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Please excuse me, Ghalib, for this bitter voicedness,
Today the pain in my heart is more than usual.
Noble sir!
First I should instruct you that you are to present my salaams in the service of my old friend Mir Mukarram Husain Sahib and tell him that up to the present I’m still alive, and beyond this even I don’t know what shape I’m in. To Mirza Hatim Ali Beg Sahib “Mihr” convey my salaams, and recite to him this [Persian] verse [of mine]:
Islam requires one to cultivate faith in the unseen—
Oh you who are hidden from my sight, love for you is my faith.
I’d already sent a reply to your previous letter, when two days or three days later another letter arrived.
Listen, Sahib! Whoever would have a taste for some particular activity, and without further ado he would spend his life in it—this is what’s called “luxury.” Your remarkable attention to poetry and verse is proof of your noble nature and fine temperament. And, brother, the fame of this poetry-circulating of yours enhances my reputation too. My situation in this art is that I’ve now forgotten both the path of poetry composition and even the verses I had previously composed. But indeed, from my Hindi [i.e., Urdu] poetry one and a half verses—that is, one closing-verse and one line—have come to mind. Thus from time to time, when my heart begins to sink, then five or ten times I recite this closing-verse:
When our life passed in this way, Ghalib,
Will even we remember that we used to have a God?
Then when I feel extremely anxious and full of annoyance, I recite this line and fall silent:
Oh sudden death, what are you waiting for?!
Let no one think that I’m dying of grief over my own dismal and ruined state. The sorrow that I feel, I can’t at all express; but I can give a hint of it. From among those of the English community who were murdered at the hands of those disgraced [“black-faced”] black ones, one was my patron, and one was my well-wisher, and one my friend, and one my supporter, and one my pupil. Among the Hindustanis, some dear ones, some friends, some pupils, some beloveds. Thus every one of them was mingled with the dust. How harsh is the mourning for one dear one! He who would be a mourner for so many dear ones—how could his life not be difficult? Alas! So many friends died that now when I die, there won’t even be anyone left to mourn for me.
[As the Qur’an says,] “Verily we are from God, and verily to Him we shall return.”
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It’s a condition of Islam to practice faith in the unseen,
Oh you who are hidden from the gaze, your kindness [mihr] is my faith.3
The auspicious description [of your appearance] brightened my sight. Whatever Mirza Yusuf Ali Khan “Aziz” said to you, do you know what its origin was? Sometime in a gathering of friends I must have said, “I want to see Mirza Hatim Ali; I hear that he’s a stylish [t̤araḥ-dār] man.” And my friend, I had heard of your stylishness from Mughal Jan. At the time when she was in the service of Navab Hamid Ali Khan, and she and I had an informal friendship, I often used to spend hours in Mughal’s company. She has also shown me your verses in her praise.
In any case, when I learned of your tall stature I didn’t feel envious. The reason was that my stature too is conspicuous for tallness. I wasn’t envious of your wheat-colored complexion. Because when I was alive, my complexion was fair, and people of insight always praised it. Now, if ever I recall that complexion of mine, something like a snake crawls on my breast. Indeed, if I felt envy, and I “drank the blood of the liver,” then it was because your face is finely clean-shaven. I recalled such pleasure—what can I say about what passed through me? In the [Persian] words of Shaikh Ali “Hazin,”
As much as was in my hands, I tore my collar,
I didn’t respect the honor of my fine wool robe.
When in my beard and mustache white hairs appeared, then on the third day “ants’ eggs” began to be visible on my cheeks. In addition to this, it happened that two of my front teeth broke off. Having no choice, I gave up missī [a gum-darkening cosmetic], and my beard as well. But please remember that in this uncouth city there is a common uniform. Mullahs, blind Qur’an reciters, peddlers, hookah-mouthpiece makers, washermen, water-bearers, innkeepers, weavers, greengrocers—beards on their faces, hair on their heads. The day that this fakir grew a beard, that same day he had his head shaved. [Arabic:] “There’s no power except in God Most High”—what nonsense I’m talking!
Sahib! This servant sent Dastanbu to the honorable George Frederick Edmonstone Sahib Bahadur, Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Provinces, as an offering. And his reply, in Persian, came by post on the tenth of March, with praise and admiration and the expression of pleasure. Then I sent him a Persian ode in congratulations for his lieutenant governorship. Upon receiving it, he sent a Persian letter praising the poem and expressing his appreciation, by way of the post, on the fourteenth. Then I sent a Persian ode of praise and congratulation in the service of Janab Robert Montgomery Sahib, Lieutenant Governor Bahadur of the Punjab, through the good offices of the commissioner sahib of Delhi. Yesterday a letter with his seal arrived through the good offices of the [commissioner sahib] bahadur of Delhi. With regard to the pension there is as yet no order. Grounds for hope keep accumulating. [Persian:] “What comes late, comes right.” I don’t eat bread anyway. I have half a ser [a pound] of meat in the day, and a pāʾoṇ-bhar [a glass or two] of wine at night.
At everything I utter, you say, “What are you?!”
You yourself tell me—what is this style of speech?!
If we are a true fakir, and the seeker of this ghazal [Mihr] has a perfected taste, then this ghazal will have arrived before this letter. There remains the salaam, and that we ourself will send.
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Janab Mirza Sahib! Your saddening letter arrived. I read it. I got Yusuf Ali Khan “Aziz” to read it. He told me about the relationship between the deceased lady and you. That is, her devotion and your love for her. I was severely grieved, and felt complete sorrow. Listen, my friend, among poets Firdausi, and among fakirs Hasan Basri, and among lovers Majnun—these three men, in their three arts, are the heads and chiefs. The excellence of a poet is that he should become Firdausi. The limit for a fakir is that he should rival Hasan Basri. The sign of a lover is that he should have a destiny like that of Majnun. Laila died in his presence. Your beloved died in your presence—or rather, you have gone beyond him, because Laila died in her own house, and your beloved died in your house.
My friend, we Mughal types are devastating—the one whom we’re dying for, we end up killing. I too am a Mughal type. In the course of my life I too have killed a very cruel dancing girl [ḍomnī]. May the Lord have mercy on them both, and on you and me as well, who have suffered the wound of a friend’s death. This happened forty or forty-two years ago. Fortunately I’ve abandoned that path; I’ve become a mere stranger to that [lover’s] art. But even now sometimes I remember those coquetries. As long as I live, I won’t forget her death. I know what must be passing through your heart. Be patient, and now leave behind the turmoil of worldly passion. A [Persian] verse:
Sa’di, if you would be a lover in a youthful spirit,
The love of Muhammad and his family is enough.
[A small Persian rhyming phrase:] In God we trust, all else is lust.
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Mirza Sahib! I don’t like all this. I’m sixty-five years old. For fifty years I’ve strolled around in the world of color and scent. In my early youth, an accomplished master 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 who will not die himself is the one who should grieve at the death of another. What’s this tear shedding, whence this elegy reciting? Give thanks for freedom! Don’t grieve. And if you’re really so happy in your captivity, then so what if there’s no “Chunna Jan”—there’s always a “Munna Jan”!
[In rhymed prose:] 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 this 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. A [Persian] verse:
Take a new woman each returning spring,
For last year’s almanac’s a useless thing.
I saw your “six-liner” poem with the incorporation of the verses of Mirza Mazhar. The thought is entirely pleasing; the expression, on the whole, is not pleasing. I handed over the letter you sent me, together with these verses, to Mirza Yusuf Ali Khan “Aziz.”…[The rest of the letter is concerned with sending greetings and remarks to various people.]
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Life of Ghalib!
I remember that I’ve heard from your renowned uncle that a copy of the Dictionary of Exemplars is there. If it had been there, then why would you not have sent it? Well [following in Persian], “What we think we need, most of it we don’t need.”
You are the new fruit of that plant that has grown up before my eyes; and I have kept enjoying that plant’s breeze, and sitting in its shade—how would you not be dear to me? There remains the question of meeting in person; for that there are two approaches: you would come to Delhi, or I would go to Loharu. You are under compulsion, I am excused. I myself say, beware! Don’t listen to my excuse until you understand who I am and what the situation is:
Listen: the worlds are two—one world of spirits and one world of water and earth. The ruler of both these worlds is one, and he himself says [Qur’an 40:16], “Who shall rule on this [Judgment] day?” and then himself gives the answer, “Allah, the One, the Almighty!” Although the general rule is that criminals from the world of water and earth are punished in the world of spirits, it has also happened that they’ve punished sinners in the world of spirits by sending them to the world of water and earth. Thus I, on the eighth of Rajab, AH 1212 [December 27, 1897, his birth date], was sent here for my trial. For thirteen years I remained in custody. On the seventh of Rajab, AH 1225 [August 18, 1810, his wedding day], an order of life imprisonment was issued. They fastened a shackle to my foot, and designated Delhi as my prison, and placed me in that prison. They assigned me as hard labor the composition of poetry and prose. After some years, I ran away from the prison, and for three years wandered in the eastern regions. In the end they captured me in Calcutta, brought me back, and sat me down again in that same prison. When they saw that this prisoner was an escape risk, they added two handcuffs more [i.e., his adopted sons]. With my foot wounded by the shackle, with hands chafed by handcuffs, the hard labor became even more difficult, my strength entirely failed. I am shameless—last year I left my foot shackle in the corner of the cell and, with both handcuffs, fled away. Through Meerut and Moradabad I arrived at Rampur. I had stayed there a few days short of two months when again I was captured and brought back. Now I’ve promised that I won’t run away again. And how would I run away? I no longer even have the strength to run away. Now let’s see when the order for release would be issued. There’s a small possibility that in this very month, Zi’l-hijja, AH 1277 [December 1861], I might be freed. In any case, after release a man goes nowhere else except to his own home. I too, after liberation, will go straight to the world of the spirits; [in Persian:]
Happy the day when I would leave this prison,
When from this desolate valley, would go to my own city.
In singing, seven verses of a ghazal are usually enough. I send two Persian ghazals and two Urdu ghazals, relying on my memory, as an offering to Bha’i Sahib.
