The Divine Comedy
When E M Foster in his short story ‘The celestial omnibus’ gave a stir to imagination and traveled through the skies, he met Dante, Homer, and other Greek poets gathering harvests of their earthly work in the vicinity of heaven. Virginia Woolf too, with that eye peculiar only to the artist, cut through the dust of time and saw Homer and Shakespeare standing near the divine throne on the final day of reckoning. Similar honors, doubt be treason here, will be lavished on Ghalib too. He’ll be brooding somewhere in the shadows of the royal seat. Of this, we should all be assured. The more you read Ghalib, the deeper grows this conviction. Others from his tribe, the missionaries who pulsed to a different beat, will also offer a fine spectacle. Some of it can be imagined here, while the real work left to divine artist Himself, who alone knoweth all.
Sinners, weaker souls, a great majority of us, will be pinned to a distant wall. No triumph of hypocrisy to be seen on that day, to be sure. At a loss, fated to chance games, and at the mercy of the great unknown, we will certainly struggle to make out as to what is unfolding near the throne of the Most High. A certain sect from humanity, wearing calm on their faces, giving a complete lie to the fright of the final day, will be strutting about. All those who left a stain on the silence of life. All those who impeached the limit of mortality with their work. The magic of their craft still taking its hold on the eve of the final day. All that stems from the spirit is not ephemeral; it outlives the test of time.
Whence flows this serenity on their faces? Stolen from the earthly life which no longer exists or springing somewhere from their innermost being? Questions such as these would daze the common horde of humanity. Smuggling a ray of light when the doom is hanging deep when everything is verging on the edge of the abyss is surely a work of art. The divine comedy touching its summit. The curtains lifting up and curiosity wafting through the air. The tryst, the mysterious of all, remains no longer a dream. Divinity face to face with His marvels, the jewels in the crown of humanity. Beethoven marching towards the Divine court. Roar, thunder, trumpets, and lightening, some of it borrowed from his own music and other heavenly. Plato, Homer, Tolstoy, Hugo, and Proust, witness this thunderous acclaim and awaiting their turn. Ghalib, Faiz, and Munir, the egoists and philosopher poets, given a more stately welcome. Hegel, Nietzsche, and Dostoevsky, at the legendary height of the drama, entering the court followed by an interminable row of men from their tribe… technicians of soul, artists of thought, some His defiers, others His devotees, yet all of them secretly in His search. But, alas, only some of us, on whom fortune will smile that day, will get to meet them in the suburbs of heaven.
Tailpiece: We can expect anything, even subtle changes in the rules of the game. Verities and truths for this tribe will not be judged on the tight rope, such being their search for the holy grail. Their work and art alone will be sufficient.