Ghalib was born in Agra on December 27, 1797. His father and forefathers were Seljuk Turk soldiers of fortune who sought employment in the armies of princes. His father married into a distinguished and prosperous Agra family but died when Ghalib was just five. Ghalib spent most of his childhood in his maternal grandparents’ home and received education in Persian, Arabic, Urdu, logic and philosophy. He started writing in Urdu at a very young age and in Persian when he was 11. He grew up into a handsome youth, married in his teens, had several children, none of whom survived too long.
Unlike his ancestors, Ghalib decided to live by the pen rather than the sword. Since the royal court was in Delhi, he shifted there to seek the patronage of Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar, himself a poet of some calibre, the umrah (nobility) who frequented the palace, the British in Calcutta and Queen Victoria in London. Poets could not survive on poetry and felt rulers owed it to them to keep them in comfort. In a letter to the Queen, Ghalib wrote that the kings of Persia "would fill a poet’s mouth with pearls, or weigh them in gold, grant them villages in fief or open the doors of their treasuries to...him". Ironic that a man who enriched Persian and Urdu literature remained a beggar all his life.
Ghalib was a non-conformist and a bon viveur. Though he revered Allah and the Prophet, he never said his five daily prayers, never fasted during Ramzan, nor went on pilgrimage to Mecca. He patronised houses of pleasure, consorted with courtesans and was inordinately fond of liquor. He preferred French wines or rum. He also liked Scotch, which he took with scented water every evening while he composed poetry. When someone warned him that prayers of persons who drank wine were never granted, he said: "My friend, if a man has wine, what else does he need to pray for?"
When a Hindu friend brought him a bottle, Ghalib thanked him in verse: Long had I wandered door to door,/ Seeking a flask of wine or two—no more,/Mahesh Das brought me that immortal draught/Sikander spent his days in seeking for.
Hali mentions a dialogue with the king, who was very particular about fasting during Ramzan, asking Ghalib: "Mirza, how many days’ fast did you keep?" Ghalib replied, "My lord and my guide, I failed to keep one." He made his name as a man of ready wit who answered awkward questions with a touch of humour.
After the 1857 mutiny had been put down and the British had driven all Muslims out of Delhi, Ghalib, who had no sympathy for it and stayed inside his home while it lasted, was summoned by a Colonel Burn and asked, "You, a Muslim?" Ghalib said, "Half. I don’t eat pork, but I drink wine."
Next to alcohol, Ghalib loved mangoes. During the season he’d eat up to a dozen every day. Hali recounts an incident when the poet was strolling with the emperor in the palace orchard and kept staring at the mango trees laden with fruit. The king asked, "Mirza, what are you looking at so attentively?" Ghalib said, "My lord and my guide, some ancient poet has written: ‘Upon the top of every fruit is written, clearly and legibly, this is the property of A, the son of B, the son of C’. And I am looking to see whether any of these bears my name and those of my father and grandfather." The king had a basketful of his finest mangoes sent to him the same day.
Throughout his life, Ghalib lived a hand-to-mouth existence, ever short of cash, ever living on credit. He was also a gambler and once spent three months in jail for running a gambling den.
It’s strange that Ghalib initially thought that deep emotions could be not be expressed in Urdu and preferred to pen them in Persian instead. Fortunately, he changed his mind in time and left a veritable treasure-house of gems. They lose much of their lustre in translation. The meaning comes across but the music of the words is lost. The best one can do is to read the original and then Russell’s translation.
Ghalib tried to forecast the year of his demise but went woefully wrong in his guess. He was closer to the truth when he wrote: Life gallops on at a reckless pace,/I know not where it will stop,/The reins are not in my hands,/ My feet not in the stirrups.
