نقش فریادی ہے کس کی شوخیِ تحریر کا
کاغذی ہے پیرہن، ہر پیکرِ تصویر کا
Naqsh faryaadi hai kis ki shokhi-e-tehreer ka
Kaghazi hai pairahan har paikar-e-tasveer ka
The artist plays, the form obeys,
A stillborn soul in bright array.
Its clothes are ink, its voice is none—
It begs for dusk, denied the sun.
About this couplet
Ghalib’s Diwan takes flight with this couplet. He treats existence not as a gift but as a riddle—an elegant arrangement that conceals a subtle cruelty.
The world, to him, is a series of figures drawn not with reverence, but with a kind of careless mischief.
There’s no sermon here, no complaint even—just a gentle, sardonic shrug at the absurdity of it all, delivered with the grace of a man who’s long since stopped expecting answers.
