Ghalib Quotes

Lest we forget: It is easy to be human, very hard to be humane

sharab peene de masjid mein beth kar, Yaa woh jagha bata jahan Khuda nahin..

Yaad-e-Mazi Aazab Hai Ya Rab... Cheen Lay Mujh Say Hafiza Mera.........!!!

If there is a knower of tongues here, fetch him; There's a stranger in the city And he has many things to say.

I asked my soul: What is Delhi? She replied: The world is the body and Delhi its life. Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib

In love my temperament found a new taste for life: it found a cure for the pain, and a pain without cure.'" –Ghalib

Whoever can't see the whole in every part plays at blind man's bluff. A wise man tastes the entire Tigris in every sip.

Love demands patience, desire is restless; What color shall I paint the heart, until you savage it? You shall not ignore me when the time comes, I know, but I may turn to dust before the news reaches you.

The path to enlightenment, to find out who you truly are, has to be taken alone.

This earth, burnished by hearing the name, is so certain of love,
that the sky bends unceasingly down, to greet its own light.

रोने से और इश्क़ में बेबाक हो गये, धोये गये हम ऐसे कि बस पाक हो गये. कहता है कौन नाला-ए-बुलबुल को बे-असर, परदे में गुल कि लाख जिगर चाक हो गये. करने गये थे उससे तग़ाफ़ुल का हम गिला, की एक ही निगाह कि बस ख़ाक हो गये. इस रंग से उठाई कल उसने असद की लाश, दुश्मन भी जिसको देखके ग़मनाक हो गये.

Bazeecha-e-atfal hai duniya mere aage, Hota hai shab-o-roz tamasha mere aage

Hazaron khwahishen aesi, ke har khwahish pe dam nikle Bahut nikle mere arman, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.

Whereas it is difficult for everything to work out easily, A man cannot even afford to be a human

Again, my mind drifts to your street! But I remind myself that that is where my heart was lost. . What utterly abandoned land this is! The desert makes me think about my house. .

The object of my worship lies beyond perceptions reach; For men who see, the Ka'ba is a compass, nothing more.

उड़ने दे परिंदों को आज़ाद फ़िज़ा में ग़ालिब जो तेरे अपने होंगे वो लौट आएं गे किसी रोज़ !

मुहब्बत थी चमन से, लेकिन अब ये बेदिमाग़ी है के मौज-ए-बू-ए-गुल से नाक में आता है दम मेरा

He gave me heaven and earth, and assumed I'd be satisfied; Actually I was too embarrassed to argue. The spiritual seekers are tired, two or three at each stage of the path. The rest who have given up never knew your address at all. There are so many in this gathering who wish the candle well. But if the being of the candle is melting, what can the sorrow-sharers do?

They say that life is about balance. That it trades one sorrow for one joy and so forth until it finds some kind of harmony. Well, I want none of it. I've never been as dead as I was when I was balanced. I don't want life to be contained. I want it unbound, inspired. Alive.

Ghar mein tha kya jo tera gham usay gharat karta? Woh jo hum rakhte the ik hasrat-e tamir, so hai." "What did we have at our home that your sorrow could wreck? All we had was a desire to create, and that is still there.

In Paradise it is true that I shall drink at dawn the pure wine mentioned in the Koran, but where in Paradise are the long walks with intoxicated friends in the night, or the drunken crowds shouting merrily? Where shall I find there the intoxication of Monsoon clouds? Where there is no Autumn how can Spring exist? If the beautiful houris are always there, where will be the sadness of a separation and the joy of union? Where shall we find there a girl who flees away when we would kiss her?

Difficulty itself may be a path toward concentration — expended effort weaves us into a task, and successful engagement, however laborious, becomes also a labor of love. The work of writing brings replenishment even to the writer dealing with painful subjects or working out formal problems, and there are times when suffering’s only open path is through an immersion in what is. The eighteenth-century Urdu poet Ghalib described the principle this way: ‘For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river — / Unbearable pain becomes its own cure.’ “Difficulty then, whether of life or of craft, is not a hindrance to an artist. Sartre called genius ‘not a gift, but the way a person invents in desperate circumstances.’ Just as geological pressure transforms ocean sediment into limestone, the pressure of an artist’s concentration goes into the making of any fully realized work. Much of beauty, both in art and in life, is a balancing of the lines of forward-flowing desire with those of resistance — a gnarled tree, the flow of a statue’s draped cloth. Through such tensions, physical or mental, the world in which we exist becomes itself. Great art, we might say, is thought that has been concentrated in just this way: honed and shaped by a silky attention brought to bear on the recalcitrant matter of earth and of life. We seek in art the elusive intensity by which it knows.

The miracle of your absence is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.

Abschied und Wiedersehen hat jedes doch sein Glück: Geh tausendmal - und komm dann zehntausendmal zurück!

sarapa arzoo hone ne banda kar diya ham ko wagarna hum khuda the gar dil be-muda'a hot

Gewöhnt sich der Mensch an den Schmerz, so enden die Schmerzen - So vieles ward auf mich gehäuft, das Schweres leicht mir nun ward.

حسد سے دل اگر افسردہ ہے، گرمِ تماشا ہو کہ چشمِ تنگ شاید کثرتِ نظّارہ سے وا ہو

The miracle of your absence is that I found myself whilst searching for you.

কী আজীব জিন্দেগী! একটা সন্ধ্যা কাটতে চায় না, অথচ দিব্যি বছর কেটে যাচ্ছে

There are two Ghalibs,’ you said once, ‘one of them is a Seljuq Turk, who consorts with badshahs, and the other is homeless and humiliated, weighed down by debt.

Ghalib bura na maan jo waiz bura kahe Aisa bhi koi hai sab achha kahen jise

Hamko ma’aloom hai jannat ki haqeeqat lekin Dil ki khush rakhne ko, ‘Ghalib’ yeh khayaal achcha hai

Ghalib’s poetry may be very good from a literary perspective but it is mostly a lament for a world that was collapsing around him. It contains no vision of the future. In

Ba hamdigar huay hain dil-o-deedah phir raqib,  Nazzara-e-khayaal kaa samaan kiyay huay. [The heart and the eyes are competing for the beloved. One,  with the means of sight and the other with the means of imagination].

Khush hotey hain par vasal mein yun mar nahin jaatey, Aaee shab-e hijra ki tamanna mere aagey. [Vasal: union, shab-e hijra : night of separation] The intense desire to die that I had in the night of separation has been fulfilled today by the intense bliss of union.

Being human, we struggle constantly to stay with the miracle of what is and not to fall constantly into the black hole of what is not. This is an ancient challenge. As the Sufi poet Ghalib said centuries ago, “Every particle of creation sings its own song of what is and what is not. Hearing what is can make you wise; hearing what is not can drive you mad.

आशिक़ हूँ प माशूक़-फ़रेबी है मिरा काम मजनूँ को बुरा कहती है लैला मिरे आगे

Aah ko chahiye ek umr asar hone tak..

सबके दिल में है जगह तेरी जो तू राज़ी हुआ मुझ पे गोया इक ज़माना मेहरबाँ हो जाएगा बाग़

It is difficult for every task to be easy. Similarly, it is not possible for a man to be a human being easily (and display the human qualities of kindness and love).

Qafas mein mujhse rudaad-e-chaman kahte na dar humdam, Giree hai jis pe kal bijli woh mera aashiyaan kyun ho.

अगले वक़्तों के हैं ये लोग इन्हें कुछ न कहो जो मय ओ नग़्मा को अंदोह-रुबा कहते हैं

Laag ho to us ko ham samjhein lagaao, Jab na ho kuchh bhee to dhokaa khaaein kyaa (If love/enmity would exist, then we would consider it an attachment, When neither feeling exists, then-- why would we be deceived?)

Ranj se khugar hua insaan to mit jaata hai ranj, Mushkilein mujh par padee Itni ke aasaan ho gaeen. If a human being gets accustomed to grief, then grief disappears. I suffered so many hardships, that they became easy to bear.

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. ‘I drink wine,’ said Ghalib, ‘but I don’t eat pork.’ The Colonel laughed, and Ghalib then showed him the letter which he had received from the Minister for India [sic] in acknowledgement of the ode to Her Majesty the Queen which Ghalib has sent. The Colonel said, ‘After the victory of government forces why did you not present yourself at the Ridge?’ Ghalib replied, ‘My rank required that I should have four palanquin bearers, but all four of them ran away and left me, so I could not come.

Mucize Mülteci (Divine Refugee Sonnet) Call me misafir, call me göçmen, This heart of mine is always migrant. Şan ve şöhrete ben muhtaç değilim, Benim derdim dünya, dünya dermanım. Call me gypsy, or call me refugee, This heart of mine is always migrant. I've got no use for silicon or gold, World is my bane, world, my ointment. In Sanskrit I am Abhijit, In English I am Victor. In Arabic I am Ghalib, In History I am Reformer. Call me whatever you like, Befitting your culture. I have no reservations, Above my human nature. So many tongues, as many names - Some call agua, some call pani. Conquer the tongue, spirit is the same - Some dub it divine, I live as humanity.

Kare hai baadah tere lab se kasab-e rang-e furogh, Khat-e piyaalah saraasar nigaah-e gul-chee hai. [kasab : acquire; furogh : splendour, radiance] The wine tries to take away from your lips their colour and radiance, Just as the gaze of a flower-picker tries to steal the colour and freshness of flowers. (Lips are like flowers and the line on the wineglass is like the gaze of a flower-picker)

Money can buy happiness. It can buy smiles. Can make one forget pain. Those who say it can’t can go fuck themselves.

Unke dekhe se jo aa jaati hai muh pe raunak … Wo samajhte hain ki beemaar ka haal achha hai … Dekhiye paate hain ussaak buttoon ee kyaa Faiz … Ek Brahman ne kaha hai ki ye saal achha hai

it was Islam’s interaction with an older civilization that resulted in Dara Shikoh, Rahim, Kabir, Amir Khusro, Raskhan, Nazeer Akbarabadi, Ghalib and Anis.

Jalaa hai jism jahaan dil bhee jal gaya hoga, Kuredte ho jo ab raakh justujuu kyaa hai.

Phir dekhiye andaz-e-gulafshani-e-guftar rakh de koi paimana-e-sahba mere age

Rau mein hai rakhsh-e umar kahaan dekhiye thamay Na haath baag par hai, na paa hai rakaab mein

Sab raqibon se hon nakhush par zanaan-e misr se, Hai Zulaikha khush ki mahav-e maah-e kanaan ho gayeen.

Gham-e-hasti kaa 'asad' kis se ho juz marg ilaaj Shamaa har rang mein jalti hai seher hote tak.

Wo aakey khwaab mein taskine-iztiraab to de, Vale mujhe tapishe-dil majaale-khwaab to de. [Taskine-iztiraab: peace to a restless mind; tapishe-dil : heart in turmoil; majaale-khwab : strength to sleep] She comes in my dream and relieves me of my restlessness but first my agitated heart should let me sleep and dream.

Hoon giriftaar-e ulfat-e sayyaad, Varnah baaqee hai taaqat-e parvaaz [Sayyad: hunter, parvaaz: flight] [I am captured/imprisoned by the love for the hunter, Otherwise/though, I still have strength for flight.]

Dil-e naazuk pah uske raham aata hai mujhe Ghalib, Na kar sar-garm us kaafir ko ulfat aazmaane mein. (I feel pity for her delicate heart which should not get damaged as she continues to test my love with her hot-headed enthusiasm and infidel-like cruelty.)

यह न थी हमारी किस्मत, कि बिसाले यार होता, अगर और जीते रहते, यही इंतज़ार होता.

ye kahaa.n kii dostii hai ki bane hai.n dost naaseh ko.ii chaarasaaz hotaa ko.ii Gam-gusaar hotaaThey are not friends who only counsel and offer suggestions. The real friend would be the one who cures your pain or at least shares it.

kitne shiirii.n hai.n tere lab ki raqiib gaaliyaa.n khaa ke be-mazaa na hu.aa The poet/lover says that the beloved’s lips are so sweet that his rival liked even the abuses she hurled at him.

hazaaro.n KHvaahishe.n aisii ki har KHvaahish pe dam nikle bahut nikle mire armaan lekin phir bhii kam nikle

mujh ko KHvaahish hii Dhuu.nDne kii na thii mujh me.n khoyaa rahaa KHudaa meraaThe poet expresses a morbid lack of desire to seek God. Though finding Him was easy: He was inside the poet. Yet, He remained lying there in the darkness of oblivion.

rago.n me.n dau.Dte phirne ke ham nahii.n qaa.il jab aa.nkh hii se na Tapkaa to phir lahuu kyaa hai The poet/lover says that the true blood is the one that falls from the eyes like tears when he cries in love. If it only keeps running around in the veins (life continues to be normal), he will be disappointed in his blood.

likhte rahe junuu.n kii hikaayaat-e-KHuu.n-chakaa.n har-chand is me.n haath hamaare qalam hu. The poet kept on writing the blood-dripping story of passion even after his hands were cut-off.

Ghalib’s poem was composed against the backdrop of the decline of the Mughal Empire. His home territory, the Indo-Gangetic plain, once ruled by a single monarch, was now split between contending chiefdoms and armies. Brother was fighting brother; unity and federation were being undermined. But

Sustainability : is making successful solutions last forever.

I was not meant for love, love was not meant for me If I had lived longer, to wait would have been ­­my ­destiny.

Neend uski hai, dimagh uska hai, raatein uski hain, Teri zulfein jiske baazoo par pareshaan ho gayeen.

Ganjeena-e-manee ka tilism usko samajhey, Jo lafz ke Ghalib mere ashaar mein aaway.

Sakhun kyaa kah nahin saktey ke joyaa hon jawahir ke, Jigar kya hum hanin rakhte ke jaakey khoden maadan ko.

Aasaan kahnay kee kartay hain farmaaish, Goyam mushkil wagarna goyam mushkil.

Jo yeh kahe ki rekhtaa kyoon ki ho rashk-e-faarsee? Gufta-e-Ghaalib ek baar parh ke use sunaa ki 'yoon

Meharbaan hokey bulaalo mujhey chaaho jis waqt. Main gaya waqt nahin hoon ki phir aa bhee na sakoon.

Hain aur bhee duniyaa mein sukhanvar bahut achhe, Kahte hain ki Ghaalib kaa hai andaaz-e-bayaan aur.

Bah qadr-e shauq nahin zarf-e tangna-e ghazal Kuch aur chahiye vusat mire bayan ke liye

Na sataish ki tamanna na silay ki parwah, Gar nahin hain mere ashar mein maane na sahi

Har chand ho mushaahada-e-haq ki guftogo, Bantee nahin hai baada wo saaghar kahe baghair.

Kahaan maikhaane ka darvaazaa 'Ghalib' aur kahaan vaaiz, Par itnaa jaante hain ki vo jaataa thaa ke ham nikale

Naqsh fariyaadi hai kiski shokhi-e-tahareer ka,  Kaagazi hai pairahan har paikar-e-tasveer ka.

(However we talk about revelation of Truth or God, it cannot be described except in terms of wine and goblet)

Ishrat-e qatra hai dariya mein fanaa ho jaana, Dard ka had se guzarna hai dawa ho jaana. [Ishrat-e qatra : glory/joy of a drop; fanaa : obliteration] The joy/goal of a water drop is to ultimately mingle into the ocean. Similarly, as the lover's feelings get intense, the lover's misery ends only with extreme unendurable pain which also seems to be the ultimate pleasure/cure (medicine is metaphorically used for extreme pleasurable pain).

Ghalib not only left his poetry to this world but he also left behind a handbook for catharsis.

Bhala use; na sahee, kuchch mujhee ko raham aataa Asar mere nafas-e-be asar mein khaak naheen

I wished I had renounced the faith, taken a rosary in my hand, put a sectarian mark on my forehead, tied a sacred thread round my waist and seated myself on the bank of the Ganges so that I could wash the contamination of existence away from myself and like a drop be one with the river.

JANUARY 24 Miracle Thinking There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. —ALBERT EINSTEIN There is no end to worry, because there is no end to what exists out of view, beyond our very small eyes. So worry is a way to gamble with what might or might not happen. It reminds me of a friend who had a flat tire on a country road. After finding he had no jack, he began walking, hoping to find a nearby farmer who would help him. It was getting dark and the crickets were getting louder. As he walked the overgrown road, he began to throw the dice of worry in his mind: What if the farmer's not home? What if he is and won't let me use his jack? What if he won't let me use his phone? What if he's frightened of me? I never did anything to him! Why won't he just let me use his phone?! By the time he knocked on the farmer's door, my friend was so preoccupied with what could go wrong that when the friendly old man answered, my friend bellowed, “Well, you can keep your Goddam jack!” Being human, we struggle constantly to stay with the miracle of what is and not to fall constantly into the black hole of what is not. This is an ancient challenge. As the Sufi poet Ghalib said centuries ago, “Every particle of creation sings its own song of what is and what is not. Hearing what is can make you wise; hearing what is not can drive you mad.

मुहब्बत में हमारा दिल तो पहले ही जख्मी था, तिस पर जनाब नासेह ने आकर नसीहतों की बौछार करकर के हमारा जख्म और भी ताजा कर दिया. पर कोई हमारे महबूब से पूछे कि हमारे तड़पने से उन्हें क्या मिला.

Ironically both of them were on the pavement that night to escape their past and all that had circumscribed their lives so far. And yet, in order to arm themselves for battle, they retreated right back into what they sought to escape, into what they were used to, into what they really were. He, a revolutionary trapped in an accountant’s mind. She, a woman trapped in a man’s body. He, raging at a world in which the balance sheets did not tally. She, raging at her glands, her organs, her skin, the texture of her hair, the width of her shoulders, the timbre of her voice. He, fighting for a way to impose fiscal integrity on a decaying system. She, wanting to pluck the very stars from the sky and grind them into a potion that would give her proper breasts and hips and a long, thick plait of hair that would swing from side to side as she walked, and yes, the thing she longed for most of all, that most well stocked of Delhi’s vast stock of invectives, that insult of all insults, a Maa ki Choot, a mother’s cunt. He, who had spent his days tracking tax dodges, pay-offs and sweetheart deals. She, who had lived for years like a tree in an old graveyard, where, on lazy mornings and late at night, the spirits of the old poets whom she loved, Ghalib, Mir and Zauq, came to recite their verse, drink, argue and gamble. He, who filled in forms and ticked boxes. She, who never knew which box to tick, which queue to stand in, which public toilet to enter (Kings or Queens? Lords or Ladies? Sirs or Hers?). He, who believed he was always right. She, who knew she was all wrong, always wrong. He, reduced by his certainties. She, augmented by her ambiguity. He, who wanted a law. She, who wanted a baby. A circle formed around

Rahe dil hee mein teer achha, jigar ke paar ho behtar, Gharaz shiste-bute-naavak phigan ki aazmaaish hai. [shiste-bute-naavak phigan : arrow-throwing ability of the beloved] If the beloved’s arrow remains in the heart, it is good; if it goes past it is even better. It is the test of the arrow-throwing ability of the beloved.

Go main raha rahine-sitmaha-e-rozgaar, Lekin tirey khayaal se ghafil nahin raha. [ rahine-sitmaha-e-rozgaar : occupied dealing with cruelties of life] Despite the fact that I remained occupied dealing with the hardships of the world, I kept thinking about you all the time.

Unke dekhe se Jo aa jaatee hai munh par raunaq, Woh samajhte hain ke beemaar ka haal achcha hai. The beloved visits her suffering lover whose face lights up on seeing her. And she wrongly thinks that the lover is well and gives him no sympathy.

Ibn-e-Mariyam hua kare koi mere dukh ki dava kare koi Ghalib says that he has heard of miracles been done by the Messiah. But he wants his pain of love to be cured by a miracle too. Some scholars see an audacity in this verse but that is Ghalib’s style of catching attention and highlighting his woes.

Jalaa hai jism jahaan dil bhii jal gayaa hoga, Kuredate ho jo ab raakh justajuu kyaa hai? [justajuu : desire] The fire (of love) has burnt the body and the heart. What are you looking for now by poking the ashes?

Aata hai dagh_e_hasrat_e_dil ka shumaar yaad, Mujh se mere gunah ka hisaab ay Khuda na maang. O Lord, please do not ask for an account of my sins as this reminds me of the scars caused by the unfulfilled desires of my heart.

Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle Bohat niklay mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle Daray kyon mera qaatil? kya rahega us ki gardan par? Voh khoon, jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yoon dam-ba-dam nikle Nikalna khuld se aadam ka soonte aaye hain lekin Bahot be-aabru hokar tere kooche se hum nikle Bharam khul jaaye zaalim! teri qaamat ki daraazi ka Agar is tarahe par pech-o-kham ka pech-o-kham nikle Magar likhvaaye koi usko khat, to hum se likhvaaye Hui subaha, aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar qalam nikle Hui is daur mein mansoob mujh se baada aashaami Phir aaya voh zamaana, jo jahaan mein jaam-e-jaam nikle Hui jin se tavaqqa khastagi ki daad paane ki Voh ham se bhi zyaada khasta e tegh e sitam nikle Mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeenay aur marnay ka Usi ko dekh kar jeetay hain, jis kaafir pe dam nikle Zara kar jor seene par ki teer-e-pursitam niklejo Wo nikle to dil nikle, jo dil nikle to dam nikle Khuda ke waaste parda na kaabe se uthaa zaalim Kaheen aisa na ho yaan bhi wahi kaafir sanam nikle Kahaan maikhane ka darwaaza Ghalib aur kahaan vaaiz Par itna jaantay hain kal voh jaata tha ke ham nikle Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle Bohat niklay mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle...

Abigitano, Soneto del Divino Refugiado En sánscrito soy Abhijit, En español soy Vencedor. En árabe soy Ghalib, En Historia soy Reformador. Tantos idiomas, tantos nombres – Algunos llaman agua, otros llaman water. Más allá de los idiomas, la luz es la misma – Algunos lo llaman divino, yo lo llamo humanidad. Mis raíces están arraigadas en la humanidad, no en una cultura, religión o nación. El cosmos corre por mis corpúsculos, Mi vida es el llamado a la expansión. Quien ama a otro es santo, Quien ayuda a otro es rey. Los animales anhelan lujos locos, Para mí sacrificarse es vivir. No me sirven el silicio ni el oro – Cuando el mundo arde, yo soy ungüento. Llámame migrante, o llámame un refugiado – Más allá de hechos y la fe, ¡yo soy Abigitano!

aashiqii sabr-talab aur tamannaa betaab dil kaa kyaa rang karuu.n KHuun-e-jigar hote tak

Ardor complains, even in the heart, about the narrowness of space. In a pearl was absorbed the restlessness of the sea.

jii Dhuu.nDtaa hai phir vahii fursat ki raat din baiThe rahe.n tasavvur-e-jaanaa.n kiye hu.e The heart continually looks for some relaxation from the tiring day-to-day affairs of life. It craves to go back to the good old days when the poet/lover could sit back idly and daydream about the beloved.