Ghalib: The Architect of Ambiguity

Ghalib never wrote for applause — he wrote to wrestle with existence itself.
His words refused to be tamed, each couplet a mirror that asks more than it answers.
Between his sarcasm and sorrow lies a genius who mocked fate and flirted with philosophy.
He could turn pain into wit, and wit into wisdom without losing either.
Every sigh he penned carried a universe of self-awareness.
He made melancholy fashionable — and thought, irresistible.
Reading Ghalib is like sipping old wine: dense, layered, and unsettlingly honest.
His lines don’t console — they awaken.
Even today, he isn’t read to understand him — he’s read to understand ourselves.
Perhaps that’s why time bows, not passes, before his poetry.