Qissa Urdu Zabaan Ka

The story of the birth of the Urdu language is perhaps the most fascinating among Indian languages. Developing organically in bazaars, royal courts, and Sufi shrines, this language—then known as Rekhta—eventually reached such heights that other languages began to envy its beauty and richness. While it had already found a favorable environment in the Deccan, the speakers of Shahjahanabad (Delhi) elevated it to the status of *Urdu-e-Mualla* (Exalted Urdu). They became deeply enamored with its charms and nuances. However, the influence of Persian was still so overwhelming that people hesitated to compose poetry in Urdu.

There is a famous proverb that not even grass grows under a banyan tree. In the shadow of Persian, this was exactly the condition of this fledgling language. It was the profound impact of Wali Daccani’s *Divan* (poetry collection) that prompted people to leave Persian and turn toward Urdu. It was as if the language had been ready for ages, needing only a slight psychological nudge, which the immense popularity of Wali's verses provided. Around the same time, Fazl Ali Fazli wrote *Karbal Katha*. If one compares its prose with the poetic language of that era, it is surprising to note that while the language of poetry had become somewhat polished, the path of prose was still strewn with thorns. The general rule is that prose develops first, and poetry progresses later. Here, the situation was the exact opposite. The language was already prepared; when the dam broke, poetry was the first to sweep away creative minds, while prose stood watching from the shore. In the preface to *Karbal Katha*, Fazli writes:

The reason for compiling this praiseworthy collection and authoring this blessed manuscript—every letter of which is a bouquet from the garden of spirituality—is that it contains the account of the martyrdom of the King of Karbala. I used to recite it, but its meanings eluded the understanding of women. Often, after the reading of the book, everyone would remark, 'A hundred pities and a hundred thousand regrets that we unfortunates do not understand the Persian text and remain deprived of the spiritual reward of weeping. If only there were a person of understanding who could explain it to us exactly as it is, and by making us ignorant ones understand, bring us to tears.'

This prose possesses the innocence and simplicity of Urdu's early period, yet its sentences remain trapped in the grip of Persian. On the other hand, the language of poetry bore the marks of *Daccaniyat*—that is, the early influence of regional dialects. Mir Taqi Mir, in his affectionate tone, had merely said:

The beloved who was mine, hailed from the Deccan.

But when Qaim Chandpuri claimed:

O Qaim, I molded Rekhta into the style of the ghazal, otherwise

It was but a feeble thing in the Daccani tongue.

...he was essentially expressing a sentiment that was natural to arise in a historical era when the process of the language's formation, refinement, and molding was actively underway. This auspicious task was not the work of a single individual or a lone poet; rather, all the Urdu speakers and writers of the era of Mazhar, Hatim, Mir, Sauda, Qaim, and Yaqeen participated in it. During this time, the language was expanded immensely. Thousands of new words, infinitives, idioms, similes, and metaphors entered the language, elevating it to unprecedented heights. In this period, while many pure Hindi words were permanently absorbed into Urdu, translations of numerous Persian idioms and phrases also became deeply ingrained. For example, *paimana bharna* (to reach the end of one's days, from the Persian *paimana pur kardan*), *jamay se bahar nikalna* (to be beside oneself, from *az jama bairoon shudan*), *dil hath se jana* (to lose one's heart, from *dil az dast raftan*), *khush aana* (to be pleasing, from *khush aamadan*), and *jigar karna* (to show courage, from *jigar kardan*).

The poetry of this era utilized countless words associated with soldiers, wrestlers, folk singers, elephant drivers, firework makers, courtesans, merchants, physicians, cooks, and hunters. Additionally, hundreds of names and specific terms related to war and festive gatherings, weddings, seasons, fruits, flowers, birds, animals, jewelry, clothing, and cuisine entered the Urdu lexicon during this period, resulting in a tremendous expansion of its vocabulary. The infinitives coined from Persian words give some idea of the magnificent process of adoption and adaptation that continued in Urdu. For instance, Urdu verbs were created from Persian roots: *larazna* (to tremble) from *laraz*, *daghna* (to brand) from *dagh*, *farmana* (to command) from *farman*, *kharidna* (to buy) from *kharid*, *kharchna* (to spend) from *kharch*, *bakhshna* (to bestow/forgive) from *bakhsh*, *nawazna* (to favor) from *nawaz*, and *badalna* (to change) from *badal*. Similarly, compound verbs were formed, such as *guzar karna* (to subsist), *amal karna* (to act upon), *zahmat karna* (to take the trouble), *kharab karna* (to ruin), *qadar karna* (to appreciate), *talash karna* (to search), *shumar karna* (to count), *minnat khainchna* (to entreat), *farz karna* (to assume), *toomar bandhna* (to make a fuss), *hami bharna* (to assent), and *sarokar na rakhna* (to have no concern). These, along with hundreds of other derived verbs, were used so frequently that they became entirely Urdu's own.

The blending of Hindi words with Persian words also reached its zenith during this period. Compound words like *doraha* (crossroads), *betuka* (absurd), *gariban* (coachman), *bedhab* (clumsy), *beghar* (homeless), *nek chalan* (of good conduct), *sharmila pan* (shyness), *munh zor* (headstrong), *chor mahal* (hidden palace), *jeb katra* (pickpocket), *imambara* (shrine), *befikra* (carefree), *nawdaulata* (nouveau riche), *chauraha* (intersection), *chhamaha* (six-monthly), *pachranga* (five-colored), *besabra* (impatient), *thaka manda* (exhausted), *bekal* (restless), *badchalan* (of bad character), *sharmila* (shy), *paandan* (betel-leaf box), *bedharak* (fearless), *samajhdar* (sensible), *sadabahar* (evergreen), *diwanapan* (madness), *belag* (impartial), *daghabaz* (deceitful), *basanti posh* (wearing spring yellow), *beldar* (patterned with vines), *phooldar* (floral), *jama-e-chhint* (chintz garment), *Moti Mahal* (Pearl Palace), and *Moti Masjid* (Pearl Mosque) became common. When Mir said:

You shall remember my words; you will not hear such speech again,

Should you hear someone recite them, you will sway in a trance for a long time.

Wherever you open it, a soul-stirring verse emerges,

A tumult like Judgment Day resides everywhere in my Divan.

...these claims of poetic beauty and majesty would have been impossible without the linguistic power, expansiveness, flexibility, and richness of the language. Around the same time, while the poetic atmosphere of Delhi was echoing with the melodies of Mir and Sauda's contemporaries and their disciples, the seeds of Urdu poetry were already being sown in Lucknow. On another front, attention was turning toward Urdu translations of the Holy Quran. Furthermore, far from the central regions, the influence of Urdu—or Hindustani—was beginning to create ripples in the linguistic atmospheres of Murshidabad and Calcutta. This was also the era when William Jones discovered the common ancestry of the Sanskrit, Pahlavi, Greek, Germanic, and Italian languages, and the missing historical links of historical linguistics—particularly of the Indo-European language family—began to be pieced together.

During this same period, acting as an instrument of imperialism, John Gilchrist focused his attention on Urdu at Fort William College. Gilchrist wrote and commissioned dozens of books on dictionaries, grammar, and language, and gathered *munshis* (scholars and scribes) of Hindustani—that is, Urdu—at the college. One crucial aspect of this historical endeavor is that had prose books not been written in simple language here, Urdu might have remained lost for a long time in the labyrinth of ornamentation and rhyming prose seen in works like Ata Hussain Tahseen's *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*. Although Fort William College hosted Haider Bakhsh Haidari, Sher Ali Afsos, Mirza Ali Lutf, Kazim Ali Jawan, Mazhar Ali Wala, Bahadur Ali Husaini, Nihal Chand Lahori, Beni Narayan Jahan, and many other writers who expanded the scholarly boundaries of the Urdu language, the status achieved by Mir Amman's *Bagh-o-Bahar* among the books of that era was unmatched by any other work of prose.

If Urdu is the name of a linguistic balance between Prakritic and Arabo-Persian elements, then Mir Amman, through his tremendous linguistic genius and highly refined aesthetic sense, had discovered the secret to the beauty of this balance. The Urdu of *Bagh-o-Bahar* is not only washed in the heavenly Islamic streams of Kausar and Tasneem; it also sees its reflection in the Indian mirrors of the Ganges and the Yamuna.

Now, I cannot even afford a penny's worth of parched grain to chew on and wash down with water. I endured two or three days of severe starvation. Unable to bear the hunger any longer, I helplessly threw the veil of shamelessness over my face and decided to go to my sister's house. Yet, I felt deeply ashamed, knowing that since our revered father's passing, I had neither treated her well nor even written her a simple letter. But my own sister, seeing my wretched state, embraced me, took my misfortunes upon herself, and wept bitterly. She performed rituals of charity, offering oil and black coins to ward off evil from me. One day, she said to me, 'O brother! You are the apple of my eye and the last living trace of our departed parents. Your arrival has brought peace to my heart. Whenever I look at you, my spirit blooms. You have filled me with joy.

'However, God created men to earn a living; it does not suit them to sit idle at home. A man who becomes a good-for-nothing and stays confined to the house is taunted by the world—especially by the people of this city. Young and old alike will needlessly gossip about your staying here, saying that after squandering his father's wealth, he has come to live off his brother-in-law's scraps. This would be utterly humiliating, making a mockery of us both and bringing shame to our parents' name. Otherwise, I would gladly make shoes out of my own skin for you to wear and keep you hidden in my heart. My advice to you now is to set out on a journey. God willing, your fortunes will change, and this distress and poverty will be replaced by peace of mind and prosperity.'

This prose demonstrates that the Urdu language had left its infancy behind and developed a remarkable capacity for expressive communication. Following the establishment of Fort William College, Urdu prose appeared to have come of age. While the rays of English education and Western civilization were beginning to emanate from Calcutta, the culture of Awadh remained enclosed within its own fortress. Yet, this fortress contained an entire universe of its own, with its own earth and sky. Its sun, moon, and stars were literary giants like Aatish, Nasikh, Bahr, Sahar, Naseem, Wazir, Rind, Saba, Qalaq, and Rajab Ali Baig Suroor. It was the era of epic storytelling traditions like *Tilism-e-Hoshruba*, *Dastan-e-Amir Hamza*, and dozens of other *dastans*. Though there was only one royal court, it cast a shadow over numerous smaller circles of courtiers. Under their patronage, *mushairas* (poetry symposiums) became the grandest arenas for showcasing poetic craftsmanship, artistic mastery, and linguistic virtuosity.

While the abundance of wealth and the multitude of patrons may have drained the soul from poetry, they simultaneously fueled the progress and expansion of the language. Since all attention was now fixated on vocabulary and diction, linguistic hair-splitting became the norm. Extensive lists of obsolete words were compiled, yet the sapling of the language continued to thrive in the climate of Awadh, where the land was fertile and the soil moist. During this period, Urdu absorbed the elasticity, softness, and sweetness of the Awadhi dialect—a lasting influence that Urdu will always take pride in. To truly witness the elegance, flavor, and captivating flow of the language from this era, one must look not to the *ghazal*, but to the *masnavi* and the *marsiya* (elegy).

The Urdu of this era encompasses two distinct extremes. On one hand, there are the traditions of Nasikh, Rajab Ali Baig Suroor’s *Fasana-e-Ajaib*, and Daya Shankar Naseem’s *Gulzar-e-Naseem*. On the other hand, there is the language of Mir Hasan, Mir Anees, and Mirza Shauq—a language bathed in the moonlight of natural conversation, whose simplicity, sweetness, and fluidity are undeniable. In both poetry and prose, the Urdu language had reached a pinnacle where it awaited a master who could take it by its silver wrists. In return for his devotion, the language would place a crown of greatness upon his head, glittering with linguistic jewels, its brilliance dazzling the eyes of the world until the end of time. That masterful, great artist was Mirza Ghalib. When he declared:

Consider it a talisman unlocking a treasure trove of meaning,

Every word, O Ghalib, that finds its way into my verses.

...he was, albeit indirectly, asserting that Urdu had ascended to a level—both in vocabulary and semantics—where it was fully capable of expressing the most delicate nuances and the emotions of life's most complex relationships. Mirza possessed such an immense capacity to infuse prose with the natural flow of conversation and poetry with pure magic, that through him, the cycle of Urdu’s linguistic evolution, which had begun in the era of Amir Khusro, reached its logical completion. After Ghalib, a grand highway of expression opened up—one that Urdu continues to travel to this day. Read the following excerpt by Ghalib and judge for yourself the linguistic foundation upon which the standard of modern Urdu is built:

I am sixty-five years old, and for fifty of those years, I have wandered through this world of color and fragrance. In my early youth, a perfect spiritual guide offered me this advice: 'I do not demand asceticism or strict piety, nor do I forbid indulgence and vice. Eat, drink, and be merry. But remember this: be like the fly that sits on crystallized sugar, not the bee that gets stuck in honey.' I have lived my life by this counsel. Only he who is immortal should mourn the death of another. What is the use of shedding tears and reciting elegies? Give thanks for your freedom and do not grieve. And if you are so fond of your own captivity, then if not 'Chunna Jan,' let it be 'Munna Jan.' When I imagine Paradise and think that, should I be forgiven, I will be granted a palace and a single *houri*. The stay is eternal, and I must spend eternity with that same good-natured woman. The very thought makes my heart sink and fills me with dread. Alas! That *houri* will become a tedious burden; how could one's spirit not grow restless? The same emerald palace, the same branch of the *Tuba* tree. God save us, the exact same *houri*! Brother, come to your senses, and attach your heart elsewhere.

The story of the birth of the Urdu language is perhaps the most fascinating among Indian languages. Developing organically in bazaars, royal courts, and Sufi shrines, this language—then known as Rekhta—eventually reached such heights that other languages began to envy its beauty and richness. While it had already found a favorable environment in the Deccan, the speakers of Shahjahanabad (Delhi) elevated it to the status of *Urdu-e-Mualla* (Exalted Urdu). They became deeply enamored with its charms and nuances. However, the influence of Persian was still so overwhelming that people hesitated to compose poetry in Urdu.

There is a famous proverb that not even grass grows under a banyan tree. In the shadow of Persian, this was exactly the condition of this fledgling language. It was the profound impact of Wali Daccani’s *Divan* (poetry collection) that prompted people to leave Persian and turn toward Urdu. It was as if the language had been ready for ages, needing only a slight psychological nudge, which the immense popularity of Wali's verses provided. Around the same time, Fazl Ali Fazli wrote *Karbal Katha*. If one compares its prose with the poetic language of that era, it is surprising to note that while the language of poetry had become somewhat polished, the path of prose was still strewn with thorns. The general rule is that prose develops first, and poetry progresses later. Here, the situation was the exact opposite. The language was already prepared; when the dam broke, poetry was the first to sweep away creative minds, while prose stood watching from the shore. In the preface to *Karbal Katha*, Fazli writes:

The reason for compiling this praiseworthy collection and authoring this blessed manuscript—every letter of which is a bouquet from the garden of spirituality—is that it contains the account of the martyrdom of the King of Karbala. I used to recite it, but its meanings eluded the understanding of women. Often, after the reading of the book, everyone would remark, 'A hundred pities and a hundred thousand regrets that we unfortunates do not understand the Persian text and remain deprived of the spiritual reward of weeping. If only there were a person of understanding who could explain it to us exactly as it is, and by making us ignorant ones understand, bring us to tears.'

This prose possesses the innocence and simplicity of Urdu's early period, yet its sentences remain trapped in the grip of Persian. On the other hand, the language of poetry bore the marks of *Daccaniyat*—that is, the early influence of regional dialects. Mir Taqi Mir, in his affectionate tone, had merely said:

The beloved who was mine, hailed from the Deccan.

But when Qaim Chandpuri claimed:

O Qaim, I molded Rekhta into the style of the ghazal, otherwise

It was but a feeble thing in the Daccani tongue.

...he was essentially expressing a sentiment that was natural to arise in a historical era when the process of the language's formation, refinement, and molding was actively underway. This auspicious task was not the work of a single individual or a lone poet; rather, all the Urdu speakers and writers of the era of Mazhar, Hatim, Mir, Sauda, Qaim, and Yaqeen participated in it. During this time, the language was expanded immensely. Thousands of new words, infinitives, idioms, similes, and metaphors entered the language, elevating it to unprecedented heights. In this period, while many pure Hindi words were permanently absorbed into Urdu, translations of numerous Persian idioms and phrases also became deeply ingrained. For example, *paimana bharna* (to reach the end of one's days, from the Persian *paimana pur kardan*), *jamay se bahar nikalna* (to be beside oneself, from *az jama bairoon shudan*), *dil hath se jana* (to lose one's heart, from *dil az dast raftan*), *khush aana* (to be pleasing, from *khush aamadan*), and *jigar karna* (to show courage, from *jigar kardan*).

The poetry of this era utilized countless words associated with soldiers, wrestlers, folk singers, elephant drivers, firework makers, courtesans, merchants, physicians, cooks, and hunters. Additionally, hundreds of names and specific terms related to war and festive gatherings, weddings, seasons, fruits, flowers, birds, animals, jewelry, clothing, and cuisine entered the Urdu lexicon during this period, resulting in a tremendous expansion of its vocabulary. The infinitives coined from Persian words give some idea of the magnificent process of adoption and adaptation that continued in Urdu. For instance, Urdu verbs were created from Persian roots: *larazna* (to tremble) from *laraz*, *daghna* (to brand) from *dagh*, *farmana* (to command) from *farman*, *kharidna* (to buy) from *kharid*, *kharchna* (to spend) from *kharch*, *bakhshna* (to bestow/forgive) from *bakhsh*, *nawazna* (to favor) from *nawaz*, and *badalna* (to change) from *badal*. Similarly, compound verbs were formed, such as *guzar karna* (to subsist), *amal karna* (to act upon), *zahmat karna* (to take the trouble), *kharab karna* (to ruin), *qadar karna* (to appreciate), *talash karna* (to search), *shumar karna* (to count), *minnat khainchna* (to entreat), *farz karna* (to assume), *toomar bandhna* (to make a fuss), *hami bharna* (to assent), and *sarokar na rakhna* (to have no concern). These, along with hundreds of other derived verbs, were used so frequently that they became entirely Urdu's own.

The blending of Hindi words with Persian words also reached its zenith during this period. Compound words like *doraha* (crossroads), *betuka* (absurd), *gariban* (coachman), *bedhab* (clumsy), *beghar* (homeless), *nek chalan* (of good conduct), *sharmila pan* (shyness), *munh zor* (headstrong), *chor mahal* (hidden palace), *jeb katra* (pickpocket), *imambara* (shrine), *befikra* (carefree), *nawdaulata* (nouveau riche), *chauraha* (intersection), *chhamaha* (six-monthly), *pachranga* (five-colored), *besabra* (impatient), *thaka manda* (exhausted), *bekal* (restless), *badchalan* (of bad character), *sharmila* (shy), *paandan* (betel-leaf box), *bedharak* (fearless), *samajhdar* (sensible), *sadabahar* (evergreen), *diwanapan* (madness), *belag* (impartial), *daghabaz* (deceitful), *basanti posh* (wearing spring yellow), *beldar* (patterned with vines), *phooldar* (floral), *jama-e-chhint* (chintz garment), *Moti Mahal* (Pearl Palace), and *Moti Masjid* (Pearl Mosque) became common. When Mir said:

You shall remember my words; you will not hear such speech again,

Should you hear someone recite them, you will sway in a trance for a long time.

Wherever you open it, a soul-stirring verse emerges,

A tumult like Judgment Day resides everywhere in my Divan.

...these claims of poetic beauty and majesty would have been impossible without the linguistic power, expansiveness, flexibility, and richness of the language. Around the same time, while the poetic atmosphere of Delhi was echoing with the melodies of Mir and Sauda's contemporaries and their disciples, the seeds of Urdu poetry were already being sown in Lucknow. On another front, attention was turning toward Urdu translations of the Holy Quran. Furthermore, far from the central regions, the influence of Urdu—or Hindustani—was beginning to create ripples in the linguistic atmospheres of Murshidabad and Calcutta. This was also the era when William Jones discovered the common ancestry of the Sanskrit, Pahlavi, Greek, Germanic, and Italian languages, and the missing historical links of historical linguistics—particularly of the Indo-European language family—began to be pieced together.

During this same period, acting as an instrument of imperialism, John Gilchrist focused his attention on Urdu at Fort William College. Gilchrist wrote and commissioned dozens of books on dictionaries, grammar, and language, and gathered *munshis* (scholars and scribes) of Hindustani—that is, Urdu—at the college. One crucial aspect of this historical endeavor is that had prose books not been written in simple language here, Urdu might have remained lost for a long time in the labyrinth of ornamentation and rhyming prose seen in works like Ata Hussain Tahseen's *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*. Although Fort William College hosted Haider Bakhsh Haidari, Sher Ali Afsos, Mirza Ali Lutf, Kazim Ali Jawan, Mazhar Ali Wala, Bahadur Ali Husaini, Nihal Chand Lahori, Beni Narayan Jahan, and many other writers who expanded the scholarly boundaries of the Urdu language, the status achieved by Mir Amman's *Bagh-o-Bahar* among the books of that era was unmatched by any other work of prose.

If Urdu is the name of a linguistic balance between Prakritic and Arabo-Persian elements, then Mir Amman, through his tremendous linguistic genius and highly refined aesthetic sense, had discovered the secret to the beauty of this balance. The Urdu of *Bagh-o-Bahar* is not only washed in the heavenly Islamic streams of Kausar and Tasneem; it also sees its reflection in the Indian mirrors of the Ganges and the Yamuna.

Now, I cannot even afford a penny's worth of parched grain to chew on and wash down with water. I endured two or three days of severe starvation. Unable to bear the hunger any longer, I helplessly threw the veil of shamelessness over my face and decided to go to my sister's house. Yet, I felt deeply ashamed, knowing that since our revered father's passing, I had neither treated her well nor even written her a simple letter. But my own sister, seeing my wretched state, embraced me, took my misfortunes upon herself, and wept bitterly. She performed rituals of charity, offering oil and black coins to ward off evil from me. One day, she said to me, 'O brother! You are the apple of my eye and the last living trace of our departed parents. Your arrival has brought peace to my heart. Whenever I look at you, my spirit blooms. You have filled me with joy.

'However, God created men to earn a living; it does not suit them to sit idle at home. A man who becomes a good-for-nothing and stays confined to the house is taunted by the world—especially by the people of this city. Young and old alike will needlessly gossip about your staying here, saying that after squandering his father's wealth, he has come to live off his brother-in-law's scraps. This would be utterly humiliating, making a mockery of us both and bringing shame to our parents' name. Otherwise, I would gladly make shoes out of my own skin for you to wear and keep you hidden in my heart. My advice to you now is to set out on a journey. God willing, your fortunes will change, and this distress and poverty will be replaced by peace of mind and prosperity.'

This prose demonstrates that the Urdu language had left its infancy behind and developed a remarkable capacity for expressive communication. Following the establishment of Fort William College, Urdu prose appeared to have come of age. While the rays of English education and Western civilization were beginning to emanate from Calcutta, the culture of Awadh remained enclosed within its own fortress. Yet, this fortress contained an entire universe of its own, with its own earth and sky. Its sun, moon, and stars were literary giants like Aatish, Nasikh, Bahr, Sahar, Naseem, Wazir, Rind, Saba, Qalaq, and Rajab Ali Baig Suroor. It was the era of epic storytelling traditions like *Tilism-e-Hoshruba*, *Dastan-e-Amir Hamza*, and dozens of other *dastans*. Though there was only one royal court, it cast a shadow over numerous smaller circles of courtiers. Under their patronage, *mushairas* (poetry symposiums) became the grandest arenas for showcasing poetic craftsmanship, artistic mastery, and linguistic virtuosity.

While the abundance of wealth and the multitude of patrons may have drained the soul from poetry, they simultaneously fueled the progress and expansion of the language. Since all attention was now fixated on vocabulary and diction, linguistic hair-splitting became the norm. Extensive lists of obsolete words were compiled, yet the sapling of the language continued to thrive in the climate of Awadh, where the land was fertile and the soil moist. During this period, Urdu absorbed the elasticity, softness, and sweetness of the Awadhi dialect—a lasting influence that Urdu will always take pride in. To truly witness the elegance, flavor, and captivating flow of the language from this era, one must look not to the *ghazal*, but to the *masnavi* and the *marsiya* (elegy).

The Urdu of this era encompasses two distinct extremes. On one hand, there are the traditions of Nasikh, Rajab Ali Baig Suroor’s *Fasana-e-Ajaib*, and Daya Shankar Naseem’s *Gulzar-e-Naseem*. On the other hand, there is the language of Mir Hasan, Mir Anees, and Mirza Shauq—a language bathed in the moonlight of natural conversation, whose simplicity, sweetness, and fluidity are undeniable. In both poetry and prose, the Urdu language had reached a pinnacle where it awaited a master who could take it by its silver wrists. In return for his devotion, the language would place a crown of greatness upon his head, glittering with linguistic jewels, its brilliance dazzling the eyes of the world until the end of time. That masterful, great artist was Mirza Ghalib. When he declared:

Consider it a talisman unlocking a treasure trove of meaning,

Every word, O Ghalib, that finds its way into my verses.

...he was, albeit indirectly, asserting that Urdu had ascended to a level—both in vocabulary and semantics—where it was fully capable of expressing the most delicate nuances and the emotions of life's most complex relationships. Mirza possessed such an immense capacity to infuse prose with the natural flow of conversation and poetry with pure magic, that through him, the cycle of Urdu’s linguistic evolution, which had begun in the era of Amir Khusro, reached its logical completion. After Ghalib, a grand highway of expression opened up—one that Urdu continues to travel to this day. Read the following excerpt by Ghalib and judge for yourself the linguistic foundation upon which the standard of modern Urdu is built:

I am sixty-five years old, and for fifty of those years, I have wandered through this world of color and fragrance. In my early youth, a perfect spiritual guide offered me this advice: 'I do not demand asceticism or strict piety, nor do I forbid indulgence and vice. Eat, drink, and be merry. But remember this: be like the fly that sits on crystallized sugar, not the bee that gets stuck in honey.' I have lived my life by this counsel. Only he who is immortal should mourn the death of another. What is the use of shedding tears and reciting elegies? Give thanks for your freedom and do not grieve. And if you are so fond of your own captivity, then if not 'Chunna Jan,' let it be 'Munna Jan.' When I imagine Paradise and think that, should I be forgiven, I will be granted a palace and a single *houri*. The stay is eternal, and I must spend eternity with that same good-natured woman. The very thought makes my heart sink and fills me with dread. Alas! That *houri* will become a tedious burden; how could one's spirit not grow restless? The same emerald palace, the same branch of the *Tuba* tree. God save us, the exact same *houri*! Brother, come to your senses, and attach your heart elsewhere.