(1, 1) with its “paper robes”: in a letter (1865), Ghalib wrote, “In Iran there is the custom that the seeker of justice, 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 our existence may be like that of pictures, merely notional, it is a cause of grief and sorrow and suffering” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:837).
(14, 5) and its use of implication: in a letter (1854), “That is to say, ‘Now that the rounds of the cup have come to me, I’m fearful.’ This whole sentence is implied…. Anyone who looks at my Persian divan will realize that I leave sentence upon sentence implied. But [as Hafiz says], ‘Every utterance has a [suitable] time and every point has a [suitable] place.’ This difference is indeed intuitively perceptible, not expressible in words” (Khaliq Anjum 1984, 1:262–63).
(16) and its fresh style: in a letter (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 [this] ghazal in a fresh style” (Khaliq Anjum 1987, 3:1226–27).
(17) inspires a grandiloquent boast: in a letter (1852), “Brother! For the Lord’s sake, do this ghazal justice! If this is Rekhta, then what did Mir and Mirza [Sauda] compose? And if that was Rekhta, then what is this? The circumstances of it are that one gentleman among the princes of the House of Timur brought this rhyme scheme and meter from Lucknow, and His Majesty [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” (Khaliq Anjum 1987, 3:1113–15).
(18, 6) and the beloved’s thought processes: in a letter (1864), “Maulvi Sahib, what a subtle 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 and her thought is correct; she never misses the mark. 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. 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” (Khaliq Anjum 1993, 4:1514).
(22, 1) and “darkness upon darkness”: in a letter (1866?), “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 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 is worth seeing—the house in which a symbol of dawn is a strengthener of darkness, how dark that house will be!” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:843).
(24, 7) on waiting for death or the beloved: in a letter (1853), “Brother, I am greatly surprised at you, that you felt a hesitation about the meaning of this verse. 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 to the honor 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?…You didn’t pay attention, otherwise the mood of this reproach and insinuation would of itself have become apparent to you” (Khaliq Anjum 1987, 3:1117).
(29, 5) Hali on Ghalib’s view of his methods: “A number of principles of expression were Mirza Sahib’s own, which before him had been seen neither in Urdu nor in Persian. For example, in his present Urdu divan there is one verse [here Hali quotes (29, 5)]. I myself asked Mirza [Ghalib] the meaning of this. He said, ‘In place of “oh” [ay], read “except for”; 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 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 ‘oh’ [ay] is obviously his own invention. One person, having heard this meaning, said, ‘If in place of “oh” he had put “except for,” 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” (Hali 1897:113–14).
(32) on the nakedness of Majnun: in a letter (1865), “‘Rival’ 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” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:837).
(43) on metal versus glass mirrors: in a letter (1868), “First it ought to be understood that ‘mirror’ is an expression for a metal mirror; otherwise, where are the polish lines in glass 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” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:797).
(53) on the nuances of the Cupbearer’s call: “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 had to give the call again and again. But after further reflection, as Mirza himself used to say, an extremely subtle meaning 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 man-killing wine of passion! That is, no one. In this, tone and style 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” (Hali 1897:130–31).
(79) and its paradoxes: in a letter (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” (Khaliq Anjum 1993, 4:1514).
(95) on the pain of the tulip: in a letter (1866?), “A ‘wound-bearer,’ like the expression anjum anjuman [“with stars for company,” referring to a solitary person], is that individual whose property and equipment is a wound. The existence of the tulip is founded on its display of a wound [in its dark center]; 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 is that that existence is merely grief and toil. That blood of the cultivator’s that has been warmed through tilling and work—that itself is the lightning of the harvest of the tulip’s comfort. The fruit of existence is a wound, and a wound is the opposite of comfort and an aspect of grief” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:845).
(96) on the troubled sleep of the rose: in a letter (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’ [maʿlūm] means ‘nonexistent’ [maʿdūm]. And the ‘provision of contentment’ means ‘the property of rest.’…The sleep or dream of the rose, the personality of the rose, is with regard to its silence and its prostration in fatigue. Its uneasiness [pareshānī] 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 and dream” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:845).
(98) on the frailty of the Messenger: in a letter (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 to be 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?”’” (Khaliq Anjum 1993, 4:1514).
(101) on “something different”: in a letter (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 fakir and make his abode in the city or on the outskirts of the city; or leave the country and go off to another country” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 4:739).
(107) on oppositions: in a letter (1866), “Who wouldn’t know opposition and contradiction? Light and darkness, joy and grief, comfort and misery, and existence and nonexistence. The word muqābil in this line means ‘returning-place, refuge, source, goal,’ like ḥarīf [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” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:844).
(126) explaining his “betel nut” qaṣīda: in a letter (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, 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” (Khaliq Anjum 1985, 2:714–15).