Ballimaran ke mahalle ki wo pechida daleelon ki si galiyan

saamne taal ke nukkad pe bateron ke qaside

gur-guraati hui paan ki peekon mein wo daad wo wah-wah
chand darwaaze par latke huye boshida se kuch taat ke parde
ek bakri ke mamiyaane ki awaaz
aur dhoondhlaayi huyi shaam ke be-noor andhere
aise deewaron se moonh jod kar chalte hain yahan
chudi-waalan unke katri ke badi bee jaise
apni boojhti hui aankhon se darwaaze tatole
isi be-noor andheri si gali qaasim se
ek tarteeb chiragon ki shuru hoti hai
ek quran-e-sukhan ka safa khulta hai
Asadallah Khan Ghalib ka pata milta hai
These are the opening lines written by Gulzar for his 1988 TV serial based on Mirza Ghalib.
When I got the TV serial from a friend I thought of it as nothing more than something I would
watch when I am free. One afternoon as I am free I watch it along with my parents. They had
watched it during its original run in 1988 and for them it was a thing from their past-full of
memories. For me it is the life story of arguably the greatest poet of Urdu. For many years we
had heard Ghazals of Ghalib marveling about his andaz-e-bayaan and Sukhan Daani. When I
hear Gulzars words I feel nostalgia and I decide I had to visit the home of this great poet.
Fast forward a couple of months I have completed my MBA and am leaving for my internship at
Chandigarh. In these months I have read a lot about Ghalib and have been reading his diwan. All
the time my respect for Ghalib is increasing. I also came across a book written by Gulzar on the
life of Ghalib and the need to visit his home is getting stronger.
I complete my internship and get on a bus to Delhi. Six hours later I am at a friends room at
Delhi. I ask him about Ghalibs residence or Ghalib Ki Haveli as it is called. He has no idea
about the place. After checking about it we come to know that it is near the Chawri Bazaar Metro
Station in Gali Qasim Jaan, Ballimaran, Shahjahanabad . Next day we hop onto the metro which
is in itself a modern marvel. After a couple of stations the sing song voice buzzes and informs us
that the next station is Chawri Bazaar. We get off the train and walk towards the exit. As we get
out of the station we are greeted by a blast of heat. It is hot in Delhi. And as someone born and
raised in the cool weather of Kashmir it is like an oven. But it is not the heat that disturbs me. I
see in front of me the capital of the Great Mughals. A place which once had ruled over one of the
largest kingdoms in the world. Then it must have been a beautiful and sprawling city. Now it is a
crumbling chaos with small roads filled with people-a city well and truly in its nadir. The
buildings are cramped together like they too are jostling for space. The streets are filled with
street hawkers bawling at the top of their voices. A sad reflection of the Great Delhi abode of the
nawabs. What would Ghalib have said? He would probably have chuckled.
Having no idea where to go we ask a passerby. He doesnt know about Ghalib Ki Haveli but
when we ask him about Gali Qasim Jaan he points towards a milling crowded street and informs
us that we need to turn right at Lal kuwan. We push our way through the crowd towards the

Street. After few more inquires, and a lot of jostling we are directed to the narrow path on which
lies the home of Ghalib. All this while a half remembered couplet by another great poet Mir Taqi
Mir is trying to raise to my mind.
Dilli jo ek shahar tha aalam mein intikhab
rehte they muntakhib hi jahan rozgaar ke
jis ko falak ne loot ke veeran kar diya
ham rehne waley hain usi ujre dayar ke
Dilli the best city in the universe. Where once dwelt the most distinguished.
I am a denizen of that ravaged realm. Devastated by Fates excesses.

I chuckle at the apt description of Delhi by Mir when I hear my friend call my name. As I turn he
points to an old and decrepit archway. Outside on the wall covered with stains is a plaque. On it I
see in Urdu is the address of Ghalib. There it is. The home of a poet who had inspired many
books, plays, movies and TV serials. I am disappointed. The place is almost indistinguishable
from the surrounding. This was Ghalibs home. This is the place where for 9 years lived one of
the greatest poets. There are no frescoes or alcoves. A dimly lit room, a small verandah and a
dirty courtyard no better than a shovel. In my mind I see the home well cared for and
transformed into a museum and I chuckle again at the image of a neat place in Ballimaran .
Inside I see a security person sitting on a chair shooing a dog out. The dog lingered for a while
but when the security personal started to stand up the dog scampered away. He went back to
sitting. We enter the home of Ghalib, And I see a mobile sim card shop besides Ghalibs room. I
am informed that the Haveli was once a coal store. Inside on the walls are frames of some of the
Ghalibs famous couplets. There is a lifesize replica of Ghalib sitting on a writing desk a pen in
his hand and a couple of his utensils. And there inside glass are his handwritten books. Years ago
Ghalib himself had traced ink across those pages. I look over those pages and read his poems.
His hand writing is crisp and clean. On the wall is a huge poster of Ghalib sitting with a book on
his lap and a hooka in his hand. In another room is a bust of Ghalib commissioned by Gulzar.
Gulzar a poet himself it seems is a huge fan of Ghalib. I feel sad and crushed in the haveli. I
quickly take a few photos and go outside. In one of his couplets which is framed and displayed
inside Ghalib says:
Koye viraani see virani hai
Ghar ko dekh kar dasht yaad aaya
I wondered if any wilderness would be more desolate than this!
And then I remembered another of the kind The home Id left behind.

Sometimes you step out of the book to search for the author you haunt Emily Dickinsons
lonely house in Amherst, you count the trees that inspired Kerouac on the road, you leave earnest

flower mementos on Wildes tombstone, you seek out the mangosteen tree under which Vaikom
Muhammad Basheer wrote. Literary pilgrimages like me have an irrational quest for the tangible
past of a writer the desk gets embellished, the pen becomes a totem, even the sarcophagus is
sacred but such journeys are almost futile in case of Ghalib. Kings and forts, we still get.
When he was on his death-bed, Ghalib wrote, I sleep in the courtyard. Two men carry me onto
the veranda and dump me in a small, dark, side room. I spend the day lying in its dingy corner. In
the evening, Im again carried out and dumped on the cot.
At the end of the day I come back to my room and open Diwan-e-Ghalib. Nowadays it is hardly
far from my hand. I start reading and on it I see written:
Hum ne mana ki tagaful na karo gay lekin.
Khaaq ho jayen gay hum tum ko khabar honay taq..
I know you would not ignore mebut
I shall be dust when you hear of me..