Ghazal 11, Verse 5x

Gyan Chand:

At dawn, people go to take the air. But they don't know the reality of the dawn breeze. At dawn, how many flowers tear open their collars! As if the coming of dawn is an expression for the collar-tearing of flowers. The collar is torn only in some anxiety or distress. In this way the dawn breeze is a scene of pain and distress, of which the breeze-enjoyers are not aware.

The literal meaning of 'sympathizer' [;Gam-;xvaar] is 'grief-eater'. The poet says to his sympathizer, if you want to 'eat' my grief, then create in your body the mouth of a wound, and eat it with that. The poet has taken 'to eat' in its dictionary meaning, and created for it the necessity of a mouth. By 'eating' grief through the mouth of a wound the point is that if you want to understand my grief, then you yourself will have to become extremely sorrowful and a temperament-sharer.

The relationship between the two lines is that from somebody's outward situation, his interior state cannot be guessed. Seeing the dawn, who can understand that it's a sign of grief? By seeing me from the outside, my inner sorrow cannot be guessed. (85-86)

FWP:

SETS == MIDPOINTS
CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9}

Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the sixth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal.

For discussion of yak-((aalam and related constructions, see {11,1}. The positioning of this enigmatic little phrase is also cleverly ambiguous: it can be read as adjectival for the ripping of the rose's collar (1a), or as adverbial (1b).

As Gyan Chand observes, a major question in this is the relationship of the two aphoristic-looking lines. The word havaa is surely crucial here. It of course names the 'breeze' that blows on the rose and, deliberately or without any special intention, opens it out (and then bears away its dying petals), so that it itself causes the rose's collar to be torn. On the general significance of the tearing of the collar, see {17,9}; in the rose's case, the opening of its flower is always a prelude to its death.

But havaa also means 'affection, favor, love', and even 'lust' as well. (For more on havaa , see {8,3}.) On this reading, what the dawn wants is for the rose's collar to be torn. Perhaps it wants the rose to tear open its own collar, as a mad lover should; though of course in the ghazal world the rose is usually the beloved, not the lover. Perhaps it wants the rose to display its beauty more visibly to the world. Or perhaps it wants to rip open the rose's collar itself, in a 'lustful' way. No matter how we read the nature of the havaa , the result is clear: the attentions of the dawn aim at the 'tearing of the collar' of the rose, and thus the death of the rose.

The second line seems to envision a sympathizer, a 'grief-eater'. For a literal use of this term, see {2,1}. This person is urged by the speaker to take some appropriate action, if he 'eats my grief'. But what exactly is it to 'eat my grief'? On the ambiguity of meraa ;Gam as either 'my grief' or 'your grief over me', see {41,6}. Here the grammar leaves it completely open whether the sympathizer feels or shares the lover's own grief, or feels a different grief born of sympathetic concern for the lover.

And ultimately it doesn't matter: we know what the outcome should or must be. If you 'eat my grief', says the lover, then go ahead, punch a hole in me-- 'create the mouth of a wound'! There are many reasons for the lover to want a wound (or another wound): most conspicuously, the only way for the lover to talk to the beloved may be through the 'mouth' of a wound, as in {214,1}.

But in what tone is the lover speaking? Is he begging for a nearer approach to death, for the kind of succor he most needs (a real friend should provide him with a wound)? Is he demanding a proof of some professed sympathizer's concern? Is he cynically anticipating what the outcome of such 'sympathy' usually is, and urging the 'sympathizer' to get on with it? Is he fending off an intrusive sightseer with a sneering remark? Is he suggesting that the 'sympathizer' will have better access to his grief (including perhaps even a chance to 'eat' it more lavishly) if the sympathizer will carve out a new, more accessible wound-mouth? (On this grotesque view see {6,4}.)

Thus we see the connection: just the way the dawn is unaffected while its breeze/affection/favor/desire dooms the rose, so the sympathizer, suffering no ill effects himself, is instructed to make another wound for the lover. The wordplay of 'mouth' and 'eat' is especially piquant (though a bit on the grotesque side) and sharp.

Of course, it's conceivable that, as Gyan Chand suggests, the sympathizer is being instructed to make such a wound in himself, not in the lover. But then, haven't we lost all significant connection with the first line? We'd be reduced to the 'outer vs. inner' dichotomy proposed by Gyan Chand, which isn't exactly compelling.