"There, by the side of that pink building. Go straight.", said one old chacha, not looking up from his newspaper. He looked annoyed, probably because he thought my broken Urdu didn't go well with the long hair and backpack and camera.
Delhi was scorching hot. After an hour long metro ride, rickshaws and a couple of kilometers on foot, I reached an intensely mosquito infested alley, lined on one side with kabab stalls, innumerable travel agencies and the other side with mud, crap and people. It was not even remotely close to how I thought the last resting place of such a genius would be like. The rickshaw-walah dropped me on the highway, loosely indicating where my destination was. Paying him off I started walking in the direction his finger pointed to.
As I reached the pink building, there were at least a hundred people buying flowers to pay back to some really famous Pir baba who was buried right next to the compound that housed Ghalib's remains.Not surprisingly, no one went to Ghalib's grave. As I entered the compound, an old flower seller shouted out from his seat behind the cart, "Mirza se milne khaali haath jaoge?" I laughed at him politely. "Mirza ko pasand nahin hai apni mazaar, pareshaan ho jayenge bewajah!" He looked at me, probably praying to God to forgive my sinful tongue.
I entered, and his famous couplet greeted me, etched on a tall white marble column with its translation
~
Delhi was scorching hot. After an hour long metro ride, rickshaws and a couple of kilometers on foot, I reached an intensely mosquito infested alley, lined on one side with kabab stalls, innumerable travel agencies and the other side with mud, crap and people. It was not even remotely close to how I thought the last resting place of such a genius would be like. The rickshaw-walah dropped me on the highway, loosely indicating where my destination was. Paying him off I started walking in the direction his finger pointed to.
As I reached the pink building, there were at least a hundred people buying flowers to pay back to some really famous Pir baba who was buried right next to the compound that housed Ghalib's remains.Not surprisingly, no one went to Ghalib's grave. As I entered the compound, an old flower seller shouted out from his seat behind the cart, "Mirza se milne khaali haath jaoge?" I laughed at him politely. "Mirza ko pasand nahin hai apni mazaar, pareshaan ho jayenge bewajah!" He looked at me, probably praying to God to forgive my sinful tongue.
I entered, and his famous couplet greeted me, etched on a tall white marble column with its translation
~
Na tha kuchh to khuda tha, kuchh na hota to khuda hota;
Duboya mujh ko honey ne, na hota main to kya hota?
~
Duboya mujh ko honey ne, na hota main to kya hota?
~
I went up to the grave. (I'll put up a photograph here soon) There were a few dried rose petals and wax from a candle someone placed long back. The guard at the entrance, making no effort to contain his contempt, screamed at the top of his voice, "Kam se kam joote toh neeche utaar do sahab, kya zamaana aa gaya hai..." I did as told and went to walk around in the compound, looking at other graves scattered everywhere.
Notwithstanding the dingy lane, and the rude guard, or my water deprived throat, or spinning head, there was something about the place that made it worth all the pain I took. I went back, murmuring Ghalib's couplets, and in awe. Awe not of the place or the monument, there was nothing grand about it, but of the weird excitement dead remains of great men bring up in me. Is it a common feeling? Do most people think like this when they visit a grave or a mausoleum? I know graves are just solid sand through and through, Mirza's bones must have decayed to nothing long before I was even born. I want to visit more graves soon.
Boring post, I know. But there are not a lot of people who'd like to hear about this uneventful trip, and so my poor blog suffers.
~
Hazaaron khwahishen aisi, ki har khwahish pe dum nikle;
Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.
~
Notwithstanding the dingy lane, and the rude guard, or my water deprived throat, or spinning head, there was something about the place that made it worth all the pain I took. I went back, murmuring Ghalib's couplets, and in awe. Awe not of the place or the monument, there was nothing grand about it, but of the weird excitement dead remains of great men bring up in me. Is it a common feeling? Do most people think like this when they visit a grave or a mausoleum? I know graves are just solid sand through and through, Mirza's bones must have decayed to nothing long before I was even born. I want to visit more graves soon.
Boring post, I know. But there are not a lot of people who'd like to hear about this uneventful trip, and so my poor blog suffers.
~
Hazaaron khwahishen aisi, ki har khwahish pe dum nikle;
Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.
~
