Mamoni Raisom Goswami is deeply pained by the lack of concern for Ghalib’s ‘treasures’ during her visit to the poet’s home

As I looked around and surveyed the decay and squalor in Mirza Ghalib’s house in Old Delhi, my heart was crying in pain. I had come here with the dreamy-eyed romance of a young teenager but my dreams were shattered in one instant.

I looked up to the young man who acted as the guide and asked him about Ghalib’s personal belongings. “Where are Ghalib’s personal artifacts, his writings, his dresses?” The same vacant look, a helpless shake of the head. O! Ghalib, what has come to this world!

There was no end to Ghalib’s miseries. The British suspected him of siding with the nationalists. Queen Victoria, too, was not very keen on making him a court poet. Despite many pleadings, the British did not give him permission to publish his historical treatise named Dastambu, which had documented the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857.

The young man suddenly remembered something. “Oh! yes, yes, we have heard about Dastambu. It may be at the Ghalib Academy,” he said.

May be. I was at a loss for words.

I climbed the dark, narrow staircase to reach the roof, which gave a panoramic view of a large area. Did Ghalib see the fires of the mutiny from this strategic place? Did he see the horrors and atrocities of the British on the sepoys? He must have seen the Luthien Hall’s armoury going up in flames. Did Ghalib write his Dastambu sitting on this roof? There was no way of knowing. People had forgotten this master poet.

My reverie was broken when with a loud thud — the owner of the house, Miyan Fakaruddin, a rotund man with skin as white as an albatross, plopped down on a bed on the outer room. I looked at him with interest, his greying hairs half hidden by the cap on his head.

“My father Modh Idris acquired this house through an auction from Kasim Jaan. I have built that guest house,” he said, pointing to another room.

I listened with stupefied amazement. Ghalib’s house is no longer Ghalib’s house.

Someone shouted, “How many times I have told Miyan Fakaruddin not to carry out construction on this house? This is a national treasure. But he won’t listen.” I looked towards the voice. Who is that? A dark complexioned man, his face pockmarked with the tell-tale signs of pox, came out muttering. A mere carpenter working for Miyan Fakaruddin but with a big heart.

I asked again, “Has the government done anything to preserve this house?” Miyan Fakaruddin appeared slightly relieved. “The government is yet to give me the land which I had sought to vacate this house.”

I had no other question left. The man who did not receive anything during his lifetime, what would the world give him long after he is dead and gone.

To be continued