Latest news with #Ghalib
Hindustan Times
14-06-2025
- General
- Hindustan Times
Dublinwale: Door to door
Years after poet Ghalib's passing, the beautiful doorway of his last haveli in the Walled City was carefully dismantled from its surrounding wall of old-fashioned lakhori bricks, and installed as a primary exhibit in the museum celebrating his life and works. But you can never see that door because… well, the story's not true. The final residence of Delhi's great literary figure actually fell into dereliction. At one point, it was used as a coal warehouse. This wasn't exactly the kismet of Dublin's great writer James Joyce—but we'll get there. His novel Ulysses is famously contained into a single day, 16 June, and that date is celebrated worldwide as Bloomsday, named after the novel's hero. To celebrate the iconic city-novel, this reporter is in Dublin for Bloomsday 2025, with Delhiwale briefly becoming Dublinwale. In Ulysses, Mr Leopold Bloom lives on 7, Eccles Street. While the character of Mr Bloom is fiction, a house actually stood on this address. It was razed in 1967. The door and the surrounding brickwork was rescued by a committed Joycean and it is now installed in the courtyard of James Joyce Centre on North Great George's Street (see left photo with Josh Newman, a staff member of the Center). The door is a literary souvenir, possessing a Joycean sentence of its own—'He (Mr Bloom) pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid.' One can only make conjectures about Ghalib's darwaza. It must have resembled the few arched doors that still stand in random parts of Old Delhi. Was it like the spiky darwaza in Pahari Bhojla? Or like the ones in Gali Arya Samaj, testimonies of Delhi's long-ago architecture? In Dublin, old doors appear to be greater in numbers than in Delhi. They in fact constitute the city's signature look, as essential to its personality as Eiffel is to Paris. All these doors look the same, borne out of Georgian architecture, dating from eighteenth and nineteenth century. And yet, because of the dizzying variety of colours, they look profoundly different from each other. Rare for two adjacent doorways to be painted in the same shade. Take the doors of the aforementioned Eccles Street. Red, brown, yellow, blue, green, white. And suddenly, on Frederick Street, the door to house no. 13 is pitch black. This afternoon, round the next turn, a Dubliner is standing on the threshold of his apartment. The door is open. The citizen is boldly facing the busy street, busily trimming his moustache (See other photo).
Hindustan Times
05-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Hindustan Times
From Ghalib to Gulzar: New anthology maps India's cities through 375 poems
New Delhi, From Ghalib's Delhi and Nissim Ezekiel's Bombay to Agha Shahid Ali's Srinagar and Kamala Das' Calcutta, poets have cast their spell over every corner of the country. A new anthology, "The Penguin Book of Poems on the Indian City", captures the same enchantment, taking readers on a poetic voyage across 37 Indian cities. The recently released anthology, edited by Bilal Moin and published by Penguin Random House India , features a total of 375 poems, including works originally written in English as well as translations from nearly 20 different languages. "It was an honour to compile this poetic atlas of Indian cities — a first-of-its-kind anthology bringing together poetic voices spanning over 1,500 years, translated from more than 20 languages. Here, legendary poets of antiquity coexist with young voices crafting verses in the age of social media, narrating the cities they inhabited and tracing their evolving identities. "Expanding beyond major metropolises, this anthology captures the rhythms and realities of thirty-seven diverse cities, spotlighting forgotten poets and revitalizing many near-lost contributions," said Moin, who has also authored a collection of haikus, titled 'The Ideajunkyard' in 2018. Spanning from the classical voices of Valmiki and the Sangam poets to the Bhakti and Sufi traditions represented by Surdas, Kabir, and Amir Khusrau, as well as early modern poets like Mir Taqi Mir, Narmad, Rudyard Kipling, and Rabindranath Tagore, the anthology provides a rich and immersive lyrical journey through India's cities. It also features contemporary poets including the likes of Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, Vikram Seth, Eunice de Souza, Arun Kolatkar, Amrita Pritam, Amit Chaudhuri and Gulzar. And together, they all take the reader through depictions of cities as imperial capitals, colonial outposts and dynamic, ever-evolving spaces that serve as the backdrop for postmodern life. According to the publisher, at its core, "The Penguin Book of Poems on the Indian City" is a collection that portrays the Indian city as a complex organism and living embodiment of the collective consciences of its many, many residents. "A collection for not just those who live in the cities featured in this book but for anyone who is familiar with the chaotic, paradoxical and magical tableau that constitutes life in a city in this part of the world," they added. The 1062-page tome, priced at ₹1,999, is available for purchase across online and offline stores.
The Hindu
21-05-2025
- The Hindu
Vidya Krishnan's book White Lilies deals with Delhi's road rage
In her new book White Lilies published by Westland, author Vidya Krishnan chronicles her grief of losing her husband in a road accident in Delhi and urges people to fact-check myths about the cities they live in. . The book, born from the pain of losing her spouse in a tragic accident, is less of a memoir and more meditative in quality. The author tries to make sense of a life turned upside down. During a chat with filmmaker Shaunak Sen at The Bookshop in Delhi recently, Vidya highlighted how road rage in Delhi is intrinsically connected to every individual's repressed feelings and emotions. The duo discussed death and trauma, and how we as a society fail to implement solutions that could minimise road accidents. 'We are constantly feeding lies to ourselves,' she says, adding that the book took shape as she began writing as a way to cope with grief. 'Writing did not reduce my grief per se but helped me make sense of the emotion. I was actually rage-typing, pouring out my feelings on an empty paper.' Shaunak Sen describes Vidya's book as a 'trans-historical rant of the city' that weaves itself around Mirza Ghalib's misery, something that the author totally identifies with. Vidya seeks refuge in Ghalib's poems; it works as an antidote to her own pain. Her book interweaves the city and the poet as Vidya visualises Ghalib as someone who is a 'broken' man. 'The halo around Ghalib doesn't mask his flaws. Delhi as a city hurt Ghalib and he took to poetry,' she says. Talking of Delhi normalising accidents, Vidya said the problem is in the citizens' refusal to acknowledge it. 'Dilli dilwalon ki is a myth. In every city, peoplelive in their own bubble; be it Mumbai's delusional story of resilience, Bengaluru's traffic, or Delhi's toxic positivity and pride. None of it makes sense as they do not address the core issues of our shared reality; how people try to escape the trauma of crimes. 'You truly belong to a place if you have buried someone there,' says Vidya, underlining her grief. Her book mentions the unsafe roads and how run-of-the-mill it is to die on the city's roads and how pedestrians are always at the receiving end. Vidya grapples not just with sorrow, but anger too, which is not explosive but slow-burning, reflective and deeply human. 'Without rage there cannot be change,' she says. 'I hope the book will make people talk about their feelings, rather than being repressed,' she adds. White Lilies is not a book about healing in the conventional sense. It is about carrying grief with grace, about learning to speak in a world that often tells us to be quiet. Rounak Khare and Seelva Mohanty
Indian Express
03-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
'Aaj jaane ki zid na karo': How the ghazal became a philosophy of love and longing
In light of the Supreme Court's recent ruling that Urdu is not a foreign language but an integral part of our own heritage, I'll be writing a series of reflections over the next few weeks to celebrate its beauty, depth, and legacy. This is the first of those pieces. I was ten when the song first slipped into my soul. Aaj jaane ki zid na karo. Don't insist on leaving tonight. It arrived not as a demand but a devotion, as though the words had walked through centuries of separation just to sit beside me. It was dusk. My father had pressed play on a mixtape, and Habib Wali Mohammad's voice rose like mist—mellow and magnetic, filled with a kind of restrained yearning that even at ten, I could feel before I could understand. That moment, innocent and intimate, would become ritual. My father, proud and persistent, made me sing it almost every day. In rooms lit with fairy lights and filled with family, during dinner parties where laughter clinked against glass, even at weddings after the clang and chorus of traditional songs—there it would come, like a hush, like a heart pausing mid-beat. I would begin, softly, shyly at first, and then fully, fiercely: Yun hi pehlu mein baithe raho, aaj jaane ki zid na karo. Don't leave. Just stay. That's what the song says. But it also says so much more. It says hold the moment. It says savour stillness. It says silence can sing. The words became part of my world, not just because I sang them, but because they echoed through everything I began to love. They were the gate through which I entered the garden of Urdu, where the vines of verse wrapped around me like velvet: Ghalib's sighs, Mir's sorrows, Iqbal's invocations, Zauq's zigzagging of wit and wisdom. They weren't just poets; they were my protectors, my prophets, my portals to something far greater than grammar or genre. They gave me grammar for grief, rhythm for rage, and language for longing. Tumhi socho zaraa kyun na roken tumhein, jaan jaati hai jab uth ke jaate ho tum. Just think—why shouldn't I stop you? It feels like my life leaves me when you walk away. How could a line so quiet hold so much quake? I sang it again and again, not just on stages but inside myself, until it became a kind of second heartbeat. And when I wasn't singing, I was watching—watching Farida Khanum with her glittering sarees and silver-toned grace, her arms arched like calligraphy, her gaze lifted like a prayer, her eyes piercing straight through the screen into the rooms of our hearts. I remember every pallu drop, every glitter fleck of mukesh work, the wine-red lipstick, the slow sway of her shoulders, the stillness between the notes. Her movements weren't gestures—they were ghazals. Her silence wasn't absence—it was architecture. Yeh samaa, sabr ka taalab hai. This moment asks for patience. And so we waited, breathlessly. That's what the song taught me: restraint is a kind of romance. In a world that rushed to climax, this song lingered in longing. In a world obsessed with declarations, it relished pauses. It taught me that desire lives most vividly not in possession, but in presence. And in those living rooms, across generations, the song became a shared language. It didn't matter if the guests were young or ageing, loud or languid, whether they understood Urdu or not. The moment the music played, something melted. Something merged. It was the magic of melody meeting memory. Elders closed their eyes. Strangers swayed. Children fell quiet. It wasn't a performance—it was communion. That's the gorgeousness of poetry, of language, of heartfelt expression. It transcends text. It travels through time. It tethers us to each other. Jee nahi lagta, jaane ke baad. Nothing feels right once you've gone. The simplicity of this line unravels like silk—soft, but it slices. That kind of unadorned truth is what made this song so eternal. It didn't posture. It pleaded. It didn't demand drama. It asked for tenderness. It reminded us that even the smallest parting can feel like the sun slipping behind a cloud. And some of its most surprising journeys took place not in salons or studios, but along borders lined with barbed wire and belief. My Phupaji—Hargobind Prasad Bhatnagar—my father's sister's husband, was the Director General of the Border Security Force, and through the tight-laced, tension-lined work of national defence, he found space for softness. Stationed near the India-Pakistan border through much of his career, he had access to the music that floated across fences—songs, voices, tapes, recordings—shared with quiet camaraderie by counterparts on the other side. In the midst of geopolitics and guard duty, there was this beautiful backchannel of brotherhood. A cassette of Mehdi Hassan. A ghazal from Noor Jehan. A Farida Khanum recording passed across with a smile, not a signature. This was the diplomacy of the human spirit. The silent service of the arts. The soft power of poetry. Yeh bahut haseen lamhe hain, these are such beautiful moments. And we knew it. Whether we were gathered around in wedding finery or crumpled in cotton pyjamas, when that song played, the air shimmered. Inhein kho na do tum, don't lose them, the line whispers—and maybe that's why I clung so tightly to this song all these years. That's how this song didn't just stay within me—it spread. It stretched across nations, stitched together ears and hearts that might never have spoken otherwise. And I came to see that what politics divided, poetry could momentarily mend. What language labelled, music could unname. It wasn't about Urdu or Hindi or Punjabi or English—it was about emotion. It was about essence. It was about that shared sigh we all recognise, the ache of someone turning away, and the unbearable beauty of asking them not to. Waqt ki qaid mein zindagi hai magar, chand ghadiyan yahi hain jo aazad hain. Life is imprisoned by time, but these few moments are free. Those lines held me like lullabies when the world felt too loud. They reminded me that presence is a kind of protest. That to stay when you could leave is the most radical form of love. And that poetry, in its infinite quietness, can sometimes be louder than a revolution. This song, sung again and again through my childhood, gave me more than musicality—it gave me moral imagination. It opened me to complexity, to nuance, to the deeply inconvenient yet deeply necessary practice of empathy. It helped me grow into a person who could see humanity before identity, melody before map, emotion before ego. And that's why I keep returning to it—not just because it reminds me of my father's pride, or my Phupaji's gentle diplomacy, or the dazzling drape of Farida Khanum's saree—but because it reminds me of what it means to feel fully. Kitna masoom rangin hai yeh samaa, husn aur ishq ki aaj mein raaj hai. Kal ki kisko khabar jaane-jaa, rok lo aaj ki raat ko. How innocent, how vivid, how coloured with grace this moment is. Tonight belongs to beauty and to love. Who knows what tomorrow will bring, beloved? So stop the night. Pause the clock. Pin this breath to the sky. Stay. Just stay. It's not just a ghazal. It's a philosophy. It's not just a performance. It's a prayer. It's not just a relic. It's a rebellion. And so when I sing it now, even quietly to myself, I don't just hear the past. I hear the potential. I hear what could be possible if we all paused long enough to listen. If we all let poetry into our politics. If we all let language do what it was meant to do—not divide us, but deliver us back to each other. So please, if you're reading this, aaj jaane ki zid na karo. Don't insist on leaving just yet. Sit with the feeling. Stay in the stillness. Let the song do what it's always done—soften, soothe, and stitch.
India Today
28-04-2025
- Entertainment
- India Today
Actor Hania Aamir gives shoutout to Badshah amid growing India-Pakistan tensions
Amid escalating tensions between India and Pakistan following the Pahalgam terror attack, actor Hania Aamir stood by her friend, singer-rapper Badshah, as he gears up for the release of his upcoming track 'Galiyon Ke Ghalib'. Despite the intense backlash faced by Pakistani artistes, Hania didn't hesitate to show her support for the Indian musician on April 27, Hania re-shared the promo of Badshah's new song and penned a heartfelt note. "Banaya tu ne Ghalib. Finally (smile emoji) (sic)," she wrote. Galiyon Ke Ghalib is set to release on April 30 at 11:00 the screenshot of her story: Following the Pahalgam attack on April 22, Hania Aamir was among the Pakistani celebrities who condemned it a post on Instagram, Aamir wrote, "Tragedy anywhere is a tragedy for all of us. My heart is with the innocent lives affected by the recent events. In pain, in grief, and in hope—we are one. When innocent lives are lost, the pain is not theirs alone—it belongs to all of us. No matter where we come from, grief speaks the same language. May we choose humanity, always (sic)."At least 26 tourists were killed, and several others injured when armed terrorists opened fire on civilians holidaying in Pahalgam's Baisaran area on Tuesday the aftermath of the attack, debates and discussions have intensified over whether Pakistani artistes should collaborate with India. As a result, actor Fawad Khan and Vaani Kapoor's upcoming film 'Abir Gulaal' will also not see a release in Reel
