Would it be blasphemous to call Mirza Ghalib a Sufi poet when his rindana lifestyle—debauchery and licentious behaviour towards religion—is common knowledge?
Tasawaf in Islamic tradition is based on two fundamental pillars: Shariat, which is the outward, divine law of Islam (God's commands and duties), and Tariqat, the inner, spiritual path (the "way") within Sufism to experience God's presence. Without these elements, one cannot achieve the status of a Sufi!
While Ghalib's rindana (libertine) lifestyle and perceived religious laxity are well-documented, Ghalib’s work suggests that the creative mind often acts as a bridge, challenging conventional boundaries to express a deeper, ineffable truth.
The enduring connection between mysticism and the highest forms of artistic expression reveals a fundamental truth: deeply creative work is a translation of the untranslatable. Whether manifested in the swirling, cosmic energy of a Van Gogh canvas or the razor-sharp philosophical paradoxes of Mirza Ghalib, esoteric insight is the wellspring of enduring art.
This pursuit of a direct, intimate, and immediate experience of the Divine or Ultimate Reality—what we call Mysticism—is the driving force behind the Masters. It is a state of Ineffability, where knowledge surpasses rational understanding, forcing the artist to invent new language, forms, and structures to communicate the intensity of their experience. As philosopher William James observed, this transcendent state provides a noetic quality, a profound truth that compels expression.
The poetry of Mirza Ghalib stands as a paramount example of this creative-mystical convergence. The central and strong argument, presented forcefully in works like Ghalib Aur Tasawwuf (a book by Syed Mohd Mustafa Sabri which I took into account for my research), is that Tasawwuf (Sufism) forms the essential basis of his poetry and philosophy, rejecting the notion that Sufi concepts were mere poetic pretexts. Ghalib saw himself in the lineage of great thinkers, acutely aware that his conceptual depth (Fikr) and artistry (Fan) would only be truly appreciated long after his time:
"کوکبم را در عدم اوجِ قبولی بودہ است
شہرت شعرم بہ گیتی بعد من خواہد شدن"
(My star was destined for the peak of acceptance even in non-existence; the fame of my poetry will be)
Whether manifested in the swirling, cosmic energy of a Van Gogh canvas or the razor-sharp philosophical paradoxes of Mirza Ghalib, esoteric insight is the wellspring of enduring art
Concepts such as Wahdat al-Wujud (Unity of Existence), Ishq (Divine Love), Taqdir (Destiny), and Fanā-o-Baqā (Annihilation and Subsistence) were the very architecture of Ghalib's thought.
Ghalib uses paradox (Tazād) to dismantle the illusion of separation (Takhayyul-e-Do'ee). He asserts the omnipresence of the Beloved by arguing that multiplicity itself is the medium of expression:
دہر جز جلوۂ یکتائیِ معشوق نہیں
ہم کہاں ہوتے اگر حُسن نہ ہوتا خودبیں
(The age is nothing but the unique manifestation of the Beloved. Where would we be, if that beauty were not self-exhibiting?)
The concept is an affirmation of the Hadith-e-Qudsī: "I was a hidden treasure, so I loved to be known, and I created the creation so that I might be known."
Rumi's poetry, driven by ecstatic Fana (annihilation), frequently reaches the same conclusion, often using the metaphor of the ocean and the wave to express that the multiplicity of creation is simply the single substance of the Divine. Rumi constantly seeks to annihilate the 'self' to realise the 'All.' The creative output for both poets is the breaking of the illusion of separation (Takhayyul-e-Do'ee):
- Rumi uses the frenetic energy of Divine Love (Ishq) to achieve instantaneous unity, translating that feeling into spontaneous, dizzying verse that overwhelms the reader's rational mind.
- Ghalib approaches unity through philosophical meditation (Fikr), using precise, often paradoxical logic to demonstrate that existence necessitates the Beloved's self-manifestation.
Both poets utilise their creative mastery—Rumi through ecstatic flow and Ghalib through intellectual precision—to dismantle the boundaries between the creator and the creation, thereby translating the single, ineffable truth of mystical unity into enduring literary form.
اب کے کیا ہو گا ہمارا؟ کوئی بَتلاؤ کہ کیا ہو گا؟
روزے رکھے نہیں، قضائیں ہماری ہو گئیں"
"What will become of me this year? Oh, tell me, what will become of me? / I didn't keep the fasts, and now they are due as missed obligations (qaẓā)."
This couplet, delivered with humorous self-deprecation, suggests a genuine neglect of the obligatory fasts, replacing piety with witty self-awareness. Another couplet points to the physical hardship of the fast and the relief of breaking it (Iftar):
"آ رہی ہے چاکِ گریبان کی صدا
رنجِ روزے کا نہیں، یہ شورِ افطار ہے"
The first line literally speaks of the sound of a torn collar (a metaphor for extreme distress or madness), but Ghalib immediately undercuts it, saying this distress isn't from the hardship of the fast, but the clamour of the sunset breaking of the fast (Iftar). This humour simultaneously acknowledges the difficulty of the ritual and his eagerness to end it, contrasting sharply with the ascetic discipline expected of a Sufi sālik (seeker).
اسے کون دیکھ سکتا کہ یگانہ ہے وہ یکتا
جو دوئی کی بُو بھی ہوتی توکہیں دوچار ہوتا
He further insists that the barrier is the music, and the veil:
محرم نہیں ہے تو ہی نوا ہائے راز کا
یاں ورنہ جو حجاب ہے، پردہ ہے ساز کا
(You are not privy to the melody of the secret; otherwise, what is a veil here is the very curtain of the musical instrument. That is, the veil itself is articulating the secret.)
The highest spiritual stage—the ‘Ibādat-e-Aḥrār (Worship of the Freemen), driven by pure, disinterested love—is championed by Ghalib in a provocative couplet that perfectly aligns with the non-theistic spiritual ambition of Rabia al-Adawiyya al-Basri. Ghalib’s challenge to transactional faith is absolute:
طاعت میں تا رہے نہ مے و انگبیں کی لاگ
دوزخ میں ڈال دو کوئی لے کر بہشت کو
(Lest the attachment to wine and honey remain in devotion, let someone take paradise and cast it into hell.)
This radical stance mirrors Rabia's famous prayer: "If I worship Thee in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise; but if I worship Thee for Thine own sake, withhold not Thine everlasting Beauty!" Both masters utilised hyperbolic language—a creative act in itself—to communicate the ultimate mystical imperative.
Ghalib’s wrestling with Taqdīr (Destiny) transforms theological fatalism (Jabr) into a vehicle for profound self-critique. He attributes his failings not to his free will, but to the pre-ordained flaw in the cosmic design:
ہوں منحرف نہ کیوں رۂ و رسم ثواب سے
ٹیڑھا لگا ہے قط قلمِ سرنوشت کو
(Why should I not deviate from the path and custom of virtue? The trimming cut (of the reed pen) of destiny was applied with a crooked edge.)
In another couplet, he expresses the ultimate humility and complete submission of the mystic—the acknowledgment that life is a sacred trust (Amānat) whose full right can never be paid:
جان دی، دی ہوئی اُسی کی تھی،
حق تو یہ ہے کہ حق ادا نہ ہوا
(I gave my life; it was His to begin with. The truth is that the due right was not rendered.)
اسے کون دیکھ سکتا کہ یگانہ ہے وہ یکتا
جو دوئی کی بُو بھی ہوتی تو کہیں دوچار ہوتا
(Who could possibly behold Him? For He is One, unique and peerless. Had there been even a scent of 'duality,' He would have been encountered somewhere.)
Ghalib uses the libertine (Rindāna) style to discuss these profound issues:
تجھے ہم ولی سمجھتے جو نہ بادہ خوار ہوتا
(We would consider you a saint if you were not a wine-drinker)
This underscores the core argument: the creative mind acts as a bridge, challenging conventional piety to express a deeper truth.
This relationship holds true across artistic disciplines, demonstrating that deeply creative expression springs from some form of mysticism. Dostoevsky used the ecstatic flash of pre-seizure illumination—a fleeting mystical peak—to dissect ethical responsibility and redemption, grounding transcendental knowledge within psychological realism. In The Idiot (1869), the character of Prince Myshkin (and Dostoevsky himself, referencing his seizures) describes the instant before a fit as a flash of total harmony and divine presence—a fleeting mystical peak:
"He thought that moment was precisely worth a whole lifetime... In that moment I am able to comprehend the extraordinary saying that there will be no more time... The sensation of life, of self-awareness, was multiplied tenfold in those few seconds, which flew by like a flash of lightning."
Dostoevsky's attempt to use psychological realism to describe a transcendental, unifying state demonstrates that the mystical vision cannot easily survive secular society. Myshkin is a "Christ-like" figure who carries the knowledge of this ultimate harmony but is destroyed by the dissonance of the real, flawed world.
Van Gogh sought to capture the spiritual energy coursing through nature. His use of dynamic, non-realistic lines and swirling vortices, as in The Starry Night (1889), translates a subjective mystical vision into a universally accessible image of spiritual awe. In this painting, the celestial objects and the cypress tree (a traditional symbol of eternity or the cemetery) are not passively depicted; they are swirling vortices of energy.
The dynamic, non-realistic lines and thick impasto (technique) translate a subjective vision of the cosmos into a universally accessible image of spiritual awe. The cypress tree rises like a dark flame, connecting the earth to the sky's blazing turmoil. He sought to show the hidden life of creation—that the sky is not empty space but a crucible of raw, spiritual force. In a letter to his brother Theo, Van Gogh wrote:
"Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. Why, I say to myself, should the spots of light in the firmament be less accessible to us than the black spots on the map of France? We take death to reach a star."
Farid ud-Din Attar used the allegorical journey of The Conference of the Birds to translate systematic spiritual ascent into narrative. The realisation that the thirty birds (Si-morgh) were the mythical king (Simorgh) used literary wordplay to reveal the mystical doctrine of self-recognition.
In essence, the creative output is the expression of the esoteric, obscure, and awe-inspiring elements accessed when the artist's ego is temporarily suspended—a state of flow mirroring Fanā. The genius of these masters lies in their capacity to find new language, symbols, and forms to communicate this truth.
Ghalib’s poetry is a reflection of profound insight derived from classical Sufism, confirming that great art is born from the ambition to express that which is inherently beyond words. He uses the doctrine of Jabr not just as a religious concept but as a creative lens through which to interpret his own struggles, failures, and the absurdities of life.
The image of the "crooked cut" (Tēṛhā qaṭ) is highly artistic. In classical Persian and Urdu calligraphy, the reed pen (Qalam) must be cut precisely to ensure clear, straight lines. By saying the pen of destiny (Qalam-i Sarnivisht) was cut crookedly, Ghalib suggests that the very instrument used to write his fate was flawed, pre-ordaining his deviation from the path of Thawāb (virtue/reward). He thus absolves himself of sin by placing the 'blame' onto the cosmic editor—God's (destiny) pre-writing. This is not escapism; it is a profound poetic expression of the fatalist argument, where the individual is seen as a helpless actor following a script.
The concept of Taqdīr is inextricably linked to the idea of total submission (Taslīm) to God, recognising that everything, including life itself, belongs to the Creator. Ghalib captures this complex relationship of debt and duty in his famous couplet:
[Referencing the earlier Amānat couplet]
For the Sūfī sālik (seeker), the 'due right' of life is not just submission but complete recognition of God's presence in every moment. By stating that the Ḥaqq Adā Na Huā (due right was not rendered), Ghalib expresses the eternal, self-aware humility of the mystic who knows the distance between the finite self and the infinite Divine can never truly be closed.
Ghalib’s perspective on Destiny (Taqdīr) and the Cry of Grief (Marsiya) extends to his deep reverence for the tragedy of Karbala, where he views the suffering of the Prophet’s family as a supreme manifestation of divine decree and ultimate sacrifice. In his Marsiya (elegy), he expresses intense grief, suggesting that the heavens themselves wept over this destiny:
رشک آیم بہ ابر کہ در حدِ وسع اوست
بر خاکِ کربلائے معلیٰ گریستن
(I envy the cloud, for it is within its capacity to weep (rain) upon the consecrated soil of Karbala.)
And the ultimate acceptance and sacrifice:
مزد شفاعت و صلہ صبر و خون بہا
چیزی ز کس نخواستہ الا گریستن
(The exalted Household of the Prophet did not ask for the wages of intercession, nor the reward of patience, nor blood-money; they only desired weeping (grief) from anyone.)
Here, Taqdīr is seen as a sealed, monumental event. Ghalib uses the image of the weeping cloud and the ultimate, selfless desire for communal grief (Giristan) to elevate the historical tragedy into a timeless, cosmic decree—a sorrow so vast that even the heavens (Aasmān) weep. This demonstrates the mystic's ability to internalise the grand narratives of fate. The acceptance of destiny's cruelty leads not to cynicism, but to a deeper capacity for transcendent empathy and ritualised grief, which itself becomes a form of worship and spiritual purification.
Ghalib’s poetry on Taqdīr is an artistic achievement because it does not offer easy answers. Instead, it transforms a rigid theological problem into a dynamic, personal, and poetic dilemma, forcing the reader to meditate on the limits of human agency against the backdrop of an overwhelming, yet purposeful, cosmic design.
Mysticism as the Core of Ghalib's Art and All Deep Creativity is the central thesis that binds literary titans across eras. From the philosophical verses of Mirza Ghalib to the swirling colours of Van Gogh, the argument holds that all profound, enduring artistic expression springs from the soil of mysticism. This is not always the formal, cloistered discipline of Shariat or Tariqat but an inner relationship with the Divine or the Ultimate Reality that intervenes and catalyses expression. For deeply creative people, the esoteric, the obscure, and the awe-inspiring elements are subjects and the very substance of their work.
The word-smiths become translators of the ineffable, their language a scaffold erected to capture what is inherently beyond ordinary capacity. In this light, Ghalib's poetry is a supreme case study. Ghalib further insists that the veil itself is the secret's melody:
محرم نہیں ہے تو ہی نوا ہائے راز کا
یاں ورنہ جو حجاب ہے، پردہ ہے ساز کا
(You are not privy to the melody of the secret; otherwise, what is a veil here is the very curtain of the musical instrument. That is, the veil itself is articulating the secret.)
And his final, defiant, and witty couplet against narrow-mindedness—a true Rindāna flare against rigid forms—encapsulates his blend of defiance and gnostic insight:
کیوں ردِ قدح کرے ہے زاہد !
مے ہے یہ مگس کی قے نہیں ہے
(Why does the ascetic refuse the cup? It is wine, not the vomit of a fly)
The genius of all highly creative individuals is their capacity to act as a bridge, challenging conventional boundaries to translate the ineffable architecture of unity into an enduring, transformative human expression. Ghalib articulates deep Sufi subtleties in his libertine (Rindāna) style, which often caused contemporaries to doubt his gnostic status.
Mirza Ghalib’s genius lies in his ability to act as a translator of the esoteric. Whether through his reverence for the tragedy of Karbala—where he views the suffering of the Prophet’s family as the ultimate manifestation of Taqdir—or his witty defiance of the Zahid (ascetic), he remains a master of the "Ineffable Core."