us hanged. (230)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the difficulties that there were for Majnun and Kohkan were limited only to the stature and curls of Laila and Shirin. But we're involved with a tyrant who punishes passion for her stature by drawing us up on the scaffold, and arranges to hang us as punishment for madness for her curls. (287)

Bekhud Mohani: Scaffold and rope alludes to the experience of Mansur, whom the ulama of the time had hanged for saying 'I am God'. (405)

FWP: This is a second formal opening-verse to the ghazal, and what a difference from the first one, {204,1}! If we really wanted to go the 'natural poetry' route, we could say that no doubt Ghalib had composed the ghazal, with this one as its opening-verse, and at the last minute he tacked on the first opening-verse to flatter the King. Needless to say, I'm not saying that; but I wouldn't put it past a commentator somewhere to assert it (on zero evidence of course). We learn in the first line that Majnun and Farhad have one kind of a test; we learn in the second line that the speaker has another kind. But are the two kinds of test to be equated? It's easy to do so, since the 'stature' and the 'scaffold', the 'tresses' and the 'noose', have obvious strong affinities, and since both tests are in the present tense. Or are they to be markedly

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differentiated-- are they as different from each other as a scaffold and a tall beloved, as curly hair and a hangman's rope? As usual, it's left for us to decide. And then further questions arise. If the two kinds of test are to be equated, how is this to be done? Is the beloved as deadly as a hangman, or is the hangman as welcome as the beloved herself? And if they are to be differentiated, then which is more deadly, or more desirable, and what kinds of 'tests' do they really pose for the lovers? As usual, we have to decide all this for ourselves. Not surprisingly, this verse is often quoted in contexts of political activism.

{204,3} kare;Nge kohkan ke ;hau.sle kaa imti;haa;N aa;xir abhii us ;xastah ke niiruu-e tan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) they/you/we will test Kohkan's spirit/courage/'guts' at the end 2) right now it's the test of that wounded/broken one's strength/power of body

Notes: ;hauslah : 'Stomach...; capacity; desire, ambition; resolution; spirit, courage'. (Platts p.482) ;xastah : 'Wounded, hurt; broken; infirm; sick, sorrowful; --fragile, brittle'. (Platts p.490)

Nazm: That is, now it is the test of his arm and shoulder: let's see whether he can make a canal of milk or not. The time for looking at his heart will come when the old woman comes and tells him news of Shirin's death: let's see whether he endures this grief, or splits open his head and dies. In this verse is a taunt against Kohkan: that he lacked spirit/courage and could not endure the shock, so that he gave up his life and fled from the battlefield of passion. (230)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, right now a test simply of Kohkan's strength of arm and shoulder is being made, for he's been given the order to bring the canal of milk and cut through the Pillarless Mountain. The test to judge his strength of endurance and self-control will be at the time when an old woman comes to that unsuccessful lover bearing the heart-rending news of Shirin's death, and that one lacking in spirit/courage will split his head open with an axe and die. As if it's a taunt against Kohkan, that he lacked spirit/courage and thus gave up his life and fled from the battlefield of passion. (287)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse is not intended to taunt Kohkan. The word ;xastah bears witness that whatever the poet has said, he has said in a sympathetic tone. Here the meaning of ;xastah is 'poor, helpless, distracted, anxious', not limp or lacking in fortitude. Perhaps Janab the Commentator [Nazm] felt this suspicion because Mirza has often been cool toward Kohkan, as in {3,6}. (406)

FWP: Some editions and commentators have hanuuz instead of abhii ; as always, I follow Arshi. The comments of Nazm and Bekhud Mohani, if put together, excellently show the range, and the elegant ambiguity, of this verse. Is it meant to taunt Kohkan with his lack of 'guts' (the literal meaning of ;hau.slah is 'stomach', after all), as Nazm asserts? It's quite possible to read it that way; and on that reading it would fit in with the whole set of 'snide remarks about famous lovers' verses (for a list, see {100,4}). But as Bekhud Mohani observes, a more sympathetic reading is also possible: the second line speaks of testing Kohkan's physical strength, and

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we know very well that he passed this text magnificently; his very success as a 'mountain-digger', which had seemed impossible to Khusrau, is what precipitated the ruse that led to his death. And his being called ;xastah does indeed suggest some admiration: despite his being weak, sick, frail, wornout, he performed impossible feats of digging out of sheer passion (and surely 'guts' too). So perhaps, on this more sympathetic reading, the first line is to be read as analogous to the second one? Perhaps he might pass the test of his 'guts', just as he also passed the test of his physical prowess. For is it really so obvious that splitting one's head open with an axe when hearing of the beloved's death is an act of weakness and cowardice? It could surely also be seen as an act of properly mad, passionate, lover-like refusal of life without her. Even in the archetypally sneering verse, {3,6}, that Bekhud Mohani himself cites, the criticism of Kohkan doesn't seem to be that he died, but that he needed to use an axe to die, whereas a superior lover might, the verse suggests, have dropped dead out of sheer will-power. There's a nice word-and-meaning connection between the physical, bodily strength in the second line, and the metaphorical quality of spirit/courage in the first line, since of course the word for the latter itself literally means 'stomach'.

{204,4} nasiim-e mi.sr ko kyaa piir-e kan((aa;N kii havaa-;xvaahii use yuusuf kii buu-e pairahan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) [is] the breeze of Egypt a well-wisher of the Old Man of Canaan [Jacob]? 2) his/its is the test of the scent of the garment of Joseph

Notes: havaa : 'Air, wind, gentle gale;.... affection, favor, love'. (Platts p.1239) havaa-;xvaahii : 'Well-wishing; goodwill, friendship'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: In this verse too there's reference to a famous story: that Jacob recognized the scent of Joseph's garment from miles away. (230)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the breeze of Egypt has no friendship for the Old Man of Canaan, that is, Hazrat Jacob. He is seeking the test of the perfume of the garment of Hazrat Joseph. He had come from Egypt toward Canaan to see about that perfume: being spread in the air, how far can this perfume remain established, and what effect does it have? (287)

Bekhud Mohani: The breeze of Egypt did not bring with it the perfume of the garment of Hazrat Joseph because it has some sympathy for Hazrat Jacob-- but rather, to see what effect the scent of Hazrat Joseph's garment has on Hazrat Jacob. (406)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Is the Egyptian breeze in fact a well-wisher of Jacob's? The first line asks the question, and the second line gives an ambiguous answer: 'his/its is the test'. The grammar of this is multivalent in English-- the test-deviser, the testgiver, and the test-taker can all say, in various senses, 'mine is the test'-- and equally multivalent in Urdu. So here are some possible readings: =Jacob is testing the breeze's sympathy for him, by seeing whether it brings the scent or not =the breeze is testing Jacob's love for Joseph, by seeing whether he perceives the scent or not =Jacob is being tested (by God?), on his ability to perceive the scent on the (passive) breeze

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=the breeze is being tested (by God?), on its sympathy for Jacob, as shown by its bringing the scent But of course, the real charm of the verse is its emphatic, in-your-face wordplay on havaa-;xvaahii , which beautifully pulls together the two senses of havaa as 'breeze' and 'affection'.

{204,5} vuh aayaa bazm me;N dekho nah kahyo phir kih ;Gaafil the shikeb-o-.sabr-e ahl-e anjuman kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) she came into the gathering-- look, don't say then/afterwards that you were unaware/heedless! 2) it is a test of the endurance/patience and self-restraint of the people of the gathering

Notes: shikeb : 'Patience, long-suffering'. (Platts p.731) .sabr : 'Patience, self-restraint, endurance, patient suffering, resignation'. (Platts p.743)

Nazm: The kind of line that the author has created here, in the view of a literary person it's not less than giving life to a dead person. The theme is in reality dead; only by 'joining lines' has he given life to it. This is the same theme that has been versified millions of times, that from seeing the beloved, endurance and self-restraint don't remain. The line that he has added-- divide it into three parts. 'She came into the gathering' is said in the way they say 'the moon has come out'. 'Look'-- that is, 'become alert, keep watch on your hearts'. 'Don't say then/again that you were heedless'-- this sentence too has the same meaning as is found in the word 'look'. That is, this sentence adds insistence to that one, and from this insistence the great beauty has been created in the verse, and also from the allusion to 'she' [vuh].

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the self-restraint-and-endurance-looting beloved has come into the gathering before us. Look, be warned, don't then/later make the excuse, 'we were unaware, her snare caught us in the state of heedlessness'. And he also makes it manifest that she intends to test the self-restraint and fortitude of the people of the gathering, therefore she has set foot here. The beauty of expression and the construction of the words are beyond praise. (287)

Bekhud Mohani: The theme of this verse has been taken from the famous story of Hazrat Joseph and Zulaikha. It is that when the women of Egypt taunted Zulaikha for dying of love for a slave, then Zulaikha invited them all as guests and gave them all lemons and peeling-knives, [saying] 'When Joseph comes before you, then peel them'. When he passed before them, they all, in their absorption, peeled their hands. (406)

FWP: What a good reading Nazm gives for this one! When he wants to, he can be excellent. As he observes, the colloquial liveliness and the tone of ominous warning in the first line are what really energize the verse. We can see with what relish the speaker is setting himself up to say later on, after the people of the gathering have all lost hold of themselves, 'See? Didn't I tell you so? Don't say I didn't warn you!' and so on. How annoying he plans to be, and how much he looks forward to it! As so often, the inshaa))iyah part of the verse is the key to its brilliance.

{204,6} rahe dil hii me;N tiir achchhaa jigar ke paar ho bahtar ;Gara.z shast-e but-e navuk-figan kii aazmaa))ish hai

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1) if the arrow would remain right within the heart, good; if it would be through/beyond the liver, better 2a) in short, it's the test of the aim of the arrow-shooting idol 2b) the purpose/desire/need is the test of the aim of the arrow-shooting idol

Notes: ;Gara.z : 'An object of aim or pursuit, or of desire, or of want; aim, end, object, design, view, purpose, intention; business; meaning; a want, need, necessity, occasion; interest, concern; interestedness, interested motive;... -adv. In short, in a word, in fine'. (Platts p.770)

Nazm: That is, it should definitely lodge in one or the other of those targets. (230)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, whether the arrow would remain in the heart, or whether it would pierce heart and lover and pass out beyond the bosom, in both cases the point is that the target of the arrow-shooting idol would be seen-- whether she is a capable archer or not, whether her arrow lodges in the intended target, or misses and emerges. The excellence of the expression-- what can I say! (288)

Bekhud Mohani: Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has not reflected that Mirza doesn't say that out of two targets, it should definitely lodge in one. For to test someone's archery in this way is to insult that person-- that there would be two targets, if the arrow would lodge in either one of them we'll consider you a capable archer. It's this: that part of accomplishment in archery is that when the archer would want, the arrow would 'kiss' a spot and remain there; when he would want, it would penetrate part-way (half-in, half-out); or it would pierce through the target and emerge. And the greatest thing is that there should be enough force in the arrow that it can penetrate several targets together. Mirza Sahib says, if the arrow would penetrate part-way, then it's good; and if it would pierce open the heart and emerge through the liver, then it's better. And if we take the meaning of arrow to be 'arrow of coquetry', then the meaning will be that if it would remain in the heart, then we will enjoy the pleasure of a 'halfdrawn arrow': {20,4}. (407)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} JIGAR: {2,1} The first line lays down the conditions for a test of archery: lodging the arrow in the heart would be good; sending it straight on through the liver would be better. But what is the larger context in which the archery-test is to take place? We have to wait for the second line to inform us. Then the second line begins with the beautifully chosen word ;Gara.z . In such a position at the start of a sentence, it almost always works adverbially, meaning something like 'in short', 'in a word', 'to put it briefly'. That's how we initially read it, and that sense works perfectly for introducing the general purpose, neutrally stated, that the specific criteria in the first line are meant to serve. But on closer inspection the literal meanings of ;Gara.z also come to mind, and we realize that the grammar of the second line is perfectly framed to admit them. Thus the archery-test may also be seen as an 'object' or 'purpose', as a 'want' or 'need', as an 'interest' or 'concern'. Suddenly the lover's personal involvement looms large: the verse doesn't just frame the rules of an archery contest, but is an expression of the lover's passion, and indeed of his longing for death at the hands of the beloved. Now the first line looks not abstract, but urgent, almost as though the lover is urging the beloved to take aim more quickly, since his ;Gara.z is a matter of life and death. The word comes,

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after all, from an Arabic root meaning 'to be vexed or dis- quieted' (by), 'to be distressed in mind'. And finally we realize that because of the ambiguity of the i.zaafat , the second line never tells us that the 'test' is necessarily one imposed on the beloved (how good an archer is she?). It can equally well be a test of the lover's desperate courage-- a test sought by the lover himself (how gallantly can he endure the beloved's arrows?). The verse opens up so quietly and cleverly that these extra dimensions unfold with no fanfare at all. But once you've seen them, what a difference they make!

{204,7} nahii;N kuchh sub;hah-o-zunnaar ke phande me;N giiraa))ii vafaadaarii me;N shai;x-o-barhaman kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) there is no {'grip' / holding-power} in the noose/coil/snare of prayer-beads and sacred-thread 2) in faithfulness is the test of Shaikh and Brahmin

Notes: phandaa : 'Noose, net, snare, trap, gin; grasp, gripe, toils, clutches; perplexity, difficulty; maze'. (Platts p.290) giiraa))ii : 'Taking, seizing, holding; grasp, seizure; the power of taking or laying hold'. (Platts p.942)

Nazm: The relationship of the Shaikh to the prayer-beads, and of the Brahmin to the sacred thread-- don't consider that they can't emerge from these coils. Rather, consider for how long they uphold these styles [va.za((]. (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the coils of prayer-beads and sacred thread amidst which the Shaikh and the Brahmin pass their time-- don't consider the strength of the coils of prayer-beads and sacred thread, but rather, test them both in the arena of faithfulness, and see which individual passes the test. That is, which one upholds this style with faithfulness for a whole lifetime. (288)

Bekhud Mohani: In the coils of prayer-beads and sacred thread where is that strength such that the Shaikh and Brahmin would not be able to emerge from them? Indeed, it's necessary to see which one remains steadfast in his views and beliefs, and to what extent. That is, the real question is of faithfulness and steadfastness of temperament, not of infidelity [kufr]. Only faithfulness [vafaadaarii] is the basis of faith [iimaan]. Ghalib says, {120,8}. (407)

FWP: RELIGIONS: {60,2} As Bekhud Mohani observes, {120,8} is the obvious verse for comparison. The commentators seem sure that, as this verse would suggest, 'faithfulness' means simply 'adhering to one's religious practice for a lifetime'. And yet, there are some subtleties in the verse that hint of further possibilities. The Shaikh and Brahmin, by definition, are loyal to the coils of prayer-beads and sacred thread that epitomize their religious commitment. Yet the word phande is basically a negative one, and in fact negative in a heavy and highly-charged way-- 'noose, snare, trap, difficulty', etc. (Vasmi Abidi points out that it can be used neutrally in contexts like embroidery, to mean simply 'loop', but with regard to general speech I think Platts is right to emphasize its evocation of the hangman and the hunter.) Does this mean that the Shaikh and Brahmin might be 'trapped' or 'ensnared' by their own religious symbols? And if so, would this entrapment occur against their will, so that they'd struggle to escape, the way trapped creatures normally do? If so, they would perhaps succeed, since these nooses have no real 'gripping power'. But what form would their struggle take?

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Or would this 'entrapment' and 'snaring' occur without their awareness, such that they'd complacently think themselves well-grounded, or firmly anchored, or otherwise safely bound into their own religious systems? If so, they'd be deluded, since these symbolic coils have no 'gripping power' and thus can't provide any ultimate security. And above all, the great question: what is the relationship of the criterion of 'faithfulness' in the second line to the religious coils in the first line? Toward what end is the required 'faithfulness' to be directed? Does 'faithfulness' consist in remaining steadfastly within one's own symbolic 'noose', as the commentators maintain, or in struggling persistently to escape from it into some larger religious or philosophical vision? (Along these lines, remember {111,14}.) Or is 'faithfulness' perhaps a different quality altogether, one that's shown in human relationships quite independently of all religious roles and symbol systems? On this latter reading, the first line is simply dismissive: it doesn't matter at all what religion you belong to, or what symbols you festoon yourself with, for the only important test is your human quality of 'faithfulness'. This doesn't seem to be merely the normal 'faithfulness' shown by the lover in the ghazal world-- unless we want to say that the Shaikh and Brahmin are both lovers who are engaged in pursuing the true, divine Beloved. This is a perfectly possible reading, with an elegance of its own. If we don't adopt it, then we readers have to decide for ourselves, as Ghalib so often permits or forces us to do, what kind of a quality 'faithfulness' is. I always think of a little aphorism by C. S. Lewis: 'Courage is the form of every virtue at the testing-point'.

{204,8} pa;Raa rah ay dil-e vaabastah betaabii se kyaa ;haa.sil magar phir taab-e zulf-e pur-shikan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) remain lying/fallen, oh bound/dependent heart, what gain is there from agitation? 2) but/perhaps then/again it's a test of the heat/endurance of the {twist-filled / city-overthrowing} tresses

Notes: vaabastah : 'Bound; restrained; --referred back (to); related, connected (with), depending (on)'. (Platts p.1171) betaabii : 'Faintness; agitation, restlessness, uneasiness, impatience; lack of splendour or lustre'. (Platts p.201) taab : 'Heat, warmth; burning, inflaming; pain, affliction, grief; anger, indignation, wrath, rage; light, radiance, lustre, splendour; strength, power, ability, capability; endurance, brooking; --bending, twisting (by heat); bend, twist, contortion; curling, curl'. (Platts p. 303) shikan : 'Breaking, crushing, overthrowing, routing;... curl; a ply, fold, plait'. (Platts p.731)

Nazm: Perhaps you want to again taste the relish of the coils [phande] of tresses, since you're writhing? Enough-- just keep on lying there, tied up. May it not be that from your writhing the coils would be drawn even tighter! (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh heart, keep on lying there like this, don't writhe. If you writhe and struggle, then the coils of the tresses will become even tighter. What-are you testing with your agitation the coils of the curled tresses? As if they're going to loosen because of your agitation! (288)

Bekhud Mohani: The word vaabastah , for the heart, makes it clear that the heart is not merely ensnared, but also tightly pinioned, and because of being tightly pinioned it

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has been caused to writhe for relief. From phir it appears that such an attempt has already been made previously as well. From betaabii se kyaa ;haa.sil the strength of the coils, and the prisoner's despair of release, is revealed. (408)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR; WORD The wonderfully complex use of taab -- enhanced of course by betaabii -makes this a verse of what I call word-exploration. The first line urges a helpless captive heart to lie still and not struggle, for what's the use of struggle? We wait for the second line to give us a plausible interpretive context: will the exhortation to the captive continue, or will some other relevant information about his condition be provided to explain the exhortation? Then, as so often, the second line provides us with a host of possibilities, and no way to choose among them. The captive should lie still, since struggle is fruitless-=but then, it's not surprising if the heart suffers-- it's undergoing a test of its power of endurance [taab] in bondage amidst the beloved's twisting, coiling curls =but then, it's not surprising if the heart suffers-- it's undergoing a test consisting of torture by the heat/pain [taab] of the beloved's twisting curls =perhaps, the lover explains to his heart, it's the the furious radiance [taab] of her curls that is undergoing a test, as she once again checks out its potency by using it on us Moreover, all the important words are mutually tangled in coils of fascinating wordplay. We have a heart that is vaabastah -- literally 'bound' like a captive, or else 'dependent' like a slave. We have tresses that are purshikan -- either 'full of twists', or 'city-overthrowing' like conquerors who sweep all before them. We have betaabii , the lack of taab or endurance-- an agitation that would cause one to writhe and twist. And above and through it all, we have taab with all its meanings: heat, radiance, endurance, twisting, curl.

{204,9} rag-o-pai me;N jab utre zahr-e ;Gam tab dekhiye kyaa ho abhii to tal;xii-e kaam-o-dahan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) when in vein and nerve the poison of grief would descend, then you'll see what it would be 2) {right now / as yet}, it's a test of bitterness of throat and mouth

Notes: tal;xii : 'Bitterness; pungency; acrimony, malice, rancour'. (Platts p.334)

Nazm: That is, if the beginning of passion is so harsh, then no telling what its outcome will be. (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, at the time when the poison of passion would descend into veins and nerves, then the outcome of it will be worth seeing. Right now is the beginning of passion-- from its bitterness only the taste of the mouth has become sour. A test of throat and mouth is taking place; the outcome is to be very harsh. (288)

Bekhud Mohani: Mir Taqi Mir says, ibtidaa-e ((ishq hai rotaa hai kyaa aage aage dekhiye hotaa hai kyaa [it's the beginning of passion-- why do you weep? at various points ahead, let's see what happens]. (408)

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FWP: 'Bitterness of throat and mouth' could well be the first effect of swallowing a deadly poison. But it could also describe bitter, harsh speech as it emerges from the throat and mouth. Speech of the beloved, that torments the lover? The lover's own speech, as he expresses his anguish, or even reproaches the beloved? A quarrel, in which mutually hurtful things are said? As so often, it's left for us to decide. I'm reminded of Momin's verse, kis ko hai .zauq-e tal;x-kaamii lek jang bin kuchh mazaa nahii;N hotaa [who has a taste for bitter-throatedness? but without warfare, there's no relish/pleasure] I'm also always reminded of Shiva's title of niil-ka;N;Th , 'blue-throated one', which he earned when he undertook to save the universe from the deadly poison churned up from the Ocean of Milk, at the beginning of this worldage. He swallowed the poison, and was able to absorb it; but not before it had turned his throat a deep blue-black forever. But I hasten to say this is just my association; I know of no evidence that it would have been part of Ghalib's metaphorical universe.

{204,10} vuh aave;Nge mire ghar va((dah kaisaa dekhnaa ;Gaalib na))e fitno;N me;N ab char;x-e kuhan kii aazmaa))ish hai 1) she will come to my house-- what kind of promise [is that]?-- let's see, Ghalib 2) in new trials/mischiefs/seductions/crimes, now, is a test of the ancient sky

Notes: fitnah : 'Trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment... ; --temptation, seduction; --discord, conflict, cabal, faction, civil war, sedition, revolt, mutiny; perfidy; sin, crime'. (Platts p.776)

Nazm: 'She will come to my house'-- that is, the hell [bhalaa kyaa] she'll come! 'What kind of promise [is that]?'-- that is, when does she give a thought to promises? Now we have to see in what kind of difficulties the sky engulfs us-- that is, from her not coming, and her going against her word, let's see what days the sky shows us. (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she won't come to my house. Until Judgment Day she won't come. Oh Ghalib, when does she think of her promises? She'll have forgotten it. Now we have to see in what kinds of new difficulties the sky engulfs us-that is, from her going against her word, and not coming, we have to see what difficulty the sky inflicts on us, in separation from her. (288)

Bekhud Mohani: She has never come to my house, nor will she ever come. What is a promise? Let her promise. As if she would promise and be faithful to it! Now wait and see what new mischiefs the sky raises. That is, what happens to us through her going against her word. (408-09)

FWP: This verse belongs to the set of those in which the beloved (perhaps) visits the lover; for a full list, see {106,2}. The commentators act as if her coming is completely out of the question; they read the first line as if it contained an indignantly negative rhetorical question or exclamation, like va((dah kyaa . But of course, it doesn't. It contains va((dah kaisaa , 'what kind of promise?', which is a much more subtle and open-ended question that might be rhetorical, or might not. For after all, the second line at once presents us the idea of new kinds of fitnah that the sky is on its mettle to provide for us. The sky is actually now

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to undergo, in our eyes, a kind of 'test' of its ingenuity in fitnah -- in producing new kinds of 'trial, affliction, calamity, mischief, evil, torment; temptation, seduction; discord, conflict'. All of these are enjoyably appropriate to the beloved and her promise of a visit. Might she cruelly and deliberately snub us? Might she absent-mindedly forget? Might she actually, for some obscure reason of her own, actually come? Might she come, but treat us in some cruel way? Might she come, laughingly, with another lover in tow, as in {116,3}? Might she come in our dreams, as in {97,3}? The sky is a well-known source of disasters and calamities (see {14,8} as just one example), and can be blamed for almost anything; blaming the sky adds overtones of fate, destiny, dignity, and necessity to what might otherwise appear, in this case, to be mere human caprice on the beloved's part. In the grief-stricken {66,5}, the 'ancient sky' is directly addressed, and is reproached for its heedless cruelty.

Ghazal 205 8 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa jaa))e hai mujh se composed after 1821; Hamid p. 167; Arshi #189; Raza p. 257

{205,1} kabhii nekii bhii us ke jii me;N gar aa jaa))e hai mujh se jafaa))e;N kar ke apnii yaad sharmaa jaa))e hai mujh se 1) if sometime even/also goodness/benevolence comes into her mind/temperament toward me 2) having remembered her own cruelties/oppressions, she is ashamed before me

Notes: Hali: That is, the thought 'He's spent his whole life in this oppression, now what good can it do him to show him a small bit of kindness?' makes her unable to show goodness. (162)

Nazm: That is, for me in that case too is wretchedness, for now out of shame she doesn't show her face. (231)

Bekhud Mohani: First of all, she is never kind to me at all; and if in some way she even is, then having remembered her cruelty, she becomes ashamed. That is, we are very unfortunate: if no mercy comes, then we writhe with longing to see her face. And if mercy comes, then in shame she hides her face. In one more place he says, {46,1}. (409)

Arshi: Compare {46,1}. (188, 293)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 The beloved almost always feels hostile and disdainful toward the lover; as a matter of course, therefore, she refuses to see him. But if by some chance she has a momentary fit of compassion, she recollects her own cruelties toward him, and feels too ashamed to look him in the eye-- and thus she refuses to see him. He's in a damned if you do, damned if you don't quandary-- a classic 'catch-22' situation. The piquant {46,1} is indeed an ideal verse for comparison. That verse is so much more mischievous, multivalent, and complex, however, that the present verse suffers a bit through the contrast: it looks prosy, over-

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explanatory, and one-dimensional. Other than setting up a 'catch-22' situation, does it have any other delights to offer us?

{205,2} ;xudaa yaa ja;zbah-e dil kii magar taa;siir ul;Tii hai kih jitnaa khai;Nchtaa huu;N aur khi;Nchtaa jaa))e hai mujh se 1) oh Lord, perhaps/but the effect of the passion/attraction of the heart is reversed 2) for, as much as I pull/draw/attract, she goes on being [by that much] more pulled/drawn away from me

Notes: ja;zb : 'Drawing, attraction; allurement; absorption'. (Platts p.378) ja;zbah : 'Passion, rage, fury; violent desire'. (Platts p.378) khai;Nchnaa : 'To draw, drag, pull; to attract, to draw in, suck in, absorb... ; --to draw away or aside (from), to hold aloof...; to withdraw, withhold'. (Platts p.887)

Nazm: The meaning of khai;Nchnaa is vexation and irritation-- that is as much as with the passion of the heart I draw/attract her, exactly that much she is vexed. (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh God, have you created in the drawing/attraction [ja;zb] of my heart a reverse effect? --such that to whatever extent I draw/pull her with the attraction of my heart, to exactly that extent she becomes vexed at heart with me, and keeps becoming angry. (289)

Bekhud Mohani: In a tone of astonishment he says, what is this? Is the effect of my attraction [kashish] of heart reversed? As much as I desire that she would be kind, by that much she keeps becoming angry. (409)

FWP: SETS == MAGAR Here we have some lovely wordplay with khai;Nchnaa in its double sense of either pulling toward, drawing, attracting; or else of pulling (oneself) away, withdrawing. Because khi;Nchnaa is the intransitive form of khai;Nchnaa , we have two readings available. On one reading, the more I try to draw her toward me, the more she is (passively) drawn away from me, by the force of my own attracting-power [mujh se]-- which unfortunately seems to be working in reverse, as a kind of repelling-power (like similar magnetic poles). On the other reading, the more I try to draw her toward me, the more she draws herself (intransitively but deliberately) away from me, in a willed response to my attempts to attract her. There's an undecideable, and very enjoyable, back-and-forth play between the literal meaning of 'attract' (like magnetic force) and the metaphorical meaning (like coquetry). Along similar lines, the word ja;zbah appears here to be deliberately conflated with ja;zb , which isn't surprising since they're both closely related derivatives from the same Arabic root; the merging of 'passion' and 'attraction' contributes to the same literal/metaphorical interplay. This verse is also a perfect example of the less common meaning of magar as 'perhaps' rather than 'but'. Though both are possible here, the former is surely the reading of choice: it makes the first line into a speculation about the cause of her unfortunate behavior. (The reading as 'but' becomes part of an exclamation of surprise and protest addressed to the Lord.)

{205,3} vuh bad-;xuu aur merii daastaan-e ((ishq :tuulaanii ((ibaarat mu;xta.sar qaa.sid bhii ghabraa jaa))e hai mujh se

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1) that one, bad-tempered; and my tale/romance of passion, lengthy-2) to make [a long] speech/story short, even/also the Messenger is nervous because of me

Notes: ibaarat : 'Speech; a word, an expression, a phrase; a passage (in a book or writing); an explanation, interpretation; a word, or an expression, or a phrase for, or denoting (such a thing); diction; style, mode of expression; the construction or structure of sentence, composition; a trope or figure'. (Platts p.758) ghabraanaa : 'To be confused, confounded, flurried, or flustered (by, or in consequence of, -se ); to be perplexed, bewildered, or embarrassed (by); to be perturbed, disturbed in mind, agitated, disquieted, distracted; to be alarmed, scared, dismayed'. (Platts p.930)

Nazm: By 'that one' is meant the beloved. And they say ((ibaarat mu;xta.sar and qi.s.sah mu;xta.sar in place of 'the gist is' [al;Gara.z]. That is, when the Messenger becomes nervous, then what the hell [bhalaa]-- as if the badtempered beloved would ever listen to this tale! (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have had to confront two difficulties. One is that that mischievous one is very bad-tempered and ill-natured. The other is that my tale of passion is so lengthy that it just won't in any way become finished. To make a long story short [qi.s.sah mu;xta.sar], even/also the Messenger, listening and listening to my message, becomes nervous. So then, what the hell-- as if the bad-tempered beloved will ever consent to listen to such a long, rambling tale! (289)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is bad-tempered; and my narrative of passion, lengthy. To make a long story short [qi.s.sah mu;xta.sar], when even/also the Messenger becomes nervous at my length of speech, then, obviously, why would that bad-tempered one start reading the letter? That is, I am compelled by my ardor: I can't stand not to write the whole situation. The beloved is badtempered. The gist is [al;Gara.z], my life has fallen into an extraordinary difficulty. (409)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS WRITING: {7,3} Here is a verse that plays most cleverly and enjoyably with common idioms and literary genre names. Nazm presents both ((ibaarat mu;xta.sar and qi.s.sah mu;xta.sar as parallel forms of an idiom very comparable to the English 'to make a long story short'. But in fact, the latter form is far more common. Excellent evidence of its commonness can be found in the unselfconscious use of the idiom in the commentaries of both Bekhuds. Both of them use qi.s.sah , and undoubtedly Ghalib meant for us to think of this form of the idiom. We can be sure of this because of his use, in the first line, of daastaan . Both qi.s.sah and daastaan are names for a Persian and Urdu romance genre; for a detailed discussion see the introduction to *The Romance Tradition in Urdu*. Sometimes the two names are used interchangeably, and sometimes daastaan refers particularly to longer narratives, pre-eminently (in Urdu) the Dastan of Amir Hamzah. So a daastaan of passion might well be thought of as an almost interminable orally-narrated romance, full of 'battles and elegant gatherings, enchantments and trickery'. The name is already associated, invisibly but inevitably, with qi.s.sah ; and through its idiom-play the verse links it also ibaarat , a word that calls attention to the literariness

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and rhetorical possibilities (see the definition above) through which the tale would be framed and told. And then, why does he make the Messenger nervous (or embarrassed, or somehow otherwise upset, through the whole enjoyably complex range of ghabraanaa )? Possibly because, as Bekhud Dihlavi suggests, the lover narrates his message orally, and insists on going on and on, so that the Messenger fidgets and grows impatient. Or of course, the Messenger may be thinking that if he himself is bored, how much more bored the ill-tempered recipient will be-- and how vigorously she'll wreak her displeasure on his hapless self ('Don't shoot the messenger!'). And the lover of course also realizes that the beloved will be vexed and impatient, so that he ought to curtail his tale of passion-- but he apparently can't. (Is he resigned to the situation? Despairing? Objectively reporting? Ruefully amused? As usual, we're left to decide for ourselves.) His problem of prolixity makes all the more amusing his use of 'to make a long story short' as he prepares to sum up his plight. For he does sum it up, evocatively and elegantly, in a single, piquant observation: that his behavior makes even the Messenger nervous (or makes the Messenger 'too' nervous, in another well-placed exploitation of bhii ). The lover's problem is that he's unable to make his long story short-- but in the course of the second line, he does exactly this. He pithily expresses his inability to express things pithily. And we're luckily able to relish both his narrative tribulations and his sudden narrative success.

{205,4} udhar vuh bad-gumaanii hai idhar yih naatuvaanii hai nah puuchhaa jaa))e hai us se nah bolaa jaa))e hai mujh se 1) in that direction is that suspiciousness/conceit; in this direction is this inability/powerlessness 2) [it, something, anything] {is not / cannot be} asked by her, [it, something, anything] {is not / cannot be} spoken by me

Notes: gumaan : 'Doubt, distrust, suspicion; surmise, conjecture; (in comp.) thinking; suspecting (e.g. bad-gumaan ... ; --opinion, fancy, notion, supposition, imagination; --presumption; probability; --conceit, pride, haughtiness'. (Platts p.914)

Nazm: That is, from suspiciousness she considers my claim of love to be false, so that she doesn't ask about it. And I, in my love, am unable/powerless, so that I cannot speak to her. Through the similarity of the structure and the comparability of the words, he has created much beauty in the verse. (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she is so suspicious toward me that in no way is she convinced of my love: when I tell it to her, she says 'you're a liar'. And I have become unable/powerless to such an extent that I can't even present a proof of my claim. In a state of suspiciousness, why would she ask me about my condition; and in the state of inability/powerlessness, how would I be able to recount my difficulties to her in detail? The supreme excellence of the expression cannot be sufficiently praised. (289)

Bekhud Mohani: Because of the lover's grief, and the prolongation of separation, his condition has become so weak that it's difficult for him to speak. In such a state the beloved has come. He, because of inability/powerlessness, is silent; the beloved, because of suspiciousness, is silent. The lover says in his heart, 'Alas, what can I do-- my tongue doesn't move, and the beloved is thinking that I no longer care about her, and that's why I don't speak'. He's shown an extraordinary situation. (409-10)

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FWP: SETS == HERE/THERE; PARALLELISM As Nazm observes, the extreme parallelism of structure is a great charm in this verse; it it highlighted by strong internal rhyme in the first line. The lover and the beloved are not even identified: it's 'that way' and 'this way' in the first line, and 'by that one' and 'by me' in the second line. The beloved and the lover are thus balanced like bookends: similar, even repeatedly juxtaposed-- yet for that very reason eternally unable to come together, to merge, to hook up with each other. There's no similarity without difference, no comparison without contrast; our minds bounce around among the (im)possibilities. The 'passive of impossibility': The colloquial use of the passive in the second line is also worth noting. Literally, the meaning is just declarative: '[something] is not asked by that one; [something] is not spoken by me'. But colloquially, the sense is that of a very strong impossibility: 'X is not done by me' means 'I absolutely cannot and will not do X'. Other examples in this ghazal, for which the rhyme is very conducive: {205,6}, which adds the emphatic bhalaa ; and {205,7} and {205,8}, in which it forms a chief charm of the verses. The 'passive of impossibility' is very often made from non- ne verbs; this versatility too serves to set it apart in its special idiomaticness. When I first traveled in India, one of my worst problems was an inability to convince generous hosts that I was not being coy or polite-- I truly, absolutely, positively, did not want, and could not eat, any more food. My Hindi teacher advised me to say politely but firmly, mujh se khaayaa nahii;N jaa))egaa . That almost always did the trick, and taught me to value the 'passive of impossibility'. (Since then I've learned an even better formula, which you may someday be grateful for, dear reader: ;Daak;Tar ne manaa kiyaa , if accompanied by a sickly and ominous expression, works infallibly.) But in fact, in the present verse, what is it that isn't, or even cannot be, asked by her? And what is it that isn't, or even cannot be, spoken by me? The commentators generally arrange a particular little scene between the nonasker and the non-speaker. But in fact, the possibilities are wide open. For bad-gumaanii can have a whole range of meanings other than a suspicion of neglect: it can refer to a generalized 'supposition' of any kind, or even to 'pride' or 'haughtiness' itself, with no particular thought-content. And the idea of 'asking' needn't even refer to a question put to the lover, but can also mean a polite inquiry about someone's well-being or health, as in {71,9}. Similarly, my inability to speak may refer not merely to an inability to answer some one particular (non-asked) question because of physical weakness, but to a more broadly-described state: the lover may be inhibited or rendered 'unable' or 'powerless' by respect, shame, strong emotion, general tongue-tiedness, the presence of other observers, etc. Compare the lover's complexly-motivated inability to communicate in {115,7}.

{205,5} sa;Nbhalne de mujhe ay naa-umiidii kyaa qiyaamat hai kih daamaan-e ;xayaal-e yaar chhuu;Taa jaa))e hai mujh se 1a) let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness-- what a disaster/Doomsday it is! 1b) let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness-- do you think it's Doomsday?! 1c) let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness-- is it Doomsday? 2) that the garment-hem of the thought of the beloved is released by me

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Nazm: The garment-hem of the thought of the beloved was in the hand of my heart. Hopelessness threw me down in such a way that that garment-hem is released from the hand. That is, because of hopelessness the thought of her gradually leaves the heart. (232)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, 'oh Hopelessness, why do you throw me down? Please just let me get hold of myself! Look-- the garment-hem of the thought of the beloved will now be released from my hand.' The meaning is that because of hopelessness the thought of her gradually leaves the heart. (289)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse Mirza has created a picture of an extraordinary state. When a person becomes absolutely hopeless about something, then the thought of that thing begins to leave his heart. But the lover doesn't want this thing to leave his heart, because from this thought he gets a kind of pleasure. In addition, he considers it a kind of unfaithfulness. (410)

FWP: SETS == KYA QIYAMAT: {10,11} Here in the first line is a classic setup of all three possible readings of kyaa -and by no coincidence, they all work superbly both with the earlier part of the first line, and with the second line: = Let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness-- what are you trying to do to me? What a Doomsday, what an ultimate disaster it is that I'm losing my grip on the garment-hem of the thought of the beloved! I can't bear that, it can't possibly be allowed to happen, so stop tormenting me and give me a break! = Let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness! You're overreaching yourself- you're tormenting me so much that I'm actually losing my grip on the garment-hem of the thought of the beloved, and don't you know that only Doomsday is the destined time for that? = Let me get hold of myself, oh Hopelessness, I need a minute to think. I'm so confused! What's going on? Have I been unconscious in a stupor of despair, have I lost track of time? Is it Doomsday? Surely it must be, since only Doomsday itself could cause me to lose my grip on the garment-hem of the thought-of the beloved! As so often, Ghalib pushes the actual beloved away by several i.zaafat based layers of abstraction. It's not the actual beloved that I won't let go of; it's not even the 'thought' of the beloved that I won't let go of-- it's the 'garment-hem' of the thought. And the garment-hem is the trailing, unimportant, peripheral border of someone's attire; its main poetic use is to be clutched at by supplicants who are prostrate on the ground in utter humility, begging for some attention or some favor. It suggests that the lover is a humble supplicant, imploring Thought not to leave him. Between being harassed by Hopelessness, and begging for mercy from Thought, does he really have anything much of the beloved at all? For another abstractly-distanced 'thought of the beloved', see {10,9}.

{205,6} takalluf bar-:taraf na:z:zaaragii me;N bhii sahii lekin vuh dekhaa jaa))e kab yih :zulm dekhaa jaa))e hai mujh se 1a) to tell the truth, even when [I am engaged] in spectatorship indeed-- still, 1b) to put aside formality, even when [she is] under observation, so be it-but 2) that she would be seen-- since when is this outrage/cruelty [to be] {'looked upon' / endured} by me?

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Notes: na:z:zaarah : 'Sight, view, look, show; inspection; --amorous glance, ogling'. (Platts p.1142) na:z:zaaragii : 'Seeing, looking at; sight; observation; --s.m. Beholder, spectator'. (Platts p.1142)

Nazm: The meaning of na:z:zaaragii is 'beholders'. That is, even if I too would be among the beholders, what of it? When will I be able to 'look upon' this outrage: that she would be seen; that is, that Others would see her-- when would this be acceptable to me? (232)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I accept that I too am among her beholders. But this outrage will never be 'looked upon' by me, that people would see her. What the hell [bhalaa]-- how can this envy/jealousy be acceptable to me? (290)

Bekhud Mohani: The truth is that even after the beholders are disgraced to whatever degree, we can't 'look upon' the outrage that we would see the beloved in such a situation, when other people too would be present. In such a situation we consent to remain deprived of a sight of her. (410)

Arshi: Compare {153,1}. (287, 294)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; REPETITION Here is a spectacular (and what a perfect adjective!) display of word-play and meaning-play most enjoyably working together. In the obvious reading of the first line (1a), the common petrified phrase takalluf bar-:taraf works almost the way 'to tell the truth' does in English, as a sentence-introducer that promises to 'cut to the chase' or get right to the heart of the matter. For more examples and discussion of this phrase, see {65,1}. And the rest of the first line continues to prepare us colloquially for something else: the concessive 'even in spectatorship, indeed' (on the colloquial use of sahii see {9,4}) is then followed by the 'but'. Thus we have a first line that is focused obsessively on the second line, preparing us in three different ways to pay attention to what is to come. Then the second line introduces a very clever obsession of its own: a 'repetition' of dekhaa jaa))e that is really only apparent. The first occurrence is straightforward: 'would be seen', a passive subjunctive. The second occurrence is part of dekhaa jaa))e hai , which is an archaic form of dekhaa jaataa hai , a passive habitual. Its literal meaning is thus 'is (habitually) seen', but it has a strong colloquial sense of absolute refusal: this is not to be seen, not to be 'looked upon' by me. (For more discussion of this idiomatic usage, see {205,4}. What is it that can't be tolerated, can't be borne, can't be 'looked upon' by me? Why, that she would be 'looked upon', of course. I naturally can't bear that she would be 'looked upon' by others-- and this is true even when I myself am among the others, the 'lookers'-- as we learned in the first line. And now that we're returning in our minds to the first line, we notice another and more literal reading: that of (1b). For the first line can also be taken as describing her behavior: 'to put aside formality' when 'in' or under 'observation'-- this too works perfectly, though differently, with the rest of the verse. The basic idea is thus a commonplace one: that the lover is so jealous that he can't stand to have anybody look at the beloved-- including himself. But what other poet can offer us such an ambivalent but enticing souffle of beholding, seeing, 'looking upon', spectatorship-- enhanced by our own 'participant observer' role in putting it all together?

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{205,7} hu))e hai;N paa;Nv hii pahle nabard-e ((ishq me;N za;xmii nah bhaagaa jaa))e hai mujh se nah ;Thahraa jaa))e hai mujh se 1) only/emphatically the feet have become, in the battle of passion, wounded first 2) neither can fleeing be done by me, nor can remaining be done by me

Notes: Hali: In this a creative image of a mood, with its emotions, has been given. The meaning is that the pair of feet, through the power of which passion could be abandoned or its severities could be borne, experienced an assault in the beginning of passion. Thus now neither can I abandon passion nor can I bear it with endurance and fortitude. (162)

Nazm: The battle is so fierce that it's difficult to remain, and the feet are so wounded that it's hard to flee. (232)

Bekhud Mohani: He shows two opposite moods of love: that the captivity of the heart is a thing so pleasurable, and the heart becomes so helpless for the sake of it, that to renounce love becomes impossible. And the suffering is such that it's impossible to bear it. (410)

Arshi: Compare {152,3}. (261)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION For the grammar of the second line, with its two parallel 'passive of impossibility' structures, see {205,4}. This isn't quite what I call a 'Catch-22' verse, since it doesn't have that elegantly circular quality (you can only escape flying bombing missions if you're insane; but wanting to escape bombing missions proves that you're sane). Here the problem is brutally simple, more of a worst-of-both-worlds one: one primal problem, the wounded feet, removes all options both prudent and heroic. The enjoyableness of the verse lies first in the excellent setup of the first line. The speaker seems to be reporting to us that in the early stages of the 'battle' of passion, only, or chiefly, his feet were wounded. This leads our imaginations off in several directions. Why were his feet wounded, and (almost) no other part of his body? Why were his feet wounded so particularly early in the battle that he felt inclined to tell us about it? How exactly did the feet come to be wounded? Are we going to be in thorns-andblisters territory somehow? We're looking forward to hearing more about any or all of these questions in the second line. Then of course the second line is totally uninterested in the feet, except as a non-functioning means to either of two impossible ends. The poor lover apparently lies collapsed on the ground, helpless prey to the enemy, unable not only to flee but even to make a heroic last stand. While he waits to be captured or killed, all he can do is report on his predicament-- but in what tone? Ruefully? With self-mocking humor? Despairingly? In a tone of impotent fury? With flat matter-of-factness? With a kind of vexed frustration? The tone will make the mood of the verse, and as usual we're left to decide on it for ourselves. As Arshi suggests, {152,3} is indeed a good verse for comparison. To me it seems to have a sort of tongue-in-cheek, humorous effect. The present verse might also have such a tone-- but then again, it might not.

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{205,8} qiyaamat hai kih hove mudda((ii kaa ham-safar ;Gaalib vuh kaafir jo ;xudaa ko bhii nah sau;Npaa jaa))e hai mujh se 1) it's a disaster/Doomsday, that she would be the fellow-traveler of a conniver/pretender, Ghalib-2) that infidel whom I can't confide even to the Lord

Ghalib: [Ghalib echoes the second line of this verse in a Persian letter, undated, to Muzaffar Husain Khan: 'my mistress [ham-;xvaabah], whom, out of jealousy, at the time of departure I wasn't able to confide even to the Lord...' == Russell and Islam, p. 43

Nazm: That infidel to whom, at the time of parting, because of jealousy the words 'I confide you to the Lord' don't emerge from my lips-- what a Doomsday it is that she is the fellow-traveller of a conniver! In this verse, where the author has said nah , he ought to have said nahii;N , or else he ought to have omitted hai . [He goes on to discuss this point.] (232)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it's a thing of Doomsday/disaster that when taking leave of that infidel, I would say 'go, I confide you to the Lord, may the Lord protect you [;xudaa ;haafi:z], I give you over to the care and refuge of the Lord'. What the hell [bhalaa]-- jealousy doesn't make this acceptable. So just look at this tyranny, that she would be the fellow-traveler of a conniver! (290)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is going on a journey with the Rival. The lover slaps his head and says, 'alas, that infidel (the beloved) at whose departure, through jealousy, even 'go, I confide you to the Lord' would not emerge from my lips-- that she would be the fellow-traveler of a conniver, it's a Doomsday/disaster! That is, what a calamity it is, and how great my helplessness. (411)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH QIYAMAT: {10,11} Formally speaking, the verb in the second line presents a 'passive of impossibility'; for discussion, see {205,4}. I've translated it a little freely because 'of whom the confiding even to the Lord is not done by me' is too awkward even for my clunky taste. The first line sets us up to expect something more about the dire situation of someone-- presumably the beloved-- who is becoming a fellow-traveler of a 'conniver', a mudda((ii , literally someone with a 'purpose'. What is he up to, what devious plans is he making? How will the beloved cope with him? What disasters are we to fear? We wait with curiosity for the second line; and of course, under mushairah performance conditions, our wait is as long as can possibly be managed. Then in the second line the focus, and the whole mood of the verse, changes entirely. For the lover isn't really interested in the 'conniver' at all, he's obsessed with the beloved. His desperate possessiveness and jealousy are such that when parting from her he can't even 'confide her to the Lord'. The elaborate forms of farewell enumerated by Bekhud Dihlavi were common in Ghalib's day; nowadays they've been mostly simplified down to the stylized ;xudaa ;haafi:z , '[may] the Lord [be your] protector'. (The very new trend of replacing this form of farewell with all;aah ;haafi:z is beside the point, for our present purposes.) In English too, 'goodbye' is a contracted form of 'God be with ye', though most users of this farewell don't even know its origin.

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Thus in true mushairah-verse style, the second line remains uninterpretable until the last possible moment, until we hear the rhyme-word sau;Npaa . Then, in an abrupt rush of meaning, we realize that the focus is only, obsessively, on the beloved after all; that she's such an object of jealousy that she can't be confided even to the Lord; and, finally, that this means that the lover can't say-- literally can't pronounce the utterance-- 'goodbye' to her. What a powerful rush of meaning, mingled with a vivid sense of the lover's unbearably strong feeling! The verse suddenly jabs you in the heart. It reminds you of the intolerable, unacceptable losses and farewells in your own life-- the times when you just couldn't let go, and yet the loved one was taken from you. There's also of course the clever deployment of religious imagery: 'Doomsday', 'infidel', 'the Lord'. But the real appeal of this verse is the mood, the sudden burst of suffering and pathos, generated by the end of the second line. Far from being at the center of the verse, the 'conniver' by the end seems almost irrelevant.

Ghazal 206 4 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aamat hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 168; Arshi #165; Raza p. 172

{206,1} z baskih mashq-e tamaashaa junuu;N-((alaamat hai kushaad-o-bast-e mizhah siilii-e nadaamat hai 1) {to such an extent / although} practicing spectacle-viewing is madness{signed/marked} 2) the opening and shutting of the eyelashes is a slap of shame/regret/repentance

Notes: siil : 'Wetness, moistness, dampness, moisture'. (Plats p.712) siil : 'Disposition, character, nature; quality, tendency; good disposition; right conduct.... aa;Nkho;N me;N siil honaa , To be polite, or generous, &c.; to be quiet, or modest, or retiring'. (Platts p.712) siilii : 'A blow with the edge of the open hand on the back of the neck; a slap, cuff'. (Platts p.712) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: To remain absorbed in the spectacle of the world is a sign of madness, and a nonsensical act. For this reason, at the time of looking at a spectacle, the eyelids' opening and closing is the falling of a moisture of shame. (232)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to look at the spectacle of the wonders of this world is a sign of insanity. In the state of watching a spectacle, the opening and closing of the eyes is like slaps of humiliation. The meaning is that this unstable world isn't worthy of having any heart-possessor become a spectator and waste his time, and have the result be shame and lowness. (290)

Bekhud Mohani: When a person's eyes are open, then his eyelids blink. But the poet has shown that the spectacle of the world is a kind of madness; thus when we look at something, then the eyelashes' slap of shame falls on the eyes. (411)

FWP: SETS == BASKIH MADNESS: {14,3} TAMASHA: {8,1}

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The clever positioning of z-baskih in the first line gives us the two choices 'to such an extent, since' and 'although'; as usual with Ghalib, both open rich possibilities in the second line: = it's such a characteristic of madness to 'practice spectacle-viewing' that in my madness I begrudge even the momentary involuntary eye-blinks that deprive me of a millisecond of the spectacle, so to me the blinks are like slaps that I use to chasten myself for my brief inattention and to sharpen my alertness. = it's such a characteristic of madness to 'practice spectacle-viewing' that like many madmen, I become fixated and entranced. I need to be slapped and made to come out of it, and the blinks of my eyes slap me and bring me back to reality and remind me, with shame, how crazed I've been acting. (A much less interesting reading, in my view, but the one on which all the commentators I've read agree.) = although it's a characteristic of madness to 'practice spectacle-viewing', even as I practice it I haven't entirely lost my grip on reason. I'm constantly blinking, and those blinks are like little slaps, to chastise myself and shock me into returning to the real world. Certainly siilii means a slap or a blow, and all the commentators insist that it's the only meaning that's invoked here. But I can't help but notice also that siilnaa means 'to become damp or moist', and siil means 'wetness, moisture'. From siil to siilii is not a long step, and 'wetness, moisture' is of course exactly what is provided by blinking. I think there's an enjoyable latent wordplay in there that's felt by the reader, even though it may not be officially part of the surface meaning. Somewhere in the vicinity there also lurks the siil that goes back to the Sanskrit shiila , and has the double sense of 'disposition' and 'good disposition'. A parallel: the English 'character' can be used either positively ('he has character') or neutrally ('he has a bad character'). And it turns out that in the case of siil there's actually an idiom well enough established to be in Platts: aa;Nkho;N me;N siil honaa means essentially 'to be well-behaved'. And in the present verse too we have a form of behavior in the eyes: bad behavior, shame, regret. If these words hover around so closely that somebody like me could notice and enjoy them, how could Ghalib and the original audience not have done so?

{206,2} nah jaanuu;N kyuu;Nkih mi;Te daa;G-e :ta((n-e bad-((ahdii tujhe kih aa))inah bhii var:tah-e malaamat hai 1) {I wouldn't know / no telling} how the scar/brand of the reproach/taunt of false-promising would be erased 2) when to you, even/also the mirror is a whirlpool/maze of reproach/blame

Notes: var:tah : 'Destruction, ruin; --a precipice; labyrinth, maze; any danger or difficulty in which one is embarrassed; any situation of danger or difficulty; embarrassment; --a whirlpool, vortex. (Platts p.1188) malaamat : 'Reproof, rebuke, censure, reprehension, reproach, accusation, blame; reviling; disgrace; opprobrium; contumely'. (Platts p.1063)

Nazm: No telling with what water the stain of false-promising will be removed. Now, to you, even/also the mirror is a whirlpool/maze of reproach/blame, for in the mirror you adorn yourself so as to show yourself to the Others, which is precisely false-promising. In this verse instead of kih , to ought to have appeared; and [as the verse stands] even the meaning is not expressed in a good way. (233)

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Hasrat: The simile of the whirlpool/maze for the mirror is obvious. (158)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, no telling with what water the stains of your false-promising will be removed. With regard to you, now even/also the mirror is a whirlpool/maze of reproach/blame. That is, you always look into it and adorn yourself in order to show yourself to the Others, which in reality is a form of falsepromising. The meaning is that the false promises that are made to us-- they too are fulfilled for the Others. (290)

Bekhud Mohani: You are so modest that you consider even the mirror a whirlpool [girdaab] of reproach/blame. That is from looking at the mirror you become embarrassed. Thus I am astonished: how will the stain of false-promising be removed from your garment-hem of virtue? That is, she who would be so modest that she would feel shame when looking in the mirror, how will she be able to perform false-promising? Her being a false-promiser is an astonishing thing. (He wants to make use of a reproach/taunt.) (413)

Baqir: Having looked into the mirror, she becomes drowned in the whirlpool [girdaab] of reproach/blame; the simile of whirlpool/maze has been given for the mirror. (497)

Shadan: For her, even/also the mirror is a whirlpool [bha;Nvar] of reproach/blame: 'why did you commit false-promising'? (491)

Josh: The meaning is that when your self-adornment is always for the Others, even/also the mirror blames/reproaches you-- and reproaches/blames you so much that its shiningness [aabdaarii] becomes a whirlpool [girdaab].... In place of kyuu;Nkar he has said kyuu;Nkih . Now this is rejected [matruuk]. (333)

Faruqi: Through the wordplay of the mirror's aab ('glitter'), he gives to the mirror the simile of the sea. The mirror's polish-lines [jauhar] are in the form of a circle. Thus through the affinity of the mirror's aab , those polish-line circles can be called whirlpools. People call blame a whirlpool because the way once trapped in a whirlpool it's difficult to emerge, in the same way blame too surrounds one from all four sides. The 'circle of blame' is a famous figure of speech. Thus in the beloved's eyes, the act of gazing into a mirror is such that it envelopes the mirror-gazer in blame, because the mirror is among the devices of self-regard, and self-regard is a flaw. The result emerges that the beloved is a limit case of a strict and sincere person. Now if anybody would for any reason taunt me with breaking a vow (for example, if someone would say, you're not a true lover, because you're still alive), then even if this taunt is false, in the eyes of the stern beloved this will be a stain on my character. I don't know how this stain will then be erased from the hem of my garment, because the beloved is extremely strict. She expects from her lover a character that would be entirely stainless. If someone would level this accusation of breaking a vow against me, then in the beloved's eyes I'll be stained for life. The second aspect is that we may suppose the taunt of breaking a vow to be addressed to the beloved herself. Let the interpretation of the second line be the same as I have expressed above-- that is, the beloved is strict and sincere to such an extent that she considers even looking into the mirror to be a flaw. Now suppose 'stain' to have the meaning of 'grief', as in this verse of Mir's: girye pah rang aayaa qaid-e qafas se shaayad ;xuu;N ho gayaa jigar me;N ab daa;G gulsitaa;N kaa

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[perhaps from imprisonment in the cage, the mood turned toward weeping the 'stain/wound' of the garden became blood in the liver] Thus the 'stain of the taunt of false-promising' means 'grief at the taunt of false-promising'. That is, somebody has taunted the beloved with breaking a vow. Although the taunt was false, still its grief was felt, that 'I have been taunted in this way'. The speaker is in astonishment and sorrow: that beloved who avoids even looking into a mirror-- how will she be able to erase this stain? Now both meanings of daa;G come into play. (1) that beloved who doesn't even like to look in the mirror, will grieve greatly that the taunt of breaking a vow has been levelled at her. The more the taunt is false, the more it will grieve her. The taunt is absolutely false, therefore the beloved's grief too will be absolute-- that is, a grief that can never be erased. (2) To erase a 'stain', people look in the mirror, especially if the stain would be on the face, or on the breast, where the gaze usually can't reach. But when the beloved doesn't even look in the mirror, how will that stain be able to be erased?.... I consider this second interpretation [in which the taunt is addressed to the beloved] preferable. (330-32)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; IZAFAT MIRROR: {8,3} What kind of a scar or brand is it that would be difficult to erase? According to the commentators, it's a scar left on the person who receives the 'taunt of false-promising'-- namely, the beloved. But the i.zaafat grammar also carefully opens wide the possibility that it's a mark or scar left on the person who gives the 'taunt of false-promising'-- namely, the lover. What if the scar or mark is left on the beloved? The lover does undoubtedly tease or taunt the beloved about her false-promising and her radical indifference to vows and pledges (see for example {20,2} and {20,3}). It's even conceivable, though barely so, that the beloved might possibly feel guilty, but her 'guilt' is usually presented in an ambiguous or cynical style (see {46,1}). As a rule, she receives the lover's barbs with either irritation or (much more painfully for the lover) complete indifference. Thus I have trouble accepting Faruqi's second interpretation, which he actually prefers, and which attributes to the beloved an awesome and entirely implausible concern with the strictest sincerity and purity, even to the degree of experiencing perpetual grief over totally false taunts-- more grief, Faruqi claims, over false taunts than over true ones. Is this the beloved that we know so well from the rest of the classical ghazal world? Not hardly! It seems to me much more possible that the present verse is another, all too familiar case of indifference on the beloved's part-- the lover goes nattering on about blame and reproach, and the beloved entirely ignores him. After all, we have no evidence whatsoever that she actually has any such scar; we only know the lover is muttering ominously about it. On this reading, the mirror as a 'whirlpool of reproach' is just part of what he's muttering about; and the other meanings of var:tah also become relevant. But probably she's not even listening. What if the scar or mark is left on the lover? Here the scar would represent the dark stain of guilt he incurred in the eyes of the beloved, when he accused her (whether rightly or wrongly) of false-promising. (See {177,1} for his casuistical reflections on how touchy she is, and how desperate he is to placate her.) On this reading, the mirror as a 'whirlpool of reproach' is just another evidence of her ill-temper and quickness to blame: she'll feel anger even at her own mirror. (See {64,4} for another example of her paranoid suspiciousness and irrational hostility.) Why will she blame the mirror? The verse gives us no way to know; nor do we really have hints enough for useful speculation. (Though there's always the idea of her basic 'ungazeability', as in {214,7}.) If we consider her wrath against the mirror to

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be probably petty or even groundless, we realize afresh how dire are the prospects of the hapless lover who was rash enough to actually 'taunt' her. NOTE FOR GRAMMAR FANS: In the first line kyuu;Nkar , meaning 'how, in what way', has been shortened for metrical reasons into kyuu;Nkih ; this latter form looks just like the normal word for 'because', though it isn't the same of course. As Josh observes, such shortening of this particular word is no longer accepted.

{206,3} bah pech-o-taab-e havas silk-e ((aafiyat mat to;R nigaah-e ((ajz sar-e rishtah-e salaamat hai 1) don't tear/break the thread/course of health/safety with the twisting and turning of desire/lust/ambition 2a) a gaze of weakness/submission is the end/origin of the thread/connection of safety/health 2b) the end/origin of the thread/connection of safety/health is a gaze of weakness/submission

Notes: pech-o-taab : 'Twisting and twining; convolution, twisting knots, folds; contortions; restlessness, anxiety, agitation, perplexity, disquietude, distraction, distress; vexation, anger, indignation'. (Platts p.297) havas : 'Desire, lust, concupiscence, inordinate appetite; --ambition; -curiosity'. (Platts p.1241) silk : 'Thread, string; order, series, train; course, tenor; road, way'. (Platts p.670) ((aafiyat : 'Health, soundness; safety, security; well-being, welfare, freedom from evil or discomfort &c.; success, prosperity'. (Platts p.757) ((ajz : 'Powerlessness, impotence, weakness, helplessness, submission, wretchedness'. (Platts p.759) sar : 'Head, top, pinnacle, tip, end, point; front, face; origin, beginning; head, chief; intention, end, aim; inclination, aim, desire, will'. (Platts p.648) rishtah : 'Thread, string, line; series; connexion, relationship, kin; relation by blood or marriage; alliance, affinity'. (Platts p.593) salaamat : 'Safety, salvation; tranquillity, peace, rest, repose; immunity; liberty; soundness; recovery; health'. (Platts p.668) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: Health/welfare is a thread, for which desire/lust is a twist and a tangle from which there's the fear of the thread's breaking. That is, desire/lust comes to a man, and health/welfare goes. And a gaze of weakness/submission-- that is, reunuciation of desire/lust-- is the thread/connection of wellbeing. (233)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that through desire/lust, comfort and health/safety in both worlds are destroyed. (291)

Bekhud Mohani: The means for the obtaining of health/safety is humility [;xaaksaarii]. The difference between the two lines has emerged as: if you want peace and repose, then adopt contentment [qanaa((at] and flee from desire/lust. And if you want safety/health, then abandon pride and adopt humility. (413)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; WORDPLAY This is a maddeningly difficult verse to pin down, and obviously Ghalib made it that way on purpose. The first question is one that only Bekhud Mohani realizes the need for asking: what is the relationship between the two lines? Do they mean to give the same basic advice, in slightly paraphrased

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forms, so that they're like two parallel moral maxims? In favor of this possibility, we can notice that ((aafiyat and salaamat are almost synonyms, and that both of these qualities are available by means of a 'thread' to which we're urged to pay attention. Or are the two lines not parallel-- is one situation a mere secondary illustration or 'proof' of the other, or do they stand in some other relationship? Since the first line is an imperative, it might be considered the urgent message of the verse, while the second would provide a reason for obeying the command. Or the abstract, general maxim offered in the second line might be taken as the main point, with the first line a mere behavioral extrapolation from it. As usual, we have to decide all such questions for ourselves. And above all, what's the tone of the verse? Here's where all that carefully ambiguous vocabulary comes in. In the first line, pech-o-taab can mean anything from the physical ('convolution') through the helplessly suffering ('anxiety, distress') to the actively purposeful ('anger, indignation'). And havas can mean almost any kind of 'desire', from 'lust' through 'ambition' to 'curiosity': it's true that havas often has a negative valuation, as in {138,4}; but sometimes it can be apparently morally neutral, as in {21,1} or {123,9}; or even clearly positive, as in {112,6}. Since the lover is never in the realm of worldly well-being or ((aafiyat anyway, prudential admonitions ('don't upset the applecart, don't rock the boat') from the Advisor would hardly commend themselves. The first line might well be the kind of worldly, cynical injunction the Advisor might deliver-- the kind that the lover knows in his bones that he is destined to go out and violate immediately. Perhaps, indeed, he's only saying the lines by way of mockery. And similarly, what's the tone in the second line? The world salaamat has the same sense of all-purpose (worldly) well-being as does ((aafiyat , and thus invites us-- as it surely does the lover too-- to rebellion. For if the way to achieve such salaamat is to constantly and prudently display a 'gaze of powerlessness / impotence / weakness / helplessness / submission / wretchedness', then what kind of salaamat can it really be? Either the gazer would really be wretched, and thus wouldn't enjoy any kind of 'well-being' at all, or else he would be faking it, offering a great show of hypocritical humility in order to get certain worldly advantages-- just as the Advisor would instinctively do and the lover would instinctively not do. In short, I defy anybody to genuinely pin down the tone of this verse. It's radically elusive. Is it a counsel of despair offered by the broken-down lover to himself? A cynical trick urged by the Advisor? A genuine moral maxim about Sufistic resignation and contentment and humility? A simple report, from some worldly person who's been-there-done-that and is telling us the best way to make it through life? Whatever the tone may be, the wordplay is terrific. The beautifully-deployed thread imagery includes pech-o-taab , silk , to;Rnaa , sar , rishtah . And to see how the (long, narrow, straight) 'gaze' too ties into (sorry, sorry!) the complex of thread imagery, compare the magnificent {10,12}.

{206,4} vafaa muqaabil-o-da((vaa-e ((ishq be-bunyaad junuun-e saa;xtah-o-fa.sl-e gul qiyaamat hai 1) faithfulness, opposite/confronting; and a baseless claim of passion 2) a contrived/artificial madness, and the season of the rose-- it's a disaster/Doomsday!

Notes: muqaabil : 'Confronting; opposing, contending; opposite'. (Platts p.1053) saa;xtah : 'Made, formed; artificial, counterfeited, fictitious, false, feigned'. (Platts p.622)

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Nazm: He says that for the beloved to become inclined toward faithfulness, and the claim of passion to be false-- this is a great cruelty/tyranny. In the second line is an illustration [tam;siil] of this: that spring would in real fact have come, and there would be fakery in madness-- this is a Doomsday! The purpose of this is a taunt against the Rival. (233)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse is a taunt against the lustful Rival. He says, a faithful beloved would become inclined toward showing faithfulness, and a false claim of passion would be made! The illustration of this is as if the spring would truly have come, and there would be a fake madness-- what more shameful thing can there be! (291)

Bekhud Mohani: It might be his own situation, or that of the Rival. He says that a great difficulty has occurred, because the claim of passion is that there would be faithfulness. If there were to be a lover, then no matter how much difficulty and humiliation would confront him, he wouldn't cease to be faithful. But when there is an empty claim of passion, in name only, then the links of faithfulness would not be maintained. An illustration [mi;saal] of this is that in the spring madness increases, and when this state exists, then to tear one's garment in madness and set out into the desert is no great thing. But when madness would be faked, then one must confront a great difficulty, because while in one's senses it's not easy to show the behavior of a madman. Shame at this behavior appears, and it becomes clear that the madness was feigned, not real. (413)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION MADNESS: {14,3} QIYAMAT: {10,11} The verse is almost grammar-free: the structure of the first line is 'A and B'; that of the second line, 'C and D -- it's a disaster/Doomsday!'. We have to figure out for ourselves the connection between the two 'and'-linked members of each pair, and also the relationship between the first pair and the second pair. In the first line, what are we to make of muqaabil , which can mean either 'confronting' (in the sense of 'appearing directly before') or 'opposing' (with a suggestion of rivalry or hostility). Perhaps, as Nazm maintains, 'faithfulness' is 'confronting' the false lover in the form of a faithful beloved (though this is a bit hard to believe, since we know the beloved better than that). Or perhaps 'faithfulness' is a quality of the true lover, who is juxtaposed and 'opposed' to the falsity of the Rival's 'passion'. Or perhaps the first line is a more general 'if-then' reflection: if faithfulness is available, then no claim of passion can have any foundation, since passion seems to presuppose a cruel, faithless, or at least essentially unavailable beloved. Without such a harsh environment, it can't prove itself; or perhaps it can't even exist at all, but declines instead into settled, un-obsessive affection. Then in the second line, what is the relationship between 'a contrived madness' and the 'season of the rose'? Does the springtime make real madness so powerful and ubiquitous that nobody needs even to contrive it? Or is a contrived madness a supreme, intolerable insult to the power of the spring? If the 'baseless claim of passion' and the 'contrived madness' are to be taken as parallel, then in what way does 'faithfulness' resemble the 'season of the rose'? After all, we know the rose's lifespan is all too brief, and spring will soon vanish-- is that true of 'faithfulness' too?

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Does the final exclamation 'it's a disaster/Doomsday!' apply only to the second line, or to the first one as well? In short, we really do have a box of puzzle pieces, and not enough clues to show us any one ideal way to put them together. But then, isn't it kind of irresistible to keep rooting around among the pieces, waiting for that magic click when suddenly they will all lock perfectly into place?

Ghazal 207 4 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa de mujhe composed after 1838; Hamid p. 169; Arshi #210; Raza p. 284

{207,1} laa;Gar itnaa huu;N kih gar tuu bazm me;N jaa de mujhe meraa ;zimmah dekh kar gar ko))ii batlaa de mujhe 1) I am so thin/gaunt that if you would give me a place in the gathering 2) the responsibility is mine, if anyone, having seen me, would tell

Notes: laa;Gar : 'Lean, thin, gaunt, meagre'. (Platts p.945)

Nazm: Because of thinness I will not be visible to anyone-- as if anyone will tell! (231)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why do you, for fear of the Rival, renounce meeting me? I've become so thin that if you invite me to your fathering and seat me near you, then nobody would even notice me. (291)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, I've become so thin, and my aspect has become so altered, that if the people who used to recognize me would see me, then they wouldn't be able to recognize me. With great excellence he has shown the result of the excesses of passion (that is, for the aspect to become so altered that even acquaintances wouldn't be able to recognize him); and he's also shown that the beloved wants to invite him into her gathering; if she has any reluctance, then it's this: that there would be disgrace. [As for Nazm, in his commentary] the meaning of a particularly fine verse has been written in such a way that it begins to seem full of absurd exaggeration [mubaali;Gah-e mu;haal]. (414)

FWP: That dekh kar is positioned so as to call attention to itself, isn't it? If we read the latter part of the second line as gar ko))ii dekh kar mujh ko batlaa de , then the suggestion is of somebody's having seen me and telling me something-- presumably, telling me to leave, since my permission to enter the gathering is what's at issue, and since the lover's saying 'upon my head be it' also suggests that reading: just give me a chance, the lover is saying, and if it doesn't work out, then the bad consequences (of my having to leave) will fall on me, and I won't blame you. And if we read the latter part of the second line as gar ko))ii mujh ko dekh kar batlaa de , then the possibility emerges that someone might, having seen me, tell somebody else, or gossip, or create scandal. This readings works slightly less well, since it's less appropriate for the lover to say 'upon my head be it' for consequences (gossip, scandal, etc.) that will probably fall more on the beloved than on himself; but still, the lover might say it anyway, as a sign of great confidence that it won't turn out that way. On either reading, the verse offers at least three enjoyable and mutually complementary possibilities:

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=People will see me and recognize me, but they won't tell (me to leave, or tell about me): I look so wretched and feeble now that they'll feel compassion =People will see me but they won't recognize me, since I'm so thin and worn and wracked by passion; so they won't tell (me to leave, or tell about me) =People won't see me at all, since I'm so thin I'm basically invisible, so they won't tell (me to leave, or tell about me) Bekhud Mohani gallantly sets out to defend Ghalib from this third possibility: he insists on the more realistic readings, and accuses Nazm of damaging the verse by creating in it 'absurd/impossible exaggeration' [mubaali;Gah-e mu;haal]. But let's remember that we're dealing with an extravagantly cerebral poet, in an unlimitedly stylized genre, and that he has also given us verses in which the beloved has no mouth (for the set, see {91,4}); and/or has no waist (see {99,4}). If even the beloved can lack such essential body parts, surely it's only fitting that the lover should be so gaunt that he might almost lack a body entirely. The lover's physical frailty is also invoked, with another powerful dekh kar , in the next verse, {207,2}.

{207,2} kyaa ta((ajjub hai kih us ko dekh kar aa jaa))e ra;hm vaa;N talak ko))ii kisii ;hiile se pahu;Nchaa de mujhe 1) what [cause for] surprise is there, if, having seen, she would feel pity/compassion? 2) let somebody, through some trick/wile/deceit, convey me there

Notes: ;hiilah : 'Evasion, shift, wile, artifice, artful contrivance or device, machination, trick, plot, stratagem, expedient; pretence, colour; deceit, deception, fraud'. (Platts p.483)

Nazm: From this verse the meaning also emerges that his state is now altered, and extremely much so. To arrive there is difficult, and the meaning of 'having seen, she would feel pity/compassion' is that 'having seen me, she would feel pity/compassion'. (233)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my condition has become so dire that if anyone would help me to reach her street and bring me before her, then it's not strange that the moment she set eyes on me even/also she would feel pity for me. (291)

Bekhud Mohani: With 'through some trick' he has also told us that nobody has the courage to convey him there. And we also learn that this is the last longing and last scheme of the lover. And it's also clear that now his state is so dire that even the strength to move has already bid him farewell. (414)

FWP: The first line expresses, both defiantly and uncertainly, the lover's desperate hope: 'it wouldn't be surprising if' she would pity him. For that result, simply for her 'having seen' him would be enough: the verse, like the previous one, {207,1}, uses dekh kar to invoke, through implication, the full debility and wretchedness of the lover. We have to imagine for ourselves what state he must be in-- a state such that to see him is to pity him, a state such as might move even the stony heart of the beloved herself. But then the second line goes on to suggest several reasons that his hope might not be realized. Since he's apparently too weak and frail to travel, he needs somebody to convey him into the beloved's presence; and it's not clear that there's anybody around who's willing to take that much trouble and/or risk. And worst of all, he acknowledges that for him to be admitted into her

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presence will require some ;hiilah , some 'trick' or 'deception' or 'fraud'. That sounds ominous, and doesn't bode well for the beloved's generosity or compassion once she discovers how she's been deceived. The contrasting implications of the desperately hopeful first line ('the moment she sees me she'll surely feel pity') and the grimly pragmatic second line ('only some kind of trick or fraud will get her to see me, and only with somebody's help can I be conveyed there') illustrate the flexibility of Ghalib's modes of inshaa))iyah speech.

{207,3} mu;Nh nah dikhlaave nah dikhlaa par bah andaaz-e ((ataab khol kar pardah ;zaraa aa;Nkhe;N hii dikhlaa de mujhe 1) if you wouldn't show your face, don't show it, but {by way of / in the style of} anger 2) having opened the veil a little, just show me {at least / emphatically} your eyes

Notes: aa;Nkh dikhaanaa : 'To look angry or threatening, to stare defiantly; to frown, scowl...; to menace, brow-beat, deter'. (Platts p.95) ;zaraa : 'A little; --a little while, short time; a slight or trivial matter; -- adv., Just, would you just, please, kindly'. (Platts p.577)

Nazm: That is, if you won't show your face, then don't show it. Just please slide back your veil, and at least show your eye in anger. And 'to show the eye' [aa;Nkh dikhaanaa] is an idiom, with the meaning of 'to be angry'. The author has used 'to show the eyes' in the plural form, but the correct/eloquent form is 'to show the eye' in the singular. (233)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if you veil yourself from me, and feel ashamed to be before me and to show your face, then don't show your face. But in the style of anger, remove your veil, and at least show me your eyes ( 'to show the eye' is spoken on the occasion of being angry)-- I would see at least how much anger there is in your eyes, and what color/mood appears in your eyes on the occasion of anger. (291)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] 'To show the eyes' and 'to show the eye' are both equally correct/eloquent; whichever one fits in the meter, that's what one ought to say. Not to speak of Mirza Sahib's time, even today this idiom is considered correct with the plural.... And not only this, but here 'to show the eyes' hasn't even been used like an idiom, but rather, with regard to the words. The proof of this is that the author, in the first line, has already said 'in the style of anger'. (414-15)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH VEIL: {6,1} Platts agrees with Nazm that the idiom 'to show the eye' [aa;Nkh dikhaanaa] uses the singular form rather than the plural. But Bekhud Mohani's final point rightly suggests a literary effect that the poet is making. I'd like to extend his observation and work it out in more detail. The first line seems to be entirely about the beloved's refusal to show her face, and its final 'but by way of anger...' could go in all kinds of directions. The line is piquant, but entirely opaque. In classic mushairah-verse style, we have to wait-- as long as can be managed, of course-- for enlightenment to come from the second line.

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And even in the second line, also in classic mushairah-verse style, the 'punch-word' that makes the whole thing amusing and interpretable is withheld until the last possible moment. Only when we hear the final dikhlaa de mujhe do we realize what all the earlier bits and pieces were leading up to: they were converging on the idiom from all sides, without actually reaching it. Now in retrospect we realize that there are actually three separate occurrences of dikhlaanaa (which is basically identical in usage to dikhaanaa ), plus a reference to the removing or 'opening' of a veil, which surely also suggests 'showing'. And in the first line is a clear specification that the showing should be 'by way of' or 'in the style of' anger; so there's another aspect of the idiom. And the 'eyes' too are present-- though in the plural rather than the singular, and with an emphatic and/or restrictive hii inserted to separate them from the final dikhlaa de . (Word-play is also meaning-play, as Faruqi would remind us.) Thus the verse creates a kind of implicit, after-the-fact evocation: the idiom hovers above the verse, visible all the more clearly for being present only in our minds. There's also the amusing, quasi-paradoxical effect of the lover's begging the beloved, as a favor, to do something that's a sign of anger. If she's angry, why would she agree to do him that favor? And if she's feeling kindly enough to do him the favor, why would she then show such a sign of anger? Moreover, the perfect placement and multiple relevance of ;zaraa is a delight in itself. Its literal meaning of 'a little bit' is perfect for describing the amount of veil-opening the lover is requesting-- an amount that will show the eyes but not the rest of the face. And its colloquial sense of 'please' is also perfect for the context: it works in this sense like 'just' in English (which I've included in the translation of line 2, along with 'a little' as well), to minimize the importance or laboriousness of the request and thus make it sound more polite and cajoling. And finally, that last forceful hii brings it all into focus. It intrudes firmly into the middle of the idiom, and thus pointedly removes any possibility of its idiomatic integrity. Above all, it centers our attention where it belongs: on her eyes, her wonderful, irresistible eyes. Whether they are angry or not, semi-veiled or not, they are still her eyes-- and just a small glimpse of them will almost compensate the lover for the hiddenness of the rest of her face, and even for her anger.

{207,4} yaa;N talak merii giriftaarii se vuh ;xvush hai kih mai;N zulf gar ban jaa))uu;N to shaane me;N uljhaa de mujhe 1) to this extent she's happy with my captivity: that I 2) if [I] would become a curl, then she would entangle/ensnare me in the comb/crest

Notes: shaanah : 'A comb; a (cock's) comb, a crest;... the shoulder-blade'. (Platts p.719) uljhaanaa : 'To entangle, ravel (as thread); to involve, complicate, make intricate; to perplex, confound; to implicate; to entrap, insnare; to inveigle, entice, allure, beguile, mislead, deceive; to divert, entertain; to double (as a hare); to embroil, to involve in a quarrel; to make (one's wits) whirl round; to set (one's brain) to work; to throw into confusion, disarrange, jumble; to intertwine, interlace, to fasten'. (Platts p.75)

Nazm: That is, the ultimate extent of captivity is that I would become her curl; but even with that she wouldn't be content, she would entangle me in her comb. (233)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, she's happy to such an extent with my captivity that if, as an impossible supposition, I would become a curl of hers, which is an implement of captivity, then even that curl of hers she would entangle in the comb and capture. (292)

Bekhud Mohani: Curls are always made orderly, they're not made entangled. But the beloved finds so much pleasure in my captivity that if I would become a curl of hers, then she would entangle me in the comb. No matter what, she's not prepared under any circumstances to free me from the net of her love. (415)

FWP: How do we measure how pleased the beloved is to have the lover as a captive? The lover provides an extreme, fanciful metaphorical illustration for the situation-- one that might seem at first to settle the question. But as usual, it really doesn't: it simply raises some new and, as usual, unresolvable questions. The first words of the first line should alert us: yaa;N talak -- literally 'to here'; metaphorically, 'to this extent'. In Urdu as in English, such a phrase can indeed be used like 'to such an extent'-- to introduce an extravagant, exclamatory sense of maximization (as the commentators take it). But in Urdu as in English, it can also be used literally: to introduce a limit or demarcation point: something is carefully asserted 'to this extent', but is thus declared not to apply to some other extent, or beyond this extent. In this second sense, the phrase would have a judicious sound: 'well, to this extent she's happy with my captivity-- but not beyond this extent'. If we recognize both possibilities-- as surely Ghalib would expect us to-- then we're forced, as so often, to wait for further enlightenment from the second line. (Needless to say, under mushairah performance conditions, the wait will be as long as it can reasonably be made.) And the second line flings us abruptly into the charmingly remote metaphorical terrain of the beloved's hair. The measure of her happiness with my captivity is that if I were a curl, then she would 'entangle' me in the 'comb' (and in proper mushairah-verse style, the punch-word is withheld until the last possible moment). But what exactly would that mean? The image itself requires to be disentangled. A comb is a comb no doubt; but it can also mean a 'crest', and the beloved is known sometimes to wear her hair piled high on her head (she is tall, but wants to look even taller). So perhaps if the lover were a curl, she would fear that he might be a 'stray curl' and would hastily weave him into her piled-up and carefully arranged hair. But even if the comb is just a comb, what does it mean for her to 'entangle' or 'ensnare' the hair in it? Is it an act of orderliness and acceptance (first she gets the wandering curl firmly embedded in the teeth of the comb, then she proceeds to smooth out and arrange it)? Or is it an act of disorder and even hostility (she seeks to torment the stray curl by seizing it and dragging it this way and that, and 'perplexing' and 'confounding' and 'disarranging' it)? Or is it an act of seduction and renewed entrapment (the comb will 'allure' and 'beguile' and 'entertain' the stray curl, and 'make its wits whirl round')? All these enjoyable possibilities are fully available; see the definition of uljhaanaa above for others as well. For more wordplay about combs, see {45,1}.

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Ghazal 208 14 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aa mire aage composed 1853; Hamid p. 170; Arshi #229; Raza pp. 325-26

{208,1} baaziichah-e a:tfaal hai dunyaa mire aage hotaa hai shab-o-roz tamaashaa mire aage 1) the world is a toy for children, before me 2a) night-and-day is [habitually] a spectacle, before me 2b) night and day, a spectacle is [habitually] before me

Notes: Ghalib: [May/June 1854:] What Rekhtah pieces [re;xte] do you consider to be new? kahaa kiye and hu))aa kiye -- this ghazal [{151}] is old. daryaa mire aage and .sa;hraa mire aage [{208}] has also been around for a year. It's a ghazal for the mushairah of the Auspicious Fort. [He then records the whole ghazal, with all the verses in order.] == Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 3, pp. 1146-47

Arshi: In the Dihli Urdu Akhbar [dihlii urduu a;xbaar] of 22 May 1853 this ghazal is printed with the following introduction: 'On Monday morning the poets of the Auspicious Fort and of the city gathered in the Hall of Private Audience [for a mushairah]. His revered and lofty Majesty arrived, and took his place on the throne. His Excellency the Heir Apparent adorned a seat, and Mirza Mughal Bahadur and Mirza Khizr Sultan Bahadur and Mirza Javan Bakht Bahadur and the princes of lofty lineage, after the offering of obeisances, according to the command which is a twin of Destiny, were honored with seats according to their ranks and received esteem and favor. From noon to one o’clock His Majesty remained on the throne.' (332)

Nazm: That is, the events of the world have no effect on my heart; I consider them a spectacle. (233)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in my view the world is a children's toy; the events of this world have no effect on me. Night and day I see these events, and consider them the show/spectacle of a beautiful woman [bhaanumatii]. He has composed a peerless opening-verse. (292)

Bekhud Mohani: In my view [mere nazdiik] the world is a children's toy, and the events of the revolutions of the world are in my view a spectacle. That is, the heart of a possessor of insight refrains from attaching itself to anything in the world. (415)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR TAMASHA: {8,1} What a pleasure it is to reach this spectacularly rich and innovative ghazal, an old favorite of mine. And not only mine. A while back in Delhi I was giving a talk, and in the course of it I explained how I came to choose {20} and {111} as the ghazals for which to provide translation anthologies (mainly, because they were the most often translated). I pointed out also that in the latter case, Ghalib himself had praised the ghazal extravagantly in a

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letter. S. R. Faruqi, who was present, snorted. I knew what that meant, so at the first opportunity I asked him which ghazals he himself would have recommended instead as the 'best' representatives of Ghalib's work. His choices were: at the baroque end of the spectrum, {230}; at the simple end, {162}; and in the middle range, this one. I think that {230} has only one or two magnificent verses, and that {162} is somewhat overrated-- but this one is truly among the treasures of the divan. The first four verses of this ghazal feel like-- not quite a verse-set, but a kind of informal group with the same general tone of tongue-in-cheek grandiloquence. Each one is so calmly, blandly, over-the-top extravagant that the effect is not only enjoyable but truly funny. The wit and humor become more apparent as we go along. Here, as so often, I part company with the commentators: they tend to read the whole thing straight, as verses full of heavy-duty mystical claims that are meant to be taken seriously. They should remember that when Ghalib seems to be saying something pompous and one-dimensional, that's often when he's at his most clever and tricky. Read on and see how the four verses work together. For true closural effect, {208,3} is the most flatly pompous of all, then the delightfully witty {208,4} both inflates the balloon to the maximum-- and punctures it. Throughout this ghazal, the refrain mire aage of course literally means 'before me', 'in my presence'. But it often has also the only slightly extended meaning of 'in my view', 'in my opinion', 'according to me'. (In this it resembles mere nazdiik , literally 'near me', which has the same range of metaphorical meanings, and is used similarly in, for example, {208,2}.) In {208,10}, the additional meaning of 'compared to me' also appears. In the second line, shab-o-roz can easily be taken either as a collective noun (2a) and thus the subject of the sentence and the content of the spectacle; or as an adverb (2b), thus describing the timing of some other, unspecified spectacle. This is a good occasion also to notice how Ghalib refers to his ghazals, in the letter above: in the traditional style, he gives two instances of the rhyme and refrain, so that we can triangulate and tell how much is which. But he's rather cavalier about which instances he chooses. In the case of his first example, {151}, kahaa kiye doesn't even occur in the ghazal (nor is there any manuscript version available in which it does occur). (Possibly it might be an error of calligraphy in the Khaliq Anjum edition; if life were longer I would check out all these small matters.) And in the case of the present ghazal, he chooses his instances from {208,4} and {208,7}, apparently haphazardly, since he seems to have the whole text at hand. (Or else because they're particularly brilliant verses and thus come readily to his mind?)

Ghazal 208, Verse 2

{208,2} ik khel hai aurang-e sulaimaa;N mire nazdiik ik baat hai i((jaaz-e masii;haa mire aage 1) the throne of Solomon is one pastime/amusement/game, in my view 2) the miracle of the Messiah is {all one / one utterance}, before me

Notes: ek baat : 'One and the same thing, all one; one unvarying price'. (Platts p.113)

Nazm: That is, the success and achievement of the world of the world and the people of the world are trifling in my eyes. In the second line the word baat has given double pleasure. (234)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am one who sees the perfect power of God Most High. The throne of Solomon, in my view, is a pastime/amusement/game; that is, it's a commonplace thing. And the miracle of the Messiah, a thing of a commonplace level. The word baat , in juxtaposition to the miracle of the Messiah, has created an extraordinary pleasure. This verse is the 'high point of the ghazal'. (292)

Bekhud Mohani: By the miracle of the Messiah is meant the giving of life to the dead. Hazrat Isa used to say, 'by the Lord's command, become alive', and the dead person used to become alive. (415)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; PARALLELISM This verse is the second of a set of four that feel like an informal kind of a verse-set; for discussion, see {208,1}. The energizing ik baat hai has two possibilities: one is the idiomatic, which is something like 'all one to me' or 'nothing special' or 'more of the same'. The other reading, as the commentators observe with admiration, is 'one utterance'; it thus evokes the utterance of the Messiah that made the dead come to life. The tendency of 'one' something to be dismissive, to imply 'merely one' something, is also conspicuous in Urdu, though hard to capture in English.

Ghazal 208, Verse 3

{208,3} juz naam nahii;N .suurat-e ((aalam mujhe man:zuur juz vahm nahii;N hastii-e ashyaa mire aage 1) except as a name, the aspect of the world is not {accepted/'seen'} by me 2) except as an illusion, there's no existence of substances {in my view / before me}

Notes: man:zuur : 'Seen, looked at; visible; admired; --chosen; approved of, admitted, accepted; sanctioned, granted; --agreeable; acceptable; admissible; --designed, intended'. (Platts p.1078)

Nazm: That is, the world is nothing but a name; its aspect is not perceptible [mar))ii-o-muba.s.sir]. This is an extraordinary problem of philosophy and Sufism. [He provides a long explication.] The meaning in which the late author has used the word man:zuur , is not used in Arabic. We've already seen a verse in the refrain nuun : {100,3}. Here too he has taken man:zuur in the meaning of 'perceptible', but the idiom doesn't justify it. (234)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse an extraordinary problem of philosophy and Sufism has been expressed. He says, the world is nothing but a name, its aspect to the gaze is nothing at all. The existence of substances, in my opinion [mere ruubaruu], is nothing at all except an illusion. The meaning is that except for God Most High Himself, he doesn't consider any substance to be present. (292)

Bekhud Mohani: Here Mirza has not taken the meaning of man:zuur to be 'perceptible', nor was there any necessity for him to take it so. Its meaning is according to the Urdu idiom: 'we don't accept it' [ham ko qabuul nahii;N]. Indeed in the word man:zuur there is certainly an iihaam . (416)

Arshi: Compare {100,3}, {141,7}, {196,4}. (260, 299, 333)

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FWP: SETS == HUMOR; PARALLELISM This verse is the third of a set of four that feel like an informal kind of a verse-set; for discussion, see {208,1}. One small pleasure of this verse is the word-and-meaning play of the oscillation of man:zuur between its literal meaning, 'seen', and one or more of its metaphorical meanings (see the definition above); and similarly the enjoyably parallel oscillation of mire aage between its literal meaning, 'before me' (so that it refers to actually things in the universe that I might or might not see), and its abstract, metaphorical meaning 'in my opinion'. Even as the commentators argue about the exact nuances of man:zuur , they're really reacting to this kind of oscillation. But for the most part, the commentators-- not just the ones I cite here but others as well-- are busy slicing and dicing the philosophical content of what they take to be straight, heavy-duty abstract statements. I strongly disagree. I maintain that the chief enjoyableness of this verse is as part of a set of four humorous, tongue-in-cheek, mock-pompous assertions that become more and more self-evidently ridiculous until the fourth verse clinches the case. There's an English literary anecdote that I only dimly remember that reminds me of the tone of this verse. A lady at a party describes the sufferings inflicted on her by her own particularly subtle, sensitive temperament, and the difficulties she's had in enduring the trials of worldly life that are not even noticed by coarser souls. But finally she has experienced an insight of some kind: she proclaims, 'I accept the universe!'. Then the literary man-Dr. Johnson, if I remember correctly-- replies drily, 'Well, Madam, you'd better'. In this verse, in short, Ghalib is presenting a tongue-in-cheek rendering of such a grandiose, pompous, absurdly self-important stance (except of course that the lady accepts the universe, while the speaker in this verse rejects it). In both lines there's that 'it's all about me' quality-- I am the arbiter of the universe, and I now pronounce my judgment, with absolutely no sense of how amusingly disproportionate my solemn proclamation might sound to a listener. As more straws in the wind, let's take Arshi's three suggested verses for comparison. Verse {100,3} centers on the amusingly bizarre conceit of the world as 'the waist of the Beloved of absolute/unconfined existence', and goes on to describe the argument of whether that waist exists or not-- which reminds us enjoyably of the beloved's own waist, which is small to the point of nonexistence. Then in {141,7} we get 'the whole world is a link of the net of thought'-- a strikingly beautiful, powerful, and ambiguous assertion. And finally, in {196,4} we encounter the cleverly playful and remarkably multivalent har-chand kahe;N kih hai nahii;N hai , in which it's not at all clear who's saying what about what. Not one of these 'parallel' verses has the same deadpan quality of surface flatness as the present verse. These other verses are all obviously doing poetry, so to speak, rather than philosophy or Sufism. Which is, after all, what Ghalib himself is doing too-- so that we would be well advised to take a second (and third, and fourth) look at anything too suspiciously 'prosy' or apparently simplistic in his poetry. And to make sure we see through what he's doing by creating this pompous persona, Ghalib has provided the irresistible culmination of the four-verse group: {208,4}.

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Ghazal 208, Verse 4

{208,4} hotaa hai nihaa;N gard me;N .sa;hraa mire hote ghistaa hai jabii;N ;xaak pih daryaa mire aage 1) the desert/wilderness is [habitually] hidden in the dust in my presence 2) the sea rubs its forehead on the dust/earth, before me

Notes: Nazm: That is, I kick up dust to such an extent that the desert is hidden in the dust. And the river, before me, slips along the dust, that is, the river emerges from the earth. Or else that the flood of tears from the eyes reaches to the earth. (235)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the state of madness I kick up so much dust that the wilderness becomes hidden in dust. And from my eyes I shed tears to such an extent that a river flows before me. He has constructed the force of the water as 'rubbing of the forehead'. (292)

Bekhud Mohani: Whirlwinds always pick up dust; the sea always collides with the shore. But the poet sees these situations and says that the reason for the desert's being hidden in dust is that it itself considers itself nothing before me, thus it hides its face in a veil. And the sea, through its weakness and helplessness, always touches its forehead to the ground before me. Thus I am supreme among the creatures. (208)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; PARALLELISM This verse is the fourth and last of a set of four that feel like an informal kind of a verse-set; for discussion, see {208,1}. All right, here's the verse that's the crest-jewel of my argument. The previous three verses have been building up a persona-- the voice of a speaker who's terminally pompous and pretentious and self-important. Now we see that very pretentiousness reasserted-- and in the same process most elegantly and wittily rendered ludicrous. In case we might miss the point, this process happens not once but twice, in cleverly parallel ways. In the first line, the (tongue-in-cheek) pompous speaker boasts, I am so lofty that the desert humbly and fearfully hides in the dust when I'm around. And we realize with glee that since the desert consists of nothing but dust anyway, that proposition is at once irrefutable and quintessentially silly. In the second line, the (tongue-in-cheek) pompous speaker boasts, I am so lofty that the sea rubs its forehead on the dust, abasing itself before me. And we realize with even more relish that anybody who walks along the shore, where the small waves are constantly lapping on the bank, will have exactly the same experience. So here's another proposition that's at once irrefutable and quintessentially silly. Both these claims are almost examples of 'elegance in assigning a cause', except that the cause operates in this case only when the speaker is around. But of course, the speaker is so solipsistic, perhaps in his view the whole universe operates only when he's around. Now if we think back to the voice of the speaker in the previous three verses, isn't it clear that it's the same voice? No other reading 'works' so well poetically. Only instead of being left (apparently) unchallenged, that voice now gets its comeuppance. And the best part is, the voice doesn't even know it. The voice itself gives us, in the very fabric and phrasing of its boastfulness, the full measure of its folly. Could anybody fail to relish such a wickedly witty verse?

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Ghazal 208, Verse 5

{208,5} mat puuchh kih kyaa ;haal hai meraa tire piichhe tuu dekh kih kyaa rang hai teraa mire aage 1) don't ask what state/condition is mine, behind you 2) you look at what mood/aspect/'color' is yours, before me

Notes: Nazm: If in place of teraa mire aage ['yours, before me'] there were meraa tire aage ['mine, before you'], then the beauty of the verse would be greatly increased. But because it was against the ground, the author reversed it, and in this too one meaning has been created: 'look at your own indifference and beauty with my eyes-- and from that, guess what my state must be in separation from you'. (235)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't ask me what state is mine, in separation from you. Rather, look at what mood/aspect is yours, before me. That is, having come before me, to what extent you become restless and anxious. Exactly this state becomes mine, in separation from you. (292-93)

Bekhud Mohani: Why do you ask what happens to me in separation from you? Look at what state is yours, before me. That is, when you are before me, what kinds of coquetry you show, and what kind and degree of effect your beauty creates on me. When in union with you, such things happen to me, and my heart remains restless, then in separation from you whatever might happen to me is minor. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] No such thing. From saying it in this way two excellences have been created. The first is that Mirza has departed from the common highway; and this action is the special virtue of Mirza's temperament. The second is that the beloved's airs and graces, embodied and corporeal, begin to come before the gaze of the hearer. (417)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; INEXPRESSIBILITY; PARALLELISM; YOU AND I What a complete break from the tone of the previous four verses! Here in this spectacularly brilliant and playful verse, effects both utterly simple and radically unresolvable have been created. The first line invokes the 'inexpressibility trope'-- 'don't ask' what shape I'm in, as I follow humbly and helplessly behind you, for it's indescribable, it's beyond all words, and so on. This kind of thing is the ghazal's stock in trade, and we expect that the second line will give us some details: how I'm suffering, how I'm dying, etc. Under mushairah performance conditions, needless to say, we're made to wait as long as possible to hear the second line. And in classic mushairah-verse style, even the beginning of the second line doesn't give us much. It's not till the last possible moment, when we hear that teraa , that the full pleasure, wit, and shock-value of the verse suddenly hit us. For as abruptly as possible the tables are turned: the beloved is told to think instead of how she herself looks in the lover's eyes. If this were what I call a mushairah-verse, everybody would exclaim vaah vaah with genuine delight, and then, having fully 'got' the verse, having drained it of its effect all in one imaginative gulp, would be ready to move on. But of course, that turns out not to be what happens. Having 'got' it, we then have to ask ourselves what we've 'gotten'-- and the initial sense of

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comprehension melts away. The results can be seen in the disagreements among the various commentators. For what does it mean to tell the beloved 'you look what mood/aspect is yours, before me'? What mood/aspect are we talking about? Her beauty? Her absolute power? Her cruelty and disdain? Her untrustworthiness? And since this verse is inshaa))iyah to the max, we then realize that we also don't know what state of the lover's is referred to in the first line-- if it's inexpressible, why so? Is it the usual wretchedness turned up to full volume, or might it be something else? Might the lover be entertaining, even if futilely, some visions of revenge or retaliation? Is the tone beseeching, sarcastic, objective, wry, reassuring, desperate, hostile? And what exactly is the logical (or emotional) connection between the two imperatives? Given the complexity and multivalence of the relationship between the lover and the beloved in the ghazal world, all kinds of connections are possible. The verse is framed so cleverly that the two parallel injunctions-- don't ask about me; do look at my view of you-- vary together across an almost unlimited range of possible readings, and leave us completely unable to 'fix' any one reading for the verse. That being said, I have my own favorite reading, and while it's just one member of an indefinitely large set, I want to lay it out here for sheer pleasure. My reading takes careful note of the two intimate imperatives that frame the lines: the beloved is abruptly commanded, 'don't do this, do that'. No attempt is made to soften the commands, or to put them in any kind of context, or to placate her in any way. So perhaps there's indeed an element of threat implied. The person who's 'in front' may be at a disadvantage, unable to see what's behind his or her back; the person who's behind may be in a position of power. In the ghazal world, the lover is often hard put to come up with a threat sufficiently ominous to have any meaning to the indifferent, or even actively hostile, beloved. But in the larger world of lyric poetry, the threat/promise of the lover/poet's power is very clear. Shakespeare's sonnets return again and again to this theme (see for example 18, 19, 55, 60, 81, 107). Sonnet 63 spells it all out: Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn; When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night, And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. Thus the poet says to the beloved, in threat and promise: be good to me, because your beauty is doomed and decaying; and I can make your brief moment of beauty immortal-- or not, just as I choose. In short, 'don't worry about how I look to you, worry about how you look to me'. Ghalib's verse can easily be read as alluding-- in an understated but all the more ominous way-- to exactly this threat/promise. For another such allusion, see {148,1}: 'my madness is your fame, indeed'. The verse also offers some well-constructed wordplay. If what you're not to 'ask about' is, appropriately, a 'situation', then what you're to 'look at' is, literally, a visible 'color' (and only by extension a 'mood' or 'aspect'). The

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first line is also framed by the distinctive paired sound effects of puucch and piichhe . Above all, there are the word-plays and meaning-plays and sound effects of meraa tire piichhe versus teraa mire aage . Having memorized and recited this verse myself, and having taught it to generations of students, I can testify that there's a strong tendency to confusion at the ends of both lines. The semantics make it harder, not easier: you have to simply wrestle the verse into your brain by brute force, through multiple repetitions. Surely this entanglement of, literally, 'my your behind' and 'your my before' points also to a kind of multiple-mirror effect. Between lover and beloved, is it really so clear who's in fact doing what to whom?

Ghazal 208, Verse 6

{208,6} sach kahte ho ;xvud-biin-o-;xvud-aaraa huu;N nah kyuu;N huu;N bai;Thaa hai but-e aa))inah-siimaa mire aage 1) you say truly, I am self-regarding and self-adorning-- why wouldn't I be? 2) an idol with a mirror-{face/forehead/aspect} is seated before me

Notes: siimaa : 'Face; forehead; countenance, aspect; resemblance, similitude'. (Platts p.712)

Nazm: That is, if a mirror-faced one like you would be before me, then why wouldn't I be self-regarding, and then why wouldn't I practice selfadornment? (235)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you say truly that I am self-regarding and self-adorning. But when a mirror-faced one like you would be seated before me, then why wouldn't I practice self-regard and self-adornment? (293)

Bekhud Mohani: The second line tells us that as long as he was in separation from the beloved, the lover had no awareness about arranging his tangled and scattered hair, and casting an eye on the state of his dress. Now he is setting himself to rights. With fingers or a comb, he is arranging his tangled hair. (417-18)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} MIRROR: {8,3} On the whole, the commentators simply paraphrase the verse as Nazm and, following him, Bekhud Dihlavi do; or attempt to 'normalize' it as Bekhud Mohani does with his vision of the lover using his fingers to try to arrange his hair in a more socially acceptable style. But it's really a much stranger verse than they acknowledge. Somebody has told the lover, perhaps reproachfully, that he is 'self-regarding'-- and here we're lucky that the English term can capture both the literal ('looking at oneself') and the metaphorical ('vain, self-centered') senses of the Urdu-- and 'self-adorning'. The lover concedes the point, and then explains that such behavior is only an appropriate, or even perhaps unavoidable, response to his situation: 'an idol with a mirror-face is seated before me'. Here are some of the possible implications of this wildly un-visualizable metaphor: =the beloved is obsessed with self-regard and self-adornment-- she uses a mirror so constantly (on this see {98,9}) that it's almost part of her face; so why shouldn't I too-- either out of pique, or out of devoted imitation-- show the same attention to my own appearance?

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=the beloved's face (or forehead) is so bright, clear, and radiant that it has the reflective power of a mirror, so I use it as such: naturally I'm inclined to primp and preen myself =the beloved's face is like a 'mirror' to me, and she's like another 'self'-- so that when I look at her, or at my own face in her 'mirror', I am, in effect, 'self'-regarding; when I straighten a lock of either her or my hair, I am 'self'adorning =the beloved is seated before me as an 'idol', and an idol is a 'mirror' of the desires, longings, and preoccupations of its worshippers; so when I gaze at the idol and prepare it for worship, I am really doing these things to a 'mirror' that reflects my own 'self-regard' and 'self-adornment' =even when I try desperately to reach through to the Divine power behind the veil of this phenomenal world, I am always thwarted: the worship and attention I seek to offer to the Deity always bounce off the interposed 'mirror' and 'idol' of this physical world to which I'm confined, so that I end up in despair: I'm always helplessly 'regarding' and 'adorning' nothing but myself The only other verse in the divan that mentions an 'idol with a mirror-face', {22,3}, gives the image a more clearly metaphysical twist: the 'idol with a mirror-face' may not seem definitely to be God, but certainly doesn't sound like a human beloved either. For other verses about 'self-regardingness', see {22,2}.

Ghazal 208, Verse 7

{208,7} phir dekhiye andaaz-e gul-afshaanii-e guftaar rakh de ko))ii paimaanah-e .sahbaa mire aage 1) then look at the style of rose-scattering of speech-2) let someone place the flagon of wine before me

Notes: Nazm: If wine would come before him, then the mind would open (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, then please look at how flowers rain down from my tongue-- let someone fill a flagon and a glass [gilaas] with wine. It is said that Mirza Sahib always used to drink in the evenings, and at night, in a state of elevation, used to say extraordinary and enjoyable things. (293)

Bekhud Mohani: When the people of the gathering have praised Mirza's speech, then in response he says, 'As yet, it's hardly as if you gentlemen have heard my conversation! If someone will please just place a glass of wine before me, then you would indeed learn that I'm not speaking, but rather flowers are raining from my mouth'. (418)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH WINE: {49,1} Through a baroque set of i.zaafat connections, the first line calls attention to a description of verbal powers-- literally, to 'the style of rose-scattering of speech'. It's a convoluted enough metaphor to get us thinking, and we wait with interest to see what the second line will offer. Perhaps something involving roses, to extend or twist the metaphor? Perhaps something further about the style of the speech, or its content, or its audience? Under mushairah performance conditions, the wait is of course made as long as possible. Then when we finally get to hear the second line, in true mushairah-verse style, it doesn't tell us much until at the last possible moment the punchword, 'wine', finally appears. Then suddenly we get it, all at once; and like a

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true mushairah-verse, it exhausts itself in that moment of enjoyment, the moment when it 'clicks'. Part of that moment of enjoyment is our going back in our minds to revisit-and now to revise-- the first line. For we had hardly noticed the innocuouslooking little introductory word phir , 'then'. And we were right to pass over it lightly, just as we so often do in English. For phir more often than not means something vague and mild, and quite variable. The divan is full of examples; I will choose a few line-introducing ones. In {49,1}, it means 'again'. In {51,1}, it seems to mean something vaguely like 'nevertheless'. In {162,4}, it seems to be a sort of 'then' of the 'if-then' kind. In {181,1}, it's hard to tell whether it's a mild 'again' or a mild temporal 'then'. In short, we can't tell in advance what kind of a meaning it will have, and we know that as an introductory word it's often simply a speech-introducer, something so bland as to be almost untranslatable. (Think how many utterances in English begin with an almost meaningless 'well then' or 'all right then' or 'so'.) But when we hear the word 'wine' and suddenly 'get' the whole verse, we realize that in fact it's an extremely strong, meaningful phir . It should really be italicized-- 'then you'll see!'. For it represents an unusual case of both both temporal sequence (first this, then that) and logical causation (this, then as a result that), powerfully converging. In both these senses, it insists that the second line must be read first, and the first line only afterwards. The way the verse misleads us into initially passing lightly over the phir creates almost a textbook case of an iihaam : a word that the poet has led us to think is used in a common way, but has actually used in an uncommon way. The process of going back and reframing (and deepening) our understanding, in our heads, on the fly, is one of the great delights of a mushairah verse. Conspicuously, the verse doesn't stipulate that the speaker must actually drink the wine, for the effect to occur: he only asks for the wine-flagon to be set before him. Perhaps the mere sight of it will be intoxicating; perhaps its mere symbolic presence will move him to flights of rose-scattering eloquence. The obvious thematic cousin of this verse is {208,13}.

Ghazal 208, Verse 8

{208,8} nafrat kaa gumaa;N guzre hai mai;N rashk se guzraa kyuu;Nkar kahuu;N lo naam nah un kaa mire aage 1) the suspicion/surmise of aversion/disgust 'passes'; I 'passed through/over' envy/jealousy 2) how/why would I say, 'Don't mention her name before me'?

Notes: nafrat : 'Abomination, detestation, horror, abhorrence, aversion, disgust'. (Platts p.1144) gumaan : 'Doubt, distrust, suspicion; surmise, conjecture'. (Platts p.914) guzarnaa is a variant spelling of gu;zarnaa . gu;zarnaa : 'To pass, go, elapse; to come to pass, to happen, to befall; to pass (by or over, par ); to pass (through, par se , or se ); to pass (before, or under, or in review, se ), to be put or laid (before, se ), be presented; to pass (over, se ), to overlook, to omit; to abstain (from), desist (from); to decline; --to pass (beyond), to surpass; to pass away, to die'. (Platts p.901) kyuu;Nkar : 'By what means? in what way? how? in what manner? why?' (Platts p.890).

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Nazm: The meaning is that having heard someone mentioning the name of the beloved, through envy/jealousy it doesn't please me; and it's also not possible for me to forbid it-- for if I would say 'don't mention her name before me', then the suspicion of aversion/disgust will occur [guzarnaa] to people. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if someone mentions the beloved's name before me, then because of envy/jealousy I become displeased. People suspect that it's a sign of aversion/disgust. Rather than this, I should leave off feeling envy/jealousy. I can't say to anyone, 'don't mention her name before me'. (293)

Bekhud Mohani: The lover, replying to himself, or to his heart, is saying, 'although envy/jealousy isn't pleased if someone else would mention the beloved's name, what can I do? For I also can't forbid it, because people will suspect that I feel aversion/disgust for the beloved, and this doesn't please me.' Janab Momin too has said something of just this kind, and the truth is that he's said it well: nah maanuu;Ngaa na.sii;hat par nah suntaa mai;N to kyaa kartaa kih har har baat par naa.si;h tumhaaraa naam letaa thaa [I won't heed the advice, but how could I not listen to it? for in every single utterance the Advisor used to mention your name] (418)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS When guzre hai (an archaic form of guzartaa hai ) can mean either 'comes to pass' or 'passes away', whatever subject it applies to can obviously be either on the way in, or on the way out. Nor is it clear what the subject itself is, for the suspicion 'of' aversion/disgust can mean the same range of things as an i.zaafat construction would: a suspicion that is generated by aversion; a suspicion that consists of aversion; a suspicion that aversion might exist; or a suspicion pertaining to aversion in some other, unspecified way. Nor does the grammar make clear who might be beginning to feel, or no longer feeling, the 'suspicion of aversion'. Is it the speaker's emotion, or that of others, that's being evoked? Here are some of the manifold possibilities: =I begin to feel a suspicion related to aversion/disgust, at the mention of her name =I cease to feel the suspicion related to aversion/disgust, that I used to feel at the mention of her name =I begin to have the suspicion that people mention her name out of aversion/spite toward me =I cease to have the suspicion that people mention her name out of aversion/spite toward me =People begin to have the suspicion that I might feel an aversion/disgust toward her =People cease to have the suspicion that I might feel an aversion/disgust toward her Then, similarly, what does it mean to say mai;N rashk se guzraa ? There are at least these three main possibilities for what the lover did with regard to envy/jealousy: =(1) to pass over, overlook, omit, abstain from =(2) to pass through, pass under, be presented to =(3) to pass beyond, surpass For further discussion of the intricacies of gu;zarnaa , see {152,7}. Then, needless to say, all these mix-and-match complexities of both phrases, in whatever combinations, work cleverly with the second line. For the second line offers us the colloquial complexities of kyuu;Nkar kahuu;N , which can mean 'why would I say?'-- but can even more easily mean 'how

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would I say?' The former sense would suggest that I have no reason to say, and therefore probably don't want to say; the latter sense would suggest that I might be thinking of how to manage to say, and therefore perhaps do want to say. (Moreover, either such question might or might not be taken as rhetorical.) Now the mix-and-match items are three: two sets from the first line, and one set from the second line-- and we are hopelessly without guidance as to how to fit the puzzle pieces together. The result, as so often, is that we're both permitted and required to make our own meaning for the verse-- and to do this task afresh, every time we read it. One elegant fringe benefit of all this ambiguity and mental work is that we have a kind of action-picture of 'the end of the affair'-- the rejected lover's turmoil of envy, jealousy, anger, resentment, disgust, all feeding on suspicion and uncertainty, and all swirling around together, barely concealed by his efforts to transcend or at least control them. Don't we all recognize this witches' brew of unresolvable emotions?

Ghazal 208, Verse 9

{208,9} iimaa;N mujhe roke hai jo khai;Nche hai mujhe kufr ka((bah mire piichhe hai kaliisaa mire aage 1) faith stops me, as infidelity draws me on 2) the Ka'bah is behind me; the church, before me

Notes: Hali: One day in my presence he expressed extreme regret at [an incident that showed the disgrace of Muslims] and said, 'There's nothing of Muslimness in me, so I don't know why I feel such grief and regret over the disgrace of Muslims.' But since his temperament was extremely mischievous, when any hot [garm] idea occurred to him, he couldn't stand not to express it, even if people considered him an infidel or a rake or an apostate. (75)

Nazm: That is, the Ka'bah, having fallen behind, stops me: 'don't go that way'; and before me the church is drawing me on: 'come this way'. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, faith stops me. That is, the Ka'bah is behind my back. When I take a step forward, then from the direction of the Ka'bah an attraction is created. And infidelity draws me on. That is, the church is before my face, and it is drawing me on: 'come this way'. (293)

Bekhud Mohani: By Ka'bah and church are meant wisdom and desire, the world and the next world as well. That is, sensual pleasures are bent on causing me to wander off the strait and narrow path. Wisdom and insight are stopping me. My life has become a tug of war: I can neither renounce the world, nor renounce the next world. (418)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN; PARALLELISM RELIGIONS: {60,2} If we were to take this verse literally, we'd imagine the speaker as standing paralyzed in an open space, with the Ka'bah exerting a magnetic force on him from behind, and the church drawing him onward from in front. Of course, no such open space exists in the physical world (there's no church within hailing distance of the Ka'bah), so we're unable to take it literally. If we were to take it in a minimally metaphorical way, we'd simply move the 'open space' from the real world to the speaker's mind and heart. In that case, we'd be left with what sounds like a crisis of faith: the speaker is torn between various choices in his life. But in that case we'd also be left with an

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unacceptably dull kind of prosiness: 'faith holds me back, infidelity draws me forward: the Ka'bah is behind me, the church in front of me', if taken biographically, sounds like something told to a psychoanalyst, or confessed to a priest, or confided to a friend-- something of only a descriptive interest. Where's the poetic excitement in such a flatly narrative level of discourse? Why would anybody who heard such a statement be moved to exclaim, vaah vaah ? Moreover, in this case even the 'natural poetry' people can't really go for a biographical connection, for in Ghalib's real life there's not a shred of evidence that he ever considered converting to Christianity. He does sometimes wonder whether he's a real 'Muslim' or not, as in Hali's anecdote above; but the wonder hardly sounds urgent or full of angst. For as Hali shrewdly observes, what he really loves is a 'hot' poetic idea, no matter what its theological content, and he's willing to go wherever it takes him. He's far from the only one, of course. The ghazal world is full of verses that would be 'infidelity' of the most direct (though improbable) kind-- if anybody were foolish enough to take them literally. Here's one of my favorite examples from Mir: miir ke diin-o-ma;zhab ko ab puuchhte kyaa ho un ne to qashqah khai;Nchaa der me;N bai;Thaa kab kaa tark islaam kiyaa [why do you ask now about Mir's faith and sect? he put on a forehead-mark, sat down in a temple-- it's been ages since he renounced Islam] But to return to the present verse: we can't take it literally, and we also can't fruitfully take it in any kind of straightforward metaphorical way (a physical tug-of-war between buildings representing a personal religious struggle). So we have to recognize that its excitement is in its starkness, its suggestiveness, its very open-endedness. Its vividness and simplicity pack their own kind of imaginative punch. For on examination, we see that it's virtually 'interpretation-proof'. That's why the commentators have to either content themselves with paraphrase, or introduce their own ungrounded allegories. The verse can be used to stand for any kind of serious moral struggle: for example, between the admittedly good and true (though it may be archaic, and thus left behind); and the new and/or alluring (though admittedly wrong and false). But 'any' is not very different from 'none in particular'. As so often, we're invited-- and compelled-- to 'fill in the blanks' for ourselves. Ghalib enjoys making us work for our pleasures, and who are we to complain? The verse itself is so striking, so memorable, so full of what ought to be some rich meaning, that it lodges like a thorn in the imagination. Another classic drive-'em-crazy-with-ambiguity 'religious' verse is the wellknown {111,14}.

Ghazal 208, Verse 10

{208,10} ((aashiq hu;N pah ma((shuuq-farebii hai miraa kaam majnuu;N ko buraa kahtii hai lail;aa mire aage 1) I am a lover, but my task/deed is deception/trickery of beloveds 2) Laila vilifies/'badmouths' Majnun, {in my presence / compared to me}

Notes: buraa kahnaa : 'To speak ill (of), to pronounce or call (one) bad, evil, wicked, &c.; to vilify, abuse'. (Platts p.143)

Nazm: That is, she says that [emphatically/only] you are better than he. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi:

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He says, I'm a lover no doubt, but I'm a beloved-deceiving lover. That is, all the beloveds of the whole world love me. In comparison to me, Laila vilifies Majnun. and praises me. (293)

Bekhud Mohani: I'm a lover no doubt, but to deceive a beloved and render her infatuated is a simple task to me.... The fame of [these lovers] has reached such an extent that where people want to write 'beloved', they write 'Laila', and where they want to write 'lover', they write 'Majnun'. And on top of this, the best part is that the level of passion and madness that Majnun is said to have reached, has not been vouchsafed to anyone else. (419)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS Usually it's the beloved who teases and plays tricks, and the lover who relishes that sweet suffering (as in {191,3}). But on occasion the lover too can give the beloved a dose of her own medicine. He can turn her charming delicacy into weakness, as in {20,3}, and her charmingly capricious self into a notorious liar, as in {20,2}. If she herself falls in love, he can gently (?) taunt her, as in {40,1}. And he can hold out before her the possibility that he might himself cleverly and sneakily find a new beloved, as in {65,1}. But here he's at his wittiest and most tongue-in-cheek. The first line is shockingly un-lover-like, and alerts us to expect something amusing and wildly implausible. Needless to say, we wait (under mushairah performance conditions) in keen anticipation. In the second line the over-the-top imagery is as potent as possible: Laila actually 'badmouths' (a current American idiom that works so perfectly that I can't resist it) Majnun! The Urdu idiom doesn't mean that she literally calls him 'bad', but that she vilifies or abuses him in some unspecified way that is, as so often, left for us to imagine. And then the final humorous punch: a clever double use of the idiom mire aage . All along we've seen it used either literally ('before me, in my presence') or as an obvious extension of that sense ('in my view, in my opinion'). Now we see the literal possibility invoked-- along with 'compared to me', a sense of the idiom that is quite new to this ghazal and thus feels abrupt and enjoyably fresh. So we end up with two possible readings: =I'm such a tricky guy that I've cleverly induced Laila to think of me as her intimate friend and confidant, and 'before me, in my presence' she pours out to me all her her grievances against Majnun =I'm such a tricky guy that I've completely snowed Laila and won her heart: she says that Majnun is really nothing much 'compared to me' The first reading is humorous because of the vision of Laila gossipping in a commonplace way, as any beloved might with her girlfriends, complaining about her lover and enumerating his many faults and failings. That's such a comedown from her traditional level of archetypally exalted behavior (as in {104,1}) that it's funny in itself; and when combined with the vision of her sharing her confidences not with her girlfriends but with the sneaky, untrustworthy speaker/lover himself, while he no doubt makes sympathetic noises-- well, the whole effect is so weird that it's amusing indeed. The second reading is humorous because it's something that Laila just 'says', presumably to other people, maybe not even in the speaker's presence at all. Since the verb is habitual, maybe she goes around saying it frequently, and elaborating on all the points of superiority she finds in the speaker, enumerating them on her fingers as she tells everybody what a loser Majnun is by comparison. This a delightfully bizarre vision. But of course, it isn't really an extravagant claim of superiority by the speaker, because he's already described his project as a farebii or 'deceit'. So he's simultaneously

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puncturing his own balloon: even as she describes his superiority over Majnun, we know by that very process that it's all a fake. A fake and a tease-- something to amuse the speaker's real beloved. He is laughing at himself, and encouraging her to laugh at him. But maybe he's conveying just the smallest hint of caution to her too? How does she really know how deep his ma((shuuq-farebii might go? Perhaps she'd better be just a tad nicer to him, hmm?

Ghazal 208, Verse 11

{208,11} ;xvush hote hai;N par va.sl me;N yuu;N mar nahii;N jaate aa))ii shab-e ;hijraa;N kii tamannaa mire aage 1) [they(?)] are happy, but [they(?)] don't die {like this / gratuitously}, in union 2) the longing of the night of separation came before me

Notes: yuu;N : 'Thus, in this wise, in this manner; --just so, for no particular reason; without just ground, vainly, idly, causelessly, gratuitously'. (Platts p.1253)

Nazm: This verse is, in this ground, the 'high point of the ghazal'. The meaning is that the longing to die that I had felt in the night of separation-- today it has come before me, in that I have died in the happiness of union. Other people too have used the idea of dying in the happiness of union, but this idea is something else. And the wonders of idiom and language, which have made the theme of dying come alive. This verse too ought to be counted among the wonders of the thought of Ghalib. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, all lovers are always happy in union, but they don't 'die of happiness' [shadii marg ho janaa]! It seems that the longing and desire for death that I felt in the night of separation has come before me in union. This verse is one 'lancet' [=sharp and pointed, thus excellent, verse] among Mirza's lancets. (294)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved has come, and the lover is feeling such joy that he's about to 'die of happiness'.... The first line makes clear that the kind of happiness he's had in union, other lovers don't have. And it also makes clear that the degree of difficulty there was in meeting the beloved, is not there in meeting other beloveds. And it also makes clear that the way he loved, others don't love; and the kind of despair he felt over the chance of obtaining union, other lovers don't feel.... From looking over the verse it can be seen that the first line is showing the limits of happiness, and the second line is holding up a mirror of his longing. The late Mirza Dagh too has composed this theme, and has composed it well: haa))e kis vaqt hu))ii;N dono;N muraade;N ;haa.sil yaar balii;N pah jab aayaa to qa.zaa bhii aa))ii [alas, at what a time were both longings fulfilled! when the beloved came to my beside, then death too came] (419-20)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH 'UNION': {5,2} Hearing (under mushairah performance conditions) the first line, the great question is, who? Somebody masculine plural, or somebody masculine singular but receiving an honorific, is the (colloquially omitted) subject. The speaker could also be speaking of himself, and referring to himself

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colloquially as 'we'. For the content is so abstract that we really can get no idea where the verse is going. After the usual mushairah-performance delay, when we begin to hear the second line, we still have no idea what's going on, or who's involved, for now we have a feminine singular verb and the vague 'night of separation', and no means to put it all together. Only at the last possible moment are we given the punch-word, tamannaa , followed by the (in this case) equally necessary mire aage . Suddenly, all at once, we get it; and in true mushairahverse style, once it's given us its burst of pleasure, we see that there's nothine else there, and we're ready to move on. In retrospect, we can see that the first line is a semi-resentful, semi-envious depiction of 'normal' lovers: they are able to be (habitually) happy, they don't just suddenly collapse and die when they have attained 'union' with the beloved. The clever use of yuu;N also keeps several interpretive possibilities open (though we can appreciate them only in retrospect). If we take yuu;N to mean 'gratuitously, causelessly', then it compares the normal lovers' behavior (they are happy, but they live to tell about it) to that of the true lover, who simply collapses and dies once he has attained union with the beloved, without any discernible reason. Or perhaps it's just his own wretched fortune that has condemned him to such a miserable, inexplicable fate. Other lovers live to enjoy their happiness; but the speaker, the true lover, is struck down in the midst of it without reason. And if we take yuu;N to mean 'like this', then it refers to the particular kind of death that the lover experiences: rather than treating that death as gratuitous or causeless, the verse seeks to explain it. In the second line, the lover provides what seems to be a causal explanation: his own despairing death-wish, uttered during the 'night of separation', has now actually taken effect on him, at the most awful, unacceptable time. The death-wish is thus potent, though uncontrollable in its timing. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}. Or he could mean his observation in the second line simply as an ironic meditation or commentary on the perversity of life: during the night of separation I longed for death in vain, and now that it's fantastically unwanted and inopportune, sure enough here it is before me. Death comes ineluctably in its own time; as we're reminded in {191,7}. Another possible interpretation is that of the commentators: that the lover is specifically 'dying of happiness', for which Urdh has the excellent idiom shadii marg ho janaa . That sounds like a plausible extrapolation, but there's no particular warrant for it in the verse. As Bekhud Mohani observes, on this interpretation the contrast with normal lovers serves to highlight the unique power of the true lover's passion: his extreme despair in separation, and his extreme bliss in union, two unendurable intensities that seem to cause him to drop dead from the contrast between them, or from the sheer intensity of his joy. Which is all very well, but it's not what interests the lover when he gives us his own reflections on the subject. For another verse in which 'normal' behavior is contrasted with that of one particular lover, see {111,5}.

{208,12} hai mauj-zan ik qulzum-e ;xuu;N kaash yihii ho aataa hai abhii dekhiye kyaa kyaa mire aage 1) a single {'Red Sea' / sea} of blood is rippling/roiling-- if only this would be it! 2) let's see what-all now comes before me

Notes: qalzam : 'Wide and watery... (met.) the sea'. (Steingass, p. 984)

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qulzum : '(for ba;hr-e qulzum ), the Red Sea'. (Platts p.794)

Ghalib: [1858:] Having heard about your mother's death, I felt much grief. May the Lord give you endurance, and bestow [forgiveness] on that virtuous one. My full brother, Mirza Yusuf Khan the mad one, has also died. What kind of a pension, and from where can I get it? As for me, I've given up on my life: {208,12}. If I live long enough, and sit down with you again, the story will be told. (333) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 491 ==another trans: Russell and Islam, pp. 160-61

Ghalib: [See the reference to the 'overflowing sea of blood' in {111,1}.]

Nazm: The sea of bloody tears that is rippling before the eyes-- if only it would content itself with that! But where's the hope of this? Let's see now, etc. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, this sea of bloody tears that is falling from my eyes-- if only this difficulty would end with this! But no; let's see what disasters and difficulties come before me. (294)

Bekhud Mohani: There's a sea of blood that's roiling. But may the Lord grant that it remain only this much (content itself with this much). But I don't have any hope. Let's see what things my eyes now show me. That is, the troubles of love have turned the heart to blood. But the Lord knows what things are now about to happen. [Or:] If the time of the decline of the kingship be kept in view, when the last crown-wearer of the Mughal dynasty had become a plaything of destiny, when in Delhi blood was raining down from the clouds, when a flood of blood was on the rise-- then the meaning of this verse will become that in Delhi a river/sea of blood is flowing, and may the Lord grant that it would content itself only with this, may fate not one day show us a state worse than this. (420)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; FILL-IN; MUSHAIRAH Bekhud Mohani suggests that this verse should be interpreted in the light of the bloody events of 1857, and indeed that's an obvious thing for any 'natural poetry' fan to propose. The only problem of course is that the ghazal was composed in 1853, as Ghalib himself specifically notes (see {208,1}). But the temptation is easy to understand, since the verse does seem well suited to the events of 1857, and Ghalib quotes it in a bleak letter written in 1858. Here then is a textbook case of the ghazal's unique versatility: its imagery of passion, suffering, endurance, intoxication, defiance, death, and transcendance can fit into almost any individual human emotional life (or collective human political situation), and the two-line scope of each verse is so brief that limiting or realistic details are extremely rare. How could the ghazal not be versatile, and why would its poets not seize with pleasure on the many chances to make it so? The present verse starts us off with a shocking and powerful image: a 'Red Sea' of blood is roiling or 'wave-striking'; the speaker tells us, and then goes on at once to wish, literally, 'if only this would be!'. The italicized 'this' is yihii , made from yih plus the small but crucial particle hii , which can be either restrictive ('this alone, and nothing else') or emphatic ('especially, particularly this'). Either reading we might choose seems very peculiar when juxtaposed directly to the vision of a roiling ocean of blood. In traditional mushairah performance style, we'd be left to wonder and speculate for as

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long as could conveniently be managed, before being allowed to hear the second line. The second line offers an even more sinister focus for our attention, one that we don't really grasp until the final, ominous kyaa kyaa . What could be more terrible than a roiling sea of blood? What else but that kyaa kyaa , with its dark unknownness? I've shown it as 'what-all', a traditional Southernism, because it's hard to show a pluralized 'what' in English while still retaining the singular verb of the Urdu. Whatever is coming, it seems to be coming as a whole made of many parts, a series of somethings that are envisioned (grammatically and semantically) as a collective entity. As we now mentally revisit the first line, that little ik ('one', 'a single') seems to almost glow in the dark. What could be worse than 'one' sea of blood? Two seas of blood, of course-- two or more. Seas that are both singular, and full of plural sequences of roiling waves. Or if we prefer, the ik can work dismissively, like those in {208,2}. Why even bother about merely 'one' little sea of blood, when what looms on the horizon is so inexpressibly much worse? The doubly inshaa))iyah form of the verse gives it exclamatory force. And as a 'fill-in' verse, it gets most of its power from the private meaning with which each reader invests it. In this respect, it works very much the way {191,8} does. It reminds us of situations in which the only thing more terrible than the present is the imminent, looming future.

Ghazal 208, Verse 13

{208,13} go haath ko junbish nahii;N aa;Nkho;N me;N to dam hai rahne do abhii saa;Gar-o-miinaa mire aage 1) although the hand has no movement, the eyes have life/breath 2) now/still, let the wineglass and flagon remain before me

Notes: Nazm: This verse too is among the author's most famous verses, but it doesn't reach the level of the tamannaa verse [{208,11}]. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This verse too [like {208,11}] is one 'lancet' [=sharp and pointed, thus excellent, verse] among Mirza's lancets. He says, although now the hand doesn't move and not even the strength to lift the glass and place it to the lips, there's still life remaining in the eyes. Don't remove the wineglass and flagon from before me; from merely seeing them, I am becoming intoxicated. (294)

Bekhud Mohani: This verse of Mirza's is peerless. Its effect too is as fresh as its theme.... If we take the wineglass and flagon as a metaphor, then the point will be that his beloved is before him. The nurse wants to send her away, out of fear that the beloved might startle him, or because of her presence the lover might be unable to breath. But the sick person forbids this: 'no, no, don't send her away yet-- I feel comfort from her presence'. (420-21)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} The first line sounds like a vision of someone on his deathbed: he can no longer move, only his eyelids flicker. We anticipate something in the second line about how he's nearly dead, and is taking his last reflective look at the world; or how the beloved does or doesn't, or might or might not, come to his bedside. We don't even know whether the speaker is describing his own condition, or observing somebody else's. And under mushairah performance

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conditions, we're of course kept in suspense for as long as conveniently possible. Then the second line provides a lively new twist: the speaker's only concern is to have the wineglass and wine flagon left where they are, so he can continue to enjoy the sight of them. We thus realize that if he's indeed dying, his last wish for his fading vision to dwell, to the very end, on the wineglass and flagon. But of course we realize now that he may not be dying at all, but may simply be 'dead' drunk, and seeking to prolong the pleasure of his intoxication. We can-- and must-- imagine for ourselves exactly what the vision of the wineglass and flagon might mean to the speaker. And what an intense vision it is! The power of the wineglass and flagon is such that there's no need to actually drink: the speaker's 'life' (literally 'breath') is in his eyes in any case. The power of the vision may be a reminiscent one: his eyes want to linger on the source of so much pleasure. At the least, wine has offered him relief from pain; and at the most, a Sufistic intoxication with the presence of the True Beloved. Wine is also performance-enhancing for a poet, as in {208,7}-- if one drinks it, and perhaps also if one merely gazes upon it. And of course, we know already that merely holding a wineglass in one's hand can be 'life-increasing' in an almost literal way, as in {111,13}. This is surely, as we experience it, a verse of 'mood'.

Ghazal 208, Verse 14

{208,14} ham-peshah-o-ham-mashrab-o-ham-raaz hai meraa ;Gaalib ko buraa kyuu;N kaho achchhaa mire aage 1) he's a practice-sharer and drink-sharer and secret-sharer of mine 2a) why would you vilify/'badmouth' Ghalib? He's fine/'good', in my view! 2b) why would you vilify/'badmouth' Ghalib? Indeed-- in my presence!

Notes: peshah : ''That which is followed'; vocation, profession, craft, trade, business; custom, habit, practice; art, skill'. (Platts p.300) buraa kahnaa : 'To speak ill (of), to pronounce or call (one) bad, evil, wicked, &c.; to vilify, abuse'. (Platts p.143)

Nazm: Clearly the author's meaning seems to be that he has addressed the beloved, and she doesn't know that it is Ghalib himself. (236)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Ghalib too is a lover like me, and he's my sect-sharer [hamma;zhab] as well, and my confidant also. Why do you abuse him? The meaning is that the beloved doesn't as yet recognize Hazrat Ghalib; she's conversing with him of her own accord. He's composed an extraordinarily enjoyable closing-verse. (294)

Bekhud Mohani: Ghalib is my close companion [ham-rang], my practice-sharer, my secretsharer. Why do you abuse/'badmouth' Ghalib?-- and then, in front of me! In the achchhaa something of the style of a challenge is also found. (421)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; REPETITION GOOD/BAD: {22,4} As Bekhud Dihlavi says, this is a truly delightful closing-verse. In the first line, the speaker claims a series of close links with someone-- someone who's his fellow-'practitioner' (probably in a profession or craft), his drinking companion, and his confidant. As usual, we're forced to wait for the second

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line in order to find out who's being discussed. It might seem that in the case of a closing-verse we wouldn't have much trouble guessing, since we know the poet's pen-name must be incorporated. But under mushairah performance conditions, we'd have no way of knowing (unless the poet dropped us an oral hint) that this was going to be a closing-verse, until we actually heard the pen-name. And the verse is of course careful to save that name for the second line. The second line is, on the first reading (2a), vigorous in a friend's defense. Why would you vilify or 'talk badly about' Ghalib, the speaker asks with perhaps a touch of indignation. He's fine/good, according to me! On the second reading (2b), the line assumes a positively belligerent tone. Why would you vilify Ghalib, asks the speaker. Then comes the colloquial achchhaa -- 'oh indeed?', 'is that so?', 'do you have the nerve?', 'we'll see about that!'-- followed by the equally irate 'in my presence!', 'in front of me!'. The next step would no doubt be to demand a retraction, or to invite the abuser to step outside, or something of the sort. This reading is Bekhud Mohani's, and is also proposed by Tahira Naqvi. On either reading, the indignant tone and exclamatory energy of the verse are a delight. We're also left with an enjoyably lingering aftertaste: the convolutedness of 'Ghalib'-- since the speaker here can hardly be anyone else than the lover/poet persona-- defending 'Ghalib', on the grounds that they're such good friends.

Ghazal 209 11 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aa kahiye composed 1853; Hamid p. 171; Arshi #228; Raza p. 325

{209,1} kahuu;N jo ;haal to kahte ho mudda((aa kahiye tumhii;N kaho kih jo tum yuu;N kaho to kyaa kahiye 1) when I would say my condition, then you say, 'Please say your purpose' 2) you yourself say: if you would {say this / speak like this}, then what can one say?

Notes: Ghalib: [See his discussion of this ghazal along with {201,1}.]

Ghalib: [1858:] kyaa kahiye , bhalaa kahiye -- this ground had once here become the pattern. But the meter was different. kahuu;N jo ;haal , etc. [{209,1}]; rahe nah jaan , etc [{209,8}].; safiinah jab kih , etc. [{209,11}]. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 714 ==another trans: Daud Rahbar, p. 91

Nazm: 'You'-- that is, not anybody else, you who are well acquainted with my purpose, you who having heard my condition say ignorantly, 'please say your purpose'. In answer to this, what would I say first? (237)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if I say my state of restlessness in ardor, then you say, 'Please say your purpose'. Although you're very well acquainted with and aware of the purpose of my heart, and then feign ignorance. Now I ask of you yourself: in answer to this question of yours, what ought I to say? (294)

Bekhud Mohani: If when understanding the meaning of this verse we keep in our minds a picture of some bad-tempered, powerful person and some oppressed,

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helpless person, then this verse is understood with the greatest ease. When I begin to tell you the state of my heart, then you grow angry and say, 'What are you babbling about? Say your purpose-- after all, what do you want?' Now you yourself do justice: when this state of affairs exists, then what would I say, and with what hope would I say anything? This verse too is like what Mirza has said in another place: {178,9}. (421)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; WORD Here is a remarkable riff of what I call 'word-exploration' based on the word kahnaa , 'to say', which is used no fewer than six times in two lines, in a variety of complex ways, including quoted dialogue, anticipated dialogue, and idiomatic forms. In the first line, the subjunctive 'I would say' [kahuu;N] excellently conveys the sense that the speaker would try to say something, but would then be at once cut off: 'you say' [kahte ho] is in the habitual, so perhaps this scenario occurs over and over again. And what you say is something like 'Please state your case' or 'Please get to the point' [mudda((aa kahiye]; the polite imperative verb here suggests not real courtesy but a dismissive, semibureaucratic indifference. Here are some of the possible ways to read it: =when I try to talk about my situation/condition, you insist on hearing instead about my purpose/goal =when I try to say something, you interrupt me and reject my words =when I speak, you pretend not to have heard me, and demand that I speak up In the second line, the speaker appeals for justice: 'you yourself say' [tumhii;N kaho]. And what is the problem being presented? The complaint has two readings, thanks to the versatility of yuu;N : 'if you would say this' suggests that the problem is that you would say the words quoted in the first line, mudda((aa kahiye . And 'if you would speak like this' suggests that you would say a variety of other dismissive, indifferent things as well. But the best part is the final phrase, kyaa kahiye . Here are some of its possibilities: =something like 'what can I say?'-- an all-purpose colloquial response, the verbal equivalent of a shrug of the shoulders ='what can anyone say? what words are there for such a situation?'-- a colloquial form of the inexpressibility trope ='how remarkable! how extraordinary!'-- an exclamatory idiom that's often used for praise, perhaps sarcastic praise of what astonishing behavior you get by with ='what should one say?'-- a request for information: in such an untenable situation, please tell me what kind of reply I should make This verse-- and this whole ghazal in general-- offers a case study in the idiomatic uses of kahiye (and sometimes other polite imperatives as well). Grammatically kahiye is the polite imperative of kahnaa , of course, and it's certainly used that way, but very often it's used idiomatically, to apply to proposed or approved behavior by a variety of grammatical persons, in a variety of situations. (The same thing is done with baniye in {209,5}.) When it's part of the even more pithily idiomatic kyaa kahiye , its expressive possibilities are further expanded; for examples of such colloquial flexibility, see almost all the verses of {201}. For a similarly complex treatment of batlaanaa , 'to tell', see {46,7}.

{209,2} nah kahyo ta((n se phir tum kih ham sitamgar hai;N mujhe to ;xuu hai kih jo kuchh kaho bajaa kahiye

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1) don't say again/then, by way of a taunt, that 'we're a tyrant' 2) I have a habit/disposition that whatever you would say, one would say 'right'

Notes: ;xuu : 'Nature, disposition, temper; habit, custom; way, manner'. (Platts p.494)

Nazm: The occasion of this speech is that the beloved had said by way of a taunt, 'We're a tyrant'. He said, 'You're right'. At this she became angry: 'God is great-- he really considers us a tyrant!' To excuse himself, he becomes angry and is saying, 'Don't say again/then', etc. The great pleasure in this verse is that from her addressing him he became so entranced that he considered the speech and the address meaningless and began to say 'Right, correct', and with every such word she grew angry. (237)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, you are well aware of my habit: that my habit is always to say to every word of yours 'Correct' and 'Right'. So why did you say, as a taunt, 'We're a tyrant'? According to my habit, from my tongue there emerged 'Right, correct'. Now why are you displeased with me without cause? From now on, don't tauntingly call yourself a tyrant, otherwise I will still, without pausing to think or reflect, say 'Right'. (294-95)

Bekhud Mohani: From the second line the etiquette of the beloved's gathering becomes clear: that people who sit there can't, when the beloved speaks, say anything at all except 'Right, correct'. (422)

FWP: SETS == DIALOGUE; HUMOR The lover urges the beloved not say 'again/then' [phir], 'by way of a taunt', that 'We are a tyrant'. But why exactly should she not? Which part of that behavior described in the first line is the objectionable part? Here are some possibilities: =You shouldn't say that you're a tyrant if you don't want me to agree with you, because I automatically agree with everything you say =You needn't repeat again that you're a tyrant, because I already know it and accept it completely =You needn't continue to taunt me by gloating about your tyranny, because I'm already as humble and submissive as I can possibly be =You shouldn't waste your energy trying to get a rise out of me with taunts-it's useless, because you've so vexed me and/or worn me down that I don't even listen to you any more, I just automatically mumble some vague agreement For after all, what a wonderfully multivalent response it is, simply to say 'right' [bajaa]-- literally, 'appopriate' or 'in place'. Like 'right' or 'of course' in English, it can sound completely humble and submissive, completely bored and inattentive, or completely hostile and sarcastic. Do I even need to point out that Ghalib allows, and compels, us to decide for ourselves about the tone? On the idiomatically flexible use of kahiye , see {209,1}.

{209,3} vuh neshtar sahii par dil me;N jab utar jaave nigaah-e naaz ko phir kyuu;N nah aashnaa kahiye 1) it is a lancet, {no doubt / indeed}; but when it would go down into the heart 2) why would we not, then, call the glance of coquetry a friend/beloved?

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Notes: neshtar is a variant form of nashtar . aashnaa : 'Acquaintance; friend; associate; intimate friend, familiar; lover, sweetheart; paramour; mistress, concubine'. (Platts p.57)

Nazm: dil me;N utar jaanaa and dil-nishiin ho jaana and dil ko lag jaanaa -- the meaning of all these idioms is that the heart accepted something, and believed it. (237)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we admit that the glance of coquetry too is a lancet. But when it would go down into the heart-- that is, would become seated in the heart-and the heart would accept it, then what objection is there to calling the glance of coquetry a friend/beloved? (295)

Bekhud Mohani: Granted that the glance of coquetry is a lancet, but when it has gone down into the heart-- that is, when the heart has liked it-- then it's not a stranger, it's not an enemy, it's one's own. (422)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; MUSHAIRAH The first line begins with a concession: well, no doubt it's a lancet, agreed that it's a lancet. (On the idiomatic senses of sahii , see {9,4}.) However, some sort of qualification is to be provided: 'but when it would go down into the heart...'. We're left with the incomplete grammar of enjambement, and under mushairah performance conditions we'll have to wait before being allowed to hear the completion of the thought in the second line. While we wait, we of course keep turning over the first line in our minds, and we notice one thing: this quasi-lancet is certainly more deadly and wicked than any normal lancet. For a lancet was a thin, sharp, bladed tool used for medical blood-letting, during the days when blood-letting was thought to be a treatment for many illnesses. The lancet would be used to open a vein in the arm, then the blood would pour out into a basin, and when enough blood had been taken the vein would be carefully bound up again. The idea that a lancet would be inserted deep into the heart sounds like murder, not medical practice. Perhaps the second line will give us a sinister scenario like that of {14,3}. And the first line is set up in a way that makes this guess quite plausible-- 'well, no doubt it's a lancet, but it's used as a dagger, it kills and doesn't cure'. When we finally hear the second line, we learn at once that the 'lancet' in question is in fact a 'glance of coquetry'. Why is it called a lancet? Obviously, we realize, because it's sharp and pierces the flesh. Then we receive another quasi-definition for it: why shouldn't this 'glance of coquetry' that is a 'lancet' also be called a 'friend/beloved'? The connection is easy to see: as the commentators explain, a loved one is idiomatically said to be 'seated in the heart' or to have 'gone down into the heart'. There's the small pleasure of solving the little riddle ('why is a coquettish glance like a lancet?'), but the larger metaphorical equations are more unsettling-- and, as so often, entirely unresolvable. If the 'glance of coquetry' is a lancet, then it's a lancet that's being misused as a murder weapon (by being thrust deep into the heart, rather than merely opening a vein just beneath the skin). So perhaps this kind of sinister behavior should be seen as the quality of the 'glance of coquetry' as well? The 'glance of coquetry' may be called a 'friend/beloved' because it's the role of a friend/beloved to penetrate into the heart-- but does that mean that the glance/friend/beloved would 'penetrate' the heart the way a 'lancet'-dagger would? Would the 'glance of coquetry' that is a 'friend/beloved' stab the lover to death? Maybe

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so-- and maybe that would even be the ultimate favor (see {19,4} for a case in point). Perhaps the 'glance of coquetry' can be an ordinary lancet too-- a beneficial medical tool, that relieves too much passion or 'congestion' in the blood. Perhaps that's why only when it would penetrate fatally into the heart, would it be called a 'friend/beloved'. The verse leaves us, in short, with a sort of triptych: 'lancet' equals 'glance of coquetry' equals 'friend/beloved'. What exactly we make of the conjoined metaphors is, as so often, up to us. On the idiomatically flexible use of kahiye , see {209,1}.

{209,4} nahii;N ;zarii((ah-e raa;hat jaraa;hat-e paikaa;N vuh za;xm-e te;G hai jis ko kih dil-kushaa kahiye 1) the wound of the arrow-head is not a means/cause of ease/relief/pleasure 2) it's the wound of the sword that one should call {delightful/'heartopening'}

Notes: raa;hat : 'Quiet, rest, repose, ease, tranquillity, cessation of toil or trouble or inconvenience, freedom from toil or trouble, &c., relief; pleasure'. (Platts p.580) dil-kushaa : 'Heart-expanding, blissful, delightful, charming, exhilarating'. (Platts p.523)

Ghalib: [See the discussion of this verse in connection with {6,2}.]

Nazm: 'Heart-opening' is that thing through which the narrowness of the heart [tangii-e dil] would be removed, and expansion [inshiraa;h] of temperament would be attained. Here he explains the pleasure of a wound: that the wound of an arrow is not a cause of ease/relief/pleasure. But how to describe the wound of a sword! For from it the heart becomes happy. The soundresemblance [tajniis] between raa;hat and jaraa;hat has been constructed through the art of eloquence [badii((]. (237)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the wound of the head of an arrow can't become the cause of expansion of temperament. The wound that one ought to call 'heart-opening' is the broad wound of a sword; through it the heart becomes joyous. (293)

Bekhud Mohani: In a state of happiness the heart opens, and in a state of sorrow it becomes confined. (422)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The first line gives us, as Nazm points out, the flowing and intriguing sound effects of raa;hat jaraa;hat , but it doesn't give us much of a clue about where the verse might be going. We might well expect that the second line would tell us more about the nature of the suffering inflicted by the arrowhead: its wound doesn't give raa;hat , but perhaps it gives something else instead; for an example of this line of thought, see {20,4}. Instead, the second line introduces us to the wound of the sword, which is to be contrasted to the wound of the arrow in some way-- some way that we can't at all guess until, in proper mushairah-verse style, the last possible moment. Then when we are finally allowed to hear 'heart-opening' [dilkushaa], it all comes together with a sudden rush of meaning. For the general metaphorical contrast is now clear: the arrow-wound isn't pleasing/satisfying, but the sword-wound is. And at the same moment we

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realize that if we 'concretize' the metaphors, we've also been given the reason. For the sword-wound is 'heart-opening' in a literal sense, since it lays the heart open with a broad, deep slash, and thus provides both more of the pleasure of pain (that favorite ghazal paradox), and also more effective access to the 'relief/ease' (and even 'exhilaration') of death. Thus it's superior to the arrow-wound, which makes a 'narrow' hole and thus is unable to 'open' the literal 'narrowness' (metaphorically, the unhappiness) of the heart. For a close cousin of this verse-- as Ghalib himself points out-- see {6,2}. For a similar use of 'heart-opening', see {4,14x}. On the idiomatically flexible use of kahiye , see {209,1}.

{209,5} jo mudda((ii bane us ke nah mudda((ii baniye jo naasazaa kahe us ko nah naasazaa kahiye 1a) if someone would become an enemy, don't you become an enemy of him/her 1b) if someone-X would become an enemy of someone-Y, don't become an enemy {of someone-X / of someone-Y} yourself 1c) if someone would become an enemy-- let him not become an enemy of her! 2a) if someone would say something unworthy, don't you say something unworthy to him/her 2b) if someone-X would call [someone-Y] unworthy, don't call {someone-X / someone-Y} unworthy 2c) if someone would call someone unworthy-- let him not call her unworthy!

Notes: mudda((ii : 'A claimant... plaintiff (in a lawsuit), complainant, prosecutor, accuser; --an enemy'. (Platts p.1015) naasazaa : 'Unworthy, improper, impertinent, indecent; foolish; -undeserved, unmerited'. (Platts p.1110)

Nazm: Although in the ghazal the themes of rakishness [rindii] and the worship of beautiful ones give much attractiveness, from time to time the poets, compelled by the rhyme, also compose moral [i;xlaaqii] themes. And this gives attractiveness up to the point when one or two verses are such as to require themes from which the ghazal doesn't remain the ghazal, but rather ought to be called an ode or a didactic poem [mau((i:z]. In this verse for the name 'Baniye' [members of a merchant caste] to come, in the taste of the people of Lucknow will be crude; and indeed it seems bad. (237)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to respond to enmity with enmity is outside proper morality, and is not the quality of the people of capacity [:zarf]. If anyone would vilify you, then in reply to this don't vilify him. Rather than a response of evil, goodness is better; instead of enmity, respond with kindness. (295)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Moral themes are not composed only under compulsion of the rhyme. Rather, these themes are a part of the ghazal. In the poetry of Hafiz, etc., ghazal upon ghazal has been largely filled with moral themes. [An example from the famous Persian poet Hafiz.] (423)

Shadan: It's a morality-teaching verse, and it's clear. (469)

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Josh: mudda((ii means 'enemy'. The people of Lucknow will certainly object to baniye . The theme is moral. (339)

Chishti: Meaning: if someone would show enmity toward you, don't show enmity toward him; and if someone would vilify you, don't vilify him. (792)

Mihr: If someone would become an antagonist and enemy, then one ought not to seek to become an enemy of his. The person who would say unbecoming things about us-- in response to them, one ought not to say the same kind of things. (672)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; REPETITION On the first reading (1a,2a) this verse indeed looks like a flat truism about virtuous behavior-- so much so that it clearly bothers Nazm, and he has to explain it, quite unpersuasively, as something compelled by the needs of the rhyme. In fact it's a negative form ('Don't do unto others as you don't want them to do unto you') of the Golden Rule. In a ghazal by Ghalib, do we really need this sort of platitude, one that everybody already knows? As always, the thing to do is to examine the verse more closely. And then we notice that both lines have a conspicuous kind of hinge in the middle: a postpositional phrase [us ke , us ko] that could quite easily be read either with the if-clause, or with the then-clause. If we take it as applying to the then-clause, we have the commentators' flat moralistic reading. But if we take it as applying to the if-clause, then we have a third party introduced: 'if someone would become an enemy of that one', if someone would call that one unworthy'. And now since in the if-clause we have two antecedents, we have two possibilities for the then-clause: either the listener is enjoined not to retaliate in kind against the persecutor on behalf of the victim, or the listener is enjoined not to join the persecutor in harassing the victim. I've tried above to show the possibilities in a neutral way by using 'someone-X' and 'someone-Y'. Various scenarios can now be imagined, involving the fickle Rival nastily gossipping about the beloved, and/or the cruel beloved persecuting the hapless Rival. Then, as I was carefully figuring out all the complexities of (1b,2b), all at once the verse rearranged itself in my mind, and the sheer amusingness of the third reading (1c,2c) suddenly struck me. This third reading is the one with that great 'click' feeling, the sense that the mushairah audience would have burst out laughing and raised a chorus of vaah vaah . Even on this third reading the verse is so inshaa))iyah , so purely exclamatory, that two tones for it are possible: either it's a plea or demand from the lover that no mere mortal should presume to say a word against the all-powerful and alladorable beloved, no matter what; or else it's a warning to the rash fool who would have the insane, suicidal hardihood to stick his head into a tiger's lair and call the tiger names. 'If you want to attack somebody, go attack somebody else-- but woe betide you if you attack her!' It's this latter reading that's the truly funny one, and my favorite. I'm convinced (though of course I can't prove it) that this is the one Ghalib most wanted us to see, and to relish. (As always, the gender is somewhat arbitrarily, but at least consistently, supplied by my translation; in the Urdu it's of course 'that one'.) Nazm's objection to the verb baniye is that it's also the (pluralized) name of a merchant caste-grouping, and thus a kind of pun. But is it simply the accidental, poetically irrelevant pun itself that he objects to, or is it the fact that the Banias are an un-aristocratic or un-poetic group, and thus the intrusion of their name somehow lowers the tone of the verse? I think it's the former, but I'm not sure.

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On the idiomatically flexible use of kahiye , see {209,1}. Here baniye is used flexibly as well, as a sort of general proposing of action, not necessarily a specific second-person polite imperative.

{209,6} kahii;N ;haqiiqat-e jaa;N-kaahii-e mara.z likhiye kahii;N mu.siibat-e naa-saazii-e davaa kahiye 1) {somewhere / anyhow / perhaps} write down the reality/truth of the lifediminishingness of the illness 2) {somewhere / anyhow / perhaps} {speak of / compose} the difficulty/trouble of the worthlessness of the medicine

Notes: kahii;N : 'Somewhere; anywhere; wherever; whithersoever; --ever, anyhow, by any chance;... may be, perhaps'. (Platts p.886) naa-saazii : 'Discordance, dissension; --adverseness, opposition, contradiction; --indisposition; --ill-behavior; --dissimulation'. (Platts p.1110)

Nazm: [Commenting on both this verse and {209,7}:] Well, it has just happened like this to us. And in our fate it was written that before one after another we would bemoan the grievousness of our fate, we would wander around complaining to one after another. Sometimes we would grieve at the hands of sorrow, sometimes we would lament at the faithlessness of endurance. (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, somehow please write the truth of the life-diminishingness of the illness of passion; that is, what shocks happen to the heart in separation, its state in detail. And somehow please express the difficulty of the worthlessness of the medicine; that is, for the ascetic even union proves uncongenial; that is, insistence to the beloved, the restlessnesses of passion, the thorn of the dawn after union, the prickling of jealousy of the Rival-- all these things keep one restless in union. (295)

Bekhud Mohani: [Commenting on both this verse and {209,7}:] Alas for our destiny! Our life passed like this, and is passing like this: sometimes we write the state of the restlessness of sickness, sometimes we express the difficulty that medicine has no effect. Sometimes we complain that sorrow has settled into our heart in such a way that it can't at all be removed; sometimes we express the fact that the feet of endurance are usually dislodged. (465

Josh: In both verses [this one and {209,7}] the theme is continuous. (339)

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM; POETRY WRITING: {7,3} This verse and the next, {209,7}, seem to work as an informal verse-set. The commentators treat them variously: Nazm, Bekhud Mohani, and Chishti comment on both together without labeling them in any special way, while Hasrat, Baqir, and Bekhud Dihlavi treat them separately, as normal verses. Shadan labels everything from the present verse on to the end of the ghazal explicitly as a verse-set (470). Mihr creates an even more unusual grouping: he presents and comments on the verses from {209,5} through {209,10} as a set (672-73), but doesn't apply any label. The two lines are strongly parallel, but what exactly is their relationship? Are they two alternative thematic choices from which a poet might select one? Or do they describe the same situation, simply emphasizing different aspects of it? Is one of them the cause of the other, and if so which way does

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the causality go? (Is the illness powerful because the medicine is worthless, or is the medicine worthless because the illness is powerful?) Is there an opposition between likhiye and kahiye , writing and speaking, or should the latter be understood in its literary sense of 'compose'? These questions become more compelling and significant because the lines are so multiply parallel that every single word of one line has a counterpart in the other line. How can we refrain from considering what it means that 'reality' and 'difficulty'; 'life-diminishingness' and 'worthlessness'; 'illness' and 'medicine' are so exactly juxtaposed to each other? And the first two pairs have strong phonetic similarities as well, while the final pair have an unignorable semantic tie. And what about the implications of kahii;N ? Does it retain its literal sense of kahaa;N plus hii , and thus mean 'in one place' one might do something, and 'in another place' do something else? Does it refer to something that one might casually, 'perhaps', do, or else not do? Is it part of an injunction-- no matter where, 'wherever', do it! The inshaa))iyah framework of the verse leaves it remarkably open-ended. Its tone is ours to determine-- is it encouraging? despairing? neutral, like an inventory? In any case, its structural connection to the following verse, {209,7}, is particularly strong, and it really does feel right to read them together. This verse also feels linked to the previous one by a semantic tie between two unusual words: from naasazaa to naasaazii feels like a very plausible jump for a poet's mind to make.

{209,7} kabhii shikaayat-e ranj-e giraa;N-nishii;N kiije kabhii ;hikaayat-e .sabr-e gurez-paa kahiye 1) sometime, let a complaint of heavy-settled sorrow be made 2) sometime, say/compose a parable of fugitive/runaway endurance

Notes: kabhii : 'Sometime or other, sometimes; at any time, ever'. (Platts p.810)

Nazm: [See his discussion of this verse together with {209,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, our life is passing in this grief and sorrow. Sometimes we sit down and bemoan the grievousness of the difficulties of separation. Sometimes complaints of fugitive endurance come to our lips. Listeners become anxious. Enemies laugh at us. Companions taunt us. With one love there are a thousand sufferings. (295)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his discussion of this verse together with {209,6}.]

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM; POETRY This is the second and final verse of what seems to be an informal verse-set; for discussion, see {209,6}. It has many of the same kinds of close parallelism seen in {209,6} as well, including conspicuous sound effects-- shikaayat and ;hikaayat resonate perfectly. Sorrow is 'heavy-seated' (in the sense of being 'firmly established'), while endurance is, literally, 'flight-footed' (in the sense of 'running away'). Only one grammatical non-parallelism appears, as a form of adjustment to the meter. The polite imperative kiijiye wouldn't have fitted at the end of the first line, so instead there's kiije , which is technically an archaic form of the passive. This verse also has the same kinds of 'A,B' complexities as the previous one. What is the relationship between the two lines? Are they alternative ways of spending one's time (a bit of this, a dab of that)? Are they two halves of the

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same coin (grief settles in to the extent that endurance flees)? Is one a cause of the other, and if so which way does the causation go? In these two verses we seem to have a suggested program of composition for a poet/lover. But is it merely a thoughtful literary exercise, an exploration of suitable themes for future ghazals? Or is it a cri de coeur, a depiction of the constant inner suffering that makes up the lover's life? The tone might even be light-hearted-- 'Just look at all the choices there are!'. (And here 'all' of course may mean merely the choice of which of the two painful topics is less painful, or the chance to alternate back and forth for variety.) As usual, it's left to us readers to decide for ourselves.

{209,8} rahe nah jaan to qaatil ko ;xuu;N-bahaa diije ka;Te zabaan to ;xanjar ko mar;habaa kahiye 1) if life would not remain, then let the murderer be given the blood-price 2) if the tongue would be cut out, then say 'welcome/bravo' to the dagger

Notes: Nazm: Here, by 'to give the blood-price' is meant 'to forgive [ba;xsh denaa] the blood-price'. (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in love it's a matter of 'the hand that has come under a stone' and 'the proof of faithfulness' [as in {230,7}]. At the time when life is departing, one ought to forgive the murder the blood-price; and if the tongue is cut out, then one ought to praise the dagger. (296)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza says that even if you are murdered, then instead of making a claim in return for your blood, and taking the property of the murderer, you ought not only to forgive the murderer for the sin, but rather also give her/him the blood-price. [As for Nazm's view,] people of insight know that here that is absolutely not intended. (425)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; PARALLELISM How far overboard is it possible to go, in welcoming and even passionately seeking death? Here's a kind of limit case, pushed into a reversal of normal experience in the first line, and an actual paradox in the second line. Traditionally a murderer must pay a mutually agreed-upon 'blood-price' to the victim's relatives, as a form of compensation that saves him from the risk of being murdered in retaliation. It would be generous enough even to excuse the murderer from paying the blood-price, as Nazm suggests. (Compare {64,6}, in which the lover volunteers to be solely responsible for the whole blood-price for any number of victims.) But it's even more perversely lover-like to order that a blood-price be instead actually paid to the murderer, so that the murderer makes a profit from the deed. Compare {19,4}, in which the lover tries to arrange some contrivance by which the beloved would murder him-- a financial reward might well be part of such a deal. The paradoxicalness of the second line works strongly against Nazm's reading, and in favor of Bekhud Mohani's. For needless to say, if your tongue has just been cut out, you're not well placed to start saying things-whether congratulatory or otherwise-- to the dagger that has cut it out. But at least the intention can be there-- the desire to express extreme gratitude for the powerful gift of silence, which is a prelude to the related, but even more overwhelming, gift of death.

{209,9}

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nahii;N nigaar ko ulfat nah ho nigaar to hai ravaanii-e ravish-o-mastii-e adaa kahiye 1) if the {beloved/idol/picture} would not feel affection, let her not; she is after all a {beloved/idol/picture} 2) speak of the flowingness of the gait and the intoxication of the style/manner

Notes: nigaar : 'A picture, painting, portrait, effigy; an idol; --a beautiful woman, beauty; mistress, sweetheart'. (Platts p.1150)

Nazm: That is, why would you look at her flaws? Why not mention her excellences? (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, to search out flaws in the beloved is a great sin in the religion of passion. If she doesn't feel love, then let her not; but she's still the beloved. One ought to mention her excellences. It is suitable and primary to praise her airs and graces, and do justice to her beauty. (296)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if on top of this gait and this style, she were also faithful, then-- how indescribable [kyaa kahnaa thaa]! If she's not faithful, even then these excellences are hardly small. We die for her style. (426)

FWP: SETS == REPETITION This verse and the next, {209,10}, seem to work as an informal verse-set. The beloved is described in the first line-- twice, so that we'll be sure to notice-- as a nigaar , a word with the literal meaning of 'picture' or 'painting'. That is, literally she's something beautiful, but static and motionless. Thus we can read the line as exculpatory in either of two ways: =So what if she doesn't feel affection-- at least she's still the beautiful beloved! And it's almost part of a beloved's job description not to feel affection. =So what if she doesn't feel affection-- she's a 'picture', after all, what else can we expect from a picture except passivity and indifference? Then in the second line we see with amusement that the charms for which one should praise her are pointedly active and full of vigor: the 'flowingness' or smooth movement of her 'gait' of course suggests that she's walking; and the 'intoxication' of her 'style' would involve carelessness, bending, swaying, becoming flushed, etc. (Of course, the 'intoxication' could also be an effect she creates on the beholder; but especially in view of the first part of the line, the strong probability that it describes her own qualities as well can't be ignored.) Thus the two lines can come together in at least two ways. As usual, the commentators insist on a simple and prosaic one: make the best of it, praise her for what she has and don't complain about what she doesn't have. This reading has a generally prosy, truistic quality-- it feels like the enunciation of a virtuous but dull moral maxim-- that makes it feel static and superficial. But thanks to the cleverly chosen and carefully emphasized word nigaar , there's also a much more enjoyable, sharp, witty reading: naturally she can't love, she's a 'picture' after all; so praise her for-- her movement and behavior! If we're enjoined to praise a 'picture' for its qualities of activity and movement, what does that suggest? =Perhaps the praise is a helpless, irresistible response to the power of the beloved, so it hardly matters what specific qualities are invoked. =Perhaps the praise is a desperate attempt at flattery, and it's a good tactic to flatter people especially in areas in which they don't excel.

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=Perhaps that the whole thing is a game, and the whole 'praise' is tongue-incheek anyway-- so why not do it with a wink, in a way that makes clear that one is in on the joke? All these possibilities are elegantly opened up by nigaar to hai -- 'she's a nigaar , after all'. Which of the qualities of the nigaar are being invoked? As so often, it's up to us to choose (and to choose the tone of the verse in the process). And by no coincidence of course, the verse responds cleverly and wittily to a variety of the choices we might make. The repetitive elements also give a nice sense of rhythm: the nahii;N and nah , the two occurrences of nigaar , the interplay between the related ravaanii and ravish .

{209,10} nahii;N bahaar ko fur.sat nah ho bahaar to hai :taraavat-e chaman-o-;xuubii-e havaa kahiye 1) if spring/flourishingness would not have leisure, let it not; after all, it's spring/flourishingness 2) speak of the verdure/juiciness of the garden and the excellence of air/love/desire

Notes: bahaar : 'Spring, prime, bloom, flourishing state; beauty, glory, splendour, elegance; beautiful scene or prospect, fine landscape; charm, delight, enjoyment, the pleasures of sense, taste, or culture'. (Platts p.178) :taraavat : 'Freshness, juiciness, succulence; greenness, verdure; moisture, humidity, dampness'. (Platts p.752) chaman : 'A bed (in a garden), flower-bed, a parterre; a flower-garden; a blooming, verdant, or flourishing place'. (Platts p.442) havaa : 'Air, wind, gentle gale;... --affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: The meaning of this verse too is exactly that of the previous verse. And by 'leisure' is meant 'leisure for settledness and faithfulness'. (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if spring doesn't have leisure for settledness, then let it not. But nevertheless, it's the spring season. One ought to abandon this complaint, and praise the verdure of the garden and the joy and pleasingness of the cool breeze. (296)

Bekhud Mohani: One group of wise men have the practice that one remains pleased with the good aspect of everything, and overlooks the bad aspects. (426)

FWP: This verse and the previous one, {209,9}, seem to work as an informal verseset. The previous verse was saved from mere truistic prosiness by the clever use of nigar . This verse is also saved by the elegant choice and deployment of vocabulary. The first line indeed sounds as sententious as the commentators could desire. But then in the second line, the relatively uncommon word :taraavat has a strong literal sense of 'juiciness, succulence', and only secondarily that of 'greenness, verdantness'. We notice this in passing, and are a bit alerted by it. Then the final havaa clinches the effect: it could at least as easily refer to 'desire, lust' as to a 'spring breeze'. So that in retrospect, we're reminded that

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bahaar too can easily mean 'prime' or 'flourishing state', and even chaman , which generally means 'flower-bed', can have such a secondary sense. Thus we're left with a verse that either: (1) praises the verdure and luxuriance of spring, despite its brevity; or (2) praises the prime of life, the flourishing season of youthful desire, despite its brevity; or (3) enjoins us to forgive spring for its brevity by appreciating it as the season of luxuriant, 'juicy' desire. As so often, it's up to us to choose our praises, and our evocations, for ourselves.

{209,11} safiinah jab kih kinaare pah aa lagaa ;Gaalib ;xudaa se kyaa sitam-o-jor-e naa-;xudaa kahiye 1) since the ship has come and docked at the shore, Ghalib 2a) will you tell the Lord about the cruelty and oppression of the {pilot / ship-lord}? 2b) what! will you tell the Lord about the cruelty and oppression of the {pilot / ship-lord}?! 2c) how you will tell the Lord about the cruelty and oppression of the {pilot / ship-lord}!

Notes: Nazm: That is, if someone would have done evil, and that time would have passed, then one ought to forget about it, and not keep it in the heart. Luqman [a figure somewhat like Aesop] has summarized the wisdom of morality in four things:... two things are to be remembered: the coming of death, and the Lord's being present and all-seeing; and two things are to be forgotten: to have done some kindness to somebody, and somebody's having done some evil. (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, after the time of difficulty and trouble has passed, one ought to forget it, and not knot it up within the heart; rather, one ought not then even to complain to anyone. (296)

Bekhud Mohani: You ought not to complain of the cruelty and oppression of the pilot for this reason: that he may have been cruel, but he also brought you to shore. (426)

FWP: SETS == KYA Here is a superb example of the delights of kyaa . The second line offers three possible readings. Since the ship has now reached the shore, =2a) will you tell the Lord about the pilot's cruelty and oppression, or won't you? There might be good arguments on both sides, and you'll have to think about it before deciding. =2b) what! you will tell the Lord about the pilot's cruelty and oppression?! Surely not! What's past is past, as the commentators observe, and why hold a futile grudge? Moreover, as Bekhud Mohani points out, the pilot did after all fulfill his main task, and get you to shore. =2c) how you will tell the Lord about the pilot's cruelty and oppression! You will really give the Lord an earful! In the middle of the voyage, it's hard to judge these things rightly, or to anticipate how things might look tomorrow. But now that you've arrived, it's time to look back on the journey, and report on it fully and accurately to the Lord, and make sure He fully realizes what sufferings you went through. Needless to say, all three readings work most enjoyably, in their different ways, with the first line. The classic metaphor of life as a voyage, and death as arrival, hovers obviously around the verse, but of course it's not explicitly invoked; it's up to us readers to introduce it if we care to. Arrival is usually a

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good thing, especially after a long and difficult voyage; but arrival-as-death may be a more ambivalent state. The wordplay of ;xudaa and naa-;xudaa is even richer than is first apparent. For though the naa is unquestionably derived from naav , 'ship', it also looks exactly like a negator (as in naa-in.saaf , 'injustice', or naa-ummiidii , 'hopelessness'). Thus overtones of a 'God' and a 'non-God' also seem to hover over the second line. Should one complain to the Lord about the activities of a Satanic figure in the world? Does the Lord know already? Does the Lord want to hear about it? Is it perhaps beneath one's dignity even to mention it?

Ghazal 210 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aak ho ga))e composed 1826; Hamid p. 172; Arshi #196; Raza p. 266

{210,1} rone se aur ((ishq me;N bebaak ho ga))e dho))e ga))e ham itne kih bas paak ho ga))e 1) from weeping, in passion we became more shameless/bold/daring 2) we were washed to this extent, that-- enough! we became pure/clean/innocent

Notes: be-bak : 'Fearless, bold, daring'. (Platts p.201) paak : 'Pure, clear, clean, holy, spotless, blameless, innocent, free (from, se ), undefiled, unpolluted, immaculate'. (Platts p.218)

Hali: The meaning is that until tears emerged from the eyes, we respected and observed the fact the fact that the secret of love should not be revealed to anybody. But when weeping could not be restrained and tears began constantly to fall, then we forgot about concealing the secret of passion, and became so shameless and immodest that we played an open game, like free ones or debauchees. To express this meaning in these words [of the line] is the limit case of rhetoric [balaa;Gat] and beauty of expression. (163)

Nazm: Shame and modesty were all washed away, we became openly a debauchee. The word aur has the meaning of addition. (238)

Bekhud Mohani: There were shamelessnesses earlier as well, but from weeping we have become even more shameless. In short, we were so much washed to such an extent that, enough! -- we became pure. That is, purely shameless [paak be;hayaa]-- we became entirely shameless. At first, the people of love weep silently and secretly. When some people see, then the curtain and veil gradually go. (467)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR; IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH That brilliantly colloquial, impatient, expressive bas is the nerve center of the verse. It gives us at least two ways to read the second line: =we were washed so much that, {enough said / to summarize/ to put it in a nutshell}, we became pure/clean =we were washed so much that [we thought], 'Enough! We've become pure/clean!' The first reading is the more usual one: inserting bas , literally 'enough', into a sentence like this creates a break in the discourse, and announces a

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compression: an intention to to wrap things up, to summarize, to 'cut to the chase'. It also has an irresistibly informal, energetic effect. Moreover, it's positioned perfectly for mushairah-verse effect: in the penultimate position, right before the unexpected, delicious 'punch'-word. Compare the almost identical placing and use of it in {210,6}. The second reading relies on the common use of kih to introduce quoted speech. Our own tears washed us so much that we got sick of it, we said to ourselves, 'Enough already! No more tears, no more guilt! We're now as clean as a whistle!' Either way, the thought is amusing. Tears show repentance and sorrow, so they're well known to 'wash' or 'cleanse' the weeper. But what do the lover's tears show? They may show sorrow (and/or frustration, desperation, madness, etc.), but they apparently don't show repentance. For their effect is to enhance the very passion-- and we all know, in the ghazal world, that it's an illicit, sinful, doomed passion-- that evoked them in the first place. The lover's tears make him more 'shameless'. Platts doesn't include that exact sense, but it's easy to see from the commentators' readings how prominent the sense is in actual Urdu usage. In fact I'd almost say that Platts's definition is a bit wide of the mark in this case. The juxtaposition of bebaak with paak also reinforces the sense of moral culpability associated with the former. The tears make the lover 'more shameless' by virtue of making him more 'pure', or 'clean', or 'innocent'. It's that latter possibility that gives the reader pause-- and gives the verse most of its complexity. A baby is 'shameless', and cries loudly and unabashedly for whatever it wants-- because it's 'innocent' and doesn't know any better. It's shameless, but not culpably so: innocence is 'shameless' in a way, because it has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. The lover, on the contrary, has all too much to hide! So what does it mean for the lover, washed clean and pure by his tears, to return refreshed (and even vindicated?) to his passion, to become even more shameless? He will behave sinfully and shamelessly, he will weep constantly and bitterly-- and his weeping will renew and enhance his ability to behave sinfully and shamelessly. The lover plumes himself so naively and amusingly on his experience-- who could fail to get a kick out of it? (But then-- are we laughing at his naivete, or is he laughing at our own gullibility in being so easily disarmed?)

{210,2} .sarf-e bahaa-e mai hu))e aalaat-e mai-kashii the yih hii do ;hisaab so yuu;N paak ho ga))e 1) the utensils of wine-drinking became spent for the cost of wine 2) there were only/emphatically these two calculations/reckonings-- thus, {like this / casually / for no particular reason}, they became cleared

Notes: ;hisaab : 'A numbering, counting, reckoning, calculation, computation; arithmetic; account, accounts; bill (of charges); rate, price, charge; -measure, measurement; proportion; rule, standard; --estimation, judgment, opinion'. (Platts p.477)

Nazm: One calculation was, from where would we drink wine? The other, where would we store the utensils of wine-drinking? These were our only two calculations. They became cleared in this way: that we sold the utensils too and drank wine. We became free of the bonds of relationships and formalities, and drank wine, and got wine to drink. How can the ingenuity of the rakish ones [rind] go beyond this? (238)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, he's made a list of the requisites for wine-drinking; every day he had to take stock of them. To take care of the utensils, to close up and lock the expensive things, tolook out for them. In short, his life was made a burden. A number of wine-glasses were of silver and gold. He sold them all, and used the proceeds to drink wine. He neither remained in debt to others, nor did the care of the utensils and the stock-taking remain a bother any longer. (297)

Bekhud Mohani: Now we had these two reckonings: where would we get the cost of wine, and how would we wander around carrying the utensils of wine-drinking? Both these reckonings have become cleared in this way: that having sold the utensils of wine-drinking, we drank up the wine. Good-- now we're at leisure! (427)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} This verse repeats the rhyme-word from the previous verse, {210,1}. It's not too common to use the same rhyme-word twice in a ghazal, but Ghalib did do it occasionally. The fact that here he does it in adjacent verses shows that he didn't think it was a problem or a fault. As Nazm says, this is 'rakish' bookkeeping-- it hardly makes much (ordinary, worldly) sense. There are several tones in which the second line might be read: =with naive pride (See how clever and financially astute I am? I bet you didn't think an unworldly person like me could manage business affairs so efficiently!) =with rueful regret (I'm so deep in debt, my only possible show of accounting efficiency is something shambolic and self-defeating that makes no sense.) =with rakish amusement (Let me show you how little regard I have for normal worldly prudence-- let me give you an example of how I do my kind of accounting!) The two reckonings became cleared-- 'like this' That yuu;N , 'like this', is the trick word. How exactly are we to take it? As endorsing such transactions? As questioning them? As laughing at them? Needless to say, Ghalib leaves us to decide for ourselves. For another 'rakish' verse about wine-drinking and finances, see {90,3}.

{210,3} rusvaa-e dahr go hu))e aavaaragii se tum baare :tabii((ato;N ke to chaalaak ho ga))e 1) although you became disgraced in the world/age, from wandering 2) at length you did become clever/alert in temperament(s)

Notes: aavaarah : 'Without house and home; wandering, roving; astray; abandoned, lost; dissolute'. (Platts p.101) chaalaak : 'Active, alert, fleet, nimble, quick, smart; expert, dexterous; clever, ingenious; laborious, hard-working; vigilant; artful, cunning, designing, astute'. (Platts p.418)

Nazm: He taunts the beloved. 'To be clever in temperaments' is an idiom. It is used as either singular or plural. But the author is the first person who versified it in the plural, and this is called 'freshness of words'. (239)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although because of wandering you became disgraced in the whole world, nevertheless there was this much benefit, that you became mischievous of temperament and swift in repartee. 'To be clever in temperaments' is an idiom; it is used in both singular and plural. (297)

Bekhud Mohani: He makes a taunt: through your wandering you became notorious in the whole world, but then, what's the harm? Now you've become clever-- you've lost this much, and gained that much; it wasn't a bad deal. (427)

FWP: Nazm's claim that the lover is taunting the beloved is surprising. Since when does the haughty, arrogant, disdainful beloved go 'wandering' disreputably and neglectedly throughout the world? Just the contrary is the case, in fact: 'wandering' is part of the stock in trade of the lover. He wanders in the desert, he wanders on the roads, he wanders through the lanes of the city. His heart itself is hopelessly inclined to wander: for proof, see {42,4} and {140,2}. So surely, in this verse, the lover is talking to himself. He's looking back on his life, and trying to console himself for his years of wandering and disgrace. The best benefit he can come up with is that at least he finally became clever, shrewd, quick-witted. We might read the two lines as related only after the fact: this late-blooming cleverness might be simply a normal result of knocking around the world, with no special significance or emphasis. In fact its disconnectedness from the cause of his wandering might be part of the ironic meaning of the verse: his wandering brought him something irrelevant to his earlier life; it brought him a gift (of cleverness) that he hadn't sought or even wanted. Is this all he's gotten out of it? On this reading, the very fact of its irrelevance shows how far he has failed to attain, or even approach, any longed-for goal that caused him to wander in the first place. Or we might read the two lines as more intimately connected, through 'at length' [baare]. On this reading, if the lover had been 'clever of temperament' in the first place, he never would have gone wandering at all. (He would have realized, perhaps, that his passion for the fickle, cruel beloved was futile, and would have renounced his folly.) Through spending years of his life in wandering and disgrace, he finally acquired the insight and shrewdness that could have saved him from that wandering and disgrace. Now his situation is that of the proverb 'the bald man has gotten fingernails' [ganje ko naa;xun mil ga))e]. Shrewdness has come to him after such a long apprenticeship that it may not be of much use. This verse reminds me of the much simpler, but still beautifully evocative, verse that Shahryar composed for Umrao Jan to sing: justujuu jis kii thii us ko to nah paayaa ham ne is bahaane se magar dekh lii dunyaa ham ne [what/whom we searched for, we didn't find but/perhaps through this excuse, we saw the world]

{210,4} kahtaa hai kaun naalah-e bulbul ko be-a;sar parde me;N gul ke laakh jigar chaak ho ga))e 1) who calls the Nightingale's lament 'ineffective'? 2) in the rose's veil/pardah, a hundred thousand livers became torn

Notes: Nazm: He claims that flowers do not bloom: rather, from the effects of a lament, hundreds of thousands of livers have become torn. (239)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, who calls the Nightingale's lament ineffective? Let the one who says that come before me. In the garment of the rose, hundreds of thousands of livers have become torn. He has constructed the blooming of flowers as the liver's becoming torn. In short, for there to be effect in the lover's lament is necessary and unavoidable. (297)

Bekhud Mohani: The buds certainly open. But the poet turns his poetic attention to this, that each petal of the flower is becoming separate from every other petal. They didn't open-- rather, the effect of the Nightingale's lament has torn the liver into fragments and flung them away. Probably this verse is intended to move the beloved to mercy. (467-68)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} VEIL: {6,1} There's a name for what this verse is doing: 'elegance in assigning a cause'. We had previously thought that the rose's petals opened out and bloomed, and then withered and fell away, in the natural course of the seasons. But now we realize that we were wrong. In the rose's heart, the Nightingale's lament did after all have an effect; although the rose tried to maintain its privacy and seclusion, it suffered severely. The rose's heart was ripped to pieces, its liver was torn up. Ultimately it was unable to conceal the marks of its suffering-- so now we know that no one should call the Nightingale's lament 'ineffective'. For a more complex meditation on the 'effectiveness' of laments, see {86,4}. For structural parallels, see {16,7x}.

{210,5} puuchhe hai kyaa vujuud-o-((adam ahl-e shauq kaa aap apnii aag ke ;xas-o-;xaashaak ho ga))e 1) as if one asks about the existence and nonexistence of the people of ardor! 2) they themselves became the straw and woodchips of their own fire

Notes: ;xas-o-;xaashaak : 'Sticks and straws, litter, rubbish'. (Platts p.489) ;xaashaak: 'Sweepings, chips, shavings, leaves, rubbish, trash'. (Platts p.484)

Nazm: That is, straw and grass have come together in fire, and have become fire. Now we can neither call them existent nor nonexistent. It is 'oblivion in ardor'. (239)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the existence and nonexistence of the people of ardor are the same. In their own fire of ardor they have burned like grass and rubbish. By 'people of ardor' is here meant lovers of the Divine, who night and day remain absorbed in 'oblivion in God', and erase their own existence. (297)

Bekhud Mohani: He's composed a peerless verse. (428)

FWP: SETS == INEXPRESSIBILITY Here's a beautiful use of the 'inexpressibility trope': the state of the 'people of ardor' is utterly indescribable. They are the fuel of their own fire. The piquancy of the image is enhanced by the somewhat pejorative sense of ;xaso-;xaashaak -- it is mere rubbish, waste material, small bits of debris with hardly any other use than that of low-grade fuel. From these humblest of materials, the great 'fire' of passion is kindled. The verse doesn't tell us-- and

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surely it hardly matters anyway for our appreciation of it-- whether the passion is for a human or Divine beloved. Really this feels like a verse of mood. It plays no tricks, it offers no wordplay or multiple meanings. It's stark and plain, centered entirely on its strong, paradoxical central image. Doesn't that second line make you want to linger over it, and say it again and again? For another meditation on ;xas-o-;xaashaak and fire, see {190,10}.

{210,6} karne ga))e the us se ta;Gaaful kaa ham gilah kii ek hii nigaah kih bas ;xaak ho ga))e 1) we had gone to complain to her of negligence 2) she gave only/emphatically one glance, when-- enough! -- we became dust

Notes: ;xaak honaa : 'To become or be reduced to dust; to be ruined'. (Platts p.485)

Hali: Perhaps the affair of the non-lover with the True Beloved is that He treats him with negligence, and the affair of the lover is constructed with a look.... Thus the meaning of the verse is that we became irritated at His negligence and complained, and the auspicious glance of attention took place. When He paid attention to us, then in one single glance He annihilated us. (163)

Nazm: On that side, in every glance what heat there was! On this side, what inability to endure there was-- that he simply collapsed into dust. (239)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] If you read the first line in a sarcastic tone, then you'll see the eloquence [fa.saa;hat] of his speech. On such occasions they say things like 'Off he went, the tiger-slayer!'. (428)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR On the clever, colloquially enjoyable placing and use of bas , see {210,1}, in which it's placed and used almost identically. Bekhud's sarcastic reading of the first line adds a delightful fillip to the verse. Of course, the verse can also be read as a report of a successful transaction, one in which the complaint is instantly resolved, and exactly along the lines that the complainer seeks. After all, we know from many verses, such as {19,4}, that the lover longs to be fully, satisfyingly, once-and-for-all, slain by the beloved. Perhaps the lover goes to complain to the beloved about her negligence in performing exactly this service. Instantly she performs it-- and the recipient testifies to his satisfaction. This is a verse of the 'dead lover speaks' set; for other such verses, see {57,1}.

{210,7} is rang se u;Thaa))ii kal us ne asad kii na((sh dushman bhii jis ko dekh ke ;Gam-naak ho ga))e 1) in such a style/manner/mood she yesterday lifted up Asad's bier 2) that even/also the enemies, seeing it, became grieved

Notes: Nazm: In which style did she lift it? With contempt? Or with respect, such that she herself lent a shoulder, she herself honored it? Between these two meanings, for neither one to be selected-- this is the reason that the verse seems loose

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[sust]. [He goes on to criticize, for reasons of technical metrical theory, the treating of the final syllable in u;Thaa))ii as short.] (238)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, contrary to expectation, she lifted the bier of Mirza Asadullah Khan Sahib 'Ghalib' with such respect and honor that, seeing it, the fire of envy/jealousy flared up in the enemies' livers. (298)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Alas-- what in the verse is an excellence, is here being called a flaw. If some one meaning were selected, then the other aspect would have been left behind. Now this verse can be recited on an occasion of contempt, in the same way as on an occasion of honor. [He goes on to respond to Nazm's metrical arguments:] In this way, when reading the verse, having arrived at u;Thaa))ii a kind of musicality [tarannum] and force is created. Rather, the surprise and heartfelt grief of the speaker are conveyed. (429)

FWP: Nazm is dead wrong-- surprisingly so, in someone who is usually such a perceptive reader-- and how much Bekhud Mohani must have enjoyed such a juicy chance to lambaste him! Bekhud Mohani rightly says that what Nazm presents as a flaw is the verse's remarkable and even stellar virtue. For it's perfectly clear that, as so often, each of the readings of the first line yields a differently complex and enjoyable reading of the second line. Such a basic Ghalibian structural principle-- how could Nazm miss it? This could be called a verse of implication, because the two readings of the first line don't depend on any shifts in the actual literal reading of the line, but simply on two differently imagined interpretations implied by 'in this way' [is rang se]. (It could also be read as 'in that way', with an us , but there would hardly be any difference in how the verse would work.) Thus if she lifted the bier in an extremely contemptuous, disdainful way, then even the enemies would be grieved, because such a hostile overreaction, even after his death, would make even them feel sorry for the deceased. And perhaps they'd feel sorry also because they'd realize, if they were in fact Rivals, that the same fate might well befall them. And if she lifted the bier in an extremely (and unexpectedly?) respectful, sorrowful, even reverent way, her (show of) mourning would awaken the humanity in the enemies' hearts, and make them reflect on the human condition, the common fate of us all, and so on; so that they too would feel their own share of the grief of mortality.

Ghazal 211 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aar-e na;Gmah hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 172; Arshi #166; Raza p. 191

{211,1} nashshah'haa shaadaab-e rang-o-saaz'haa mast-e :tarab shiishah-e mai sarv-e sabz-e juu))ibaar-e na;Gmah hai 1) intoxications are verdant/succulent with color/mood, and musical instruments are drunk with melody 2) the glass of wine is a cypress of the verdure of the {river / flood / convergent streams} of melody

Notes: juu))ibaar : 'A large river formed by many smaller streams; a large body of water, a flood'. (Platts p.399)

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Nazm: Intoxication is verdant with color upon color, and the musical instrument is overflowing with melody. That is, intoxication is so pervaded with melody, and melody with intoxication, that the wineglass is a cypress of the bank of a convergent stream of melody. The simile of a cypress for a wineglass is old, and the river/flood for melody is new and captivating. (239)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, intoxication has become verdant with color upon color, and the musical instrument is seen to be overflowing with melody. That is, intoxication is so pervaded with melody, and melody with intoxication, that the wineglass is a cypress of the bank of a convergent stream of melody. (298)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, if the pleasure of intoxication increases with melody, and the pleasure of melody increases with intoxication, then it's as if the verdant glass of wine is a cypress on the bank of the water-channel of melody (cypresses on the banks of water-channels are extremely verdant). In short, intoxication is a good thing and melody too, but their pleasure increases even more when both would accompany each other. (429)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} A term like 'intoxications' belongs with the group of other pluralized abstractions; for other examples, see {1,2}. This is a remarkably powerful verse of mood; its imagery is so luxuriant, and its general effect so voluptuous, that it actually itself feels intoxicated. It is celebratory but also languid, admiring but also enjoying. The verse itself seems to sway a little as it is recited. A word like juu))ibaar , with its rich and verdant meanings, is a perfect center for it, and its banks are just where a wineglass-cypress would most luxuriantly grow.

{211,2} ham-nishii;N mat kah kih barham kar nah bazm-e ((aish-e dost vaa;N to mere naale ko bhii i((tibaar-e na;Gmah hai 1) companion, don't say, 'don't disrupt the pleasure-party of the friend' 2a) there even/also my lament has the esteem/credit of [being] a melody 2b) there even/also my lament has respect/consideration for melody

Notes: i((tibaar : 'Confidence, trust, reliance, faith, belief; respect, esteem, repute; credit, authority, credibility; weight, importance; regard, respect, view, consideration, reference'. (Platts p.60)

Nazm: The person sitting with him is saying, 'you will disrupt the pleasure-party with your laments; stay sitting her quietly'. The answer to that is, 'in her gathering my laments have the esteem of a melody'. That is, having heard my laments, she becomes happier-- why would her enjoyment begin to be disrupted? (240)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that having heard my lament she is happier-- why will her enjoyment be disturbed by my complaint? (298)

Bekhud Mohani: Alas, you haven't seen the absorption of her gathering in melody. The members of it remain so absorbed in the pleasure of melody that if the sound of a lament falls on their ears, it mingles with the colorful singers of the gathering and begins to seem as if someone is offering hope. (430)

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Arshi: Compare {153,5}. (287, 275)

FWP: Arshi proposes in {153,5} the perfect verse for comparison; the same double possibilities open in the present verse. Perhaps my lament will be transformed by the general melodic clamor and hustle and bustle of the gathering into just one more part of the good cheer, and really nobody will notice it much. Or perhaps the beloved will actively enjoy hearing my lament and contemplating my suffering-- it will be literally 'music to her ears'. But there's a third possibility, thanks to the clever use of i((tibaar . Perhaps my lament itself has respect and regard for melody. Perhaps it will voluntarily cease its clamor when a melody is being heard. This reading too lends itself to a sarcastic tone-- perhaps everybody over there is so musicmad, even my lament is led to join them. So much for my suffering, and so much for her ability to even hear it (much less care about it)!

Ghazal 212 4 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa-e ;xandah hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 173; Arshi #167; Raza p. 191

{212,1} ((ar.z-e naaz-e sho;xii-e dandaa;N baraa))e ;xandah hai da((vaa-e jam((iyyat-e a;hbaab jaa-e ;xandah hai 1) the presentation/petition of the coquetry of the mischievousness of the teeth is {for the purpose of / because of} of a smile/laugh 2) the claim/suit of the gathering/unity of companions is occasion/place for a smile/laugh

Notes: ((ar.z : 'Presenting or representing; representation, petition, request, address; ... Breadth, width'. (Platts p.760) sho;xii : 'Playfulness, fun, mischief; pertness, sauciness; coquetry, wantonness; forwardness, boldness, insolence'. (Platts p.736) baraa))e : 'For the sake of, for (= liye ); --on account of, because of, by reason of; for the purpose of, in order to'. (Platts p.144) da((vaa : 'Pretension, claim; demand, suit; plaint, action at law, lawsuit; charge, accusation; contention, assertion'. (Platts p.518)

Nazm: He says, the pride in their mischievousness and fineness felt by the teeth-the expression of it is all for the sake of a laugh/smile. The meaning of it is that at the time of smiling, the teeth are revealed. This is the meaning of the first line. The meaning of the second line is that to have trust in the gathering and coming together of companions is worthy of laughter. And the connection is that poets always give as a simile for the gathering of friends, the four front teeth [chaukaa]. This verse is full of multiple i.zaafat sequences and minute elaboration; 'mischievousness of the teeth' is an extremely undesirable [makruuh] expression. The author's mischievousness of temperament considered 'fineness' [;xuubii] an obvious word and omitted it; otherwise, it would have been better. (240)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that the way in old age age the teeth become separated from one another, in the same way among friends too separation always comes about. (299)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The Lord knows what elaboration the worthy commentator finds in this verse that he declares to be 'minute'. If shaping both lines in the mold of harmony, and bringing out for the listener an aspect of musicality [tarannum], can come under the rubric of minute elatorations, then so be it. And if it is not thus-- and it is absolutely not thus-- then the worthy commentator ought to repent of this rash view. The 'mischievousness of the teeth' Hazrat the Commentator calls not merely vulgar and undesirable, but 'extremely undesirable'. The reply to this is that as important a task it is to depict 'subtle thoughts' and 'subtle moods', it's equally important to understand this task. For at the time of smiling/laughing, from the moist teeth something emerges that flashes like a bolt of lightning. In order to express this mood, the late author said 'mischievousness of the teeth'. What connection does 'fineness of the teeth' have with this situation? 'Fineness of the teeth' is not only bland, but in this situation incorrect as well. (430)

Faruqi: [Nazm] Tabataba'i had perhaps forgotten that lightning is used as a simile for the teeth, and one quality of lightning is mischievousness as well.... Undoubtedly, there's not a lot of meaning in the verse. And if Tabataba'i's hostility was actually on this basis, then to an extent his claim was correct, but it's also not the case that there's a complete dearth of meaning in the verse. Consider the word naaz . Its real meaning is 'that indifference of the beloved by means of which she arouses the lover's ardor to greater heights' (from burhaan-e qaa:ti(( ). That is, it is not only pride or a lack of affection, but rather that manner in which through showing pride and lack of affection she makes the fire of ardor burn brighter. Another meaning of naaz is 'delicacy, attractiveness' (Steingass), and 'attraction of the lover' ( shams ullu;Gaat ) is also to our purpose. Now the interpretation of the first line emerges that when the beauty of the teeth expresses naaz , then it's so that people would be happy. That is, that seeing the beloved smile, people would smile too, and in their hearts more attraction toward the beloved would arise. That is, when the beloved smiles with a show of indifference, even then people smile with happiness, and consider that this naaz is not without meaning, but rather is for them. In the second line the apparently unrelated idea has been expressed, that if the claim would be made that there is togetherness (that is, unity) among friends, then this is only a cause for smiles/laughter, not worth believing. The beloved's smile becomes equipment for naaz for all of them. Everyone considers that this smile is for himself. In such a situation, to claim that all the friends are one at heart, and unified, is only frivolity. The truth is that they all have their own agendas. (334-34)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} It's a tough and lumpy verse all right, and no 'click' of real satisfaction is likely to emerge. Faruqi's reading can't account for the centrality of the teeth themselves, as opposed to just the smile. Since this is such an unusual feature of the verse, surely we must make use of the teeth somehow. Nazm's reading, in which the four front teeth, revealed in a smile, are likened to a 'gathering of friends', is the only one that offers real connection between the lines. But then it seems to drag along in its train the distasteful and unromantic image of the beloved quickly losing her teeth (since the claim of

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their 'togetherness' is seen as an occasion for laughter). It's true that the second line can be read as referring to actual human 'friends', so that it is the brevity of their time together that is ludicrously brief, and then the wordplay of the loss of teeth can be pushed into the background. But even in the background, it surely threatens the verse with what I call 'grotesquerie'. There's one striking piece of wordplay: the first word in each line is a legal term: a 'petition' or 'representation' in the first line, and a 'complaint' or 'accusation' or 'lawsuit' in the second line. So we might say that the idea of the beloved's smile as any kind of 'petition' or 'request' is ludicrous, is laughable-- her teeth form a mischievous smile only to show their own beauty, only to cause further torment to her lovers. Equally laughable is the idea that the lovers have any kind of a class-action 'claim' or 'lawsuit' that they can bring to bear. Nazm singles out the 'mischievousness of the teeth' [sho;xii-e dandaa;N] as a particularly undesirable [makruuh] expression. Upon reflection, I think he's right. For 'mischievousness' and 'naughtiness' and the other meanings of sho;xii are always full of willed, even willful, human agency (see the definition above); and to personify the teeth somehow feels inherently a bit grotesque. So here's a verse that I have to keep working on. We can always blame Ghalib, as Nazm does, but the challenge remains. What if there's something there after all, something strange and suggestive, and we're just not getting it?

{212,2} hai ((adam me;N ;Gunchah ma;hv-e ((ibrat-e anjaam-e gul yak-jahaa;N zaanuu ta))ammul dar-qa.zaa-e ;xandah hai 1) in nonexistence the bud is absorbed in the admonition/warning of the end/outcome of the rose 2) there is 'wholly-knee' hesitation concerning the fate/fatality of the smile

Notes: ((ibrat : 'Admonition, warning, example; (met.) fear'. (Platts p.758) zaanuu : 'The knee; the lap: -- zaanuu badalnaa , v.n. To change the knees, to rest the knees alternately (in kneeling): -- du-zaanuu bai;Thnaa , To sit on the hams, to kneel'. (Platts p.614) anjaam : 'End, termination, completion, accomplishment, conclusion; result, upshot; accident; vexation'. (Platts p.88)

Nazm: Since hesitation and thought are related to having the head on the knee, the author adopted for hesitation the standard of measurement of the knees, and said that after smiling, the bud is engaged in the thought of what will be the end/outcome of the rose. But the standard of that thought, and of the hesitation, is the knee; and he has referred to it as yak-jahaa;N zaanuu . And when he has said that the bud is in nonexistence, the reason is that when the bud smiled-- that is, bloomed-- it became a rose, and the bud did not remain.... A verse of this kind we can call merely 'versified speech' [kalaame mauzuun] or a 'riddle' [chiistaan] or an 'enigma' [mu((ammaa], etc., and the reality is that it is outside the correct path. (240)

Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, when a man is thinking and reflecting, his head bows on his knee; and after a little while, when he becomes tired, then he changes the knee, or lifts his head from the knee. As if in such a small amount of time the flower sees its end/outcome, and it fades or dies. (299)

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Bekhud Mohani: The bud that is still in a state of nonexistence is absorbed in the admonition/warning of the end/outcome of the rose.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Why does Janab Tabataba'i declare it to be a 'riddle'? This construction is so clear, so captivating, so modern and heartpleasing, that words can't describe it. (431)

Faruqi: The meaning of the verse is entirely clear; also, almost all the commentators agree about it. Before the bud blooms, or before it comes into existence, it is absorbed in thought and reflection about the admonitoriness of the end/outcome of the rose. A little smile/laughter, and after that a long period and a great deal of thought and reflection-- this is its life. But what is the proof, or the justification, for calling the bud absorbed in thought? After its coming into existence, thought and reflection are all very well; for this thought and reflection are about its end/outcome. And the end/outcome of coming into existence itself, is thought and reflection, because right after blooming the bud begins to wither, as if it is absorbed in thought about what its end/outcome will be, and how much time is left in its life. They call the bud 'afflicted', but they don't call it 'absorbed in thought'. So there should be some proof on the basis of which we would be able to call the bud 'absorbed in thought', or some warrant [sanad] on the strength of which we would be able to say that to suppose the bud to be 'absorbed in thought' or 'meditative' is also a part of poetic custom. Until this problem is clarified, commentary on the verse will remain imperfect. It was probably for this reason that Tabataba'i has called the verse a 'riddle' and 'outside the correct path'. Bekhud Mohani has become very displeased at this, but he's failed to come up with an answer to the objection.... The reality is that the verse is neither a riddle, nor is it outside the correct path. Between a bud, and thought, and hesitation, there is affinity in several aspects. The first point is that to be 'silent' and 'concealed, private' [sarbastah] are among the qualities of a bud (cf. bahaar-e ((ajam ). It's obvious that the fundamental qualities of thought and hesitation are silence and privacy. [There are also a number of Persian idioms that liken the private, inward-turned person to a bud.] Thus in the very word 'bud' itself are hidden meanings of thought and hesitation. How was Ghalib wrong to say that the Persian language was established in his essence the way temper was in iron? At the age of nineteen, the meaningfulness of 'bud' was revealed to Ghalib in a way that was not accessible to revered elders throughout their whole lives. (336-37)

FWP: SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} To me the later, secondary 'nonexistence' of the bud that takes place after it has bloomed is very un-compelling. What I love in this verse is the vision of the bud long before it's a bud, when it's in a radical state of 'nonexistence', and yet somehow it's still brooding about its future. It foresees its whole life and death-- all that destiny comprised so aptly in a 'smile'. No wonder it hesitates! Yet, as we all know, it still leaves the state of nonexistence (by choice? helplessly?) to live that brief life. Ghalib is fond of nonexistence, and takes radical liberties with it: in {5,3} he blithely goes beyond it entirely, and in {210,5} he incorporates it into another sort of paradox. This verse is part of the yak-jahaa;N series discussed in {11,1}. A phrase like yak-jahaa;N zaanuu , while strange, is thus not without precedents and parallels. The word zaanuu can mean 'knee' (or sometimes 'lap'), but it's almost always used to describe a position of kneeling, or sitting on the haunches, or sitting with the knees drawn up to the chest and the head resting

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on them. Such a position evokes the gathered-in shape of a bud, and also suggests a posture of thought, or doubt, or hesitation. (Compare {42,5}.) The striking sequence of yak-jahaa;N zaanuu , literally 'one world knee', is memorable for its cleverness; but still it feels a bit flashy and forced. Best of all for comparison is the brilliant {155,2}, which also plays on the gathered-in 'composure' of the bud, and has an unforgettably resonant second line; Ghalib has commented on it in a letter.

{212,3} kulfat-e afsurdagii ko ((aish-e betaabii ;haraam varnah dandaa;N dar dil afshurdan binaa-e ;xandah hai 1) to the vexation/distress of melancholy, the enjoyment/luxury of restlessness is forbidden 2) otherwise, the pressing of teeth into the heart is the foundation of a smile

Notes: dandaan bar dil afshurdan : 'To bear patiently'. (Steingass, p.537)

Nazm: In the heart's state of sadness and melancholy and misery and wretchedness, it is forbidden for it to show restlessness and impatience. Otherwise, if he would become restless and chew up the heart, then all its wretchedness would depart.... In this verse, he has declared that in comparison to sadness, restlessness is enjoyment; that is, in sadness is such misery that compared to it, restlessness is enjoyment. (240-41)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that melancholy of temperament is such a difficulty that in comparison to it restlessness and impatience have, so to speak, the status of enjoyment. (299)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The dictionary meaning of dandaan dar dil afshurdan is to endure difficulties, not to chew up the heart. The Lord knows what Janab Tabataba'i is pleased to say! Then in the end to say that there's such misery in sadness that in comparison to it restlessness is enjoyment, is certainly an attractive thing, but between it and the author's meaning is a vast difference. The author says very clearly that to the vexation of sadness the enjoyment of restlessness is forbidden. That is, he (the author) is referring to the restlessness of passion or the stress and agitation of worldly affairs, which in reality are called 'life', and not saying that he considers restlessness better than sadness. (432)

FWP: SETS == IDIOMS; VARNAH SMILE/LAUGHTER: {27,4} The 'pressing of teeth into the heart' to mean 'enduring difficulties' is a wonderful idiom, and the fact that it's Persian rather than Urdu wouldn't have given Ghalib a moment's pause. In English we have 'gritting the teeth', and also the idea of 'biting your lip' in an effort to maintain self-control in some difficult situation. Apparently Nazm doesn't know this idiom, which illustrates the riskiness of Ghalib's unabashed incorporation of Persian into the Urdu world. But equally to the point, the physical shape of a row of teeth pressed into flesh is a semicircle, and thus the 'foundation of a smile'. It might also be the 'foundation of a smile' in a metaphorical sense as well: it might cause so much pain to the heart as to momentarily distract the lover from the greater suffering of passion, and thus cause him almost to 'smile' with relief. Or perhaps, even more grimly, the only way the lover can imagine ever shaping a 'smile' is in this fashion: his 'smile' might be the objective correlative of his teeth pressed into his heart in gallant endurance and fake

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good cheer. (The Spartan boy with the wolf eating his vitals under his clothing comes to mind.) And how bleak is the lover's state, how harsh the discipline of the 'religion of passion' [ma;zhab-e ((ishq], that even this much 'restlessness', the purely inward gesture of teeth pressed into the heart, is ;haraam to him. And how faithful a votary the lover is, who strictly enforces this discipline on himself. Here we can use the 'smile' in excellent, enjoyable, complexly satisfying ways. We can do with it all the things that we unfortunately can't do with the 'teeth' in {212,1}.

{212,4} shorish-e baa:tin ke hai;N a;hbaab munkir varnah yaa;N dil mu;hii:t-e giryah-o-lab aashnaa-e ;xandah hai 1) companions are disapprovers/rejecters of the internal disturbance/turmoil/saltiness; otherwise, here 2) the heart is an ocean/encloser of weeping/tears, and the lip a friend/swimmer of a smile

Notes: shorish : 'Commotion, confusion, tumult, disturbance, insurrection, &c.; -brackishness, saltness'. (Platts p.736) munkir : 'Denying; rejecting; disapproving (of); averse (to); --one who denies, denier; rejecter; ignorer; --an atheist; --one who takes ill, or feels disobliged; one who places no confidence (in another), but disbelieves what he professes'. (Platts p.1079) mu;hii:t : 'Surrounding, encompassing, enclosing, encircling, circumambient; containing, embracing, comprehending; knowing,... the ocean'. (Platts p.1010) aashnaa : 'Acquaintance; friend; associate; intimate friend, familiar; lover, sweetheart; paramour; mistress'. (Platts p.57) aashnaa : 'A friend, companion, comrade, acquaintance; swimming, floating; a swimmer'. (Steingass p.66)

Nazm: That is, although our outer appearance is rakish, our inner self is full of lowliness and humiliation. The word aashnaa is because of an affinity with mu;hii:t : they call a swimmer aashnaa [in Persian], and the Persian poets always use mu;hii:t to mean a river/ocean. (241)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that outwardly we maintain a rakish condition, and inwardly we are a master of mystical states. (299)

Bekhud Mohani: The reason that tears don't drip from the eyes is that the burning [sozish , in his text of the verse] of the heart has dried them up. And the friends refuse to believe it, but the truth is that the heart is an enclosure of weeping, and has surrounded it. That is, as much weeping as can possibly exist, all of it is completely within the heart. And on the lip there's a smile-- that is, the lover's heart weeps, and everybody smiles. (432)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH; VARNAH, WORDPLAY Every single one of the commentators that I'm using-- Hamid, Nazm, Bekhud Dihlavi, Bekhud Mohani, Hasrat Mohani (p. 162), Baqir (p. 509), Shadan (p. 475), Josh (p. 343), Chishti (p. 799), Mihr (678)-- gives the first word of the verse as the variant sozish , 'burning', rather than shorish . As

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always, I follow Arshi; and in this case very gladly, since shorish offers much richer and more appropriate scope for wordplay. When we first see the shorish we of course think of its more common meaning of 'commotion, disturbance', etc., and the first line is general enough so that that meaning works perfectly well. Only in the second line do we learn that the heart is an 'ocean of weeping' (and also a 'knower' of it, which works elegantly, and indeed also an 'enclosure' or 'encloser' of it, which goes well with the idea that it is kept hidden from the companions). An 'ocean' is salty in its own right, and 'tears' are salty too, so an 'ocean of tears' would be remarkably salty; and now in retrospect we remind ourselves that shorish also means 'brackishness, saltness'. And in classic mushairah-verse style, the verse saves the best punch-word for the last possible moment. For aashnaa in all its uses is perfect here: =as 'friend' or 'associate', it reminds us of the 'companions' in the first line, and of the lip's obligation to maintain (outward) sociability =as 'familiar' or 'intimate', it reminds us that the lip is a kind of confidant and secret-sharer, understanding the real nature of the smile; while the heart too , as a mu;hii:t , is a 'knower' and 'comprehender'-- of the real nature and quantity of grief =as 'swimming' or 'swimmer' (in Persian), it enriches our vision of a huge, inner, salty tear-ocean, on which we can now imagine the lip as 'a swimmer of a smile' or 'swimming in a smile'. Of course, we can't quite pull this last image into a single clear visual scene. But we're so close to it that the final small gap feels like the kind that a spark leaps across, the kind that generates energy. We've all been in social situations where our lip was 'associating with' a smile, while at the same time that very smile was swimming, or floating, on a salty, stormy sea of hidden misery. The single word aashnaa thus retrospectively pulls together all the imagery of the verse, and creates a web of wordplay that provides it with a sharp, compelling energy. All the things we might want to do with the 'teeth' in {212,1}, but can't, we can here do with aashnaa .

Ghazal 213 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa((-e jalvah hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 173; Arshi #168; Raza pp. 190-91

{213,1} ;husn-e be-parvaa ;xariidaar-e mataa((-e jalvah hai aa))inah zaanuu-e fikr-e i;xtiraa((-e jalvah hai 1) unconcerned/independent beauty is the buyer of the property/goods of radiance/manifestation 2) the mirror is the knee of thought of the inventing/devising of radiance/manifestation

Notes: be-parvaa : 'Heedless, careless, unconcerned, without reflection, thoughtless; fearless, intrepid; at ease, independent; fearlessly, boldly'. (Platts p.202 i;xtiraa(( : 'Inventing; devising; invention; discovery; introducing'. (Platts p.29)

Nazm: He says that beauty, although it is independent and careless, nevertheless always longs for adornment and self-display, and for it the mirror is the knee

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of thought. That is, in adornment the thought of invention and devising always takes place in the mirror. In the state of thought, to be 'head on knee' [sar bah zaanuu] has become habitual; for this reason, in the literature of the Persian-users [faarsii-vaale] the 'knee of thought' is among the affinities, and to call the knee a 'mirror' is a well-known thing. Here the author has in fact called the mirror a 'knee'; that is, the 'knee of thought' of beauty is the mirror, because beautiful ones always have a relationship with the mirror, and in the mirror they think of adornment. (241)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, although beauty is independent and careless, nevertheless it always has a longing and desire for outward adornment and radiance/manifestation. And in this connection the mirror does the job of the 'knee of thought'. That is, in the adornment of beauty, the thought of the invention of many new devices takes place only while looking in the mirror. (299-300)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse Mirza has shown a picture of the beloveds' adorning themselves, and in the blink of an eye being inclined from one kind of glory toward another, and themselves adoring their own coquetries. (433)

FWP: SETS == A,B COMMERCE: {3,3} MIRROR: {8,3} 'Beauty' is described in the first line as 'unconcerned, careless', 'independent' [be-parvaa]-- and then the first line itself seems to go on to show that it's no such thing. It's not 'careless, unconcerned' because it's quite careful and concerned about arranging the necessities for its own enhancement. And it's not 'independent' because it doesn't generate the wherewithal of beauty within itself: rather, it has to 'buy' the necessary 'property/goods' from outside. Such dependence is necessarily humiliating; see {18,4} for a clear statement of the case. So one reading is a teasing one: the beloved who acts so aloof and indifferent has really taken a lot of trouble over her appearance. Another, and very mystical, reading would be sequential: primal divine Beauty is first 'unconcerned' and 'independent', but then at a later point it decides to equip itself with the material for visibility in the material world. Thus it acquires or 'buys' the ornaments (or veils?) of the phenomenal world, as external manifestations of what would otherwise be invisible. The second line describes the 'mirror' as 'the knee of thought of the inventing of radiance/manifestation'. While usually the 'knee of thought' suggests a posture of concentration and meditative innerness, with the body drawn up and the head bent, here the lowered eyes are looking directly into a reflection of their own image. Does that constitute a parody of thought, or simply a different form of thought? Does the use of a mirror make the 'inventing of radiance' artificial and derivative, or is the mirror simply an essential condition of the process of invention? See for example {47,1}, in which the garden is an indispensable (though 'impure') mirror that makes the spring breeze visible. Is the 'inventing' of radiance a valuable and desirable way for radiance to come about, or is there something meretricious about it? Each line is ambiguous in itself; and of course we also have to decide for ourselves what the relationship is between them. Should one be taken as a cause, and the other as a consequence or result? (And if so, which way should the causality go?) Or should they be considered as parallel statements of the same situation, or of parallel situations-- or even of situations that are non-parallel in some suggestive way? We're led to raise these questions; but as so often, we aren't given any way to resolve them. So the verse itself becomes, and remains, a meditative experience.

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Compare {42,5}, another verse in which the 'knee of thought' is likened to concentration on a mirror.

{213,2} taa kujaa ay aagahii rang-e tamaashaa baa;xtan chashm-e vaa-gardiidah aa;Gosh-e vidaa((-e jalvah hai 1) until where/when, oh Awareness, the losing/bestowing of the color/mood of spectacle?! 2) the opened eye is the 'embrace of departure' of radiance/manifestation

Notes: taa kujaa : 'How far? whither? how long?'. (Steingass, p.276) baa;xtan : 'To play; to lose at play; to give, to bestow'. (Steingass, p.136) gardiidah : 'Become, changed; surrounded; tumbled down, revolved'. (Steingass, p.1082)

Nazm: rang baa;xtan and rang shikastan have the meaning of rang badalnaa ['to change the color', or 'for the color to change'], and by 'spectacle' is meant the spectacle of the world. He says, oh perception and awareness, for how long will you continue to have taken on the mood/color of spectacle, and to what extent will you remain absorbed in strolling around the world? Understand this: that to open the eye to the insubstantial world is as if to open to it an 'embrace of departure'. That is, for the radiance/manifestation of the world there is extremely little stability and duration. (241-42)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Awareness, after all, how long will your face keep losing its color with the pallor of a spectator? Don't you know that the open eye is the 'embrace of departure' of radiance/manifestation? That is, oh heedless one, how long will you remain absorbed in the spectacles of the world? Here, no spectacle has either stability or duration. What you have considered to be an opened eye, is an 'embrace of departure'. (434)

Faruqi: This theme has been taken to a great extent from Mir [m{178,3}]: muu;Nd rakhnaa chashm kaa hastii me;N ((ain-e diid hai kuchh nahii;N aataa na:zar jab aa;Nkh khole hai ;hubab [the keeping closed of the eye is, in existence, the essence of sight when one opens the eye, the bubble seems to be nothing].... In fact, Ghalib has not used the idiom rang baa;xtan [meaning 'for the color to depart']. He has used rang with the meaning of 'value and worth', or 'strength and situation'; and has used baa;xtan as an infinitive, in its common meaning: that is, 'to waste', 'to lose', 'to destroy'. Thus the meaning of the line is, oh Awareness, how long will you keep wasting the value and worth, the strength and situation, of the spectacle? The verse thus means that if it would be looked at with an open eye, then the value and worth of radiance/manifestation becomes wasted/lost. The true method of seeing is that the outer eye would be closed, and it would be seen with the eye of the heart. (338-39)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS TAMASHA: {8,1} The verse is another of those limit cases of ambiguity; it's like the previous verse {213,1}, only even more so. Its elements are so systematically multivalent that it will make sense to look at them one by one: ='until where/when' establishes the line as markedly inshaa))iyah ; it can be read either as a genuine question or as a rhetorical question or exclamation--

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either an affirmative one that values what is questioned, or a negative one that expresses disgust at what is questioned. ='Awareness' is addressed, but it's not clear whether this personified entity has, or should have, any power or responsibility for action; perhaps the speaker is simply meditating, talking to his own mind and pointing out to it certain general truths. =the 'color/mood of spectacle' could be either something felt by the beholder, or else something inherent in the spectacle itself; and the many possible meanings of rang add to the complexities. = baa;xtan can mean either 'to lose' or 'to bestow'. Although the verb is Persian, both meanings are obviously present in Urdu as well: the former is attested by Bekhud Mohani's idiomatic sense (of losing the color in one's face) and the latter by all the uses of ba;xt in the sense of something given or bestowed, like fate or fortune. Since the agent who is doing the losing or bestowing is not at all clear, the possibilities can hardly help but be manifold, and will inevitably include direct opposites of each other = the 'opened' eye is actually the 'having-become-opened eye', and the sense of gardiidah as 'revolved, tumbled down' opens the possibility of a decline in state as well. So the verse juxtaposes two possible states: what might be 'seen' in some (mystical) sense by the unopened eye; as compared to what might be seen by the eye after it has opened. Moreover, gardiidah contains, in a brilliant bit of wordplay, the word diidah , meaning either 'eye' or 'sight'. = the 'embrace of departure' is a moment of maximum intimacy and closeness-- and one that directly precedes and initiates the moment of separation and increasing distance. This 'embrace' also of course makes a rounded shape, like an eye. In the context of the verse, is the 'embrace of departure' a benefit (because it heralds the coming of a better state), or a loss (because something cherished will depart)? And is the opened eye's 'embrace of departure' brought on because of the brevity of the time available for sight (as when the bud opens and at once becomes an imminently-doomed rose), or because of a superior new insight (the eye no longer chooses, or is able, to see its previous illusions)? = and of course the radiance/manifestation-- is it the entity that's doing the departing? Or is it the entity that's doing the embracing? Either is grammatically possible. And does the term refer to the 'manifestation' of the physical world with all its cherished loveliness, or to the ineffable 'radiance' of the Divine realm? In short, since in the first line it's not even clear whether the color/mood of spectacle is being 'lost' or 'bestowed', and since either possibility could be read in such various tones, with various views of the 'opened' or 'closed' eye, and the nature of who or what is giving and receiving the 'embrace of departure', and to what effect, I don't see how we can escape the conclusion that Ghalib has arranged this verse as a do-it-yourself 'meaning-generator' machine, to give a good workout to our minds and imaginations.

Ghazal 214 12 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa kare ko))ii composed 1821; Hamid p. 174; Arshi #169; Raza pp. 243-44

{214,1} jab tak dahaan-e za;xm nah paidaa kare ko))ii mushkil hai tujh se raah-e su;xan vaa kare ko))ii 1) as long as one would not create the mouth of a wound 2) it is difficult/impossible, that anyone would make open the road of speech with you

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Notes: Hali: In Sufi terminology, conversation between the worshipper and the worshipped involves ranks which accomplished mystics and knowers attain. He says that conversation with the True Beloved cannot take place with this everyday mouth; rather, it is necessary to create the mouth of a wound. That is, until the heart is wounded with the sword of passion, this rank cannot be attained. (163-64)

Nazm: That is, as long as someone wouldn't endure the wound of passion, it is difficult that you would show kindness to him. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as someone wouldn't create the mouth of a wound, the road of speech cannot open. That is, oh True Beloved or human beloved, if someone wants to meet you, then he needs to be wounded by the arrow of your coquetry. Only this situation is such that you would show kindness to him. (434)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This famous ghazal contains some brilliant verses, and I'm happy to have the chance to enjoy it once again. S. R. Faruqi devoted an early Urdu article to analyzing it; the article was translated in 1981, and links to it are provided here. This opening-verse is energized almost entirely by wordplay. Fortunately, it's based on such an obvious metaphor that we have the same one in English: we call it the 'mouth' of a wound because of the obvious physical resemblance. And in the ghazal world at least (as Faruqi observes), 'because it resembles two red lips, and because the bone which can be glimpsed through a deep wound shows like the whiteness of teeth'. A wound-mouth, like a real mouth, must be 'made open' in order for speech to take place. But an open wound-mouth is no guarantee of successful speech-- it's only a precondition. If someone would open a wound-mouth, only then might he be able to open 'the road of speech' with the beloved. But there's no assurance at all that this will actually occur. The verbs are in the subjunctive, and the whole process is made to sound highly uncertain. Another 'wound-mouth' appears in {11,5x}. Why is there a 'road of speech', and not just speech? An obvious wordplay reason is that a road too is something else that must be 'made open' before it's of any use, so that the same verb, vaa karnaa , works elegantly with both metaphors. And more subtly, the road provides an extra layer of complexity- of distance to be traversed, of barriers to be overcome, of stages of progress-- that clearly evokes the sequential stages and levels of the Sufi path(s). The wound-mouth is only the beginning: it's like paying the toll that lets you onto a long, uncertain toll-road. NOTE FOR GRAMMAR FANS: This negative structure ('as long as he would not open a wound-mouth') is normally used in Urdu, while English usually prefers an affirmative construction ('until he opens a wound-mouth'). Both languages can of course produce a range of other structures as well, but these are the most common ones. The presence or absence of negation has produced many careless mistranslations. This is something to watch out for, both when translating and when reading translations. This opening-verse offers intriguing parallels with the closing-verse, {214,12}.

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{214,2} ((aalam ;Gubaar-e va;hshat-e majnuu;N hai sar-ba-sar kab tak ;xayaal-e :turrah-e lail;aa kare ko))ii 1) the world is the dust of the desert/wildness/madness of Majnun from end to end 2) how long would anyone give thought to the curl-crest of Laila?

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; --wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism; --timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror; -distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) :turrah : 'Hair, or a fringe of hair, on the forehead; a forelock; a curl, ringlet; an ornament worn in the turban; an ornamental tassel, or border, &c.; a plume of feathers, a crest; a nosegay; (met.) the best, or the cream (of a thing)'. (Platts p.752) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, the world is the appearance of a mirage; how long would we consider it to be the wave of a sea? (242)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the existence of the world is the appearance of a mirage-- how long will we be deceived and consider it to be the wave of a sea? (300)

Bekhud Mohani: The world has become, from end to end, the dust of the madness of Majnun. In such a situation, not to pay attention to it and to think about the curls of Laila is a good thing. (434)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION CURLS: {14,6} DESERT: {3,1} MADNESS: {14,3} The inshaa))iyah structure of the second line, and especially its clever, witty use of kab tak and ko))ii , opens up several remarkable and enjoyable possibilities. The fact that Laila's 'curl-crest' can be either a sort of top-knot or crest-jewel, or else her curls themselves, adds to the possible range of imagery. The presence of ko))ii enables the line to be read either as referring either to Majnun himself in a sort of generalized awe-struck way ('How can anyone do such things?'), or to anybody at all. Nor do we know the relationship between the two lines: we can't tell whether the world's state is simply an observed fact (flatly reported in the first line), or is to be ascribed to Majnun's meditation on the curl-crest of Laila. Here are some of the complex rhetorical possibilities: ==The inquiring question: An observer notices that Majnun's obsession has already turned the world into a dust-storm, and inquires: 'What's going on here? How strange and interesting! How does he do it? How much longer will he continue with it? If his madness continues, what will he do to the world next?' ==The rhetorical question: how long would/could Majnun, or anybody else, go on doing such a thing?! Because: =it's amazing that he's been able to keep it up so long, and that he's achieves such powerful effects!

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=he ought to stop at once-- by thinking of Laila's curls to the point of madness, Majnun has already reduced the whole world to a desert or wilderness! =he ought to stop at once-- by thinking of Laila's long, dark, tangled curls, Majnun has covered the world with a dark, swirling dust-storm! ==The negative rhetorical question (with a petulant effect): how long can Majnun, or anybody else, be expected to go on doing such a thing? Naturally, he would stop! The implication is that Laila's curl-crest might not be thought of (or taken care of, or protected) much longer, either by Majnun or by anybody else. Here are some possible reasons: =the world is wildness; Laila's curl-crest is delicate and vulnerable =the world is madness; meditation on Laila's curl-crest requires focused, sane thought =the world is dust from end to end; Laila's distinctive curl-crest would be invisible =the world is itself an illusion of Majnun's; Laila's curl-crest thus has an even more contingent existence As Faruqi observes, the wordplay of sar-ba-sar , literally 'head to head', is also a treat. And at the heart of the whole verse is a brilliant evocation of the word va;hshat , with its multiple senses-- 'desert', 'wildness', 'madness', etc.-every one of which is richly appropriate. Compare the rhetorical structure of this verse to that of {214,6} and {214,9}.

{214,3} afsurdagii nahii;N :tarab-inshaa-e iltifaat haa;N dard ban ke dil me;N magar jaa kare ko))ii 1) melancholy/bleakness is not a joy-{creating/style} of kindness/regard/apostrophizing 2a) indeed, but/perhaps having become pain, someone might make a place in the heart 2b) indeed, but/perhaps having become pain, it might make some place in the heart

Notes: :tarab : 'Emotion, joyous excitement, joy, mirth, cheerfulness, hilarity'. (Platts p.752) inshaa : '[inf. n. iv of 'to grow, spring up,' &c ]. Writing, composition; the belle-lettres; elegance of style; style, diction'. (Platts p.93) iltifaat : 'Regard, attention, countenance; respect, consideration, courtesy, civility, kindness; (in Rhetoric) An apostrophe'. (Platts p.74)

Nazm: He says, my melancholy is not such that I could be made happy by anyone's kindness; that is, through anyone's kindness my depression of spirits would not vanish.... In short, my melancholy is such that in my heart there's no room for anything except pain. Another aspect is that in sorrowfulness and depression I don't obtain the joy of the kindness of the beloved. Indeed, if someone would create the pain of passion, then there would be room in her heart. In the phrase :tarab-inshaa both words are Arabic, and the construction is Persian. That is, 'happiness-creating', because inshaa means 'creating'; and this is an extremely novel construction. Such finickiness [rakaakat] is not part of Ghalib's style. It wouldn't be strange if he had said :tarab-afzaa [and there was some scribal error]; or rather, it's safe to say that that very thing would have occurred. (242)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: Melancholy of temperament is not such a thing that the beloved could turn into happiness by casting a glance of kindness on her lover. Indeed, for the lover it's proper that he would become pain from head to foot; at that time the beloved can show kindness toward him. The meaning is that seeing the lover's melancholy, the beloved considers that this person is a lustful one who has become downcast at heart through the harshness of passion. From this view, she shows carelessness and inattention. Indeed, if the lover, having become pain from head to foot, would come before the beloved, then the beloved would regard him with a look of kindness. (300-01)

Bekhud Mohani: As long as melancholy is left, the beloved's kindness doesn't create a wave of joy in anyone's heart. If someone wants to create space in his heart, then let him become pain from heat to foot. That is, the beloved shows kindness to the 'people of pain'-- what else? (434)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; MAGAR The first line is an entirely abstract and quite multivalent assertion; the second line full of doubts and uncertainties and multiple possibilities of its own. So, this being Ghalib, is anybody surprised? In normal Urdu usage inshaa is a literary term (see the definition above); to make it mean something like 'creating' as the commentators wish, we have to go back and re-engineer it from its Arabic root. And even if we do that, we have no grounds for categorically ruling out its normal meaning. The compound:tarab-inshaa , 'joy-creating' or 'joy-style', is so vague and/or strange that we can't assign any one meaning to it. Moreover, the i.zaafat means that if it's a 'joy-{creating/style} of kindness', an 'A of B', it might be an 'A that is produced by B'; or it could also be an 'A that is identical to B', or else an 'A that belongs or pertains to B'. And iltifaat can mean 'respect' or 'civility' in a general sense; it doesn't have to refer to something that only the beloved can bestow on the lover. A structure like 'X is not the A of B' has a range of possibilities in any case, and this one, with its undecideable compound in the 'A' position, has even more than usual. If we turn to the second line for help, we find a new set of complexities. The initial haa;N is mildly concessive, something like 'indeed' or 'to be sure' or 'no doubt'. But then what's the subject? The most obvious candidate is 'someone' [ko))ii]-- 'someone' might, having become pain, make a place in the heart; this is how the grammar works in the other verses of this ghazal. But the ko))ii could also be an adjective modifying 'place': some unstated subject, most plausibly 'melancholy', might make 'some place' for itself in the heart. And of course, we don't have any way of knowing whose the heart is. Might the lover be making space in his own heart for joy? Might he be making space in the beloved's heart for himself? Might the melancholy be making space for itself in the heart of one or the other? Might the verse be quite universal, so that the space would be made in some archetypal human's heart? The ambiguity of magar , as either 'but' or 'perhaps', opens further possibilities, in suggesting two different logical relationship of the two lines. In short, the possible permutations that we can line up for this verse are so numerous and fan out in so many directions that I don't see any point in even bothering to list them. This is the kind of verse that lives at the center of a

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penumbra of possible readings; only with some kind of fuzzy logic can it be read at all. Surely Ghalib meant for us to be both vexed and haunted by it, and to enjoy it for its layers of veiling. Otherwise, we'd have to consider him an extremely inept constructor of lines, someone who was unable to convey to us the (single?) 'meaning' that he wanted to convey. And who really believes that? There's also an enjoyable bit of rhetorical wordplay: inshaa is of course a literary term, and iltifaat has a secondary meaning of 'apostrophe' (not the punctuation mark, but the rhetorical kind that occurs when a speaker or writer breaks off and addresses an imaginary person or abstract quality or idea). So for that matter, why couldn't we take the phrase in the first line to mean 'melancholy is not a joy-style of apostrophizing'? We could, of course. With so many other possibilities, why not one more?

{214,4} rone se ay nadiim malaamat nah kar mujhe aa;xir kabhii to ((uqdah-e dil vaa kare ko))ii 1) oh friend/confidant, don't blame/reproach me because of weeping 2a) after all, sometime someone would/might open the knot of the heart 2b) after all-- let someone, sometime, open the knot of the heart!

Notes: Nazm: In this verse se is a translation from Persian; with regard to the idiom of Urdu, this is a place for par . By the 'opening of the knot of the heart' is meant weeping without restraint [dil khol kar ronaa]. (242)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh friend, don't stop me from weeping without restraint [dil khol kar ronaa], and don't scold me; if justice is done, then sometime the knot of the heart ought to be opened. (301)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh companion, if I'm weeping, don't blame/reproach me. (Oh cruel one,) how long would one restrain himself, and die of suffocation? Sometime the contractedness of the lacerated heart would be opened and erased through weeping. (435)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: What exactly is the relationship among 'weeping', and 'the opening of the knot of the heart', and the lover's condition? Nazm thinks that 'the opening of the knot of the heart' simply means weeping unrestrainedly. Bekhud Mohani thinks that weeping leads to the 'opening of the heart', and that this process erases sorrow. Faruqi points out both that tears form a kind of thread, and that when a knot has been wetted, it contracts and becomes tighter, and is thus, paradoxically, harder to open. The verse makes a clever double use of the imagery of 'to open'. For the common idiom dil khol kar ronaa , to weep without restraint, or literally 'to weep having opened the heart', can't help but come to mind in the context of the verse; the commentators invoke it quite explicitly. Yet neither the verb kholnaa doesn't appear at all in the verse (since it's replaced by vaa karnaa ); nor does the idea of opening the heart-- since it's only 'the knot of the heart' that might or might not be opened, and the 'opening' or untying of a knot is a very different image from the 'opening' (like a box? or like a book?) of the heart. Moreover, thanks to the ambivalence of the i.zaafat , the knot of the

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heart needn't be the heart itself: it might be a knot created by the heart, or pertaining or belonging to the heart If we look at the other 'knot' verses, the 'knot' seems either to consist of the absence of the heart (in {8,2}), or almost of the heart itself (in {48,3}); but neither verse gives us any association with weeping. So in an additional reading, the weeping in the present verse might be merely a helpless reaction to an intractable problem: the speaker's plea is, 'after all, I'm desperate-sometime, somehow, let somebody open the knot of the heart!' Since this hasn't happened, and shows no sign of happening, his friend should be compassionate and shouldn't reproach him for weeping with the pain of his tormented, convoluted, knotted-up heart. Maybe the weeping would even attract the attention of people (like the beloved?) who might help him to open it.

{214,5} chaak-e jigar se jab rah-e pursish nah vaa hu))ii kyaa faa))idah kih jeb ko rusvaa kare ko))ii 1) when from the tearing of the liver the road of inquiry did not become open 2) what benefit, that anyone would disgrace the collar/heart/bosom?

Notes: jeb : 'The opening at the neck and bosom (of a shirt, &c.); the breast-collar (of a garment); the heart; the bosom; (the Arabs often carry things within the bosom of the shirt, &c.; and hence the word is now applied by them to) 'a pocket'. (Platts p.412)

Nazm: We tore our liver, but the road of inquiry did not become open; that is, no one inquired about our state. Now what's the benefit, if anyone would tear his collar and disgrace himself? (242)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in passion we had torn our liver so that she would see our situation and inquire about us. This did not occur. Now what's the benefit of tearing our collar, and making it disgraced and notorious? (301)

Bekhud Mohani: From this verse there necessarily emerges the meaning that the real thing is what's important, and a mere display is nothing. (435)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} JIGAR: {2,1} This enjoyable little verse is energed by several different kinds of wordplay, image-play, and meaning-play. The idea of something long and straight, and its 'becoming open', unites the otherwise incongruous comparison between a torn collar-opening (meaning of course the kind of collar that a kurta has, not the kind with lapels) and the 'road of inquiry'-- the process of making friendly, or at least polite, inquiries about a sick person. The lover in the ghazal world conventionally tears open his collar (for discussion see {17,9}); but here not even the tearing of his liver has had any effect on the cruel beloved, so why would he, or anyone, bother with a small thing like a collar? The word jeb also has a secondary meaning of 'heart' or 'bosom'. This sense yields another enjoyable reading: when tearing the liver brings no results, it is proper to renounce the practice: why would anyone bother to rip open, and thus 'disgrace', his heart or bosom any further, when the extravagant public gesture is so clearly a failure?

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There's also the enjoyably clever presence within rusvaa , 'disgraced', of vaa , 'open'. And when reciting the verse, the placement of jab in the first line, and jeb in the second line, at exactly the same metrical point, adds to the sense of rhythm and connection.

{214,6} la;xt-e jigar se hai rag-e har ;xaar shaa;x-e gul taa chand baa;Gbaanii-e .sa;hraa kare ko))ii 1) from a fragment of the liver, the vein of every thorn is a rose-branch 2) how long/much would anyone do gardening of the desert?

Notes: taa chand : 'How many? how long? by how much?'. (Platts p.303)

Nazm: In desert-wandering, the fragments of my liver that emerged through my tears-- through them, every single thorn has become a rose-branch. Now what remains to be done in the adornment of the desert, that anyone would continue to do gardening? (242-43)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the state of desert-wandering, the fragments of my liver dripped from my eyes in tears, and from then every single thorn in the wilderness became a rose-branch. Now what thing remains in the adornment of the desert, that anyone would become a gardener and keep increasing the decoration of the wilderness? (301)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, weeping and weeping blood in the desert, we've made the desert into a garden. Now how long would we weep, and to what extent would we remain lying in the desert? Our shedding of blood has had no result. (435-36)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION JIGAR: {2,1} The rhetorical structure of this verse at once reminds us of {214,2}. In both cases we have the extravagant, over-the-top first line, with its depiction of some altogether extraordinary situation in the world. Then in the second line we have an inshaa))iyah exclamation, with no single clear way of connecting it to the first line. Thus the possible relationships between the lines, and readings of the verse, are manifold. =I've already done such a lot of successful gardening in the desert-- the work is mostly done now, and it's boring; how long am I supposed to keep it up? =I've wasted such a lot of blood and energy and liver-fragments, 'gardening' in the desert, and without achieving any results (or exactly the results I wanted?); so maybe it's time for me to quit. =it's not possible to 'garden in the desert' for very long, because my bloodproducing liver-fragments are so potent that pretty soon the whole desertful of thorns turns into a garden and isn't a desert any more =one single fragment of my blood-producing liver suffices to turn every thorn in the desert into a rose-branch-- there isn't even time for me to start 'gardening' at all! =my passionate desert-wandering and suffering have already given the thorny desert a bloody radiance-- what's the need to bring in a 'gardener' to do any 'gardening'? The use of 'I' is just for convenience, since the verse is careful not to tell us who is speaking, who is providing the liver-fragment(s), or who might be doing the gardening.

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What's really most irresistible about both this verse and {214,2} is the tone of the second line-- that petulant tone, that colloquial way of expressing a sense of grievance, of sulking a bit, of being pettish ('If you don't show up, how long am I supposed to wait?'). Of course there are other tones in which to read the line, but this one surely has to make the reader smile every time.

{214,7} naa-kaamii-e nigaah hai barq-e na:zaarah-soz tuu vuh nahii;N kih tujh ko tamaashaa kare ko))ii 1a) the failure of vision is gaze-{burning/inflaming} lightning 1b) gaze-{burning/inflaming} lightning is the failure of vision 2a) you are not such a one that anyone would/might make you a spectacle 2b) you are not 'that one', such that anyone would/might make you a spectacle

Notes: tamaashaa karnaa : 'To see; to take a walk; to make sport or fun; to exhibit, play, act a part; to poke fun (at), make fun (of), to jeer, jest'. (Platts p.336)

Nazm: He says that you can't even be seen. That lightning-bolt on Mount Tur that burned the gaze-- that was not you. Rather, our failure of vision turned into lightning and fell on us. And tamashaa karnaa , that is, 'to see', is a phrase translated from Persian. (243)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the lightning-bolt on Mount Tur that fell and created dazzledness in the gaze-- that was not your glory/appearance. Rather, our failure of vision had turned into lightning and fallen on Mount Tur. You and your glory/appearance are such that they would be able to come within the vision of anyone ardent for beauty. The meaning is that neither did Moses see your glory/appearance, nor can anyone else see you. (301)

Bekhud Mohani: The glory that burned up the gaze was not your glory. Rather, it was our failure of vision. You are not such that anyone would see you. That is, to say that Moses on Mount Tur saw the radiance and fainted, is not correct. The truth is that in his very gaze there wasn't the strength [taab] for vision. The gist of it is, as if anyone could see you! -- when he can't see your glory/appearance. (436)

Arshi: Compare {53,2}, {152,5}, {158,7}. (196, 262, 276-77, 307)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: LIGHTNING: {10,6} TAMASHA: {8,1} The commentators rush to invoke Mount Tur and Moses and praise of the Divine beloved. Only Faruqi treats the verse as multivalent. He's right, of course; and there are even more multivalences than he mentions. In the first line, the reading 'A is B' (1a) suggests an inner torment (your own failure of vision burns you up the way lightning does). But the equally possible reading 'B is A' (1b) suggests an external onslaught (lightning falls on you and that's what wrecks your vision). Moreover, the second line is worded so cleverly that it may or may not introduce a comparison of the addressee with some other person or entity. The most obvious reading is (2a), in which vuh nahii;N is read, quite colloquially, as something like the English usage in 'you're not the one to put

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up with that'. But the phrase can also be read literally (2b), as 'you are not that one', with the clear sense that 'that one' can (at least potentially) be made a spectacle, whereas you cannot. (In this connection see {31,3}, in which it appears that God is easier of access than the beloved.) For an even more elegantly multivalent use of this grammatical structure, see {214,10}. Nazm insists that 'to make a spectacle' [tamaashaa karnaa] is simply a Persianized way of saying 'to see', but as an Urdu expression it has a much richer set of meanings of its own (see the definition above). The effect is to increase the contrast: people may think to make of you not just an object of sight in a general way, but a 'spectacle', a source of amusement and casual entertainment. Oh those rash fools, sticking their hands into a tiger's den! They'll learn the hard way, when their vision is blasted and burnt out, that you're not the one to be treated with such disrespect. (But is there another one, 'that one', who can be safely so treated? The question lingers, unresolvably.) The best of Arshi's comparison verses is {152,5}, which itself is intriguingly ambiguous about the nature and effects of the beloved's beauty.

{214,8} har sang-o-;xisht hai .sadaf-e gauhar-e shikast nuqsaa;N nahii;N junuu;N se jo saudaa kare ko))ii 1) every stone and brick is an oyster-shell of the pearl of breaking/defeat/loss 2) it's no loss/harm, if from/with madness, someone would do trading/madness

Notes: shikast : 'Breaking, breakage, fracture; a breach; defeat, rout; deficiency, loss, damage'. (Platts p.730) saudaa : [Persian] 'Goods, wares; trade, traffic; marketing; purchase, bargain'. (Platts p.695) saudaa : [Arabic] 'The black bile (one of the four humours of the body), atrabilis; melancholy; hypochondria; frenzy, madness, insanity; love; desire, concupiscence; ambition'. (Platts p.695)

Nazm: In taking the saudaa of madness upon one's head there's no loss, because each stone and brick that the boys throw at your head is an oyster-shell, the pearl of which is breaking/defeat. (243)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when boys throw bricks and stones at one's head, it's as if it's an oyster-shell [vuh goyaa ek .sadaf hai], of which the pearl is considered to be a wound in the head. Thus in taking the merchandise of madness upon one's head there's no kind of harm involved at all. (301)

Bekhud Mohani: What Nazm and Hasrat and Shaukat have written doesn't seem apparently to be very bad. But attention has not been paid to the fact that after 'breaking', Mirza has not said 'head' or any other such word. When that is the situation, then why wouldn't the whole verse be considered to be expressed through similes? In this state of affairs, the stones and bricks are the blame of the people of the world.... By 'breaking' is meant [the breaking of] 'human pride', by 'madness' is meant 'passion for the Divine'. (436)

Arshi: Compare {91,9}. (277)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

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FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY COMMERCE: {3,3} MADNESS: {14,3} Bekhud Dihlavi's commentary rocked me for a moment-- it almost seems from his sentence structure that he's saying the lover's head is the oystershell, and that's both so apt (because the breaking open of the oyster-shell is what exposes the pearl) and so grotesque (because of the vision of the whole head suddenly split in half like a melon) that it came as a real shock. But fortunately the verse says clearly that it's each stone and brick that is an oyster-shell. So probably Bekhud Dihlavi just phrased his commentary clumsily; but even if he's actually saying what he seems to be saying, he's wrong. In fact to make every one (as the verse carefully emphasizes) of the solid, unbreaking stones and bricks an 'oyster-shell' seems to be pushing the imagery pretty hard-- or at least, using it very selectively. It's true that an oyster-shell produces or provides or makes possible a pearl, and that's what the verse wants us to think of. But it's also true that the oyster-shell generates the pearl from within itself, and that the pearl is revealed only when the oyster-shell itself is broken open (and the oyster killed); and this is far from the situation of the stones and bricks. So each stone and brick is an oyster-shell in the sense that it helps, in its indirect fashion, to provide the pearl of shikast -- a word that means both 'breaking', which is appropriate for the procurement of a pearl (and which is what might happen to your head if boys throw stones and bricks at you), and 'loss, damage', which anticipates the commercial imagery in the next line. For in fact this is a verse of thoroughgoing and complex wordplay. And at its heart, the imagery of madness (as in the Arabic word saudaa ) is effectively fused to the imagery of commerce (as in the Persian word saudaa ). For another wonderful use of this ideally multivalent word-pair, see {58,5}. When it comes to madness, we have the boys throwing stones and bricks at the madman, and the madman's pursuit not of a real pearl but of the crazysounding, or at least paradoxical, 'pearl of breaking/defeat'. Thus if he acts 'from/with madness' in doing 'madness' (or 'commerce'), what's the harm? He has nothing to lose, and a remarkable pearl to gain. When it comes to commerce, we have the claim that there's no 'loss' if one would do 'business' (or 'madness') even in a dubious state of sanity-- after all, one might end up with an apparently valuable 'pearl'. Might 'Madness' even be a semi-personification, someone with whom one might do business? One bargain 'with' him; one might buy a pearl 'from' him. If the se can be made to stretch that far, the commercial sense of the verse becomes even more enjoyable. For another-- and powerful-- use of shikast , see {71,1}. And for another convergence of 'loss' and 'madness', see Arshi's recommendation, {91,9}.

{214,9} sarbar hu))ii nah va((dah-e .sabr-aazmaa se ((umr fur.sat kahaa;N kih terii tamannaa kare ko))ii 1) the lifetime did not become equal to the endurance-testing vow/promise 2) where is the leisure, that anyone would long for you?

Notes: sar-var [of which sarbar is a variant]: 'Equal; --an equal, a rival'. (Platts p.657) .sabr : 'Patience, self-restraint, endurance, patient suffering, resignation'. (Platts p.743)

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Hali: That is, the whole life passed in simply the testing of endurance. Then when would there be time to long for obtaining you? (164)

Nazm: That is, we died in the interval of waiting itself; the time of longing didn't manage to come. But it would have been better if he had said that time for the obtaining of longing didn't manage to come, and there was no chance at all of achieving what one longed for; for the ground of the verse didn't give a way toward this meaning. (243)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm (and Shaukat):] The Lord knows from where Janab the Commentator pulled out this meaning, and how he pulled it out! Because if the time of longing itself never came, then what kind of vow was it, and who made it, and why, and to whom? And from where did the expression of this standard of waiting come? The author is saying in very clear words that he felt longing, and that he also had a chance to express his condition. The beloved too made a vow. But that vow was endurance-testing. The lover wasn't vouchsafed the time to live until the day of [fulfillment of] the vow. (437)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == A,B LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} Who actually made the 'endurance-testing' vow or promise, and what kind of a vow was it? Was it made by the speaker, or by someone else? What was the content of the vow? Bekhud Mohani actually asks these questions, but only rhetorically, because he thinks the answers are so obvious. But any close reader can see the care with which all such information has been withheld. Since we don't know anything at all about the vow (except that it was 'endurance-testing'), we have to decide for ourselves how to connect the two lines. What is the relationship between the 'vow' and the 'longing'? Is the 'longing' for the fulfillment of the vow in particular, or just a general expression of passionate desire? Is the 'vow' completely separate from the 'longing', such that it supplanted the latter completely in the speaker's attention, or is it connected to it? Is the 'longing' a single action that might never happen, or a prolonged action that might never be brought to full completion? Out of all these complexities, here are some of the possible readings that emerge: =No one's lifetime is enough for the full measure of 'longing' for you-- where is there enough leisure in a mere lifetime for anyone to properly, duly, devotedly, fulfill his vow of longing for you? =Who has any leisure?! As if anyone did! Since one's whole life is more than taken up with fulfilling an endurance-testing vow, who has time to even think about longing for you?! =The impossible, endurance-testing vow that you required me to take was more than I could bear; it killed me instantly, before I even had a chance to long for you. =Your vow of such great joy (of union) after such a long interval (almost a lifetime?) was more than my heart could bear; the combination of ecstasy and wild imparience finished me off at once, before I even had a chance to long for you.

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The use of sarbar is also enjoyable, because vows are often taken in a form like 'I swear by your/my head [sar]'; and bar can mean 'bearing, carrying off' (Platts p.143). The second line, in its colloquial, possibly petulant, tone, is a charmer in itself-- for discussion, see the similarly structured {214,2}.

{214,10} hai va;hshat-e :tabii((at-e iijaad yaas-;xez yih dard vuh nahii;N kih nah paidaa kare ko))ii 1) the wilderness/wildness/madness/fear/sorrow of the temperament/nature of creation/invention is despair-producing 2a) this pain is not such that anyone would not create it 2b) this pain is not such that no one would create it 2c) this pain is not that one-- such that anyone would not create [this/that one] 2d) this pain is not that one-- such that no one would create [this/that one] 2e) this pain is not that one-- may no one create [this/that one]!

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place;--loneliness, solitariness, dreariness;--sadness, grief, care;--wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism;--timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror;--distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) :tabii((at : 'Nature, disposition, constitution, temperament (syn. mizaaj ); a humour (one of the four); complexion; genius; mind; temper; natural constituent, intrinsic property, essence'. (Platts p.751) iijaad : 'Creation, production; invention, contrivance'. (Platts p.112)

Nazm: 'Meaning-creation' and the creation of themes and invention and devising of witticisms is such a va;hshii art that despair is created from it. Nevertheless, all are absorbed in this illness. Through the affinity with iijaad , the use of paidaa karnaa , for which there's no paidaa))ii , is not devoid of pleasure. (243)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The meaning is that poetry is a very difficult task, but in it the pleasure too is such that every person has an attraction toward it. (302)

Bekhud Mohani: The meaning that he [=Nazm] has presented is not closely tied to factuality and reality: 'Nevertheless, all are absorbed in this illness'. This is in no way suitable; rather, people of insight know that after centuries, the times have given birth to people who might be attentive to poetic creativity and so on. Otherwise, the common situation is that old spirits are always made to enter into [new] bodies; and this was the reason that researchers were forced to say that moral themes were not so necessary-- the main thing is that the theme would be shaped in a good mold. This meaning of Hazrat the Commentator has seized the wings of the spirit of meaning of the verse, and thrust it down into [the body of] a donkey of humiliation. (438)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS; KIH; POETRY MADNESS: {14,3}

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This is the kind of verse that rivets your attention at once, and then frustrates you, and then inspires a kind of awe. Without explicitly saying so, it seems to be talking about poetry (and human creative activity in general) and to be saying something serious and fundamental about it. But what? In the first line, the remarkable versatility of va;hshat means that the subject could be one of a number of (real or metaphorical) moods, or even a landscape. And the 'temperament/nature of creation' might belong to all humans, to a few (lucky or unlucky) humans, or to God or Nature in general. And this temperament might produce 'despair' in itself, or in others, or both. And the despair might be directly produced-- shaped right into the construction of the entity in question-- or it might be produced by that entity's reaction to the sight of the behavior of the 'temperament of creation'. All those possibilities are in the first line alone. When we turn to the second line, we find it truly staggering-- it's a maze of possibilities, and constantly sprouts new ones in all directions. Central to its multivalence is the Urdu phrase yih vuh nahii;N kih , which has two perfectly solid, well-established readings: first, 'this is not one such that' (describing the quality of the 'this'); and second, 'this is not that, such that' (describing the quality of either the 'this' or the 'that', in a way that can be determined only contextually). The complexities here are greatly enhanced by the versatility of kih , which can introduces phrases of the most remarkable range of relationships to the preceding phrase. See {214,7} for a much simpler and more straightforward example of this kind of construction. So if we are talking about one single pain, then it either is (2a) 'not such that anyone would not create it' (that is, everyone would create it); or else is (2b) 'not such that no one would create it' (that is, one or more persons would create it). This is already quite a difference in meaning. And if we're talking about two different pains, then this present one is being distinguished from that other (unspecified) one, and the grounds for distinguishing them are that (2c) 'anyone would not create' such a pain, or that (2d) 'no one would create' such a pain. But would anyone or someone not create such a pain as this one (which is thus apparently the worst of all, and unsurprisingly so since it presumably belongs to the speaker/lover); or would anyone or someone not create such a pain as that one (which is of some special, perhaps uncontrollable or uncreatable, nature)? Or alternatively, the line might be exclaiming that this present pain is not that pain-- a pain such that, the speaker compassionately or ominously wishes, (2d) 'may no one create it!' And once again, which pain is mentioned with such an urgent, ominous wish-- this one, or that one? This ramifying structure, needless to say, deprives us of any real guidance in connecting the two lines. Nor does it even permit us to address the question of whether one does, or might, or should, create the pain willingly, or at least deliberately, or inadvertently, or unwillingly but unavoidably. Is the creation of the pain (or one of the two pains) part of artistic creativity; and if so, how exactly? What is the relation between artistic creation, pain-creation, and despair-creation? What is the relation between the despair and pain engendered by the creative temperament, and that other pain (if there is another pain)? As so often, Ghalib forces us to struggle with these puzzles, but makes it impossible for us to come up with a single satisfying solution to the problem; thus his verse, quite cleverly, resembles life in general. We can always console ourselves, as Faruqi points out, by enjoying the word-play and meaning-play of creativity and madness that the verse spins around itself into a kind of impenetrable thicket. For a parallel among the 'generators', see {32,1}, which is, if possible, even more wildly proliferating.

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{214,11} bekaarii-e junuu;N ko hai sar pii;Tne kaa sha;Gl jab haath ;Tuu;T jaa))e;N to phir kyaa kare ko))ii 1) the unemployment/idleness of madness has the employment/pastime of beating the head 2) when the hands would break, then what would anyone do?

Notes: be-kaarii : 'The state of being unemployed; want of employment, idleness'. (Platts p.203) sha;Gl : 'Business, occupation, employment, labour, study; anything to occupy or divert; diversion, pastime, amusement'. (Platts p.728)

Nazm: In this verse, me;N would have been better in place of ko . And from the hands' breaking, to remain useless and to become without occupation is intended. That is, in madness, from constantly sitting useless and without occupation one feels suffocated: 'come on. let's beat the head!' As long as one would be useless in this way, if he wouldn't beat his head then what would he do? The convention is that when a man becomes fed up, then he beats his head. (243)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, for madness, one employment or another is necessary and indispensable. As long as clothing remained on the body, he kept tearing the collar. When every thread had been torn apart, he found the employment of beating the head.... Now the thing to see is that if the hands too would break, then what would he do? (302)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm's correction:] From saying ko , he constructs the 'unemployment of madness' itself as inventing the employment of beating the head. From saying me;N , the possessor of the madness is declared to be the inventor.... If Hazrat the Commentator's revision and correction would be accepted, then the force of the speech would began to lament [over its lessening]. ko tells us that the speaker hardly has enough awareness that he would seek out for himself an employment; the 'unemployment of madness' does whatever it wishes. (439)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: MADNESS: {14,3} The first line has an enjoyable feeling of paradox: the 'unemployment' of madness has, it seems, an 'employment'. Or if we soften the formal force of the paradox, at a minimum the 'idleness' of madness has an 'occupation', or at least something or other non-idle that forms a 'pastime'. The second line moves on to consider a future that's certain to come about-it's not 'if' the hands would break, but 'when'. And then comes the real center of the verse: the double reading of to phir kyaa kare ko))ii . In normal colloquial speech, this is a general remark expressive of futility or helplessness, like 'what can you do?' or 'what can I say?' in English; it's the verbal equivalent of a shrug of the shoulders. The speaker washes his hands of a hopeless situation that he is powerless to remedy. For another example of this idiomatic expression, see {215,2}. But in this case it suddenly strikes us that the conventional phrase is to be read literally too: 'then what would anyone do?' is a serious question. When the 'unemployment of madness' loses its employment, how will it react?

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What will the 'madness' do, and what effect will it have on the mad lover in whom it lives? Will it drive him into the desert? Will he begin to smash his head into a wall, with fatal results? Will he sink into a hopeless inertia? If beating your head with your hands until your hands break is a 'pastime', the loss of it can only result in something even more disastrous. The next stage doesn't sound good; and it's only a matter of time until it occurs. Moreover, the presence of ko))ii makes the problem feel very generalized. What would 'someone' or 'anyone' do? The grammar suggests that the problem is one that anyone, or even everyone, might one day have to confront.

{214,12} ;husn-e furo;G-e sham((-e su;xan duur hai asad pahle dil-e gudaa;xtah paidaa kare ko))ii 1) the beauty of the brightness/radiance of the candle of poetry/speech is far off, Asad 2) first someone would/might/should create a melted/dissolved heart

Notes: furo;G : 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780)

Nazm: That is, like a candle, first one would create a melted heart; after that, one would long for the brightness of the flame of poetry. (243)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, first, like a candle, one would create a melted heart; after that one would long and yearn for the brightness of the flame of poetry. (302)

Bekhud Mohani: The one who wishes for there to be pleasure in his speech, ought first to create burning and melting in his heart. (439)

Faruqi: An early analysis of this verse from "A Ghazal by Ghalib," in The Secret Mirror, 1981.

FWP: SETS == POETRY CANDLE: {39,1} As Faruqi observes, a candle flares up most brightly before dying; this is true frequently in the real world, and always in the ghazal world. As it's on the verge of guttering out, the candle's flaring, radiant 'heart' has become 'melted' into a pool of liquid wax that surrounds it. So it's when your flame is almost ready to burn itself out that its true radiance appears; this is reminiscent of the folk-etymology of 'ghazal' as derived from the last wild beautiful cry of the dying gazelle. And if we take the first line in a more literal and careful sense, we have a more piquant subtlety of meaning. What is it that's 'far-off'? It's 'beauty', and the beauty is that of 'brightness', so it can't be obtained without arranging for brightness. The brightness is that of a 'candle', so it can't be obtained without arranging for a candle. The candle is that of 'poetry'; in view of the flexibility of the i.zaafat construction, this may be a metaphoric equation (candle=poetry), but it could easily refer to a candle that 'belongs to' or 'pertains to' poetry in some other, unspecified sense. In any case, it certainly appears that you can't have the candle without either previously, or at the same time, having poetry. The sequence is thus, in separate stages of which the final one is 'far-off', from poetry to candle to brightness to beauty. And how do you get there? First of all, you create a melted heart. The melted heart thus seems very possibly to precede the candle of poetry (for there may well be a stage in which you have the 'poetry' but your poetry hasn't yet

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caught fire, so you don't yet have the 'candle of poetry'). First you melt down your heart with suffering, pain, longing, and so on-- all the torments the ghazal world knows so well. Only then do you begin to traverse the stages of the path to the distant-- perhaps even unattainably distant-- vision of 'beauty'. This closing-verse also seems to bring us full circle, for it evokes the opening-verse, {114,1}.

Ghazal 215 10 verses; meter G8; rhyming elements: aa kare ko))ii composed after 1847; Hamid p. 175; Arshi #220; Raza pp. 298-99

{215,1} ibn-e maryam hu))aa kare ko))ii mere dukh kii davaa kare ko))ii 1a) let someone go ahead and become a/the Son of Mary 1b) let some Son of Mary go ahead and come into being 2) let someone cure my sorrow

Notes: Nazm: That is, if there is some Jesus of the time, then let him be so-- if he would cure my pain, then I'd believe it. 244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if someone is the Messiah of his age, then what the hell do I care [merii balaa se], let him be so! I would be convinced if someone would cure my pain of love. (302)

Bekhud Mohani: Even Hazrat Jesus can't cure my sickness of passion. If anyone claims to be a great Messiah, then let him make me well. (440)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION This ghazal and the preceding one, {214}, share common rhyming elements and a common refrain: this means that they are ham-zamiin , and have a common ground. But they don't have the same meter, so they're not ham:tar;h or 'pattern-sharing'. All ham-:tar;h verses could be, formally speaking, part of the same ghazal; but this isn't true of ham-zamiin ones. In the glossary of Nets of Awareness, to my shame, I defined zamiin as though it was :tar;h , and I'm truly sorry for this piece of carelessness. This one is a prime example of what I call an 'A,B' verse. It is maximally inshaa))iyah and exclamatory, and there are so many possible ways of putting its two lines together! Here are some: =What do I care whether anyone becomes a 'Son of Mary' or not? All I want is someone to cure my sorrow =What do I care if anyone becomes a 'Son of Mary'? That's easy! The hard thing is to cure my sorrow =If someone seeks to become a real 'Son of Mary', then let him show his power by curing my sorrow =If anyone would cure my sorrow, he'd be a real 'Son of Mary' =If only someone would become a 'Son of Mary', and would cure my sorrow! =If only some 'Son of Mary' would appear in the world, and would cure my sorrow!

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=Curing my sorrow is so impossible that it's about as likely as having a 'Son of Mary' appear in the world It's hard to capture the colloquial flavor of hu))aa kare ko))ii . I've used 'go ahead and' to give a hint of the somewhat petulant, cross, so-what flavor that it can have. But it doesn't always have such a sense; it can also sound quite straightforward.

{215,2} shar((-o-aa))iin par madaar sahii aise qaatil kaa kyaa kare ko))ii 1) even/indeed on the ground/basis of religious-law and secular-law 2) what would anyone do with such a murderer?

Notes: shar(( : 'A high road; the divine way of religion, the precepts of Mohammad, Mohammadan law (as derived from the Qor'ān), law, equity'. (Platts p.725) aa))iin : 'Regulation, institute, statute, rules, law (as established by princes, in contradistinction to shar(( or the law of Mohammad), body of laws, code; enactment, edict, ordinance, canon, decree, rule; custom, manner'. (Platts p.116) madaar : 'Place of turning or returning; axis; pivot; centre; --a place within which anything revolves, an orbit; a circumference; --a place where anyone stops or stands, station, seat; that on which anything stands or rests, or depends; ground (of), basis; --dependence; --the point upon which a question (or the like) turns'. (Platts p.1014)

Nazm: The one who murders without a sword. (244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, granted that nowadays in the world/age there is adherence to the religious law, and the government's law too is in force, by means of which a murderer is given the punishment of death. But what can anyone do to such a murder, who without a sword slays lovers? That is, with the sword of her glance or the sword of her look. (302-03)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the word 'such' is extremely productive of meaning. This word includes however many qualities the beloved may have, and applies to them all. (440)

FWP: SETS ==IDIOMS The sense of sahii is somewhat concessive-- 'no doubt', 'indeed', 'even so'; for discussion, see {9,4}. We can see that something is coming, but in classic mushairah verse style, we have no idea what. Even in the second line, which of course we are made to wait for, not till the end do we fully realize what's at issue, for the kaa keeps us uncertain till the last minute ('such a murderer's deed'? 'such a murderer's lover?'). Only at the end of the second line do we realize that the kaa is colloquial (meaning something like 'about' or 'in the case of'), and that another idiomatic expression, kyaa kare ko))ii ('what can you do?'), the verbal equivalent of an eloquent shrug of the shoulders, is where the verse is really going. For another example of this idiomatic expression, see {214,11}. But the second line offers another kind of pleasure as well. Since the first line is so broad and ambiguous in its reference, it could be read to correspond with varying emphases in the second line. Here I take them in Urdu word order:

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='such'-- The laws can handle an ordinary murderer, but not one of her kind! And what exactly is her kind? The possibilities are numerous, and all of them relevant, as Bekhud Mohani observes. ='murderer'-- The laws can handle those who kill with knives, but not those who kill with coquetry, as Nazm notes. ='what'-- There are ways to stop ordinary murderers, but can any device be found that might succeed in stopping her? ='might do'-- All discussion in her case must be tentative and hypothetical, since there's no reason to believe any solution to the problem would really work ='anyone'-- All the king's horses and all the king's men, all the powers of Divine judgment, seem to be in vain when it comes to her-- so what's a poor lover to do?

{215,3} chaal jaise ka;Rii kamaan kaa tiir dil me;N aise ke jaa kare ko))ii 1) 'a gait like an arrow from a fully-bent bow' 2) in the heart of such a one, let someone make a place

Notes: ka;Rii : 'A ring or circle (of metal), link (of a chain)... a manacle, handcuff, fetter'. (Platts p.832)

Nazm: An 'arrow from a fully-bent bow' flies very swiftly; he has given it as a simile for the beloved's carelessness/indifference of gait. And the first line of this verse, the whole thing, is an idiom; and in the second line is a negative rhetorical question-- that is, in the heart of such a one can there be any place? (244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, a place cannot be created in the heart of such a beloved, whose carelessness/indifference of gait has the similitude of an arrow from a fullybent bow. The whole of the first line is a complete idiom. To the extent to which the bow is tightly drawn, to that very extent the arrow will be swiftlyflying. (303)

Bekhud Mohani: Appropriateness [bar-jastagii] prostrates itself before the first line.... From out of the gathering of the lovers the beloved passes with such swiftness and carelessness/indifference, the way an arrow would emerge from a fully-bent bow. (440)

FWP: The beloved's gait is like the swiftest and deadliest arrow, so it will instantly 'make a place' for itself in the hapless lover's heart. And for that very reason, the process is intransitive: the lover is now doomed and in the bag, a prey of the swift hunter-- thus the enjoyable secondary meaning of ka;Rii as 'manacle' or 'chain-link'. So can he even imagine anyone, not to speak of himself, who could reverse the process and make a place in the hunter's own heart? For the colloquial possibilities of the second line, compare {215,1}. It could be an expression of wistful hope ('may someone succeed!'); or of scornful denial ('as if anyone could succeed'); or a genuine question ('would anyone be able to do it?').

{215,4} baat par vaa;N zabaan ka;Ttii hai vuh kahe;N aur sunaa kare ko))ii

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1) on/for a word/idea, there, the tongue is cut/interrupted/shamed 2) she would say/speak, and one would always listen

Notes: ka;Tnaa : 'To be cut, be clipped; to be reaped; to be cut off, be amputated; to be killed (in fight); --to be retrenched, to be diminished; to be deducted (from); to be spent, to be squandered; to be spent or passed (as time, life, &c.); to cease, to come to an end, be put an end to; to be interrupted; to pass away; to disappear, vanish; to dissolve, melt (as snow, ice, &c.);... --to be ashamed, be abashed; to be consumed with jealousy, &c

Nazm: The meaning of kahe;N is 'to give abuse'. (244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if anything is said against her, then for this crime she cuts off the tongue. Therefore whether her words be correct or incorrect, one is compelled to listen in silence. No one has the power/strength to say to her, you're wrong to say this. He's composed a peerless verse. (303)

Bekhud Mohani: (1) Urdu [urduu-e mu((all;aa] prides itself on the language of this verse. (2) A picture of a tyrannical darbar begins to move before the eyes.... The state of affairs there is that whatever she wants, she would say. She might give the harshest possible abuses, she might make accusations-- whatever she wants, she would do. (441)

FWP: When you go 'there', into the beloved's presence, it's extremely likely that your tongue will be 'cut'. The range of meaning for ka;Tnaa is wide, and includes 'to be ashamed' and 'to be interrupted' (see the definition above). Since the verb is intransitive, it doesn't indicate any source of action; the commentators generally assume that the beloved will cut out the lover's tongue, or order it done, but the verse doesn't push us in this direction in preference to others. The tongue might itself become 'cut' in the sense of embarrassed or ashamed, and thus cease to speak; or its speech might merely be 'cut off' in the sense of being 'interrupted'. And how do we read the eloquent phrase baat par ? In the context of the verse, its possibilities are numerous: we don't know whose word(s) or idea(s) are referred to, and whether the par refers to instantaneous happening, or to causative agency. Here are some possible conditions in which the speaker's tongue might be 'cut', either by someone else or by himself (or itself): =if she denounces his insolence =if she gives a command =if she speaks =if there's any charge or accusation =if he says something that displeases her =if he says something =if he begins to say something =if he opens his mouth to speak =if he has the idea of speaking The commentators emphasize the idea that kahe;N implies abuse or insult. It certainly can, but there's no reason it would have to. The line works perfectly well-- or, in my view, even better-- if we envision her just rambling on and on about anything she feels like saying. The second line is a description of the procedure in the beloved's presence. It is inshaa))iyah , but what's the tone? Rueful? Amused? Abject? Irritated? Despairing? Cautionary (when warning a novice)? This is one of the many verses that permits (and thus requires) us to invent much of its affect as we go along.

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{215,5} bak rahaa huu;N junuu;N me;N kyaa kyaa kuchh kuchh nah samjhe ;xudaa kare ko))ii 1a) in madness, what things I am babbling! 1b) in madness, what things am I babbling? 2) may the Lord grant that no one would understand anything!

Notes: Nazm: From kuchh nah samjhe two aspects emerge. One is that the desire is that someone would understand, and would show kindness; but he himself has disparaged his babbling, and probably [;Gaaliba:n] this is the meaning intended by the author. And the other is [the desire] that no one would understand, and the secret would not be revealed. (244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in a state of fervor I am mentioning great secrets. May the Lord grant that no one would understand my speech. The way possessed people in their trances keep saying many useful things, and most people can't draw any meaning from their words. (303)

Bekhud Mohani: The various troubles that have come to me from the beloved-- now, because control over the heart no longer remains, these things are coming uncontrollably upon the tongue. May the Lord grant that she not understand anything! Otherwise, so many days of love, so much endurance-- it will all be sunk in the sea. (441)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22; EXCLAMATION MADNESS: {14,3} Here's another verse that's as inshaa))iyah as it can possibly be; it has a sort of 'catch-22' structure as well. For if the speaker is mad, why is he at the same time worrying about what he is saying in his madness? Isn't such a worry a sign of sanity? But how can he be sane, when he's babbling in madness? And so on, back and forth, unresolvably. Similarly, what does it mean to pray that no one would understand him? If he's truly babbling in madness, wouldn't his ravings be incomprehensible anyway? If he's saying comprehensible things, and even perhaps revealing great secrets, isn't such coherence a sign of sanity? If he worries about the contents of his babblings, when they're meaningless, isn't that a sign of madness? But if he worries about the contents of his babblings when they're meaningful, isn't that a sign of sanity? Round and round and round we go; and the wordplay too is full of repetitive pairs. The kuchh at the end of the first line is at once followed by the kuchh at the beginning of the second line; this repetition echoes that of kyaa kyaa , and reminds us of the enjoyable rhyme of huu;N junuu;N . Compare {14,3}, which also shows us a speaker balancing uneasily on the boundary line between madness and sanity.

{215,6} nah suno gar buraa kahe ko))ii nah kaho gar buraa kare ko))ii 1) don't listen, if someone would say something bad 2) don't say/speak, if someone would do something bad

Notes: buraa kahnaa : 'To speak ill (of), to pronounce or call (one) bad, evil, wicked, &c.; to vilify, abuse'. (Platts p.143)

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buraa karnaa : 'To do wrong, harm, &c. (to), to wrong, harm, injure'. (Platts p.143)

Nazm: [Commenting on this verse and {215,7}:] In both verses there is similarity of structure; beauty has been created in the construction. And the verbal repetition too is not devoid of pleasure. (244)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the excellence of morality is that if some person would scold you [buraa bhalaa kahnaa], you would pay no attention to his words; and if someone would do an evil deed, then you wouldn't publicly reproach him. (303)

Bekhud Mohani: [Commenting on this verse and {215,7}:] If someone would be insulting you or somebody else, then neither listen to anyone's furtive remarks, nor to insults to yourself (as if he hasn't insulted you at all). And if someone would do evil to you or to somebody else, then don't bring any mention of it to your lips. If someone would be wandering astray, then tell him the straight road. If someone would commit a sin, then forgive him. (442)

FWP: SETS == PARALLELISM; REPETITION I was surprised to find that this verse and the next one, {215,7}, don't constitute an official verse-set, according to Arshi; I checked in both editions of his work to make sure. A number of the commentators treat it as a verseset (as does Hamid), and it's easy to see why; Nazm gives the main reasons very clearly. It might be tempting to get sidetracked into arguing morality here. If somebody abuses or insults or slanders you, to (seem to) decline to listen is often a desirable and practical strategy. But if somebody does something bad-- that sounds dicey. What kind of thing? To keep silent if someone has stolen something of yours may (sometimes) be a generous thing, but should you keep silent if someone has committed murder? The commentators seem generally to have no qualms about endorsing silence; their stance seems a dubious one. But this kind of argumentation will never get us any deeper into the verse. It's worth noting that the commentators all read the verse as prescribing responses to behavior that has already taken place. But the grammar seems to make an alternate time and causation arrangement possible as well. The first line could be read as 'if someone would, because of your listening, proceed to say something bad, then don't listen'; the second line would similarly become 'if someone would, because of what you said, proceed to do something bad, then don't speak'. In other words, don't become an instigator, a tempter; don't encourage or provoke others toward evil. This reading is both morally more attractive (to my mind at least), and more piquant. But even so, is Ghalib really a poet of sententious moral maxims? A deeper source of pleasure in the verse is surely a structural one. The extremely obvious and maximalized parallelism, made more conspicuous by the verse's stripped-down vocabulary and grammar, has an enigmatic pleasure of its own. Such extreme simplicity surely suggests an underlying complexity. Moreover, the parallelism of the lines is both emphasized and undercut by a kind of escalation: the first line ends with a notion of someone's saying something [kahnaa], and the second line begins with a notion of your not saying something [kahnaa]. We thus notice a progression: first comes listening, then comes the crucial middle term of speaking, last comes doing. Is there some sequence or hierarchy we're meant to notice here? Are we

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meant to feel that you're always supposed to give one level less than you get? Are we meant to feel that you're always supposed to avoid provoking one level more? Beneath its surface of simplicity, he verse is so abstract and gnomic that it's impossible to wrest a single clear meaning from it.

{215,7} rok lo gar ;Gala:t chale ko))ii ba;xsh do gar ;xa:taa kare ko))ii 1) stop someone, if s/he would go mistakenly/erroneously 2) forgive someone, if s/he would make an error/mistake

Notes: ;Gala:t : 'Mistake, error;-- adj. Wrong, erroneous, incorrect, inaccurate; untrue, false'. (Platts p.772) ;xa:taa : 'A wrong action, fault; a mistake, an error; an unintentional fault or offence, a slip, an oversight; failure; miss (as of an arrow, &c.)'. (Platts p.490)

Nazm: [See his comments on this verse and {215,6}.]

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if some person would be going on a mistaken road, then immediately stop him; and make his error apparent to his mind. And if some person would commit some fault toward you, then immediately forgive him. (303)

Bekhud Mohani: [See his comments on this verse and {215,6}.]

FWP: SETS == A,B; PARALLELISM; REPETITION This verse and the previous one have such strong structural affinities that they feel like an unofficial verse-set; for discussion, see {215,6}. The present verse, like its predecessor, masquerades at first as a piece of simple, sententious moral advice. But, as so often, we can't quite get it to hold still and behave. What is the relationship between the two lines? Do they describe the same situation, or two different ones? Is there a progression from the situation of the first line to that of the second (or vice versa)? If we take the first line as literal, the misguided traveler on the wrong road will surely be grateful to if you 'stop' him and provide correct directions. But if we take the first line as metaphorical (with 'going down the wrong path' meaning evil-doing), then to 'stop' someone might involve some kind of confrontation. And if you can't 'stop' him, do you then have to 'forgive' him after the fault has been committed? Or are these two quite different situations, such that if you see a ;Gala:t you are to stop the offender, but if you see a ;xa:taa you are to forgive him? Both ;Gala:t and ;xa:taa are relatively mild words; they suggest error, inadvertence, mistakenness, rather than deliberately evil will. Are we meant to take them as entirely parallel, or to notice subtle differences between them? Is something ;Gala:t a bit milder, or a bit more predictable, so that it can be headed off in advance, while a ;xa:taa can only be pardoned? And so on, with ever more gnomic possibilities, depending on how finely we want to slice and dice them.

{215,8} kaun hai jo nahii;N hai ;haajat-mand kis kii ;haajat ravaa kare ko))ii

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1) who is there who is not needy/desirous? 2) whose need/desire would/might anyone supply/fulfill?

Notes: ;haajat : 'Want, need, necessity, exigency, poverty; a thing wanted, an object of want or need, a requirement, a needful or requisite thing, affair or business'. (Platts p.472) ravaa karnaa : 'To make going; to cause to flow; to supply, render obtainable'. (Platts p.602) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That is, if our desire wouldn't be accomplished, then it's inappropriate to complain of anyone; every person is on his own. Another aspect is that everyone is needy-- whose need will you fulfill? The point should also be remembered, that for a number of aspects [pahluu] to be present in poetry is no excellence; rather, it is flabby [sust] and non-flowing [naa-ravaa]. Indeed, for there to be much meaning is a great excellence, and between these two matters is a great difference. (245)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the age/world every person is needy. If no one would be able to come promptly to someone's aid, then one ought not to complain about this; rather, one ought to understand that the other person too, like oneself, must have some necessity. (304)

Bekhud Mohani: Some person says that the whole world is a people of neediness-- as if anyone would supply the need of each one! (442)

FWP: When people complain that the classical ghazal has no social conscience, I always think of this verse. Needless to say, it's not a cry for justice on behalf of the poor-- but perhaps it's a cry for justice (or a cry of despair?) on behalf of all of us. But then again, maybe not. After all, this is another verse that is as inshaa))iyah as it can possibly be. So it needn't be as philosophical and bleak as the way I'm inclined to read it. It could also, depending on the tone, be an indignant refusal by a rich man to give a coin to a beggar. The key is the radical vagueness of the second line. Here are some possible ways to interpret it: =Nobody can supply anyone else's needs, even if he tries, because each would-be need-supplier has too many pressing needs of his own =Nobody can supply other people's needs, because there are so many needy people-- which ones should get priority over the rest? =Should/would anybody worry about other people's needs, when he has so many of his own? =Should/would anybody worry about other people's needs, or about his own instead? =Is there anybody who isn't needy? Of course not! So it's absurd to think that anybody could/would supply anybody else's need. =Everybody is needy, and no one can help anybody else (a melancholy, or even desperate, philosophical reflection Nazm makes a surprising distinction here between a verse that has more than one aspect [pahluu] and a verse that has more than one meaning [ma((nii]. In his view, the former is bad and the latter is good. It seems that this verse is, to him, an example of the former. But I'm not really sure if this is what he does mean. Surely having more than one aspect can't be separated, either in theory or in practice, from having more than one meaning? Perhaps he's

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trying to make some other point. Anyway, if this is indeed what he means, I disagree with him absolutely.

{215,9} kyaa kiyaa ;xi.zr ne sikandar se ab kise rah-numaa kare ko))ii 1a) what Khizr did to Alexander-1b) what did Khizr do to Alexander? 2) now whom would anyone take as a guide?

Notes: *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: 'What he did'-- that is, he did nothing at all. Now one ought not to trust anyone. (245)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse is an allusion to the famous story of Khizr and Alexander. Hazrat Khizr had taken Alexander to the fountain of the Water of Life. Alexander saw that around the fountain many men were lying like slabs of meat, unable to walk or move, rise or sit. He didn't drink the Water of Life. He says, what help did Khizr give Alexander? Despite his guidance, Alexander came back deprived of the Water of Life, and after a very brief period departed from the earth. Now, as if anyone would make anybody a guide! (304)

Bekhud Mohani: Hazrat Khizr had guided Alexander to the fountain of Darkness [;zulmaat]. But then, through the command of the Lord, he vanished. 'Khizr' is the name of a prophet, who always guides those who have lost their way. Alexander was a king of Greece, and the conqueror of the seven continents.... Mirza had only this to say, that in the world no one is worthy to be entrusted with the lofty service of guiding. He said it-- and said it in such a way that eloquence [balaa;Gat] prostrates itself. (442)

FWP: Stories differ about exactly what happened between Khizr and Alexander with regard to the Water of Life, but everybody agrees that in the end Khizr drank it, and Alexander didn't. Now we're asked to meditate on their relationship, and to draw what seem to be radical conclusions from it. =Khizr has proved to be an untrustworthy guide, so now whom should anyone get to replace him? =Alexander was betrayed by his guide, so now everybody must be cautioned not to fall into the same trap as Alexander =Alexander was able to have a guide no less distinguished than Hazrat Khizr himself-- but nowadays, who can trust anybody to be a guide? =Because Khizr so famously and archetypally betrayed Alexander, now nobody can trust anybody to be a reliable guide NOTE FOR METER FANS: The words kyaa and kiyaa look identical of course. Isn't it pleasant to have the meter at our service? Nothing else can so instantly and reliably help us to tell them apart.

{215,10} jab tavaqqu(( hii u;Th ga))ii ;Gaalib kyuu;N kisii kaa gilaa kare ko))ii 1) when expectation/hope itself departed, Ghalib 2) why would anyone complain about anyone?

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Notes: tavaqqu(( : 'Expectation, hope; trust, reliance; wish, desire; request'. (Platts p.343) u;Th jaanaa : 'To be removed, done away with, abolished; to come to an end, be expended, finished, terminated, settled, &c.; to cease; to remove, quit, go away'. (Platts p.21) gilah is spelled as gilaa in order to maintain the consistent spelling of the rhyme-syllable.

Nazm: How can anyone praise it [sufficiently] [us kii ta((riif kyaa kare ko))ii]! It is an extremely lofty theme, that can't be sufficiently praised. The meaning is that the person through whom expectation would have been cut off-- why then would anyone complain about him? Because there won't be any benefit from it, and hatred and enmity will be created. (245)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in asituation of expectation, to complain and lament too, oh Ghalib, is proper; in a situation of hopelessness, why would a complaint be made about anyone? (304)

Bekhud Mohani: It is an entirely novel idea. The common rule of the world is that as long as hope of someone remains, people don't complain, for fear that the desire would not be accomplished. But when hopelessness comes about, then they complain about it/him/her. Having departed from the poetic royal road, Mirza has said that as long as there was hope, then if a complaint had been made, that person might have given up his/her negligence and shown mercy. When no hope remained, then what can the result of complaint be, except for revealing one's weakness of spirit and lack of wisdom? (443)

FWP: In the ghazal world, one of the things that the lover complains about is loss and departure: that the beloved might remove herself from his gaze, that she might go away. Well may the lover complain and lament about that! He complains either fearfully, before the dread event happens; or wretchedly, after the terrible loss has occurred. Why should he not, how could he not, complain? What could be worse? This verse envisions something worse, for the one who has 'departed' is the semi-personified Expectation/hope itself. The word tavaqq((u is feminine, and the use of the idiomatic u;Th jaanaa , with its literal meaning of 'to get up, stand up', can't help but suggest a feminine person who rises in order to leave. Thus we have the piquant reenactment of the beloved's departure-only this time it's worse, for if the beloved departs then she might just conceivably return. But if Expectation/hope departs, then by definition the loss is irrevocable, it's the end. This quasi-personification also yields a more subtle secondary reading of the verse: when Expectation herself departed, why would one complain about anyone else's departure? Expectation has already set the pattern, and no one else's departure, not even the beloved's, could be as dire-- so why complain about the also-rans? For another verse that plays on the ultimate bleakness of the loss of hope, see {95,6}.

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Ghazal 216 3 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: am kyaa hai composed 1858; Hamid p. 176; Arshi #234; Raza p. 349

{216,1} bahut sahii ;Gam-e getii sharaab kam kyaa hai ;Gulaam-e saaqii-e kau;sar huu;N mujh ko ;Gam kyaa hai 1) the grief of the world is much, no doubt-- as if the wine is less/lacking! 2) I'm a slave of the Cupbearer of Kausar [Hazrat Ali]-- what grief do I have?!

Notes: Ghalib: [early July 1858, to Mirza Hatim Ali Beg 'Mihr':] {216,1}; {216,3} [these two verses introduce the letter] Believing that the attachment of love is rightfully eternal, and considering that the connection of slave-hood to Janab Murtaza Ali is true, I say one thing more: that although vision is precious to everyone, hearing too has, after all, its own value. Granted that face-to-face knowing has outranked it, still it too is a proof of friendship. How is it necessary that if mutual vision has not taken place, we would consider ourselves strangers to each other? Indeed, we and you are longtime friends, if we so consider ourselves. In response to a salaam, a letter is a very great kindness. May the Lord grant that that letter in which I had written a salaam to you, would have passed before your eyes! If you perhaps have not chanced to see it, please get it from Mirza Taftah and read it. Alas, that Major John Jacob [the one for whom 'Jacobabad' was named] was killed at such a young age! Truly, it was his practice to forbid me to think about Urdu, and to incite me to compose poetry in the Persian language. He too is among those kind benefactors for whom I mourn. Thousands of friends have died-- which of them should I remember, and for which should I lament? If I live, then I have no confidant; if I die, then I have no mourner. I have looked at your ghazals. Praise be to God, may the evil eye be far off! You're a [knowledgeable] traveler [saalik] on the road of Urdu; you are, {so to speak / speaking}, a master of that tongue. The Persian [verse] too is not less is not less in excellence. Practice [mashq] is the condition: if you keep composing, you'll enjoy it [agar kahe jaa))oge lu:tf paa))oge]. As for me, I'm in the state such that, as Talib Amuli has said [in Persian], 'I've sealed up my lips from speaking; you'd say / on the face, the mouth was a wound that has healed'. When you've written me a letter without my having written one to you, then how would I not long for an answer to my letter? First please write about your own situation: I've heard that you're a Sadr Amin [=Subordinate Judge] somewhere. So why have you taken up residence in Akbarabad [=Agra]? In this turmoil, how was your connection with the rulers? Please definitely write about the situation of Raja Balvan Singh-- where is he, and does he still receive the two thousand rupees a month that he used to receive from the English government? Alas, Lucknow! There's no word of what happened to that garden-place. What became of its riches, where did its people go? What fate overtook the women and men of the family of Shuja ud-Daulah? What's the story about the revered Hazrat Mujtahid ul-Asr [the highest Shi'a legal functionary in the state]? I suspect that as compared to myself, you must have more awareness [of all this]. I'm hopeful that what knowledge you have would not remain

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hidden from me. I've learned no more about your auspicious dwelling than that it's in Kashmiri Bazaar; apparently this much must be enough, or else you would have written more. Please give my blessing to Mirza Taftah, and please let him know of the arrival of that letter in which he had written me the good news of your [intention to write a] letter. Peace be with you. ==Urdu text: Khalq Anjum vol. 2, pp. 700-01 ==another trans.: Daud Rahbar, pp. 82-84

Ghalib: [1865, writing to Ala'i:] [For the immediately preceding part of this letter, see {70,3}.] You asked for recent [jadiid] verses. Your happiness is dear to me. I remembered a closing-verse and only two lines before it that I had composed, that are not even recorded in the divan. Having thought about [fikr karnaa] them, I wrote one opening-verse and five verses; I send you a ghazal of seven verses [bait]. Brother, how can I tell you with what difficulty these six verses have come to hand, and they too not of a high rank: = {216,1} = {216,2} with the two lines in reverse order, called 'a second opening-verse' = [verse x1] ka;Te to shab kahe;N kaa;Te to saa;Np kahlaave ko))ii bataa))o kih vuh zulf-e ;xam bah ;xam kyaa hai = [verse x2] likhaa kare ko))ii a;hkaam-e :taala((-e mauluud kise ;xabar hai kih vaa;N junbish-e qalam kyaa hai = [verse x3] nah ;hashr-o-nashr kaa qaa))il nah kesh-o-millat kaa ;xudaa ke vaas:te aise kii phir qasam kyaa hai = [verse x4] vuh daad-o-diid giraa;Nmaayah shar:t hai hamdam vagarnah muhr-e sulaimaan-o-jaam-e jam kyaa hai = {216,3} Here, sahib, your mandate, a twin of Fate, I have fulfilled. But I don’t have a copy [masuudah] of this ghazal in my possession. If you will keep it carefully, and add it to the margins [;hashiyah] of the Urdu divan, you will do well. ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, pp. 422-23

Nazm: That is, granted that in the world there's much grief-- but to divert the grief, the 'wine of Kausar' too is present, that one can drink till eternity. (248)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I grant that in the world there's much grief and sorrow, but in comparison with the grief, wine too is not less in proportion. The meaning is that wine is a thing that causes one to forget the grief of the world; and since I am a slave of the Saqi of Kausar, I have no worries about obtaining wine. It will keep on being available just the same till eternity. Here I kept drinking, and there too I will keep drinking. (304)

Bekhud Mohani: In brief and clear words, the meaning of the verse is that one ought not to become anxious over the troubles of the world, since after it the pleasures of Paradise will fall to one's lot, and cups of the Wine of Kausar will be passed around. (447)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION WINE: {49,1} The first of the two letters I include since it begins with two verses from this ghazal, and then with an invocation of 'slave-hood' to Hazrat Ali in the first

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sentence, as a bond between Ghalib and his new correspondent, a friend of his dear friend Taftah whom he's never met. It certainly makes clear Ghalib's special sympathy with Ali, although he always resisted any sectarian characterization. Moreover, this letter is dated so early after the Rebellion that it shows how quickly things were returning to (a new form of) 'normal'. Though Ghalib grieves over a dead English friend, and anxiously seeks information about other friends, this letter contains rhymed prose and other touches of elegance, and also a certain lightness of touch. The post office is obviously up and running once again. This new friend, Mihr, has sent Ghalib both Urdu and Persian ghazals to correct. Despite all the grief and shock, life is going on. Only two ghazals from the period after 1857 made it into the printed, established [muravvaj] divan; this one, composed in 1858, is the earlier of the two. (The other, {70}, was composed in 1862.) The present little threeverse ghazal itself came in 1865 to include, as the second letter given above clearly shows, four extra verses that Ghalib meant to have added to his divan (though he also considered them not to be of a high standard). The complete ghazal can be found in Kalidas Gupta Raza, p.349. In addition, Bekhud Dihlavi comments on the extra verses too (p.305). I hope in due course to discuss on this website more verses from his unpublished work. On the colloquial implications of sahii , see {9,4}. The effect is concessive: 'no doubt it's true that'; 'granted that'; 'agreed that'. Grief is no doubt much-but the wine is hardly less! Why should we whine-- don't we have wine? (Sorry, rhymed prose is a thing that creeps up on you.) Two possibilities thus open up here: what is being indignantly denied might be either the idea that the wine is less than the grief (whereas in fact, the two amounts are both large, and both the same), or else the idea that the wine is less or lacking in a more general way (whereas in fact, there's plenty of wine in the world). If we read the two lines together, then the suggestion seems to be that the Saqi of Kausar is a kind of provider or guarantor of earthly winesupplies, perhaps as a gesture of compassion to grief-stricken humankind. But of course, we don't know what the relationship of the two lines should be, so it's also possible to read them separately, as proposing two solutions to the problem of grief: in the short run, lots of earthly wine; and in the long run, some kind of (intoxicating?) heavenly nectar poured by Hazrat Ali from the divine fountain of Kausar.

{216,2} tumhaarii :tarz-o-ravish jaante hai;N ham kyaa hai raqiib par hai agar lu:tf to sitam kyaa hai 1) your shape/style and gait/manner-- we know what it is 2) if there is kindness to the Rival, then what is [the] tyranny?

Notes: :tarz : 'Form, shape, fashion; way of acting, style of conduct, manner, way'. (Platts p.752) ravish : 'Motion, walk, gait, carriage; practice, custom, fashion, usage; rule, institution, law; conduct, behaviour; order, course, proceeding, procedure; manner, method, mode, way'. (Platts p.605)

Nazm: That is, your showing kindness to the Rival-- that very thing is tyranny, with regard to me. (248)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we are very aware of your habit-- that you always heighten the flame of jealousy/envy in the lover's heart. Your showing kindness to the Rival plays the role of tyranny, toward me. That is, the kindness with which you treat the Rival, becomes tyranny with regard to me. (304)

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Bekhud Mohani: Cruelty is your habit, tyranny is your temperament. The way you treat the Rival-- if you call all this 'graciousness', then the Lord knows what 'tyranny' will be! [Disagreeing with Nazm:] If the meaning of the verse would be expressed in this way, then the defect in it presents itself, that there's then no longer any need for the first line. (448)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH The first line sets us up for something, but we have no idea what. The beloved's :tarz-o-ravish can be anything from the physical (bodily shape and form, gait and carriage) to the abstract (style and manner of behavior). And to say 'we know what it is' is only an insinuation-- there's no indication whatsoever of the content or nature of what the lover knows. Is the verse talking about her body, or her temperament? Is the verse praising, or blaming, whatever it's talking about? The listeners have to wait-- and in mushairah performance conditions, the wait will be as long as can conveniently be managed-- for enlightenment from the second line. Even then, in classic mushairah-verse style, the 'punch-word' is withheld until the last possible moment. Nazm frames the second line as a kind of redefinition of 'kindness'-- if she shows kindness to the Rival, then it's really 'tyranny' to the lover ('if this isn't tyranny, what is?'). In that case, the first line suggests that the lover knows her (sadistic) ways, and knows she is doing it on purpose in order to torment him. And the ambiguity in the first line (is it her physical airs and graces, or her behavior, that the lover claims to know all too well?) works beautifully, since the sadistic charm she shows make it quite possible that it's both. But the line could also be read as a different redefinition of 'kindness'. She's so cruel that if she shows her own brand of 'kindness' to the Rival, then why would the lover mind? Where in that is there any 'tyranny' to the lover? The lover knows her so well, he knows that her 'kindness' will end up driving the Rival as mad as it has driven the lover himself. For an enjoyable explication of this reading, see {42,1}.

{216,3} su;xan me;N ;xaamah-e ;Gaalib kii aatish-afshaanii yaqii;N hai ham ko bhii lekin ab us me;N dam kyaa hai 1) in poetry, the fire-scatteringness of Ghalib's pen! 2) we too are convinced of it-- but now, what breath/life is in it/him?

Notes: Nazm: In poetry/speech [su;xan]-- that is, in the art of poetry. (249)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in the art of poetry, we are certainly convinced of the magicinscribingness of the pen of Ghalib. But now in him, because he has become old, no breath/life has remained. (305)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse, through 'too' the poet has created the meaning that the way the world accepts it, I too accept it. Let people of insight examine it: how beautifully Mirza has contrived his own praise! (448)

FWP: SETS == POETRY An extra pleasure is the ambiguity of the us me;N in the second line: is there no breath left in the pen, or in the poet himself?

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Ghazal 217 5 verses; meter G5; rhyming elements: aataa hai mujhe composed 1816; Hamid p. 177; Arshi #170; Raza p. 184

{217,1} baa;G paa kar ;xafaqaanii yih ;Daraataa hai mujhe saayah-e shaa;x-e gul af((ii na:zar aataa hai mujhe 1) having reached/attained/found the garden, heart-palpitation-inclined, this/it frightens me 2) the shadow of the branch of a rose appears a serpent to me

Notes: ;xafaaqaan : 'Fluttering, palpitation (esp. as a disease of the heart); hysterics'. (Platts p.491) ;xafaaqaanii : '(adj.) Subject to palpitation (of the heart)'. (Platts p.491)

Nazm: The reference of 'this' is to the seeing of a serpent. Besides the excellence of the simile, there's the freshness that he has declared the heart-palpitation to be a cause of fear-- contrary to most poets, who say that 'the garden, in the memory of face and curls, frightens me'. (245)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, when the garden found me to be of a palpitation-inclined temperament, since then it has kept intimidating me. As if the shadow of the rose-branch appears to me to have become a serpent. A palpitation-inclined [;xafaaqaanii] man, because of his illusion, usually feels fearful. The meaning is that in the garden the freshness and moisture of the flowers has a heart-attracting effect, and the outcome of love always becomes lifedestroying. (305)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse such a picture of madness has been made, that it's inexpressible. The kind of fear that can pervade a palpitation-inclined one [;xafaaqaanii] who has seen a serpent, and the situation that can prevail in his heart and mind-- that is being made apparent through words. Then, what estimate can be formed of the terror at that time, when it's considered how many rosebranches there must be in the garden, and how many serpents must appear! .... This verse is, according to the terminology of the poets of Sanskrit and Hindi, in the 'terrifying mood' [bhayaanak ras]. (443)

FWP: SETS == A,B It's a very strange, haunting verse, and surely one of mood. We feel that the garden has been reached with an effort: for baa;G paa kar , having attained or (literally) 'found' the garden, conveys a sense of success after striving (as in finding something after a search). But what is it about the lover's present situation that's so terrifying? What is the 'this' that frightens him? Needless to say, the verse offers us a number of possibilities: =The lover has snuck through the garden gate without the beloved's permission, or climbed over the wall like a thief: thus he is jumpy and nervous, constantly imagining danger on all sides. =The lover has finally, with great difficulty, after infinite begging and pleading, obtained the beloved's permission to visit the garden; he feels

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himself to be a presumptuous, unwelcome intruder, so that everything in the garden rejects and threatens him. =Passion has driven the lover into such crazy paranoid madness that even in the serene and restful surroundings of the garden he feels constantly under threat from all directions. =The lover simply has a 'heart-palpitation-inclined' temperament; he invents his own threats and fears and difficulties even where there aren't any. =The lover is anxious about his own 'heart-palpitation-inclined' temperament; he's afraid his heart will betray him or reduce him to a nervous wreck, so everything seems to pose a threat of loss of control. No matter how we read the verse, we can't be sure of the relationship between the two lines. The 'this' that frightens the lover could be the 'serpent', or the fact of his own 'seeing' of the serpent, or some aspect of his own situation in the garden, or his own nervous temperament, etc. The second line thus might be causally related to the first (by containing the content of the fear), or might merely offer an illustration of the degree or nature of the fear (by giving an example of its direness and irrationality). And in any case, how far the poor lover still is from enjoying the garden he has 'attained'! Not to speak of approaching the rose itself, he is terrified not even by the 'branch' on which it grows, but by the very 'shadow' of that branch. He doesn't mention the thorns that grow on the branch; perhaps they don't even signify by comparison to the fearful serpent of his imagination.

{217,2} jauhar-e te;G bah sar-chashmah-e diigar ma((luum huu;N mai;N vuh sabzah kih zahraab ugaataa hai mujhe 1) the temper/water of the sword, from another fountain-head?-'known'/impossible! 2) I am that [kind of] greenery, such that bitter-water causes me to grow

Notes: jauhar : 'A gem, jewel; a pearl; essence, matter, substance, constituent, material part (opp. to accident), absolute or essential property; skill, knowledge, accomplishment, art; excellence, worth, merit, virtue; secret nature; defects, vices; --the diversified wavy marks, streaks, or grain of a well-tempered sword'. (Platts p.399) zahraab : 'Dirty, stagnant, or envenomed water; rennet for curdling cheese; water in which fruits have been macerated, their bitterness being left behind; an aquatic herb'. (Steingass, p.630)

Nazm: By zahraab is meant grief and anger; that is, my composition is from grief and anger. Then in addition he boasts that the temper of a sword is in the sword alone; at any other fountain-head, where is this greenery? The late author was heedless here-- in Iran, language-knowers also use zahraab for urine; he ought to have avoided this word. (245)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way the temper of a sword is brought out by the pouring of bitter-water, in the same way I am that greenery whose nourishment has been on grief and anger. The meaning is that in my composition are grief and anger. (306)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Yes, yes, language-knowers call urine too zahraab . But not urine alone. From the innovation of Hazrat the Commentator it's necessary that a word that has a number of meanings, one of which is bad, ought to be avoided in speaking in its other meanings as well. But in truth this recommendation is in no way worthy of acceptance.

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[He goes on to give examples of the use of this word from Momin, Zafar, and Nasikh.] (445)

Faruqi: [See also his comments on {48,10}.] There's no subtlety in the meaning of the verse. The verse is good, but considering Ghalib's standard, it's not of very high rank. By the 'temper' [jauhar] of a sword is meant those round marks that are present in highquality steel. By way of affinity to the brightness/'water' [aab] of a sword they give for it the similes of 'ocean', 'fountain', or 'rivulet'. Thus Mir has a line {947,2}: us kii shamshiir kii jadval bhii bahaa kyaa kyaa kii [the rivulet of his sword too-- what things it caused to flow away!] Thus if the sword is a fountain, then its temper/water has become greenery. That is, the temper is that greenery that can grow up only by the edge of the sword. The greenery, with regard to its form and color, has similarity to a 'quenched' sword [that has been immersed in water as part of the tempering process], as in Ghalib's verse [Raza p.155; one of the omitted verses from {109}]: bah rang-e sabzah ((aziizaan-e bad-zabaa;N yak-dast hazaar te;G-e bah zahr-aab-daadah rakhte hai;N [with the color/mood of greenery, dear ones with malicious tongues all at once have a thousand swords immersed in bitter-water] In the verse under discussion the meaning of zahraab is grief and sorrow. Thus the meaning of the verse becomes that the way the greenery of 'temper' can grow up only on the edge of a sword, in the same way I am that greenery that grows up on poison-mixed water (that is, grief and sorrow). That is, my existence itself is indebted to grief and anger and sorrow. Ghalib has also created in this another aspect of thought: that the way the temper of a sword exists because the sword exists, in the same way my existence is due to grief and anger. (340)

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY This is a verse chiefly of wordplay; and the commentators, together with Faruqi, bring out its various aspects; I don't have anything special to add. Let me just pull together the wordplay a bit. A sword has 'water' for two reasons. For one thing, it has jauhar or 'temper', one meaning of which is 'gem', and jewels have 'water' as a criterion of quality; in English too we speak of 'a diamond of the first water'. A sword also has water because it has aab , defined by Platts as 'Water; water or lustre (in gems); temper (of steel, &c.); edge or sharpness (of a sword, &c.); sparkle, lustre; splendour' (p.1). Faruqi adds the association of zahraab with the water in which a sword has been immersed to 'quench' it as part of the tempering process; I'm not really sure how the process works or what this quenching water is like. The idiomatic negative use of ma((luum , literally 'known', to mean 'known not to exist' or 'known not to be possible', is quite common; for more examples, see the grammar page. The controversy over zahraab as being used to mean 'urine', and whether this association affects the verse, looms large to the commentators; Faruqi too discusses it at length (pp. 341-43). It points up perhaps one of the few ways in which we latecomers have an advantage: many of us don't think of that meaning because we don't know it.

{217,3} mudda((aa ma;hv-e tamaashaa-e shikast-e dil hai aa))inah-;xaane me;N ko))ii liye jaataa hai mujhe

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1) purpose/intention is absorbed in the spectacle of the breaking of the heart 2) someone takes me along into a mirror-chamber

Notes: mudda((aa : 'Asserted as a claim, claimed, sued for; alleged; pretended; meant; --what is claimed, or alleged, or pretended, or meant; desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift; --object of search, stolen property'. (Platts p.1015)

Nazm: When from the [non-?]attainment of a purpose the heart broke, the purpose was looking at the spectacle of the broken fragments of the heart. And the heart was a mirror; when it broke, then many mirrors were created and they became a mirror-chamber. This style of verse is not accepted/approved [maqbuul]. (245-46)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the difficulties and harshnesses of my purpose have broken my heart, and my purpose has become a spectator of the broken fragments of the heart. When the heart was established, then it was a mirror; the mirror, having broken, has created many mirrors, and for this reason my bosom has become a mirror-chamber. (306)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza Sahib says that because of the non-fulfillment of my purpose, in extreme sorrow and grief my heart broke into fragments. And since they always construct the heart as 'broken', from the broken heart many mirrors came into being, and assumed the form of a mirror-chamber. Thus now the purpose is absorbed in watching the spectacle of this broken-heartedness, and I feel as though someone is taking me into a mirror-chamber so that I too would be able to view the spectacle of those broken fragments. (446)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} What the commentators say is all very well, but who is this mysterious 'someone', and what is he doing in the verse? All the rest of the ideas and imagery could perfectly well have been deployed without the 'someone'. Is the semi-personified 'Purpose', absorbed in the spectacle of mirrorfragments, dragging me along with it? Am I now so detached from myself that when my 'Purpose' is busy elsewhere, the rest of my psyche feels like an alien being, dragging me around? Is the breaking of the heart so devastating that the inner self becomes fragmented as well? Does the mirror-chamber show me another, reflected or refracted, self that may seem to have more volution than I do? On the subject of breakable glass mirrors versus polishable metal mirrors, see {8,3}. And for another evocation of a 'mirror-chamber', see {10,5}.

{217,4} naalah sarmaayah-e yak-((aalam-o-((aalam kaf-e ;xaak aasmaa;N be.zah-e qumrii na:zar aataa hai mujhe 1) a lament, the wealth/substance of a whole world; and a/the world, a handful of dust 2) the sky appears as the egg of a turtledove, to me

Notes: sar-maayah : 'Principal sum, capital, stock in trade; fund, funds, assets, means, resources; materials'. (Platts p.655) qumrii : '(rel. n. fr. qumr , pl. of aqmar , 'of a dully or dusky white colour,' rt. ), s.f. A turtle-dove; a ring-dove'. (Platts p.795)

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Nazm: He has, as a jest [phabtii], called the sky a turtledove's egg, in which there's nothing at all but a handful of dust. And then, in the destiny of that handful of dust too there is written a lifetime of lamentation. If you ask why he used a turtledove's egg, when the nightingale too is a handful of dust and was born for lamentation, then the reason is that the Persian-users always versify the turtledove as a handful of dust, because it is dust-colored. [He gives an example from Sa'ib.] Indeed, apparently with a subtle view one can say that if a lament is the wealth of a world, and a world is a handful of dust, this is an occasion for instruction and longing, and in such a case jest and pleasantry are inappropriate. [He goes on to discuss, in detail, various kinds and categories of similes, with a number of examples.] (246-48)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the wealth of a whole world is only lament, and a world itself it a single handful of dust; and the sky is a turtledove egg. That is, the produce of the world is nothing except lamentation, as if the world is a place of affliction, and the sky is a producer of lament. To the extent that troubles and difficulties keep being produced in the world, the sky keeps producing them all. (306)

Bekhud Mohani: I consider a lament to be the wealth of a world, and a world to be a handful of dust; and the sky, in my view, is a turtledove-egg. The form of the sky is egg-like, and the color of the turtledove is dusty. In this connection, he has called the sky a turtledove-egg; and since in the world there's nothing but sorrow and suffering, in this connection he has called the world a handful of dust. And through this affinity, he has declared all the creations of this world to be only a lament. That is, the wealth of the world is only sorrow and sadness, and this is my belief, observation, and experience. (446)

FWP: On the idiomatic use of yak-((aalam , see {11,1}. It's hard to translate, but surely part of the sense is to make a world into a measuring rod (so that a 'one-world' measurement is like a 'one-foot' measurement), perhaps for wealth [sarmaayah], and to emphasize globalness or wholeness as part of the measurement. I try to show this by using 'a whole world', and surely in that initial clause the sense of 'a' world instead of 'the' world comes through very clearly. Then in the second half of the first line, the 'world' is at once repeated, and this time without qualification. So it could still be 'a' world, in the sense carried over from the first half of the line; or it could be 'the' world, in our familiar sense of 'this' world. We notice that the first half of the line takes us from image one (lament) to image two (wealth/substance of a world), and the second half of the line takes us very explicitly from image two (world) to image three (handful of dust). We half-expect the next line to take us from image three (handful of dust) to some other image. Instead, we start afresh: the sky looks like a turtledove-egg to me. If we use the imagery-clues that the commentators point out, we have an obvious trajectory. The turtledove has a 'dusty' or 'dusky' or off-white color (see also {230,5}, in which the turtledove is called a 'handful of ashes'); for such a bird's egg to be dusty and to contain something dusty seems very suitable. So if the sky, which is often greyish or off-white, encloses the earth the way an egg encloses a yolk, then the 'handful of dust' that is the world can be seen as a kind of futile travesty of a yolk, with no possibility of ever hatching into anything fertile; not surprisingly, its whole wealth/substance is not anything creative or hopeful, but only a 'lament'.

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There's also the size connection, which works through an extreme kind of reduction. A lament has no physical size at all, and yet it's the wealth or essence of a whole world; a world itself is equated with a mere handful of dust. On the same scale, it's not surprising that the sky itself would appear as a mere bird's egg. But of course, all these things appear that way 'to me'. There are several ways of reading this final, vital, but almost casual qualifier: =I fear that I'm going mad; things look very morbid to me, and here are a few examples of my symptoms =I'm trapped inside a handful of dust stuck inside this puny, worthless egg-help, I'm lamenting forcefully, it's horribly cramped in here! =I'm so far beyond that handful of dust stuck inside that puny, worthless egg- I look down on it with disdain and pity (see {43,3}); from the height where I am, one single lament is worth as much as the whole of it =although it's painful to face the facts, I have to report my best judgment: the human condition is both petty and miserable This is a surely a verse of mood; and as so often, the verse allows (or compels) us to choose the mood ourselves. For another brilliantly multivalent verse in which the sky is imagined as an egg-- an ant's egg, in this case-- see {138,1}.

{217,5} zindagii me;N to vuh ma;hfil se u;Thaa dete the dekhuu;N ab mar ga))e par kaun u;Thaataa hai mujhe 1) in life, then she used to eject me from the gathering 2) let's see, now, upon my having died, who ejects/lifts me

Notes: Hali: kaun u;Thaataa hai mujhe has two meanings. One is that in life, you used to eject me from the gathering; now after my dying, let's see who ejects me from there. And the second meaning is that you used to eject me from the gathering, now let's see who lifts up my bier. (133)

Nazm: For this very reason I gave my life: that now they will not be able to eject me. In the word u;Thaanaa is an iihaam , for they also call the lifting of a dead person's bier u;Thaanaa . (248)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] What a way to describe the meaning of the verse! It's impossible to understand what it means to say that after my dying they won't be able to eject me. (337)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH Here's a quintessential mushairah-verse. The first line is clearly poised to go somewhere, but we can't tell where. Probably there will be a contrast. Now that I'm in the grave, I'm allowed to stay there? Now she, or someone else, will eject me from the grave? Now I'm beyond caring about gatherings? Naturally, we're made to wait, under mushairah performance conditions, as long as is conveniently possible, before we get to hear the second line. And even then, the second line withholds its 'punch'-word until the last possible moment. Only at the very end of the line do we realize that the real key to the verse is the verb u;Thaanaa , the causative of 'to rise, to get up' [u;Thnaa]. To 'cause someone to get up' is an obvious idiomatic expression for kicking someone out, ejecting someone from wherever he was seated. Thus it works excellently in the first line; it's just what the beloved would enjoy doing to the hapless lover (as in {116,6}).

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Only at the end of the second line do we realize, as Hali observes, that u;Thaanaa , to 'lift up, cause to rise', is also what people do to biers, when preparing to carry a dead person to a grave. This secondary meaning is elegantly triggered by the reference to the speaker's 'having died'. Nazm calls this abrupt shift in the meaning of u;Thaanaa as an iihaam , but strictly speaking I don't think it is one, because the poet surely intends both meanings here: the new meaning supplements the old one, but doesn't by any means cancel it out. So here are some possibilities: =she used to eject me when I was alive; let's see who ejects me now that I'm dead! (that is, no one will: in the grave at least I am secure against ejection; see {115,2}) =she was the one who used to eject me when I was alive; let's see whose turn it is to eject me now that I'm dead (since to be ejected is my obvious and predestined fate) =she used to eject me when I was alive; let's see who lifts my bier now that I'm dead (she's so indifferent and disdainful-- let's see if she even bothers to give me a decent burial) This verse clearly is one of the 'dead lover speaks' set; for others, see {57,1}.

Ghazal 218 3 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar kii composed 1855; Hamid p. 177; Arshi #233; Raza p. 339

{218,1} rau;Ndii hu))ii hai kaukabah-e shahryaar kii itraa))e kyuu;N nah ;xaak sar-e rahguzaar kii 1) it is in a state of having been trampled down by the courtiers/runners of the King-2) why would the dust at the edge/'head' of the road not {swagger / give itself airs}?

Notes: rau;Ndnaa : 'To trample on, to tread down; to ride over; to crush; to lay waste, to destroy;--to tread out (corn)'. (Platts p.608) kaukabah : 'A star (or stars) of gold, silver, or tinsel, &c. (worn as an ornament or insignia of rank)'. (Platts p.863) kaukabah : 'A polished steel ball suspended to a long pole and carried as an ensign before the king; a star of gold, silver, or tinsel, worn as ornament or sign of rank; a concourse of people; a royal train, retinue, cavalcade; splendour'. (Steingass p.1063) itraanaa : 'To exult greatly or unduly (by reason of, - par , wealth, success, &c.); to behave with pride, or self-conceitedness, or boastfulness, or arrogance, or insolence; to give oneself airs (by reason of), to be conceited or vain or supercilious; to act affectedly or coquettishly; to strut, swagger, show off'. (Platts p.15)

Nazm: kaukabah are those people who remain in the king's ardalii [from 'orderly': servants who run before the royal conveyance]. (249)

Bekhud Dihlavi: kaukabah are those royal servants who remain in the king's ardalii . Otherwise, the meaning of the verse is clear. (306)

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Bekhud Mohani: kaukabah are the royal servants, the people of the king's ardalii .... It's clear that if the King himself had emerged, what honor would have accrued to the earth-- at the passing of the King's entourage, the dust beside the road is swaggering. Well-bred people don't address senior ones directly. For example, if they would want to say 'I had come to make my salaam to you', then they'll say, 'I had humbly attended to have audience with the servants of loftiness'. With this in view, then the meaning will be that the auspicious King has passed by there, thus the earth is swaggering. (448)

FWP: Here is one of the few verses of outright royal flattery in the whole divan; the next verse in this ghazal, {218,2}, is another such. (For others, check out some of the references to the King.) Let's face it, it's not the kind of verse we read Ghalib for. But still, its tank isn't quite empty either; there's a little literary juice in it. From the first line, we expect that something feminine will be humiliated, crushed, perhaps suffering. That something will of course be a noun, rather than a woman (since the beloved, who is the only woman in the ghazal world, is always grammatically masculine). Under mushairah performance conditions, of course, we are made to wait as long as can be managed before we can hope to find out more of the story. The second line is indeed, as Bekhud Dihlavi notes, clear in its meaning. But it's rendered less prosy and ho-hum by some enjoyable word- and meaningplay. For we know that dust is humble to begin with, with usually nothing special about it; and the dust at the edge of the road has no claim to fame whatsoever. Moreover, that particular dust has just been 'trampled down' and 'crushed' and 'laid waste' by the King's entourage. Thus it's all the more remarkable and amusing that this dust, far from complaining or groveling or suffering, engages in a kind of strutting or swaggering. And its attitude has a clever physical correlate: we notice that the dust in question is beside or, literally, by the 'head' [sar], of the roadway. For raising one's head is a classic idiomatic sign of pride or self-assertion: the meanings of sar-kash , literally 'head-pulling-up', include 'proud, arrogant, insolent' (Platts p.648); the meanings of sar u;Thaanaa , literally 'to raise the head', include 'to rise up; to look up; to exalt oneself' (Platts p.649). The behavior of the dust is not only extravagant in an abstract sense (upon being humiliated, it gives itself airs), but paradoxical in a literal, physical sense (upon being trampled down underfoot, it lifts up its head). It's true that technically the 'head' doesn't belong to the dust, but to the side of the road. But the verse is so arranged that we can't help but make the strong association. Indeed, this association is a large part of whatever limited poetic pleasure the verse affords; and the fact that it's a do-it-yourself connection adds to the enjoyment. This little verse also offers us an unexpectedly thought-provoking example of multi-lingual and multi-cultural shifts in meaning. The obvious question we ordinary Urdu students nowadays would ask is, what does kaukabah mean? We know it's an adjective formed from the Persian-derived kaukab ('star, constellation'); but what does it refer to? As a rule, Platts is a wonderful resource; but here (see the definition above) he doesn't help us much, for a 'star' or 'insignia' could hardly trample anything. The next step is to check Steingass, and there we find both meanings: the 'star, insignia' one, and also the meaning of 'retinue, cavalcade'. But then we notice something else interesting: the commentators realize that their own readers won't know the word any more than we do, and they are

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careful to define it. And look at their definition! They follow Nazm in defining kaukabah as ardalii (used as a plural noun), which according to Platts is derived from the English 'orderly' (in the sense in which senior military officers have orderlies as messengers and servants). According to Platts, an ardalii is 'An orderly; a peon in regular attendance on an official; an attendant who runs before his master's conveyance' (p.40). An ardalii is thus a very humble functionary. This is quite a shift of nuance from kaukabah , with its overtones of grandeur and pageantry ('royal train, retinue, cavalcade; splendour'). Maybe it's also the shift from an imperially Persianized model of hierarchy to a (semi-militarized) colonial one?

{218,2} jab us ke dekhne ke liye aa))e;N baadshaah logo;N me;N kyuu;N namuud nah ho laalah-zaar kii 1) when the King would come to see it 2) among the people, why would there not be show/affectation/display/pomp/honor, of/by the tulip-garden?

Notes: namuud : 'The being or becoming apparent, visibleness; appearance; -prominence, conspicuousness; --show; --affectation; --display; --pomp; -honour, character, celebrity'. (Platts p.1154)

Nazm: There's no pleasure in the verse, but from this conditional utterance the information also here emerges that the King has gone to see the garden, and from his going there such glory/magnificence [raunaq] has occurred that people have become surprised. (349)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In the spring, the King used often to betake himself to stroll in the tulipgarden. (306)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The pleasure of the verse is clear from this: that a new category of praise for the tulip-garden has emerged. People were not surprised to see the increase in glory/magnificence of the garden. Rather, the tulip-garden where the King went to stroll must have begun to be talked about: 'My God, my God, this is a place such that the King goes to stroll in it!' (449)

FWP: Like its predecessor {218,1}, this is a verse of flattery to the king, so we shouldn't expect too much from it. Nazm says flatly that it has 'no pleasure' in it, but that's too harsh. Like its predecessor, it does have a certain small amount of relish. This relish lies in the clever use of namuud , which is not only multivalent in itself but is so framed that its multivalence is maximized. (The grammar forces it to be a noun; if it had been used as an adjective, its multivalence would have been much reduced, for the tulip-garden would have lost the possibility of agency.) For among its meanings we notice a kind of activity shared between observer and observed. Here are some of the ways it can be read: =people come to know about the garden =people consider the garden to be a 'celebrity' and a 'show' =people 'honor' and admire the garden =the garden displays itself with 'pomp' and makes a 'show' of itself =the garden shows 'affectation' and vanity over its new fame Any or all of these reactions can be the result of the royal stroll in the tulipgarden.

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{218,3} bhuuke nahii;N hai;N sair-e gulistaa;N ke ham vale kyuu;Nkar nah khaa))iye kih havaa hai bahaar kii 1) we are not eager/hungry for a stroll in the garden, but 2) how would one/we not take/'eat' it-- for there/it is the 'hava' of spring

Notes: sair : 'Moving about, strolling, stroll, ramble, walk, taking the air, airing, perambulation, excursion, tour, travels; recreation, amusement; scene, view, spectacle, landscape; perusal (of a book, &c.); a sally (of wit, &c.), a jest'. (Platts p.711) havaa : 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth; --air, wind, gentle gale; --a gas; --flight; --an aerial being; spirit, fiend; --sound, tone; --rumour, report; --credit, good name; --affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence; --an empty or worthless thing'. (Platts p.1239) havaa khaanaa : 'To breathe the air; to take an airing; --to walk about idly, to lounge or saunter about; --to walk away, go away, be off'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: The conclusion of this verse that emerges, is that the relish for the pleasure of the world is not good, but neither ought one to refuse a grace given by the Lord. (249)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we aren't particularly eager for a stroll in the garden; that is, we don't have a desire for the relish of the world. But the spring season too is a grace that has been bestowed by God the Most High; for this reason, one ought certainly to take a stroll in it. (307)

Bekhud Mohani: We don't have a longing for a stroll in the garden, but when we became attentive to the air of spring, then naturally we were compelled. That is, the attraction of rose and jasmine does not draw us toward them; rather, we are a lover of the spring breeze. [Or:] We haven't given our heart to the pleasures of the world. But to reject them is 'denial of grace'. Thus we accept them. (449)

Baqir: We are not hungry for a stroll in the garden, but in the spring breeze there is such attraction that it spontaneously draws our heart toward itself. Thus why would we not obtain joy from it? (521)

Shadan: bhuuke means 'eager'; for just this wordplay [ri((aayat] he has brought in havaa khaanaa , which means 'to enjoy'. Although we are not eager for the relish of the world, aversion to the Divine grace is not good either. Moreover, the scene of spring, and the excellence of the sight of it, willynilly attracts me toward it. (486)

Josh: vale means 'but'. With khaa))iye , bhuuke too is very enjoyable. The point of the verse is that although the world's beauty is transitory and is not worthy of having the heart set upon it, still since it is the Lord's blessing, one ought to respect it; he who pushes it away is a 'denier of grace'. (349)

Chishti: We have no special longing for a stroll in the garden. The spring breeze is so heart-attracting that willy-nilly, the temperament wants to obtain pleasure from it. Basic image: praise of the spring breeze. (811)

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Mihr: We are not hungry for a stroll in the garden, but there's the spring breeze, about the pleasingness of which there's no scope for argument; so why wouldn't we take/'eat' it? (694)

FWP: SETS == WORD This is one of the verses where I just have to say 'pooh!' to the commentators. Why would anybody ever exclaim vaah vaah over a sententious, prosy, commonplace religious reflection? (And if nobody would exclaim that, why would anybody bother to compose the verse?) In this case, moreover, the commentators' religious reading doesn't just narrow the meaning of the verse (to one choice out of many), but actually invents it. You, dear reader, be the judge: is there one single word in the verse that suggests a religious obligation to enjoy the springtime? Is there one single word about moral obligation, to justify the chaahiye that so many commentators use or suggest? They are apparently taking kyuu;Nkar nah khaa))iye to imply 'ought'-ness, but its perfectly clear meaning is 'how would one not eat it?'-- a phrase that could just as easily be used to explain an addiction to ice cream. And the few commentators who don't go in for the religious-duty reading offer an equally bland and simplistic reading: 'the spring breeze is pleasant, so it makes me want to walk in the garden'. In fact, the verse hinges on two kinds of wordplay. The first is the obvious one, noted (to their credit) by Shadan and Josh, between bhuuke , 'eager' or literally 'hungry', and havaa khaanaa , to 'take the air' or literally to 'eat the air'. The second and more clever wordplay centers on the multiple possibilities of havaa . Beyond its role in creating the idiomatic phrase havaa khaanaa , it has many other possibilities that can't help but spring (sorry, sorry!) to mind. By no coincidence, the grammar frames the word as unrestrictively as possible: 'the havaa of spring is'. Why in fact are we drawn to stroll in the garden, although we aren't particularly eager to do so? Here are some possible reasons: =the general 'air' or 'atmosphere' of spring calls to us =the spring 'breeze' is blowing =there's a 'rumor' that spring is coming =the 'credit, good name' of spring needs to be upheld =the 'affection' for spring itself is in our heart =the romantic 'desire' generated by spring makes us think of the garden =the great charm of spring, although it's trivial or 'empty' or 'worthless', overpowers us against our will Moreover, in terms of English structure, the Urdu clause pattern 'X is' can be read either generally as 'there is X' or 'X exists' (as in the above examples) or specifically as 'it is X'. If we read 'it is the hava of spring', then what is the 'it'? Here are some possibilities: =the spring breeze, as an 'it' which is to be 'eaten' =the garden itself =the thought of a stroll in the garden =actually taking a stroll in the garden =the force that overcomes our lack of interest Isn't it remarkable how such simple means can produce such extravagant, overlapping, ebbing and flowing, mix-and-match effects-- with every single one of them spring-like? And as I write this, it is a heavenly day in May.

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Ghazal 219 9 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: am nikle composed 1853; Hamid p. 178; Arshi #230; Raza pp. 326-27

{219,1} hazaaro;N ;xvaahishe;N aisii kih har ;xvaahish pah dam nikle bahut nikle mire armaan lekin phir bhii kam nikle 1) all the thousands of longings are such that over every longing the breath would 'emerge' 2a) many of my wishes/regrets 'emerged'-- but still, few 'emerged' 2b) my wishes/regrets 'emerged' as many-- but still, they 'emerged' as few 2c) my wishes/regrets turned out to be many-- but still, they turned out to be few

Notes: nikalnaa : 'To be pulled or drawn out, to be taken out; to be expressed;... --to be deduced; --to be produced; to be invented; --to be hatched (eggs); --to be performed, or accomplished, or effected; --to be worked out, be solved; --to come out or forth, to issue, to emerge; to appear; to rise (as the sun);... --to find vent; to find utterance, to be uttered; --to go away, to depart, to proceed; to pass away (as life, or time); to secede; --to get out, to escape; to slink away, to give (one) the slip; to break loose'. (Platts p.1149) armaan : 'Wish, desire, inclination; longing; eagerness; hope; --regret, grief, sorrow; vexation; contrition, remorse; anguish of repentance'. (Platts p.41)

Ghalib: [In an 1865 letter, he cites {219,1}: {70,3}.]

Ghalib: [1859:] Someone recited this opening-verse before me, and said, 'Your honor, what a fine opening-verse you've composed: asad us jafaa par buto;N se vafaa kii mire sher shaabaash ra;hmat ;xudaa kii [Asad, despite that tyranny, you were faithful to idols-my lion, bravo! the Lord's mercy be upon you!]' I said this to him: 'If this opening-verse would be mine, then a curse be upon me!' The fact is that a person has gone around calling himself Mir Amani 'Asad'. This opening-verse and this ghazal are from his revered and honored poetry, and are recorded as such in anthologies [tazkirah]. For three or four years at the beginning I used the pen-name of Asad, otherwise I've been using only 'Ghalib'. And don't you look also at the style of the writing [:tarze ta;hriir], and the path of the thought [ravish-e fikr]? My poetry-- and so 'ornamented, varnished, deceitful' [muza;xraf]! This story is at an end. ==Urdu text: Khaliz Anjum, vol. 1, pp. 1072-73

Arshi: This ghazal too was for the royal mushairah, and was printed in the Dihli Urdu Akhbar of 19 June 1853, with other ghazals. (334)

Hali: For breath to leave at a longing, is to hasten to fulfill it. Accordingly he says, Why does the breath leave, or why do you go on dying? That is, why are you in such a hurry? In the first line, because of the constraints of the situation, the words 'remain in the heart' ought to be understood to be there. The rest of the meaning of the verse is clear. (164)

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Nazm: The gist is that however many wishes are fulfilled, more than that many are created. Rather than this, it's better that one would renounce longings beforehand. A glimmer of this lofty theme shows itself in this verse, and this is the reason for the excellence of the verse. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: In my heart are all the thousands of longings, and the longings too are such that their price is life. That is, every single longing is such that if in order to achieve it it would be necessary to give one's life, then there's be no harm/loss.... thus for even one such longing to be fulfilled would be equal to the fulfillment of many longings.... [Disagreeing with Nazm:] This is not the meaning of the verse. (449-50)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; REPETITION; WORD Here's one of the brilliant and famous verses of the divan, the kind that is known by anybody who knows any Ghalib at all. The verse plays lavishly and enjoyably with the common verb nikalnaa , 'to come out, to emerge'. In the first line, the usage is relatively straightforward: the breath would 'emerge' from the body, in death. The speaker's longings are such that he would die for every one of them, or die over them, or die at the very thought of them, or die to have them fulfilled, or die in the process of their fulfillment-- but in any case, he'd die. The use of hazaaro;N emphasizes the inclusiveness: not just 'thousands of longings', but 'all the thousands of longings', every longing he's got. It's the same difference as between 'two' [do] and 'two out of two', or 'both' [dono;N], and 'all three' [tiino;N], so on. The longings may be all those thousands, but the breath is one, so nikle is clearly a singular subjunctive. When we come to the second line, however, the seemingly repeated nikle is cleverly, and enjoyably, different, for it has now morphed into a masculine plural perfect form: many of my longings 'emerged' (or the longings 'emerged' as many), but nevertheless few of them 'emerged' (or they 'emerged' as few). And here, the many idiomatic senses of the remarkably fertile and colloquially productive nikalnaa come into play; see the definition above for the full range of possibilities. For longings to 'emerge' can mean, among other, things: =to appear, to be produced (to 'emerge' from nonexistence into existence) =to be expressed or uttered (to 'emerge' from silence into speech) =to be accomplished or effected (to 'emerge' from hope into fulfillment); see {6,4} =to go away, to depart (to 'emerge' from their previous dwelling and move on) =to turn out to be, to be discovered or revealed as (to 'emerge' from unclearness into full comprehensibility; see {219,7}) Isn't this mind-boggling? Really, what else could happen to a longing (or regret), other than perhaps to appear, and/or to be expressed, and/or to be accomplished, and/or to disappear? It might of course also be thwarted or denied-- which can be conveyed in the idea that the above-mentioned things happened to only 'a few' of the longings. Or perhaps the longings don't act at all, but are acted upon, as in (2c)-- they are discovered (by someone) to be something, they 'turn out' (a parallel usage in English) to be something. Moreover, these are all real, solid, genuine meanings of nikalnaa , not farfetched or archaic ones. I don't know how in the world anybody could conceive of translating the second line of this verse. Would you choose one of the five possibilities and stick with it both times, or would you mix and match, thus finding something like twenty permutations? Whatever you did would have to be arbitrary in the extreme, and you'd have a crowd of other

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equally plausible choices always tugging at your sleeve and demanding their own day in the sun. AN APOCRYPHAL VERSE: Over the course of time, this ghazal has had attached to it an extremely well-known and popular apocryphal verse. I'm not sure how old the verse is, but the minimum figure is several decades, as I know from personal experience. Here's the verse: ;xudaa ke vaas:te pardah nah ka((bah se u;Thaa vaa((i:z kahii;N aisaa nah ho yaa;N bhii vuhii kaafir .sanam nikle [for the Lord's sake, don't lift the curtain from the Ka'bah, Preacher! may it not somehow be that here too that same infidel idol would emerge] Please note: this verse is NOT by Ghalib. Even if you have heard it recited as such, even if in your heart you think it is, it's just not. Ghalib published his own divan four times, and we do know what he composed, and this verse is not his. In fact I think he would have shuddered at the thought having it attached to his name; see the letter above in which he fiercely repudiates another second-rate verse that had been wrongly attributed to him. In the letter he reproachfully asks his friend Aram to look, in making such judgments, at the 'style of the writing' and the 'path of the thought'. In the case of the present apocryphal verse, doesn't the awkward, slappedtogether juxtaposition of 'infidel' and 'idol' [kaafir .sanam] set off alarm bells? The two epithets actually fight against each other: an infidel rejects the true God and worships false gods, while an idol is itself a false god. To call the beloved an 'infidel' is a playful, teasing insult, while 'idol' for a beautiful beloved is a compliment, and is part of the formal language of the ghazal. 'Infidel' is the opposite of 'Muslim' (see {34,8} for an example); 'idol' is the opposite of 'God'. The two terms feel all wrong when forced together like this; to me, the effect is meretricious. That being said, many people do nevertheless think the verse is Ghalib's, and they like it, and they want it to be his. People sometimes give me suspicious stares, or even quite dirty looks, if I say it's not. Jagjit Singh includes it in his sung versions for 'Mirza Ghalib'. One modern commentator, Yusuf Salim Chishti, not only inserts it into the ghazal (as the penultimate verse) without question, but actually discusses it at unusual length and considers it 'the high point of the ghazal and one of Ghalib's best verses' (p. 815). It's tempting to think of commenting on his commentary, but life is short and I'm going to resist. The case of Ghulam Rasul Mihr is more complex, for he quite properly comments only on the standard nine verses. But someone (maybe a helpful calligrapher?) has inserted two extra verses into the ghazal as calligraphed (p. 695) in his commentary: this apocryphal verse appears as the penultimate verse; and right before it appears the one verse of {219} that Ghalib did compose but chose not to publish in his divan (for more on such unpublished verses, see {4,8x}). Just for the record, here's that one deliberately-omitted verse, which originally appeared in the manuscript version as an extra opening-verse preceding the present {219,1} (Raza p. 326): zara kar zor siine par kih tiir-e pur-sitam nikle jo vuh nikle to dil nikle jo dil nikle to dam nikle [please just put a bit of pressure on my breast, so that the tyranny-filled arrow would emerge if that would emerge, then the heart would emerge; if the heart would emerge, then the breath/life would emerge]. I don't blame Ghalib for omitting it; some of his unpublished verses are masterful, but this isn't one of them. Anyway, let's take one more moment to consider the implications of the Case of the Apocryphal Verse. There's one more such widely quoted apocryphal verse that I know of: for discussion of it, see {6,1}. And here's a

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related, though more minor, instance: a Pakistani stamp that misquotes {43,3}. In all these cases, people obviously trusted their memory, and their knowledge of the verses through oral circulation, so thoroughly that they felt no need to check the verses in a divan. One could certainly call this carelessness or sloppiness. But if we look at it more thoughtfully, isn't it also kind of a perverse compliment to Ghalib, that people are so sure they know his poetry by heart-- even when they don't? They feel possessive about him, as English speakers do about Shakespeare-- even when, in both cases, they mostly don't read him very much, or very carefully. Ghalib might even be somewhat pleased by this admiring cultural embrace. But if it's an embrace that's merely warm and fuzzy, and doesn't include serious attention to the poetry on which he so prided himself, how deep would his pleasure be? Just think of all the energy that went into buying, clearing out, and setting up for visitors (part of) the last house that Ghalib lived in-- and then after all that, there was nothing of his to put into it, so it's a mere shell with only some calligraphed verses on the walls, and a wax model of Ghalib, sitting behind glass in a niche, engaged in composition. Really Ghalib has left us nothing except his poetry (and his letters of course). To be represented primarily by his poetry, and secondarily by his letters, is a fate that he would gladly accept. But he would certainly demand to be represented only by his OWN poetry, and he would HATE to have the second-rate verses of others foisted upon him. In fact he would hate to have even the first-rate verses of others foisted upon him; for discussion of his emphasis on self-reliance at all costs, see {9,1}.

{219,2} ;Dare kyuu;N meraa qaatil kyaa rahegaa us kii gardan par vuh ;xuu;N jo chashm-e tar se ((umr bhar yuu;N dam bah dam nikle 1a) why would my murderer fear? as if it will remain on her neck! 1b) why would my murderer fear?-- will it remain on her neck? 2) that blood that from wet eyes, life-long, {like this / casually / for no particular reason}, moment/breath by moment/breath, would emerge

Notes: Nazm: That is, the blood that flows from the eyes doesn't even remain in my body-as if it will remain on the murderer's neck! (249)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why does my murderer, having slain me, fear? My blood hasn't even remained in my own body-- it has constantly kept on dripping from my eyes along with tears. How could it remain on the neck of the murderer? (307)

Bekhud Mohani: By way of a joke/pleasantry he says that when his blood will keep emerging from his eyes for his whole life, by the time of death it will already have become finished. So when blood itself doesn't remain, why will the beloved be declared a murderer? When things are such, why would she fear the Day of Judgment? The late Mirza Dagh has also composed this theme well: ba;xsh de us but-e saffaak ko ay daadar-e ;hashr ;xuu;N hii mujh me;N to nah thaa ;xuun kaa da((v;aa kaisaa [forgive that butcher idol, oh Lord of Judgment Day there wasn't even any blood in me-- how can there be a blood-claim?] (450)

FWP: Blood remains on the 'neck' in Urdu the way it remains on the 'head' in English ('his blood is on your head!); for another example of the usage, see {64,6}. Why would the beloved hesitate to slay the lover? Perhaps because she fears that his blood would be upon her 'neck', in the moral sense, and that

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she would be punished as a murderer on Judgment Day. The lover seeks to quiet these fears-- he actually scoffs at them (1a). The verse suggests two obvious lines of argument that he might be using: First, as Nazm suggests, the lover's blood is so notably in motion, so quicksilver-like, that it's absurd to think it would remain on her 'neck'. For after all, it doesn't even remain in the lover's own veins, where it belongs, but spontaneously keeps dripping away. Second, as Bekhud Mohani proposes, the lover's blood has kept dripping away for his whole lifetime, so by the time she slays him there would hardly even be any left-- so how could there be any of it still available to remain on her 'neck'? But formally speaking, the lover is asking a yes-or-no question in the first line (1b): will the blood remain on her neck, or won't it? And when we come to think about it, the answer isn't quite so obvious. For his description in the second line shows us the relentless, self-willed, unstoppable determination of the blood. It emerges 'breath by breath' (or 'moment by moment') like an army on the march; it does exactly as it chooses. And might it not choose to remain on terrain as utterly desirable as the warm, white, soft skin of the beloved's neck? After all, perhaps that's what it's been seeking all along. Maybe the murderer is right to be afraid. The casual throwing in of 'like this' [yuu;N] also makes it clear that the evidence is at hand: even as we speak, the blood-drops can be seen to be dripping along, like a column of ants, with every breath/moment. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}. Moreover, the rhythm and sound effects in the second line add to our sense of the blood's regular, relentless movement: from tar to the rhyming bhar , then from dam to the repeated dam .

{219,3} nikalnaa ;xuld se aadam kaa sunte aa))e hai;N lekin bahut be-aabruu ho kar tire kuuche se ham nikle 1) people/we have always been hearing about the emergence of Adam from Paradise, but 2) having become very disgraced, we emerged from your street

Notes: Hali: In the second line, emphasis ought to be given to the word 'very'. So that in comparison to Adam, he would be proved to emerge with more disgrace. (164)

Nazm: He has said 'emerged' it because he feels ashamed to say that he was 'expelled' [nikaalnaa]. (249)

Bekhud Mohani: Adam too was expelled with great disgrace from Paradise. But may the Lord not bestow on anyone a disgrace like ours! (450)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR We have a statement with a number of points in the first line, then an emphatic 'but'; and the second line yields another statement. What exactly is being highlighted in the first line, and emphatically contravened in the second line? Here are some possibilities: =the fate of 'Adam' was long ago and far away, but our own sufferings are here and now =Adam emerged merely from 'Paradise', but we had to suffer the far worse fate of emerging from your street =Adam merely 'emerged' from Paradise, but we emerged from your street very disgraced

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=if Adam is said to have 'emerged' from Paradise but in fact was forcibly and embarrassingly kicked out, perhaps we too were forcibly and embarrassingly kicked out of your street (as Nazm suggests) =Adam emerged from Paradise merely 'disgraced', but we emerged from your street very disgraced (Hali's reading) =people have 'always heard' about Adam's case, but our own case has not received any attention ='we' are the ones expected to sympathize with Adam, but we ourselves have suffered even more severely The brilliantly amusing thing, of course, as Hali says, is the instantly apparent emphasis on 'very' [bahut]. (But how exactly does Ghalib make it instantly apparent? I can't really figure that out.) How extremely funny it makes the verse! The verse becomes a comic show of disproportion, as the lover insists on creating one of those 'it's all about ME' situations. All the readings involve aspects of the same situation, but the emphasis on 'very' is particularly irresistible. The lover is so obsessed with his own humiliation that he won't even give the time of day to anybody else's. Instead of comparing his humiliation to Adam's, he compares Adam's to his-- and finds it wanting, as he impatiently makes clear. Adam's fall, after all, affected only the whole human race till the end of time; but the lover's expulsion affects HIM, and affects him NOW!

{219,4} bharam khul jaa))e :zaalim tere qaamat kii daraazii kaa agar us :turrah-e pur-pech-o-;xam kaa pech-o-;xam nikle 1) the character/confusion/wandering/error of the tallness of your stature would be revealed/opened, cruel one 2) if the twisting and turning of that curl/crest full of twists and turns would {come out / emerge}

Notes: bharam : 'Character, reputation, esteem, credit'. (Platts p.186) bhram : 'Moving round, whirling; roaming, wandering, erring, straying; deviation, aberration; perplexity, bewilderment, confusion; maze, labyrinth; error, misapprehension, blunder, mistake, slip; doubt, suspicion; apprehension, supposition, presumption'. (Platts p.186) :turrah : 'Hair, or a fringe of hair, on the forehead; a forelock; a curl, ringlet; an ornament worn in the turban; an ornamental tassel, or border, &c.; a plume of feathers, a crest'. (Platts p.752)

Nazm: That is, the stature is less than the curls; the tallness of the stature gives beauty only until the hair is loosened. (249)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh cruel one, people consider you to have the stature of a cypress only so long as your tresses are curly. If their knots would be loosened, then your height will begin to appear less. (307)

Bekhud Mohani: If from your curls, which are very full of twists and turns, the twists and turns would be removed, then the illusion of the tallness of your height would be revealed.

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY Here's a verse full of its own twists and turns. Thus bharam , a word that has its own (positive) meaning of 'character, credit', can also be read as a variant form of bhram , with negative meanings like 'confusion, wandering, error'.

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So for it to be revealed could mean either that the 'character, credit' of the curl/crest would become known (perhaps quite favorably), or that the 'confusion, error, doubt' about it might become publicly known (perhaps unfavorably). And of course, the curl/crest [:turrah] itself can be either the curls, or a specially prominent portion of them, or an ornamental crest-jewel or plume; but taking it as curls makes for better wordplay, since there's no particular reason for a crest-jewel or plume to be 'full of twisting and turning'. The wordplay has even further complexities: 'to be opened' [khul jaanaa] not only means, by extension, 'to be revealed', but is also a common verb for loosening piled-up curls and letting them fall. It can also refer to the exposure of the face, as by removing of a veil-- or, confusingly, to the 'opening out' of a veil so that it falls over the face (see {14,6} for cleverly contrasted examples of both usages). And what does it mean for the twisting-and-turning of the curl/crest to 'emerge'? It might emerge in the sense of 'to appear, to be produced', or else in the sense of 'to go away, to depart'; for more on these nuances see {219,1}. So here are some of the main possibilities: =if your high-piled curls would be loosened and would fall down, people would realize (unfavorably) that it was a trick, and you're not really as tall as you looked; =if your high-piled curls would be loosened and would fall down, people would realize (admiringly) how beautiful they are, and the curls would have more 'credit' =if your intricately tangled curls would be straightened out, people would realize that they are actually even longer than you are tall; thus the curls would be admired more, and the stature would be admired less =if your ornately arranged curls would be revealed in all their twisting and turning glory, then people would realize (admiringly) that they are a legitimate part of the elegant tallness of your stature, and your stature would have more 'credit' Naturally, the beloved's curls are hypnotically, hyperbolically long, dark, and densely tangled-- well suited to make lifelong bonds for her lover, as in {19,6}; or to induce in him many long, dark, faraway thoughts, as in {71,2}.

{219,5} magar likhvaa))e ko))ii us ko ;xa:t to ham se likhvaa))e hu))ii .sub;h aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar qalam nikle 1) perhaps/but if someone would have a letter written to her, then he would/should have it written by us 2) dawn came-- and having tucked a pen behind our ear, we emerged from the house

Notes: Nazm: It's as if the whole city would have letters and messages to send her, and he's seeking to learn what things they write. (250)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, our beloved is acquainted with all the world. There's much correspondence between her and a number of people. There's no better scheme for learning the subjects of the letters than that we would do letterwriting, and keep finding out everyone's heartfelt desires. (307)

Bekhud Mohani: Another aspect can be that we passionately love writing you letters-- we write on our own behalf, and we also write at the dictation of others. On another occasion he has said just the same thing: {180,3}. (451)

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FWP: SETS == MAGAR WRITING: {7,3} Here is a verse of implication if there ever was one. The lover describes himself as setting out every day at dawn, pen tucked behind his ear, on the chance that someone would use him as a scribe or letter-writer when writing to the beloved. It's probably an off-chance, but we don't know that from the verse itself-- we just deduce it. And we deduce or assume a good many more things as well, for if we didn't, the verse would make very little sense at all. Needless to say, in practical terms the lover's project doesn't make much sense. Professional scribes were usually used by illiterate people, who tended to be from the lower classes; it's hard to believe that the Rivals and Others who might be writing to the beloved would be drawn from among such people. And among the upper classes, why indeed would any of the lover's social equals, and/or competitors for the beloved's favor, hire him to write their letters? But perhaps the impracticalness, or even sheer craziness, of the whole project, is a large part of what we are supposed to notice about it. One implication of the verse is surely the lover's radically mad behavior. The lover's starting out at the crack of dawn gives us a strong hint of madness in itself: surely nobody is wandering around in the bazaar looking for a letter-writer at that hour? One possible implication of 'dawn came' is that the lover has been up all night, restless and unable to sleep, so that he's more than ready for an excuse to leave the house the moment there's light enough. But surely there's some method in his madness? Even if his letter-writing project doesn't have much chance of succeeding, surely he has some reason for undertaking it? All such reasons must be supplied by us, with absolutely no help from the verse itself. Here are some possible motives for the lover's scheme: =because the lover wants to know what other people are writing to her =because the lover plans to sneakily subvert the letters of others by modifying them in ways that won't please her =because she refuses to read the lover's own letters, and he's desperate for even marginal or vicarious communication =because the lover's obsession has taken over his life completely, and this is an excuse to think constantly of her =because the lover has wrecked his fortunes so completely in his mad passion for her that he has nothing left to live on and must seek some new, humble line of work (compare {10,7}) Probably a bit more thought would give rise to a few more possibilities. A verse that speaks of puzzling behavior, and gives us no reasons for it, turns out to be a surprisingly piquant source of speculative enjoyment.

{219,6} hu))ii is daur me;N mansuub mujh se baadah-aashaamii phir aayaa vuh zamaanah jo jahaa;N me;N jaam-e jam nikle 1) in this era, wine-drinking became {connected to / dependent on / derived from} me 2) then/again that time/age came, when the Cup of Jamshid would emerge in the world

Notes: mansuub : 'Connected (with), related (to), belonging (to), relative; depending (on); allied; betrothed; --addicted (to); --denominated (from one's family), surnamed; --deduced (from), derived (from); referred (to), ascribed, attributed, imputed (to); charged (with); chargeable'. (Platts p.1077)

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Nazm: Many confused stories about the Cup of Jamshid are well-known among the poets: that in it was a vision of the whole world; and in it were letters/marks [;xa:tuu:t]; and that Jamshid was the first inventor of wine and cup. But all these things are entirely erroneous: neither has Firdausi mentioned them, nor Tabari. And these two books are the source of everything about the history of the kings of Persia. (250)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in former times Jamshid with his Cup was notable in connection to wine-drinking, and till now he has come down as a proverb. In this age, I am the successor/rival [;hariif] of Jam. Now the fame of the Cup of Jamshid will come from my cup. (308)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, we are such a wine-drinker that in order for us to drink, it would be necessary for the Cup of Jamshid to emerge-- an ordinary cup isn't worthy to have us drink from it. (451)

FWP: SETS == A,B WINE: {49,1} Here is a brilliant example of what I call 'A,B' construction. The two lines are not only grammatically but also semantically independent. How are we to connect them? As so often, we have to decide for ourselves. Here are some of the possibilities: =A and B are two descriptions of the same situation: when it comes to winedrinking I am a second Jamshid; my wine-drinking will involve a second Cup of Jamshid =A causes B: because in this age I am the epitome or source of winedrinking, as a result of my prowess the Cup of Jamshid can be expected to reappear in the world =B causes A: because the time has again come for the Cup of Jamshid to reappear in the world, the responsibility for wine-drinking has been allotted to a superior drinker like me =A is a fact, and B is a reflection about it: in this age I am the epitome or source of wine-drinking, and that's a heavy responsibility; at such a time, the Cup of Jamshid really ought to return to the world to help me =B is a fact, and A is a reflection about it: the time has come once again for the Cup of Jamshid to reappear in the world, and as part of the process of preparation for that event, responsibility for wine-drinking was allotted to a superior drinker like me I've exclaimed so often over the artistry involved in creating such effects, and the radical unresolvability of them, such that the mind can never extricate itself from the endless loop of further possibilities-- by now, dear reader, you probably don't want to hear it all again. Suffice it to say that here we have five poems (or more, depending on the reader's inventiveness), all emerging from two little lines. Well may this ghazal have the refrain of nikle ! The second line also has some excellent, enjoyable sound effects; just say it aloud and enjoy the bouncy, crisp 'j' sounds in jo jahaa;N me;N jaam-e jam .

{219,7} hu))ii jin se tavaqqu(( ;xastagii me;N daad paane kii vuh ham se bhii ziyaadah ;xastah-e te;G-e sitam nikle 1) {those / the one} from whom we, in woundedness, hoped/expected to find justice/understanding 2) they/he turned out to be even more wounded by the sword of tyranny than we

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Notes: tavaqqu(( rakhnaa : 'To entertain or have hope, to hope; to expect, to look (for), to desire'. (Platts p.343) daad paanaa : 'To obtain justice or redress, to obtain a hearing for (one's) complaint'. (Platts p.499) ;xastah : 'Wounded, hurt; broken; infirm; sick, sorrowful; --fragile, brittle'. (Platts p.490)

Nazm: By 'tyranny' is meant the tyranny of the heavens. (250)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, those people whom we had considered to be the means of getting our tasks accomplished-- when we scrutinized them out closely, then those people were seen to be even greater complainers about the cruelty of the heavens than we. (308)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, we hoped that the beloved would have mercy on the state of our heart. But we learned that she herself is dying with love over someone. (451)

FWP: If those to whom we turn are, say, fellow lovers, then it seems that they are feebler and more vulnerable than we ourselves, and the beloved's cruelty has rendered them even less able to cope. If they are some kind of judges offering 'justice', then perhaps the cruel beloved's power has made itself felt even where it ought not to operate. If they are the beloved herself, addressed in the honorific plural, then presumably she herself has fallen in love and is a fellow-sufferer. Or, as Nazm suggests, the 'sword of tyranny' is that of the cruel heavens, which rain down disasters indiscriminately on us all. (For an example, see {14,8}.) But still-- so what? Where's the 'punch'? Why would any audience have said vaah vaah when they heard this verse? If we paraphrased it into prose, what would we lose?

{219,8} mu;habbat me;N nahii;N hai farq jiine aur marne kaa usii ko dekh kar jiite hai;N jis kaafir pah dam nikle 1) in love, there's no difference between living and dying 2) having seen only/emphatically her, we live-- that infidel over whom the breath would leave us

Notes: dam nikalnaa : 'Breath to leave (the body), to breathe one's last, to expire; to die (for, par ), be deeply in love (with)'. (Platts p.525)

Nazm: That is, the one having seen whom, we began to die for-- from seeing that very one we live; and to die and to live became one thing. (250)

Bekhud Dihlavi: In love, no distinction has remained between dying and living. The one having seen hom the spirit is freshened-- over that very infidel our breath/life too emerges. He's composed a 'high point of the ghazal' verse. (308)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the one through whose airs and graces, through whose tyrannies, the heart is in a bad state-- if we would not see her, then for us to live would be impossible. (452)

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FWP: LIFE/DEATH: {7,2} Well, unlike the previous verse, {219,7}, this verse has a very strong central 'punch' effect in its clever play with the ideas of living and dying. The first line states a general thesis, and the second line proceeds to demonstrate its truth. This demonstration is not without some subtleties. The first half of the second line may be read as merely temporal: 'we began to live only after we saw her' (our real life didn't start until we fell in love); or else it can be causative as well: 'we live only from the effect of seeing her' (the sight of her is like a life-sustaining drug). And the 'she' who inspires such life-giving effects is also, paradoxically (or not), the one for whom our breath would leave us, for whom we would 'die of love'. The whole thing is nicely organized, almost tied up with a ribbon. Bekhud Dihlavi considers it the 'high point of the ghazal'. And yet I've never cared much for it. It's a 'well-made' verse in a formal and technical sense-- it makes a seemingly paradoxical statement, then proceeds to demonstrate its truth. But how cut-and-dried, how mechanical it seems, compared to a brilliantly unfathomable verse like {219,6}. It also feels both too perky and too thumping in its rhythm, as other verses in this ghazal do not. It feels superficial, finite, limited-- terrible things to say about a verse of Ghalib's, especially one so apparently cute and amusing. This verse is in fact one of a set: there are a number of other verses in the divanthat play with back-and-forth imagery about living and dying. The most similar of them include {95,6} (on 'living on hope' and 'hoping to live'); {161,9} (on 'dying to die'); {164,8} (on 'dying' as a form of 'living'). Compared to them all, {210,5} comes far more hauntingly to mind; I do think it's the pick of the lot.

{219,9} kahaa;N mai-;xaane kaa darvaazah ;Gaalib aur kahaa;N vaa((i:z par itnaa jante hai;N kal vuh jaataa thaa kih ham nikle 1a) how can the door of the wine-house and the Preacher be compared, Ghalib? 1b) where is the door of the wine-house, Ghalib-- and where is the Preacher? 2) but we know this much: yesterday he went in/by, as we emerged

Notes: Nazm: That is, we too are surprised, but there's no doubt that yesterday when we folks had finished drinking and come out and the crowd left, then finding the coast clear he too went into the wine-house, and we saw him going in. The point is that wine is such a thing that even the Preacher furtively drinks it. (250)

Bekhud Dihlavi: This closing-verse is a 'razor' [particularly brilliant verse] among Mirza Sahib's 'razors'. In the expression he uses an extraordinary mischievousness. He says, we too are surprised-- for, oh Ghalib, what connection does the Preacher have with the door of the wine-house? But one thing is certain: last night when we emerged from the wine-house, then we saw that the Preacher too was passing by that way. The enjoyableness in this verse is that it hasn't been said outright where the Preacher was going-- whether into the winehouse, or passing by the wine-house in some other direction. (219)

Bekhud Mohani: With great astonishment he says, we don't know what connection the famously virtuous Preacher has with the wine-house, but what happened was

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that he was just about to set foot inside the wine-house, when we emerged from inside it. That is, we don't have the courage to call the Preacher a winedrinker. But last night we saw an event that astonished us. The interpretation also emerges that wine is such a thing that people like the Preacher too drink it. (452)

FWP: SETS == KIH; IDIOMS WINE: {49,1} For discussion, and another example, of the idiomatic expression kahaa;N yih kahaa;N vuh , see {85,7}. Here the idiom works even better than in {85,7}, since the two 'where' questions operate not only for the abstract expression of incommensurability (1a), but also in a seemingly literal locational sense (1b). And perhaps the speaker, on leaving the wine-house, was a bit intoxicated, and thus the disoriented-sounding grammar of (1b) is doubly enjoyable. Isn't it indeed a sly and irresistible verse? The faux-naif tone is a treat. Here are some of the possible implications: = the Preacher was going openly into the wine-house to drink, just the way we reprobates do! = the Preacher was going into the wine-house very late and furtively, hoping to remain unnoticed = the Preacher had found an excuse to pass by the wine-house, in order to see what was going on there, and so we're entitled to needle him a bit about his voyeurism = the Preacher just happened to pass by the wine-house on his way somewhere else, and even that much proximity gives us grounds for needling him a bit

Ghazal 220 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aa ho jaa))iye composed 1816; Hamid p. 179; Arshi #171; Raza p. 176

{220,1} koh ke ho;N baar-e ;xaa:tir gar .sadaa ho jaa))iye be-takalluf ay sharaar-e jastah kyaa ho jaa))iye 1) we would be a bother/burden for the mountain, if we would become an echo/voice 2) without formality, oh having-leaped spark, what/why would we become?

Notes: baar-e ;xaa:tir : 'Load or trouble of mind; tiresomeness'. (Platts p.120) .sadaa : 'Echo; sound, noise; voice, tone, cry, call'. (Platts p.743)

Nazm: Having seen the spark's self-transcendance and informality, he says, what the hell-- as if we would become informal like you, and how would we let selfcontrol slip from our grasp! Here is the explanation: that if we would become light and refined like a voice, and quiver, even then we would become a bother to the mountain-like stone-like and immovable body. The gist is that to the extent possible, one ought to control oneself and tread lightly, otherwise he will become a bother for everybody. The cause of similitude in this verse is that the spark emerges from a stone, and a voice rebounds from the mountain and comes back. That is, it is a bother to him, and and for this reason he stops it. (250)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: That is, the mountain gives back the voice, from which it is shown that we were a bother to the mountain, he didn't accept it, and sent it back. Oh leaped-spark, if we were self-transcendant and informal, and quivered like you, then no telling what a commotion we'd be in. The meaning is, to the extent possible, one ought to control the state of restlessness. The spark emerges from a stone, and the voice rebounds from a mountain and comes back. (308-09)

Bekhud Mohani: If we would become even as light and delicate as a spark, then we would be heavy on the heart of the mountain (of which the massive heaviness is proverbial). Oh emerged spark, tell us clearly-- after all, what ought we to become? The style of the question reveals that the poet means to say that our heart too wishes that we would become like you-- would burn out and be extinguished in a breath/moment, and find escape from the disasters of the world. 452)

Shadan: [Quoting Asi:] I'm so ill-fortuned that for the whole world I'm a bother/burden. To such an extent that if I would vecome a voice, which is an extremely delicate thing, then I am a bother for the mountain, and it too returns me.... And from the returning, a proof has been given for my being a bother. So finally, oh having-leaped spark of grief! what would/should I become. And the way you have leaped up and are becoming informal, how would/should I show this kind of informality? (489)

Arshi: Compare {91,9}. (277)

FWP: The polite imperative is here used colloquially as a kind of subjunctive, so that ho jaa))iye is more like ho jaa))e;N . But it's awkward, and very unusual, that there seems to be no clear indication of subject at all, in the whole verse. The reader is left to conclude that the subject must be 'we', for the first verse has the plural form ke to pluralize the 'bothers', and thus the subject. Any other plural subject would be even more awkward; and the spark in the second line appears to be singular. The commentators suggest that our becoming an echo would mean our bothering the mountain by (apparently) not creating but literally turning into voice-waves, which the mountain would find troublesome and would reject by bouncing them back, thus creating (or explaining the presence of) an echo. Or, alternatively, are our cries so passionate and fiery that even the sturdy stone of the mountain is in danger of melting? Or is our grief so heavy a 'burden' that even the tough stone mountain can't bear it? Or does the mountain simply suffer the extra 'bother' or 'trouble', without any reaction; and if so, how does it feel toward us? The possibilities seem pretty broad, and aren't effectively anchored in any physical imagery. Then in the second line, instead of clarity we find further obfuscations. Why does the speaker address a spark, and why a 'having-leaped' one? Presumably because sparks come from stones, and in fact are thought of as coming from the 'veins' in rock the way drops of blood come from human veins (for an example of such imagery see the even more obscure {20,6}). Is the spark just a nearby listener who happens to be handy; or is it a particularly sympathetic listener who deeply understands the situation; or is it an interested party who might be affected (for the better? for the worse) by the slamming of the echo/voice into the stone? Given all the other uncertainties, he question 'what would we become?' is in its own right a sufficiently vague one. And even more complex is the role of cleverly exploited be-takalluf itself. It can have two adverbial senses: it

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might describe how the speaker is asking the question ('tell me frankly'); or it might describe how the proposed action would be done ('if we just simply go ahead and become'). There are also several more complex adjectival readings: 'Why would we become informal?' or 'As if we would become informal!' or 'What would we become if we were without formality?' In short, this verse is the open-ended kind that I call a 'generator'; but it's a pretty unsatisfying specimen of the genre. What is really going on here? What is the 'hook' that should engage our imagination, or the 'punch' word or idea that should cause us to say vaah vaah , and would make us feel that we 'get' the verse? Because of this quality of murkiness too, and not just for its sparks and stone imagery, this verse reminds me of {20,6}. Compare this verse to the next one, {220,2}, which offers us far more fascinating complexities. It does successfully what the present verse merely flails around trying to do.

{220,2} bai.zah-aasaa nang-e baal-o-par hai yih kaj-e qafas az sar-e nau zindagii ho gar rihaa ho jaa))iye 1) like an egg, this crooked-one of the cage is a disgrace/honor to feather and wing 2) there would be life with a fresh start, if he/it would become released/discarded

Notes: nang : 'Honour, esteem, reputation; --shame, disgrace, infamy, ignominy'. (Platts p.1156) kaj : 'Crooked, curved, bent, wry; --perverse, cross-grained; cross'. (Platts p.817) rihaa : 'Released, liberated, set free, discharged: -- rihaa karnaa , v.t. To release, set free, set at liberty, to discharge, dismiss; to relieve; to quit, leave, discard, abandon.

Nazm: For coming out of the cage and the starting of a new life, the verse was in need of a proof. Calling him 'like an egg', the author proved it. That is, a bird's new life begins after emerging from the egg. In the same way, after being released from this crooked cage-- that is, the egg of the sky-- a new life in the world of spirits will begin. (251)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way a bird emerges from an egg and begins life, in the same way after being released from this crooked cage-- that is, the sky-- a new life will begin. The meaning is that after dying one will be compelled to start life anew in the world of spirits. (309)

Bekhud Mohani: The way that to remain in an egg is, for any bird whose feathers and wings have grown out, a disgrace to feather and wing, in the same way while there is strength to become free, to remain lying like a helpless one in this bodily cage, or in the power of sensory pleasures, or in the prison of some powerful king, is a disgrace to one's strength. Thus it is mankind's duty to enter a new life, and tear apart and throw away this prison. (453)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS, IZAFAT SHAME/HONOR: {3,5} This brilliant verse is as sharp and powerful as the previous one, {220,1}, is muddy and fumbling. 'Like an egg'-- what more potent and complex image is there? An egg is an utterly helpless, vulnerable, delicate thing, and also of

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course radically potent, exciting, full of promise. To be compared to an egg might thus, depending on the context, mean almost anything. Then of course nang means both 'shame' and 'honor' (as discussed and documented in {3,5}), so as we move on through the first line, our choices don't narrow at all. Then the multivalence of the i.zaafat makes kaj-e qafas a further source of complexity. The adjective kaj can refer either to a physical quality of being 'crooked' or 'bent', or to a temperamental or even moral quality of being 'perverse' or 'wry' or 'cross'. So what is a 'crooked-one of the cage'? Here are some of the possibilities: =one who is made crooked by having to fit inside the confined space of a cage =one who is crooked/perverse and is owned or possessed by a cage =one who is crooked/perverse and lives in a cage by choice =one who is crooked/perverse and is somehow or other associated with a cage Thus the interpretive range is 180 degrees broad. At one extreme, we have an insulting depiction of a bird who perversely chooses to live (or has become crooked through being forced to live) in a cage, and thus becomes a disgrace to the feather and wing he ought to be using, so that in fact he's as humiliatingly helpless as an egg. At the other extreme we have a flattering evocation of a bird who, though now confined by a cage, has the kind of powerful potential that an egg does, and is destined one day, when he leaves the cage, to be a credit to, to be part of the 'honor' of, feather and wing. And all this only in the first line! We look hopefully to the second line-- and find only an enticing, wistful speculation: there would be a new, fresh life, if 'it' would become 'released'. (The polite imperative is here used colloquially as a kind of subjunctive, so that ho jaa))iye is more like ho jaa))e .) We first of course think of rihaa in its most common sense of 'liberated' or 'freed', of the 'it' as 'this crooked-one' who would become liberated from the cage that confines him. But rihaa karnaa , of which rihaa honaa is the intransitive form, can also mean 'to quit, leave, discard, abandon'. So there's also the possibility that the 'it' would be the cage that would be left behind. Either way, the wistfulness, the hope, the uncertainty remain. The petrified phrase az sar-e nau literally means 'from a new head', which works beautifully with the image of an egg hatching open. Compare {3,5}, with its equally complex use of nang ; instead of playing with the egg and the cage, it plays with the shroud and the garment.

Ghazal 221 3 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aak hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 179; Arshi #172; Raza p. 190

{221,1} mastii bah .zauq-e ;Gaflat-e saaqii halaak hai mauj-e sharaab yak mizhah-e ;xvaabnaak hai 1) intoxication with the relish of the negligence/drowsiness of the Cupbearer is destruction/destroyed 2a) a wave of wine is a single sleepy/drowsy eyelid 2b) a single sleepy/drowsy eyelid is a wave of wine

Notes: ;Gaflat : 'Unmindfulness, forgetfulness, neglectfulness, negligence, neglect, inattention, heedlessness, inadvertence, remissness, carelessness; --

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soundness (of sleep), unconsciousness, drowsiness, stupor, insensibility, a swoon'. (Platts p.771) halaak : 'Perishing; being lost; --perdition, destruction, ruin; --slaughter; death; --part. Lost; destroyed; --fatigued'. (Platts p.1231)

Nazm: The Cupbearer's style of displaying negligence has destroyed intoxication as well, and with this relish and ardor the wine is becoming so self-less and overflowing that the wave of wine is a sleepy eyelid on the eye of the wineglass. (251)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the airs and graces of the Cupbearer's show of negligence are destroying intoxication too, and the wave of wine, in this relish and ardor, has become self-less and overcome, and has become a sleep-filled eyelid of the wineglass. (309)

Bekhud Mohani: The relish of the negligence of the Cupbearer has destroyed intoxication. That is, intoxication too has been erased by the Cupbearer's style of negligence. The wave of wine too has become a dream of wine. The clear meaning is that the Cupbearer has neglected to show kindness to the rakish ones. The result of this was that there's no trace of intoxication anywhere, because nobody's been vouchsafed even a drop of wine; if there would be intoxication, then how would it come about? Not only this, but the condition of the wine itself is become the same, as though someone's eyes would be becoming sleep-filled and his eyelids would be fluttering/drooping.... The gist is that not to speak of living creatures, lifeless things too were not protected from the effect of the Cupbearer's negligence. [Disagreeing with Nazm:] If someone wouldn't understand by himself, then no matter what one says to him, he can't write a commentary. He's said that much, but he hasn't been able to understand the point of the verse. (453-54)

FWP: SETS == BAH; TRANSITIVITY WINE: {49,1} The clever use of bah means that the clause it introduces could be either restrictive and adjectival ('intoxication-with-the-relish-of-the-Cupbearer'snegligence is destruction') or unrestrictive and adverbial ('intoxication is destruction, with/through the relish of the Cupbearer's negligence'). Then halaak can mean, as one possibility, 'destruction'; in this sense it can share the idiomatic usage of 'doomsday' [qiyaamat] or 'disaster' [balaa]. It can thus be used in an admiring and complimentary way, to praise someone's irresistible and deadly beauty (among many examples, {10,11} comes to mind). Here, that sense seems to be invoked by the word 'relish, taste' [.zauq], which precludes the possibility of taking the verse as a complaint about the 'negligence' of the Cupbearer in not providing wine. That 'negligence' obviously has a 'relish' of its own. Alternatively, halaak can also mean 'destroyed' (see the definition above), the reading that the commentators prefer. In the second line, the grammar creates a marked effect of 'transitivity': we can read either 'A is B' or, with equal felicity and legitimacy, 'B is A'. Putting various ones of these mix-and-match possibilities together, here are some readings that result: =intoxication-with-the-relish-of-the-Cupbearer's-negligence is destruction: there's no need for wine, since a single flicker of the Cupbearer's negligent eyelid is enough to 'wreck' you like a wave of wine =intoxication, with the additional relish of the Cupbearer's negligence, is destruction: simple intoxication with wine is quite enough in itself, but when

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it's compounded with the relish of the Cupbearer's negligence, the effect is devastating indeed: a single flicker of the Cupbearer's negligent eyelid is as overpowering as an additional wave of wine =intoxication in the rakish ones, through the relish of the Cupbearer's negligence, is destroyed: the rakish ones are so overpowered by the relish of the Cupbearer's negligence that they no longer even think about drinking or intoxication: to them, even a wave of wine is nothing more than an evocation of the Cupbearer's drowsy/negligent eyelid =intoxication itself, through the relish of the Cupbearer's negligence, is destroyed: the essential 'wave of wine', overcome and lulled by the charm of the Cupbearer's own drowsiness/negligence, doesn't slosh around enticingly in the wineglass but seems to gently ripple like an eyelid flickering over a drowsy or indifferent eye A helpful bit of wordplay is the double meaning of ;Gaflat as both 'negligence' or 'heedlessness' in general, and something like 'drowsiness' or even a 'swoon'. Thus in the latter meaning, it may influence the 'sleepy, drowsy' [;xvaabnaak] eyelid to imitate it; Bekhud Mohani speaks of 'a dream of wine'. And of course, the Cupbearer's 'negligence' may also be feigned; such a show of assumed indifference would then become part of his coquetry, and redouble the effect of his flirtatious charm. Still, after the various possibility- threads have been spun out and duly appreciated, the verse isn't all that compelling. The equation of a 'wave of wine' with a 'drowsy eyelid' is so forced, and so precious, that it has a kind of show-off quality: how clever I am to think of something as bizarre as this!

{221,2} juz za;xm-e te;G-e naaz nahii;N dil me;N aarzuu jeb-e ;xiyaal bhii tire haatho;N se chaak hai 1) {apart from / except for} the wound of the sword of coquetry, there's no longing in the heart 2) even/also the collar of imagination/thought is [in a state of having been] torn at your hands

Notes: Nazm: By 'collar of imagination' is meant the heart, and when the wound of the sword of coquetry was made in the heart, then the collar of thought was torn. Then how could longing remain in it? (251)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the heart's longing has assumed the form of the wound of the sword of coquetry. The collar of imagination-- that is, the heart-- has been torn at your hands. And when the heart was torn, then for longing to remain in it is impossible. (309)

Bekhud Mohani: Now in the heart there's only the wound of the sword of coquetry. There's no scope for longing. And it's not just that in my heart there's no longing, but rather, not even the imagination of any longing comes. We can also say this: that now in the heart there's only this one single longing: that it would be wounded with your sword of coquetry; and not only in the heart, but rather the imagination too has become free of every [other] longing. (454-55)

FWP: SETS == A,B; BHI CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} Everybody will agree that the first line can be read as saying 'there's no other longing in the heart except the longing for the wound of the sword of coquetry'. One could also suggest 'there's no other longing in the heart except

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the longing which is the wound of coquetry'. It doesn't seem too farfetched, in the context of the heart, to equate a 'longing' directly with a 'wound'. The commentators prefer to imagine that the sword-wound has made a hole through which all the longings have dripped or flowed out of the heart, so that it can't contain them any more, but that reading seems to ignore the presence of juz . And ignoring juz is a very bad idea. For thanks to the versatility of juz (for discussion of this see {101,1}), there's another, subtler, far more piquant possibility as well: 'apart from, or without, the wound of the sword of coquetry, there's no longing in the heart'. This reading suggests that the opening made by the wound of the sword of coquetry is what makes it possible for the heart to feel longing; on this view, the verse presents an obvious parallel with {214,1}, in which the opening of a 'wound-mouth' is a precondition for all possibility of speech with the beloved. Then the second line both reinforces all these possibilities, and complicates them further. Though jeb nowadays generally means 'pocket', that use is an extension of the meaning of a slit opening like the neck of a kurta; in poetry the term is used as a synonym for garebaa;N . Tearing open his collar [chaak-e garebaa;N] is one of the lover's standard kinds of behavior; for examples, see {17,9}. Here, conspicuously, it's the beloved's hand, not the lover's own, that tears the collar. Which brings to mind another idiom: 'to be intimately involved with, to tangle with, to be entangled with' is literally 'to be hand-and-collar with' someone [kisii se dast-o-garebaa;N honaa]. The beloved is not a distant object here, but an active participant. And here's where the cleverness of that little bhii becomes apparent. If we read it as 'too', the effect is to evoke a kind of parallelism between the lines: your sword of coquetry has wounded my heart, and similarly, your hands have torn the collar of my imagination. If we read bhii as 'even', the effect is an upward leap in magnitude: not only have there been effects on my heart, but 'even' imagination-- that last redoubt, that supposedly private sanctuary-has had its collar torn! And after all, what does it mean for imagination/thought to have its collar torn? If someone tears his own collar, it's a sign of madness and suffering. If somebody else tears that person's collar, it's surely a sign of some kind of violence-- but what kind, exactly? A rescuer might tear open someone's collar to help him breathe, if he was having a heart attack. An enemy might tear open someone's collar in the process of grappling or fighting with him. Would tearing open the collar of the imagination increase the imagination's power, or diminish it, or change it in some other way? As so often, it's left to our own imagination to decide. Since this is an 'A,B' verse, we also have to figure out the relationship between the two lines. Does one line describe a cause, and the other a result? (And if so, which way does the causality go?) Or do both lines describe the same general situation? Just to illustrate one possibility, 'B causes A', perhaps the tearing of the collar of the imagination has destroyed its power, and by so doing has made it impossible for it to cause the heart to entertain fresh longings. Or perhaps ('A causes B') that terrible sword-wound to the heart has caused the imagination's energy to falter as well. Or perhaps both lines describe the same situation: a total, appropriate focusing of all longing, all desire, on the beloved alone. I like this verse much better than the one before, but I have trouble explaining why. It's the second line-- there's something so invigoratingly over-the-top about the tearing of the collar of the imagination. It's so much fun to play with in your mind, so suggestive while remaining entirely impossible to pin down. Whereas the 'wave of wine equals drowsy eyelid' idea isn't nearly so provocative. Both are artificial, but one is much more

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active. Yet that's not quite it either. I haven't (yet?) found a second-order vocabulary to make distinctions like this, beyond the level of my 'sets' and so on.

{221,3} josh-e junuu;N se kuchh na:zar aataa nahii;N asad .sa;hraa hamaarii aa;Nkh me;N yak musht-e ;xaak hai 1) from/through the fervor of madness, nothing comes into view, Asad 2a) a desert, in our eye, is a single handful of dust 2b) a single handful of dust is, in our eye, a desert

Notes: Nazm: That is, having seen the desert, such a fervor of madness was created that nothing [else] now appears to me; as if the desert were a fistful of dust-- and the eye in which dust would be seen, what else appears? (251)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, through the spectacle of the desert, so much fervor has been created in my madness, that now nothing is visible; as if the desert, for our eye, has become a pinch of dust. That is, the eye in which grains of dust would fall-what can be visible to it? (309)

Bekhud Mohani: 1) [Nazm's view is quoted] 2) When the fervor of madness has reached its limit, then in our eyes the desert can't exist. That is, it no longer has any reality. 3) In the fervor of madness I've kicked up so much dust that in every direction nothing but dust, nothing but dirt, is visible, and the desert has vanished from before my gaze. 4) Madness always severs worldly relationships. Thus they always construe love (whether it be of a human beloved or of the True Beloved) as madness. And for the renunciation of relationships to the world, the word 'madness' is common among the poets. Here by 'desert' is meant the world, and by 'madness' is meant the madness of passion. (455)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY MADNESS: {14,3} Why does the madman find that nothing comes into view? Here are some possible reasons: =madness has made him unable to focus his gaze and see things coherently =madness has caused him to damage his eyes somehow =madness has taken him into the desert, where there's nothing much to be seen anyway =madness has given him an ineffable, cosmically vast field of vision And what is the poetic 'proof' of this abstract claim? Here are some possible readings of the second line? =in his 'eye'/view/opinion, the desert is nothing much to look at-- no better than a handful of dust =in his madness he's thrown handfuls of dust on his head and in his eyes, which obscures his sight of the desert and everything else =his mad, mystical field of vision is now so huge that from his lofty perspective the whole vast desert is nothing but a handful of dust (compare {43,3}) =he's now so solipsistic that he disdainfully considers nothing outside himself to be of any importance at all (compare {208,4}) =he's now so remote from the world that he considers a handful of dust to be no different from a whole desert (compare {138,1})

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Come right along, ladies and gentlemen, service is cafeteria style-- load up your tray with your own favorite choices, mix and match them, try them one by one or stir them together-- and then don't hesitate to come back for dessert!

Ghazal 222 1 verse; meter G2; rhyming elements: ii;N hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 180; Arshi #174; Raza p. 196

{222,1} lab-e ((iis;aa kii junbish kartii hai gahvaarah-junbaanii qiyaamat kushtah-e la((l-e butaa;N kaa ;xvaab-e sangii;N hai 1) the movement of the lip of Jesus does cradle-rocking 2a) Doomsday is a heavy/stony dream/sleep of those slain by the ruby [lips] of idols 2b) the heavy/stony sleep/dream of those slain by the ruby [lips] of idols is a Doomsday!

Notes: sangii;N : 'Stony, of stone, made of stone; hard; firm, solid; strong; thick, stout, close-woven; heavy, weighty; grave, serious; severe'. (Platts p.688)

Nazm: What Doomsday-sleep must those slain by the ruby lips sleep, that far from being made alive by the lip of Jesus, their heedlessness increases, as if the lip of Jesus is for them a cradle-rocking. The cause of similitude is they always call the beloved's lip the 'Messiah'. (251)

Bekhud Dihlavi: The 'ruby of the idols' is the ruby lips of the idols. He says, what a Doomsday-sleep is the sleep of those slain by the ruby lips of the idols, that even the miracle of the lips of Jesus can't bring them to life! When he says 'Live', then their sleep becomes deeper. (309)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza says that for those slain by the lip of the beloved, Doomsday is a deep dream, and the movement of the lips of Jesus is a cradle-rocking; that is, those who die for the lip of the beloved can neither be made to rise on Doomsday, nor brought to life by the lip of Jesus. (456)

FWP: SETS == TRANSITIVITY; WORDPLAY QIYAMAT: {10,11} In Islamic tradition, the movement of the lip of Jesus restores the dead to life. The exact mechanism is that he says appropriate words, and breathes them over the dead person as he speaks them, and the effect is life-giving. (For an extreme example in which the process backfires, see {9,7}.) 'Cradlerocking' is something that could (just barely imaginably) be done with the breath, and something that is likely to deepen the sleep of the one in the cradle. Naturally we're eager to hear more about such remarkable behavior on Jesus's part. And naturally, in the mushairah performance environment, we're made to wait as long as is conveniently possible for the second line. But it's a second line worth waiting for. It answers some basic questions-- but only to tantalize us with new ones. The grammatical structure of the line, 'A is B', offers what I call transitivity: it can equally well be read as 'B is A'. In this case, the 'B is A' meaning (2b) is exclamatory: the sleep of those slain by idols' lips is, metaphorically, a 'Doomsday'-- it's a disaster, a

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phenomenon, an awe-inspiring thing! As the commentators observe, the dead lovers' sleep is so deep that even the revivifying breath of Jesus not only can't wake them, but actually 'rocks the cradle' for them and deepens their sleep. Does Jesus try to waken them, and is he then surprised to find that he's failed? Or does he recognize that for some reason they have a special need of, or claim to, sleep-- so that he deliberately deepens their slumber? The speculation here is entirely up to us. But it's the 'A is B' meaning that's irresistibly Ghalibian. In a milder sense it can of course mean that those slain by the idols' ruby lips simply sleep through the cataclysm of Doomsday: while everybody else 'arises' (the root of qiyaamat ) when summoned, these particular sleepers perhaps experience merely a confused and passing dream. But in a more radical sense it can mean that Doomsday itself is nothing but a dream or vision experienced by them. They are engaged in a deeper and more powerful 'passion play', in which they have been slain by the ruby lips of idols-- compared to the meaningfulness and potency of that experience, how significant can the lips of Jesus be, or even Doomsday itself? The breath of Jesus is reduced to a mere cradle-rocking breeze, and Doomsday itself to a mere dream or vision. (And the rest of us are then merely dream-figures in the mystical drama of these cosmically powerful lovers.) There's also wonderful word- and meaning-play. Jesus as a Prophet in the first line is juxtaposed to the 'idols' in the second line. Both have lips of great power: Jesus has his revivifying lips, while the idols have killing lips. But it's not necessarily a direct face-off (sorry, sorry!) that the idols win, for it's possible that Jesus rocks the lovers' cradle deliberately, for reasons of his own. In addition, the idols have 'ruby' lips made of hard red gemstone, like petrified blood, and the sleep of those slain by them is heavy, or literally 'stony'. The idols' ruby lips raise another question: are the lovers slain by the beauty of the lips themselves, or by the cruel, deadly words that emerge from them? This is the kind of verse for which I love Ghalib so much. The first line is so arresting, so striking-- and yet, when you think about it, both so meaningful and so complex. Then the second line brings in possibilities that surround it and give it shape, while not only not resolving, but actually enhancing, its complexities. An excellent verse for comparison is the perhaps even more brilliant {61,7}.

Ghazal 223 2 verses; meter G1; rhyming elements: aadah se composed 1816; Hamid p. 180; Arshi #175; Raza p. 181

{223,1} aamad-e sailaab-e :tuufaan-e .sadaa-e aab hai naqsh-e paa jo kaan me;N rakhtaa hai u;Nglii jaadah se 1) it/there is the coming of the flood of the typhoon of the sound/voice of water 2) {when / in that} the footprint puts a finger in its ear, by means of the path

Notes: Nazm: To tell the truth, this verse is meaningless, and for this reason is excluded from commentary. But in length [of commentary], there is great scope. First this simile has come into the author's mind: that the trace of a foot on a path is like a finger that has been inserted into the ear. Then, in 'joining lines', he has intended to express the reason for it: that the footprint has inserted the finger of the path into its ear-- what's the reason for this? He expresses this

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reason: that it is fearful of the sound/voice of the flood. And what is the voice/sound from? Water. But where did the water come from? There's no information about this.... where did the water come from, and why does a typhoon arise from it-- there's no mention of this. We should understand it this way: that the poet is mentioning the spring season, everything is overflowing with verdure and fertility, and torrents of rain are falling. Every footprint, hearing the typhoon of the sound of water, is fearful of the coming of the flood; and its fear is that when the flood comes, it will obliterate the footprint. From this the meaning emerges that everything in the world feels anxiety about oblivion that pricks like a thorn. But the truth is that this meaning only emerges when it's expressed in these words [of mine]. The other point of discussion about this verse is with regard to the rhyme. [An extensive technical discussion is provided: the argument is that jaadah would, in pronunciation, go oblique like a marked noun before the postposition, and thus wouldn't rhyme with baadah in {223,2} which would not go oblique because the object of the postposition is mauj instead.] (25152)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, everything in the world has a pricking anxiety about oblivion. Therefore even/also the footprint lies there with the fingers of the pathway placed in its ears. It too has conceived a fear that a flood might come; it doesn't want to hear the sound of the torrents. Thus it has put its fingers in its ears, and considers that in the spring season the rain will pour down and obliterate it. (310)

Bekhud Mohani: [Taking issue with Nazm's criticism:] It's well established that every footprint will be obliterated by a flood. Seeing a footprint on a road manifestly bears witness to this. The phrase 'typhoon of the sound of water' itself tells us that the signs of the coming of the flood are apparent. The sound of the water is entering the ears. Everyone knows that neither does the path provide a finger in the ears, nor does it fear oblivion. These are all poetic personifications [jaa;N aafiriiniyaa;N]. The poet has heard the sound of the swelling waters. When he has himself felt fear, then to him everything begins to seem anxious. When his glance fell on the path, then the thought came to him that it too, hearing the typhoon-turmoil sound of the waters, has felt fear and has stuck its fingers in its ears. Now he [=Nazm] asks where the water came from. It must have come, in whatever way it could come, from one of those places where water, heaving and roiling, comes from. It's possible that it would be the rainy season, that it might be rain-water. It might be water from a waterfall. It might be water from a rising river/sea. The verse doesn't tell us what kind of water it is. Rather, it recounts an event: that a flood is coming. The words, and the footprint, are in a state such that the meaning toward which the verse would take us, is that very meaning. In addition to this, if consideration would be given to the metaphor, then too the verse gives meaning.... When after asking where the water came from he says, why is a typhoon created by its sound? -- it's obvious that not to speak of a river/sea and a waterfall, when channeled water falls, then the sound of the water falling from the full channels begins to seem like a nearby typhoon. The truth is that the meaning is clear. If anyone would try to complicate it, then that's a deliberate forcing. (456-57)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE; IZAFAT The argument between Nazm and Bekhud Mohani is particularly enjoyable in the case of this verse. This is only one of the verses that Nazm declares to

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be 'meaningless'; for others, see {1,1}. He's being cranky; but then, this verse might make anybody feel exasperated. For Nazm, the verse begins with a literary inspiration (the idea that the footprint and path resemble a finger in an ear), and then develops as the poet tries to justify or explain such an unlikely image. For Bekhud Mohani, the verse begins with the poet walking along a path, hearing the sound of onrushing flood-waters, feeling afraid, and projecting his own feelings onto everything around him. Nazm's view is the classic ghazal one (poetry is made from creative play with poetic materials), while Bekhud is expressing the 'natural poetry' view (poetry is made from actual experience). I won't bother to reiterate all the reasons that Nazm is right about this one. Nazm then goes on to criticize the verse for not providing a 'cause' or 'proof' of the coming of flood-waters, and of their resembling a typhoon. It's true that in the context of this verse they're entirely unmotivated-- unlike, say, {111,16}, in which they have a clear source that's integral to the structure of the verse. Bekhud defends the verse against this charge by offering an impatient list of places that we all know rushing waters could come from, and pointing out that we all know that rushing waters are sometimes quite loud. Bekhud's argument ad hominem may or may not be persuasive, but I want to offer another defense. My argument is based on the structure of the first line-- it is meant to rush on like a sudden torrent, unstoppably. It has four i.zaafat constructions in a row, which is an unusually large number even for Ghalib. All four are carefully marked by Arshi; indeed, three of the four are metrically compulsory anyway. The only one that's metrically optional is the second one. If we were to break the line there by omitting that one ('the coming of the flood is a typhoon of the sound/voice of water'), the result would be far more coherent, more 'normal'-- and more humdrum. By contrast, the presence of all four is extraordinary, overwhelming. And yet very cleverly so-- overwhelming in a kind of linear way, like waves of water rushing down a channel. For the i.zaafat constructions here are uniquely straightforward. There's no temptation at all to start pulling and tugging them in different ways, there's just clearly no percentage in it. The first line thus works to bludgeon us with a sort of onrush of entities, one after the other, like waves rolling in. And the little 'is' tells us nothing really about what's going on, except that it's happening right before our eyes-- or rather, ears. So one could defend the unjustifiedness, the ungroundedness, of the flood by saying that its inexplicability, its overwhelmingness, is part of what the verse is about. The flood is suddenly just there-- and about to run, unstoppably, right over you. After such an intriguing, piquant first line, however, the second is a damp squib. In fact it's really awful. The main problem is that the 'objective correlative' simply doesn't work. There's just no way that a footprint and a path can be envisioned as an ear with a finger stuck in it. The worst thing is the size ratio: a finger is much smaller than an ear, whereas a footprint is exceedingly tiny compared to a path. Talk about bizarre! I actually consider this verse a case of 'grotesquerie'. Of course, it may be argued that we're not really supposed to think of a path inserted into a footprint the way a finger is inserted into an ear. But if we're not supposed to take the imagery literally, then there's nothing to the verse at all; it just falls apart into vague fragments. Or it might be that I'm misreading the second line somehow; but if so, I can't think how. It does seem to say, pretty straightforwardly, what the commentators and I think it says. Of course, the grammar is clunky, but is there any other way to extract a meaning from it? I wish there were! Compare it for example with the previous verse, {222,1}. In that one we have another very strange image: the lips of Jesus forming a breath that rocks a cradle in which dead lovers sleep. Yet that image, far from being grotesque, is evocative and poetically compelling. (How can I prove this? I

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can't, of course. As always, I can just report and analyze my own reaction to the verse.) Or compare {15,10} and {58,9}, two other verses in which powerful, destructive floods are presented. In both cases the floods are unmotivated and unjustified; thus Nazm's criticism, if it were accepted, would have to apply to a number of verses. But how complex, how cleverly integrated, how poetically effective are the uses made of the floods in these two verses! The artificiality and unappealingness of the present verse stand out all the more vividly for the contrast.

{223,2} bazm-e mai va;hshat-kadah hai kis kii chashm-e mast kaa shiishe me;N nab.z-e parii pinhaa;N hai mauj-e baadah se 1) the wine-{party/gathering} is the {wildness/desolation}-chamber of whose intoxicated eye? 2) in the glass, the pulse of a Pari is hidden by a wave of wine

Notes: va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place;--loneliness, solitariness, dreariness;--sadness, grief, care;--wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism;--timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror;--distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183)

Nazm: The meaning of 'of' is, whose intoxicated eye has made of the wine-house a wildness-chamber? And he has given for a wave of wine the simile of the pulse of a Pari so that the meaning will emerge that the Pari, having turned the wine-party into wildness/desolation, hid herself in the wineglass. (253)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the intoxicated eye of which beloved has made of the wine-party a wildness-chamber? Such that the wave of wine, the pulse of a Pari-faced one, has become hidden in the wineglass-- as if a Pari, having made men wild, has become confined within a glass. (310)

Bekhud Mohani: A Pari hides from mankind. The pulse is within the body. In a state of wildness and madness the pulse becomes faster. A winehouse is a wildnesschamber, because when the drunkards drink, they are led astray. The winedrinking party of the rakish ones becomes a wildness-chamber. But the poet says, whose intoxicated eye is this that has made it a wildness-chamber, since the Pari of the wave of wine is hidden? That is, the rakish ones have unrestrainedly made the whole gathering a wildness-chamber-- and not only that, but the wave of wine too, in the flagon, is trembling. The rakish ones have no care either for their own bodies, or for the wineglass and flagon. (458)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS MADNESS: {14,3} WINE: {49,1} The structure of the verse can hardly fail to evoke {1,1}, in which a similarly provocative question is posed in the first line. In both first lines, the relationship marked by the kaa has all the ambiguity that an i.zaafat would. In the present verse, here are some of the ways we could read such a question: =whose intoxicated eye is experiencing the wine-party (as a participant)? =whose intoxicated eye is watching the wine-party (as an observer)? =whose intoxicated eye has generated the wine-party (as a creator)? And of course, calling the party a 'wildness-chamber' [va;hshat-kadah] very clearly opens up the possibility that the owner of the 'intoxicated eye',

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whoever he may be, is also a madman, and is thus 'seeing' ravishing or terrifying visions that exist only in his own mind. After such a first line, we wait with hope (but also somewhat grimly, since we know Ghalib) for clarification in the second line. When, after the delay required under mushairah performance conditions, we are finally allowed to hear it, we are given not a direct answer but an entirely unrelated statement: that in the wineglass, the pulse of a Pari is hidden by a wave of wine. But what exactly does that mean? Is the whole Pari there, or just her pulse? If her pulse is 'hidden' by a wave of wine, is that a tactic she's using, or a sign of her intoxication and powerlessness? Is she trying to achieve something in the wine-party, or trying to conceal herself, or just relaxing and getting drunk? Despite (and also because of) such questions, our first and largest task is to decide how to connect the two quite separate lines. Here are some possibilities: =it is in fact the intoxicated eye of the hidden Pari that secretly controls (or observes, or enjoys, etc.) the wine-party =while it's the Pari herself who controls the wine and wineglass, who similarly controls the whole wine-party? =the Pari seeks to control the wine-party, but is overwhelmed by a wave of wine and so is unable to do so-- so who replaces her? =the Pari provides the 'pulse' and heart for the wine-party, but who provides the 'eye' and mind? =no one controls the wine-party, because the wine has the 'pulse of a Pari', meaning that it is able to possess the drinkers and drive them mad Strictly speaking, in Islamic tradition only a Jinn can truly 'possess' people and make them do its bidding, speak with its voice, etc. But the fiery beauty of a Pari is also thought to be capable of driving a mortal mad. (For an amusing example, see Mihr Nigar's adventures in the Dastan of Amir Hamzah, chapter 46.) Compare the wonderful {169,5}, which offers another view of a winehouse of the mind. And for a decidedly bleaker perspective, see {81,2}.

Ghazal 224 1 verse; meter G13; rhyming elements: ?? composed 1826; Hamid p. 180; Arshi #197; Raza p. 266

{224,1} huu;N mai;N bhii tamaashaa))ii-e nairang-e tamannaa ma:tlab nahii;N kuchh is se kih ma:tlab hii bar aave 1) even/also I am a spectator of the marvel/magic/trick of longing 2) from this there isn't at all a purpose/intention, that only/especially a purpose/intention would come to fruition

Notes: nairang : 'Fascination, bewitching arts, wiles; magic, sorcery; deception; -deceit; trick; pretence; evasion; --freak; --a wonderful performance, a miracle; anything new or strange'. (Platts p.1166) ma:tlab : 'A question, demand, request, petition; proposition; wish, desire; object, intention, aim, purpose, pursuit, motive'. (Platts p.1044)

Nazm: That is, I felt the longing so that I would know what pleasure there is in it; I have no longing at all that the longing would actually be fulfilled. (253)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I am only a spectator of the marvel of longing. That is, I want to see how longing changes its color/mood, and what kind of pleasure it bestows on the heart. My goal is not that my goal itself would be fulfilled. (310)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse two words are meaningful: bhii and hii . The meaning of bhii is that the way other people want to watch a spectacle, in the same way I too want it. By hii the intention is that if the longing would be fulfilled, then it's unspeakably good [kyaa kahnaa]. If it wouldn't be fulfilled, even then I won't be particularly grieved. (459)

FWP: SETS == BHI; HI; REPETITION TAMASHA: {8,1} The possibilities of bhii gives us two readings of the first line: 'I too' (who am like other people), and 'even I' (who am in a class by myself). And what is this 'I' doing? He's a 'spectator' no doubt, maybe just an ordinary guy in a crowd, but what is he watching? Not just any normal carnival scene! The possibilities include a magic show, or a deception, or a freak, or a miracle, or a novelty (see the definition of nairang above), which is associated in one of several flexible i.zaafat ways (constituting, owned by, pertaining to) longing. That first line certainly gives us a good Ghalibian start. And when, after a suitable mushairah-performance delay, we hear the second line, it turns out to be a worthy successor to the first: it goes even farther in offering us a great show of apparent simplicity (plain vocabulary and grammar, ordinary sentence structure, repetition) that can't be prevented from giving rise to unresolvable complexity. The moment we scratch the surface, all kinds of possibilities come fluttering out like endless scarves from a magician's coatsleeve. 'From this' [is se] alone works as a quite sufficient complexifier: undoubtedly it applies to something in the first line, but what exactly? From, or because of, my spectatorship? Or the marvel/magic/trick itself? Or the longing? Needless to say, we're left to decide for ourselves. And then, the basic word ma:tlab can have a quasi-public meaning (a 'demand' or 'petition' or 'proposition' that might also be presented to others), or a private emotional meaning (a 'wish' or 'desire'), or a sort of volitional meaning (an 'intention' or 'purpose' or 'motive'). So: roughly, from 'this' there's no purpose/intention. But we're not through yet. The kih signals a new clause, with various possible relationships to the previous one. One obvious relationship would be explanatory: the new clause might tell us what kind of purpose/intention doesn't exist. And indeed it does: there's no purpose/intention that a purpose/intention would come to fruition. Plus of course the flexible little hii , that is either exclusionary ('a purpose/intention alone, as opposed to other things that might also come to fruition too') or emphatic ('a purpose/intention', as opposed to other things that might come to fruition instead). If we prune the thicket of possibilities as much as we can, it seems that the speaker is offering a cleverly cynical defense or excuse: 'I'm just doing it for amusement, but of course I don't really expect it to work-- what do you take me for, a naive fool like the rest of them?' Such an excuse may be genuine; or, as we all know from our own lives, it may have been hastily cobbled together as a face-saving device. But there's another reading too: kih can also mean 'so that'. On this reading, we have something like 'In doing it I have no purpose-- so that my purpose would be fulfilled'. If the purpose of an activity is nothing, and indeed

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nothing results from the activity, then the purpose of the activity has in some sense been fulfilled. It's a transparent logician's quibble, like the classic proof that an open oyster is better than heaven ('an open oyster is better than nothing; and nothing is better than heaven'). What the speaker is using-- in many possible permutations and with many different possible nuances and subtleties-- is some kind of a tactic of desperation. And in this whole verse, can't we just smell, or even taste, the desperation? He's desperate to hide from us, and even from himself, both the urgency of his longing, and his all too certain knowledge that the longing is in vain.

Ghazal 225 1 verse; meter G2; rhyming elements: ? composed after 1821; Hamid p. 180; Arshi #183; Raza p. 258

{225,1} siyaahii jaise gir jaave dam-e ta;hriir kaa;Ga;z par mirii qismat me;N yuu;N ta.sviir hai shab'haa-e hijraa;N kii 1) the way ink/blackness would fall, at the moment/breath of writing, on paper 2) in my fate, {like this / casually / for no particular reason} is the picture of the nights of separation

Notes: siyaahii : 'Blackness, darkness; shade; a black spot; a black dye or tincture; ink; blacking; lamp-black (syn. kaajal ); (met.) a stigma, brand'. (Platts p.709) girnaa : 'To fall, drop, come down; to tumble; to alight, to perch (on, par ), to descend; to fall (upon, par )'. (Platts p.905)

Nazm: By fate is meant the writing of fate, and he has supposed that the letters of the writing of fate are all pictures. For example, the kind of letters that used to be customary in ancient Egypt; and those people who are sign-readers or who look at palms also have this opinion. (253)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the way at the time of writing ink falls and hides the letters, in the same way in the writing of my fate the picture of the nights of separation has been captured. The meaning is that the nights of separation have hidden the writing of my fate in such a way that I can't even know what is written in my future. (310)

Bekhud Mohani: He has captured a picture of the memorable nights of separation written in my fortune like this: the way at the time of writing ink would fall on the paper, and except for darkness nothing would be visible. That is, in my fate there are only nights of separation, and that's it. (459)

Faruqi: Now please reflect on the aspect of meaning. At the time of writing if ink would fall on the paper, then it becomes a biggish blot. This blot is not of any particular kind, but rather is erratic and without regularity. The written destiny of the speaker is such that in it where the nights of separation should have been mentioned, there's a biggish blot, as if at the time of writing the ink would have fallen. This blot can have the following interpretations:

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1) In my lot the nights of separation are so many, so black, and so formless that it was proper to express them only by means of a blot. That is, the writer of destiny didn't have the words for them. 2) My nights of separation are so murderous and painful that the writer of destiny considered it proper to hide their nature, and made a biggish blot. 3) The expression of my nights of separation was so painful that the writer's courage left him, he no longer had control of his pen, and a biggish drop of ink dropped from his pen and spread on the paper. 4) The writer of destiny thought, 'how would I express this person's destiny-in it is mostly the blackness of nights of separation!' Thus, expressing his carelessness, made a biggist blot: this very thing is his fate. (345-46)

FWP: WRITING: {7,3} Between the white paper and the black ink there's a difference of night and day-- literally so, in this verse. Fate would seek to write its decree for the days of my life, but at the very moment of writing, a spill of black ink darkens them all into nights-- the endless nights of separation. These nights of separation are cosmic and all-pervading, and no day can ever really succeed or redeem them, just as after an ink-spill the page can never really be white again. They cover the page of my destiny with a hopeless blot, making it unreadable; thus they're all the destiny I'll ever have. For more on yuu;N , see {30,1}. That's the obvious reading, and the one that the commentators prefer. But what does it mean for ink to 'fall' on paper? One meaning is certainly to 'spill', as from an overturned inkwell. But other meanings include 'to alight', 'to descend', and 'to perch on'. In this sense, the falling of black ink onto white paper could simply refer to the time when fate begins to write my destiny. Faruqi's commentary explores some of these possibilities; I'd like to emphasize one more. For the moment of writing is also the time when the white paper begins to be trammeled and overpowered by the first of those black lines that will ultimately cover it with black words. It would thus refer to a normal event (which seems to be quite possibly what the grammar of the first line suggests), rather than to a sudden accident. This reading would also consort better with 'at the moment of writing'. For a terrible ink-spill could occur at any point, not just at a particular moment; while dam-e ta;hriir gives a sense of inception, of seeing the instant of origin. And though less melodramatic, this latter reading would be in a way even more deadly and irrevocable. For the very first letters and words of my fate are black like the nights of separation, and so are all the later ones, making the page of my fate blacker and blacker over time. And we've known ever since {1,1} that fate (or divinity) is a casual, careless, 'mischievous' writer at best, so that its letters are often poorly shaped (and inclined to complain about it). But there's another nice little twist as well: without ink, no writing. Without the blackness of ink to irrevocably darken the whiteness of paper, there's no destiny at all-- no cosmic decrees, no divine 'mischievousness', no human creativity, not even (perish the thought) the ghazals of Ghalib. For another attempt to reckon with the unreckonable nights of separation, see {97,2}.

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Ghazal 226 5 verses; meter G2; rhyming elements: aa;N hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 181; Arshi #154; Raza p. 198

{226,1} hujuum-e naalah ;hairat ((aajiz-e ((ar.z-e yak-af;Gaa;N hai ;xamoshii reshah-e .sad naisitaa;N se ;xas bah dandaa;N hai 1) rush/assault/crowd of laments/complaints-- stupefaction/amazement-incapable of the presentation/petition of a single lamentation-- is 2) silence, through the fiber/vein of a hundred reed-thickets, has a straw between its teeth

Notes: hujuum : 'Rushing (upon, or at, par ); attacking; crowding, swarming (round, or about, -par);--assault, attack; effort; impetuosity;--crowd, throng, concourse, mob; a swarm'. (Platts p.1221) ((aajiz : 'Lacking strength or power, or ability, powerless, impotent, unable (to do), unequal (to); weak, feeble, helpless; brought low, overcome; lowly, humble; exhausted; dejected; in despair, hopeless; baffled, frustrated'. (Platts p.756) reshah : 'Fibre; filament; nerve; vein (of a leaf)'. (Platts p.612)

Nazm: On the battlefield, when some group is defeated, then in order to express their helplessness they take some straw, grass, etc. in their mouth and show it, to say, stop the battle. Here, the crowd of laments has won the day, and amazement is unable to make even one lament; and in order to express that helplessness, there is silence, etc. But in order to take a straw in its teeth-what is the special quality of the fiber of a reed-bed? It's the root of lament and complaint, for from a fiber a flute is made; and from a flute, lament. And in a state of control, lament is silent, the way lament is hidden in the fiber of a reed-bed. It is in the vocative-- that is, he means 'oh rush of complaints'. Only through having addressed the rush of laments has the author said 'the fiber of a hundred reed-thickets'. (254)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, despite the rush of laments, stupefaction has made me helpless to present lamentation. As if silence has made the reed-thicket, in which hundreds of bamboo flutes are present, take a straw in its teeth. The meaning is that despite the power of speech, out of respect to secret-keeping I have sewn my lips shut. (311)

Bekhud Mohani: The rush of laments is helpless and anxious since by reason of stupefaction it cannot weep and wail. The expression of its helplessness is taking place through its silence. By the taking of a straw between the teeth helplessness is also intended. Here the poet's intention is that the way a rush of laments, because of stupefaction, is silent, in the same way so is the fiber of the reedthicket, whose similitude is to grass-- and from which hundreds of reedflutes can be made. (459)

Arshi: Compare {10,3}. (182, 268)

FWP: SETS == A,B

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The grammar of the first line is really hopelessly ambiguous. There's a 'rush of complaints', a 'stupefaction', and something 'incapable' which could also be a noun (an 'incapable one'). In order to show the difficulties, I've provided a 'translation' that really looks awful in English and hardly makes sense; it accurately reflects the semi-incoherent grammatical openness of the Urdu. Perhaps we could also argue that the confusion of the grammar mirrors the confused, 'stupefied' state that's being depicted, the way the grammar of {223,1} can be said to reflect the coming of a flood. (That kind of 'mimicry' argument is a slippery slope, however-- before you know it you open the door to people who write boring novels and claim they're actually novels about boredom.) Nazm thinks the 'rush of laments' is being addressed, and Bekhud Mohani thinks that the 'rush of laments' is what is 'incapable'. Could we also invent 'stupefaction-incapable' [;hairat-((aajiz] as some kind of weird compound that would mean 'rendered incapable by stupefaction'? If we could, that would offer another possibility. In any case, our choices are limited. All the i.zaafat constructions in the line are metrically compulsory, and no others are metrically possible. This means that we urgently need help from that second line, and we have to make serious use of our 'A,B' possibilities. Since parallelism would be the most informative relationship between the two lines, we are well entitled to try that one first. The second line depicts a personified 'Silence' that has 'a straw between its teeth' in token of submission-- but the straw is a 'fiber' or reed from a reed-thicket, and thus has latent in it the makings of hundreds of reed-flutes. So the image seems to be of an entity that is now quiet, motionless, passive-- but with an inner life likely to produce great noise and turmoil at some later point. If we read the first line as parallel to the second, we're led to imagine a personified 'Stupefaction' that is powerless with amazement, frozen in place, unable to give voice to a single lament. What stupefies it may well be the 'rush' or 'assault' of laments that it is perhaps experiencing (though the grammar doesn't let us be sure of this). 'Stupefaction' wants to give vent to so many laments that they block each other's path and none of them actually get out; instead, their 'assault' knocks it off balance and renders it powerless and silent. Thus the connection with the second line: 'Silence' and 'Stupefaction' would then be in similar situations. Or else, of course, the two lines could be two ways to envision the same situation: the lover's inability to express his suffering. Even so, we still have to decide how to link 'rush of laments' to 'Stupefaction', and the line gives us no help at all. We can always decide, with Nazm, that it is a vocative ('oh rush of laments, you should realize that...'), so that the speaker is explaining to the semi-personified 'rush of laments' why it is that 'Stupefaction' is so unresponsive. But the arbitrariness is irritating. We have to do a lot of work, and the results still don't fit together with a nice precise click. And if we try to set up other relationships between the two lines, our task becomes much more difficult, since then we have much less guidance to help us frame the grammar of the first line. In short, the powerful second line is undercut by the awkward grammar of the first line. It just doesn't feel very satisfactory. But what's really a cause for 'stupefaction' is how few such unsatisfactory verses there are, and how many brilliant ones. Like a large part of the divan, this verse was composed when Ghalib was about nineteen years old. The obvious verse for comparison, as Arshi points out, is {10,3}; but {155,3} too is a good 'straw in the teeth' example.

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{226,2} takalluf bar-:taraf hai jaa;N-sitaa;N-tar lu:tf-e bad-;xuuyaa;N nigaah-e be-;hijaab-e naaz te;G-e tez-e ((uryaa;N hai 1) {leaving aside formality / 'to tell the truth'}, the elegance/pleasure/grace of the bad-tempered ones is more life-stealing 2) the unveiled glance of coquetry is a naked, sharp sword

Notes: lu:tf : 'Delicacy; refinement; elegance, grace, beauty; the beauty or best (of a thing); taste; pleasantness; gratification, pleasure, enjoyment; --piquancy, point, wit; --courtesy, kindness, benignity, grace, favour, graciousness, generosity, benevolence, gentleness, amenity'. (Platts p.957)

Nazm: The glance is a sword, and when the glance became unveiled, the sword became naked; and her giving a 'glance of elegance/pleasure/grace' became more murderous. (254)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the elegance/pleasure/grace of beloveds is even more life-stealing than tyranny. As if the glance of coquetry is a well-tempered sword, and when it became unveiled, then the sword became naked. Now, in her murdering, what veil still remains? (311)

Bekhud Mohani: It's true that for a bad-tempered beloved to be gracious is even more lifestealing than for her not to be gracious. Don't look, for when the glance of coquetry becomes unveiled, then it is like a sharp sword that would already have left the scabbard. That is, in her being gracious there's even more suffering. (460)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH VEIL: {6,1} What a sharp, witty, perfectly deft contrast to the awkward {226,1}! Now we're back to the classic Ghalib, in his usual state of remarkable verbal control. On the complexities of takalluf bar-:taraf , see {65,1}. The first impression the line gives us is that of a 'claim of candor', an informal, let's-cut-to-thechase quality. The speaker observes (to us? to a confidant? to himself? ) that the lu:tf of bad-tempered ones is more deadly. The comparative is left unresolved-- more deadly than what? More deadly than their bad temper itself? More deadly than the lu:tf of good-tempered ones? But above all, what exactly is meant by lu:tf ? The possibilities are rich (see the definition above). It might be some quality of the beloved's, like 'grace', 'kindness', or 'generosity'. It might also be something experienced by the lover, like 'gratification', 'pleasure', or 'enjoyment'. And in some of its range ('refinement', 'elegance') it resonates pleasurably with takalluf ('formality', 'ceremony'). In short, after the first line we don't know where we're heading. The best guess might be toward a contrast between bad-tempered ones and goodtempered ones, or between the times when the bad-tempered beloveds shows their true colors, versus the times when they are (absent-mindedly? instrumentally?) kind. Then in true mushairah-verse style, the second line sweeps us off in an entirely different direction: it turns out that we are to be interested not in the beloveds at all, but in their glances. We are treated to imagery that expertly picks up on the patterns of the first line: as a counterpoint to 'formality' and 'refinement' we now have a coquetry that is 'unveiled', and, finally a sword that is sharp and-- when the line finally grants us the the slightly shocking

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punch-word-- 'naked'. For more examples, and discussion, of the use of ((uryaa;N , see {6,1}. And that final 'naked' causes us to reappraise and fully appreciate that initial takalluf bar-:taraf . The first time around, in the context of the first line, it sounded like nothing more than a petrified phrase, a claim of candor and sincerity in speech: 'to tell you the truth'. But now we realize how radical and literal the image has become, for nothing could possibly be a greater sign of 'putting formality aside' than becoming not merely unveiled, but 'naked'. When the beloved's glance is straightforward, not sidelong and coquettish, it is linear like a sword; and because she's both bad-tempered and beautiful it's also, even in her benevolent moments (when she deigns to vouchsafe a glance), sharp like a sword. At such times the glance is stripped for action: it has cast off all literal veils and metaphoric coquetries, and plunges naked and deadly into the lover's heart. And isn't this sort of rapturous passiondeath exactly what the lover dreams of? (Remember the ecstatic associations of the naked scimitar in {17,5}.) Note for grammar fans: the latter half of the second line features a nounadjective-adjective i.zaafat , which is unusual. But Arshi gives all the i.zaafat marks clearly; and in any case, without them we'd be in danger of creating the kind of lumpy noun-heavy effect that was so awkward in {226,1}. It's best to think of te;G-e tez as a single compound, and then of ((uryaa;N as applying to the whole thing. The adjectives in such a sequence shouldn't be read as parallel to each other the way they tend to look in English.

{226,3} hu))ii yih ka;srat-e ;Gam se talaf kaifiyyat-e shaadii kih .sub;h-e ((iid mujh ko badtar az chaak-e garebaa;N hai 1) from excess/abundance of grief, to such an extent the mood of joy was ruined/wasted! 2) {since / in that} the dawn of 'Id to me is {worse than / inferior to} the tearing of the collar

Notes: ka;srat : 'Multitude, plenty, abundance, superfluity, excess, glut; plurality, multiplicity'. (Platts p.817) talaf : 'Perishing; ruin, destruction, loss; profusion, prodigality, waste, consumption, expense; ... talaf honaa , v.n. To perish, to be destroyed or ruined; to be wasted; to meet with a loss, be unfortunate'. (Platts p.334)

Nazm: All the poets always versify the word yih to mean 'to this extent', but it seems that this is worthy of being renounced. (254)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from an excess of grief, to such an extent joy has been erased that in my sight the dawn of 'Id is worse even than the tearing of the collar. (311)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] When all the poets always versify it, and not even any reason for renouncing it is presented, what will we call this [objection] except 'inspiration'? (460)

FWP: SETS == KIH CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} Indeed, what does that obtrusive, oddly-placed yih modify? We really have to go with the consensus of the commentators and read it as 'to such an extent'. For if we don't, the line in prose order has to read: yih kaifiyyat-e shaadii ka;srat-e ;Gam se talaf hu))ii . There are two problems here: the line

1603

then offers no antecedent whatsoever for what the yih could refer to; and such an antecedent is needed especially because whatever it is is now over, and thus not immediate. In addition, the line separates the yih almost impossibly far from its real, prose-order position befire kaifiyyat . The first line does, to its credit, provide a particularly subtle and elegant wordplay between ka;srat as 'excess' or 'glut', and the meaning (see the definition above) of talaf as 'profusion' or 'waste'. The fact that talaf is so remote from the hu))ii that establishes it as part of a verb construction, encourages us to take it as a noun, and thus activate this wordplay. Why is the dawn of 'Id compared to the tearing of the lover's collar? (For more examples, and discussion, of this collar-tearing motif, see {17,9}.) Because the dawn first shows itself as a white line along the horizon, like a narrow bright slash in the darkness; thus its shape resembles the neckopening of a kurta. (Compare {166,1}, in which the dawn of Doomsday is compared to the narrow white line of a 'teeth-baring smile'.) And after that first white slash appears, dawn then opens itself out and widens into day-the way the mad lover, in his frenzied grief, rips open the neck of his kurta. And when the time comes to put the two lines together, the little kih shows its own versatility. One of the meanings it can have is 'consequently' or 'therefore': in this 'A causes B' reading, the change from joy to melancholy causes me to prefer tearing my collar over the joyous festival of 'Id. But the kih can also mean merely 'such that', so the second line may only illustrate the situation described in the first one.

{226,4} dil-o-dii;n naqd laa saaqii se gar saudaa kiyaa chaahe kih us baazaar me;N saa;Gar mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N hai 1) bring heart and faith as cash, if you would want to do merchandising/madness with the Cupbearer 2) for in that bazaar, the wineglass is property/wealth that is {peddled / loaned / passed} around

Notes: dast-gardaa;N : 'Going from hand to hand; hawked about; --money, &c. which is obtained on loan, a loan for a short period (on a verbal promise to pay); --anything hawked about for sale'. (Platts p.516) gardaa;N : 'Causing to revolve or go round, revolving, turning; winding; changing; inverting; converting (used as last member of compounds)'. (Platts p.903)

Nazm: With the going-around [daur] of the dast-gardaa;N , merchandise is always sold for a price in cash. Here, to call the wine-flask mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N has such enjoyment/refinement [lu:tf] that we ought to recognize with heart and soul our indebtedness to the author. (254)

Bekhud Dihlavi: They call dast-gardaa;N that thing that is is sold for a price in cash. He says, if you seek to purchase the wine of love from the Cupbearer of the winehouse of passion, then bring heart and faith at once and hand them over and make the deal with him. In that bazaar-- that is, in the bazaar of passion-- the price of the wineglass of passion is received in advance. (311)

Bekhud Mohani: By mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N is meant something available for a price in cash. In such a situation, to say to bring the heart and faith as cash is such a fitting usage that-- praise be to God! Because it's obvious that in Islam, wine is forbidden. And in the intoxication of wine, neither the heart nor the faith

1604

remains in one's control-- nor does the mind. That is, if you intend to drink wine, you ought to wash your hands of heart and faith. [Or:] By wineglass is meant the cup of mystical knowledge, and by Cupbearer is meant the True Beloved or the spiritual guide. (460)

Faruqi: In the light of these remarks [from Indo-Persian dictionaries] the wineglass of the verse under discussion, that is mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N , is not anything very valuable and rare; rather, it's commonplace.... Now the meaning of the verse becomes, 'Friend, if you want to do business with the Cupbearer, then bring with you heart and faith as coin when you come. Indeed, if it's only a wineglass that you want, if you don't have any dealing to do with the Cupbearer, then that's a different matter. A wineglass is easily available here on credit-- and that too, in such a way that you won't to have to pay anything down in advance. You can strike a deal instantly, and take away the merchandise.' Now the question arises of what kind of business is to be done with the Cupbearer, and what is this wineglass that comes to hand so easily. In order to answer it, please keep in mind the assumption that I presented at the start: that the Cupbearer's task is not to sell wine, but rather to cause people to drink and render them intoxicated. The sale of wine is a monetary and commercial transaction. The seller himself is self-interested; he will give you a mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N . Now there remains the matter of the intoxication caused by wine-- that is, the matter of the true benefit obtained from wine: the Cupbearer's favorable glance, or warm glance, that would go along with the wineglass. For that, bring the wealth of heart and faith and offer it to the Cupbearer. Then perhaps he will give you, along with the wine, the intoxication of the wine-- that is, his attention, or a tiny little taste of the wine of love. This can't be obtained through riches. (350-51)

FWP: SETS == A,B; IDIOMS; MUSHAIRAH; WORDPLAY COMMERCE: {3,3} The cleverly multivalent idiom mataa((-e dast-gardaa;N is what energizes the verse, as the commentators observe. The literal meaning of the idiom is 'property that is hand-going-around', which of course perfectly evokes the going-around of the wineglass and the wine-flagon, in the famous daur-e jaam , as they are passed around among the drinkers. The idiomatic sense of an up-front ready-cash transaction is also perfect for the situation. If we assume, with the commentators, that both lines apply to the same 'bazaar', here are some of its possible implications about the nature of 'that bazaar': =one's heart and faith can readily be converted into, or used as, cash =no other form of cash is available or acceptable =the cash must be handed over in advance-- before any goods are received =there are plenty of eager buyers, so one should be prepared to cut a quick deal =there are plenty of other bidders, so one should be prepared to pay whatever it takes =the seller doesn't trust the honesty and/or credit-worthiness of the buyer =the seller doesn't care about the identity or circumstances of the buyer ='that bazaar' is a regular, well-known venue for such transactions These were the implications that I had come up with on my own, before reading Faruqi's provocative and persuasive argument that the two lines should be read in opposition, as describing two different, contrasted situations: wineglasses are cheap and easy, but 'business' with the Cupbearer costs you everything. Doesn't Faruqi's reading suddenly open the verse up in a whole new, piquant, and enticing direction? It doesn't invalidate the other

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reading (of two lines, one situation), but it makes it look simple and somewhat unsubtle. Needless to say, all of these possibilities resonate most enjoyably with the situation of the lover in the world of the ghazal. The double meaning of saudaa as 'madness' can't be missed, though nothing specific in the verse picks up on it. After all, to sell 'heart and faith' is in itself surely the result of madness, since otherwise who would part with such irreplaceable treasures? And to buy wine is also a cause of madness, since intoxication deprives one of normal awareness. So a rational bit of cash 'commerce' is also a piece of wildly crazy behavior. Compare the even more cavalier treatment of 'heart and faith' in {115,8}.

{226,5} ;Gam aa;Gosh-e balaa me;N parvarish detaa hai ((aashiq ko chiraa;G-e raushan apnaa qulzum-e .sar.sar kaa marjaa;N hai 1) grief in the embrace of disaster gives nurture/support to the lover 2) his/one's own lighted/radiant lamp is the coral of a 'Red Sea' of wind

Notes: qulzum : '(for ba;hr-e qulzum ), the Red Sea'. (Platts p.794) .sar.sar : 'A cold boisterous wind'. (Platts p.744)

Nazm: For a lamp, the wind is a calamity and a disaster; but the way a lamp of coral is not extinguished in the buffeting of the sea, in the same way the lover's lamp remains lighted in the wind of disaster. And by the 'lover's lamp', the lover himself is intended; and 'nurture/support' and 'training, instruction' have the same meaning. But parvarish karnaa and tarbiyat denaa have become established in the idiom; parvarish denaa is contrary to the idiom. (254)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He ways, the grief of passion in the embrace of disaster always gives nurture to the lover. The rule is that from the wine, a lamp is always extinguished. But in a typhoon of water in the sea, the lamp of coral is never extinguished. In the same way the lover's lamp too in the typhoon of wind remains lighted. The meaning is that the lover's trouble and suffering don't destroy anything. (311)

Bekhud Mohani: He expresses the circumstances of the lover's life: that he is raised in the embrace of disaster, as if his lamp (the lamp of mystical seeking) is the coral of the hurricane of the sea. For a lamp a hurricane is a disaster; that is, the lamp of the lover's life is not extinguished in the hurricanes of disasters. Rather, it burns more brightly, the way coral thrives and flourishes in the sea. The gist is that the lover thrives and flourishes through disasters. (461)

FWP: SETS == A,B; WORDPLAY This is one of those that's rather hard to put together. It presents itself like a set of puzzle pieces; but then they don't all seem to come from the same puzzle. The first line makes a highly abstract general statement, but it's also weird. The main question is, who or what is 'in the embrace of disaster'? Is it that grief is in the embrace of disaster, and that's when (or how? or why?) it nurtures the lover? Is it that 'grief in the embrace of disaster' is a kind of complex single entity that nurtures the lover? Or is it that the lover is in the embrace of disaster, and that's when (or how? or why?) grief nurtures him? To be 'in the embrace of' seems to go well with the idea of being 'nurtured', but what exactly is the kind of nurture the lover is getting, and from whom?

1606

We have nowhere to turn except to the second line; and by now we're not surprised when it starts over with a completely unrelated set of images. The lover's-- or the speaker's, or someone's, since apnaa would apply to any unnamed masculine singular subject of the verb-- own lighted lamp is the coral of a Red Sea of wind. The color affinities are obvious: a glowing red candle, radiantly red coral, not just any sea but a 'Red Sea'. (And of course, the lover's grief is full of red tears of blood, a lacerated red heart, etc.) Are we to take it that the lover's lighted lamp is to a 'sea' of wind, as coral is to a sea of water? If so, the idea is surely that the buffeting and turmoil of the waves does no harm to the coral, since it's buried deep within and beneath them, and finds its natural home there; similarly, the lover's lighted lamp is unharmed by a 'sea' of wind, and in fact thrives and finds nurture there. That sounds as though the lover's lighted lamp might be a metaphor for the lover; and the 'sea' of wind, for the endless grief in which he lives. But then, the 'sea' of wind might instead be the 'embrace of disaster', since a sea can take in and 'embrace' one who is immersed in it. Or in some fashion the 'grief in the embrace of disaster' might be like a 'sea' of wind; but the idea isn't exactly compelling. In other words, we still can't satisfyingly solve the problem of the 'embrace of disaster'-- who or what is disaster embracing (or is embracing disaster); and who exactly, and how, and why, is nurturing the lover? For there's also a question of who's doing the embracing. In English too, one can be 'in the embrace of' something, so that the lover could be 'in the embrace of disaster'. But one can also 'embrace' something ('only in embracing your own finiteness will you find peace'). So in that latter sense, 'in the embrace of disaster' could mean 'in the embrace that one is giving to disaster' or 'in embracing disaster'-- an active move on the part of the lover, such that when he embraces disaster, then grief nurtures him. (Compare the possibilities of the 'embrace of leave-taking' in {57,6}.) It's truly exasperating, because it keeps you going over and over it-- surely a bit of rearranging, a bit of pushing, will bring that click, that flash, that feeling of closure. But I can't make it happen, and I don't think it's just me. I think the two lines are really just not integrated enough. We may get the general idea, but is a 'general idea' what we want from a verse of Ghalib's? The second line is radiant in its way, beautiful and memorable. But can it really join with the first line to make any kind of coherent meaning? The variety of meanings it does vaguely make possible are all on the mushy side, without clear 'objective correlatives' for their abstractions. For discussion of a verse with similar problems, see {20,6}.

Ghazal 227 3 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aa nikaltii hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 181; Arshi #177; Raza pp. 171-72

{227,1} ;xamoshiyo;N me;N tamaashaa adaa nikaltii hai nigaah dil se tire surmah saa nikaltii hai 1) in silences, a spectacle-style emerges 2) from your heart a gaze/glance like collyrium emerges

Notes: surmah : 'Lead-ore; antimony (reduced to powder); collyrium (of antimony, or lead-ore or sulphuret of lead)'. (Platts p.655)

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Nazm: Between silence and collyrium, a necessary connection has grown up in the poet's mind, since for the collyrium-user silence is necessary, since its speech is only voiceless; its voice cannot emerge. The author has said the mirror image of this: that is, in silence your glance emerges, having been surrounded by collyrium, from your heart itself. That is, your silence itself makes the glance collyrium-surrounded. That is, because of this necessary connection, silence and collyrium are the same thing. (254-55).

Bekhud Dihlavi: From eating surmah, the voice is lost. He says, even in your silences a style of expression is found. As if the gaze that emerges from the intention of your heart, emerges like surmah. That is, the voice is without an aspect. (312)

Bekhud Mohani: If anyone would eat surmah, then his/her voice would gradually be lost. tamaashaa adaa = a style that's worth beholding. surmah saa = mixed with surmah; that is, silent. In your silence too a style that's worth seeing emerges, because your gaze too that emerges in this state, has in it the same thing that's in a surmah-like gaze [when] the beloved is silent.... That is, you cast such a gaze upon me, that teaches me about silence (the way a surmah-eater cannot speak). And your and my sitting in the same place, but sitting in silence, is worth seeing. The point is that she looks in such a way that one doesn't have the courage to speak in her presence: {116,5}. (461)

Faruqi: Many people have read, in the second line, tirii instead of tire .... Maulana Arshi has read tire ; I follow him. But it's also true that the verse is so obscure that whether we read tirii or tire , things aren't much clearer.... So let's think about it afresh. The first point is that surmah saa is the quality of a gaze; that is, in Persian poetry the gaze has been called surmah saa ; Ghalib didn't invent this construction.... The Greek philosophers and their followers mostly held the view that when a ray of light emerges from the eye and falls on things, then things are seen. That is, the eye is a giver of light, not a receiver.... Muslim Sufis have generally called the heart 'seeing' and a 'possessor of insight'.... In the light of this analysis it's not hard to see that in the verse under discussion Ghalib is making his beloved the possessor of the quality of 'insight of the heart'. Thus he is assuming that her gaze emerges from the heart. To assume that the beloved is a 'possessor of insight' is common. And it's not at all necessary that this verse should be about the beloved; it can also be about some mystical knower or spiritual preceptor; it can also be about someone who's an object of praise. To suppose that a praised one is a possessor of mystical knowledge and insight is also common. Thus the interpretation becomes that the gaze is habitually silent; when the beloved or the praised one remains silent, and attends to us people with the eye of the heart, then s/he doesn't simply stop with avoiding words or the voice. Rather, her every glanze emerges 'like surmah'. From eating surmah the voice is lost, and a person becomes unable to speak. Thus the silence of the 'gaze like surmah' will be, in comparison to the silence of an ordinary gaze, more intense and profound. Shaukat Merathi has made a good point: 'With reference to glances and hints, they call the eye a speaker'. But if this be accepted as correct, then one more pleasure is created: that the eye is a speaker, but the beloved or the praised one has such regard for his/her silence that s/he emits even her gaze after having made it like surmah.

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Because the putting on of surmah is considered a kind of coquetry, to call the 'gaze like surmah' tamaashaa-adaa -- that is, worthy of being seen-- seems very harmonious. If we take tamaashaa to be a quality of adaa , then the meaning will be 'a very interesting style'. That is, in your silence is this interesting style: that even your gaze emerges from the eye like surmah'. For a 'speaking eye' consider Mir [{783,6}]: aahuu ko us kii chashm-e su;xan-go se mat milaa shahrii se kar sake hai kahii;N bhii ga;Nvaar baat [don't cause the deer to meet her speaking eye! can a rustic ever at all converse with an urbanite?] (352-54)

FWP: TAMASHA: {8,1} I'm willing to go with Faruqi's reading, but I keep asking myself, why surmah saa ? What is that saa agreeing with? Not the heart, which is oblique; not the gaze, which is feminine. And the first line doesn't offer any remotely plausible candidates, except the grammatically awkward (and, to me, insufficiently explained in its structure) tamaashaa , which doesn't really commend itself either. If it had been surmah sii (to go with nigaah ) or surmah se (in a general adverbial sense) I would have been much more content. Perhaps we have to consider it just a concession to the rhyme. The commentators agree that if you eat collyrium, you lose your voice. Whaaat? How would anybody know that? Who would go around eating collyrium and reporting (in writing, no doubt) the results? Might they all just be picking up the idea from each other? It almost sounds like a backformation from attempts to interpret the verse. For another strange and arbitrary-looking use of tamaashaa , see {68,3}.

{227,2} fashaar-e tangii-e ;xalvat se bantii hai shabnam .sabaa jo ;Gunche ke parde me;N jaa nikaltii hai 1) from the compression/scattering of the narrowness of privacy, dew is created 2) when the morning breeze, having gone into the pardah/veil of the bud, emerges

Notes: fashaar : 'Squeezing, pressing (with the hand); compression, constriction; --a scattering; diffusion (= fishaanii )'. (Platts p.781)

Nazm: From the compression of the privacy of the bud, the spring breeze becomes dew; as if the bud, having found it in a narrow alley, so twists it that out of shame it perspires. In this verse apparently without the author's intention one idea has emerged: [the double meaning of jaa in] jaa-e tang me;N jaa niklii . This kind of .zil((a is contrary to the author's style; for this reason, it seems that the idea was created without his intention. But it's not devoid of pleasure. (255)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if the spring breeze wanders around lost in the privacy of the bud, then the bud takes it in its embrace and so squeezes it that out of shame it 'turns to water' [sharm se paanii panii honaa] and becomes dew. (312)

Bekhud Mohani: Drops of dew are visible on the buds; the poet makes a poetic explanation, that what you consider to be dew is that when the morning breeze, having gone into the pardah of the bud, emerges, the bud so squeezes it that that very breeze turns to dew. (462)

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FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY VEIL: {6,1} Alas, nobody gives this brilliant poet credit for his brilliant use of fashaar . It's the first word in the verse, and by no coincidence it has two meanings that are both opposite, and apposite. It's perfectly plausible that drops of liquid would appear during a process of squeezing or compressing something, as happens for example when paneer is made. But it's also possible that drops of liquid would appear in a kind of scattering, as the breeze bursts its way out of the tightness of the bud and perhaps forces the bud open, or at least vigorously shakes free some organic fluid or 'perspiration' from the heart of the flower. Thus the first line tells us either that dew comes from a compression inside the bud, or that dew comes from a breaking up of the compression inside the bud. Both readings are grounded in the two senses of fashaar , and both readings work perfectly well with the rest of the first line. If we're going to be able to choose decisively between them, we'll have to wait-- as long as possible, of course, under mushairah performance conditions-- for the second line to give us some clarifying details. And does it? Of course it doesn't; we're nearly through the divan by now and we all know by now how Ghalib loves to mess with our minds. The second line, by no coincidence, gives equally emphasis to both processes: first, the morning breeze's going into the bud-- where all kinds of compression can easily take place, entirely screened from our view; and second, the morning breeze's emergence-- which can easily be imagined as the kind of rough, abrupt, almost violent struggle that would be accompanied by a spray of droplets. (For an example of this kind of urgent, bursting-out departure, see {6,2}.) In fact, shouldn't we even consider this a verse of erotic suggestion? (For other such verses, see {99,4}.) The commentators generally take the bud to be the aggressor, the 'squeezer' or embarrassment-creator, and the morning breeze to be the victim of pressure or shame. But the verse seems to be set up the other way: it's the 'going in' and 'coming out' of the breeze that shape the action, with no indication of any special agency possessed by the bud. The fact that the bud lives in 'privacy' and 'narrowness' and 'pardah' contributes to a kind of feminized passivity for it. And of course we know that the breeze is tough and shameless, it's a survivor, it will long outlive the bud. In fact it's destined to scatter, all too soon, the petals of the dying rose.

{227,3} nah puuchh siinah-e ((aashiq se aab-e te;G-e nigaah kih za;xm-e rauzan-e dar se havaa nikaltii hai 1) don't ask the lover's breast about the temperedness/water of the sword of a glance 2) for from the wound of the crevice-work of the door, wind/desire emerges

Notes: aab : 'Water; water or lustre (in gems); temper (of steel, &c.); edge or sharpness (of a sword, &c.); sparkle, lustre; splendour; elegance; dignity, honour, character, reputation'. (Platts p.1) havaa : 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth;--air, wind, gentle gale; ... --affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p.1239)

Nazm: That is, through whichever door she gazes, don't consider it crevice-work-but rather, that she has wounded it with the sword of her glance, and the wound too is so deep that the wind emerges through it. Then what is the

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condition of the lover's breast? The wound through which wind would emerge, and which would begin to 'breathe', is certainly deadly. (255)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't ask the lover's heart about the state of the temperedness of the sword of the glance. Look-- whichever crevice-work in the door she looks through, the sword of the glance has so wounded it that wind begins to emerge. The wound from which wind would emerge is considered very deadly. (312)

Bekhud Mohani: By wind, water is always dried up. Don't ask the breast about the temperedness of the sword of the glance, because the wound is the crevice-work of a door, through which wind emerges. The wound too has begun to 'breathe'. Now the physician is of no use. (462)

FWP: SETS == A,B; INEXPRESSIBILITY The first line sets up a wonderful set of negative possibilities centering on the 'inexpressibility trope'. Here are some of the ways, with different emphases, that it can be read: =don't ask the lover's breast (because it's way too deeply wounded and can't talk) =don't ask the lover's breast (because it can't find words for anything so inexpressible) =don't ask the lover's breast (ask the door's wounded breast instead) =don't ask the lover's breast about the 'water' of the sword of the glance (because not water but 'air, wind' emerges from the wound that this sword makes) =don't ask the lover's breast about the sword of the glance, because you can see that even the crevice-work on the door has received a deadly wound from that sword Moreover, this is an 'A,B' verse-- how exactly are we to put the two lines together? Do they both describe the same situation in different words? Do they describe two different but similar situations? Do they describe two different, non-comparable situations? Here are some of the obvious possible readings: = there was no crevice-work in the door until the beloved's glance created it and made it sigh with passion; not to speak of the lover's heart, even wood responds to her power = the crevice-work in the door has been wounded by the sword of the glance that passed through it, and now sighs with passion; not to speak of the lover's heart, even wood responds to her power = the crevice-work in the door of the lover's heart has been pierced through by the sword of her glance; now wind/desire flows steadily out it = the lover's heart has been fatally wounded by the sword of her glance; the proof is that even the crevice-work of the door has similarly succumbed to her power Usually rauzan refers to the crevice-work high up in a brick wall, made for ventilation; for examples of this use, see {64,4} or {87,3}. In this case it might refer to something like a peep-hole in a door. The commentators seem to take it as a medical truism that when a wound begins to 'breathe' [saa;Ns denaa], then it's probably mortal. The rich wordplay involved in aab is one we've often encountered before; see {193,2} for a classic example. In addition, the double meaning of havaa as both 'air, wind' and 'desire' works to wonderful effect here. And the yoking together of aab and havaa evokes aab-o-havaa , 'water and air', which means something like 'climate'-- here, it's the 'climate' of passion itself.

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Ghazal 228 10 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aar hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 182; Arshi #176; Raza pp. 189-90

{228,1} jis jaa nasiim shaanah-kash-e zulf-e yaar hai naafah dimaa;G-e aahuu-e dasht-e tataar hai 1) in the place where the spring breeze draws a comb through the beloved's curls 2) a musk-pouch is the conceit/mind/nose of the deer of the desert of Tartary

Notes: shaanah : 'A comb;... the shoulder-blade'. (Platts p.719) naafah : 'A bag or bladder of musk, musk-bag (i.q. naafah-e mushk )'. (Platts p.1115) dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance; intoxication; high spirits (produced by stimulants, esp. by drinking bhaa;Ng , &c.); --the organ of smell'. (Platts p.526)

Nazm: That is, where the spring breeze would be blowing the perfume of the curls, there even the mind/nose of the deer of Tartary wouldn't go. In the second line, the author's intention was that the mind/conceit of the deer is a muskpouch of the musk of Tartary-- that is, he wished to make the connection of Tartary with musk. But the waywardness of his pen was such that he made the connection of Tartary with the deer. (255)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on whichever territory the spring breeze spreads the perfume of the beloved's curls, there the mind/conceit of the deer of the desert of Tartary too becomes a musk-pouch. (312)

Bekhud Mohani: Where the spring breeze is blowing the perfume of the beloved's curls, there the mind/conceit of the deer too becomes a pouch of the musk of Tartary. That is, her curls have such a perfume that the mind/conceit of the door of Tartary too becomes perfumed. (462)

FWP: SETS == WORD Central to the verse is the enjoyable wordplay about the body: shaanah means 'shoulder-blade' as well as 'comb'; the beloved's 'curls' appear; naafah contains the word naaf , 'navel'; and of course dimaa;G also means 'brain' and 'nose'. If this isn't a verse of wordplay, what else could it be? Certainly its literal prose meaning seems labored, unpersuasive, and flat. With the benefit of wordplay-- and the 'word-exploration' of dimaa;G in particular-- the second line acquires three separate readings: =the 'conceit' or 'arrogance' of the deer becomes a musk-pouch-- smelling the scent of the beloved's perfume, he thinks it comes from his own musk-pouch, and he prides himself on that =the 'mind' or 'brain' of the deer becomes a musk-pouch-- he's unable to think of anything else except that fragrance. =the 'nose' or 'sense of smell' of the deer becomes a musk-pouch-- he's unable to smell anything else except that fragrance.

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Since it's structure is 'A=B', we could also reverse the readings into 'B=A', but I don't think that would really make much difference. All these readings make similar suggestions: that the perfume of the beloved's curls, even at a vast distance and greatly attenuated, is both more powerful and more desirable than the famously valuable scent-oil produced by the musk-deer-and that this is true even to the musk-deer himself. We have to take 'deer of the desert of Tartary' as describing a kind of deer, not the place where he lives, since the action of the verse is set in the place (wherever it may be) where the wind combs through the beloved's curls. This verse is thus a little riff on the multivalence of dimaa;G , and is no better than one-dimensional at best. But without proper attention to the wordplay, it becomes a zero-dimensional verse. For more examples of this kind of wordplay on dimaa;G , see {11,2}. For another example of musk-deer imagery, see {141,5}.

{228,2} kis kaa suraa;G jalvah hai ;hairat ko ay ;xudaa aa))iinah farsh-e shash-jihat-e inti:zaar hai 1) whose sign/trace is glory/appearance to Astonishment, oh Lord? 2a) the mirror is a carpet of six directions of waiting 2b) the carpet of six directions of waiting is a mirror

Notes: suraa;G : 'Sign, mark, footstep, trace, track, clue; search, inquiry; spying'. (Platts p.650)

Nazm: Waiting is a world in which there are six directions, and in its six directions Astonishment has spread a carpet of mirror: 'May his/her glory/appearance somehow become visible'. (255)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Lord, You ought to know about whose glory/appearance Astonishment wants to learn, that it has in the six directions bound waiting into a mirror; and it wants somehow for a reflection of that one's glory/appearance to come into view. (312)

Bekhud Mohani: He has supposed waiting to be a world, in which there are six directions; in which Astonishment has spread a carpet of mirror: 'May his/her glory/appearance somehow become visible'. (463)

Faruqi: .... Now the meaning will emerge, of whose glory/appearance has Astonishment seen a sign/trace? That is, of whose glory (or the trace of whose glory) was such Astonishment born, that in waiting, the world is appearing to be nothing but a mirror? Here the question can arise, if Astonishment has already received a sign/trace of the glory/appearance, then what does the waiting mean? To this there are three answers. (1) As yet only the sign/trace has been received; thus this state of astonishment. The whole world thus seems to be a mirror, since it's waiting for the whole glory/appearance, that the glory/appearance would become embodied. (2) It had seen the glory/appearance only one time; it desires, and waits, to see it again. (3) The quality of astonishment is composed of two parts: in the mirror, and in the astonished individual. In the state of waiting too, there's the same motionlessness and quiet that is in astonishment. Someone who is waiting doesn't stir from his place.... Thus we can call the person who is astonished a waiting one, because both don't stir from their places. In this way we can call the person who is all astonishment from head to foot a waiting one, and a waiting one we can call a mirror.

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[The prose order of the second line can be either:] farsh-e shash-jihat-e inti:zaar , aa))iinah ( ban gayaa ) hai ; or else aa))iinah , farsh-e shashjihat-e inti:zaar ( ban gayaa ) hai . This latter reading supports the assumption I've made in (3) above.... From it the point emerges that the whole mirror has become embodied 'waiting', to the extent that if we assume waiting to be a world (six directions), then the mirror appears to be its carpet. That is, in the mirror glory/appearance had been reflected one time; the mirror became carried out of itself to such an extent that it became entirely astonishment. Or some person saw glory/appearance one time, and became astonished to such an extent that he became astonishment from head to foot-that is, a mirror from head to foot. Then the glory/appearance vanished from the mirror (or from sight). Now the mirror is constantly waiting with such intensity for that glory/appearance, or even now the viewer is in such astonishment, that the astonished person is astonishment from head to foot (or, is a mirror from head to foot), as if it has become a carpet of six directions of waiting. The verse is extremely convoluted, but the theme is straightforward. This too is a form of 'meaning-creation'. (356-57)

FWP: SETS == A,B MIRROR: {8,3} Well, as Faruqi observes, the verse is convoluted indeed-- and yet the general theme is straightforward, and not very compelling. The verse feels like strings of reprocessed abstractions that he's used more effectively elsewhere. It leaves a bland, cotton-fiber taste in the mouth. On several other occasions as well, Ghalib invokes the 'six directions' (see {41,4}). As a wonderful verse for comparison, to remind us of what Ghalib can do when he's really being Ghalib, consider {152,4}. There we have the 'six directions', but we also have a sense of energy and activity in the verse: we have the 'rakish ones' and the 'heedless one' and plenty of intoxication to allure us into figuring it out. Similarly in {128,1}, we have that hypnotic first line, and also a parrot to intrigue us. And in {41,4}, the mirror is a door that seems to open into a magic (and/or delusory?) land. By comparison to any of these, the present verse feels inert and perfunctory. It's hard to work up much ;zauq-o-shauq for analyzing it. If you want to have a go at an equally obscure but far more fascinating one, take a look at the next verse, {228,3}.

{228,3} hai ;zarrah ;zarrah tangii-e jaa se ;Gubaar-e shauq gar daam yih hai vus((at-e .sa;hraa shikaar hai 1a) the dust/vexation/grief of ardor is, through narrowness of place, [in the form of] sand-grains 1b) every single sand-grain is, through narrowness of place, the dust/vexation/grief of ardor 2) if this is the net, the breadth/scope of the desert is the prey

Notes: ;Gubaar : 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storm; vapour, fog, mist, mistiness; impurity, foulness; (met.) vexation, soreness, ill-feeling, rancour, spite; affliction, grief; perplexity'. (Platts p.769) shikaar : 'Hunting, the chase; prey, game; plunder, booty, pillage, spoil'. (Platts p.729)

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vus((at : 'Latitude; amplitude; spaciousness; capacity; space, extent; space covered, area; dimensions; bulk; --convenience, ease; opportunity, leisure'. (Platts p.1192)

Nazm: That is, the dust of ardor didn't get room to fly; for this reason, it remained as individual sand-grains; and the sand-grains spread and became a net, of which the prey is the expanse of the desert. That is, the dust of ardor has spread over the whole desert like a net. (255)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, because of the narrowness of place, the dust of ardor has become sand-grains and has spread out; and many sand-grains, having become scattered, have become a net, the prey of which has become the expanse of the desert. The meaning is that the dust of ardor has spread over the desert like a net. (312-13)

Bekhud Mohani: When the dust of ardor didn't obtain a place in which to fly, then it became sand-grains and spread in the whole desert. As if it is a single net, in which the whole desert, like prey, has been entangled. That is, the dust of ardor has spread like a net over the whole desert. (463)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT ZARRAH: {15,12} This is the kind of verse that the commentators basically just paraphrase; in fact they tend to boil it down into a single prose sentence. And how much help is that? In this case, not much at all. What is the 'dust/vexation/grief of ardor' [;Gubaar-e shauq]? The most obvious reference would be to the actual dust of the body of the lover, that incarnation of ardor, after his death; see for example {61,7}, {68,4}, {158,4}. But although the literal meaning of ;gubaar is 'dust', Ghalib is perfectly capable of using the word metaphorically for (the lover's) 'vexation, grief', as he does in {170,4}. But the power of the i.zaafat makes it impossible to pin such a reference down. For the 'dust of ardor' may perfectly well mean (1) the dust that is ardor; (2) the dust that is produced or possessed by ardor; or (3) the dust that pertains (in some unspecified way) to ardor. And since 'dust' may always be replaced be either 'vexation' or 'grief', the possibilities become very sweeping-- like the desert itself, in fact. There's one more verse in which 'ardor' and 'narrowness of place' are combined: {27,1}. In that verse, the contrast is one of sheer scope: 'ardor' feels cramped 'even' within the heart (which, we are to imagine, has a vast scope). In the present verse, the problem is not just one of scale, but also of form: how and why has the 'dust of ardor' turned itself into countless tiny sand-grains (or how and why have the sand-grains become expressions of the 'dust of ardor')? We are told quite plainly in the line itself: because of 'narrowness of place' [tangii-e jaa]. Does this mean that the 'dust of ardor' finds itself intolerably cramped in the desert, and is obliged to condense itself into the tiniest possible particles in order to find expression? Does this mean that the 'dust of ardor', accustomed to the larger (though still no doubt cramped) quarters of the heart, is obliged to shrink itself down when it first enters the desert? Or does this mean that the sand-grains of the desert, passionately expressive as they are, are unable to find scope within the desert, and thus find themselves becoming the 'dust of ardor'? Every sand-grain is, after all, a 'wineglass of the wine-house of fascination', as in {42,2}; and 'desert{knowing/powerful}'', as in {42,3}; and a sharer of the radiance of the sun, as in {95,3}.

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Before we can even begin to sort out these complexities, the second line ensnares us hopelessly in a new one: we learn that if 'this' is the net, then the breadth or scope of the desert itself is the prey. But what exactly is the 'this'? The sand-grains themselves? The 'narrowness of place' (cf. {3,1}), that has such a powerful effect on them? The 'dust of ardor'? Whatever it is, we are supposed to think of it as a net, and it's seeking to entrap the 'expansiveness of the desert' itself. The irritating aspect of the verse is right here. To think of all the sand-grains as composing a 'net' just doesn't work very well; the objective correlative never becomes clear in our minds. Even if we struggle to envision such a net, how would it then go about ensnaring the 'breadth/scope of the desert'? And what would it do with it if it did ensnare it? Would it enlarge it? Destroy it? Change its nature somehow? Cage it and sell it in the marketplace (the usual fate of birds trapped in nets)? The unresolvableness is patent, and I'm not going to waste my energy vainly trying to resolve it. But the verse is compelling, and its power is in that second line, so resonant and evocative. Doesn't it create a feeling of mood, doesn't it make you want to say it again a time or two, doesn't it start to bounce around in your mind? If {228,2} is made of inert cotton fibers, this one is made of hot dry sharp restless glitters, and slides like a sand dune in the wind.

{228,4} dil mudda((ii-o-diidah banaa mudda((;aa ((aliih na:z:zaare kaa muqaddamah phir ruubkaar hai 1) the heart became a plaintiff; and the sight/eye, an object-of-suit additionally/accordingly 2) the lawsuit/preamble of the gaze/view is again {proceeding / being heard}

Notes: mudda((ii : 'A claimant, suitor; plaintiff (in a law-suit), complainant, prosecutor, accuser'. (Platts p.1015) mudda((;aa : 'Asserted as a claim, claimed, sued for; alleged; pretended; meant;--what is claimed, or alleged, or pretended, or meant; desire, wish; suit; meaning, object, view; scope, tenor, drift; --object of search, stolen property'. (Platts p.1015) ((aliih : [A varant spelling of ((al;aa ] 'On, upon, above; according to, &c. ... it occurs only in Arabic phrases. (Platts pp. 764-65) muqaddamah : 'The first part; preamble (to a speech); preface (to a book); prelude; introduction; premisses (of an argument); preliminary; --affair, matter, case, business, subject, topic, thesis; --law-suit, suit, cause, case, proceedings; prosecution'. (Platts p.1055) ruubakar : 'Face to business,' ready for business, intent (upon); approaching, in hand, on foot, about to be, in agitation; agitated, proceeded on (as a suit at law); --a proceeding (of a cause); an order'. (Platts p.602)

Nazm: The heart has made a complaint against the eye, that neitherdoes it gaze, nor am I murdered. He calls the eye [aa;Nkh] the 'sight' [diidah], but to use in every place 'sight' instead of 'eye' is a bad thing, because in Urdu idiom they call a bold and shameless eye a diidah , and the word has become peculiar to women's language. [Some examples.] In this verse by saying 'sight' instead of 'eye' he has loosened the shape; even a blind person would notice such ruination. But the theme of the verse is very lofty.

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The second flaw in this verse is that.... in reality the structure is dil mudda((ii banaa-o-diidah mudda((;aa banaa , and he has brought in between two Hindi sentences a Persian connector. The poets of Lucknow avoid this, and so they should. (256)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says that the heart has opened a case against the eyes, that 'because of the impropriety of their ogling glances, I have become immersed in sorrow and disaster. It's necessary and required that I should receive justice from the porch of the ruler of passion.' (313)

Bekhud Mohani: The heart has made the complaint that 'neither do the the eyes look at the face of the beloved, nor am I destroyed'. And today again there will be a hearing of this case, in which a charge has been made against the gaze. [He goes on to argue at length against Nazm's objections, with evidence from other poets.] (463)

Arshi: Compare {164,13}. (280)

FWP: BUREAUCRATIC: {38,7} Here is one of the relatively few verses in which the charm comes from wordplay related to bureaucratic terminology. In this case, it's that of the law court. The heart became a plaintiff, and the eye something like the 'thing being sued for'. The commentators seem to take the eye as the defendant, but that doesn't seem to suit the sense of mudda((;aa . The commentators also seem sure that they know the content of the complaint; but as can be seen from the examples above, they don't agree about what it is. This isn't surprising; we've seen so many verses in which Ghalib sets up a framework and forces us to fill in the details from our own imaginations. Does the heart complain because it wants to have a 'sight' of the beloved, and cannot? Could the heart even be suing the beloved, for withholding herself from the lover's gaze? Or does the heart complain because it has had all too deadly a 'sight' already (as Bekhud Dihlavi maintains)? No matter how we decide such questions, the real pleasure of the verse is obviously in its wordplay. Not only is there the clever use of ponderous (but multivalent) legal terminology-- there are also the body parts. We have a 'heart', the 'sight' or 'eye', the 'gaze' (which surely unites heart and eye). And best of all, we have a word that unites the legal with the physical: the cleverly chosen ruubakaar , a legal term that literally means 'face [ruu] toward action'. Arshi is right to suggest for comparison {164,13}, which also concerns a lawsuit, and which gets its punch from another clever use of ruubakaarii . By no coincidence, in both verses these words occupy the strategic, lastpossible rhyme position.

{228,5} chhi;Rke hai shabnam aa))inah-e barg-e gul par aab ay ((andaliib vaqt-e vidaa((-e bahaar hai 1) dew sprinkles water on the mirror of the rose-leaf 2) oh Nightingale, it's the time of the leave-taking of the spring

Notes: Nazm: In Iran, the custom is to sprinkle water on a mirror at the time of departure on a journey. (256)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: In this verse Mirza Sahib has expressed a custom of Iran. There it's the convention that when someone travels, then they put a mirror on the traveler's back and sprinkle water on that mirror. The meaning is that he would be vouchsafed to come back in health and safety, in honor and respect. (313)

Bekhud Mohani: Apparently this verse seems to be the result of the working of artifice and abstraction. But the reality is contrary to this. The poet, when drops of dew were on the flowers (which is a common mood of spring), has expressed it in such a manner that in appreciation of it, the eyes of the 'people of heart' will begin to see the loving scene of the departure of a dear friend, a dearly loved one.... To say this to the Nightingale, too, creates a vision of an extraordinary scene: that this time is the time of the leave-taking of the spring. The Nightingale is expressing the multitude of ardors and absorbedness in the beauty of the beloved-- such that the time of leave-taking has come, and he doesn't even know it. Then to say that the dew is sprinkling water on the mirror of the rose-leaf is saying clearly that you aren't the only well-wisher of the rose, there are others too. (465)

Arshi: Compare {187,2}. (267, 280)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} More commonly the Nightingale is a bulbul . There are only three instances in the divan in which he's an ((andaliib : the first two are this verse, and {187,2}. Both are in the same meter, and in both the Nightingale is addressed, and is in the same position in the same line. So perhaps it's merely a case of metrical convenience. (Both bulbul and ((andaliib are from the Arabic, so there's not much to choose along those lines.) In fact, this verse and {187,2} are strikingly close in other ways as well. They're both based on the idea of the leave-taking [vidaa((] of the spring, imagined in customary styles of human leave-taking. But this verse seems more richly, juicily, melancholy, almost enjoyably sentimental: it's a formal leave-taking ceremony, an evocation of mood. There's no depiction of what's to come after the ceremony is over. By contrast {187,2} feels more bleak: the rose's opening of its embrace is a well-established evocation of its imminent death, and what could be more chilling than that second line? It invites the Nightingale not even to mourn, but simply to 'move on', since springtime itself has done just that. The third ((andaliib verse, coming soon, is {228,8}: it too is vocative and is in the same position in its line. It evokes not the overwhelming departure, but the overwhelming arrival, of the spring.

{228,6} pach aa pa;Rii hai va((dah-e dil-daar kii mujhe vuh aa))e yaa nah aa))e pah yaa;N inti:zaar hai 1) I cling/adhere to the {heart-possessor's / heart-possessing} promise 2) she might come or might not come-- but here, there's waiting

Notes: pach : 'Support, countenance, protection, defence; partisanship.... prejudice, bigotry; pertinacity, obstinate adherence (to, kii )'. (Platts p.229) dil-daar : 'Possessing or winning the heart, delighting the heart, charming; ... --a lover, mistress, sweetheart'. (Platts p.522)

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Nazm: By pach aa pa;Rnaa is meant to uphold something against which there would be a suspicion of sadistic pleasure [shamaatat]. He says, when she made a promise of coming, then it's necessary for me to wait. Although she's a promise-breaker, if I don't wait then she'd say that I considered her promise false. In the meaning of 'but', par is more eloquent than pah , and yahaa;N is better than yaa;N . That is, if the second line were like this: vuh aa))e yaa nah aa))e yahaa;N inti:zaar hai , then it would be better.... But to tell the truth, nobody at all pays attention to such small things. (256-57)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we intend to uphold our word. That is, since we have taken from the beloved a promise of coming, we are a claimant for this event: that promiseforgetter might not come as she has promised, but it's necessary for us to remain awake, waiting, the whole night through. This verse is the 'high point of the ghazal'. (313)

Bekhud Mohani: It's become necessary for me to uphold the promise of the kind of beloved who does heart-captivating things and who ought to be called a 'lover-like beloved' because she considers it forbidden to tear apart the lover's heart. Now she might come or might not come; in any case, it's necessary for me to wait. [He also provides extensive examples to refute Nazm's criticisms.] (465)

FWP: SETS == IZAFAT Here's a verse that makes wonderfully clever use of the possibilities of the i.zaafat construction. The commentators take va((dah-e dil-daar to mean the 'promise of the heart-possessor', which is of course perfectly possible; but it can equally well mean, as a noun-adjective pair, a 'promise that is heartpossessing'. The promise itself, in other words, could be irresistibly beguiling, such that the lover clings to it at all costs. This second reading in fact makes the second line much more amusing. For the speaker then seems to be so captivated by the charming promise, and so busy defending and protecting it against all comers, that he's hardly interested in the beloved herself any more. 'She might come or might not come', he says indifferently-- what would he care? He has the absorbingly delightful promise itself to think about. And he also has 'waiting'. On the commentators' reading, that 'waiting' is just a source of further suffering. But on the second reading, it may even be a kind of beloved in its own right. It may be merged or allied with the 'heart-possessing promise' that so enchants him, and so it may satisfy him wonderfully. When he has that all-absorbing process of 'waiting', does he even need the actual beloved herself?

{228,7} be-pardah suu-e vaadii-e majnuu;N guzar nah kar har ;zarre ke naqaab me;N dil be-qaraar hai 1) without veiling/pardah, don't pass by way of the valley of Majnun 2) in the veil of every sand-grain, a heart is restless

Notes: pardah : 'A curtain, screen, cover, veil, anything which acts as a screen, a wall, hangings, tapestry; ... secrecy, privacy, modesty; seclusion, concealment; secret, mystery, reticence, reserve; screen, shelter, pretext, pretence'. (Platts p.246)

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Nazm: For the quivering of the heart there's the simile of the glittering of the sandgrain. The gist is that in the valley of Majnun, every sand-grain is a mirrorpossessor of the restlessness of Majnun. (257)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, every sand-grain in the valley of Majnun acts as a restless heart; in such a situation I ought not to travel without veiling/pardah. (313)

Bekhud Mohani: Compare {29,1}. (74) One pleasure in this verse is that merely by saying 'the valley of Majnun' the poet has shown that his beloved is not only like Laila in appearance, but rather that she herself is a Laila in beauty. No, no-- she herself is Laila. Through the restlessness of the sand-grains he has shown that Majnun was a lover such that whatever wilderness he lived in, he dyed its every sand-grain in his color, and now there every sand-grain acts as a mirror. (468)

FWP: VEIL: {6,1} ZARRAH: {15,12} In the first line, who is the addressee? It could be the beloved, as most commentators think; in which the injunction would seem to be an expression of jealousy or possessiveness. But Bekhud Dihlavi takes it to be the lover talking to himself, and this is also quite possible. All we can tell from the intimate imperative is that it's someone close to the speaker. And right away, that striking second possibility grabs our attention. What does it mean for a masculine speaker (since the first-person lover's voice in the classical ghazal is always masculine) to adjure himself not to travel somewhere without veiling/pardah? Is he thinking of himself as a woman (with shades of bhakti poetry hovering near)? Piquant as that possibility would be, I don't think he is. The range of meanings for pardah includes, after all, 'secrecy', 'concealment', 'reticence', a 'screen', and even a 'pretense' (see the definition above). And we know that Majnun's desert has its own dangerous jealousies, as in {3,1}. The speaker may just be reminding himself of certain prudent precautions that a traveler should take. Or perhaps he means the injunction respectfully. Other, later lovers should remember and honor Majnun's role as their paradigmatic ancestor. They shouldn't presume to disturb Majnun and his desert with their presence. Rather, they should travel quietly, tiptoeing through the desert, discreetly (or even deferentially) wrapped in a cloak. Needless to say, the second line doesn't clarify the context of the first line, but further complicates or enriches it: 'in the veil of every sand-grain, a heart is restless'. Here the word naqaab makes for both word- and meaning-play. If the veiling enjoined on the lover might include 'concealment' or 'pretense', what about the veiling practiced by a sand-grain? Here it's clearly not about feminine modesty, so it might indeed have something to do with 'guise' or 'disguise'. Perhaps the sand-grains are simply proud or stoical, and want to conceal the wild restlessness of their tiny hearts? Perhaps they become inwardly desperate with desire when they see a beautiful traveler pass through their valley? Or perhaps there is actually something dangerous about them-- might they somehow be lurking in ambush, jealous of other lovers? (Remember {3,1}.) Or, as another possibility, perhaps the sand-grains themselves are the veil for something else-- for 'a heart'. Concealed by, or masquerading as, countless tiny sand-grains, this single 'heart' is restless. Does its restlessness perhaps motivate the glitter and flow of the sand-grains? Or does its restlessness actually constitute the glitter of the sand-grains? (Or does the glitter of the

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sand-grains constitute its restlessness?) We are juxtaposing so many abstractions here that the metaphors become finally undecideable. For that matter, the 'valley of Majnun' too becomes more opaque, the more we look at it. Is it a valley where Majnun lived? A valley in which Majnun somehow, mystically, still lives? A valley that somehow, in its very sandgrains, remembers Majnun? A valley that Majnun owns or claims? An archetypal lover's pathway, named in honor of Majnun? Or even a valley that 'is' Majnun, one with sand-grains 'dyed with his color' and wild with his own passion? It's an inexhaustibly rich and haunting verse, a verse of mood. For structural parallels, see {16,7x}.

{228,8} ay ((andaliib yak kaf-e ;xas bahr-e aashiyaa;N :tuufaan-e aamad-aamad-e fa.sl-e bahaar hai 1) oh Nightingale, one handful of grass for a nest! 2) it's the typhoon of the announcement/arrival of the season of spring

Notes: bahr : 'On account of, for the sake of, for'. (Platts p.184) ba;hr : 'Sea, gulf,... flow, rhythm'. (Platts p.137) :tuufaan : 'A violent storm of wind and rain, a tempest, typhoon; a flood, deluge, inundation; the universal deluge; a flood or torrent (of obloquy, &c.);--a commotion, noise, riot'. (Platts p.754) aamad-aamad : 'The announcement of an arrival'. (Platts p.81)

Nazm: That is, oh Nightingale, if you want to enjoy the pleasure of spring, then bring a fistful of grass and make a nest. Otherwise, in this typhoon, even if you search you won't find even a single dried straw, because the season of spring will make all the grass and straw green and verdant. (257)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Nightingale, if in the rose you want to enjoy the pleasure of spring, hidden from the gaze of the gardener, then go right now and gather a few straws and make a nest. Otherwise, in the enthusiasm and turmoil of the spring, you'll long in vain for dried straws. The spring will come and make the whole garden into verdure. (313)

Bekhud Mohani: The pleasure of this interpretation can be fully enjoyed by those gentlemen who would have seen for themselves the scene of the rose and nightingale in Iran, or who at least would have seen the picture captured by the pen of Maulvi Muhammad Husain Azad in 'Poets of Persia' [su;xandaan-e paars]-where he writes about the unique sacrifice of the Nightingale: that it calls out and calls out, until it ceases, and the gardeners find many dead Nightingales. (468)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} The Nightingale is more commonly a bulbul ; for discussion of the few cases where he's an ((andaliib , see {228,5}. The commentators are sure that the first line is meant to be read as a warning, to tell the Nightingale to hurry and make a nest. But really there's no verb at all: it's just an exclamation. 'A handful of grass for a nest!' is, grammatically, like 'My kingdom for a horse!'. In both cases, only the

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context can enable us to narrow the interpretive range. Here are some other tones in which the exclamation can be read: =reproachful: is that puny little handful of straw the best you can do for a nest? =admiring: how elegantly you make a whole nest out of just one handful of straw! =inquiring: is that handful of straw enough for a nest, or isn't it? =helpful: here, take this handful of straw, I know you can use it for your nest. =pleading: please give me just a little bit of straw to make my own nest! (The lover sometimes speaks as a bird; see {126,5} for examples.) As so often, the second line works differently, but equally enjoyably, with all these various readings. There's also one more pleasure of this verse-- one that would work well in mushairah performance, or any oral recitation. More common than the word bahr , 'for the sake of', is the word ba;hr , 'sea'. The two sound exactly the same. Listeners hearing the first line might well hear 'one handful of dust, an ocean of a nest'. This sounds strange, but no stranger than many other Ghalibian lines. Only when we hear the second line are we able to realize for sure which of these two homonyms is intended. (It could almost be said that a .zil((a is involved here.) Once we hear the second line we realize that although 'for' is the real word, the aural presence of the 'sea' has a fine affinity with 'typhoon', which can mean 'flood, deluge'. And with 'typhoon' the wave-like swell of aamadaamad works excellently too.

{228,9} dil mat ga;Nvaa ;xabar nah sahii sair hii sahii ay be-dimaa;G aa))inah tim;saal-daar hai 1) don't {throw away / squander} the heart; if there's no information/news, then so what? at least there's an amusement/excursion 2) oh mindless/foolish one, the mirror is an {image/likeness}-possessor

Notes: ga;Nvaanaa : 'To lose; to lose or miss (a road, or one's way); to throw away, to get rid, of; to spend in vain; to waste, squander; to pass or spend (time); to trifle or fritter away (time, &c.)'. (Platts p.919) sair : 'Moving about, strolling, stroll, ramble, walk, taking the air, airing, perambulation, excursion, tour, travels; recreation, amusement; scene, view, spectacle, landscape'. (Platts p.711) tim;saal : 'Resemblance, likeness, picture, portrait, image, effigy'. (Platts p.336) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Nazm: That heart in which a whole world of longings and yearnings would be collected-- it's a picturing mirror. Although there's not enough clarity in it for the glory/appearance of mystical knowledge to be able to appear, still this amusement is hardly a lesser thing! If the idols wouldn't be able to emerge from the Ka'bah, then so what? The mood of an idol-house is still present inside it. (257)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, don't destroy the heart. If it did not manage to become aware of the mystic knowledge of Divinity, then so be it. There will at least be the pleasure of an amusement. Oh mindless one, in the mirror of the heart, pictures of idols are coming into view! If the idol-house was torn down and

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didn't manage to become the Ka'bah, then so be it. Even/also in an idolhouse there's a mood present. (314)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh narrow-tempered one, if the mystical knowledge of Divinity is not obtainable, then so be it. Why do you let the heart slip from your hands? It is a mirror-- and that too, an image-possessing one. That is, if not mystical knowledge, then so what? Take pleasure in the scenes of the universe. Look at the flourishing of the creatures of the world-- this is why the heart has been called a picturing mirror. (469)

Faruqi: In any case, it's clear that in the verse under discussion the addressee is not the speaker, nor some companion of his; rather, it's the beloved. For the beloved the attribute of being mindless/foolish is fitting, in fact even common. And to waste the heart-- or rather, when the gift of the heart would be presented to her, not to accept it, or even to throw it away-- is a common coquetry of the beloved's. On this occasion the verse was spoken: oh proud beloved, why do you throw away the heart? After all, it's a picturepossessing mirror. Granted that through it you can't obtain 'information', but in it is the quality of 'amusement'.... So what is the meaning of 'information'? It's necessary to juxtapose 'amusement' and 'information', because in the verse it's been clearly said that if there's no information then there's certainly amusement.... That is, something that would be transitory. Thus the kinds of information that will be obtained by means of amusement will also be transitory or untrustworthy: you saw them once, you may never see them again.... it's not necessary that they would be founded on truth and reality, although you have seen them with your own eyes. Muslim philosophers have established two kinds of 'information'. One is 'true information' and the other is 'untrue information'. Then there are two kinds of 'true information': one is Divine revelation or information received from some pure personage. (Thus revelation and hadith are also called 'information'.) The other is 'transmitted information'; that is, the kind that you wouldn't have directly obtained, but that would have reached you through such a number of means, and such a number of ways, that there wouldn't be any doubt of its being true. For example, the information that there is a city called Delhi in Hindustan... From the above discussion it becomes clear that Ghalib has used 'amusement' with the meaning of 'seen with the eyes but not seen in a trustworthy way'. And he has used 'information' with the meaning of 'transmitted information' or Divine revelation. That is, by means of the heart, or within the heart, pictures are visible that don't have the status of 'transmitted information' or Divine revelation, but they can certainly be called 'amusement', or through them 'amusement' can certainly be obtained. The final question is why the lover called his heart an 'image-possessing mirror'. [Nazm] Tabataba'i's idea is correct, that the heart is filled with longings and yearnings. But it's not necessary to limit the quality of 'imagepossession' only to longings and yearnings. It's the lover's heart, in it there will be many kinds of adornment and elaboration (for example, poetry and speech, stories and anecdotes), so that he would be able to beguile the beloved; and there will be a thousands kinds of thoughts and dreams; there will also be images and pictures. An excellent verse of Mir's is [{668,3}]: kuchh gul se hai;N shiguftah kuchh sarv se hai;N qad-kash tere ;xayaal me;N ham dekhe;N hai;N ;xvaab kyaa kyaa [some flourishing like the rose, some tall-statured like the cypress in thinking of you, what kinds of dreams we see!] Having seen such abundance of meaning, and such apparent simplicity of words, we're compelled to say that for Ghalib, every kind of verse was easy.

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When he wanted to, he composed verses based on extremely difficult words and constructions; and when he wanted to, he also composed verse outwardly simple and inwardly extremely full of meaning. And this ghazal is from his youth. It's a magnificent ghazal, and a magnificent verse. (359-61)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} For discussion of the idiomatic uses of sahii , see {9,4}. I don't see why we have to narrow down the conspicuously wide-open possibilities in this verse. Faruqi says it must be addressed to the beloved, but I don't see why he's so untypically doctrinaire here. Anyone could surely exhort himself along the same lines: don't waste your time, don't disdain your life, don't reject your own inner self, don't abandon your own real temperament. Or the speaker could be exhorting some friend or companion, or the world in general. There's one more possibility, too, that nobody seems to have mentioned. The reason the addressee is adjured not to disdain or throw away the heart, is that as a 'mirror'-- an extremely well established image for the heart, in Persian and Urdu ghazal-- it is an 'image-possessor'. And tim;saal can mean not just any 'image' or 'picture', but also a literal 'likeness' or 'reflection'-- a reflected image of the mirror-wielder himself. Thus the defense being offered for the heart is that one shouldn't shoot the messenger: if the heart-mirror has no real 'information', but only transitory 'amusement' to display, well-- whose personality is it reflecting, anyway? Whose 'image' is it showing? If you yourself are 'mindless' [be-dimaa;G], how can you blame your heart-mirror for reflecting your own ignorance or frivolity? Another 'image-possessing' mirror appears in {16,2}.

{228,10} ;Gaflat kafiil-e ((umr-o-asad .zaamin-e nishaa:t ay marg-e naagahaa;N tujhe kyaa inti:zaar hai 1) heedlessness/negligence, a security/pledge of a lifetime; and Asad, a guarantor/security of joy/delight 2a) oh unexpected-disaster Death, for what/whom do you wait? 2b) oh unexpected-disaster Death, in what a way you wait! 2c) oh unexpected-disaster Death, it's not as if you need to wait!

Notes: kafiil : 'A surety, security, bail, ransomer, hostage'. (Platts p.839) .zaamin : 'One who is responsible or accountable (for), a surety, guarantee; security, sponsor, bail, bondsman'. (Platts p.748) naagahaanii : 'A sudden misfortune'. (Platts p.1117)

Ghalib: [See the commentary included in {150,1}.]

Ghalib: [1863:] [after a description of his physical weakness] I softly recite, time after time, this line of mine: [the second line of {228,10}]. Death, now where is your 'unexpectedness'? (Arshi 281) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 1, p. 406

Nazm: Asad has taken on the guarantorship of joy; that is, he considers that he will always spend his time in joy alone. And Heedlessness has undertaken the responsibility of his life; that is, no thought of the outcome ever comes at all. So why does unexpected death not come? It's as if the author has the belief that he who spends his lifetime in heedlessness and ignorance, and forgets about death-- he is the one to whom 'unexpected death' comes. On this basis

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he says to death, come on, you wretch, what are you waiting for? That is, all the equipment/reasons for your coming are present, so what is the reason for your absence? Here too in a Hindi sentence is a Persian conjunction-- look at how unattractive the Persian vaa))o appears here! (257)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Heedlessness has girded up its loins as a pledge for the lifetime of Asad. And Asad has pledged himself to perpetual joy. That is, he has considered that life will always pass in luxury and ease. In this situation, not even a thought of the outcome manages to come in. Oh unexpected death, why don't you come? What are you waiting for? In my opinion, whoever would spend his life in heedlessness, and would forget his death, and not allow any anticipation of the outcome to come near him-- to him, unexpected death ought to come. (314)

Bekhud Mohani: His heedlessness takes a look at his absorbedness in luxury and enjoyment, and says, oh wretch, death is better than such a life. Such a heedless one deserves to have an unexpected death come, and not even give him the chance to repent. Exactly such people deserve unexpected death, because whenever death comes, because of their heedlessness it will seem to them to be nothing but an unexpected death. (470)

FWP: SETS == A,B; KYA If 'heedlessness' is a 'security' or 'pledge' of your lifetime, this might mean one of several things: = you undertake to cultivate ignorance and heedlessness, as a condition of maintaining your life, the way you'd consent to ignore certain kinds of smaller evils because of larger issues at stake = you undertake to hand over 'heedlessness' as a 'pledge', the way you'd pawn a valuable item in a pawnshop, so as to maintain your life = if you have a temperament inclined to heedlessness, that is a sort of guarantee or assurance that you'll be able to stay alive Of course, we have no idea to which person or persons any of these situations may apply. And when we learn that Asad himself is a .zaamin of joy, we don't know whether to take the word as a synonym of kafiil (see the definitions above), or as a contrast to it, with a meaning more like 'bailbondsman' or 'guarantor'. Nazm is probably right when he takes this to mean that he devotes himself entirely to joy; for a similar usage, see {12,1}. But it's also possible that he's the 'one who is responsible for' the very 'pledge' referred to in the first clause: he might be the bail-bondsman, and 'heedlessness' might be the bail. Then would the 'joy' be his own, or that of some other person(s) for whom he was providing a ransom or bail, or the abstraction of Joy itself? The i.zaafat makes it ultimately impossible to pin down. We have no chance of resolving any of these questions: there's no verb in the first line, and of course no indication of the relation between the two clauses. Are they parallel? Are they contrasted? Does one of them somehow follow from the other? And if so, which way does the causality go? Any clarifying context can only be provided by the second line. Unsurprisingly (this being Ghalib), the second line goes out of its way to further complicate the issues. It starts quite afresh in its grammar and vocabulary, so that the nature of its connection with the first line is left for us to decide. And through its clever use of the multivalence of kyaa , it adds several possible readings of its own. By now we're also not surprised to notice that all these readings work enjoyably, and so variously, with the possible permutations of the first line.

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Ghazal 229 7 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa kahe;N jise composed 1816; Hamid p. 183; Arshi #178; Raza p. 189

{229,1} aa))iinah kyuu;N nah duu;N kih tamaashaa kahe;N jise aisaa kahaa;N se laa))uu;N kih tujh saa kahe;N jise 1) why would I not offer/give a mirror, so/such that they would call it [=the mirror] a spectacle? 2) from where would I bring such a one, such that they would call [that one] 'like you'?

Notes: Nazm: For comparison with you, where would one as beautiful as you be available? Perhaps/but [magar] I will give you a mirror, so that having looked at it, your astonishment would become a spectacle for people. (258)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, why wouldn't I present a mirror face to face with you, so that having looked at it, you would become astonished, and your astonishment would become a spectacle for the people? From where would I produce another such beautiful one, such that people, seeing her, would call her like you? (314)

Bekhud Mohani: What is to be said is that there's no equal to you in the world. In order to say this, the poet has created a new style of expression.... On this occasion, what a pleasurable mischievousness he has created! (470-71)

FWP: SETS == A,B; KIH; PARALLELISM MIRROR: {8,3} TAMASHA: {8,1} Here's a classic 'A,B' verse, in which we have to decide for ourselves what relationship exists between the two basically parallel-looking lines. The first line, thanks to the versatility of that little kih , has two possible readings: =why would I not give a particular kind of mirror-- the kind of mirror that they would call a 'spectacle' (with the kih clause taken as describing the kind of mirror) =why would I not give a mirror, so that they would call the mirror a 'spectacle' (with the kih clause taken as stating a desired effect) In order to resolve the possible readings of the first line, we turn to the second line-- and as so often, it starts over in terms of grammar and vocabulary. For once, the second line is a little more straightforward than the first; but it's still not exactly clear what connection exists between the two. Both lines are questions, and thus the verse is as inshaa))iyah as it can possibly be. Above all we must decide, to what does the 'such a one' [aisaa] refer? If we interpret it in the light of the first line, it might very well be the mirror-which, depending on our reading, is either a mirror in general, or a particular kind of mirror. Or, in the light of the second line, 'such a one' could be any (masculine) entity that some 'they' (unspecified) would declare to be 'like you'.

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If both lines are taken as describing the same basic situation, then the reason I wouldn't give a mirror is that I can't find one: the 'mirror' would then be a 'mirror-image' of you, such that people would consider it a great 'spectacle' to see the two of you face to face-- except that such a spectacle is impossible to arrange. On this reading, I don't have the 'mirror-image' of you. If the two lines are taken as describing different situations, then the first line might be a counsel of despair-- I might as well go ahead and give them a mirror, and let them have their frivolous enjoyment of such trivial kinds of 'spectacle' as it can offer. For the realest kind of beauty-- a peer of you-- is quite impossible to provide. On this reading, I do have a mirror, but I don't have an equal of you. Who are the 'they' who do the spectacle-viewing and the judging of likeness? Since no antecedents are at hand, presumably they're people in general, as invoked in English in structures like 'they say the winter will be mild this year'. In this verse, the masculine plural verbs cannot refer either to the speaker (who identifies himself as 'I') or to the beloved (who is addressed in the intimate tuu form).

{229,2} ;hasrat ne laa rakhaa tirii bazm-e ;xayaal me;N guldastah-e nigaah suvaidaa kahe;N jise 1) Longing/grief brought, and placed in your gathering/party of imagination/thought, 2) the bouquet of glances/looks that they would call 'suvaida'

Notes: ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) ;xayaal : 'Thought, opinion, surmise, suspicion, conception, idea, notion, fancy, imagination, conceit. whim, chimera; consideration; regard, deference; apprehension; care, concern; --an imaginary form, apparition, vision, spectre, phantom, shadow, delusion'. (Platts p.497)

Nazm: 'Your gathering of imagination'-- that is, my heart, in which you always remain established. In this gathering Longing has brought and placed a bouquet that people call 'suvaida'. The gist is that in the heart that's not a suvaida; rather, it's a bouquet of longing-filled glances. (258)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in my heart-- which is your gathering of imagination-- Longing has brought and placed a bouquet of glances that they call 'suvaida'. (They call 'suvaida' that black wound/scar that is on the heart.) The meaning is, as if the suvaida of the heart is a single bouquet of longing-filled glances. (314)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, the heart has so much longing for your beauty that the suvaida has turned into a bouquet of longing-filled glances. That is, in the heart no thought at all remains except for the vision of you. In one place he has composed a reflection of it: {93,1}. (471)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION For discussion, and more examples, of the esoteric and never-clearly-defined term suvaidaa , see {3,2}. The commentators are all quite sure that 'your gathering of imagination' is one that takes place not in your (the beloved's) heart, but in my (the lover's) heart. The analogy is thus to the treatment of 'your thought' [teraa ;xayaal], which does indeed normally refer to 'the thought of you (that is in my mind or heart)'. For discussion and examples of this kind of usage, see {41,6}.

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But though 'your thought' may be conventionally established as referring to 'my thought of you', it's simply not the case that 'your gathering' is established as referring to 'my gathering about you'. The grammar says, perfectly straightforwardly, that it's the beloved's own gathering, one held by her (even if in her mind), that is under discussion. For verses in which 'your gathering' is quite clearly the beloved's, see {6,3} and {170,3}. Since 'of imagination' is adjectival, I don't see why it would be sufficient in itself to shift the location of the gathering: either the beloved or the lover could host, or be the site of, such a mental event. The only other evocation of a 'gathering of imagination' [bazm-e ;xayaal] is in {169,5}, and there the 'gathering of imagination' resembles a wine-house, a setting that could go either way: the beloved as Cupbearer might well preside over it, and/or the lover might well spend his evenings in it. If the gathering is located in the beloved's own inner world, it makes sense that Longing or Grief [;hasrat] would 'bring' [laanaa] and 'place' [rakhnaa] there its strange dark bouquet. If the whole gathering is already taking place in the lover's own mind/heart, that's where the suvaidaa is already located, so what need would there be for such an emphasis on transportation? And why would it be converted into a 'bouquet' made of 'glances' or 'looks', if not for formal presentation in the beloved's gathering, where the lover is perhaps not admitted at all, and of which he's desperate to get even a quick glimpse? Compare {153,5}, another verse in which something negative of the lover's is transformed into something esthetically pleasing when it enters the beloved's presence. The beloved's 'gathering of thought' seems likely to be located in her mind, rather than her heart (see the definition of ;xayaal above). So she will perhaps perceive the offering as a bouquet rather than a suvaidaa . And in fact, the offering may not be a suvaidaa at all-- it may really be a 'bouquet of glances' which people would casually or mistakenly call a suvaidaa . Perhaps because the glances are so dark with longing, so wounded with passion? Perhaps because they look as though they've been ripped right out of the sender's heart? Perhaps because the lover, in his passion, has a suvaidaa that has actually become in some sense a 'bouquet of glances', darkly and hopelessly focused on the beloved? That being said, it still seems a bit unmotivated that the beloved is hosting a 'gathering of thought'. What exactly is this? Why is she doing it? Is she an intellectual or a visionary? Does she have an artistic salon? I'm left feeling querulous: I find it hard to believe that 'your gathering of thought' is hosted by anyone other than 'you', but I wish I could think of some other verses in which the beloved maintained anything like an imaginative or imaginary salon. Perhaps her activity along these lines is related to her power to dominate, and deliberately manipulate, the lover's dreams, as in {97,3}.

{229,3} phuu;Nkaa hai kis ne gosh-e mu;habbat me;N ay ;xudaa afsuun-e inti:zaar tamannaa kahe;N jise 1) who has blown/breathed in the ear of love, oh Lord, 2) the incantation of waiting, which they would call 'longing'?

Notes: phuu;Nknaa : 'To blow, blow on (with the breath); ... to blow or breathe a charm or incantation'. (Platts p.293) afsuun : 'Incantation, charm, spell, verses used in spells or enchantments, fascination, sorcery, witchcraft'. (Platts p.62) tamannaa : 'Wish, desire, longing, inclination... ; request, prayer, supplication, petition'. (Platts p.337)

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Nazm: The astonishment is over this: the moment love appears, how has longing been produced, and how did the incantation of waiting take effect? By the interrogative is meant not a real inquiry, but rather an expression of surprise or wonder. (258)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Lord, who has blown into the ear of love such an incantation of waiting, which they call 'longing'? It is surprising that the moment love appears, longing too is produced. (314)

Bekhud Mohani: Through the address to the Lord, a subtle point is that he wants to say to the Lord, all these are the wonders of your power alone.... the point is also that outwardly no one considers you to be the cause of this action. But we understand very well that you alone are behind the veil/curtain. (471)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION One way to create an enchantment is to recite the magically efficacious words, and to blow them with the same breath, even as they are recited, into the ear of the enchantee; or else over some medium, like a bowl of water, that would then receive and transmit the enchantment. The life-restoring effect of the breath of Jesus, when he blows on someone, is only superficially similar, since he uses Divine power rather than magic. Magic itself is, strictly speaking, forbidden to good Muslims, but there's a very wide folkloric and narrative grey area in which figures like Hazrat Khizr move with dexterity and ease. The whole dastan tradition, including the vast Hamzah cycle, is overwhelmingly full of all sorts of magic, both the illicit kinds created by evil magicians, and the acceptable 'white' kinds that are taken to be sponsored in some vague or indirect manner by divine powers or representatives. So this verse should be taken as a kind of neutral question, not implying on the face of it any special accusation of evil. As Bekhud Mohani notes, the address to the Lord may imply that he is considered ultimately responsible; or, of course, it may just be the usual exclamation, 'oh lord!' or 'oh God!'. The inshaa))iyah structure of the verse leaves the interpretive possibilities as open as possible. Another question raised by the verse might be called a definitional one. The verse asks about the source of the 'incantation of waiting' that 'they'-unspecified, and therefore to be taken as 'people in general'-- would call 'longing'. This might be just a clever way of providing a (quasi-)definition of 'longing': what people take to be a human emotion is really the result of a magic spell. But the verse also leaves open the possibility that the people who identify this 'incantation of waiting' as 'longing' are wrong. It might not really be the nature of longing that's at issue, but rather the erroneous judgments made by those who view such emotions from the outside, by 'people in general'. They think that there exists a spontaneous human emotion called 'longing' that is generated by lovers from their own hearts. But in fact what they are seeing is the operation of an irresistible magic spell, such that the poor lovers are really victims of enchantment, frozen into attitudes of perpetual 'waiting', like Sleeping Beauty in the English fairy-tale tradition.

{229,4} sar par hujuum-e dard-e ;Gariibii se ;Daaliye vuh ek musht-e ;xaak kih .sa;hraa kahe;N jise

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1) on the head, because of a mob/assault of sorrows of isolation/wretchedness, throw/fling 2) that one handful of dust, such that they would call it a desert

Notes: hujuum : 'Assault, attack; effort; impetuosity; --crowd, throng, concourse, mob; a swarm'. (Platts p.1221) ;Gariibii : 'Foreignness, strangeness; --poverty, indigence, wretchedness; meekness, mildness, lowliness, humility'. (Platts p.770) ;xaak ;Daalnaa : '(- par ), To throw dust (on); to bury, to conceal (an affair, or anything disgraceful); --to heap curses (on), to execrate'. (Platts p.485) ;xaak u;Raanaa : 'To throw dust, to raise a dust; to wander, roam; --to make a stir or commotion; to defame'. (Platts p.484)

Nazm: ;Gariibii is in the sense of 'countrylessness' [be-va:tanii], and this suggests that this person is intending to be a wanderer in the desert and wilderness, and the pain of countrylessness is upon him, and after wandering about [;xaak u;Raanaa] he realizes extremely clearly that he considers the desert to be a single handful of dust. (258)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the troubles of countrylessness have made me such a madman that my inner self wants to put dust on my head the way madmen do. But that dust would not be more than a single handful-- but it would be such that people would call it a desert. That is, that people would consider that 'he's picked up the dust of the whole wilderness and put it on his head'. (315)

Bekhud Mohani: He wishes to put the kind of handful of dust on his head that people call a 'desert'. These words tell us that however many difficulties of exile from one's homeland there may be, every one of them has fallen on this wander in foreign parts. Up till now, there was still some strength of self-control. Patience and fortitude and steadfastness kept him company. But now the strength of endurance has taken its leave. Now his inner self wants to wander about [;xaak u;Raanaa]-- and in such a way that it would 'throw up the dust' in the whole desert. (471-72)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION; IDIOMS To 'throw dust on one's head' [;xaak ;Daalnaa] is an almost universal expression of grief and mourning. In addition, to 'throw dust on' something also has two wonderfully apposite idiomatic meanings (see the definition above): 'to bury or conceal (something disgraceful)'; and 'to heap curses on, to execrate'. The wretched, isolated speaker might well wish to 'bury' his own disgrace and troubles in the dust, and/or to 'curse' his ill fortune. The commentators also suggest that the verse evokes the idiomatic expression 'to fling up dust' [;xaak u;Raanaa], which means, appropriately, 'to wander, roam' or 'to make a stir or commotion'. The speaker has a whole 'mob' or 'crowd' of sorrows that rush against and 'assault' him; almost paradoxically, he's surrounded by a 'crowd' of sorrows born from his 'isolation'-- from ;Gariibii , from the state of being a stranger, of being friendless, helpless, alone. Then in the second line we learn that the reaction is to be 'one' handful of dust-- but what a handful! For the second line is quietly and calmly devastating. What is to be thrown onto the head is one very specific 'handful' of dust. It is that particular single one [vuh ek] that's such that they-- the unspecified 'they', meaning 'people in general'-- would call it a 'desert'. Meaning what exactly? As usual, we're

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allowed, and also required, to decide for ourselves. Here are some possibilities: =the handful of dust would be vast, potent, and dusty enough to fool 'them' into thinking it's desert, even though it's not =the handful of dust would be vast, potent, and dusty enough to actually become a desert, so that 'they' are right to give it that name =that special handful of dust would be big enough to bury me and finish me off, so that the place where I had been would now look like an uninterrupted stretch of desert =what I pick up and throw would be what 'they' would call the desert; to me it's so unimpressive that I consider it no more than a handful of dust Actually my favorite of the above readings is the final one. It reminds me of the puniness and vulnerability of the desert in {5,4}.

{229,5} hai chashm-e tar me;N ;hasrat-e diidaar se nihaa;N shauq-e ((anaa;N-gusii;xtah daryaa kahe;N jise 1) it is hidden, through the longing for sight/vision, in a wet eye-2) the {unbridled / 'rein-broken'} ardor that they would call a sea/river

Notes: daryaa : 'The sea; the waters; a large river (the com. signification in India)'. (Platts p.515)

Nazm: In this verse ((anaan-gusii;xtah is not a word-- it has added a diamond. When there would be such power over the words of another language [like Persian], then sometimes to bring them into one's own language adds beauty. And by shauq-e ((anaan-gusii;xtah is figuratively meant a turmoil of tears, because ardor is a cause of weeping; he has, figuratively, given the cause in place of the result. (258)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in my wet eye, because of the longing for vision, is hidden such a full turmoil of tears that they can without exaggeration call it a sea/river. (315)

Bekhud Mohani: From the eyes a continued flow of tears extends. He calls it 'unbridled ardor'. That single construction has made clear the abrupt bursting into tears, and the state of the tears' falling uncontrollably and very swiftly-- and done it in such a way that nothing better is possible. (472)

FWP: SETS == DEFINITION Do we take daryaa to refer to the sea, or to a river? Either is quite possible (see the definition above). Nazm and Bekhud Dihlavi choose the former reading: the eye is round and full of liquid like the sea, especially when it's wet with tumultuous tears of passion. Bekhud Mohani chooses the latter reading: he sees a flow of tears falling steadily and swiftly from the eye, like a river. If we turn to the second line for more interpretive help, we at once run into the fancy Persianism ((anaan-gusii;xtah , literally 'rein-broken'. It's more evocative than the English 'unbridled', because it suggests also something like a horse that has 'taken the bit between its teeth'-- or, in this case, broken its reins or bridle-- and dashed away at full gallop. But how do we make the necessary connection between this image with that of the daryaa hiding in a wet eye? The most specific analogy would be between the 'reins', imagined as a long thin cord streaming out wildly as the runaway horse tosses his head, and a swiftly-flowing 'river' of tears. That seems a bit far-fetched to me, and nothing else in the verse encourages us to

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make that connection. In fact the idea of 'hiddenness' in the eye actively discourages us. But if we don't make that connection, what's left? Apparently just the vague idea that the runaway, 'rein-broken' ardor is turbulent, and so is the sea. But for an evocation of mere 'turbulence', a fancy, specific description like 'reinbroken' is not very satisfactory. In its great length and elaborate foreignness it calls excessive attention to itself, it demands to be the interpretive key to the verse. But apparently it's not, at least in terms of imagery. What then does Nazm like so much about it? Presumably just its rhythm, its sound, the elegant way it gives shape to the second line. To see the weakness of the present verse, compare the marvellous {27,1}, where the connection is between ardor being confined in the small space of the heart, and the confinement of 'the sea in a pearl' (and here we can clearly tell that daryaa wants to be a sea rather than a river). Compare also {27,7}, in which it is the 'glance' that's juxtaposed, also at least a bit plausibly, to the tidal 'inflow and outflow' of the sea.

{229,6} darkaar hai shiguftan-e gul'haa-e ((aish ko .sub;h-e bahaar punbah-e miinaa kahe;N jise 1) it is necessary/required for the blooming of the roses of enjoyment/luxury2) the dawn/daybreak of spring which they would call cotton of the decanter/heaven/azure

Notes: ((aish : ''Life; animal life'; a life of pleasure and enjoyment, pleasure, delight, luxury; gratification of the appetites, sensuality; carnal intercourse'. (Platts p.767) miinaa : 'Heaven, paradise; the sky, the azure vault; --a blue colour; --a false gem of a blue colour; a glass globule or bead; --the blue-stone, blue vitriol; caustic; a stone resembling lapis lazuli (which is used to tinge silver); -alchymy; --enamel; --a goblet, glass, decanter'. (Platts p.1107)

Nazm: From the rising of the dawn of spring, the flowers bloom; but the flowers of luxury and enjoyment bloom in a whiteness of dawn that is the whiteness of the 'cotton of the decanter'. (258-59)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from the ordinary dawn of spring, the flowers of the garden bloom. We're not seeking for such a dawn of spring. We need a dawn of spring from which the flowers of luxury and enjoyment would bloom; and they/we call this dawn of spring the 'cotton of the decanter'. (315)

Bekhud Mohani: In the dawn of spring flowers bloom. The flowers of enjoyment/luxury bloom in the dawn of that spring that the world calls by the name of 'cotton of the decanter'. That is, until the stopper would fly off from the bottle, and it would make its rounds, enjoyment/luxury is not possible at all. In a rakish taste, such verses emerge with difficulty. The poet has made the blooming of the flowers of enjoyment/luxury dependent only on the dawn of spring that they call the 'cotton of the decanter'.... If the word 'rakish ones' [rindaa;N] were present in the verse, then the mood [kaif] that fills the verse- not even half of it would remain. Because then this would remain the description of an event/reality [in the third person], and the pleasure that is in one's story told by one's own tongue would be brought down into the dust. (473)

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FWP: SETS = A,B WINE: {49,1} From the first line we learn that something as yet unspecified is necessary for the 'blooming of the roses of enjoyment/luxury'. Already we have a clever merging of domains, for the 'blooming of the roses' suggests the garden, the spring, the natural pleasures and beauties of the season; while 'enjoyment/luxury' [((aish] suggests the pleasures of civilization, and especially the more decadent ones: wine, women, song, sensuousness, sensuality, gracious living, luxury of every kind. In which direction will the second line take us? Then, as so often, the second line takes us in both directions at once-- if we read it as a restrictive clause. Let me offer a parallel example, from Fitzgerald's 'Rubaiyat', stanza 72: And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to it for help--for it As impotently moves as you or I. In the first line we see a restrictive clause: the 'inverted Bowl' is strongly identified with the sky. We might be talking about the sky, and viewing it as a (so-called) inverted bowl; or we might be talking about an inverted bowl, and viewing it as the (so-called) sky. An 'A called B' can thus be taken as a more complex form of 'A=B', and thus is reciprocally construable as 'B=A'. (In this context, consider also the 'ant's-egg = sky' in {138,1}.) Similarly in the present verse, if we read the second line as referring to 'the dawn of spring that they would call cotton of the decanter', we see the same kind of restrictive identification: we might really be talking about the 'dawn of spring', and viewing it as (so-called) 'cotton of the decanter'; or we might be really talking about 'cotton of the decanter', and viewing it is as a (socalled) 'dawn of spring'. (If we read the second line as containing an unrestrictive clause, we have 'the dawn of spring, which they would call cotton of the decanter'. On this reading, it's clear that what we're really talking about is the dawn of spring, and we're describing it only metaphorically as 'cotton of the decanter'.) So the thing necessary for the blooming of the roses of enjoyment in the first line, turns out in the second line to be either (a) the dawn of spring; or (b) the cotton of the decanter. If we adopt the first reading, we have the idea both of the dawn of day, and of the 'dawn' or arrival of the spring. In either case, the basic image is that the sight of the the first 'crack' of dawn against the dark horizon is like the sight of white fibers of cotton stretched out for spinning. For a similar usage, compare {87,4}. The white brightness against the dark is like hope, radiance, brilliant light, renewed life, etc. etc.-- all the metaphors of white vs. black that we care to think of. The dawn of spring is what gives rise not only to roses, but also to all manner of human enjoyments and luxuries. On the second reading, what's necessary is the 'cotton of the decanter'. As Bekhud Mohani explains, this can be understood as some kind of a cork or stopper-- made, apparently, of cotton-- that keeps the wine protected in the decanter until it's needed. For a similar 'cottonball' usage, see the earplug example in {199,3}. In this case, the image of the thin, linear, white 'crack of dawn' described above seems a bit less appropriate; it can rest only on color (whiteness) and on contrast (the white cotton against the darkness of night or wine). But here's where the richness of miinaa comes in (see the definition above), offering us other choices that provide some remarkable wordplay. For the verse could also be invoking the 'cotton of heaven' (an appropriate depiction of the glory of a supernaturally radiant spring dawn), or a 'cotton of

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azure/lapis/enamel'-- no mere plain white line, but a display of brilliantly colored gems, a show of human artifice, an esthetically (and morally?) complex setting for the 'enjoyment/luxury' [((aish] of the first line.

{229,7} ;Gaalib buraa nah maan jo vaa((i:z buraa kahe aisaa bhii ko))ii hai kih sab achchhaa kahe;N jise 1) Ghalib, don't take it badly, if the Preacher would speak badly about you 2a) is there anyone such that all would call him good? 2b) there's someone, after all, such that all would call him good

Notes: buraa kahnaa : 'To speak ill (of), to pronounce or call (one) bad, evil, wicked, &c.; to vilify, abuse'. (Platts p.143) achchhaa kahnaa : 'To say yes; to pronounce or call good; to speak well of)'. (Platts p.27)

Ghalib: [18??:] Don't take it badly. Because if I am bad, then he told the truth. And if I am good, and he said bad things about me, then place him in the custody of the Lord: 'Ghalib, don’t take it badly, if enemies speak badly about you / is there anyone at all whom everyone would call good?' (282) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2, p. 568; he slightly alters the verse; CHECK THIS! ==another trans: Daud Rahbar, pp. 244-455

Nazm: If a single Preacher vilifies you, what of it? All the rakish ones [rind], after all, call you good. (259)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, if the Preacher considers you a rakish one and vilifies you, then why do you take it amiss? There won't be any man in the world whom the whole age will call good. The custom of the age is that if ten men call someone good, then one man also calls him bad. (315)

Bekhud Mohani: Ghalib, if the Preacher vilifies you, then why do you take it amiss? There's no one such that everyone calls him good. That is, except for the Preacher everyone else calls you good. (473)

Faruqi: Another point is that since in the world there's no one such that everyone would call him good, not everybody calls the Preacher good either. Some people vilify the Preacher. From this it also follows that the man whom not everybody calls good-- if he would vilify someone else, then how reliable are his words? (362)

FWP: GOOD/BAD: {22,4} Faruqi makes an enjoyable point about the implications of the second line: if there's nobody whom everybody calls good, then it follows that the Preacher isn't such a person either-- so how bothered should one be about his opinion? The commentators, including Faruqi, read the second line as if there were a kyaa in front of it, to mark it as a yes-or-no question-- a rhetorical question, of course, in this case (2a). That's a perfectly satisfactory thing to do. But why should we ignore the straightforward grammar of the line, which is that of a flat factual statement (2b)? Why should we ever settle for only one meaning, when the verse clearly intends for us to have two? And the second meaning is piquant in its own way. It looks to be religious, but not explicitly so. Doesn't it seem to suggest that the speaker is

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comforting himself with thoughts of the Prophet or the members of his family, such as Hazrat Ali? The contrast with the Preacher in the first line is thus made, on this reading, highly meaningful: the Preacher may condemn me, but there's someone else, someone far higher and better, who is my refuge and who will not join him in his vilification. We are back to the battle between the 'external' religion of (hypocritical) appearance, and the 'internal' religion of mystical intoxication, that is so deeply part of the terrain of the ghazal.

Ghazal 230 11 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aa hai composed 1816; Hamid p. 184; Arshi #179; Raza p. 194

{230,1} shabnam bah gul-e laalah nah ;xaalii z adaa hai daa;G-e dil-e bedard na:zar-gaah-e ;hayaa hai 1) the dew in the tulip-flower is not devoid of charm/coquetry 2) the wound/scar of a heart without pain/compassion is a viewing-place of modesty/shame

Notes: gul : 'A rose; a flower; a red patch (on anything); ... speck or pearl (in the eye)'. (Platts p.911) adaa : 'Grace, beauty; elegance; graceful manner on carriage; charm, fascination; blandishment; amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'. (Platts p.31) dard : 'Pain, ache; affliction; pity, compassion, sympathy; affection'. (Platts p.511) na:zar-gaah : ' The place where anything is kept for view or inspection; a place where any spectacle is exhibited, a theatre, ampitheatre'. (Platts p.1143) ;hayaa : 'Shame, sense of shame, modesty; pudency; shyness, bashfulness'. (Platts p.482)

Nazm: On the tulip-flower the dewdrops are fulfilling a purpose. It is this: in the heart in which there would be no pain, and there would come to be a wound/scar, it is an occasion for shame. That is, the tulip has a wound, but is devoid of the pain of passion, and this fact is for it a cause of shame. And out of embarrasment, it reveals the 'sweat of shame'. In the first line, for nah to be with hai is contrary to the idiom. Instead of nah hai one ought to say nahii;N . (259)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the dewdrops that are visible on the tulip-flower are not devoid of qirs and graces. It's as if they are gesturing toward the fact that there is a wound in the heart, but there's no pain and burning. Thus the dewdrops are acting as the 'sweat of repentance'. As if the 'rose' of the tulip had burst into sweat because of this shame. (315)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Oh Protector [God]-- that there would be a wound, and no pain! What meaning can this verse be considered to have, if this is considered to be its interpretation? It might be considered that when

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the poet has seen a wound in the tulip, and has also seen dewdrops, then the question arose, why is such the case? Then his lofty temperament of its own accord gave that answer that is mentioned in Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i's solution. But about it this can be said: why didn't the viewer consider that if in the heart there would be a wound, then what's the meaning of not weeping? That is, the one who is wounded will certainly weep. If the reply be given that the poet leaves the beaten track, then for there to be no pain in the heart remains a mere prayer, although it's true that poetic prayers are not forbidden. But as long as a determinate and enjoyable meaning would emerge without elaboration, then what's the need for elaboration? (474)

FWP: SETS == A,B; GENERATORS This verse has always nagged at my mind, because it's such a classic, unresolvable case of enigmatic 'A,B' structure. The two lines are grammatically and semantically quite independent. So how are we to decide on the connection between them? Do both lines basically describe the same situation? Is one to be considered a cause, and one a reaction or result-- and if so, which way around? Or are the situations in the two lines meant to be contrasted? One reason that these relationships are hard to resolve is the complexity and abstractness of the information we're given. Even in the first line, adaa can be either a passive, involuntary quality ('grace, beauty, elegance') or a very active one ('blandishment, amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'). So we don't know whether the dewdrops are flaunting their beauty, or preening themselves flirtatiously, or whether they are innocent bystanders who have no idea of their own attractions. This dual possibility means we're hopelessly unable to pin down the further multivalences in the second line. For in the second line, the ambiguities are piled on top of each other. A daa;G is either a 'wound' or a 'scar', so it might be either something recent or something experienced long ago. In any case, it's clearly established in the ghazal world that the tulip has exactly such a daa;G ; for discussion, see {33,1}. A heart that is be-dard is without 'pain, ache'-- or else without 'pity, compassion'-- or even without 'affection'. And the somewhat elusive ;hayaa might refer to the kind of 'shame' that is a sign of innocence and virtue ('modesty, shyness'); or sometimes to the kind of embarrassment or sense of shame that results from an awareness of improper behavior. There's also the enjoyably paradoxical na:zar-gaah-e ;hayaa , a 'viewingplace' or 'theater' of the very quality that would make one unwilling to be publically viewed. In short, the dewy tulip might be full of innocent loveliness, or else shameless flirtation. And the wound or scar in a heart that is without pain, or else without pity or sympathy, may be that of the tulip, or that of a lover, or just a general abstraction; and its moral status may be as a display or theatrical spectacle either of becoming modesty, or else of embarrassment (at wrongdoing or impropriety?). Mix them and match them, and take your pick.

{230,2} dil ;xuu;N-shudah-e kashmakash-e ;hasrat-e diidaar aa))iinah bah dast-e but-e bad-mast ;hinaa hai 1) the heart is turned to blood by the tension of the longing/yearning for a sight/vision/view 2a) a mirror in the hand of the intoxicated idol is henna (no i.zaafat ) 2b) a mirror is in the hand of the henna-intoxicated idol (with i.zaafat )

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Notes: ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477) diidaar : 'Sight, vision... look, appearance; face, countenance, cheek; interview'. (Platts p.556)

Nazm: The mirror of the heart has become mehndi [mih;Ndii]; that is, the longing for a sight has ground it up and turned its liver into blood. Having made the heart into a mirror, it then made it into henna. It's extremely contrived and devoid of pleasure. (259)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the tension of the longing for sight had turned the heart into blood. Now it's as if it had become a mirror and risen into the hand of the idol intoxicated by henna, but even in her hands it is expressing her heedlessness. By 'intoxicated by henna' is meant a beloved who would have been transported outside herself by the ardor for applying mehndi. (316)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] About Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i's commentary if the faculty of speech heads for the wilderness, then the pen has its finger on its teeth [in amazement]; and criticism turns its heart into blood. It's like this: that this verse of Mirza's has no equal with respect to the beloved's self-regardingness and absorbedness in beauty. The meaning is clear, but only this confusion has come about in understanding and explaining it, that by some notable commentators the verse has not been correctly read. And the cause of the verse becoming an incoherent dream is this: that a number of gentlemen read bad-mast ;hinaa without the i.zaafat .... The tension of the longing for a sight turns the hearts of those ardent for sight into blood. And the beloved has so much ardor for adornment that in her hands the mirror has turned into mehndi. That is, at no time does it leave her hand. And just such a thing he says at one more place: {98,9}. (475-76)

Faruqi: The commentators have argued over time about whether between bad-mast and ;hinaa there's an i.zaafat or not. Maulana Arshi has written it without one. But there's also no doubt that meanings emerge from the verse with an i.zaafat also-- and good ones, too.... I've seen no commentary in which all possible meanings are entered. Thus here I note every meaning that has come into my mind. Some of them are not to be found in any commentary. It's possible that upon reflection even more meanings might emerge, but would not have come within my field of vision. (1) The mirror too feels the longing to see the beloved's glory/appearance. The mirror also has many opportunities, because is often remains in the beloved's presence. But the beloved's glory/appearance is so brilliant that not even the mirror's eye can linger on it. The beloved's face is becoming rosy from the effects of wine. A mirror is before her. In the mirror the beloved's rosy face looks as if from the tension of the longing for a sight, the heart of the mirror would have turned to blood. In the hand of the wine-intoxicated beloved the mirror looks red like mehndi. This is the proof that the mirror's heart has turned to blood with the longing for a sight. The subtlety of the meaning is that usually the gaze of the mirror doesn't linger on the beloved because she is light from head to foot. But when through the effect of wine her face became rosy, then because of this redness the beloved's reflection comes into the mirror. (No i.zaafat ). (2) Our heart is turning to blood, in the tension of the longing for a sight; for her part, the beloved has taken a mirror in her hand in such a way as if

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mehndi had been applied to her hand. That is, the way mehndi never leaves the hand, in the same way the mirror too doesn't leave her hand. Thus the mirror is interposed between her and me. If the mirror would be removed, then I would see her. I don't manage to see her; thus my heart is turning to blood in the tension of the longing for a sight. The beloved is intoxicated by the pride of beauty, thus he has called her 'intoxicated'. (No i.zaafat ). (3) My heart, which has turned to blood in the tension of the longing for a sight, can be likened to a mirror in the hand of the intoxicated beloved. That is, when from the effect of wine the beloved's face would become rosy, then in the mirror its reflection would appear reddish, as if the mirror will turn red and become mehndi. My heart too, having turned to blood in this same tension, has taken on the color of mehndi. The affinity of the mirror and the heart is obvious. (No i.zaafat ). (4) One the one hand there's our heart, which in the tension of the longing for a sight has turned to blood. On the other side there's the mirror, which has the astonishing good fortune to be in the hands of that intoxicated one. He has called the mirror 'henna' because it is becoming red with happiness that it is in the beloved's hands. And the proof of the mirror's redness is that the beloved's face is flushed with wine, and her face is reflected in the mirror. (No i.zaafat ). (5) The beloved is intoxicated with henna, or through love of henna. That is, seeing her own mehndi-colored hands she is absorbed to such an extent that it's as if she has become intoxicated. Or she has so much ardor for applying henna that she can be called intoxicated in her ardor for henna. In the beloved's hand is a mirror. Her hands are red with henna; and the mirror of our heart, because of the tension of the longing for a sight, has turned to blood, and has become red. One mirror is in the hands of the idol intoxicated with henna; another mirror is our heart. (With an i.zaafat ). (6) The beloved is intoxicated with henna (the meaning of this has been given above). This is a mirror of the fact that our heart, because of the tension of the longing for a sight, has turned to blood. (With an i.zaafat ). (7) Henna is a mirror that is in the hands of the intoxicated one. That is, the beloved, who is drunk with the intoxication of wine, looks with pleasure at her hennaed hands as if she would be looking in a mirror. For our part, our heart has turned to blood with the tension of the longing for a sight. (No i.zaafat ). (8) The beloved's face is rosy from the effect of wine. The effect of intoxication on her is so strong that when she looks at her own hennaed hands, she considers that she is looking at her face in a mirror. Thus mehndi is doing for the beloved the work of a mirror, and my heart is blood from the tension of the longing for sight-- also because I can't see her, and also because my heart too is red like her hands. If only she would have considered not her own hands, but rather my heart, to be a mirror! (No i.zaafat ). (9) The heart is nothing. It's just a thing that has, through the tension of the longing for a sight, turned to blood. And the mirror is nothing, it's just mehndi on the hands of the intoxicated idol. In the mirror the beloved's face is reflected, thus it has become red like mehndi. Since its color is red, and it has become stupefied with the glory/appearance of the beloved and has become frozen and motionless, and it is in the beloved's hands, it is suitable to give it the simile of henna. (No i.zaafat ). (10) The heart is nothing. It's just a thing that has, through the tension of the longing for a sight, turned to blood. And the mirror is nothing, except that when it is in the hands of that intoxicated one, then through embarrassment or happiness it becomes red like mehndi. (No i.zaafat ). Just reflect a little, how unbridled and high-flying his imagination is-- but how strong is the youthful poet's grip on it. (363-66)

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FWP: SETS == IZAFAT MIRROR: {8,3} SOUND EFFECTS: {26,7} It's helpful that Faruqi has done the heavy lifting on this one, since it's so abstract and vague. (My sympathies are divided between Faruqi's view and Nazm's.) I'd just like to note the enjoyableness of the sound-sequence of bah dast-e but-e bad-mast . It's almost like a series of permutations; it makes the second line instantly striking. (Test it out, and see how much easier it is to absorb and memorize than the clumsy first line.) All those short, succinct, punchy words really have a bite to them. The sequence also nicely echoes kashmakash in the first line, with its own short a vowels and repeated consonants. It's tempting to say that these sound patterns cleverly imitate the back-andforth effects described in the verse, with the lovers blood-turned heart and the beloved's blood-red hennaed hands and the question of what is the mirror and what does it reflect. But actually I think an inventive commentator could always come up with one or another such facile connection, so in this case I'm not convinced that it's something genuinely 'there'.

{230,3} shu((le se nah hotii havas-e shu((lah ne jo kii jii kis qadar afsurdagii-e dil pah jalaa hai 1) it would not have existed through flame, what the desire/lust for flame did 2) to what extent the temperament has burned at the coldness/sadness of the heart!

Notes: afsurdagii : 'Frozenness; frigidity, coldness; numbness; dejection, melancholy, lowness or depression of spirits.' (Platts, p. 62) jalnaa : 'To burn; to be burnt; to be on fire; to be kindled, be lighted; to be scorched, be singed; to be inflamed, to be consumed; to be touched, moved, or affected (with pity, &c.); to feel pain, sorrow, anguish, &c.; to burn or be consumed with love, or jealousy, or envy, &c.; to take amiss, be offended, be indignant; to get into a passion, be enraged, to rage'. (Platts p.387)

Nazm: What the desire for flame did, would not have existed even through flame: that it burned up the inner self. And in Urdu idiom jii jalnaa has the meaning of 'to feel distaste'. Here, that meaning is not intended; rather, by jii jalnaa the meaning of 'to torment oneself', and the author, according to his habit, has translated [from the Persian] dil so;xtan . (259)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, it cannot be done even by a flame of fire-- what the desire for fire has done to the heart. Here, by 'flame' is meant the flame of passion. The meaning is that when in the heart the flame of passion was not able to flare up to the extent that the heart would have burned to ashes, then the temperament 'burned' at its own unsuccessfulness. (316)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Janab the Commentator didn't reflect carefully. jii jalnaa has the meaning of 'to become angry' and 'to feel distaste'. The answer to the third objection is that indeed, Mirza, like other innovators in the art such as Mir Taqi Mir, Mirza Rafi Sauda, Shaikh Mus'hafi, etc., considers translating idioms from Persian to be synonymous with broadening the scope of Urdu.

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By afsurdagii-e dil is meant not only being devoid of the flame of passion; rather, low-spiritedness and lack of courage are intended as well. (477)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; WORDPLAY The position of the jo in the first line might look confusing; modern prose order would be: jo havas-e shu((lah ne kii , vuh shu((le se nah hotii . It's a striking first line-- piquant and almost riddle-like. Although we have no idea where it's going, when we are actually allowed (after the requisite mushairah-performance delay) to hear the second line, we can see the angular, unexpected, fascinating relevance. The second line pivots entirely on the wordplay-- which of course, as Faruqi would remind us, is also meaning-play-- of afsurdagii and jalnaa . Both have the dual aspect of a basic physical meaning (coldness vs. fire) and various metaphorical meanings generated by extension. If the heart feels 'coldness, numbness, melancholy', the reaction of the temperament is to 'burn up'. But in what sense? Does it feel 'pity', 'sorrow', 'love', 'jealousy', 'envy', 'indignation', or 'rage'? Or some combination of these emotions? Or even all of them together? No matter which emotion(s) we choose, meaningful connections with 'coldness, numbness, melancholy' can easily and unforcedly be made. Compare {5,6}, which also turns on exactly the same pivotal wordplay.

{230,4} tim;saal me;N terii hai vuh sho;xii kih bah .sad ;zauq aa))iinah bah andaaz-e gul aa;Gosh-kushaa hai 1) in your image is such mischievousness that with a hundredfold relish 2) the mirror, in the manner/style of a rose, opens an embrace

Notes: tim;saal : 'Resemblance, likeness, picture, portrait, image, effigy'. (Platts p.336) sho;xii : 'Playfulness, fun, mischief; pertness, sauciness; coquetry, wantonness; forwardness, boldness, insolence, &c.'. (Platts p.736)

Nazm: The color/mood of your visible reflection is so mischievous, or the whole resemblance is full of such mischievousness, that the embrace of the mirror turned into the embrace of the rose. And your reflection, having caused the mirror to blossom like a rose, itself like a spring breeze emerged from its embrace. Here by mentioning the mischievousness of the reflection is meant the restlessness and mischievousness of the beloved herself. (259)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in your image too such mischievousness has been cumulatively piled up that when a mirror has been applied to it, it has, like a flower, in the ardor for embracing, opened an embrace. (316)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The late Janab Ghalib had given the embraceopening of the rose as a simile for the embrace-opening of the mirror-- upon which the learned Commentator in his commentary took it upon himself to give for the reflection a simile of the spring breeze, and became so absorbed in that that he didn't have occasion to attend to the fact that the meaning was somewhat lost and remained incomplete.... A mirror is four-cornered, but under the influence of the mischievousnesses of the lover's fickle beloved it seems that in her reflection there's such mischievousness that the mirror becomes restless and in order to clutch her reflection to its bosom it opens an embrace like a rose.... With regard to the mirror, Mir Taqi Mir's verse too is worth remembering [Mir {12,1}]:

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mu;Nh takaa hii kare hai jis tis kaa ;hairatii hai yih aa))inah kis kaa [it keeps on staring at every passerby's face it's astonishing-- of whom is this a mirror?] (478-79)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} This feels like a verse of mood. For what else does it leave us with except that improbable, charming vision of the mirror opening out ardently, like a rose, to embrace the beloved's reflection? Where the rose has a hundred petals, the mirror has a hundred kinds of 'relish' and pleasure. Where the rose is soft, the hard metal mirror now melts, and its shape flows out at the edges, seeking to encompass the beautiful vision. But the vision is melancholy too, for we know, of course, that the mirror will fail. The beloved's 'mischievousness' extends to her image as well: she is elusive, and the mirror will find that her reflection escapes its ardent embrace. Moreover, once the mirror has acquired the softness and petals of a rose, it has no doubt acquired the rose's doom as well. Close to the heart of ghazal imagery is the idea that when the rose 'smiles' or 'laughs' and opens its petals into full bloom, its death is only a few days away. The flower-like mirror is as doomed as the rose-- or as the lover. For further discussion of such 'mirror' verses, see {16,2}.

{230,5} qumrii kaf-e ;xaakistar-o-bulbul qafas-e rang ay naalah nishaan-e jigar-e so;xtah kyaa hai 1) the turtledove, a palmful/froth of ashes; and the Nightingale, a cage of color 2) oh Lament, what is the mark/sign/scar of a burnt liver?

Notes: kaf : 'Froth, foam, scum, soap-suds, spittle; a small quantity; ... the palm of the hand; the sole of the foot'. (Steingass p.1036) nishaan : 'Sign; signal; mark, impression; character; seal, stamp; proof; trace, vestige; --a trail; clue; --place of residence (of a person), whereabouts; --a scar, cicatrice; --a mark, butt, target ... emblem, device; order, badge; -ensign, flag, banner, standard, colours'. (Platts p.1139)

Hali: I myself asked Mirza the meaning of this. He said, 'In place of "oh," read "except" [ay kii jagah juz pa;Rho]; the meaning will come to your understanding by itself.' The meaning of the verse is that the turtledove, which is not more than a palmful/froth of dust, and the Nightingale, which is not more than a cage of elements-- the proof of their being liver-burnt, that is, lovers, is only from their warbling and speaking. Here, the meaning in which Mirza has used the word ay is obviousy his own invention. One person, having heard this meaning, said, 'If in place of ay he had put juz , or if he had composed the second line like this, "Oh lament, except for you, what is the sign of love," then the meaning would have become clear.' This person’s utterance is absolutely correct, but since Mirza avoided common principles as much as possible, and didn't want to move on the broad thoroughfare, rather than wanting every verse to be widely understandable he preferred that inventiveness and un-heard-of-ness be found in his style of thought and his style of expression. (114) ==another trans: Russell and Islam, p. 39.

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Nazm: In the turtledove, because of its lamentation, some ashes/calcination of the liver is found; and in the Nightingale, some color of the liver is seen; for the rest, there's no information about the liver. The meaning is that lamentation is a thing that burns up the liver and makes it nonexistent. And the meaning of qafas is also 'bondage'; here that meaning is intended. The Persian-users always versify the turtledove as a 'palmful/froth of ashes'; but to call the Nightingale a basket [sabad] of color is a new thing, but without pleasure. To make the 'Lament' the addressee too is a thing without pleasure; and by 'liver' apparently the livers of the Nightingale and the turtledove are meant. It also gives rise to the idea that the poet is asking about the mark of his own burned liver. In the verse, where a second meaning was generated, it became limp. (260)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] (1) In calling the Nightingale a cage, the affinity is obvious. Then to call the Nightingale a cage of color, or to label him a prisoner of color, adds a subtle phrase to the meaning of 'Nightingale', to which people of taste will unquestionably do justice. (2) No telling why it's a pleasureless thing to make the Lament an addressee. To address lifeless things as though they were alive is common among the poets of Iran and Hind, and it isn't unavailable in English poetry either. (3) The statement that where in the verse a second meaning is generated, the verse became limp-- the Lord knows on what investigation it's based! In poetry, to the extent that extensive and diverse meanings would emerge, it's good; and this is the poet's miraculous craftsmanship, that the verse would have two intended meanings, and both of them in their place would be subtle and powerful. The way when a painter makes an eye, it's a sign of his accomplishment that he would make the eye in the picture in such a way that from whichever direction a person would look at the picture, he would consider that the figure in the picture was looking right at him. (480)

Arshi: Compare {96,5}. (219, 283)

FWP: SETS == A,B JIGAR: {2,1} Here is one of the most fascinatingly discussable of all verses. Not only is it as inshaa))iyah as possible, with no verbs at all in the first line and an interrogative second line, but it's one that Ghalib himself, in a famous anecdote, 'explained' to his pupil and biographer Hali. When I first read it, I was inclined to agree with the plaintive (or exasperated?) 'person' quoted in the anecdote. What could be more in-your-face arrogant than arbitrarily redefining common words, and giving the reader no way at all to figure out what you had done? Hali too seems to share this reaction, albeit with resignation rather than irritation. (I wrote aboutall this in 'The Meaning of the Meaningless Verses': Ghalib and his Commentators.) But now, on further thought, I believe a case can be made that Ghalib was not actually telling Hali that he had, in the verse, redefined ay to mean juz . Rather, he said that if Hali made that substitution, he would be able to intuit or grasp the meaning of the verse for himself; Ghalib was thus giving Hali a hint rather than a redefinition. Because of the absence of quotation marks, it's impossible to tell whether the next sentence ('The meaning is that...') is intended as a direct continuation of Ghalib's own words, or a paraphrase or explanation provided by Hali himself; I now think the latter is more probable, but it can't be proven either way.

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If we look at the first line, we find it dominated by two birds. The turtledove (*Oriental Turtle Dove*) is (since we basically have to assume a copulative construction) a kaf -- either a 'palm[-ful]' or a 'froth, foam'-- of ashes; and the Nightingale (*Bulbul*) is a 'cage of color'. This is an arresting and compelling line. Even before we're allowed (after the delay suitable under mushairah performance conditions) to hear the second line, we can't possibly refrain from playing with and enjoying the first one. The turtledove is a handful or 'palmful' of ashes because he's a small, unobtrusive bird of a grey, ashy color; he's also a 'froth' or 'foam' of ashes because a handful of ashes would indeed be slithery and ungraspable like froth or foam. Similarly, the Nightingale is a 'cage of color' because he too is basically a small, darkcolored bird who confines within himself the invisible, irresistible 'color' of his famous song. Both birds, in short, are known for their songs-- and the Nightingale in particular is poetically famous as a metaphorical voice for the passionate, suffering lover. Poets often make use of the contrast between such birds' haunting, 'color'-filled, exquisitely melancholy voices, and their small, drab, dull bodies. We wonder whether the second line too will make use of this well-established contrast. But as so often, the second line starts completely afresh in grammar and imagery: 'oh Lament, what is the mark/sign/scar of a burnt liver?'. Such 'A,B' verses allow (and require) us to decide for ourselves what kind of connection there is between the two lines. Here are some possible ways we might perceive, by the powers of implication, answers to the question in the second line: = the birds' drab bodies have been 'burnt' (and thus 'marked') by the fire of their burning, suffering, livers = the birds' exquisite voices have been generated (and thus 'marked') by their burning, suffering livers = the birds' livers have been 'burnt' (and thus 'marked') by the fire of their melancholy laments = the birds' drab bodies conceal the passion of their burning livers-- a passion which is revealed and 'marked' only in their song = unlike the birds, who live and sing in their passion, the lover is dying from the 'mark' or effects of a burnt-out liver = unlike the birds, who still have livers, the lover in his passion has burnt away his own liver until it can no longer be detected by any 'mark' = the speaker/lover doesn't know what the 'mark' is, and is brooding about it and addressing his thoughts to 'Lament' Why the address to 'Lament'? Perhaps because it's the common factor between the experiences of the bird and the lover. Perhaps because by its very nature it's both a symptom and (in the ghazal world) a disease. 'Lament' seems a particularly suitable entity-- suggesting as it does both a semantic content and a process-- to listen to a meditation on the nature of passion, suffering, drab bodies, melancholy songs, and burnt-out livers. In short, we ought not to take Ghalib's purported advice. Not only do we not need to change 'oh' to 'except for'-- we actually shouldn't. For an address to 'Lament' can easily imply, in the context of the verse, that one is saying to Lament, 'Except for...' --or many other things; but saying 'Except for' cannot imply that one is addressing 'Lament'. So if we lose the vocative, we lose 'Lament' as an addressee, and diminish the subtlety and complexity of the verse. Why would we want to do that? What would we gain? The question that remains to be answered, then, is why Ghalib gave Hali the advice that he did. I'm inclined to see the same process going on as in {57,7}: in a tactful and unintimidating way, Ghalib is encouraging Hali to figure things out for himself. He's showing him a path that would take him

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deeper into the verse, without actually laying it all out for him. Surely he's trying to be a good teacher? For if we do make the change that Ghalib recommended, we find some helpful interpretive guidance (since we don't get sidetracked into worrying about how 'Lament' fits into it all)-- but the verse remains enjoyably equipped with complexities. For if we ask of some unnamed person, or the world in general, 'Except for lament, what is the mark/sign/scar of a burnt liver?', then on the basis of the verse the answer can be at least fourfold: (1) the mark is a 'colorful' but melancholy singing voice; (2) the mark is a small, dark, even 'ashy' body; (3) the mark is really nothing at all (since the lover's liver has been burnt away completely); or (4) the nature of the mark is unknown (since the speaker has to ask a question about it). Hali firmly chooses (1). But perhaps 'after further reflection' (as in {57,7}), he might have seen some of the other choices as well. A good teacher never gives up hope.

{230,6} ;xuu ne tirii afsurdah kiyaa va;hshat-e dil ko ma((shuuqii-o-be-;hausalagii :turfah balaa hai 1) your temperament made cold/numb/downcast the wildness/madness/desolation of the heart 2) beloved-ness, and lack of spirit/enthusiasm-- it's a novel/rare disaster!

Notes: afsurdagii : 'Frozenness; frigidity, coldness; numbness; dejection, melancholy, lowness or depression of spirits.' (Platts, p. 62) va;hshat : 'A desert, solitude, dreary place; --loneliness, solitariness, dreariness; --sadness, grief, care; --wildness, fierceness, ferocity, savageness; barbarity, barbarism; --timidity, fear, fright, dread, terror, horror; -distraction, madness'. (Platts p.1183) ;hausalah : 'Capacity; desire, ambition; resolution; spirit, courage'. (Platts p.482) :turfah : 'Novel, rare, strange, extraordinary, wonderful; --a pleasing rarity; a novelty, a strange thing, a wonder'. (Platts p.752)

Nazm: Having become a beloved, such insipidness, such a cool temperament-neither airs and graces nor spirit, no pleasure of teasing repartee-- it's a wondrous disaster! That is, it's detestable. By temperament is meant disaffectedness and ill-temper. In this verse the author has put the word 'wildness' in place of 'taste and ardor'; and in truth the meaning of 'wildness' and 'horror' are very close; here, it doesn't work, because the meaning is that from your ill-temper the heart has come to feel wildness and horror, not that the wildness of the heart has become frozen/melancholy. (260)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, on the occasion of attachment, your habit of inattentiveness and backbiting lessened the turbulence of passion. Having become a beloved, to have so little spirit-- it's the confronting of a new difficulty. (316)

Bekhud Mohani: Here the meaning of 'wildness' is 'uproar' and 'longing', which the beloved in her language calls 'wildness'.... Mirza used only one word of the beloved's-that is, 'wildness'-- to emphasize his wildness and to create a picture of the lover's and beloved's private meeting, the lover's teasing, and the beloved's response. The pleasure of which the 'people of taste' know. In support of my

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opinion, see one opening-verse by Mirza, and the commentary by Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i: {148,1}. (483)

Faruqi: If the meaning of ;xuu is taken as merely 'habit', 'innate temperament', then it's much more desirable. The meanings that [Nazm] Tabataba'i has written for be-;hausalagii are also correct. But there can also be the meaning that the beloved has no ardor for practicing tyranny and oppression. She has a cold nature. In modern terms we can call her 'sexually cold'. This coldnaturedness and disaffectedness made the longings of the heart cold. To be a beloved and be spiritless-- that is, to have no urge for tyranny-- is, for the lover, an extraordinary difficulty (a 'novel/rare disaster'). The beloved ought to be such that she'd do everything that would cause suffering to the lover. So much so that if she would see him to be equal to the cruelty, then she'd cease to practice it: {60,6}.... Another meaning of be-;hausalagii can be that the beloved has no interest in adornment, she's absolutely bland and vapid. She doesn't have in her the quality that Ghalib has described in a letter as 'flirtatious wiles' [;Domniipan]. That is, the beloved doesn't pay close attention to her 'sex appeal'. He's composed a fine verse. (368)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION MADNESS: {14,3} The claim in the first line that the beloved's temperament has caused va;hshat (with a core meaning of 'wildness, desolateness') to become afsurdah (with a core meaning of 'cold, numb') is a notably complex one. For while these two terms do have within their range some opposite meanings ('fierceness' versus 'dejection', 'savageness' versus 'numbness'), they also have a considerable common ground in the middle ('sadness' and 'melancholy', 'dreariness' and 'dejection'). This common ground is based on overlapping metaphors for human misery, and since that's what the first line is about, we certainly can't ignore it. And yet the insistence on a change of state (in which one term takes on the qualities of the other) compels us to take note of the oppositions as well. There's almost uninterpretably much going on in the first line; we wait hopefully (and under mushairah performance conditions, as long as possible) for the second line to provide clarification. As so often, the second line instead starts out entirely afresh, with an exclamatory, verb-less phrase: 'beloved-ness-- and lack of spirit!' As a translation for ma((shuuqii 'beloved-ness' may not be ideal, but I want to bring out the way it almost looks like a job description, parallel to ((aashiqii for the lover (as in {78,3}). As Faruqi reminds us, in the ghazal world, a large part of that job description is tormenting the lover in every possible way. A beloved who lacks the 'spirit' or 'enthusiasm' to play her role is definitely falling down on the job; she's not fulfilling her part of the social contract. And thus she makes it impossible for the lover properly to fulfill his. It's a two-person game. (This reminds me of all the times I've been most warmly, courteously, and ruthlessly forced to eat lavish meals in Indian homes, because the role of 'host' requires the cooperation of a 'guest'.) For the lover to be confronted with a non-bloodthirsty, non-cruel, non-tormenting beloved is indeed a 'novel disaster'. In the light of the second line, we're able to make a wonderfully subtle sense of the first line. It turns out that we need both senses of our two operative words, va;hshat and afsurdah . The lover's heart is full of 'wildness, desolateness' anyway, and by turning it 'cold, numb' the beloved's behavior has both reinforced its natural tendencies to misery and madness, and given

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them a particular twist toward 'coldness', 'numbness', passivity, and helplessness. For another desperate cri de coeur from a lover in this dire situation, compare {119,1}. A small personal note: I once saw Faruqi get into a state of real ecstasy, real vajd , over this verse. He recited the second line again and again, unable to stop because he so relished it. He recited it in different styles and rhythms, but especially in a kind of caressing way that suited its somewhat perverse mood beautifully. By coincidence, the next verse, {230,7}, has the same effect-- extreme and incantatory delight-- on me.

{230,7} majbuurii-o-da((vaa-e giraftaarii-e ulfat dast-e tah-e sang-aamadah paimaan-e vafaa hai 1) duress/compulsion, and a claim of imprisonment by love! 2a) the hand that has come under a stone is a pledge of faithfulness 2b) the pledge of faithfulness is a hand that has come under a stone

Notes: paimaan : 'Measuring; --agreement, compact, convention, treaty, stipulation, pledge, promise; security; confirmation; asseveration, oath'. (Platts p.301)

Nazm: For the hand to be pressed beneath a heavy stone, and to be unable to pull it out-- he says that the upholding of love is like that. At the time of making a vow and promise, they slap down one hand on another; and here, on the hand is a stone. (260)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, passion is an uncontrollable thing. That is, it can't be created through the will. After passion has been created, to claim to be imprisoned by passion is something like someone's hand having been pressed down beneath a single heavy stone, and his saying 'I've made a promise of faithfulness to this stone-- I'll never pull back my hand from under the stone'. Although to pull out the hand from under the stone is outside the realm of possibility. (317)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza says, we are upholding love in a state of duress. With us, the image of faithfulness is as if someone's hand would be pressed down under a stone, and he wouldn't be able to pull it out. In this there's this subtle point too: that at the time of making a vow, they slap down hand upon hand. As if there was a pledge of faithfulness made by us not with the beloved, but rather with Duress. Here a living picture of Duress has been made. (484)

FWP: SETS == A,B; EXCLAMATION; GENERATORS Oh, the joy and glory of this verse! It puts me into a state of ecstasy, or even vajd -- my poor students have had to listen to me recite it repeatedly over the years, and especially the second line, as I try to bring them into the mood and make them feel the endless rush of strong possibilities. It's such a simple-looking little verse-- just an 'A and B' structure in the first line, an 'A is B' structure in the second line, with the challenge of putting all the puzzle pieces together. Yet it's endless, and infinitely thought-provoking, and entirely colloquial in its diction; there's not the smallest feel of contrivance or forcedness about it. Moreover, the thoughts it provokes are not abstract or hyperbolic, but are very solid, fascinating, necessary, inescapable ones, that radiate their lines of inquiry directly into all of our lives. 'Duress-- and a claim of imprisonment by love'. (An invaluable extra touch of ambiguity is provided by the fact that a 'claim' made about something may

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be either true or false.) In this 'A and B' phrase, are the 'A' and 'B' items the same thing? Are they similar, and thus comparable? Are they reciprocally linked, such that you can't have one without the other? Are they opposites, so that it's almost paradoxical to connect them? Is one a cause, and the other an effect? (And if so, which way around?) Or are they not particularly connected at all-- have they just been mentioned together for some incidental reason? As so often, Ghalib leaves us to our own devices: we're allowed (and thus also compelled) to frame the relationships for ourselves. And whichever ones we choose to highlight, is the result merely descriptive, or does it have a prescriptive implication as well (such that the situation is presented as desirable or undesirable)? Is the verse to be exclaimed in a tone of wonder, of sorrow, of rueful amusement, of detached observation? We can't even dream of narrowing down all these options without help from the second line. In classic Ghalibian style, the second line then starts afresh, both grammatically and semantically. We have an 'A is B' structure that is, as always, equally capable of being read as 'B is A'. And perhaps more brilliantly than in any other such verse, the second line resonates fascinatingly, meaningfully, even provocatively-- though of course quite differently-- with the immense variety of readings generated in the first line. Part of the second line's cleverness is the use of aamadah (the Persian counterpart of aayaa hu))aa ): the line gives us merely a 'having come under a stone' hand, with no indication at all of how the hand came to be there (voluntarily? forcibly? accidentally? inevitably?). The permutations we can easily put together are striking-- and strikingly varied. Here are some of my favorites: = hypocritical self-proclaimed 'lovers' make grandiose claims of loyalty, but the only thing that would really hold them would be actual duress-- to trap their hand under a stone = passion is itself a form of duress, even of captivity-- the helpless lover offers a pledge of faithfulness that is as unnecessary as that of a man whose hand is trapped under a stone = ordinary vows can be 'sealed' with a pressure of hands, or even with the pressing down of a seal on paper-- but vows of love should have a special, more powerful ceremony: the hand should feel the pressure of a stone = passion and physical duress have a lot in common-- the 'captivity' and suffering of love are as inescapable, and as agonizing, as the pain of a hand trapped under a stone = duress and passion-- they can't even be mentioned in the same breath! Passion is free and uncontrollable, while a 'vow' or 'pledge' is nothing more than an outward coercion, like a hand trapped under a stone = a claim of 'imprisonment by love' should be backed up by something more persuasive than mere words-- to prove his seriousness, the lover should cause a huge stone to be placed on his hand = people are inherently fickle-- no matter what extravagant things they say, the only way you can really count on their steadfastness is to physically pin them down The rhythm and recitability of the second line are especially enjoyable, probably because the semantic patterns and breaks are so beautifully coordinated with the metrical structure. Try it yourself-- don't you find you've effortlessly memorized the second line, and wouldn't you recite it with relish? This is one of the ultimate 'meaning-machines' of the divan. For a look at some of its few real peers, see {32,1} and, even more aptly, {214,10}.

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{230,8} ma((luum hu))aa ;haal-e shahiidaan-e guzishtah te;G-e sitam aa))iinah-e ta.sviir-numaa hai 1) the situation/state of the passed-away martyrs became known-2) the sword of tyranny is a picture-showing mirror

Notes: ;haal : 'State, condition, circumstance, case, predicament, situation; existing or present state (as of revenue collections, &c.); a state of ecstasy, frenzy, or religious transport; --present time; (in Gram.) the present tense; --good condition, prosperous circumstances; --business, affair, matter, thing; statement, account, story, history'. (Platts p.473) ta.sviir : 'Picture; drawing; sketch; painting; portrait; an image'. (Platts p.326)

Nazm: That is, having seen the style of my [endured] tyranny, a picture of the tyranny-endurers who have passed away, passes before the eyes. It wasn't a sword of tyranny, it was a picture-showing mirror. This verse is from the lips of one who has already tasted the relish of that sword, but the words are deficient in presenting the meaning. (260)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, from your grasping the sword and preparing for murder, we learned the situation of the passed-away martyrs. Your sword of tyranny is a pictureshowing mirror; that is, the way you seek to murder us in our state of helplessness-- it seems that in the same way you must have cut the throats of more oppressed ones as well. (317)

Bekhud Mohani: About the meaning of this verse, I don't disagree with anybody. Indeed, I have to object that the verse is not deficient in presenting the meaning. I don't know what standard of 'presenting the meaning' Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i has established for himself! (484)

FWP: MIRROR: {8,3} The image in the verse is that of a highly polished steel sword-blade that acts as a mirror. But since it's so narrow, reflections in it can only be seen when the viewer is very close to it-- close enough, in other words, to be about to be murdered. It's only at that point-- the point at which his situation would 'mirror' theirs-- that the lover would truly realize the 'situation' of the martyrs/lovers of the past who were his predecessors. This is an elegant, piquant, original thought in itself. (And let's not forget that the wide-ranging meanings of ;haal include a Sufistic stage of mystical ecstasy.) But there's even more going on than this, because the word 'picture' [ta.sviir] is a relatively unusual one to use for a reflection in a mirror. The Urdu sounds about as odd as 'picture' would in English-- which is to say, not by any means prohibitively odd (there's definitely scope for that meaning), but certainly not the normal, least-marked word. The normal word would be 'image' or 'reflection' in English, and tim;saal in Urdu; for an example of the latter, we need look no further than {230,4}. The use of the word 'picture' opens up the possibility that what is visible in the shining depths of the sword-blade is not a reflection, but a picture of something else. A literal picture of previous martyrs/lovers, so that now their exact 'situation' can be seen? A picture of the world in general, obtained by some quasi-magical means, like the picture seen by Jamshid in his Cup? Or perhaps a vision of mystical truths of some kind? In these latter two cases,

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the connection to the 'situation' of the former martyrs would be that they saw such pictures too. Of course such questions are unanswerable. But doesn't the verse become more compelling by inviting us to raise them? For more discussion of 'mirror' verses, see {16,2}.

{230,9} ay partav-e ;xvurshiid-e jahaa;N-taab idhar bhii saaye kii :tara;h ham pah ((ajab vaqt pa;Raa hai 1) oh ray of the world-warming sun, this way too! 2) like a shadow, a strange time has {befallen / fallen upon} us

Notes: vaqt pa;Rnaa : 'Occasion to arise (for); need (for a thing) to arise; to stand in need (of); adversity or misfortune to befall (- par ), to suffer misfortune, to be in distress'. (Platts p.1197)

Hali: This is an address to the True Sun. He says that the way a shadow appears to be present, and in reality has no existence, in the same way we too have fallen into this error. If some of the glory of the True Sun would fall upon us, then this error would vanish, and we would vanish into the sun, because where the sun shines, the shadow vanishes. (165)

Nazm: That is, show benevolence this way too. And the setting in which the author has used the idiom vaqt pa;Rnaa -- its excellence is beyond description. (260)

Bekhud Mohani: 'A strange time has befallen us'-- that is, the harshest possible difficulty has befallen us, for which there are no words; nor can anybody guess what this difficulty is like. (485)

FWP: SETS == FILL-IN This verse gives us information only indirectly, through implication. The speaker's urgent appeal not for a whole sunny day, but for even a single 'ray' of sunlight, suggests that his need is desperate and his bargaining power nonexistent. The invocation of the sun as 'world-warming' suggests that the whole rest of the world receives the sun's rays, and only 'we' are deprived. The address to the sun as 'world-warming' also suggests that the speaker is appealing for an antidote to coldness as well as darkness. The final appeal for a ray 'this way too' suggests that the sun may be selective, choosing the direction for its rays, warming the whole world but leaving the speaker in darkness, coldness, and despair. If the sun's rays are directed 'that way' (such that the speaker must beg for a single ray to be sent 'this way'), and if the sun warms 'the world', the suggestion is that the speaker is somewhere other than in the world, and that there is some barrier between the world and him-- perhaps a barrier of the kind that would cast a deep shadow. The idiom vaqt pa;Rnaa -- for misfortune to befall-- is invoked very elegantly, as Nazm admiringly testifies. (I imagine its resonance must be something like 'the hour is at hand' or 'the time has come' in English, only with much more exclusively sinister overtones.) But the idiom is also held to the level of an undercurrent, for the line can also be read perfectly normally as 'a strange time has befallen us'. The simile 'like a shadow' is an obviously suitable for a deprivation of light and warmth. Then we're also led by the grammar to ask, does 'like a shadow' [saaye kii :tara;h] describe the strangeness (strange like a shadow), the time (a time like a shadow), or the manner of arrival (befell us like a shadow)?

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This ominous, mysterious-feeling verse works in what I call a 'fill-in' way. What is the nature of the 'strange' quality? How long is the period of the 'time'? Who is 'us'? We readers find that answers to these questions readily rise to the surface from the depths of our own lives, and the darkness and coldness of our own shadowed spaces.

{230,10} naa-kardah gunaaho;N kii bhii ;hasrat kii mile daad yaa rab agar in kardah gunaaho;N kii sazaa hai 1) let justice also be done for the longing/grief for uncommitted sins 2) oh Lord, if there is punishment for these committed sins

Notes: ;hasrat : 'Grief, regret, intense grief or sorrow; --longing, desire'. (Platts p.477)

Hali: That is, if we are definitely to be punished for those sins we committed, then we also ought to receive justice for those sins that because of lack of power we were unable to commit, and longing for which remained in the heart. (126)

Nazm: Who can do justice to this verse! Even Mir Taqi [Mir] would have felt a vain longing, for this theme escaped him and remained for Mirza Naushah [Ghalib]. (261)

Bekhud Mohani: For the interrogation of Doomsday, what a Doomsday-like reply Mirza has created! And in what an eloquent style he has expressed his meaning. (485)

Arshi: Compare {79,2}. (214, 283)

FWP: This is a verse that the commentators generally adore. I think they probably enjoy the straightforwardness of it, and appreciate its pithy and unusually straightforward 'message'. Not only is it extremely easy to paraphrase-- it almost doesn't need paraphrasing at all. The verse is really its own paraphrase. And that's exactly why I've always disliked it. It's just so prosy, so commonplace, so pedestrian! Its logic is simplistic, unexciting, and totally on the surface; and beyond that, as far as I can see, there's nothing else going on in it whatsoever. However, Faruqi names it in his selection of Ghalib's best verses, so I should think carefully before I write it off. I should return to it later and think again. Arshi is right that {79,2} is the verse to compare it to. Although {79,2} is no great shakes by Ghalibian standards, compared to the present verse it's a miracle of subtlety and sophistication. For another case study, compare the one-dimensionality of this verse with the edgy, bleak, thrilling and chilling delights of {230,11}.

{230,11} begaanagii-e ;xalq se bedil nah ho ;Gaalib ko))ii nahii;N teraa to mirii jaan ;xudaa hai 1) don't be disheartened at the alienation/estrangement of creation/people, Ghalib 2) if you have no one, then, my life, there's the Lord

Notes: begaanagii : 'Strangeness, the being foreign or not domestic; estrangement; shyness'. (Platts p.210)

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Nazm: That is, you have the Lord [;xudaa teraa hai]. And the idiom is only ;xudaa hai . (261)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, why are you dismayed at people's inattentiveness? If in the world you have no supporter or helper, then so be it; after all, there's the Lord. (317)

Bekhud Mohani: While reading this verse, a picture of someone despairing and oppressed and rejected by his friends and ensnared in calamity begins to pass before the eyes-- someone to whom the angel of hope is giving comfort. (485-86)

FWP: This verse certainly has the impeccably pious and humble meaning that the commentators unite in giving it. But in the same simple, non-flashy phrases there's also a wonderful and very Ghalibian 'mischievousness' that invites the reader to go in another direction entirely. For just look at the structure of the verse. The problem posed is that 'creation' [;xalq] is heedless or estranged. What the speaker really wanted was some kind of affiliation with his fellow creatures in the world. Plainly, he didn't get it. The first half of the second line makes that failure clear: 'you have no one'. A person in that dire situation will surely settle for almost any kind of consolation prize. And sure enough, that's exactly what's on offer: 'if you have no one, then there's the Lord'. The desperate recipient of this offer would surely do well to accept it-- but he might roll his eyes, and sigh, and realize inwardly that it's a poor substitute for what he really wants. What a put-down for the Lord! He's chosen because he's available, because he's better than nothing. The Creator becomes a last-ditch consolation prize, reluctantly accepted in lieu of his own creatures. And is the Lord even available at all, is he truly attentive? Or is the lonely, solitary speaker just whistling in the dark? This verse always reminds me of Kent's words in 'King Lear', 'Nothing almost sees miracles / But misery'. In Kent's words too is a bleakly elegant ambiguity: does 'almost' modify the subject ('almost nothing'), or does it modify the verb ('almost sees')? And since (almost) only 'Misery' can really (almost) see miracles, how much can we trust such an unreliable, desperate reporter?

Ghazal 231 9 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: uur kii composed 1851; Hamid p. 185; Arshi #223; Raza p. 303

{231,1} man:zuur thii yih shakl tajallii ko nuur kii qismat khulii tire qad-o-ru;x se :zuhuur kii 1a) this form/aspect/shape of light was admired/chosen/'seen/ by Glory/Radiance1 1b) this form/aspect/shape was admired/chosen/'seen' by the Glory/Radiance of Light 2) the fortune of Manifestation was {opened up / improved} through your stature and face

Notes: man:zuur : 'Seen, looked at; visible; admired; --chosen; approved of, admitted, accepted; sanctioned, granted; --agreeable; acceptable; admissible; --designed, intended'. (Platts p.1078)

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tajallii : 'Manifestation; clearness, lustre, brightness, brilliancy, splendour, glory'. (Platts p.311) :zuhuur : 'Appearing, arising, springing up; appearance, manifestation, visibility; coming to pass'. (Platts p.756)

Nazm: That is, Glory was waiting for your stature and face: 'if such a form would be available, then in it i would manifest myself'. (261)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the Divine Glory wished to manifest itself in your radiant [nuuraanii] aspect. As if the fortune of Manifestation had been opened up through the heart-attracting beauty of your stature and face. (318)

Bekhud Mohani: The Lord's Glory wanted to manifest itself-- that is, Eternal Beauty had an ardor for self-display and a relish for dispensing glory/appearance. But it considered it contrary to its dignity to manifest its glory in [just] any shape. Thus when your radiant shape had been made, then it manifested itself. (486)

FWP: SETS == MUSHAIRAH It's impossible to decide for sure what 'of light' [nuur kii] modifies, isolated as it is at the very end of the first line. Right there in the line itself-- in fact, right next to each other-- we have the two feminine nouns shakl and tajallii . To choose the former would be to attribute to the addressee-- who is surely the beloved-- a brilliance or quality 'of light' that seems semi-divine (1a). To choose the latter would link the quality 'of light' to the (apparently) divine Glory (1b). The commentators generally go for (1a), and for once I agree with them. Mostly because it's piquant to attribute a shape or form of pure light to a human, while it's humdrum to attribute it to God. But of course, the choice is more interesting than either alternative in isolation, since it opens up a wider range of interpretive possibilities. The verse is full of wordplay based on sight and seeing, and at the heart of it is man:zuur , literally 'seen', which by extension means 'desired, admired, chosen'; this one word in itself connects the 'seeing' imagery to the 'choosing' theme of the verse. It's also a nice mushairah verse. The first line sets us up for how fortunate someone-- the beloved, we of course assume-- is to have a form uniquely chosen by God. Then the second line seems to continue in this vein, almost all the way through: we get 'the fortune opened up'; then we get 'your stature and face'-- only at the end do we get the postposition 'through', followed at once at the last possible moment by the punch-word, :zuhuur . Only then do we realize that we're congratulating-- not the beloved for being singled out in this way, but 'Manifestation' itself, for the increase in dignity and auspicious fortune it receives by having God and the beloved somehow ineffably joined through its own good offices. In short, we don't congratulate the chosen beloved for the manifestation, we congratulate 'Manifestation' for the chosen beloved. In the ghazal, the human and/or transcendant trumps the natural world every time. And in this wildly abstract verse, 'Manifestation' is the nearest we get to the natural world.

{231,2} ik ;xuu;N-chakaa;N kafan me;N karo;Ro;N banaa))o hai;N pa;Rtii hai aa;Nkh tere shahiido;N pah ;huur kii 1) in one blood-dripping shroud are all-tens-of-millions of adornments 2) the eye of a Houri falls on your martyrs

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Notes: Hali: This verse has both aspects [of love], the Divine [;haqiiqat] and the human [majaaz], but compared with the human, the Divine has been given more force. (165)

Nazm: This verse too [like the previous one] he has composed such that among crores, just one or two such emerges. In the language that is spoken nowadays in Delhi one ought to say ka;Ro;Ro;N . (261)

Bekhud Mohani: It is an accepted tenet of Islam that however many people are martyred in the path of the Lord, Houris always await them. Mirza has presented this thought in such a heart-captivating style that the relish of acceptance falls into an ecstasy. (486)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR For a woman to adorn herself was banaa))o-singaar karnaa , and going back into the Sanskrit shringaara there have always been lists of such adornments, often sixteen in number [solah singaar], but sometimes sixtyfour. The lists include cosmetics and many kinds of ornaments and jewelry, all named individually. In the bloody shroud of the martyred lover are not just sixteen or sixty-four adornments, but tens of millions [karo;R]; and even more enjoyably, 'all the tens of millions' [karo;Ro;N], a globally inclusive plural form (think of dono;N in relation to do , tiino;N in relation to tiin , etc.). This gigantic, totalizing number is further emphasized by the pointed contrast with the 'one' [ik] shroud. So we know that the lover's bloody shroud not only contains more adornments than any woman would ever be able to muster, but in fact contains every possible adornment in the whole arsenal of beauty tricks. These charms and adornments are not quite in the lover, though-- they're in the blood-dripping shroud itself, the emblem and proof of martyrdom. The rivalry between the beloved and the Houris is well-known; see for example {100,6} or {159,1}. Here the beloved is being teasingly alerted that the Houris may be casting a predatory eye on 'her' martyrs, those whom she herself has slain or who have died of love for her. The poor lover, who could never win the affection, or perhaps even catch the attention, of the beloved, is presented for once in almost a coquettish light. Even though the beloved had no regard for him when he was alive, she's just the type to begrudge any share in her prey to a rival. In the immensely attractive desirableness of his bloody shroud, the dead lover may well have the beloved and the Houri squaring off, eyeball to eyeball, to fight for possession of him. It's an amusing vision. What a pity he won't be in a position to take any real advantage of the situation!

{231,3} vaa((i:z nah tum piyo nah kisii ko pilaa sako kyaa baat hai tumhaarii sharaab-e :tahuur kii 1) Preacher, you neither would drink yourself, nor would you be able to give anybody a drink! 2a) what is it with your 'nectar/wine of Paradise'? 2b) what an extraordinary thing it is, your 'nectar/wine of Paradise'! 2c) as if it's anything special, your 'nectar/wine of Paradise'!

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Notes: sharaab-e :tahuur : 'A purifying, or a pure, draught,' the water of Paradise, nectar'. (Platts p.754)

Ghalib: [1861:] Sir! The verse that you asked about is this one: {231,3}. Two more verses of this ghazal have come to mind, I write them on another page: {231,7}, {231,6}. Notice that [in {231,6}] pah is short for par , with the meaning of 'but'. (Arshi p.324) ==Urdu text: Khaliq Anjum vol. 2 p. 552

Nazm: Having addressed one person, to at once shift over toward the group-- this is a new aspect of refinement, and gives extreme pleasure. (261)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Preacher, neither can you yourself drink, nor can you give anybody a drink, and you praise it so extravagantly! Thus we've learned that your 'nectar of Paradise' is only an imaginary wine [sharaab], with the mention of which you please your heart. He uses a new kind of mischievousness, and has composed a very greatly enjoyable verse. (318)

Bekhud Mohani: 'Nectar of Paradise' is pure wine of Heaven. This verse has been made, in a rakish [rindaanah] taste, extremely refined/enjoyable. Eloquence takes lessons from it. (485-86)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR; KYA This verse belongs to the 'snide remarks about Paradise' set; for the full list, see {35,9}. It's also exclamatory, and also very funny. Clearly its best effects are drawn from the well-established complexities of kyaa , which can be used colloquially to generate either a genuine question, as in (2a); or an admiring exclamation, as in (2b); or a sneering dismissal, as in (2c). Moreover, the presence of the full idiomatic expression kyaa baat hai intensifies the pleasure of such casual everyday speech; compare the very similar use of this versatile colloquialism in {163,9}. But there's one more touch of cleverness as well. The first line doesn't specify what beverage the Preacher wouldn't drink or be able to serve. So it's quite possible to read it as applying to normal wine rather than the nectar, or literally 'wine', of Paradise. On this reading, the speaker is astonished (and scandalized?) that the Preacher is such a drag, and even so useless, in the wine-house: it's not only that he won't himself drink, but he won't even help pass the decanter around to others! How strange, how sad, how ill-bred! It naturally causes the speaker to question what weird thing the Preacher has on his mind instead, that gives rise to such boorish social behavior.

{231,4} la;Rtaa hai mujh se ;hashr me;N qaatil kih kyuu;N u;Thaa goyaa abhii sunii nahii;N aavaaz .suur kii 1) the murderer quarrels with me in a gathering/tumult/Doomsday: 'why did you arise?' 2) {speaking / 'so to speak'}, she had not yet heard the sound of the trumpet

Notes: ;hashr : 'Gathering, meeting, congregation, concourse; the resurrection; -commotion, tumult, noise (such as that of the resurrection); wailing, lamentation'. (Platts p.477)

Nazm: That is, in her temperament is so much heedlessness that the trumpet has sounded, and she doesn't know it. (261)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, my murderer quarrels with me in Doomsday/turmoil: 'Why did you come to life without my command? That is, I had murdered you-- if I got you up, then you would get up!' And her degree of security is such that it's as if as yet she hadn't even heard the trumpet sound. (318)

Baqir: The [religious] belief is that on the day of Doomsday [qiyaamat] when the trumpet will be blown, then all the dead will become alive. He says, my murderer is heedless and unaware to such a degree that the trumpet of Doomsday has been blown; so to speak [goyaa], the dead have received the order to rise up. But she has absolutely no awareness-- when I arise at the sound of the trumpet, then she quarrels with me: 'Why did you arise?'. In this verse, besides the beloved's practice of heedlessness, another aspect is that she quarrels with me about this: 'You're my murdered one-- you should have risen up at my command! Why did you arise when you heard the sound of the trumpet?' (544-45)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR QIYAMAT: {10,11} When we hear the first line, we're not sure how to take ;hashr , which can mean various sorts of 'gathering' or 'commotion'. The beloved is called a 'murderer', but that's one of her common epithets anyway; and she might be angry with the speaker for getting up from his seat at some party without permission. Or ;hashr might just describe the turmoil and commotion created by the beloved's anger itself. Only when we hear the second line-- which mean, in proper mushairah performance style, after a suitably tantalizing delay-- do we begin realize what's going on. And even then, the punch-word, 'trumpet', is withheld till the last possible moment. Only when we hear it do we perceive the eschatological situation. For when Resurrection Day [;hashr] and Doomsday [qiyaamat] come, a trumpet summons the dead to rise up and meet their Lord. The dead lover obediently rises up. But then the beloved scolds him, asking him why he has arisen without her permission. The commentators point out some of the amusing possibilities here: =the beloved is so busy 'speaking' loudly and scolding the lover that she actually hasn't heard the divine trumpet call =the beloved is so arrogant and heedless that she disdains to notice the divine trumpet call, so nobody knows whether she has heard it or not =the beloved has heard the divine trumpet call, but she chooses to ignore it and act as if she hasn't heard it Even then, the verse isn't any kind of a putdown of the beloved. The outcome is left entirely unrevealed. It seems possible that the beloved might even be right, and her claim tor absolute power and authority over the lover might be backed up by some divine license. But the most enjoyable part of the verse is the perfect placing and use of goyaa . In its literal meaning of 'speaking', it describes the reason that the beloved might not have heard the trumpet sound. And in its extended meaning of 'so to speak' it turns that idea into both a speculation about her behavior (she actually might not yet have heard the trumpet), and a description of it (she acts as if she hasn't heard the trumpet). For more on the double meaning of goyaa , see {5,1}.

{231,5} aamad bahaar kii hai jo bulbul hai na;Gmah-sanj u;Rtii-sii ik ;xabar hai zabaanii :tayuur kii

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1) it's the coming of spring, {since / in that / so that} the Nightingale is a melody-singer 2) it/there is one 'flying-ish news' from the tongue of the birds

Notes: zabaanii : 'Of or by or from the tongue, traditional, oral, verbal, viva voce; nominal, mere'. (Platts p.614)

Nazm: That is, the Nightingale's melody is the 'flying news' of the spring. This simile is extremely eloquent [balii;G]; and to do it justice, it is new. (261)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the Nightingale's melody-singing is not without cause. It seems that now the spring is about to come. Although perfect confidence cannot be claimed, because a 'flying-ish news' has been heard-- and that too not through the words of some trusted one, but through the words of birds. (318)

Bekhud Mohani: From the Nightingale's melody-singing it seems that spring is about to come. But since this news is being heard from the tongue of a bird, one doesn't understand whether to have confidence in it or not. Although from outward circumstances and moods, it appears that spring is coming. (487)

Faruqi: Zauq too has made fine use of the theme of 'flying news': qafas ko le u;Re;N us par asiir-e mu.z:tarib tere ;xabar gul kii sune;N u;Rtii sii gar baad-e bahaarii se [your restless prisoner would pick up the cage and fly away with it if from the spring breeze he would hear a 'flying-ish news' of the rose].... Since they also call a melody a 'voice or sound from the breath' [nafas], and nafas itself has the meaning of 'breath', or 'air', to call a melody a 'flying news' is an even more refined thing. But there's one more aspect as well: that the whole first line may be taken as 'flying-ish news'. That is, some birds have brought the news that now spring is about to come, and for this reason the Nightingale sings. In the whole verse the pearls of affinities are glimmering: 'coming', 'Nightingale', 'flying', 'news', 'from the tongue of', 'birds'; thus the verse seems even more beautiful. The invention of a simile is itself a form of 'meaning-creation', because in this way new meanings are bestowed on the object. Thus the verse has two meanings, as was mentioned above. And because of the affinities all the words of the verse provide support for each other's meanings. In this way the verse is an excellent example of 'meaning-creation'. It's possible that Ghalib might have taken the 'flying news' theme from Zauq, but because of supremacy of the simile and richness of meaning, Ghalib's verse has become a 'royal pearl'.... The tone of the verse too is an innate gift; that is, its flourishing fresh-imaginingness is very conspicuous. This style has remained very popular among Indian and Persian poets. Among Urdu ones, in Ghalib, and before him in Mir, this quality can be seen. The below-mentioned verse of Sauda's might have been in Ghalib's mind, but still, Ghalib's simile remains untouched: sune hai mur;G-e chaman kaa to naalah ay saaqii bahaar aatii hai bulbul ;xabar lagaa kahne [he hears the lament of the garden bird, oh Cupbearer the Nightingale has begun to tell us that spring comes] (369-70)

FWP: SETS == KIH The jo in the first line is not a relative pronoun, since the grammar doesn't give us that option. Rather, it seems to be operating with the kind of idiomatic flexibility normally commanded by kih . Thus we can read the relationship between the two clauses in a variety of ways:

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= because spring is coming, therefore the Nightingale sings = because the Nightingale sings, therefore spring comes = because the Nightingale sings, therefore we know that spring is coming = spring is coming, naturally accompanied by the Nightingale's singing = what the Nightingale sings is 'Spring is coming' As usual, we have no way of resolving these multiple possibilities, and we look to the second line for any hope of clarification. And also as usual, the second line starts afresh and offers us new complexities. If we read the second line as 'it is one flying-ish news from the tongue of the birds', then we have to ask what the 'it' is. Presumably something in the first line, but what exactly? That the spring is coming? That the Nightingale is singing? And do the 'birds' include the Nightingale, or is he to be taken as a separate (superior) singer and harbinger of spring? And if we read the second line as 'there is one flying-ish news from the tongue of the birds', we have even more possible ways to connect it to the first line. Is the 'flying-ish news news' that the spring has come, and/or that the Nightingale is singing, or is it something else entirely? Might the rumor from the ordinary birds be different from what the Nightingale is singing? After all, their report is just a rumor, a 'flying-ish news', while his might be something else entirely. And it's also just 'one' or 'a single' [ik] such rumor. Might that mean it's just one story or rumor among many that we hear, or one among many that they tell? Or might it refer to unanimity, with all the birds spreading the same bit of gossip? And how trustworthy are the birds as reporters-- even reporters of gossip? In other words, it's not clear how reliable is the word that spring has come, and who is spreading the word, and why. Yet it's a funny thing to be suspicious about! Spring does come, and why would anyone lie about it? What would anyone have to gain? Perhaps because the spring is so desperately longed for and so eagerly awaited-- perhaps observers are prone to jump the gun and spread the good word prematurely. Everything about the verse itself and the commentary makes me think that 'flying news' [u;Rtii ;xabar] ought to be an established idiom or colloquial expression meaning 'rumor' or 'gossip', in the sense of something that spreads quickly by word of mouth and might or might not be reliable. But nobody says clearly that there is such an idiom, and at present I can't prove it. If it isn't an official idiom, however, it's at least something that one immediately grasps as likely to refer to 'rumor'. And the association with birds is so perfect that nobody could fail to enjoy it.

{231,6} go vaa;N nahii;N pah vaa;N ke nikaale hu))e to hai;N ka((be se un buto;N ko bhii nisbat hai duur kii 1) although they are not there, still they are [in a state of having been] expelled from there 2) with the Ka'bah, even/also those/these idols have a distant relationship

Notes: nisbat : 'Referring (to, - se ); deriving (from); --reference, respect, regard (to); attribute; relation, connexion; affinity; analogy; comparison; --ratio; proportion; --relationship by marriage; matrimonial alliance; betrothal; --a relation, or connexion; --a conundrum'. (Platts p.1137)

Ghalib: [See his comment in {231,3}.]

Nazm: The general rule is that the mention of idols is pleasing in a verse where it would be a metaphor for beautiful ones; otherwise, it's nothing at all. In this one, the late author's special style is not present. Perhaps some poet might emerge who would mention idols in the real meaning, but it's always

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unpleasing. And the metaphor of an idol for the beloved is proper for a number of reasons: beauty and dignity and aloofness and silence and being worshipped, etc. (261)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, we grant that now the idols are not in the chamber of the Ka'bah, but at some former time they were there, and they have been expelled from there. Thus these idols have a distant relationship to the Ka'bah. (318)

Bekhud Mohani: In Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i's commentary I agree only with the part in which he has written the causes of idols' being used as a metaphor for the beloved. The rest of his commentary, through my ill-fortune I cannot understand. The claim that the mention of idols in theie original meaning is devoid of pleasure-- the Lord knows on what proofs it is based! And to top it all, the commentary has begun like this: that this is the 'general rule'. The Lord knows who has established this 'general rule'! (487)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} RELIGIONS: {60,2} The wit and pleasure of this verse lie in the cleverly chosen word nisbat . Its Arabic root, nasab , means 'Genealogy; lineage, race, stock, family, caste' (Platts p. 1137). And among the meanings of nisbat in Urdu are very common and prominent ones that involve just such a sense of family ties: 'relationship by marriage', or a kinsman ('relation, connexion', in Platts's English usage). Many pre-Islamic idols were removed from the Ka'bah by the Prophet's command, and at least some of them were goddesses. Does this mean that these idols were formerly members of the Ka'bah 'lineage' or 'family', but then were banished from the family? If so, it's tempting to imagine that they were banished for some kind of bad behavior. We all know that the 'idols' of the ghazal world, the beloveds, are willful, arrogant, and perhaps less than chaste. Does that mean these idols/beloveds, despite their unacceptable behavior, still have some kind of Divine blood in their veins? Is there still perhaps some kind of grudging recognition by the Lord of the Ka'bah, of their 'distant' kinship? Playing with such thoughts is just the kind of 'mischievousness' [sho;xii] that Ghalib so often enjoys. Less mischievously, the reference can also be one of philosophical or theological meditation: what in fact is the relationship between the true God and false pretenders to divinity? This is a general question, and also a particular one. The Ka'bah was apparently sacred in some very real sense even before the idols were expelled from it; otherwise, the need to expel the idols would hardly have been so pressing. So if the false idols were parts of a true holy space, does that give them any kind of a claim on it? Were they mere interlopers? The word nisbat , and the ongoingness of the relationship, suggest something more; but as so often, Ghalib leaves it for us to decide exactly how much more. In his commentary on {231,3}, Ghalib points out, 'Notice that [in {231,6}] pah is short for par , with the meaning of "but".' It's somewhat surprising to see this, because really, in that situation what else would it be? Is Ghalib assuming that he needs to help out an exceptionally inept reader?

{231,7} kyaa far.z hai kih sab ko mile ek-saa javaab aa))o nah ham bhii sair kare;N koh-e :tuur kii 1a) is there an assumption that all would get a similar answer? 1b) what assumption is there that all would get a similar answer? 1c) what an assumption it is-- that all would get a similar answer!

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2) come on, won't you? let's even/also us take a stroll around Mount Tur

Notes: Nazm: Is there an assumption that the way He gave a flat refusal to Kalim [=Moses], there would be the same refusal to us too? In this verse the author has versified in nah an extraordinary idiomatic word-- everyone uses it in speech, but nobody has used it in poetry. But what this nah means-- it's difficult to give an answer. A grammatical guess tells us that aa))o nah and dekho nah , etc., are contracted forms of kyuu;N nah aa))o and kyuu;N nah dekho . For without this, no meaning will be able to be assigned to the negative. (262)

Bekhud Dihlavi: What a fine verse he has composed! He says, it's no necessary thing that everybody would receive only a flat refusal like that received by Hazrat Musa. It's possible that our request would be accepted, and the glory/appearance of the Beautiful One would be shown. So why wouldn't we take a stroll around Tur? (319)

Bekhud Mohani: The story is that when Hazrat Musa was compelled by the demand of his people, then he went off to Mount Tur and petitioned, 'Protector, these people refuse to accept the faith until they would see You'. And he petitioned, 'Lord and Protector, show me Your beauty'. The answer came, 'You absolutely cannot see Me'. After this, something like lightning flashed. The date-palm of Tur burnt up. In Mount Tur an earthquake came. Hazrat Musa became unconscious. (488)

FWP: SETS == KYA; MUSHAIRAH At the heart of this verse is another brilliant use of kyaa . Perfectly available are at least three readings: it signals a yes-or-no question (1a); it works as an adjective ('what kind of?') modifying 'assumption' (1b); or else it introduces an exclamation-- in this case, probably a negative, scornful one (1c). And of course, we have no way of knowing what sort of 'assumption' the verse is mulling over. Under mushairah performance conditions, we're of course made to wait as long as possible for an answer. And even then, the verse withholds its 'punch'-word until the last possible moment. Not until we hear the rhymeword :tuur can we really interpret the rest of the verse at all. Then the pleasure, and the 'mischievousness' strikes us all at once. Another source of pleasure is the idiomatic casualness of the second line. Nazm has pointed to the colloquial use of nah to mean something like 'won't you?' or 'will you?' or 'all right?'. But even more amusing is the casual use of sair karnaa , 'to take a stroll'. While Hazrat Musa went up to Mount Tur in fear and trembling, the speaker here proposes an informal little afternoon stroll-- no big deal, he implies, but why shouldn't we saunter over and try our luck? He might be thinking aloud to himself, or suggesting to some close companion a small, mildly entertaining excursion-- in which he still halfexpects to get better results than Hazrat Musa did! When it comes to 'mischievousness', how much more wickedly enjoyable can it get?

{231,8} garmii sahii kalaam me;N lekin nah is qadar kii jis se baat us ne shikaayat .zaruur kii 1) there's heat, no doubt, in speech/argument-- but not to this extent 2a) whomever that one spoke with, she definitely made a complaint

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2b) the one with whom that one spoke-- [that one] definitely made a complaint

Notes: kalaam : 'Word, speech, discourse; a complete sentence or proposition; composition, work; --disputation; anything said (or to be said) against, objection, question'. (Platts p.841)

Nazm: That is, without abuse, without sarcasm, without jesting-- there's just no conversation. (262)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, mischief-tonguedness and quickness in repartee are no bad thing, if they would not be extended beyond the limit of equability. There, the situation is that with whomever she speaks, that one definitely complains about her mischief-tonguedness. He's composed an extraordinarily 'hot' [garm] verse. (319)

Bekhud Mohani: In speech, for coldness to exist is a flaw, and there's relish in warmth; but if there's so much heat that to whomever she speaks, the listeners complained of ill-temper and brutal candor and crudeness, then what's it good for? That is, is this any way to speak-- not a word that doesn't pierce like a lancet, not a word without abuse, not a word without jesting? It's possible that the addressee of this verse would be every such person, and its goal would be moral education; and it's also possible that it would be being said to the beloved. (489)

FWP: For a discussion, with examples, of the idiomatic complexities of sahii , see {9,4}. Here's one of those verses about speech in which it's almost impossible to tell who's saying what to whom. Even in the first line, when we can't tell where the verse is going, it's hard to tell what kind of general observation is being made. Here are some possibilities: =there's more heat in the as-yet-unrevealed X than in normal speech/argument (Is X some special form of speech/agrument, or something else? Is the greater heat in X good, or bad?) =there ought to be heat in speech/argument, but not 'to this extent' (To what extent? Is the greater heat from a mutual quarrel, or a one-sided fit of anger?) Then when we look for clarification to the second line, it's clear at once that there's none to be had. On the contrary, in fact-- the possible readings multiply. The us ne sits right in the middle of the line, and could be the subject of either clause, or both. If we assume that the subject is the beloved, then we have an illustration of her sense of aggrievedness: 'Whomever she spoke with, she definitely made a complaint'. Was the excessive 'heat' something manifested in the style of her complaint itself, or was it something she complained about? (Perhaps she felt that it showed lack of respect to her dignity.) If we assume that the subject is someone else, we have a victim: 'The one with whom she spoke, that one definitely made a complaint'. Did the victim complain to her, about the abusive way she treated him? Or did he complain later to his friends about his ordeal? And was the excessive 'heat' what he complained about, or did it linger on even in his own speech, as he described what he had endured? Either way, it's an amusing little verse: it gives us an all-too-realistic vision of somebody who can't even open his mouth without releasing a 'hot' torrent of grievances and complaints-- his own, and/or those of others about him. Note for grammar fans: Normally, in a statement like that in the first line we'd expect to see nahii;N instead of nah . It suggests that the missing verb

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might be ho instead of hai , making for a subjunctive sense in at least the second clause. To omit ho is unusual; but then, so is nah for nahii;N in the present tense.

{231,9} ;Gaalib gar us safar me;N mujhe saath le chale;N ;haj kaa ;savaab na;zr karuu;Ngaa ;hu.zuur kii 1) Ghalib, if he would take me along on that journey 2) I will make the merit of the Haj an offering to His Majesty

Notes: na;zr : 'A vow; an offering, anything offered or dedicated; a gift or present (from an inferior to a superior); a fee paid to the State or to its representative on succeeding to an office or to property'. (Platts p.1128) *Platts Dictionary Online*

Hali: From this verse Mirza's complete mischievousness of temperment is manifest.... On the one hand, so much eagerness for the trip to do the Haj; and on the other hand, such lack of respect for the merit of the Haj! [165-66]

Nazm: An extraordinary grammatical enchantment in the Urdu language is that where the author has used kii , in the idiom they also say ke .... In this verse to say kii is contrary to idiom. [He argues the point, with examples.] (262)

Bekhud Mohani: The poet has expressed his meaning with great beauty. He says that if the King would take me with him on his journey for the Haj, than I will make the merit of the Haj an offering to him. It's obvious that after hearing this verse, the effect on the addressee ought to be the one that is desired. (489)

Arshi: [There were reports in December 1851 that the king was sick, and weary of his life, and wanted to go on the Haj. This ghazal was probably written at that time.] (325)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 As Hali points out, to express an earnest desire to go to Mecca for the Haj ought to be a sign of piety and devotion. But at the same time, to claim that the desire is so ardent that one would sacrifice the merit of the journey in order to make the journey, defeats the purpose. It sets up a kind of 'catch-22' situation-- the speaker wants to do something that brings him religious merit, so badly that in order to get it he'll give up the religious merit that it brings him. The only possible conclusion is that Ghalib is being flippant, or 'mischievous'. The only way out of the 'catch-22' is to assume that Ghalib doesn't take the whole trip seriously at all: either he is just being witty and doesn't really care about going at all, or else perhaps he is hinting that he would enjoy going, but rather for the pleasures of travel and tourism than for the official religious purpose of the pilgrimage.

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Ghazal 232 9 verses; meter G13; rhyming elements: aam bahut hai composed 1852; Hamid p. 186; Arshi #225; Raza p. 314

{232,1} ;Gam khaane me;N bodaa dil-e naa-kaam bahut hai yih ranj kih kam hai mai-e gulfaam bahut hai 1) in enduring/'eating' grief, the unsuccessful/useless heart is very feeble/timid/worthless 2) this sorrow-- that the rose-colored wine is less-- is much/plenty

Notes: bodaa : 'Weak, feeble; soft, faint-hearted, low-spirited, timid; low, mean, trifling, trivial, worthless'. (Platts p.174)

Nazm: In one single line, sorrow and an interpretation of it-- then, the confrontation of 'less' and 'much'! In addition to the innovativeness of the theme, there's this excellence. (262)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in enduring sorrow and grief the unsuccessful heart has proved so feeble and weak that regret over this commonplace kind of thing-- that today only a little rose-colored wine has remained-- with regard to it has become a mountain of grief. (319)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse an aspect of the 'beauty of seeking' [for new themes, etc.] has emerged, from which it is apparent that to this rakish one [rind] has very rarely had to endure the sorrow of a shortage of wine. Otherwise, he would have been habituated to it. By calling the heart 'unsuccessful' and 'feeble' he has removed an objection: that is, if he had not done this then the addressee would have objected, 'Really, you've now become so feeble!'. Now he can't even say that. In the second line is sorrow and an interpretation of it; in addition to that, there's also the confrontation of 'less' and 'much'. (489)

FWP: SETS == OPPOSITES WINE: {49,1} The commentators pick up on the play of opposites, and how could they not? But there's also the question of the relationship of the two lines. =The unsuccessful heart is so feeble in its ability to endure grief that even the small, trivial grief of a lack of wine is all it can stand. =The unsuccessful heart is so feeble in its ability to endure grief that it needs the help of wine in order to carry on at all-- so how terrible that there should be a shortage of this necessity! =It's an unequal contest, it's quite unfair: the unsuccessful heart is very poor at enduring grief, and this grief (of the shortage of wine) that it's been given to endure is a very large one! For another 'less/more' verse-- one that establishes the importance of having wine, and lots of it-- compare {216,1}.

{232,2} kahte hu))e saaqii se ;hayaa aatii hai varnah hai yuu;N kih mujhe durd-e tah-e jaam bahut hai 1) I feel shame at saying it to the Cupbearer; otherwise 2) it's like this: to me, the lees/dregs at the bottom of the cup are much/plenty

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Notes: Hali: That is, I'm so easily contented that the lees of the wine are enough for me, but fear that the Cupbearer would consider me base and lacking in courage and contented with trifles, doesn't permit me to express this to him. (166)

Nazm: In expressing the desire for wine, the poets have emptied the cask; but this theme has always remained unexhausted. Look at this verse-- how sensestealing is its theme, such that no expression of the desire for wine can go beyond it! (262)

Bekhud Mohani: The shame comes because the Cupbearer will consider me of base temperament, or will consider that it's as if I too am pursuing his beauty. The point is that if not enough wine would remain, or if it's not for giving to me, then so be it-- what the hell, let him give me the lees! From saying such a thing, the restlessness of the ardor of the rakish one is also revealed. (490)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} There could be at least three reasons for the speaker's sense of shame, depending on the prior circumstances. =If we imagine that the speaker, like the other drinkers, is presently being given normal glasses of wine, then he would feel shame at saying he doesn't need (or even want?) as much as everybody else is getting. To declare himself satisfied to settle merely for the lees, would be to mark himself out as a more humble, less entitled person. =If we imagine that the speaker is now not getting any wine at all, then he would feel shame at asking, in what would inevitably be a humiliating way, for the mere dregs or leftovers. The request would turn him into a beggar pleading for scraps. =If we imagine that the speaker is asking for the lees from the Cupbearer's own cup, then we have Bekhud Mohani's suggestion: the Cupbearer would conclude-- perhaps rightly-- that a new admirer of his beauty was seeking to ingratiate himself; the speaker feels ashamed to incur the Cupbearer's scorn. Or perhaps there's even a fourth possibility. The 'lees' is a thick 'sediment' that has settled to the bottom of the glass, and thus it could be considered much more concentrated than the ordinary wine. Perhaps asking for only the lees would be a sort of 'cut to the chase' request? Might it imply that the speaker had no concern with the wine's flavor and bouquet, or with sociability and the other elegant pleasures of the gathering, but was intent on immediate, powerful (Divine?) intoxication? The only other verse in the divan that mentions 'lees' is also an ambiguous one: {100,8}.

{232,3} ne tiir kamaa;N me;N hai nah .saiyaad kamii;N me;N goshe me;N qafas ke mujhe aaraam bahut hai 1) neither is there an arrow in the quiver, nor a Hunter in ambush 2) in a corner of the cage, I have much ease/comfort

Notes: The initial nah has been lengthened into ne to suit the meter. aaraam : 'Rest, repose, quiet, ease, relief, comfort, convenience; well-being; health; easy condition or circumstances'. (Platts p.38)

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Hali: That is, the person who is in a state of anonymity and neglect has no enemy or evil-wisher; these evils are associated with fame and esteem and reputation. (166)

Nazm: That is, compared to that good fortune in which there's danger, deprivation is better. (262)

Bekhud Mohani: The most praiseworthy thing is that Mirza hasn't set foot on the common highway. Poets ordinarily call imprisonment the greatest difficulty. Mirza, against this view, says-- and the first line demonstrates-- that the imprisoned life has been proved better than the life of freedom. (490)

FWP: The affinity of kamaa;N and kamii;N goes beyond sound effects to their similar roles: in the former deadly arrows lie in wait; in the latter, a deadly hunter. These affinities have also been cleverly emphasized by the semantic and metrical parallelism of the two halves of the first line. In the second line, the lover is clearly (speaking as) a bird; for other examples when he does so, see {126,5}. Wild birds are hunted in the forest, and the beloved is well-known to be a a Hunter. Once captured, however, the bird has nothing more to fear. He claims to find ease and peace in the cage-and not just in the cage, but huddled down in a single 'corner' of it, so that he occupies as little space as possible. Our reading of this straightforward-looking verse will depend almost entirely on tone. Is the bird despairing, and speaking with bleak irony? Is he rueful, and pointing out the complexities of his fate? Is he perhaps even peaceful, having come to terms with his destiny? Is he a mystical or Sufistic bird, who can experience infinite expanses of spiritual progress within the smallest physical scope, so that he finds the corner of the cage a very suitable hermitage? Or is he a helpless victim whose spirit has been broken, trembling with fear and glad of a secure refuge like the corner of the cage? Needless to say, Ghalib leaves us to decide all this for ourselves. For another verse about the desirability (or otherwise) of living in a confined space, see {138,1}. And for another bird-in-cage reflection, see {234,6}.

{232,4} kyaa zuhd ko maanuu;N kih nah ho garchih riyaa))ii paadaash-e ((amal kii :tama((-e ;xaam bahut hai 1a) would I revere/accept abstinence?-- although [thinking] 'may it not be hypocrytical'? 1b) as if I would revere/accept abstinence, although [thinking] 'may it not be hypocritical!' 1c) how eagerly I would revere/accept abstinence-- although [thinking] 'may it not be hypocritical!' 2) the half-baked {desire / object of desire} of/for reward of action is much

Notes: maannaa : 'To respect, revere, esteem; to regard, heed, mind, attend to, observe, obey; to believe, trust, credit; to admit, allow, acknowledge, confess, own; to permit; to acknowledge the superiority of, to submit, yield; to agree to, assent to; to consent; to accept, receive; to take, assume, suppose; to take for granted, to grant; to hold, view, consider, regard as, deem, account; to hold to be true or right; to consider of importance; to approve;--to feel, experience, entertain;--to be set on'. (Platts p.986) riyaa))ii : 'Hypocrite (= riyaa-kaar ); sophist'. (Platts p.610)

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paadaash : 'Reward, recompense, compensation, satisfaction, requital, retribution, retaliation, revenge'. (Platts p.215) :tama(( : 'Coveting; covetousness, vehement desire; greediness, greed, avarice; avidity; ambition; --a thing that is coveted, or desired vehemently; temptation, allurement, lure, bait'. (Platts p.753) ;xaam : 'Raw, unripe, green, crude, immature; inexpert, inexperienced; vain, puerile, absurd; not solid or substantial... imperfect, unsound, bad; lower, smaller (weight or measure)'. (Platts p.879)

Nazm: That is, the desire for the merit of actions-- is it a small flaw? (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I don't believe in that abstinence and piety and worship, for the reward of which the hope of Paradise and the expectation of receiving Houris would be involved. (320)

Bekhud Mohani: Not to speak of hypocritical abstinence, sincere abstinence too isn't worthy of respect, because it's usually adopted only because in return for pure deeds, there's Paradise. There are the laps of Houris, and there's our head [to be placed in them]. There would be glasses of the Pure Wine; and the springflourishing of the lip of ardor in the garden of Paradise, and there would be our eyes [to behold it]. (491)

Arshi: Compare {118,2}. (248, 327)

FWP: SETS == GENERATORS; KYA Here's another classic case: the commentators agree with complete confidence on a single reading-- of a verse that I consider to be an astonishing smorgasbord of complexity. Let's run through its various elements, and look at the range of interpretive choices we must make before arriving at any one single meaning. The first half of the first line, thanks to the possibilities of kyaa , can be read as a yes-or-no question: would I revere it? (1a); or as an indignant repudiation: as if I would revere it! (1b); or as a hearty endorsement: how eagerly I would revere it! (1c). The second half of the first line, also in the subjunctive, is made concessive by the 'although, despite' [garchih]. The negative subjunctive form nah ho , which tends to look backwards to English speakers, takes the negative because it here expresses the literal, direct-discourse content of the thought: 'may X not be Y!' The form 'although-- may X not be Y!' is thus comparable to the English indirect-discourse form 'although X might be Y'. =would I revere it (1a), although it might be hypocritical? (That is, would my aversion to hypocrisy prevent me, or not?) =as if I would revere it (1b), although it might be hypocritical! (That is, revering it would be unthinkable, because it would conflict with my aversion to hypocrisy.) =how eagerly I would revere it! (1c)-- although it might be hypocritical! (That is, my eagerness to revere it would override my aversion to hypocrisy.) When we look at the second line, we find that the real subject is :tama(( , which can mean either a desire ('covetousness, greed'), or else an object of desire: 'temptation, bait' (see the definition above). The line goes on to elaborate this as a '{desire / object of desire} of recompense of action' [paadaash-e ((amal]. Because of the flexibility of the i.zaafat constructions, we can use either reading of :tama(( : both 'the desire for a recompense for

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action' and 'the object-of-desire [consisting] of recompense for action' are entirely possible. This desire, or object of desire, is described as ;xaam , which is the Persian equivalent of kachchaa -- something like 'raw, half-baked, inferior'. But a desire, or object of desire, may be 'half-baked' either in the sense of being a good thing which is simply immature or insufficiently developed (and thus requires to be nurtured), or else in the sense of being a bad, misguided, unworthy thing (which thus requires to be renounced or abandoned). And in case there aren't enough multiplicities already, here's one more: the sense of bahut can be neutral ('a large amount'), or else something like 'plenty' or 'enough'. In this latter, colloquial sense it can suggest sufficiency: the speaker doesn't need, or even want, anything more, or anything further. Thus the suggestion can be either that the 'half-baked {desire / object of desire} of/for reward of action' is powerful (in a neutral way, or else in an undesirable way); or else that it is 'plenty' or 'enough' (conveying a sense of sufficiency). So the permutations-- how many are there? Something like 3 (from the first line) x 2 (from the two senses of ;xaam ) x 2 (from the two meanings of :tama(( ) x 2 (from the two implications of bahut ). Of course, I don't stand on the exact numbers. Some of the permutations are much more interesting and compelling than others; while further ones could be created even beyond those I've suggested. But I certainly maintain that there are so many quite 'real' and persuasive permutations that it would be boring to try to list them all. Surely it's impossible to argue that they just happen to be there by accident, or because Ghalib lost control of his vocabulary? Obviously Ghalib put them there on purpose, and they form an impenetrably dense, always-hovering cloud of alternative possibilities. This cloud is the real charm, the real point, of the verse. The verse can certainly be made to mean what the commentators say it means. But still, that dense cloud of possibilities can never be made to lift.

{232,5} hai;N ahl-e ;xirad kis ravish-e ;xaa.s pah naazaa;N paa-bastagii-e rasm-o-rah-e ((aam bahut hai 1) about what/which special gait/path are the people of wisdom proud/coquettish? 2a) there is much foot-fixedness in the common {practice / usage / 'custom and road'} 2b) foot-fixedness in the common {practice / usage / 'custom and road'} is much/plenty

Notes: ravish : 'Motion, walk, gait, carriage; practice, custom, fashion, usage; rule, institution, law; conduct, behaviour; order, course, proceeding, procedure; manner, method, mode, way; --a garden-walk, path, avenue, passage, gallery'. (Platts p.605) naazaa;N : 'Sporting, toying (as lovers); --giving oneself airs, being conceited (about), being proud; strutting, swaggering'. (Platts p.1114)

Nazm: Is this what's called intelligence, that people would remain attached above all to common customs? Is this what's called a 'special gait/path', that people would greatly revere common customs? The style of this verse-- on this special gait/path if the author would have pride/coquetry, then it's appropriate. (263)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, which special custom and path is it, over which wiset people feel pride/coquetry? Although these people are the farthest ahead of all others, in adhering to common customs! And the enjoyable thing is that then they claim of using a special gait/path. (320)

Bekhud Mohani: After all, about which special style of theirs do wise people feel pride/coquetry, while we see that they have established adherence to the common people's customs and ways as indispensable for themselves? Is this a 'special gait/path'? The claim of wisdom was that they should have done just that which perfect wisdom commanded. (491)

FWP: Here I am grateful to the commentators. They agree on the reading I call (1a), which sneers at intellectuals for being bogged down in common styles of thought and behavior, even while they plume themselves in their special innovativeness and unique insights. I hadn't even thought of that reading, because to me (1b) was so obvious. It sneers at intellectuals for a kind of empty pretentiousness: they devote themselves to special little gaits and paths that actually have nothing particular (other than preciousness and pretentiousness) to recommend them. But the truth is that it's plenty much of an achievement just to manage to follow the traditional ways of behavior, to be a good 'ordinary' person (with overtones of the 'philosophia perennis'). So, of course, now we have two readings instead of one, and a more enjoyable verse. It also has some wordplay about 'gait', 'foot', and 'path', and the opposition of 'special' and 'common'. But the two readings of the second line, both bouncing off the first line in their own different directions, give the verse its real kick. My students tend to share the commentarial reading; one of them (Mohamad Khan) points out that paa-bastagii tends to have a negative sense, and that an avoidance of the well-trodden path is a very Ghalibian value. This is of course true. So maybe my reading should be considered secondary.

{232,6} zamzam hii pah chho;Ro mujhe kyaa :tauf-e ;haram se aaluudah bah mai jaamah-e a;hraam bahut hai 1) leave me only/emphatically at Zamzam, what do I {want / have to do} with circumambulation of the Ka'bah? 2a) the pilgrimage robe is much soaked with wine 2b) the pilgrimage robe soaked with wine is much/plenty/enough

Notes: Nazm: What the hell [bhalaa]-- would I make a circumambulation, or would I sit and wash out the stains of wine? (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, leave me only/emphatically at the well of Zamzam, so that I would sit and wash the stains of wine from my garment-hem. What can I receive from circumambulation of the Ka'bah, since my pilgrimage robe is wet with wine? (320)

Bekhud Mohani: In the rakish [rindaanah] taste, a better verse than this can hardly be composed. He says, what do I {want / have to do} with circumambulation of the Ka'bah-- leave me right here at the well of Zamzam. Because my pilgrimage robe is becoming wet with wine. (491)

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FWP: WINE: {49,1} In the first line, the speaker addresses the companions with whom he is making the pilgrimage, and unceremoniously sends them on without him. He tells them to leave him zamzam hii pah -- either 'only' (which would imply that he has no intention of doing more of the pilgrimage rituals) or 'emphatically' (which would leave open the question of his future plans) at Zamzam, the sacred well in the precincts of the Ka'bah. The clever positioning of mujhe right in the middle of the first line means that it easily extends itself to both clauses. In the second clause, the speaker impatiently brushes off the very idea of his joining his companions in the ritual circumambulation of the Ka'bah: the idiomatic expression mujhe us se kyaa has the literal form of 'to me from that, what?'. Depending on tone and context, the range of meanings can extend from a rejection of desire ('What would I want with that?') to a rejection either of usefulness ('What would I get out of that?'), or even of relevance at all ('What do I have to do with that?'). The second line is a straightforward, neutral-looking assertion-- but a titillating, even shocking, one. The special white pilgrimage robe worn by pilgrims to Mecca is to be kept, like the pilgrim himself, in a particularly high state of purity. For one's robe to be stained with a forbidden substance like wine, and that too right in the precincts of the Ka'bah itself, is in ritual terms extremely unacceptable. On any possible reading, the verse is a quintessentially 'rakish' [rindaanah] one, because the speaker has obviously been drinking heavily during his pilgrimage: either he's so drunk he didn't even notice the wine-spots on his white pilgrimage robe until he reached Zamzam, or else, even more radically, he's been doing his drinking right there by Zamzam itself. Is he even sorry about this shocking behavior? Perhaps, but not necessarily. On some readings he treats it as a petty and practical problem, like a spilled drink at a party; on other readings, he's not sorry at all. Here are some of the possibilities: =It would be useless for me to continue the pilgrimage, since my pilgrimage robe has been stained with wine; I might as well just sit here by Zamzam instead (2a). (Spoken resignedly? guiltily? abashedly? vexedly? indifferently?) =Before continuing the pilgrimage, I need to wash off, in the water of Zamzam, the wine-stains from my pilgrimage robe (2a). (Spoken ruefully? apologetically? resentfully? matter-of-factly?) =It's so enjoyable just sitting here and drinking, in the pleasant vicinity of Zamzam; and the wine is so overflowing, it's even spilled on my robe; it's too much trouble to get up and deal with the laundry problem, I think I'll just stay here and keep on drinking (2b). =This 'water' of Zamzam is powerful stuff-- it transports me like wine! I'm so intoxicated with it that my robe too has become saturated with this 'wine'; what more do I need or want from any 'pilgrimage' than this (2b)? (By now we are deep into Sufistic territory.) This verse was one of my earliest favorites. It's one more of the kind that makes Ghalib, Ghalib. Compare this equally brilliant and rakish verse by Mir {7,7}: kis kaa ka((bah kaisaa qiblah kaun ;haram hai kyaa a;hraam kuuche ke us ke baashindo;N ne sab ko yihii;N se salaam kiyaa [whose Ka'bah is it, what kind of prayer-niche, which sacred place, what pilgrimage-robe? the residents of her street made a greeting/farewell to everyone from right here]

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{232,7} hai qahr gar ab bhii nah bane baat kih un ko inkaar nahii;N aur mujhe ibraam bahut hai 1) it's a torment/oppression/calamity if even/also now the conversation/idea/thing wouldn't happen, for she 2) has no denial/refusal/objection, and I have a lot of pestering/urgency/importunity

Notes: qahr : 'Force, power, violence, vehemence, severity; excess; boundlessness; oppression; subjection; rage, fury, wrath, indignation; vengeance; torment, punishment, chastisement; a judgment; a calamity'. (Platts p.796) baat : 'Speech, language, word, saying, conversation, talk, gossip, report, discourse, news, tale, story, account; thing, affair, matter, business, concern, fact, case, circumstance, occurrence, object, particular, article, proposal, aim, cause, question, subject'. (Platts p.117) baat bannaa : 'To be successful, prove a success, answer well; to gain credit or honour, to prosper, flourish'. (Platts p.117) ibraam : 'Twisting tight; wearying, disgusting; urgency, importunity'. (Steingass p.6)

Nazm: By baat bannaa is meant 'union'. (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if even now my wish would not be fulfilled, then it's cruelty. She doesn't refuse union, and I insist without limit. (320)

Bekhud Mohani: For a long time I've had the longing for union. An age passed in my pleasing and her saying 'no, no'. Now by hook or by crook that day has come that no refusal remains to her. The fragment ab bhii establishes this whole meaning.... From hai qahr the existence of powerful hope can be seen; and also the perplexity that has come about from the fear of lack of success. (492-3)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The commentators are sure that the baat desired by the speaker is 'union'. That's quite possible of course, but look at all the other possibilities as well, in the definition of baat given above. There's also the special idiom baat bannaa , with a general sense of 'for there to be success for something desirable to be accomplished'. The thing that might or might not now come about could be almost anything, but the domain of baat is especially that of speech; most of its secondary senses come from something like 'idea' or other notions framed in words. And when we look at the second line, we find that it too is framed in terms of words and ideas. She has no objection or makes no refusal-- which in any case is a negative kind of 'consent', and sounds as though it could be revoked the first time she opens her mouth. Meanwhile the speaker is full of urgency, importunity, the ability to pester. Is this really a very hopeful scenario? For among the meanings of ibraam is 'to disgust, weary'. It sounds all too possible that the speaker's very ardor, his ceaselessly pestering and importuning her, would end up irritating her and evoking exactly the 'refusal' that he now (desperately?) claims does not exist. Moreover, ibraam is placed in the crucial last-possible-moment position as the rhyme word, so it's the one that echoes in our minds at the end of the verse.

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The use of 'even/also now' [ab bhii] also suggests, as Bekhud Mohani points out, a long history of such importunity and pestering. After so much time, so much energy-- if even now the thing doesn't happen, what a disaster! The range of qahr includes the idea of an outpouring of violent wrath on her part, the experiencing of an absolute disaster on his part, as well as the ideas of 'punishment' and 'judgment'. Yet still, there's nothing that particularly points us toward 'union'. That may not be the only thing he wants from her. Perhaps he craves a real 'conversation', with the chance to pour out the secrets of his heart? Perhaps there's some other, more attainable project that he's been pursuing? (Will she invite him to her gathering?) No matter what his great desire, the verse makes it sound as though the odds are against its being achieved. Or maybe it's just that we know her all too well.

{232,8} ;xuu;N ho ke jigar aa;Nkh se ;Tapkaa nahii;N ay marg rahne de mujhe yaa;N kih abhii kaam bahut hai 1) the liver did not turn to blood and drip from the eyes, oh Death 2) {let me remain / leave me alone} here, for there's still a lot of work/desire

Notes: Nazm: He complains to Death that he shouldn't have come even now, because there are still a lot of difficulties left. (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Fate, why do you lay a death-claim upon me in the beginning of passion? Let me lie around for now in the street of love. The liver has to turn to blood, it has to flow from the eyes; I have to become disgraced in street and bazaar, and have yet to undergo many more humiliations and difficulties like these. When I would see the result of all these tasks/desires, then I would wish to die. (320-21)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza didn't say that still/now the liver hasn't turned into blood and flowed out of the eyes. Rather, he said that it hasn't dripped. Between these two is a difference. That is, it's clear that to turn into drops and drip out means that he wants for himself such a difficulty that he would turn his whole liver to blood, but not all at once. Rather, slowly and gradually; that is, from moment to moment difficulties would befall him, disasters would come; and whenthe difficulties would be finished, then the end of the liver would come. (493)

FWP: JIGAR: {2,1} The lover isn't finished yet-- how can Death come calling so inopportunely? Like a professional, he knows what needs to be done, and he knows that it hasn't yet been accomplished. He doesn't like to leave a job half-finished. So he tells Death, 'let [it] remain' [rahne de], which is colloquially used to mean 'let it go' or 'drop the subject', a sense that works perfectly in itself. Only when we get a little further along in the line do we realize that it's rahne de mujhe yaa;N , so that the literal meaning, 'let me remain here', is also invoked; but as usual, both meanings work enjoyably together. Above all, the verse centers on the punchiness and complexities of kaam ; for discussion and more examples see {22,6}. This crucial little word is put in the punch-word position, as the last possible word in the verse, the rhymeword; and its two fundamental meanings, the Indic 'work' and the Persian 'desire', are both utterly appropriate. Let me stay a while longer, because I still have a lot of 'work' to do before I can get my liver into its ideal dripped-away state. Let me stay a while longer,

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because I still have a lot of 'desire'-- desire that will, one way or another, end up duly liquefying my liver.

{232,9} hogaa ko))ii aisaa bhii kih ;Gaalib ko nah jaane shaa((ir to vuh achchhaa hai pah badnaam bahut hai 1) will there be any such person at all, who wouldn't know Ghalib? 2) as a poet, he's good; but he's very {disreputable / 'bad-named'}

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, will there be any unfortunate individual who wouldn't recognize Ghalib? As good a poet as he is, he's exactly that much [ill-]famed. (321)

Bekhud Mohani: In Mirza's time there were some black-and-empty-hearted [kuur-savaad] critics who called him a 'faulty poet'; and today too there are many such gentlemen who, not to speak of a unique Ustad, don't even call him a poet. In addition, they've also made Mirza's rakishness notorious. (493-94)

Shadan: There's no one who wouldn't know Ghalib. He's certainly a good poet, but he's also very disreputable (he's a great wine-drinker). (513)

FWP: SETS == POETRY GOOD/BAD: {22,4} Apart from the good/bad wordplay, the truly clever and enjoyable thing is that Ghalib has provided himself with universal recognition: some people will know him because he's a good poet, while others will know him because he's notorious or disreputable (he has, literally, a 'bad name'). The secondary, equally clever implication is that the two groups are perhaps quite separate: the censorious gossips on the one hand, and the poetry connoisseurs on the other. The speaker seems to be (ruefully?) acknowledging, with a show of balance, the claims of both sides. The colloquial word order in the first half of the second line creates a delightful effect of judiciousness (more like 'as a poet, he's good' than like 'he's a good poet'). Then the intervening 'but' prepares us for the concessive tone of the rest of the line. The only conclusion to be drawn, apparently, between these two balanced perspectives, is that everybody knows him. In view of both his poetic fame and his general notoriety, there can hardly be anybody who doesn't!

Ghazal 233 17 verses; meter G3; rhyming elements: aa;N kiye hu))e composed after 1821; Hamid p. 187; Arshi #190; Raza pp. 261-62

{233,1} muddat hu))ii hai yaar ko mihmaa;N kiye hu))e josh-e qada;h se bazm chiraa;Gaa;N kiye hu))e 1) some time has occurred since having made the beloved/friend a guest 2) with the boiling/ebullition of the glass/flagon, having made the gathering a lamp-show

Notes: chiraa;Gaa;N : 'Lamps; lights; a display of lamps, a general illumination'. (Platts p.428)

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josh : 'Boiling, ebullition; effervescence; heat, excitement, passion, emotion; lust; fervour, ardour, zeal; vehemence; enthusiasm; frenzy'. (Platts p.397)

Nazm: That is, every single glass of fiery wine was a lamp. (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, many days have passed that I haven't shown hospitality to the beloved/friend, and having filled the cups with fiery wine placed them before our honored guest, so that the pleasure of a lamp-show would be obtained. That is, every single cup would act as a single lamp. (321)

Bekhud Mohani: Apparently this is a simple kind of verse. But the real truth is that it is an album of a number of contrary and opposite situations, and colorful revolutions and emotions and situations. The whole ghazal has been completed in a continuous theme. (494)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} This ghazal is another old favorite, not only of mine but of Ghalib fans generally. It's also a great grammatical exercise in the deployment of the adverbial past participle, if anybody cares to think of it in that light. Every single first line, except that of the present opening-verse, contains the word phir ; and broadly speaking the verses all speak in a mood of nostalgia, and all announce an intention of going back to the good old, bad old days of wild passion and romance. Having refused to learn from experience, the lover is ready to start all over again, even if only in his imagination. Bekhud Mohani skirts the edge of calling it a continuous ghazal (he says it has a 'continuous theme'). It's easy to see how such an effect is created, with a powerful refrain like 'having done' [kiye hu))e] to pull one along from verse to verse. It's been a long time since I did this and that; it's time that I would 'again' do this and that. This feels not like a strong narrative or thematic continuity, but at least like some weaker form of linkage or connection. And certainly some of the verses don't have all that much going on in them; it feels as though they're coasting along on the momentum of their part in the larger effect of the refrain. I don't think the situation is, in terms of individual verses, at all like that of {139}; but still the charm of the ghazal is based to a quite unusual degree on its larger, framing, refrain-based context rather than the separate appeal of every single verse individually. In the present verse, what the lover is nostalgic for is one of those great old evening parties. The crystal glasses of ruby-red wine, as they are uplifted and waved in the enthusiasm of the moment, glow and twinkle like lamps. Needless to say, we're thinking of oil lamps, not electric ones, so the combination of liquid, flickering movement, brilliance, and fire works beautifully to connect the wine-glasses and the lamps. A chiraa;Gaa;N is also a 'special light-show'-- just the sort of thing appropriate for the kind of evening party the lover is imagining.

{233,2} kartaa huu;N jam((a phir jigar-e la;xt-la;xt ko ((ar.sah hu))aa hai da((vat-e mizhgaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again I collect every fragment of the liver 2) it's been a while since having made a feast for the eyelashes

Notes: Nazm: It's been a while since I held a feast for the beloved's eyelashes, which had sent the fragments of the liver flying. Now again I am collecting those very pieces, and again I have the spirit for that very feast. A 'feast for the eyelashes' is an undesirable theme; better than that is an 'adornment' [ziinat]

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of the eyelashes. That is, by the fragments of the liver it is intended again to make the eyelashes branches for your roses [of liver-fragments]. (263)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again I sit picking over the fragments of the liver, which previously too I had already offered before the eyelashes of the beloved. (321)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Janab [Nazm] Tabataba'i established no proof of his claim [about the undesirableness of 'feast for the eyelashes'], thus it would be no harm to disregard it.... When together with the eyelashes the quality of blood-drinking is common in the poetry of the elders, to say such a thing is to cast doubt, without reason, on the honored elders. (495)

FWP: SETS == GROTESQUERIE JIGAR: {2,1} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Nazm seems to consider that this verse belongs in the category that I call 'grotesquerie'; though I'm not sure how much of an improvement his revision actually offers (assuming that I've understood it correctly). To me this verse is on the borderline; its visual imagery is grotesque but also somehow funny. The gross physical imagery doesn't distract us from the poetic effect, but instead helps to create it. The lover is gathering up 'again' [phir] the old, pre-offered liver fragments, so as to arrange them enticingly (on a plate?) and spread them out once again before the beloved's eyelashes. Will the eyelashes skewer them like shishkabobs, or will they simply slurp up their blood, as if they were using straws on a thick drink? However we imagine it, the effect is engagingly weird; and we feel that the lover too is enjoying the humor of it (compare the similar extravagance in the second line of {233,5}). There's also the amusingly unappetizing idea of preparing for a lavish feast-by collecting the leftovers from earlier lavish feasts. Yet what else can the poor lover do? He wants to offer his eyelash-guests their favorite food, and it's not as if he has a second liver that he can press into service. Besides, the eyelashes obviously didn't finish all the liver-fragments last time, so maybe they'll be hungrier now and can be induced to have another go.

{233,3} phir va.z((-e i;htiyaa:t se rukne lagaa hai dam barso;N hu))e hai;N chaak-e garebaa;N kiye hu))e 1) from the situation/appearance of caution/circumspection, again the breath has begun to stop 2) years have occurred since having torn the collar

Notes: va.z(( : 'Placing, fixing, laying, laying down, founding, establishing; making, forming, inventing; invention; --situation, position; disposition; nature, tenour; description, character, complexion; --condition, state; --appearance, form, guise; --gesture, action; --conduct, behaviour; --mode of living or acting; mode, manner, fashion; --operation, performance, procedure; -subtraction, deduction, abatement, retrenchment'. (Platts p.1175) i;htiyaat : 'Caution, care, scrupulousness, attention, heed; vigilance; precaution; circumspection'. (Platts p.28)

Nazm: By 'situation/manner of caution' is meant, being cautious about bursting open the collar. That is, for years I haven't burst open the collar; for this reason, the breath is confined. (263)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, through the restraint of madness the breath has again begun to be choked. Years have passed, and I haven't even torn open my collar! (321)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse the word phir is extremely meaningful. This one word along is a mirror of four things: (1) the time of the beginning of passion and ardor; (2) the time of incautiousnesses; (3) then, the time of caution; (4) then, the time of ardor for the renunciation of caution. (496)

FWP: CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Mad lovers tear open the necks of their kurtas because they're grief-stricken, or because they imagine themselves to be choking and need air, or simply because they're mad. For discussion and examples, see {17,9}. This particular lover, however, has been driven to the deed not by the passions of madness but by the stress of sanity. For years he's been showing a va.z(( -- with a range of meanings that include pretense too ('appearance, form, guise')-- of i;htiyaat ('caution, care, circumspection'), and he simply can't stand it any more. Maintaining this show of normalcy is beginning to suffocate him-- once again [phir]. This 'sanity' is-- once again-- driving him mad.

{233,4} phir garm-e naalah'haa-e sharar-baar hai nafas muddat hu))ii hai sair-e chiraa;Gaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again {eager for/ hot with} spark-scattering laments is the breath some time has occurred since having strolled amidst the lamp-show

Notes: Nazm: The lamp-show of lament, which it used to stroll through and look at-- now again the self [jii] is wanting to stroll through and look. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the self wants, as before, to lament in such a way that would cause sparks to rain down. It's been some time since having seen the spectacle of a lamp-show. (321)

Bekhud Mohani: This is not a verse, but a wonder of poetry, and a miracle of the creationdisplaying power of imagination and thought. (496)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Idiomatically, garm-e means something like 'hot for' in English, but in the general sense of 'eager for' rather than with any erotic overtones. And this sense certainly works. But when we see, at the end of the line, that it's the 'breath' [nafas] that's the subject, we realize that the construction can also be read literally: the breath is again 'hot with' or 'hot by means of' the 'sparkscattering laments'. Thus we have a cleverly framed double possibility: either the once-and-future lover is 'eager for' the 'spark-scattering laments', or else he is already generating them: his 'breath' is 'hot with' them. To liken these 'spark-scattering laments' to a 'lamp-show' (compare {233,1}) is to do them perhaps less than justice, for they sound like modern fireworks (or at least, like the simple 'sparklers' made for kids). Who wouldn't relish a stroll amidst such a fine show? And if you yourself, with your own 'hot breath', were creating it, perhaps that would make it even more brilliantly, or ruefully, enjoyable.

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{233,5} phir pursish-e jaraa;hat-e dil ko chalaa hai ((ishq saamaan-e .sad-hazaar namakdaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again Passion has set out to ask about the wounds of the heart 2) having equipped itself with a hundred thousand salt-dishes

Notes: pursish : 'Asking, questioning, interrogating, inquiring, inquiry (generally after health)'. (Platts p.248)

Nazm: The idea is that passion has again set out to sprinkle salt on the wounds of the heart. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the tumult/saltiness [shor] of passion is collecting the equipment for scattering salt on the wounds of the heart.

Bekhud Mohani: Now Passion, having brought all the hundreds of thousands of salt-dishes, is setting out to make fresh the old/suppressed wounds. (497)

FWP: SETS == HUMOR On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. It's so kind of Passion, the solicitous friend, to set out to visit and 'ask about' the health of its companions, the 'wounds of the heart'. And like any proper visitor to a sickroom, it comes bearing some appropriate, encouraging, small gifts-- which in this case take the witty, irresistible form of 'a hundred thousand salt-dishes'. Salt rubbed on an open wound is of course a torment-- and for that very reason, it's exactly what the heart-wounds will most enjoy. (For another vivid illustration of the point, see {17,7}.) We're back at the central 'pain is pleasure' paradox at the mystical heart of the ghazal world. And of course since the visitor is Passion, it's amusing to think what form its sympathetic inquiries will take. Will it solicitously inquire how raw the wounds are feeling lately, whether they are sufficiently fiery and inflamed? 'Is there anything I can do to help?' it will inquire. 'And oh by the way, here's a small present I thought you might like, to cheer you up-- it's nothing, really, just a few little salt-dishes.' Why 'a hundred thousand' salt-dishes? Are there are that many wounds in the heart? Or is each wound insatiable, seeking to cover itself with dish after dish of salt? Either way, the scenario is sufficiently absurd to avoid any real grotesquerie. For a description of another such consoling visitor--one who brings the sick person equally fine gifts-- see {2,1}.

{233,6} phir bhar rahaa huu;N ;xaamah-e mizhgaa;N bah ;xuun-e dil saaz-e chaman-:taraazii-e daamaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again I am filling the pen of the eyelashes with the blood of the heart 2) having {prepared for/ arranged} the 'garden-adornment' of the garmenthem

Notes: saaz karnaa : 'To prepare, get ready (necessaries, &c. for); to put in order, to arrange'. (Platts p.625)

Nazm: That is, in order to make an adorned garment-hem, I am dipping the eyelashpen in the blood of the heart. (264)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have again dipped the pen of the eyelashes in the blood of the heart, so that on the border of the garment I would make rose-embroideries [gul-kaariyaa;N]. (321-22)

Bekhud Mohani: Again I am dipping the pen of my eyelashes in the blood of the heart, so that with tears of blood I would make the garment-hem into a blooming garden. (497)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. I strongly suspect that 'garden-adornment' [chaman-:taraazii] was an established name for some special kind of embroidery, presumably one with a floral motif. The commentators feel that the speaker is preparing to perform this kind of adornment on his garment-hem, using his bloody tears as they drip from the 'pens' of his eyelashes. The physical image behind this idea is that the grieving lover would be seated in a hunched-over position with his head very much lowered, so that his bloody tears would drip directly down and land on his garment-hem. (Hems and borders of garments were often decorated with special bands of embroidery.) Another possible reading, based on the wide range of saaz karnaa , is that the speaker has already completed the 'arrangement' of this garment-hem decoration, and is now 'again' refilling his eyelash-pen with his heart's blood, preparing for some new act of creative bloody-tear rose-floral embroidery.

{233,7} baa-ham-digar hu))e hai;N dil-o-diidah phir raqiib na:z:zaarah-e jamaal kaa saamaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again heart and eye have become Rivals with each other 2) having gathered the equipment for the sight of beauty

Notes: na:z:zaarah : 'Sight, view, look, show; inspection; --amorous glance, ogling'. (Platts p.1142)

Nazm: That is, again the heart has rallied its enthusiasm for the thought of beauty; and the eye, for the sight of the face. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again heart and eye have become each other's Rivals. The heart has made an imaginary image of the beauty, and the eye has expressed longing for the sight of the face of the beautiful one. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, during the time passed in the restraint of ardor, there was no rivalry between the heart and the eye. Now, since both have again felt a desire for the beloved, the eye is on the lookout to experience the relish of the sight of beauty, and the heart is alert to experience the pleasure of the thought of the beloved. (497)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Both heart and eye are now on the alert, eager to launch themselves afresh into the old pursuit of beauty. Like all ardent lovers, they are jealous of each other, and inevitably become Rivals. On the face of it, the eye would seem to have the advantage. After all, what is being sought is the 'sight' of beauty, which is the eye's special domain.

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But then, we notice the cleverness of this seemingly artless little verse. Both heart and eye prepare for the pursuit of beauty by accumulating 'equipment' [saamaa;N]. Presumably the eye's equipment would be fairly straightforward-- the eye should be open, alert, bright and fresh and eager. But then, it would have to wait for the Beauty to actually come before it and be visible. By contrast, the heart's 'equipment' would surely consist of visions, imaginings, memories, fantasies, longings, and other complex mental and emotional events. Since these are internal to the lover himself, how readily they would be available! The heart wouldn't be obliged to mark time until the external Beauty actually appeared. Thus it might actually have the advantage over the eye in this rivalry-- which is also a wry commentary on the nature of passion.

{233,8} dil phir :tavaaf-e kuu-e malaamat ko jaa))e hai pindaar kaa .sanam-kadah viiraa;N kiye hu))e 1) again the heart goes to circumambulate the street of blame/reproach/disgrace 2) having made desolate the idol-house of conceit/opinion/arrogance

Notes: malaamat : 'Reproof, rebuke, censure, reprehension, reproach, accusation, blame; reviling; disgrace; opprobrium; contumely'. (Platts p.1063) pindaar : 'Thought, imagination, notion, opinion; self-conceit, pride, arrogance'. (Platts p.272)

Nazm: Conceit and self-regard had forbidden him to go into the street of blame; having made desolate this idol-house, he goes to circumambulate the holy place [;haram] of disgrace. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the heart has expressed a longing to circumambulate the street of blame; it has torn down the idol-temple of arrogance and self-regard. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: In this verse there are not words-- the cruel one [:zaalim] has assembled diamonds. In it too the word 'again' has created the same pleasure that can be seen in a number of other verses of this ghazal as well. (498)

FWP: IDOL: {8,1} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. This verse startlingly rearranges some of the ghazal world's most basic associations. The first line leads us to expect something like {233,3}: the nostalgic speaker is once again about to abandon respectability and return to his old, antisocial, passionate ways. And indeed, that's what the second line gives us-- but with an unexpected twist. For as a rule, the lover's quasi-religious devotion to the 'street of blame' is based on its being the beloved's street, and the beloved is the 'idol' to whom he devotes, in a way that shocks and horrifies respectable people, the passionate love that ought to be reserved for God alone. Thus when we learn in the first line that he is planning to perform 'circumambulation' of this 'street of blame', we're not at all surprised; it's just the sort of sacrilegious thing that lovers are notorious for doing. The surprise comes in the second line, when we encounter an 'idol-house' that's not located in the beloved's street at all. Instead, it's the idol-house of

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'conceit' or 'arrogance' [pindaar], and it's a place to which the speaker was formerly so (uniquely?) devoted that his abandonment will leave it 'desolate'. There's an obvious symbolic reading here: respectability and worldly reputation are 'idols' too, and the passionate lover must entirely renounce them. But then, it seems that the lover will go from one 'idol-house' (that of 'conceit') to another (that of the 'street of blame'). The evidence that the 'street of blame' is an 'idol-house' is that he's going to perform circumambulation there, which is a ritual used only for (real or false) holy places. And the proof that he's not worshipping the real God is that the street is one of 'blame', whereas divine worship is socially praiseworthy. So what we see him doing is transferring his allegiance, in effect, from one 'idol-house' to another. There's no reason he shouldn't do this, of course, and the interpretive possibilities are piquant in their own right. But still, I find it a bit disquieting. The beloved then loses her uniqueness and transcendance, and becomes just one of a number of 'idols' (because if there are two, there's no reason there can't be more). Can her devotees then shop around, transferring their allegiance back and forth at will among 'idol-houses'? My own way out of this unsettling situation is to imagine the lover circumambulating, and passionately devoting himself to, the 'street of disgrace' itself, in the sense of a path or a way or a form of behavior. And in fact, the verse doesn't mention that it's the beloved's street. So maybe disgrace has a religious value in itself, as the best antidote to pompousness and complacency?

{233,9} phir shauq kar rahaa hai ;xariidaar kii :talab ((ar.z-e mata((-e ((aql-o-dil-o-jaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again Ardor is making a search for a buyer 2) having made a presentation/submission of the merchandise/valuables of intelligence/wisdom and heart and life

Notes: ((ar.z karnaa : 'To make representation (of), to represent, to submit, to state humbly; to report; to memorialize; to make application (for), to apply (for), to request, beg'. (Platts p.760)

Nazm: If any beloved would be a buyer, then we would sell into her hands heart and faith. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again Ardor is searching for some beloved as a buyer, and he-- that is, Ardor of the heart-- has opened a shop for intelligence and heart and life. The meaning is that again some beloved would become a buyer and purchase from us the merchandise [saudaa] of intelligence and heart and life. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, now again the self wants some buyer to appear, so that it would sell off the equipment of heart and intelligence and life. That is, now the heart uncontrollably wants some beloved to appear, for whom it would sacrifice everything-- heart and intelligence and life. Now these things don't seem worthy of being valued. (498)

FWP: COMMERCE: {3,3} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. The personified quality of 'Ardor' is ready to sell off his best goods. In fact, he wants to have a 'going out of business sale' and get it all over with at

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once-- he's ready to dispose of his intelligence and heart and life as a kind of package deal, available cheap to some lucky buyer. You'd think he'd be besieged with customers; but apparently he's not. For he's 'again' (since this is the normal experience of lovers) having to go out and beat the bushes to find a taker. Of course, he only needs one. But that one has to be special, unique, irresistible; she has to ravish him completely through a glimpse or a glance. She'll be a 'taker' in the sense that she'll 'give' him very little-- but that little must be devastating, obsessive, inescapable; it must 'take' over his whole life. Compare {60,7}, which makes clear how choosy such a 'seller' can be.

{233,10} dau;Re hai phir har ek gul-o-laalah par ;xiyaal .sad gulsitaa;N nigaah kaa saamaa;N kiye hu))e 1) thought again runs on every single rose and tulip 2) having made a hundred gardens equipment for the look/gaze

Notes: Nazm: Rose and tulip are metaphors for beautiful ones, and in 'a hundred gardens of equipment' he has assumed the garden to be a measure of the gaze-- for the reason that looks of desire and ardor fall on the garden. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the thought has begun to run toward beautiful ones. In the gaze the equipment of hundreds of gardens has been collected. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: Mirza has composed an extraordinary verse, and he has captured in words a picture of the state of the human heart in the extremity of ardor. (499)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Of course the 'rose and tulip' could mean beautiful human beings, or beloveds. But they can perfectly well also mean the flowers themselves. The quasi-personified 'Thought' has equipped itself with ample fuel for its imaginative delights: it has appropriated a hundred gardens' worth of ravishing flowers. By requisitioning flowers instead of beloveds, 'Thought' has added an extra layer of complexity to what looks to be an extremely simple verse. Here are some possible implications: =arrogantly beautiful and cruel beloveds are not available even to the thought, so that the imaginative lover is obliged to settle for flowers =the flowers so resemble beloveds (and/or the beloveds so resemble flowers) that to think of one is to think of the other =the single beloved so outranks the flowers that she can only be imagined in terms of all the flowers in the world =the beauty of the garden in its verdure and spring-like flourishing is so inextricably the setting for passion, that the imagination must first prepare the scene before introducing the actors =the hundred gardens are for the 'gaze' to survey, as the eye sweeps over their masses of color; but by contrast, Thought considers every single flower individually.

{233,11} phir chaahtaa huu;N naamah-e dildaar kholnaa jaa;N na;zr-e dil-farebii-e ((unvaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again I want to open a {heart-possessor's / heart-possessing} letter 2) having made my life an offering to the heart-beguilingness of the superscription

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Notes: na;zr : 'A vow; an offering, anything offered or dedicated; a gift or present (from an inferior to a superior)'. (Platts p.1128) dil-fareb : 'Heart-alluring, enticing, bewitching, enchanting, fascinating, charming, beautiful, lovely' (Platts p.523) farebii : '(as last member of compounds), Deceiving, deluding, defrauding, cheating; alluring, beguiling, winning (e.g. dil-farebii ) (Platts p.781-82) ((unvaan : 'Superscription, title, or title-page (of a book, &c.); preface; anything that serves as an indication (of another thing); that which is understood (by anything); --mode, manner'. (Platts p.766)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I again want to open the beloved's letter. The way she has written my name and address on the envelope is heart-beguiling, so that I want to offer up my life to it. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: ((unvaan = redness [sur;xii] [of ink], title. (499)

Baqir: ((unvaan = redness [sur;xii] [of ink]. (552)

FWP: SETS == CATCH-22 WRITING: {7,3} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Thanks to the ambiguities of the i.zaafat , the letter can be that of a 'heartpossessor', or can itself be 'heart-possessing'. In both cases, the heart in question is obviously that of the infatuated lover. The beloved (or her letter) has either stolen his heart, or else he has freely given it over into her (or its) custody. Both these possibilities work cleverly with the second line, which in fact creates a kind of 'catch-22' situation. I want to open her letter-- after I have offered up my life to the charm of the superscription. But of course, once I have offered up my life I will be dead, and then can't open the letter. The 'superscription' may be something written on an envelope, or perhaps the letter itself is folded and sealed, and has the recipient's name written on the visible outside part of the folded letter. Another possibility took me by surprise: to Bekhud Mohani and Baqir, the idea of 'superscription' can be defined as 'redness [of ink]', as for a title or heading. Red ink for a superscription that calls for the sacrifice of the reader's life-blood is obviously an elegant touch. Whether or not Ghalib knew this idiomatic usage, he would surely have approved. My favorite part of the verse is the elegant use of dil-farebii , which I've translated as 'heart-beguilingness' in an attempt to evoke both its senses at once. The basic meaning of farebii is trickery, deceit, cheating, defrauding-all the exploitative things that a con artist would practice. But dil-farebii is so well established in its own right that it's become largely domesticated: it refers generally to the charming beloved's (heart-) winning ways. But the presence of farebii can't entirely be overridden, and the overtones of trickery, treachery, deceit are always hovering somewhere around it. (Compare the use of ma((shuuq-farebii in {208,10}.) These overtones reinforce the circular, 'catch-22) effect of this witty little verse.

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{233,12} maa;Nge hai phir kisii ko lab-e baam par havas zulf-e siyaah ru;x pah pareshaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again Desire wants someone on the edge of the roof 2) [in a state of] having scattered her black curls over her face

Notes: Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again my longing is that some beloved, with her black curls scattered over her face, would be glancing at me from an upper chamber. (322)

Bekhud Mohani: This picture is so heart-attracting, and its excellences are so clear, that it's in no need of commentary. (499)

Baqir: Again my desire is in search of a vision: that someone would be standing at the edge of the roof, and her black curls would be scattered around her moon-like face. (552)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. The commentators love to praise Ghalib for making a 'picture' of something or other, even if that's not really what he's doing. It's that old 'natural poetry' criterion, seeking to apply itself at all costs, even in the extremely inhospitable terrain of a poet like Ghalib. But here, they have their wish, and Bekhud Mohani quite understandably exults. For this verse truly is a picture. Some of the commentators seem to envision it as a flirtatious one, with the beautiful beloved contriving a seductive glance through artfully dishevelled locks. But to me it clicked at once: it evoked a sight that I've seen so often in Indian cities. Women make much use of the flat roofs of their houses, and one of the things they come to the roof for is to dry their hair in the sun. In the old days, women didn't cut their hair, and it grew very long; usually it was heavy, straight, and jet black, and was a great point of pride. So it took a while to dry. In order to help it dry they would comb it out, and flip it forward over their faces and toss their heads, to spread it out and speed the drying. After it was dry, they would oil it and braid it back up. The process of drying this beautiful hair was (in principle at least) an innocent one, so that a young woman might be shaking out and thus involuntarily displaying her long, loose hair on the roof as a normal part of her routine, without the least flirtatious intention. Perhaps that (presumed) innocence would add piquancy to the sight? But then, there's no particular reason for her to be on 'the edge' of the roof, as opposed to somewhere in the middle of it, unless perhaps she would indeed have a sneaky little desire to show off. But in any case let's not forget that the whole thing is not a real sight, but a fantasy framed by 'Desire'. It's true that the 'again' might imply that this real sight had been available in the past. But it could equally well imply that it was the act of desiring itself that was repeated, whether or not it had ever had any success in seeing what it desired to see. This verse and the next one, {233,13}, are close parallels in structure.

{233,13} chaahe hai phir kisii ko muqaabil me;N aarzuu surme se tez dashnah-e mizhgaa;N kiye hu))e

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1) Longing again wants someone in confrontation/correspondence 2) [who is in a state of] having made sharp the dagger of the eyelashes with collyrium

Notes: muqaabil : 'Fronting, confronting; opposing, contending; opposite; -comparing; collating; --corresponding, matching; resembling, like'. (Platts p.1053)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, I have a longing that again someone would come to confront me, having made sharp the dagger of the eyelashes with collyrium. (323)

Bekhud Mohani: Again Longing claims that some beloved should come and stand before-and how? Like this: that she would have put a flood [baa;rh] of collyrium on the dagger of the eyelashes. That is, her eyes would be covered with collyrium. (500)

Baqir: The meaning is that some beloved with collyrium-covered eyes would be seated before me, and would be wounding my heart with the arrow of her glance. (553)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. This verse and the previous one, {233,12}, are close parallels in structure. The only noteworthy feature I can find in this verse is the well-situated use of muqaabil me;N . Its basic meaning here is definitely something like 'in confrontation' or 'in opposition', which suits with the second line and its description of her martial preparation (sharpening the dagger). But the secondary meaning is still that of 'corresponding, matching, resembling, like'. And how can such a meaning not be part of what a lover's 'Longing' is longing for? For after all, the eyelashes are a dagger that can 'slay' the lover in a way that he longs for, and the 'likeness' that is sought is surely a form of connection or mutual understanding.

{233,14} ik nau-bahaar-e naaz ko taake hai phir nigaah chahrah furo;G-e mai se gulistaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again Sight gazes/stares at a single/unique new/early spring of coquetry 2) having made the face, with the brightness/splendor of wine, a garden

Notes: chahrah : 'Face, visage; countenance; air, mien; likeness, portrait'. (Platts p.461) furo;G : 'Illumination, light, brightness, splendour; flame; --glory, fame, honour'. (Platts p.780)

Nazm: Like the first verse, the meaning of this verse too is that all these things have passed away; now again in the heart the same kind of ardor has grown up. But the late author has said taake hai because of the affinity between wine and taak ['A vine; creeper; branch of any tree growing like a vine; grapes'-(Platts p.305)]. Otherwise, this word doesn't capture the meaning; here he should have said 'searches for' [;Dhuu;N;Dhe hai]. (264)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the gaze is staring at a new spring of coquetry, and it wants to make the face, by means of the radiance of wine, into the equal of a garden, and have it [=the face] come before it [=the gaze]. (323)

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Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] Janab Tabataba'i didn't pay close attention. If the late author had said this because of the affinity between wine and taak , then there would remain no basis of discrimination between ordinary poets and this one unique in the age. The claim that the word doesn't capture the meaning is such that it causes proper taste to put its hands over its ears. Here taake hai makes it distinctively clear that it has been said because of its meaning, and by using this word the author has created a turmoil in the emotions of the poetry-understander. That is, up to then, people said again and again, jii chaahtaa hai . From their saying and saying it a uniform picture had taken shape, such that-- God forbid! There was one single picture that came and stood before them. Now, in the picture world, he is seeing the beloved in such a way that on her face, from the effect of drinking wine, a redness is showing itself, and she has become from head to foot coquetry, and from heat to foot a springtime. When this form/aspect came into view, then in the heart additional ardor was created. (500)

FWP: WINE: {49,1} On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. The wordplay with taak that Nazm points out makes for an enjoyable affinity. But his notion that what Ghalib is really trying to convey is a process of 'searching' rather than 'gazing' is not very persuasive. For the verse carefully doesn't tell us exactly how it is that 'Sight', or the Gaze, has turned, by means of the radiance of wine, a face into a garden. Here are some possibilities: ='Sight' has made the beloved drink wine, which has made her cheeks pink and thus turned her face into a garden (though it's not clear how 'Sight' could cause her to do this) ='Sight' has made the lover drink wine, which has made him see the beloved's face as (like?) a garden; thus Sight can enjoy afresh a 'new springtime of coquetry' etc. ='Sight' has made the lover drink wine, so that his face becomes flushed and his mood turns mellow and romantic-- thus since in this flourishing state he carries his own garden with him, everywhere he looks he sees springtime and coquetry.

{233,15} phir jii me;N hai kih dar pah kisii ke pa;Re rahe;N sar zer-baar-e minnat-e darbaa;N kiye hu))e 1) again it's in our inner-self that we would remain lying at someone's door 2) having placed our head under a burden/obligation of the kindness/favor of the Doorkeeper

Notes: minnat : 'Kindness or service done (to); favour, obligation; --grace, courtesy; --entreaty, humble and earnest supplication'. (Platts p.1071)

Nazm: That is, because of the burden of kindness we wouldn't at all be able to rise. (265)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the urge has developed in our inner-self that, having taken upon our head [the burden of] the kindness of the Doorkeeper, we would remain lying at some beloved's door. (323)

Bekhud Mohani: To remain lying at someone's door like a voiceless one, and to become indebted to a low/vile man like the Doorkeeper, was seen to be contrary to

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one's dignity/glory. Since the heart is becoming out of control, again there's a longing for just such things. (500-01)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. Here again is the reversal of values seen in {233,8} (in which the lover prefers the 'street of blame' to the 'idol-house of pride'), and also in {233,9} (in which 'wisdom', 'heart', and 'life' are goods the lover is eager to sell off as quickly as possible). As Bekhud Mohani observes, to abase oneself before a low-class servant like a Doorkeeper is normally a thoroughly repugnant idea- but not to the lover, who longs for the opportunity even before it's had a chance to present itself. The real pleasure of the verse is its enjoyable back-and-forth-ness between literal and metaphorical meanings. For when one is indebted to someone, in Urdu one is 'under a burden' [zer-e baar], and the burden consists of that person's kindness or favor [minnat]-- which one may have obtained by abjectly begging and pleading for it [minnat karnaa] (for this double range of meaning see the definition above). People who are expressing gratitude for a great kindness may extravagantly proclaim that this 'burden' is so heavy that it bows their shoulders down, that they can't 'lift' it. Everybody of course understands the idea to be metaphorical, and so it can be in this case too: the desperate lover will be under the 'burden' of a heavy obligation to the Doorkeeper's kindness in permitting him to remain at the beloved's door and not driving him away with kicks and abuse. But of course, the lover wants to lie prostrate at the beloved's door (and maybe even to be allowed the liberty of performing actual prostrations there; on this see {43,6}). And lying prostrate is exactly the attitude assumed by someone who is crushed under a massive 'burden' and is unable to 'lift' it. (See for example {130,3}, in which a wall is 'bent' under the 'burden' of the kindness of the worker who built it.) So in the present verse, the lover lies prostrate-- and we can imagine him as literally unable to lift his head beneath such a heavy 'burden'. As a rule, Ghalib hates this kind of indebtedness and obligation, not only for himself but for others as well; for many examples, see {9,1}. But the relationship of the lover and the Doorkeeper is definitely a special case. It's part of the lover's general madness and his inversion of all worldly values.

{233,16} jii ;Dhuu;N;Dtaa hai phir vuhii fur.sat kih raat din bai;The rahe;N ta.savvur-e jaanaa;N kiye hu))e 1) the inner-self again seeks that same leisure, that night and day 2) we would remain seated, having made a mental-image of beautiful ones

Notes: ta.savvur : 'Imaging or picturing (a thing) to the mind; imagination, fancy; reflection, contemplation, meditation; forming an idea; idea, conception, perception, apprehension'. (Platts p.326)

Nazm: That is, that night and day we would remain engaged in the imagining of curls and face. (256)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, again the inner-self wants, as in time past, to have such leisure that night and day we would sit silent, having imagined the beloved. (323)

Bekhud Mohani: Formerly there was a time when we not only abandoned the work of the whold world, but rather completely forgot it, and for all eight watches, all

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twenty-four hours, we used to sit contemplating an imagining of the beloved. Now again there's a longing for that same night-and-day leisure. (501)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. This verse points up a conspicuous feature of this ghazal: how autonomously active all the lover's different faculties are shown to be. In some verses the agent is 'I', the lover himself; but mostly it's not. The active party is 'breath' in {233,4}; 'passion' in {233,5}; 'heart and eye' in {233,7}; 'heart' in {233,8}; 'ardor' in {233,9}; 'thought' in {233,10}; 'desire' in {233,12}; 'longing' in {233,13}; 'sight' in {233,14}. And now once more, in the present verse, we see how much of the lover's nostalgic passion for renewal is an entirely internal affair, generated not by any 'real' beloved but by deliberate, private actions of his own faculties. For it almost seems that to sit night and day lost in visions and fantasies would in itself be sufficient. If the lover has a ta.savvur of 'beautiful ones' (in the plural), might not that be enough? Does he really need one particular, actual beloved?

{233,17} ;Gaalib hame;N nah chhe;R kih phir josh-e ashk se bai;The hai;N ham tahiiyah-e :tuufaa;N kiye hu))e 1) Ghalib, don't tease/torment us, for again with/through a turmoil of tears 2) we are settled/brooding, having made preparation for a typhoon

Notes: chhe;Rnaa : 'To touch, lay the hand on, pass the hand over; to meddle with, molest, interrupt, disturb, trouble, annoy, tease, torment, worry, irritate, vex, excite, provoke; to touch up, stir up, incite, stimulate, jog, urge, spur; --to question closely, or searchingly, or strictly, to call to account, take to task, censure, rebuke; to address unseemly language to, to abuse, insult; to laugh at, quiz, deride'. (Platts p.468) bai;Thnaa : 'To seat oneself, sit down, be seated, be unemployed or idle; to sit, brood, incubate; to alight, settle'. (Platts p.206) tahiiyah : 'Preparation, provision; putting in order, arrangement'. (Platts p.350)

Nazm: Here the author has used 'typhoon' with the meaning of 'in order to raise a typhoon'; it's hard to find a warrant [sanad] for this. (265)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh Ghalib, don't tease us, for again through the turmoil of tears we are settled/brooding with the intention of raising a typhoon. (323)

Bekhud Mohani: [Disagreeing with Nazm:] The author hasn't used 'typhoon' with the meaning of 'in order to raise a typhoon'. Rather, the meaning 'to raise a typhoon' is included within 'preparation for a typhoon'. Examples of this are common.... In any case, if a 'warrant' will be demanded for every single common word, then except for silence, what answer can there be? (501)

FWP: On the structure of this ghazal as a kind of loosely 'continuous' one, see {233,1}. The enjoyable contrast is between the threat of chhe;Rnaa , with its active overtones of stirring up, inciting, exciting; and the threat of bai;Thnaa , with its ominously stubborn suggestions of settling down, brooding, incubating.

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The typhoon consists of wind and rain, and the lover with his sighs and tears is more than ready to produce one. Maybe, after all these years, it's time once again?

Ghazal 234 14 verses; meter G9; rhyming elements: aa;N ke liye composed 1847; Hamid p. 188; Arshi #211; Raza pp. 285-86

{234,1} naved-e amn hai bedaad-e dost jaa;N ke liye rahii nah :tarz-e sitam ko))ii aasmaa;N ke liye 1) the friend's injustice/cruelty is good-news of security/safety for my life 2) there remained no style of tyranny for the sky

Notes: naved : 'Good news, glad tidings'. (Platts p.1161) amn : 'Security, safety; tranquillity, peace'. (Platts p.82)

Nazm: The beloved's injustice/cruelty made me fearless of the injustice/cruelty of the heavens. She left no tyranny untried-- now where will the sky find any new style of tyranny? Atish says: gardish-e chashm-e butaa;N se ;xaak me;N ham mil ga))e ;hau.slah baaqii falak ko rah gayaa bedaad kaa [from the turning of the eyes of idols, we went down into the dust the sky was left with its enthusiasm for injustice/cruelty] The word :tarz was formerly feminine, and even now is so in Delhi; but in Lucknow the common idiom treats it as masculine. (265)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the tyranny of the beloved toward us proved very fortunate, because however many forms of tyranny and oppression there were, she used them all. As if however many oppressions there were, they all became exhausted-now the sky cannot invent a new style of tyranny, so if it would oppress us, then how would it do so? The meaning is that having endured her tyranny, he has become protected for a whole lifetime from the oppression of the sky. (323)

Bekhud Mohani: The first thing worthy of notice is that with 'injustice/cruelty' he has placed the word 'friend'.... And this establishes that the oppression of the friend seems to be more desirable than not only the injustice of the age, but even the graciousness of the age. (501)

FWP: Bekhud Dihlavi points out that forms of cruelty seem to be exhaustible, so that once the 'friend' has used them all up, there are no fresh ones left for the sky. A similar zero-sum economy seems to apply, in {111,12}, to blessings. As usual in the ghazal world, the direction of comparison is not from something else to the beloved ('she is like a spring day') but from the beloved to something else ('a spring day is like her')-- from the beloved to anything and everything else, here including fate, destiny, and the celestial sphere itself (from which disasters [bala))e;N] notoriously descend). In terms of injustice/cruelty, she gets there first, and has it all and does it all; by comparison, the sky is nowhere, it's left helpless and irrelevant. For another, and even more extreme, example of her predominance over the sky, see {27,8}.

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{234,2} balaa se gar mizhah-e yaar tishnah-e ;xuu;N hai rakhuu;N kuchh apnii bhii mizhgaan-e ;xuu;N-fishaa;N ke liye 1) what the hell, if the friend's eyelashes are thirsty for blood?! 2) I would keep some even/also for my own blood-scattering eyelashes!

Notes: Nazm: If her eyelashes are blood-drinking [;xuun;xvaar], then my eyelashes too are blood-scattering [;xuunbaar]. If I would give all the blood to her alone, then what would I keep for my own eyelashes? (265)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, what can I do? If the beloved's eyelashes are still thirsty for more blood, I've already fed them their share of the heart's blood. Now whatever amount of blood is left in the heart is the share of my own blood-scattering eyelashes. (324)

Bekhud Mohani: If the beloved's eyelashes are thirsty for blood, then let them be thirsty. I ought also to keep some of my heart's blood for my own blood-raining eyelashes. (503)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION; HUMOR; MUSHAIRAH On the nuances of the idiomatic expression balaa se , see {58,1}. This light and amusing little verse is a classic example of what I call a mushairah verse. It has all the relevant qualities in a clearly deployed form. The first line is exclamatory and even a bit shocking-- since when does the lover reject any demand of the beloved's? Her eyelashes are imperious, and their demand for blood is well-established in the ghazal universe. In fact, it can be said that the lover's blood really belongs to them, and that he only holds it in trust for them, as is made clear in {16,1} and {113,3}. So how does he have the nerve to indignantly deny them their right? In mushairah performance style, we're of course made to wait as long as is conveniently possible before we're allowed to hear the second line. And even then, as the first part of the line unfolds before us we're still unable to 'get' it. Not until the last possible moment, when we hear the 'punch-word' ;xuunfishaa;N , do we suddenly catch the meaning and the cleverness at the same instant. Naturally, we'd say vaah vaah! And then, the final quality of a mushairah-verse: when it's over, it's over. Once we've had that little burst of pleasure, we're entirely sure there's nothing more to come, no subtleties or further possibilities, and we can go on to the next verse. The humor comes from the harassed lover's back-to-the-wall attempt at fairness; he's like a parent being pestered by two clamorous five-year-olds, and he's determined to give each set of eyelashes its due. But we also realize with amusement that the seeming fairness masks the huge one-sidedness of the fact that both lots of blood are destined for the beloved's use and delectation, and it's really only a question of exactly how they'll be presented to her.

{234,3} vuh zindah ham hai;N kih hai;N ruu-shinaas-e ;xalq ay ;xi.zr nah tum kih chor bane ((umr-e jaavidaa;N ke liye 1) we are the truly living one, for we are known-by-sight to mankind/creation, oh Khizr 2) not you, who became a thief for the sake of eternal life

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Notes: ruu-shinaas : 'One whose face is known, an acquaintance'. (Platts p.602)

Nazm: That is, what good is such an eternal life, when you wander around in concealment like a thief? (265)

Bekhud Dihlavi: It's a new kind of mischievousness. Addressing Hazrat Khizr, may peace be upon him, he says, look, 'life' is the name of our living in the world and keeping on mixing with people. If you've obtained eternal life, what benefit did you gain? You remain hidden from people's eyes. What good is such an eternal life, thanks to which you would be obliged to remain hidden from people's eyes? (324)

Bekhud Mohani: That is, on the strength of our fame we have eternal life, and the way the whole world knows me today, in the same way it will know me till Doomsday. So with regard to eternal life, you and I are equal. You have indeed attained this much of a superiority: that the whole world knows me, and it doesn't know you. (503)

FWP: Ghalib seems to enjoy needling Khizr, just as he needles Farhad. The Islamic folk-traditional story of how Khizr undertook to guide Alexander to the Water of Life has many variants. The majority of them (though not all) involve some kind of treachery on Khizr's part. But they all agree on the outcome: that Khizr drank the Water of Life, while Alexander did not. A reference to this story also appears in {215,9}. It's on the basis of this story that Khizr can be considered to have become a 'thief' in order to procure the Water of Life. As the commentators point out, another consequence of Khizr's new status (after drinking the Water of Life) is that he becomes unknowable, or at least unrecognizable. Story tradition knows what he looks like-- he is a venerable old man dressed in green, and acts as a guide to lost travelers-- but the travelers whom he guides are not able to recognize him as himself. In this connection see {159,6}, which also turns on issues of recognition. Bekhud Mohani takes the verse as a boast by Ghalib of his wide popularity as a poet. This doesn't seem to be too plausible. For being ruu-shinaas , 'known by face', is explicitly based on personal contact and (casual) acquaintance, while being famous as a poet depends on the circulation of one's work, not the recognition of one's face. The colloquial vuh at the beginning of the first verse is an emphatic construction-- we are the really, the truly, the importantly, living one. It comes across well in Urdu, though it's hard to translate consistently.

{234,4} rahaa balaa me;N bhii mai;N mubtalaa-e aafat-e rashk balaa-e jaa;N hai adaa terii ik jahaa;N ke liye 1) even/also in disaster/affliction, I remained afflicted/entangled in the calamity of jealousy/envy 2) your style/grace/coquetry is a mortal disaster/affliction for a whole world

Notes: mubtalaa : 'Sorely tried, afflicted, distressed, distracted, fallen (into, - me;N , evil, or calamity, or trouble), involved (in), overtaken (by); entangled; fascinated, enamoured (of)

Nazm: And even if it was a disaster, it should have been for me alone-- why did it happen to the whole world? (265)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, if only I alone had been absorbed in a disaster! If your style/coquetry was a disaster, then it should have been so for me only. I would have obtained escape from the disaster of jealousy/envy. The cruelty is that your style/coquetry has been established as a mortal disaster for the whole world. (324)

Bekhud Mohani: The beloved is so disastrously beautiful that whoever saw her became absorbed in passion. Then he praises her style/coquetry: this is no commonplace disaster-- rather, it's a mortal disaster. (504)

Arshi: Compare {179,2}. (311}

FWP: SETS == WORDPLAY What an insistent show of wordplay! We have balaa , mubtalaa (which comes from the same root), aafat (which has virtually the same meaning), and another balaa . Then we also have the nice sound/meaning pair of jaa;N and jahaa;N , the single 'life' versus the 'world'. The first line is vague enough so that we can't really tell where it's going. And the second line is a conventional enough expression of praise. Only when we put the two lines together, through the power of implication, do we get something beyond the ordinary. For as the commentators observe, the lover resents the ability of a 'whole world' [ik jahaa;N] to share in his exquisite suffering. He complains not of disasters and calamities caused by the beloved's deadly charm, but only of the miseries of jealousy/envy. He's not always so possessive, however: see {62,4} for a witty and light-hearted look at the same situation.

{234,5} falak nah duur rakh us se mujhe kih mai;N hii nahii;N daraaz-dastii-e qaatil ke imti;haa;N ke liye 1a) sky/heaven, don't keep me far from her, for I am not the only one 1b) sky/heaven, don't keep me far from her, for I alone am not the one 1c) sky/heaven, don't keep me far from her, for emphatically I am not one 2) for the test of the {oppression / 'long-handedness'} of the murderer

Notes: daraaz-dastii : 'Oppression, tyranny'. (Platts p.510)

Nazm: It's true that a test of tyranny can take place when the prey or victim of the swordplay would be far off, but am I the only one who remains for this test? There are other victims too! If it's through the insistence of the murderer that you keep me far off, then keep them far off too. (266)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, oh sky, why have you placed me and left me far from that murderer? I'm not the only one who's become singled out for her tyranny and cruelty! Others too are there for the test of her oppression. How is it necessary that the moment she sees me, she would murder me? (324)

Bekhud Mohani: A lover, far away, is restless in the pain of separation. In his heart the thought comes that the sky has separated me from the beloved's feet because it wants to test the effect of the beloveds airs and graces. That is, it wants to see whether the effect of her airs and graces is the same on faraway ones as on nearby ones, or not. Thus he says to the sky, am I the only one left for this test? For the Lord's sake, have mercy on me! After all, others too are her lovers. If you have to make this test, then make it by means of someone else-

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- why are you causing me mortal harm? The pain of separation is killing me. (504)

FWP: SETS == HI; WORDPLAY A test is being arranged. The commentators are sure that it's a test arranged by the sky, and that what it's testing is the power of the beloved's deadly charm to exert its effect at a distance. But it might also be such a test, arranged not by the sky but by the beloved herself. Or the beloved might have arranged it to test not herself, but the lover's devotion and steadfastness. (See {43,2} for one of many examples of the beloved as an arranger of complex or ambiguous tests.) If the beloved is arranging the test, then the lover complains to the sky in its role as a giver of destiny, fate, disasters, etc., and demands to be allowed to participate in the test. In any case, the test involves the power of the beloved's daraaz-dastii . In a general way this means 'oppression, tyranny', but literally of course it means 'long-handedness'. (Think of 'high-handedness' in English.) And our attention is drawn to the very specific literal meaning of her long (and deadly) reach, by the injunction 'don't keep me far from her' in the first line. (In fact, we only really (retrospectively) understand the injunction in the light of the daraaz-dastii , and the daraaz-dastii in the light of the injunction.) But the verse is also a display of the multi-faced possibilities of the innocentlooking little word hii . Here are some of the readings that mai;N hii nahii;N can generate: ='I am not the only one' (1a)-- that is, I am not the only one who is available or suitable for the test described in the second line. As Bekhud Mohani points out, this claim could be a way for the lover to seek to avoid the test, on the grounds that lots of others are available instead. ='I alone am not the one' (1b)-- that is, everybody else is available and/or suitable for the test, and I alone am not. ='emphatically/particularly I am not one' (1c)-- that is, regardless of who else may or may not be available and/or suitable for the test, I am definitely not. Why is the speaker so eager to avoid the test, or so particularly or uniquely unsuitable for it? Perhaps he's passed it already, countless times, and already has the beloved's seal of approval. Perhaps he's so weakened by passion that he would collapse before the test even got fairly under way. Perhaps the nature of the test, since it requires him to remain at a distance from her, is just too excruciating to even consider. Perhaps he and the beloved contemplate other tests for him, that involve nearness instead of distance, or even have no geographical component at all. Or perhaps the lover is just speaking with rueful humor: 'I don't want to incur her wrath by seeming to avoid her-- I don't want to be the one she tests her 'long-handedness' on!' As usual, we're left to figure this sort of thing out for ourselves. And thanks to the good (?) offices of hii and daraaz-dastii , the process thinking and rethinking is potentially endless.

{234,6} mi;saal yih mirii koshish kii hai kih mur;G-e asiir kare qafas me;N faraaham ;xas aashiyaa;N ke liye 1) the likeness/example of my effort is this: that a captive bird 2) would gather, in the cage, straw for a nest

Notes: Hali: No greater extremity of effort can be described in any manner. (166)

Nazm: That is, my effort is both fruitless and worthy of pity. (266)

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Bekhud Mohani: When the gaze of 'people of the heart' falls on this verse, then they press their hands to their hearts. In it a picture of two opposed states and conditions has been captured: (1) the picture of fruitless effort; and (2) an image of the ardor for freedom and the pleasure of freedom. (505)

Arshi: Compare {118,4}, {120,7}. (248, 250, 311)

FWP: SETS == TRANSLATABLES This isn't one of those verses in which the lover actually speaks as a bird (for examples see {126,5}, but he certainly depicts himself in the 'likeness' of a bird. Not just any bird, of course, but a bird in a special situation: a captive bird who gathers, in his cage, straw for a nest. The commentators are virtually unanimous that this verse is a picture of pathos and helplessness and vain longing for freedom. And certainly that's the first possibility that occurs to the reader; and there's {145,2} to convey exactly that sense of mourning and loss. But consider the subtleties of {232,3}. In that verse, the bird claims very specifically to be at ease in a corner of the cage, to find it restful or even comfortable. We may read such a claim as ironic or self-deluding, but we can't dismiss the possibility that it might be meant straightforwardly. Who are we to say what a captive bird would or would not feel, ought or ought not to feel? Similarly in the present verse, what does it mean that the caged bird is gathering straw for a nest? Here are some possibilities: =the bird wistfully pretends that it will be able to raise chicks in the cage =the bird naively believes that it will be able to raise chicks in the cage =the bird is settling down and making itself at home in the cage =the cage is well enough equipped that the bird finds what it needs to make itself at home =the bird is only at the straw-gathering stage, and is not yet ready to make a nest =the bird, a longtime captive, doesn't know how to make a nest, and can only gather straw in vain And then, when we try to apply these 'likenesses' or 'examples' to the life of the speaker, how are they to be interpreted? The cage could represent this world, or this society, or this state of poverty, or the poetic demands of patrons, or the bonds of marriage and family. Held captive in one or more of these 'cages', the speaker nevertheless makes an 'effort'. His effort is like that of a caged bird gathering straw for a nest. Is such an effort totally doomed from the beginning? Is it an effort that might yield some qualified, limited, bittersweet kind of success? Or is it an effort that might even, through heroic acts of accommodation and adjustment, yield something that the speaker would find-- or at least claim to find-satisfactory? As usual, the tone of the verse, which alone can help the hearer to choose among these possible implications, is left for us to decide-- and to decide afresh every time we say the verse aloud.

{234,7} gadaa samajh ke vuh chup thaa mirii jo shaamat aa))e u;Thaa aur u;Th ke qadam mai;N ne paasbaa;N ke liye 1) having considered me a beggar he was silent; {so that / in that} my misfortune/disgrace would come about, 2) I rose; and, having risen, seized the Gatekeeper's feet

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Notes: shaamat : 'Ill-luck, mischance, adversity, misfortune, disaster; disgrace, infamy'. (Platts p.719) qadam lenaa : 'To touch the feet (of); to kiss the feet (of); to pay (one's) respects (to); to bow (to), to acknowledge the superiority (of)'. (Platts p.789)

Hali: In Urdu ghazal there can't be more than three or four more such rhetorically effective [baali;G] verses. Maulana Azurdah too, who was well known for writing in Mirza's style, was a moth to [the candle-flame of] this verse's manner of expression. I too have made some remarks [riimaark] in the Muqaddamah[-e shi'r o sha'iri] about this verse. Here, attention is drawn to one more excellence of it. Two things about the event that Mirza mentioned in this verse must certainly be explained. One is how the Gatekeeper treated the speaker; the other is what the speaker wanted from the Gatekeeper. Neither of these things have been mentioned in detail; they have been presented only through suggestion. But with further explication they immediately become understandable. The word 'misfortune/disgrace' proves the first thing, and 'to seize the feet' is clear evidence of the second. In addition to this, to present with so much excellence in two lines such placement of colloquial language and verbal constructions and an extended thought, which even in prose would be hard to achieve-- all these things are worthy of extreme praise. (166-67)

Nazm: [Reading shaamat aa))ii :] By 'he' the Gatekeeper is meant-- that formerly, considering him a beggar, he did not prevent his coming to the beloved's door. But when his misfortune/disgrace occurred, then he fell at his feet. From this he understood his purpose, and placed a hand on his neck. This verse has attained a construction [bandish] that has no equal. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: [Reading shaamat aa))ii :] The greatest pleasure in this verse is that the lover's state had become so altered that even the Doorkeeper, who knew him very well, didn't recognize him. But the lover's absorption, and hiw immersion in the thought of the beloved, were such that he didn't even realize that his clothing and his appearance had become like that of faqirs, and for this reason the Doorkeeper had considered him a beggar, and had remained silent. Rather, he considered that today the Doorkeeper was gracious, and he pulled together his courage-- with this result [as described in the second line]. And there's also this: that the Doorkeeper, having considered him a beggar, recognized him as a lover when he saw him falling at his feet, and expressed anger. In the force of this anger he must also have said, 'I had considered you a beggar-- otherwise, I would have put you out long ago!' In short, such a composition is, for poetry, a cause of pride. (506)

FWP: Most (though not all) of the commentators take the verb at the end of the first line to be aa))ii , and interpret the grammar accordingly (my disgrace 'came about'). However, Arshi, Nazm, Hamid, and one or two others use the aa))e , which here can only be a subjunctive (my disgrace 'would come about'). The grammar then feels awkward in the second half of the first line: my disgrace becomes a form of fate, and more or less predestined to occur. This requires a bit of tormenting of the jo , but maybe it's strong enough to endure it. I wonder whether there could have been some early manuscript confusion involving the archaic form of e that looks like an ii with its tail cut

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off; but this is just speculation, and I'm not going to get sidetracked into manuscript research. Why does the speaker first 'rise, get up', and then, 'having risen, having gotten up', bend or fall down to touch the Gatekeeper's feet? Do we see an unnecessary repetition, a redundancy, even a sense of padding? I think we can save the verse by arguing that the repetition achieves a useful purpose: it separates the lover's behavior into two distinct actions. First he stands up, then he bends or falls down again to grasp the Gatekeeper's feet in supplication. Thus he makes two separate mistakes: he gets up as though he actually hopes to be admitted, which a beggar would probably not do; and then, perhaps after noticing the Gatekeeper's ominous expression, he bends or falls back down again to touch the Gatekeeper's feet in extreme humility, which also a beggar would probably not do. And certainly it would be strange if a beggar did both these things in sequence. Thus the lover doubly marks himself out as not a real beggar, so that the Gatekeeper's suspicions are aroused. For discussion of another such case of 'padding', with additional examples, see {17,9}. This verse offers what feels like a case of 'contrived rhyme', though perhaps technically it's not; I haven't really figured out all the nuances of the concept. The whole ghazal has the refrain of ke liye ('for', 'in order to'), which acts, as usual, as a single grammatical unit. This verse breaks it in half, using the ke as a possessive for the Gatekeeper's feet, and the liye as a masculine plural perfect verb. It feels daring, it feels a bit shocking; it's certainly part of the pleasure of the verse. It could also even be considered a kind of iihaam , since it creates a 'misdirection'. The unity of ke liye is so deeply engrained in our colloquial sense of the language that we can hardly help but read the line that way; it takes an effort of will to break it apart. A very similar case: {234,10}.

{234,8} bah qadr-e shauq nahii;N :zarf-e tangnaa-e ;Gazal kuchh aur chaahiye vus((at mire bayaa;N ke liye 1) not proportional to ardor is the capacity of the {strait / narrow passage} of the ghazal 2) some more scope/space is needed for my expression/discourse

Notes: :zarf : 'Ingenuity, skill, cleverness; beauty, excellence; elegance (of manners), politeness (= :zaraafat ); --capacity, capability; a receptacle, vessel, vase'. (755) tangnaa : 'A narrow place or passage, a strait; a defile'. (Platts p.340) vus((at : 'Latitude; amplitude; spaciousness; capacity; space, extent; space covered, area; dimensions; bulk; --convenience, ease; opportunity, leisure'. (Platts p.1192)

Nazm: That is, in this ground those themes that I have an ardor to bring in-- in the ghazal there's not enough scope for them. I need more scope/space-- that is, leaving off ghazal-composition, from here I begin to perform praisecomposition [mad;h-saraa))ii].

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the narrow field [maidaan] of the ghazal is not enough for my expression/discourse. I need a very much wider field than that. The meaning is that from here, leaving off ghazal-composition, from here I begin to perform praise-composition [mad;h-saraa))ii]. (325)

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Bekhud Mohani: In the narrow field of the ghazal where is there enough scope/space, that I would be able to compose as my inner-self desires! For this reason I leave off the ghazal and begin to perform praise-composition [mad;h-saraa))ii]. (506)

FWP: SETS == POETRY This verse is greatly cherished by 'natural-poetry' fans, who claim that it shows that Ghalib shared their impatience with the tight formal constraints of the ghazal. I get very tired of hearing it triumphantly quoted at me as a clinching argument: 'Hah! even Ghalib recognized that the ghazal was a very narrow strait-jacket!' There are at least two good replies to this claim, but of course neither of them (nor anything else, as a rule) is as punchy and instantly satisfying as a good verse from Ghalib (a good ghazal verse, of course). So often I just grit my teeth and smile politely. Here at last I can give a proper refutation, at leisure, to such a misreading of the verse. Actually, one of the two good replies has already been framed for me by the commentators. (Thank you, gentlemen, and forgive me for all the impatient things I've said about you in the course of my commentary.) For the present verse does indeed mark a phase change-- it introduces a kind of informal verse-set to follow-- Hamid actually puts the verse-set marker qaaf on this verse. This informal verse-set consists of four verses of extravagant praise of a patron. The question of whether such praise should be considered a separate genre apart from the ghazal, or simply a small excrescence in the ghazal's vast, rich, indefinitely expansive terrain, is one that we don't need to discuss here. Rather, the point is that what Ghalib provides right after this verse, and apparently introduces as offering or occupying the 'greater scope/space' that he needs, is not anything remotely modern and 'natural-poetry'-influenced, but just the opposite: a set of extravagant praises of a patron, far narrower in theme and more limited in interest than (normal) ghazal verses. (If you doubt me, just take a look at them.) If the following four verses represent no improvement in 'scope/space' (or anything else, for that matter) over Ghalib's normal verses, such an example won't do the 'natural poetry' fans any good at all. For if the result of moving out of the ghazal's normal constraints is, in this case at least, narrower and more topically restricted poetry, what does this say about their whole enterprise? The other good reply is my own. If we take this verse more generally (as those who read it as a formal indictment of classical ghazal obviously do), my analysis of it will rest on several other superb verses with which this one invites comparison. Consider for example the brilliant {27,1}, in which 'ardor' is complaining of 'narrowness of place'-- even in the heart. Yet it's perfectly clear that this is not an insult to the heart, but rather a tribute to the wild, insatiable force of 'ardor'. The same claim could certainly be made about the present verse-- that 'ardor' generates an unstoppably expansive force that inherently always demands more space than it has, and such expansionism says more about 'ardor' than it does about any actual narrowness of the ghazal. Or consider the complex {228,3}, in which the 'narrowness of place' is a cause of 'vexation/grief of ardor' for the sand-grains: their vexation is framed as part of a 'net', for which the 'scope/space of the desert' is the prey. Here too, if the sand-grains experience the whole width of the desert as too narrow for their ardor, this is not an insult to the desert (much less a suggestion that

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it has to be replaced by some other kind of terrain), but rather just another example of the radical expansionism of 'ardor'. And then there's {68,5}, in which the 'scope/space' of the 'wine-house of madness' is such that in it the whole 'bowl of the sky' serves as a 'single dustbin'. This verse is a (tongue-in-cheek?) tribute to the amplitude (and lofty pretensions) of madness; it would be absurd to read it as a serious reproach to the sky. I could produce more such illustrative verses, but you get the idea.

{234,9} diyaa hai ;xalq ko bhii taa use na:zar nah lage banaa hai ((aish tajammul ;husain ;xaa;N ke liye 1) [He] has given [it] even/also to people/creation, so that the evil eye would not afflict him/it 2) enjoyment has {come into being / developed} for Tajammul Husain Khan

Notes: ((aish : 'Life; animal life'; a life of pleasure and enjoyment, pleasure, delight, luxury; gratification of the appetites, sensuality; carnal intercourse'. (Platts p.767)

Ghalib: [CHECK THIS! Writing to 'Ala'i:] Anyone praised by me, doesn't survive. [The Navabs of Avadh] Nasir ud-Din Haidar and Amjad 'Ali Shah passed away after one ode apiece. Vajid 'Ali Shah stood up to three odes, then he couldn't take it any longer. Anyone in praise of whom I've composed ten or twenty odes, has arrived even beyond Nonbeing [((adam se bhii pare]. --Ghalib ki maktub-nigari, ed. Nazir Ahmad (New Delhi: Ghalib Institute, 2003), p.159. [I need to find this passage in the Khaliq Anjum letters.]

Hali: At the end of this ghazal he has written some verses in praise of the Navab of Farrukhabad, who with extreme eagerness had invited Mirza to Farrukhabad. But probably [;Gaaliba;n] Mirza's journey there didn't take place. (167)

Nazm: 'He has given even/also to the people'-- in this sentence the subject, that is, 'the Lord' [xudaa ne], and the direct object, that is, 'enjoyment', are omitted. With regard to the word 'enjoyment' two verbs, diyaa hai and banaa hai , are at odds. (266)

Bekhud Mohani: In the first line there is diyaa hai ; in the second, banaa hai ; in this too there is a kind of pleasure. Other people in the world have enjoyment, and so does Tajammul Husain Khan. But the poet has shown the reason for others' enjoyment to be that the Lord had made enjoyment for Tajammul Husain Khan alone; he gave some to others as well, only lest the evil eye might afflict him. (506-07)

Mihr: Tajammul Husain Khan: a famous amir of the Bangash clan of Farrukhabad, who died in 1262 AH (1846 AD). (739)

FWP: The nature of this verse as the first in a kind of four-verse verse-set is discussed in {234,8}. In the letter quoted above, Ghalib humorously complains that every patron whom he praises seems to die of the shock pretty quickly. Apparently his praise had the same effect on Tajammul Husain Khan as well, who must have died very soon after this ghazal was composed. What Nazm criticizes-- and therefore Bekhud Mohani makes a point of praising-- is the fact that diyaa hai at the beginning of the first line, and banaa hai at the beginning of the second line, look to be grammatically

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parallel, but they're quite different. The first line has the implied subject 'He' or 'God', though we can't possibly tell that except by later guesswork; the subject can indeed be omitted in Urdu, but this should only be done where it's readily apparent what the subject is. This line doesn't follow that practice, since in the second line there's no reference to 'God'. The first line also offers us the confusing use -- its antecedent might be the unspecified subject of the first clause, or the khalq , or something or somebody else entirely. Then the banaa hai at the beginning of the second line (for more on this see {234,11}) is the present perfect of bannaa and has 'enjoyment' [((aish] as its subject, so it's entirely unlike diyaa hai in the first line; their seeming parallelism proves to be an illusion. In short, this is trying to be a mushairah verse-- but it can only be said to succeed at all if 'Tajammul Husain Khan' can work as a sort of 'punch-word' to activate all the earlier confusion and misdirection. And how can it? Even in Ghalib's own day, his was not a name to conjure with. The verse is thus awkwardly structured and lumpy, and we struggle successfully to resolve it-- and what is our reward? Basically, nothing at all. We merely learn the hyperbolic, labored, and unmotivated information that God has made all the enjoyment in the world for one patron, and has given bits of it to others only so as to protect that fortunate person from the 'evil eye' effects of their jealousy. Once we've learned that, there doesn't seem to be anything else going on in the verse. If we made a prose paraphrase, what would we lose?

{234,10} zabaa;N pah baar-e ;xudaa yaa yih kis kaa naam aayaa kih mere nu:tq ne bose mirii zabaa;N ke liye 1) oh good Lord, whose name is this that came on my tongue? 2) such that my speech/language took kisses from my tongue

Notes: baar-e ;xudaa : 'Lord God! Great God'. (Platts p.120) nu:tq : 'Speech, articulation, pronunciation; language, discourse; power of speech; reasoning faculty'. (Platts p.1142)

Nazm: Here the interrogative is only for an expression of joy; it's not truly intended as a question. (266)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, Oh God, the name of which auspicious person has come upon my tongue, from the effect of which my speech has kissed my tongue? (324)

Bekhud Mohani: Oh Protector, whose name has come upon my tongue, such that my speech has kissed my tongue? What a lovable [pyaarii] praise it is! Praise be to God! (507)

FWP: SETS == EXCLAMATION The nature of this verse as the second in a kind of four-verse verse-set is discussed in {234,8}. The kind of more or less 'contrived rhyme' that it uses is discussed in {234,7}. Here's another verse that excellently supports the argument I make in {234,8}. Bekhud Mohani calls it 'lovable'; I'd call it coy and cutesy. If the 'natural poetry' supporters want to claim it, I'll gladly hand it over.

{234,11} na.siir-e daulat-o-dii;N aur mu((iin-e millat-o-mulk banaa hai char;x-e barii;N jis ke aastaa;N ke liye

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1) helper of realm/dominion and faith, and lawgiver of religious-community and land 2) for whose abode the lofty sphere/heaven has {come about / appeared}

Notes: Nazm: In the first line he has collected together pairs of synonymous words: na.siir and mu((iin ; and dii;N and millat ; and mulk and daulat . (266)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says he is a helper of realm and faith, and also a lawgiver of religiouscommunity and land. And he's a person such that the lofty sphere has been made [banaayaa gayaa hai] for the sake of being his abode. (326)

Bekhud Mohani: Helper of faith and world, and supporter of community and land, for whom the lofty sky has been made [banaayaa gayaa hai] in order to become an abode. (507)

FWP: The nature of this verse as the third in a kind of four-verse verse-set is discussed in {234,8}. Here's another one ideally suited to support my argument made in {234,8}. I'd give this one away too, if anyone wants it. Instinctively, both Bekhuds convert the verb from the awkward intransitive [banaa hai] into the much more expectable passive [banaayaa gayaa hai]. The intransitive provides the same opening for the second line as in {234,9}. Why is Ghalib so eager to present 'enjoyment' in {234,9}, and the 'lofty sphere' in the present verse, as somehow just 'coming into being' or 'appearing', with no hint of a maker lurking in the background? I would have guessed that it's because it's so silly and insulting to God to say that he did all this just for a minor North Indian aristocrat-- but then, in the first line of {234,9} the poet does say exactly this. So why, after that one time, does he work around it with the awkwardly organic intransitive forms? I don't know, and the verse is so puerile I don't care. There's a similar structure in the next verse, {234,12}, too.

{234,12} zamaanah ((ahd me;N us ke hai ma;hv-e aaraa))ish bane;Nge aur sitaare ab aasmaa;N ke liye 1) the age, in his era, is absorbed in adornment 2) now more stars will {come about / appear} , for the sky

Notes: Nazm: The praised person's name is Tajammul Husain; for this reason, in his era the age is absorbed only in decoration [tajammul] and adornment. (267)

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, in his time the age has become absorbed in adornment. These present stars were not enough for the adornment of the sky. Thus the necessity of more stars' becoming/developing [bannaa] presents itself, because he wants to see every substance in a more perfect condition. (326)

Bekhud Mohani: During the period of his reign, the world is becoming absorbed in adorning itself. Thus I know that the present stars won't be enough for the beautification of the skies, and new stars will be created [paidaa kiyaa jaanaa]. (507)

FWP: The nature of this verse as the fourth in a kind of four-verse verse-set is discussed in {234,8}.

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In this verse too, the same awkward intransitive verb structure occurs; for discussion see {234,11}. Be honest, dear reader-- aren't you pretty relieved that this little praiseexcursion is winding up?

{234,13} varaq tamaam hu))aa aur mad;h baaqii hai safiinah chaahiye is ba;hr-e be-karaa;N ke liye 1) the page has become complete, and praise remains 2) a boat/notebook is necessary for this boundless ocean/meter

Notes: safiinah : 'A ship, vessel, boat; --an oblong book, a blank book, commonplace book, note-book'. (Platts p.662)

Nazm: The word 'boat/notebook' has an affinity with 'ocean/meter/ [ba;hr].

Bekhud Dihlavi: He says, the page has become finished and praise still remains. A chapter is required for this ocean of encomium. (326)

Bekhud Mohani: The page has become finished, and the praise hasn't become finished. For this boundless ocean (praise) a notebook is necessary. What use is a single page? In the meaning of safiinah is an iihaam , because its meaning is 'boat', which has an affinity with 'ocean'. (507)

FWP: SETS == POETRY; WORDPLAY WRITING: {7,3} This verse appears to be a kind of concluding verse, wrapping up the fourverse quasi-verse-set that has just preceded it. That four-verse praise-set (praise-poem?) has an introductory verse as well, in {234,8}. We can feel that the praise-drug is wearing off now, because this verse actually has something going on in it! It has some enjoyable bits of literary wordplay. Of course, by Ghalibian standards it's not much-- but compared to the previous four verses, it's a tour de force of sophistication.

{234,14} adaa-e ;xaa.s se ;Gaalib hu))aa hai nuktah-saraa .salaa-e ((aam hai yaaraan-e nuktah-daa;N ke liye 1) with a special style/manner/coquetry, Ghalib has become a 'point'-singer 2) there is a public call/invitation/challenge for friends who are knowers/understanders of 'points'

Notes: adaa : 'Grace, beauty; elegance; graceful manner on carriage; charm, fascination; blandishment; amorous signs and gestures, coquetry'. (Platts p.31) nuktah : ''A point'; --a point (of wit); a quaint saying; a pithy sentence; --a subtle or quaint conceit; a nice or metaphysical distinction; a mythical signification'. (Platts p.1147) .salaa : 'Calling or inviting (beggars, &c.), to receive or partake of food; invitation; annunciation; proclamation; voice, call, cry (of an auctioneer, or salesman, &c.); shout, challenge (of a foe)'. (Platts p.745)

Nazm: He challenges/invites everybody, that they too should adopt this special style of ghazal and praise [mad;h]. (267)

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Bekhud Dihlavi: He says In writing praise in a ghazal, Ghalib has a special style. Friends too ought to adopt this style. (326)

Bekhud Mohani: Ghalib has composed praise in a unique new style. And he is giving a general invitation to 'point'-knowing friends that they too should adopt this very style. (507)

FWP: SETS == POETRY What exactly is a 'point'-singer? Is Ghalib reminding us once again that the burst of praise in which he's just indulged, is of a particular nature, and unlike his usual ghazal style? He seems to be boasting about the 'special style', and either inviting his friends to share his pleasure in it, or else challenging them to compete with him in it. The result is an elaborate segregation of the set of {234,9} to {234,12}-- a set of praise-verses which are introduced by {234,8}, wrapped up by {234,13}, and now further alluded to in the present verse. Perhaps part of the 'point' that Ghalib expects his friends to get is that he needs rewards from a patron? Well, we're now at the end of the ghazal part of the divan. Traditionally no special ending was necessary, and it seems that Ghalib hasn't given us one. Unless we're expected to take the present verse as an overview of the whole divan, and a boast about its excellence? Certainly the range of meaning of nuktah gives us that possibility as well.

KHATM SHUD

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