A Mystical Reading of Ghalib’s Verse - Why this Universe?
By Subzar Ahmad
6 June 2024
This Is No Ordinary
Rust, However, for in The Lexicon of Urdu and Persian Poetry, “Zangār” Also Signifies the Colour Green,
Thus Harmoniously Blending the Ideas of Aging and Vitality. But Ghalib’s Genius
Doesn’t Stop at This Dual Meaning; He Goes Further to Liken This Green-Rust to
The Tarnish On the Back of a Mirror, An Essential Component That Enables the
Mirror to Reflect.
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لطافت بے کثافت جلوہ پیدا کر نہیں سکتی
چمن زنگار ہے آئینۂ باد بہاری کا
Latāfat Be Kasāfat Jalwa Paidā Kar Nahīn Saktī
Chaman Zangār Hai Ā‘Īna-E Bād-E Bahārī Kā
The
ineffable requires the tangible to manifest.
The garden
is the patina on the vernal wind’s mirror
(Mirza Ghalib)
In the rich
tapestry of Sufi poetry, where each thread is a symbol and each knot a
philosophical concept, few verses capture the interplay between the divine and
the mundane as elegantly as those of Mirza Ghalib. His couplet, “Chaman Zangār Hai Ā’īna-E Bād-E Bahārī Kā”
(The garden is the patina on the vernal wind’s mirror), is a masterpiece of
mystical imagery, inviting us to contemplate the very nature of existence
through the lens of Sufi metaphysics.
At first
glance, the verse presents a paradoxical image: a garden, typically seen as
vibrant and alive, is described as “Zangār”—a
term that evokes notions of rust, decay, or the patina that forms on aged
metal. This is no ordinary rust, however, for in the lexicon of Urdu and
Persian poetry, “Zangār” also
signifies the colour green, thus harmoniously blending the ideas of aging and
vitality. But Ghalib’s genius doesn’t stop at this dual meaning; he goes
further to liken this green-rust to the tarnish on the back of a mirror, an
essential component that enables the mirror to reflect.
The mirror
in question is no ordinary looking glass but the “Bād-e Bahārī” or the spring breeze. In the poetic tradition, this
vernal wind is more than a meteorological phenomenon; it is a metaphor for any
force that rejuvenates, that breathes new life into the withered and dormant.
The garden, then, is not merely a collection of plants but a symbol of the
entire phenomenal world—every object, every being, every event that we perceive
through our senses.
To fully appreciate
the depth of Ghalib’s imagery, we must turn to the Sufi philosophy that
underpins it, particularly the thought of Ibn al-Arabi, one of the most
influential figures in Islamic mysticism. Central to Ibn al-Arabi’s metaphysics
is the concept of “Nafas al-Rahman,” or the Breath of the Merciful. This is not
breath in any physical sense but rather the fundamental animating force that
brings all things into existence.
According
to Ibn al-Arabi, before the universe came into being, all potential forms of
existence resided within God’s knowledge as eternal archetypes, known as “A’yān
Thābitah.” These archetypes are not mere ideas but are as eternal and
inseparable from God’s essence as His knowledge itself. When God wishes to
bring any of these potentials into actual existence, He addresses them with the
divine command “Be!” (Kun). At this moment, the creative potential moves from
the realm of divine knowledge into the realm of manifest reality, carried on
the “Nafas al-Rahman.”
Thus, in
Ibn al-Arabi’s view, every atom, every star, every thought, and every emotion
in our universe is a manifestation of these divine archetypes, given tangible
form by the Breath of the Merciful. But why would the infinite, ineffable
divine choose to manifest in finite, perceivable forms? Here, Ibn al-Arabi
offers a profound insight: the perceptible forms of the universe serve as
mirrors in which divine attributes can reflect and, in a sense, observe
themselves.
This
concept of the universe as a mirror for divine attributes brings us back to
Ghalib’s couplet. Just as a mirror requires a layer of reflective material on
its back to function, the divine attributes require a “tarnish” of perceivable
form to reflect themselves. In Ghalib’s metaphor, the spring breeze—standing in
for the Nafas al-Rahman—is the mirror, while the garden—representing all
perceivable phenomena—is the patina that allows this mirror to reflect.
But there’s
a further layer to this analogy. In traditional mirror-making, the reflective
backing often contains silver or other precious metals. Over time, this backing
oxidizes, forming a patina that, far from diminishing the mirror’s function,
actually enhances its reflective properties. Similarly, in Ghalib’s verse, the
garden’s “Zangār” is not a flaw but
an essential feature, enabling the mirror of divine breath to reflect itself.
This
interpretation harmonizes beautifully with another of Ibn al-Arabi’s ideas:
that every external object is an outward reflection of the infinite creative
possibilities inherent in the divine essence. Just as God’s knowledge and His
eternal archetypes are inseparable from His being, every perceivable form in
our universe is an externalization of these archetypes. In other words, what we
see, hear, touch, taste, and smell are not mere illusions or shadows but are,
in their very tangibility, reflections of divine reality.
Ghalib’s
verse thus becomes a poetic exposition of a fundamental question in Sufi
metaphysics: Are the phenomena we perceive merely mirrors that passively
reflect divine attributes, or are they themselves embodiments of the divine,
albeit in dense, perceivable form? Through his rich imagery, Ghalib aligns
himself with Ibn al-Arabi’s perspective: every phenomenon in our universe, from
the grandest galaxy to the tiniest grain of sand, is at its core the Nafas
al-Rahman, the divine breath that has chosen to adopt tangible form.
In this
light, Ghalib’s couplet transcends mere poetic beauty to become a profound
philosophical statement. The garden’s “Zangār”
is not just an aesthetic feature but the very medium through which the divine
breath—like the spring breeze—makes itself known. Every leaf, every petal,
every grain of soil is a letter in the divine language, a brushstroke in the
cosmic canvas where God’s attributes paint themselves into visibility.
This
interpretation invites us to see the world around us not as a veil that
obscures the divine but as a text that reveals it. The rustling leaves, the
blooming flowers, the very ground beneath our feet—all are not distractions from
spiritual truth but are themselves tokens of that truth, made tangible so that
we might perceive them. In Ghalib’s mystical vision, affirmed by Ibn al-Arabi’s
metaphysics, the physical world is neither an illusion to be transcended nor a
temptation to be shunned. Rather, it is a divine gift, a mirror crafted with
the patina of material form, reflecting the ineffable beauty of its Maker.
In an age
often characterized by disenchantment, where the sacred and the secular are
sharply divided, Ghalib’s verse offers a powerful counterpoint. It suggests
that the boundary between the divine and the mundane is not a wall but a
mirror. Every object, every experience becomes an opportunity for divine
encounter. The garden is no mere backdrop for our human dramas but is itself a
protagonist in the grand narrative of divine self-revelation.
To walk
through a garden after reading Ghalib’s verse is to walk through a living
scripture, where each blade of grass is a verse and each gust of wind a
recitation. In this sacred text, rust and green, decay and life, mirror and
reflection all coalesce into a unified whole. Here, the ineffable divine
doesn’t merely speak to us; it becomes visible, using the “Zangār” of material existence as its chosen medium. In Ghalib’s
mystical landscape, illuminated by Ibn al-Arabi’s thought, the entirety of
creation becomes one vast, shimmering mirror, its patina of physical forms
enabling the divine breath to gaze upon its own boundless beauty.
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Source: A Mystical Reading of Ghalib’s Verse | Why this Universe?
URL: https://www.newageislam.com/islamic-personalities/mystical-ghalib-verse-universe/d/132456
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