as that of poetry and ourselves. Whether we like him or not, whether we understand him or do not, Ghalib's poetry has a quality which, in the essence, is for all. was a classical. Urdu and Persian poet from India during British colonial rule. His also known as. 'Mirza Asadullah Khan Galib', 'Mirza Galib', 'Dabir-ul-Mulk' and. Like Mir Taqi Mir, Ghalib was one of the rare poets to write Urdu verse in a simple language which can be understood by reader of any age and.

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URDU BOOKS PDF: Deewan-e-Ghalib Poetry Books, Urdu Poetry, Mirza Mirza Ghalib in Urdu pdf The book "Deewan-e-Ghalib" is a poetry book of the famous. Complete Urdu poetry of famous Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib in urdu text (deewan-ghalib by urduweb). Any urdu word can be searched in poetry. Deewan-e-Ghalib (دیوانِ غالبؔ ) is the collection of + Ghazals, Nazams, Rubaiyat, Qattaat, Marsiya & Qassaid from Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan Ghalib ( مِرزا.

Many times I looked for it; many times you found it. We found the desert of possibilities to be a single footprint.

I found despair to be smiling, with the two worlds as its lips. All my blood drops are strung into coral prayer beads. The essence of the lightning that burns the harvest is the hot blood of the farmer. The Doorkeeper now earns his living selling straw. In our gaze is the path of the road of oblivion, Ghalib, For this is the binding string of the scattered pages of the world. Glory makes such a claim on vision— Even the polish lines on the mirror want to be eyelashes. The Eid among sights is the sword becoming naked.

You remain—and I will be a hundred-colored garden. The morsels of the heart relish the slash of longing, The wounded liver plunges into the salt dish. A longer life would only have meant more waiting. If I lived on your promise—you know, I knew it was false.

From your delicacy I knew that your vow was loosely bound— You never could have broken it, if it had been firm. Let someone ask my heart about your languid archery.

10 beautiful Mirza Ghalib quotes for all the romantics in 2018

How could I have felt this frisson, with an arrow right through my liver? If only someone would help me, if only someone would sympathize. To whom can I describe it—the night of grief is a torment. Why would I have minded dying, if it had happened just once? There would never have been a funeral, there would nowhere have been a tomb.

For that oneness is unique. With even a whiff of twoness, then somewhere—an encounter. This style of yours, Ghalib! Simplicities of longing—that is, Again I remembered that marvel of sight. An excuse of fatigue, oh longing of the heart. I used to lament—I remembered the liver.

Alas, where is that courage for complaint? Vexed with the heart, I remembered the liver. Again thought goes to your street— Perhaps it remembered the lost heart. My fate with you, like a combination lock, Was written: In the roughness of the cure, the heart was finished off— Before it could be opened, the knot was rubbed away.

To become such an enemy of true lovers. From weakness, weeping changed into cold sighs. Now I believe it—water can turn to air. To erase from my heart the thought of your hennaed fingers Was to rip out from the flesh, the fingernail.

To me, the pouring down of the spring clouds is To weep to death in the grief of separation. The glory of the rose bestows a taste for spectacle, Ghalib— The eye should, no matter what, be open. To see the wonder of the longing for polish, Look how, in the rainy season, a green film forms on the mirror. In the shadow of the grapevine, the air is a wave of wine. This rainy season is that kind of time— The bounty of the air makes the wave of life, a wave of wine.

From the typhoon of joy, a whirlpool rises up— Waves of rose, waves of sunset, waves of breeze, waves of wine. It runs so much in the grapevine veins, turning to blood, With its long color feather it takes flight, the wave of wine. Through the rose wave, the pathway of thought is a lamp-show, So radiant in the mind is the wave of wine. The rowdies of the mood of spring are at their wildest, From the wave of verdure to the wave of wine.

It explains the commotion of life—bravo, rose season! It guides the drop to the river—well done, wave of wine! An ardent gaze finds wings and feathers in doors and walls. Brimming tears made the house such a blur That my walls and doors became doors and walls. What an abundance of the wine of your glory. Whenever I thought of shedding floods of tears, They fell at my feet, my desperate doors and walls. When she came and lived next door, then in the shadow, My doors and walls adored her doors and walls.

It stings my eyes—a bustling house, without you. I always weep, when I see doors and walls. For they dance, fallen end to end, the doors and walls.

When my temperament halts, then it flows all the more. I am the sound of my own breaking. You, and adornment of twisting curls. I, and long, faraway apprehensions. A show of dignity—a deceit of simpleheartedness. I am captured by love of the Hunter. Otherwise, I still have strength to fly. Oh your cruelty—entirely overthrowing. An outpouring from the prostrations of the forehead of humility. Asadullah Khan is done for. Alas—how rakishly he charmed the ladies. With lightning we light the candle in the house of mourning.

We are a lamp-display in the bedchamber of the heart of the Moth. I am a burden on the resting-place of manly resolve. Thousands of longings serve life sentences in it, Asad, I consider my blood-filled breast to be a prison cell. From practice in being beside myself in the garden of thought, I know how to interpret the weedy dreams of strange greenery. How long have I been in this wretched world? What can I say, If I count the nights of separation too? When did the wineglass ever come round to me, in her gathering?

May the Cupbearer not have put something in the wine! Why do I suspect a friend, concerning an enemy? Into what convolutions has illusion thrown you? In agitation, I even forgot to offer up my life. The root of witnessing, and the witnesser, and the witnessed, is one I am amazed—then how to account for witnessing each other?

Shame is one form of coquetry, even before oneself— How unveiled they are, who are like this within the veil. Dust be upon my life—I am not a stone! On the tablet of the world, I am not a repeated letter. Let me be given punishment, not torture. Why do you not consider me valuable? I am not ruby, emerald, gold, and pearl.

Why do you keep your feet away from my eyes? In rank, I am not less than the sun and moon. Am I not even equal to the sky? Ghalib, you have a pension now, give blessings to the King. In the dust, what hidden faces will there be? By day, the Daughters of the Bier hid in the heavens behind their veils.

At night, what came into their heads, that they became naked? Sleep is his, composure is his, the nights are his, On whose shoulder your curls lie disheveled. The Nightingales heard my laments and began singing ghazals. Although I suppressed them, more welled up, one after another— My steady sighs came like stitches for the rip in my collar.

All the blessings I knew, I used up on the Doorkeeper. Wine is life-enhancing—when one has a glass in hand, All the lines of the palm become, so to speak, the jugular vein. We are monotheists; our sect is the renunciation of customs. When the communities were erased, they became parts of the faith. When a person gets used to grief, then grief is erased. So many difficulties fell upon me that they became easy.

If Ghalib keeps on weeping like this, then, oh people of the world, Look at these towns—all a desolation.

30 Most Popular Classical Sher of Mirza Ghalib (in Hindi)

I will weep a thousand times—why would anyone torment me? Since that heart-kindling beauty, like the noonday sun, Would itself be sight-melting, why would she hide her face in a veil? The glance-dagger, deadly; the coquetry-arrow, unerring. Even your own reflection—how could it come before you?

The prison of life and the bonds of grief—in essence, both are one.

Before death, how could a person be freed from grief? She has confidence in herself; why would she test another? How would we meet in the road? Why would she invite me to her gathering? All right, she has no fear of the Lord! Anyone who values faith and heart—why would he enter her street?

Why would you weep and sob? Why would you lament? You should make a lone house, without walls and doors, For a neighbor, no one; for a doorkeeper, no one. If you fall ill, there will be no nurse, And if you die, then to mourn you, no one.

I am in a place where even to me No news comes about myself. Perhaps you have no sense of shame! Wine has unveiled her self-adorning beauty. To see the pearl glow on her beautiful neck— At what a height is the star of the pearl seller! The Cupbearer in his glory is a foe of faith and awareness. The musician with his tune waylays your dignity and senses. These themes come into my mind from the unseen— Ghalib, the scratching of my pen is the voice of an Angel.

She thinks that the goods she can get for free are better.

Another can be brought from the bazaar, if it breaks— Compared to the cup of Jamshed, my clay cup is better. One Brahmin has said that this year is good. Of whatever kind, in anyone, accomplishment is good. That task is good, of which the outcome is good. May the Great Creator keep Khizr Sultan flourishing! She takes it for a game—may she not quit, or forget about it! Damn her delicacy! If she fell into my hands, not a hand could be laid upon her.

Who can say whose glorious appearance this is? Night and day is a spectacle, before me.

The miracle of the Messiah is nothing much, before me. The aspect of the world is only a name, to my mind. The existence of things is only an illusion, before me. The river rubs its forehead in the dirt, before me.

Why not? An idol with a mirror-forehead sits before me. Then look at my rose-scattering style of speech! Let them first place a flagon of wine before me. My longing from the nights of separation has come before me. A whole sea of blood is rippling—if only this were all! Wait and see what now will come before me. For now, leave the wineglass and flagon before me.

He and I share our work, our wine, our secrets— Why do you insult Ghalib? And that too, here before me! Although you became notorious everywhere for your wandering, Finally you became shrewd about human nature.

The being and nonbeing of the ardent—why even ask? They became the straw and twigs of their own fire. We went to complain to her of her negligence. She gave us a single glance—and we became dust.

After all, let someone, sometime, open the knot of the heart. The wildness of the inventive temperament gives rise to despair. This is not the kind of pain that anyone would not create. The radiant beauty of the candle of poetry is far off, Asad. First one should create a melted heart. How is it madness, to write about self-lessness? Many of my longings emerged—but still, few emerged. As if it would stay on her hands! Perhaps someone wants a letter written to her, and me to write it!

At dawn, I tucked a pen behind my ear and left the house. In this age, I was put in charge of wine drinking. Again the time has come for the cup of Jamshed to emerge. The one we thought would understand our suffering Turned out to be worse wounded by the sword of tyranny.

The winehouse door, Ghalib—and the Preacher?! But I know this much: There is such mischief in your image that with a hundred ardors The mirror, like a rose, opens to embrace you. The turtledove, a handful of dust; and the Nightingale, a cage of color. Oh lament, what is the mark of a burnt-out liver?

Compulsion—and a claim of captivity by love! A pledge of faithfulness is a hand placed under a stone. The sword of tyranny is a picture-showing mirror. A strange time has fallen upon us like a shadow. Again passion has come to comfort the wounds of the heart, Bearing a hundred thousand salt dishes. Again the heart circumambulates the street of disgrace, Leaving desolate the idol temple of pride.

Again my mind dwells on every rose and tulip, Having equipped the gaze with a hundred gardens. Again I want to open a letter from her, Having made my life an offering to the charm of the address. Again desire wants someone at the edge of the roof, Who has loosed her black curls to fall around her face. Again longing wants to face off with someone Who has sharpened her eyelash daggers with collyrium. Again the gaze is seeking a new spring of coquetry, Making the face a garden through the radiance of wine.

Again I seek that same leisure, so that night and day, I would sit for hours, envisioning the beloved. Just a passing thought of wildness—and the desert burned. May God have mercy on him—he was a strangely free man. In the time it took for my rolled-up bedding to unfurl. The house of Majnun the desert wanderer was without a door. Existence itself drowned me; if I were not I, then what would I be?

Was any man of ours there when they wrote? In the eyes is the drop that did not become a pearl. Heart is pressed upon heart—a pair of vexed lips, so to speak. So what if the house is wrecked? We have no hope even of living. In the desert I find such pleasure that I hardly recall my home.

The beggar in the street of the winehouse is not disappointed. No more worry about theft—I bless the highway robber. It may be a mosque, it may be a school, it may be some Sufi lodge. The face ought to be toward the prayer niche, at the time of prayer. In my net of longing, that too is a single, inferior prey.

Just keep quiet. We have a tongue in our mouth, too. Since Majnun has died, the wilderness mourns. A desertful of rose-glory is a doormat. The lightning that strikes its comfort is the hot blood of the farmer.

Despite its composure, the rose has uneasy dreams. We thought there was just some elder traveling with us. The intoxication is not in proportion to the hangover. To the extent that the flagon and glass are filled, the winehouse is empty. She stopped, when she saw my flowingness. Oh Nightingale, go, for the days of spring have gone.

In faithfulness is the test of Shaikh and Brahmin. Now whom would anyone trust as a guide? My pilgrimage robe is very much stained with wine. The universe, apart from the radiance of the oneness of the Beloved, is nothing. Where would we be, if Beauty were not self-regarding?

The song of the depth and height of existence and nonexistence is absurd, The mirror of the difference between madness and dignity is a trifle. All images of meaning are a hangover from the presentation of appearances, All speech about Truth is the wineglass of the taste for praise. The boast of intelligence, false; and the gain from worship—none! Like a theme of faithfulness the breeze shows the hand of submission, With the aspect of a footprint, the dust shows the dispersal of dignity.

Passion is the disorder of the bookbinding string of the pages of the senses, Union is verdigris on the mirror face of the beauty of certainty. Kohkan, hungry, is a laborer on the pleasure-house of his rival, The Pillarless Mountain is a mirror of the heavy sleep of Shirin. Who has seen a fire-flinging breath from the people of faithfulness?

Who has experienced an effect from the lament of sorrowful hearts? The mind of the two worlds turned to blood from the tumult of longing, The gathering of despair, on the far side of manifestation and concealment, is colorful. The devastation of all hope, and the anxiety of terror— The turmoil of Hell is the autumn of the garden of lofty Paradise.

The pleasure of the Eid slaughterhouse of rivals—none! I hear the chanting of the people of the world, but I have neither an inclination for praise, nor a mind for reproach. How the nonsense babblers carry on—I take refuge in God!

Entirely devoid of the etiquette of dignity and propriety. The grace of creation is involved with him alone—the way that, always, The breath of the spring breeze is perfumed with rose scent.

His glory is so infidelity-burning that it would cause to fade Like the color of the lover, the radiance of the idol temple of China. Who can praise you beyond what is your due? The flame of a candle—but the candle has been bound by laws. Accorded to enemies: Provided for friends: Speech has its head in its collar: Write of it as the seal on the letter of revered and dear ones, Speak of it as the amulet on the arm of self-adorning beautiful ones.

Write of it as the cosmetic-stained fingertip of beautiful ones, Speak of it as the scar on the side of the liver of mad lovers. Write of it as resembling the signet ring on the hand of Solomon, Speak of it as the equal of the nipple of a Pari. Let it be connected to the burnt-out fortune star of Qais, Speak of it as the musky beauty spot on the charming face of Laila.

Why would you write of it as the lock on the door of the treasury of love? Why would you speak of it as the point of the drawing-compass of longing? Why would it be imagined as an unobtainable pearl? Why would you speak of it as the pupil of the eye of the imagined bird?

Why would you write of it as the button of the robe of Laila? Why would you speak of it as the footprint of the camel of Salma? After all, where did you vanish to, for two days? How could I have escaped? Bravo, oh common joy of the commoners! Why do you hide from me the secret of your heart? I grant that you have a slave ring in your ear, But is not Ghalib his slave? Do I know better, or do you know better? What degree of acquaintance do you have with him, Except during the approach of Eid, in the month of fasting?

I know that thanks to his grace, you Again want to become the full moon. Without the moon, without the moonlight, who am I? My own affair is a separate one, What need do I have to deal with anyone else? I long for a specially gracious gift, If you hope for a general mercy. He who will bestow on you the royal glory of radiance, Will he not give me rose-colored wine? Since fourteen heavenly stages Your swiftness of foot has already traversed , 1 They would be recipients of your radiance, Street and palace and courtyard and landscape and roof.

दीवान ए गालिब – विश्व नाथ | Deewan E Ghalib by Mirza Ghalib Hindi Book PDF Free Download

Look-in my hand, brimful, In your own shape, a crystal cup. Then I moved on, along the path of the ghazal, You, in your own style, were champing at the bit. Bravo to the hairsplittingness of your arrow — 2 Praise to the temperedness of your sword— Your arrow, an arrow with no target left, Your sword, a sword sheathed in an enemy.

How it makes thunder hold its breath— How it shows the inferiority of lightning— The trumpeting of your heavy-bodied elephant, The gait of your swift-reined steed. When, in the eternity before time, it was written down On the pages of nights and days, And in those pages, by the pen of fate, In brief, orders were included, It wrote down beautiful ones as lover-slayers, It wrote down lovers as what their worst enemies wished.

About the sky it was said that it would be called A swift-revolving blue-colored dome. The imperative order was written, to write down The beauty spot as a seed, and the curls as a net.

Fire and water and wind and dust took The style of burning and wetness and wildness and rest. To the grandeur of your kingship too It gave the established aspect of a decree. The writer of the order, according to his order, Gave to this decree perpetual dominion— From all eternity, there is a primordial proclamation, To all eternity, let there be an outcome fulfilled!

Ruba c fs Quatrains A quatrain on childhood and old age After the end of the Eid festival of childhood The days of youth kept offering us the wine of ecstasy— Until we arrived at the outskirts of the clime of nonexistence.

Oh passed-away lifetime—one footstep to welcome the future! The way fireworks are a pursuit of children, The burning of the liver too has an ecstasy just like that. The inventor of passion was a Doomsday disaster— In passing, what a game he devised for boys! Noble sir! Islam requires one to cultivate faith in the unseen— Oh you who are hidden from my sight, love for you is my faith.

And, brother, the fame of this poetry-circulating of yours enhances my reputation too. But indeed, from my Hindi [i. Thus from time to time, when my heart begins to sink, then five or ten times I recite this closing-verse: When our life passed in this way, Ghalib, Will even we remember that we used to have a God?

Then when I feel extremely anxious and full of annoyance, I recite this line and fall silent: Oh sudden death, what are you waiting for?! Among the Hindustanis, some dear ones, some friends, some pupils, some beloveds. Thus every one of them was mingled with the dust. How harsh is the mourning for one dear one! He who would be a mourner for so many dear ones—how could his life not be difficult? She has also shown me your verses in her praise.

The reason was that my stature too is conspicuous for tallness. Because when I was alive, my complexion was fair, and people of insight always praised it.

Now, if ever I recall that complexion of mine, something like a snake crawls on my breast. I recalled such pleasure—what can I say about what passed through me? In addition to this, it happened that two of my front teeth broke off. Having no choice, I gave up missl [a gum-darkening cosmetic], and my beard as well. But please remember that in this uncouth city there is a common uniform. The day that this fakir grew a beard, that same day he had his head shaved. And his reply, in Persian, came by post on the tenth of March, with praise and admiration and the expression of pleasure.

Then I sent him a Persian ode in congratulations for his lieutenant governorship. Upon receiving it, he sent a Persian letter praising the poem and expressing his appreciation, by way of the post, on the fourteenth.

Then I sent a Persian ode of praise and congratulation in the service of Janab Robert Montgomery Sahib, Lieutenant Governor Bahadur of the Punjab, through the good offices of the commissioner sahib of Delhi. Yesterday a letter with his seal arrived through the good offices of the [commissioner sahib] bahadur of Delhi. With regard to the pension there is as yet no order.

Grounds for hope keep accumulating. I have half a ser [a pound] of meat in the day, and a pdfon-bhar [a glass or two] of wine at night. If we are a true fakir, and the seeker of this ghazal [Mihr] has a perfected taste, then this ghazal will have arrived before this letter.

There remains the salaam, and that we ourself will send. Your saddening letter arrived. I read it. He told me about the relationship between the deceased lady and you. That is, her devotion and your love for her.

I was severely grieved, and felt complete sorrow. Listen, my friend, among poets Firdausi, and among fakirs Hasan Basri, and among lovers Majnun—these three men, in their three arts, are the heads and chiefs. The excellence of a poet is that he should become Firdausi. The limit for a fakir is that he should rival Hasan Basri. The sign of a lover is that he should have a destiny like that of Majnun.

Laila died in his presence. Your beloved died in your presence—or rather, you have gone beyond him, because Laila died in her own house, and your beloved died in your house. I too am a Mughal type. In the course of my life I too have killed a very cruel dancing girl [ domnl ]. This happened forty or forty-two years ago.

But even now sometimes I remember those coquetries. I know what must be passing through your heart. Be patient, and now leave behind the turmoil of worldly passion.

A [Persian] verse: Sadi, if you would be a lover in a youthful spirit, The love of Muhammad and his family is enough. In my early youth, an accomplished master gave me this advice: Drink, eat, take your pleasure; but remember this: He who will not die himself is the one who should grieve at the death of another.

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Give thanks for freedom! Alas— that houri will grow tiresome! That same emerald palace, and that same branch of the Tuba tree; and— may the evil eye be far from us! Brother, come to your senses, and attach your heart somewhere else. The thought is entirely pleasing; the expression, on the whole, is not pleasing.

There remains the question of meeting in person; for that there are two approaches: Mir Momin, Ghalib taught me flights of great vision. Hali gave me lessons in humility.

Iqbal showed me the mirror of righteousness. Momin gave me dreams of home and comfort. It is generally agreed that Urdu poetic composition reached its heights with Ghalib. Humility and Mohammed Husain Hali — the association is historically acceptable.

Momin, a contemporary of Ghalib was a romantic poet. Brij Narain Chakbast, , among other things wrote parts of Ramayan in Urdu poetic tradition 4. Faani Badayuni, 6. Akbar Allahbadi, , famous for satirical humour Zauq had the privelege of supporting me.

Faani brought starlight to my eyes. Akbar coloured my palm with henna. It is difficult to say precisely what Ghalib's attitude was toward the British conquest of India. The evidence is not only contradictory but also incomplete. First of all, one has to realize that nationalism as we know it today was simply non-existent in nineteenth-century India. Second --one has to remember -- no matter how offensive it is to some -- that even prior to the British, India had a long history of invaders who created empires which were eventu- ally considered legitimate.

The Moghuls themselves were such invaders. Given these two facts, it would be unreasonable to expect Ghalib to have a clear ideological response to the British invasion.

There is also evidence, quite clearly deducible from his letters, that Ghalib was aware, on the one hand, of the redundancy, the intrigues, the sheer poverty of sophistication and intellectual potential, and the lack of humane responses from the Moghul court, and, on the other, of the powers of rationalism and scientific progress of the West. Ghalib had many attitudes toward the British, most of them complicated and quite contradictory.

His diary of , the "Dast-Ambooh" is a pro-British document, criticizing the British here and there for excessively harsh rule but expressing, on the whole, horror at the tactics of the resistance forces. His letters, however, are some of the most graphic and vivid accounts of British violence that we possess.

We also know that "Dast-Ambooh" was always meant to be a document that Ghalib would make public, not only to the Indian Press but specifically to the British authorities. And he even wanted to send a copy of it to Queen Victoria.

His letters, are to the contr- ary, written to people he trusted very much, people who were his friends and would not divulge their contents to the British authorities.

As Imtiyaz Ali Arshi has shown at least to my satisfaction , whenever Ghalib feared the intimate, anti-British contents of his letters might not remain private, he requested their destruction, as he did in th case of the Nawab of Rampur. I think it is reasonable to conjecture that the diary, the "Dast-Ambooh", is a document put together by a frightened man who was looking for avenues of safety and forging versions of his own experience in order to please his oppressors, whereas the letters, those private documents of one-to-one intimacy, are more real in the expression of what Ghalib was in fact feeling at the time.

And what he was feeling, according to the letters, was horror at the wholesale violence practiced by the British. Yet, matters are not so simple as that either. We cannot explain things away in terms of altogether honest letters and an altogether dishonest diary. Human and intellectual responses are more complex.

The fact that Ghalib, like many other Indians at the time, admired British, and therefore Western, rationalism as expressed in constitutional law, city planning and more. His trip to Calcutta had done much to convince him of the immediate values of Western pragmatism. This immensely curious and human man from the narrow streets of a decaying Delhi, had suddenly been flung into the broad, well-planned avenues of Calcutta -- from the aging Moghul capital to the new, prosperous and clean capital of the rising British power, and , given the precociousness of his mind, he had not only walked on clean streets, but had also asked the fundamental questions about the sort of mind that planned that sort of city.

In short, he was impressed by much that was British. In Calcutta he saw cleanliness, good city planning, prosperity. He was fascinated by the quality of the Western mind which was rational and could conceive of constitutional government, republicanism, skepticism.

The Western mind was attractive particularly to one who, although fully imbued with his feudal and Muslim background, was also attracted by wider intelligence like the one that Western scientific thought offered: good rationalism promised to be good government.

The sense that this very rationalism, the very mind that had planned the first modern city in India, was also in the service of a brutal and brutalizing mercantile ethic which was to produce not a humane society but an empire, began to come to Ghalib only when the onslaught of caught up with the Delhi of his own friends. Whatever admiration he had ever felt for the British was seriously brought into question by the events of that year, more particularly by the mercilessness of the British in their dealings with those who participated in or sympathized with the Revolt.

This is no place to go into the details of the massacre; I will refer here only to the recent researches of Dr. Ashraf Ashraf, K. Joshi, , in India, which prove that at least 27, persons were hanged during the summer of that one year, and Ghalib witnessed it all.

It was obviously impossible for him to reconcile this conduct with whatever humanity and progressive ideals he had ever expected the British to have possessed. His letters tell of his terrible dissatisfaction.Write of it as resembling the signet ring on the hand of Solomon, Speak of it as the equal of the nipple of a Pari.

Just a passing thought of wildness—and the desert burned. My limbs are now weak. Aab E Hayat. The brick, the hod, the scaffolding, the implements of dismantling— when has a blueprint ever satisfied the construction of a life?

Well, to get to you is not easy: We have no hope even of living. The jails were emptied, mansions were looted, the postal service was disrupted, social order was at an end.

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