A Thousand Yearnings

by Ralph Russell

  At the King’s direction they now took Haidari Khan into another room, where they gave him puris and cream and a hookah to smoke. He took puris weighing half a pound and cream weighing a quarter of a pound, asked for a small quantity of sugar and despatched all this to his wife. (He used to do this wherever he was.) While all this was happening the King was drinking, and when he was drunk he again remembered Haidari Khan. He at once sent for him and commanded him to sing; but he had no sooner begun than the King stopped him and said,‘Haidari Khan, listen to me. If you simply make me happy and don’t also make me weep then mark my words, I’ll immediately have you drowned in the Gomati [the river that runs through Lucknow].’ Haidari Khan was stunned. Realizing that the King might carry out his threat he replied, ‘Your Majesty, as God wills,’ and proceeded to put all that he had into his singing. By God’s power, or rather because the appointed term of Haidari Khan’s life was not yet up, the King quickly felt the impact of the singing and began to weep in spite of himself. He felt pleased with Haidari Khan and said to him,‘Haidari Khan, ask me a boon. What do you ask?’ He replied, ‘Will you give me what I ask?’The King promised that he would. Haidari Khan made him repeat his promise three times, and then said, ‘Your Majesty, what I ask is that you never send for me and never have me sing to you again.’The King was astonished.‘Why?’ he asked. Haidari Khan replied, ‘What is it to you? If you have me put to death there will never again be another Haidari Khan. Whereas if you die there’ll at once be another King.’ The King was much displeased, and turned away, and Haidari Khan seized the opportunity to make his escape.

  A Memorable Delhi Mushaira

  FARHATULLAH BEG

  A mushaira in aristocratic circles was conducted in accordance with a strict etiquette, as Beg’s description conveys. The setting is the court of the last Mughal emperor. The mushaira begins late in the evening and will continue throughout the night. The poets take their seats on the carpet. When proceedings begin, a lighted candle is passed around, and when it is set down before a poet this means that it is his turn to recite. Every poet who participates, from the youngest to the oldest and most eminent, faces the critical assessment of his audience. Couplet by couplet they courteously but uninhibitedly let him know their estimate of its worth. Often the mushaira is hosted by a prominent noble who prescibes a misra-i-tarah—that is, a half-line of verse which every participating poet has to incorporate in the poem he is to present there. Much importance is attached to a poet’s technical skills—his command of metre, rhyme and figures of speech. For even the greatest poets, a mushaira is a contest in which they need the skills not only of a poet, but those of an orator, a public performer and a debater.

  ~

  The candle was set down before Ghulam Rasul Shauq. He’s old now, poor fellow. He leads the prayers in the Azizabadi mosque. In his early days Zauq [now the ustad of the Mughal Emperor] used to submit his verses to him for correction, and on the strength of that he still calls himself Zauq’s ustad and thinks that Zauq should still bring his verses to him to correct. He seems to one to have grown somewhat senile. The opening couplet of the ghazal he recited was quite a forceful one, but of the rest, the less said the better.

  Ghalib, Momin,Azurda, Sahbai—in short all the masters of the art [of poetry], began to tease Zauq, exclaiming loudly in praise of our friend Shauq’s verse. Shauq thought that they were genuinely praising him and could not see that they were making a fool of him. The moment anyone cried out in praise he turned his gaze upon Zauq and said, ‘You see? This is the way to write poetry.’ Zauq, poor man, would laugh and make no reply. One or two of his shagirds would want to reply, but he restrained them.

  The next to recite was Alexander Heatherley, whose takhallus [pen name] was Azad. He is French, but he was born and brought up in Delhi, where he lived until he went to Alwar as captain of artillery. He is about twenty or twenty-one years old, and is qualified in medicine too. He loves poetry, and is Arif’s* shagird. Whenever he hears that a mushaira is going to be held he comes straight to Delhi. He dresses in his military uniform, but converses in Urdu, and his Urdu is as pure as any Delhi man’s. His verse is not bad, and for a Frenchman to compose Urdu verse as he does is something truly remarkable...

  Earlier in the mushaira one of the palace officials who recited well had been called upon to recite a ghazal sent by the heir-apparent of the King, who had not himself come to the mushaira. Farhatullah Beg gives four couplets of it and comments:

  The ghazal was totally undistinguished, but it was the heirapparent’s, and it needed courage to refrain from praise. But Ghalib and Momin sat absolutely silent. This did not please some of those present who had come from the Fort [i.e. the Red Fort, the seat of the Mughal royal family.] But they knew very well that even if the King himself presented a ghazal which was not up to standard, those two would not so much as nod their heads.

  ...The candle came to Nawab Mustafa Khan Shefta. He is an acknowledged master of the art of poetry. He is a shagirdof Momin, but is himself an ustad. When he praises a couplet this establishes its worth, and if he is silent, this devalues it in the eyes of others too. He recited a ghazal [of seven couplets] which was greeted with praise, but praise very soberly expressed. In big mushairas I have seen that those present will encourage newcomers with their praise, but when the time comes for the masters to recite, the atmosphere is more restrained and more solemn, and only those couplets will be praised that deserve to be praised. And this is as the masters wish it to be. If any couplet is praised beyond its worth, this distresses them. They seek praise only for those couplets that they themselves think deserving of praise. And when they recite they look only to their equals, and it is they alone who express their appreciation.

  The numerous members of the royal family, sons of numerous wives and concubines, regarded themselves as the arbiters of taste both in dress and in language, and were especially ready to criticize any of their number who had left Delhi to live in other cities, such as Lucknow and Benares. The poet Haya was made to feel this when it came to his turn to recite.

  Haya is a man of happy temperament, a good man—intelligent, humorous, and a spontaneous poet. He is about thirty-five or thirty-six and normally lives in Benares, visiting Delhi only occasionally. He looks just like the other princes except that he is clean shaven and dresses in Lucknow style. In poetry, he was at first his father’s shagird, then Shah Nasir’s, and now Zauq’s. He is an excellent chess-player. He learnt chess from Hakim Ashraf Ali Khan, but these days it is Momin that he plays with. He plays the sitar beautifully. He is a good poet too, but he does not work hard at it, and sacrifices meaning to colourful language. He presented a ghazal [of six couplets].

  His father rebuked him for a fault in the fifth couplet:

  ‘Since you went to Lucknow you’ve changed your style of dress. And now you’ve changed your language too. You’ve made saans [the Urdu word for ‘breath’] feminine.’ [Haya replied that he had followed Zauq’s usage, and quoted a line of Zauq in support, and his father retorted] ‘I ask you, can the ustad’s usage be any authority when it conflicts with ours? He may write as he pleases. Just tell me this: in the Fort is saans masculine or feminine?’ Haya, poor fellow, smiled and said nothing.

  Other poets defended themselves more vigorously—not to say brazenly, no matter how eminent the critic. Such a one was ‘Mir Sahib’, (not the great Mir of the eighteenth century.) It was late at night when the candle was set before him, and as soon as people saw that it was his turn to recite all of them roused themselves.

  Some rubbed their eyes. Some got up and splashed water on their faces. No one wanted to doze or sleep any more. The mention of his name had alerted them all. The great poets were smiling and the young ones whispering to one another... There’s no one in Delhi who doesn’t know Mir Sahib, no mushaira which is not enlivened by his presence, no gathering where his entry does not brighten things up. There may be a handful of people who know his name, but I have never known him as anything
but ‘Mir Sahib’. He is seventy years old, a tall man withered and dried up, with drooping eyelids, a nose like a parrot’s beak, a wide mouth, a long beard, grizzled hair and fair complexion. Describe him, and any child in Delhi will direct you to him. He dresses entirely in spotless white, and wears an impressively grave and solemn expression, but when he gets angry there’s no controlling him...At mushairas everyone used to tease him, from the King downwards... He always composed his ghazals off the cuff, and never took the trouble of writing them down beforehand. He saw no need to match the two lines of a couplet. All he was concerned with was the rhyme. Whatever he had to say he would recite with complete aplomb in prose, breaking off in between times to rebut people’s objections, and when he got tired of that he would finish off his ‘verse’ with the rhyme. As soon as he started reciting he would be showered with criticisms from all sides.

  That night he and his critics ran true to form. He rebuffed a criticism of Ghalib, telling him that he knew nothing about certain metres. This lively atmosphere continued practically a full hour...

  It was the convention that the most eminent poets’ turn to recite would come last. In this mushaira Momin and Ghalib were two of the last to recite.

  [Momin was a man of striking appearance.] When the candle was set before him the assembly quietened, for all were eager to hear the verse of the master. He picked up the candle and moved it forward a little, sat up straight, passed his fingers through his long hair... and in a voice full of emotion began to recite a ghazal [of eight couplets]. It was as though he had cast a spell on the assembly. All sat there enthralled, and he too felt the impact of his own poetry; at those verses which held the strongest appeal his fingers moved more quickly through his hair... He acknowledged praise with a slight motion of his head. His style of recitation is all his own. He gestures very little with his hands. (How could he when they are so busy with his hair?) It is the modulation of his voice and the expression of his eyes that casts a spell. When he had finished his ghazal all the guests present expressed their praise. He smiled and said,‘Your kindness is the reward of all my labours. I have already said:

  I seek appreciation; I am not concerned with wealth

  Just critics’ praises give me all the recompense I need.’

  Ghalib’s style is quite different. When the candle was set before him it was nearly dawn. He said,‘Now gentlemen, I too shall sing my mournful song.’ And he began to recite, raising his voice in a tone so majestic and so compelling that the whole assembly was lost in contemplation—a tone that seemed to say that there was no one who could truly appreciate his worth.

  This was the ghazal he recited:*

  O foolish heart, what has befallen you?

  Do you not know this sickness†has no cure?

  dil e naadaan tujhe hua kya hai?

  aakhir is dard ki dava kya hai?

  I long for her, and she is weary of me

  O Lord above, tell me, what does this mean?

  hum hain mushtaaq aur vo be-zaar

  ya ilaahi ye maajra kya hai?

  I too possess a tongue like other men

  If only you would ask me what I seek!

  main bhi munh mein zabaan rakhta hoon

  kaash poochho ki mudda’a kya hai

  When all is You, and nought exists but You

  Tell me, O Lord, why all this turmoil too?

  jab ki tujh bin nahin koi maujood

  phir ye hangaama, e khuda, kya hai?

  These fair-faced women, with their coquetries,

  Their glances, airs and graces, what are these?

  ye pari-chahra log kaise hain?

  ghamza o ishva o ada kya hai?

  Why the sweet perfume of their coiling tresses?

  Why the collyrium that adorns their eyes?

  shikan e zulf e anbareen kyon hai?

  nigah e chashm e surma sa kya hai?

  Where does the grass, where do the flowers come from?

  What is the cloud made of? What is the breeze?

  sabza o gul kahaan se aae hain?

  abr kya cheez hai? hava kya hai?

  See how I look to her for loyalty

  Who does not even know what loyalty is.

  hum ko un se vafa ki hai ummeed

  jo nahin jaante vafa kya hai

  I would lay down my very life for you

  I do not know what praying for you means.

  jaan tum par nisaar karta hoon

  main nahin jaanta dua kya hai

  I grant that you are right: Ghalib is nothing.

  But if you get him free, then what’s the harm?

  main ne maana ki kuchh nahin Ghalib

  muft haath aae to bura kya hai?

  When Ghalib had finished he smiled and said,‘If even now there is anyone who doesn’t understand I must leave him in God’s hands.’

  Those present knew he was referring to an incident in his early days as a poet, when Hakim Agha Jan Aish had written a poem mocking him for his obscure style, and had recited it at a mushaira at which Ghalib was present:

  What is the point of writing verse which only you can understand?

  A poet feels the thrill of joy when others too can understand.

  We understand the verse of Mir, we understand what Sauda wrote;

  But Ghalib’s verse!—Save he and God, we know not who can understand!

  Hakim Agha Jan Aish took the point and said, ‘Mirza Sahib,* we must be thankful that at last you’ve shown some understanding of the proper style.’ In short, praise and humour together.

  * Ghalib’s wife’s nephew, whom Ghalib looked upon as his son.

  * This ghazal is one of Ghalib’s most famous, and illustrates the variety in content of the ghazal’s successive couplets very well. The four couplets addressed to God (couplets 4, 5, 6 and 7) form a continuous whole (discussed on p. 195), and are sandwiched between others, in some of which the poet is addressing his mistress (3, 10, 11), and in others someone other than her (1,2, and 8)—perhaps himself.

  †Love.

  * Mirza:The standard form of address for one who, like Ghalib, was one of Turkish descent.

  A Memoir of Ghalib

  ALTAF HUSAIN HALI

  Many of the anecdotes in Hali’s memoir are examples of Ghalib’s cheerful, and openly avowed, refusal to conform to the more inconvenient commands of his Muslim. He drank wine, never said the five prescribed daily prayers, never kept the month-long Ramzan fast (Ramadan), and never performed the pilgrimage to Mecca:

  A man, in Ghalib’s presence, strongly condemned wine-drinking, and said that the prayers of the wine-bibber are never granted.‘My friend,’ said Ghalib, ‘if a man has wine, what else does he need to pray for?’

  He used to take a little wine at bedtime, but he never drank more than the amount that he had prescribed for himself. The key of the box in which he kept his bottles of wine was entrusted to his steward, who had strict instructions that if ever he contemplated drinking more than the fixed amount, he was on no account to agree or to hand over the key.

  He often used to compose his verses at night, under the influence of wine. When he had worked out a complete verse he would tie a knot in his sash, and there would be as many as eight to ten knots by the time he retired to bed. In the morning he would recall them, with no other aid to his memory, and would write them down...

  When the British forces re-occupied Delhi after the uprising of 1857, Ghalib was summoned for questioning by a British officer, Colonel Burn. Hali writes:

  I have heard that when Ghalib came before Colonel Brown [Burn] he was wearing a tall Turkish-style head-dress. The Colonel looked at this strange fashion and asked in broken Urdu, ‘Well? You Muslim?’ ‘Half,’ said Ghalib. ‘What does that mean?’ asked the Colonel. Ghalib said,‘I drink wine, but I don’t eat pork.’The Colonel laughed...

  Ghalib himself had commented on this incident:

  To tell the truth—for to hide the truth is not the way of a man free in spirit—I am no more than half a Muslim, fo
r I am free from the bonds of convention and religion and have liberated my soul from the fear of men’s tongues.

  Once during Ramzan he was visited by Maulana Azurda, a famous scholar of Islamic law and a poet of Persian, with whom he was friendly. The Muslim calendar is lunar, and over the years Ramzan therefore moves through the whole range of the solar year; that year it was in the hottest season:

  The room in which Ghalib spent his day was over the main gateway of the house, and leading off it to one side was another little room, small and dark, and with a doorway so low that one had to stoop right down to go through it. In this room there was a carpet laid on the floor, and in the hot season, when the hot wind was blowing, Ghalib usually spent the day there from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon. One day during the hot season in the month of Ramzan Maulana Azurda came to visit him when the sun was at its hottest. Ghalib was sitting in this little room with a companion playing backgammon... Azurda went in, and when he saw him playing backgammon during Ramzan said, ‘I have read in the Traditions* that during Ramzan Satan is held prisoner; but what I see today makes me doubt the authenticity of this tradition.’ ‘Respected sir,’ Ghalib replied, ‘the Tradition is completely authentic. But I should perhaps inform you that the place where he is held prisoner is this very room!’