It is often forgotten that, in a social setting, we generally live under the tall shadows of constructed realities. But to say this at the present juncture of our philosophical journey is to utter what has become practically a cliché.

Ghalib had pronounced that every individual in the world is an unread leaf [hae har ek shakhs jahaañ meiñ waraq-i-nakhvaanda]; in other words, I can never really know you, nor can you ever know my real inner being. Juxtapose it with Nietzsche’s rather famous but gloomy observation that there are no facts, only interpretations.

Thus, not unlike his older South Asian contemporary, the German philosopher too denies that we can ever know objective reality, and all we know are interpretations determined by cultural perspectives.

Many years ago, the poet Josh Malihabadi, widely known for his subversion of social norms and customs, his frivolities and for his blatant (over-)indulgence in alcohol, wrote a superb introduction to the poetry collection of Baba Zaheen Shah Taji, a collection styled Ayaat-i-Jamal [Verses of Beauty].

But isn’t there something ironic here? One recalls that Zaheen Shah was a practising Sufi who devoutly observed not only all legally binding rituals of Islam, such as the five daily prayers and Ramazan fasting, but also performed the supererogatory tahajjud and non-obligatory nawafil prayers.

In the Urdu and Persian poetic tradition, an intellectually formidable tradition, poets often subvert socially constructed boundaries between grave sin and paradigmatic religiosity — at once partaking of both extremes.

But it is glaringly evident that the two personages are profoundly fond of each other. In fact, Josh appropriately titled his introduction ‘Azdad ki ham-aghoshi’ [The Embrace of Contraries]. What was the attraction that Josh, the harbinger of a cultural and moral revolution, the “sha’ir-i-inquilaab,” found in the Sufi? And why would a soft-spoken, rather tightlipped Sufi choose a loudmouthed drunkard as his beloved companion? These are mind-boggling questions.

Perhaps we can never know the answer, and both figures would remain “unread leaves”, a blank mystery which we shall forever go on unravelling. The thing is, we tend to judge grand personalities ideologically, and often classify them simplistically under neat binaries shaped by our perspectives.

In standard moral taxonomy, one is a “sinner”, the other a paragon of piety; one is drenched in Divine love; the other leans towards rejecting all forms of theism. But this binary taxonomic tendency ought to be resisted; it needs reflection.

Great personalities are complex, having multiple layers; they are not one-dimensional. Often, like the grey dusk, the boundary between what at first glance seem opposing tendencies in them seems to blur. Extreme piety and extreme indulgence frequently become indistinguishable.

So it would appear that Josh was not quite godless. On the other hand, Zaheen Shah was not quite as non-indulgent as we tend to judge him — he too was drawn to frivolities and “sinning”.

In the Urdu and Persian poetic tradition, an intellectually formidable tradition, poets often subvert socially constructed boundaries between grave sin and paradigmatic religiosity — at once partaking of both extremes.

Thus, the poet Hafiz of Shiraz says that, in a gathering of the pious he is a “hafiz” (that is, a Quran memoriser, the one who preserves the Holy Book in the heart), whereas in a rowdy wine-drinking party, he drinks so much that he even gulps down the dregs left at the bottom of the drinking glass. “See,” he says, “how crafty I am with ordinary people!” Yes, he calls himself literally “crafty.”

We see the same “craftiness” in many classical Urdu poets. Ghalib, for example, says quite daringly that he went to perform Haj and, at the sacred well of Zam Zam, he drank wine. And the next morning he washed the wine stains from his ihram (the two seamless pieces of white cloth wrapped around the body of the pilgrim). Here again we have a cocktail of two extremes.

Indeed, in the case of Ghalib, we have the classic instance of his historically most significant and decisive friendship with Allama Fazl-i-Haq Khairabadi, an outstanding 19th century scholar of the Islamic intellectual tradition. The Allama was, in fact, Ghalib’s beloved editor; in fact, the standard Divan of Ghalib we have owes to the former.

Upon Allama’s death in 1861, following the unspeakable cruelties he suffered at the hands of the British in the Andaman Islands, Ghalib was devastated, saying that his eyes had darkened, his ears had gone deaf, and his hands trembled. This relationship of a permissive poet with a religious figure must give us pause.

Similar to Josh’s love for the Sufi Zaheen Shah is Ghalib’s respect for the Sufi Ghous Ali Shah Qalandar. The poet would regularly visit the mosque where the Sufi met his disciples, bringing food. Ghous Ali reports that, when he would invite the poet to join him for the meal, he would refuse, saying, “No, I am a wine-drinking sinner, I feel embarrassed breaking bread with you.”

One wonders who the real Ghalib was.

The columnist teaches history and philosophy at the Institute of Business Administration Karachi, and is General Editor of Oxford University’s Book series, Studies in Islamic Philosophy.

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, February 11th, 2024