Where Ghalib Waited for Us

By Romila Chitturi

In the gullies of Ballimaran, where Ghalib once walked, love and loss still whisper their stories

It began as all destined tales do with a coincidence too perfect for anything but the stars or Ghalib himself. Bindiya, a poetess with ink-stained fingers and a tender soul, stepped into Ballimaran. The air was thick with old paper, spices, and forgotten love letters. Ghalib’s haveli stood timeless, inspiring every word she wrote.

She walked slowly, her dupatta trailing like a whisper, and paused before Ghalib’s portrait—his eyes deep, knowing, and quietly amused.

“Ghalib ke galliyan Ballimaran mein aayi hoon dard likhne,” (I’ve come to Ghalib’s lane at Ballimaran to pen down my sorrows), she murmured to herself.

“Good line,” said a man in a blue linen shirt and tan loafers, standing beside her with a leather notebook pressed to his chest—a poet, of course.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“I’m Vijay. I think Ghalib just smiled at your verse.”

“I’m Bindiya. I think he smiled at you.”

“Ghalib was never just a poet,” Vijay said. “He was a rebel. A wounded dreamer.”

“Love was his battlefield,” she added. “Not just romance but longing itself.”

As they sat under the wooden arch, she recited softly:

“Uski har baat mein kuch toh tha… Jise mehsoos karte hi, dil likhne laga hai.”

(There was something in everything he said…the moment I felt it, my heart began to write)

Vijay listened, stunned. “That’s yours?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds like something he’d have written. But newer. Bruised in a modern way.”

They paused at a chaiwala who still quoted Mir and Ghalib with his kulhad chai.

Vijay asked, “Would you come to Jashn-e-Rekhta with me next weekend? There’s a mushaira. Maybe Ghalib will attend in spirit.”

She smiled. “Only if you promise to sit in the front row and cheer when I stutter nervously.”

“Done.” He said.

Poetry became their love language. They sent each other voice notes at 2 a.m., quoting Ghalib and Neruda, but always ended with Gulzar.

“Dil dhoondta hai phir wahi fursat ke raat din….Baithhe rahe tasavvur-e-jaana kiye hue…”

(The heart longs once again for those leisurely days and nights…spent sitting in thoughts of

my beloved…)

When Bindiya showed him her diary, Vijay touched it like it was sacred. “These poems, these are not just yours. They’re ours now.”

“You should publish.” He said.

“I’m not ready,” she said, hugging her diary to her chest.

“Then do it for Ghalib. For us.”

She looked at him. “And if I do?”

“I’ll write the foreword.”

That night, in the backseat of an auto rickshaw, rain pouring like forgotten stanzas, he asked, “Will you marry me if I promise to be the first to read every poem you write, and never interrupt your writing time?”

She smiled and said yes.

Months passed and on the anniversary of their first meeting, she gave him a gift, her first book.

“Ishq Ballimaran Se”, the cover read.

Inside were poems written by Bindiya inspired by Ghalib, love, and the madness that brought them together.

One read:

“Ghalib ke qadamchon mein pyaar dhoondhne chali thi,
Ek musafir mila, khud shayari ban gaya.
Na wo lafz tha, na kaghaz tha,
Bas uski aankhon mein kuch tha, jo meri rooh keh gaya.”

(I set out to find love at Ghalib’s feet but found a stranger who became poetry himself. He wasn’t a word, nor was he a paper, there was just something in his eyes that spoke to my soul)

Vijay didn’t speak. He simply pulled her close and kissed her forehead.

But fate, like poetry, loves a twist and this one didn’t rhyme.

Just as love found its rhythm, Vijay left for a prestigious year-long residency in Paris, carrying promises and poems with him.

They spoke every night until the calls stopped.

Then came a message - short and brutal:
 “Bindiya, I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

No explanation, no goodbye poem, no softening metaphors.

She waited for a sign, nothing.

Her pen ran dry.

Love had vanished mid-line, and even her verses couldn’t save her.

Ten years passed.
 

Bindiya became known for tragic verses and heartbreak metaphors. Her bestselling books and haunting voice echoed across poetry gatherings worldwide.

Then one winter evening, in the heart of Delhi she took the mic to recite a new poem titled

“Jis Sheher Ne Mohabbat Sikhayi Thi.” (The city that taught love)

The audience hushed. The lights dimmed.

And then… a voice. Deep. Familiar. Disruptive.

From behind her, on the very stage she thought she owned, it came….Vijay!

Older now. His beard fuller and grey, his presence heavier. But the eyes? Still apologetic. Still poetic.

He began:
“Das saal. Das sargoshiyan.
Aur ek diary jo har raat meri rooh likhti rahi.
Main wapas nahi aaya maafi maangne.
par sher poora karne…jo tumhare bina khamoshi si reh gayi thi”.

(Ten years. Ten whispers. And one diary written by my soul every single night. I haven’t returned to ask for forgiveness… but just to finish the verse that, without you, remained just a plain silence)

Bindiya froze. The audience applauded politely. She found him backstage, standing beneath a dim bulb like a ghost out of her unwritten pages.

“Why did you leave?” she asked.

A pause. Long. Measured.

He exhaled.

“I was recruited into a government research program overseas. Classified. No phones. No names. Just code and poetry, both encrypted. I was told to disappear for a while. I never knew that it would take ten years.”

Her breath caught.

“You vanished without a word, Vijay.”

“I wrote every day,” he said softly. “To survive, to stay sane. And every poem… led back to you.”

From his satchel, worn and ink-stained, he pulled out a book “Ghalib Ke Baad”

The dedication read: “Meri pyari Bindu—jiske bina har lafz sirf ek soona panna tha… (My dear Bindu , without whom every word was just an empty page…)

His voice trembled as he read the final poem:

“Gulzar ke lafzon mein tu baithi thi us lamhe,
Jab waqt ne kaha chhod de sab, sirf mohabbat rakh.
Main wapas aaya hoon, tere sher ke darmiyan,
Jahan Ghalib intezaar mein tha,
Aur tu… mere bayan mein thi.”

(You were sitting in that moment, wrapped in Gulzar’s words, when time whispered, let go of everything, just hold on to love. I’ve returned, between the lines of your poetry, where Ghalib was waiting… and you… you were living in my verses)

Tears streamed down her face, not from old wounds, but from the poetry that had found its way back home.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. They didn’t fall into each other’s arms. Not yet.

They visited Ghalib’s haveli together…Again. And as they stood before his portrait, Bindiya whispered, “This time, let’s not leave a poem unfinished.”

And Vijay replied, “This time, let’s become the poem.”

She asked him “When did you know it was love?”

He smiled and said, “In this haveli, where the soul wrote verses, and love rhymed with longing.”

In the lanes of Ballimaran, where silence echoes louder than words, love sometimes leaves but always returns… as a poem.

Like Ghalib said “Ishq par zor nahin, hai yeh woh aatish Ghalib; jo lagaye na lage, aur bujhaye na bane.”

(Love cannot be forced; it is a kind of fire oh Ghalib, which cannot be kindled on will, nor extinguished by choice)

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Poet's Note: Ballimaran, a historic lane in Old Delhi’s Chandni Chowk, is best known as the home of legendary Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. His haveli, now a museum, draws poetry lovers seeking traces of his legacy, letters, couplets, and the lingering soul of 1800’s Delhi. More than a place, Ballimaran is a living metaphor for lost love, faded glory, and timeless poetry.