There were two individuals in Indian folklore (one of them was a part of History too) who gave a new spectrum to the emotion of love (I refer to the worldly use of the “word”). Devdas and Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
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