Delhiwale: It’s all Farsi to me

Kader Abdolah, a Dutch-Iranian author, honors Farsi poet Mirza Ghalib in Delhi, reflecting on the language's journey and Ghalib's legacy.

Best to start at the beginning. Farsi took its earliest form a long time ago in Persia. The language thrived in its homeland, and gradually transcended the geographical borders of modern-day Iran, building homes in other lands. Take Delhi’s Mirza Ghalib, acknowledged among the greatest poets of Farsi.

This afternoon, the worlds of these two literary figures of the Farsi universe intersect. (HT)

Some decades ago in a politically turbulent Iran, a young man had to leave his country, and was eventually obliged to make a new home in the Netherlands. All these years later, he has become a bestselling author writing in Dutch.

This afternoon, the worlds of these two literary figures of the Farsi universe intersect. Kader Abdolah of Delft is in Ghalib’s Delhi, heading to the latter’s tomb. He reaches Ghalib Academy, the book-filled institute overlooking the poet’s makbara. Stepping into the empty auditorium, Kader Abdolah quietly claims a seat, under Ghalib’s direct gaze—see photo, all the while discussing the Persian language and its migrations. At one point, he notes that Delhi’s 19th century poet is known in Iran as Ghalib Dehlavi.

Minutes later, at the Academy’s library upstairs, Kader Abdolah flips through Kulliyat e Ghalib Farsi, a handsome hardbound published in 1969. Ghalib’s Urdu compositions are challenging enough with their allusions and metaphors, but the Persian segment of his oeuvre is considered doubly formidable. Settling down on a chair, Kader Abdolah reads aloud a Farsi ghazal from Ghalib’s Kulliyat. Farsi was Mughal Delhi’s court language, but today it has disappeared from the daily life of even the staunchest Delhi Ghalibians. So, to a Delhiwala’s uninitiated ear, the Iranian-Dutch writer’s Persian accent appears as casually fluent (and incomprehensible) as that of the characters in Asghar Farhad’s Iranian films.

On reaching the ghazal’s end, Kader Abdolah abruptly springs up from the chair, exclaiming, “Ghalib loved wine, women and life!” He goes on to associate our poet to the traditions of a great classical poet of his Iran. “Both Khayyam Nishapuri and Ghalib were the poets of Now… yesterday is gone, future doesn’t exist, live your time now… now, now, now!”

Arriving at the tomb’s courtyard, Kader Abdolah takes off his shoes, tiptoes inside the tiny marble chamber, his tall lanky frame bending down by Ghalib’s grave. This pilgrimage, the Iranian-origin writer from the Netherlands quietly says, has taken him back to the roots of Persian classics.