Where Paradise Meets Phalgun: Ghalib, Nazir, and the City They Loved by Sandeep Kulshrestha

Agra, the city that breathes chaos in the wire-ridden streets of the old town, was once a thriving citadel. It was the heart of Emperor Akbar’s aspirations as well as his secular and cultural experiments. The syncretic culture of Agra is also contextual to the early Mughals’ deep engagement and absorption of local traditions. And of course, the reader of this blog would know that Akbar’s reign was a great time for poets and creative people, and it was a patronage that continued till the rule of Emperor Shah Jahan and persisted, albeit more quietly, even during the more fundamentalist reign of Aurangzeb thereafter. Agra was also known as Akbarabad, the city of the Great Mughal, Akbar.

In this historical city, a poet called Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan, popularly known as Mirza Ghalib, was born in 1797, in an area called “Kala Mahal,” where he lived until the age of 13. He spent his remaining life in Delhi, where he passed away in 1869. Though Ghalib rarely wrote about Agra in his poems, he did offer this beautiful verse in Persian:

Sarguzasht-e-man agar pursi, az aan shahr-ast purs
K-aan shahr-ra az paki-e-aab-o-hawa "Firdous-e-barin" naam kardand

(If you ask of my story, ask about that city,
A city whose pure waters and climate earned it the name of 'The Highest Paradise.')

Ghalib, revered equally in India and Pakistan, was a man whose poetry was not very popular when he started his journey. Most of his life was spent borrowing money from the seths (wealthy merchants) of Delhi, who were mostly Hindus and his closest friends. He was openly an admirer of alcohol and drank his whole life. Yet, his pain and wit transformed into some of the most unforgettable Urdu couplets. One of his most famous verses goes:

Hazaron khwahishen aisi ki har khwahish pe dam nikle
Bahot nikle mere armaan lekin phir bhi kam nikle

(Thousands of such desires, each worth dying for…
Many of my longings have been fulfilled, yet still, they feel so few)

This couplet captures the restless soul of Ghalib: eternally unsatisfied, magnificently tragic, and deeply human.

The other poet I wanted to talk about is Nazir Akbarabadi. Unlike Ghalib, who left Agra, Nazir never wanted to leave. He was so in love with the city that he refused offers to settle elsewhere, earning him the nickname “Akbarabadi” (the one belonging to Agra). Born in 1735 in Delhi, Nazir came with his parents to live in Agra in an area called “Nuri Darwaza”, which is known for the sweetmeat, Petha. He wrote extensively on everyday life, and most strikingly, on Holi and other Hindu celebrations. In an era before the 1857 uprising, his poetry was a living example of Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, the syncretic culture Akbar had nurtured.

While Ghalib’s poetry soars into metaphysics as well as deep philosophy, Nazir’s roots himself firmly in the soil of Agra. He wrote poems on kachra (garbage), on vegetables, on a weaver’s sorrow, and on the joyous festival of colours. Consider this beauiful verse on Holi:

Jab phagun rang jhamakte hon, tab dekh baharen holi ki
Aur daf ke shor khadakte hon, tab dekh baharen holi ki

Pariyon ke rang damakte hon, tab dekh baharen holi ki
Ḳhum, shishe, jaam, jhalakte hon, tab dekh baharen holi ki

(When the colours of Phalgun shimmer, only then behold the spring of Holi
And when the drumbeats of the dafli crash aloud, only then behold the spring of Holi

When colours blaze like fairies’ wings, only then behold the spring of Holi
When flasks, glasses, and wine-cups glisten, only then behold the spring of Holi) 

Also, to sum up Nazir’s love for Agra, he wrote:

Aashiq kaho, aseer kaho, Agre ka hai
Mullah kaho dabeer kaho, Agre ka hai
muflis kaho, fakir kaho, Agre ka hai
Shayar kaho Nazeer kaho, Agre ka hai

("Call him a lover, call him a prisoner, he belongs to Agra,
Call him a scholar, call him a scribe, he belongs to Agra,
Call him a pauper, call him a mystic, he belongs to Agra,
Call him a poet, call him Nazeer, he belongs to Agra.")

It should be noted that the local inhabitants of Agra use the colloquial term “Agre” while stating about any activity related to the town. For example, my father would always say when he used to board a train, “Hum Agre se Nikal chuke hain” (We have started from Agra)

Nazir was buried in an area called “Taj Ganj” and on his grave, there used to be a festive mela every year on the day of Basant Panchmi that was hosted by the Agra civic administration. 

Where Ghalib remains a poet of the courtly elite, polished, pained, and Persian-infused, Nazir speaks for the commoner. Ghalib’s world is the mehfil (gathering) and the tavern; Nazir’s is the bazaar and the street corner. One is a mirror to the soul’s isolation; the other is a chronicle of a city’s heartbeat.

Together, these two poets represent the two faces of Agra itself: Ghalib’s Agra is a memory of paradise lost; Nazir’s Agra is a celebration of paradise lived. And perhaps, that is why this city, of the Taj, of Akbar, of chaos and beauty continues to breathe poetry long after they are gone. 

Agra was Nazir’s town and I am part of the legacy as it is my town too.