That foggy night of December

Passing by the Ghalib Haveli

In Ballimaran, Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi,

I saw the Mirza framed by the columns of the courtyard

Looking pensive and lost, oblivious of a devotee seeking solace

In those hallowed rooms and the decorated walls.

The bearded visage and the suppressed pains

In those wonderful eyes, the master struck a formidable pose,

The regal self sculpted by the hands of God;

Just then a mischievous moon came out of the banks of cloud

And lit up the entire haveli that treasures the rich cultural past

Of Delhi;

For an instant, our eyes met and the poet smiled,

A kind avuncular smile, my heart leaped at this magical encounter

With the famed chronicler of turbulent times, tragedies, narratives big/small

In his lines reside a wounded history and brutalities of the imperialist Raj,

How well he handled his personal pain in the ghazals unmatched

In depth and thought and style;

The half-face moon lit up the entire lyrical landscape in shimmering milk and I heard distinctly familiar tunes/words sung by many a mellifluous voice,

This time it sounded strange and different---

The songs wafted on the cold air sung softly by that grand old man in a throaty voice in a Mughal royal court on bleak wintry nights;

Mesmerized, I watched the replay of the struggles historical

And personal, being played out before my eyes;

The episode called Sepoy Mutiny by the Empire, our battle against

The British Raj; the exile of the Mughal emperor and devastation of the capital

By the marauding forces led by the firangis at our cost!

Miraza buried seven children and could not get his full pension under the British rule, the pain buried deep in a bosom that had embraced it as a life-long friend,

Yet unaffected, he went on penning great lyrics that still delight!

The fine moment was over; the moon eclipsed by the clouds; a wind sharp-as-knife stabbed the hypnotized and woke him up from that trance,

I, too, became Ghalib, on that night!