A Ride, A Ghazal, and the Quiet Poetry of Ordinary Lives
Peerzada Masarat Shah:
The evening had already stretched long before the ride began.
Karol Bagh—one of Delhi’s busiest commercial neighbourhoods—was in its usual state of restless chaos. Shopkeepers called out offers from brightly lit storefronts. Scooters squeezed through impossible gaps between cars. Vendors balanced trays of street food while shoppers bargained over fabrics, electronics, and souvenirs.
For hours I had walked through those narrow lanes, moving from shop to shop, negotiating prices and carrying bags that seemed to grow heavier with every purchase. By the time I stepped out onto the road to book a cab to Okhla, the exhaustion of the day had settled deeply into my bones.
My feet ached. My shoulders felt stiff. Even the sounds of the city—honking horns, shouting vendors, the rumble of engines—had begun to blur into a dull background noise.
When the car finally arrived, it felt less like a ride and more like a small moment of refuge.
I slipped quietly into the back seat, placed my bags beside me, and leaned my head gently against the window. The evening air that seeped through the slightly open glass felt soothing against my face.
To ease the fatigue, I opened my phone and played a ghazal that has long been a companion during moments of reflection.
Soft music filled the car.
“Jhoom kar jab rindon ne pilayi,
Sheikh ne chupke chupke dua di…”
The voice of the singer floated through the vehicle like a gentle whisper. Outside, Delhi’s traffic lights and neon signboards passed by in blurred streaks of red, yellow, and white.
For a few minutes, the ride remained quiet.
Then the driver spoke.
A Question That Changed the Journey
“Madam… rind ka matlab kya hota hai?”
The question was unexpected.
I paused the music and looked toward the front seat. In the rear-view mirror, I saw his eyes glance briefly toward me before returning to the road.
“Why do you ask?” I replied, curious.
He hesitated for a moment, almost shyly.
“Main kabhi kabhi ghazal sunta hoon… Pankaj Udhas sahab ki,” he said softly.
“Lekin ‘rind’ samajh nahi aata.”
His words carried a sincerity that instantly dissolved the invisible distance between passenger and driver.
In that moment, what had begun as a routine ride through the city quietly transformed into something else—an unexpected conversation woven with poetry, philosophy, and fragments of human life.
The Meaning Hidden in Poetry
I explained slowly, choosing my words carefully.
“In Urdu poetry, a rind is not simply a drunkard,” I said.
“It represents someone who rejects hypocrisy. Someone who may drink wine openly, but whose heart remains honest and free.”
In classical Persian and Urdu poetry—especially in the works of Sufi poets—the rind and the sheikh often appear as symbolic characters.
The sheikh represents rigid outward religiosity—someone who preaches morality loudly, who appears pious before society.
The rind, on the other hand, is the rebel spirit. He refuses to hide behind pretence. He may break social conventions, but his honesty often carries a deeper spiritual authenticity.
“In that couplet,” I continued, “the rinds drink openly and joyfully. The sheikh, who publicly condemns wine, secretly offers prayers for them.”
It was a gentle satire on hypocrisy—one of the most enduring themes in classical poetry.
The driver chuckled softly.
“Wah madam… matlab shayari mein sab seedha nahi hota.”
No, poetry is rarely straightforward. Its meanings often live between lines rather than inside them.
A Driver Who Loved Ghazals
A few minutes passed before he spoke again.
This time his voice carried a quiet excitement.
“Madam… meri favourite ghazal lagayengi?”
I smiled.
“Kaunsi?”
Without hesitation he replied:
“Chamakte chand ko toota hua tara bana dala…”
The request was specific and immediate, as though the song had been waiting patiently inside him for the right moment to emerge.
I searched for the ghazal and pressed play.
Soon the melancholic melody filled the car.
“Chamakte chand ko toota hua tara bana dala,
Meri awargi ne mujhko awara bana dala…”
As the music flowed through the speakers, the driver began softly explaining the meaning of the lyrics.
The ghazal speaks of life’s strange transformations—how destiny can turn shining moons into broken stars, how wandering paths shape identities in ways we never expect.
While he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his voice.
Not sadness exactly—but something deeper. Something lived.
“Main Bihar Se Hoon”
After a pause, he introduced himself.
His name was Deeraj Kumar.
He was from Bihar.
He had been married for sixteen years to a woman named Ritu Priyadarshini, and together they were raising two daughters.
As the car moved through Delhi’s evening traffic—past flyovers, markets, and crowded intersections—he spoke about his life with quiet dignity.
Again and again, he praised his wife.
“Madam, woh meri taqat hai,” he said.
“If I can drive day and night, it is only because of her.”
There was no dramatic storytelling in his words. No attempt to impress.
Only sincerity.
He described how they had built their life slowly, piece by piece.
“Humne bans ka chhota sa ghar banaya tha,” he said.
“A small bamboo house.”
“Baarish mein paani tapakta rehta tha.”
“When it rained, water would drip from the roof.”
He paused briefly.
“Lekin usne kabhi shikayat nahi ki.”
But she never complained.
In that small confession lay a universe of love, patience, and shared struggle.
Gratitude in an Age of Complaint
In a world where people often complain easily—about small inconveniences, delayed deliveries, or minor discomforts—here was a man expressing gratitude for his wife to a stranger sitting in the back seat of his car.
There was no bitterness in his voice.
No resentment about hardship.
Only respect.
And perhaps that quiet respect was more profound than any grand declaration of love.
Ghazal as a Bridge Between Strangers
Outside the window, Delhi continued its relentless rush.
Traffic lights blinked from red to green. Motorcycles zigzagged through lanes. Street vendors pushed carts loaded with fruits and roasted peanuts.
But inside that moving vehicle, something rare was unfolding.
Two strangers—different in age, background, and geography—were connected by poetry.
This is the quiet magic of the ghazal.
It dissolves social hierarchies.
It erases distance.
It allows two lives that would never otherwise intersect to briefly inhabit the same emotional landscape.
A driver from Bihar.
A traveler from Kashmir.
Bound, for a moment, by shared listening.
When singers like Pankaj Udhas perform a ghazal, they are not merely delivering lyrics.
They are voicing emotions that countless listeners have felt but never articulated.
That is why a line written decades ago can suddenly speak directly to a stranger sitting behind a steering wheel.
The Rind and the Sheikh Revisited
As our conversation returned to the earlier discussion about the meaning of rind, a quiet realisation emerged within me.
Perhaps Deeraj himself embodied the spirit of the rind.
He was not preaching morality.
He was not judging anyone.
He was simply living honestly.
Working tirelessly.
Loving deeply.
True spirituality does not always reside in strict outward rituals.
Sometimes it appears in simple acts of human dignity.
A husband praising his wife in her absence.
A father working late nights to secure a better future for his daughters.
A tired driver who still finds comfort in poetry.
Perhaps the real prayer in that couplet did not come from the sheikh at all.
Perhaps it lived in the quiet sincerity of people like Deeraj.
The Poetry of Ordinary Lives
As a writer, I have often encountered celebrated personalities—artists, activists, scholars, and public figures whose achievements fill newspaper columns and magazine covers.
Their stories are important.
But sometimes the most powerful narratives remain hidden within ordinary lives.
Behind the steering wheel of a taxi.
Inside a roadside tea stall.
In the silent resilience of migrant workers building futures far from their hometowns.
Deeraj did not know literary theory.
He had never studied metaphors or poetic symbolism in a classroom.
Yet he felt the emotional depth of a ghazal instinctively.
And sometimes feeling poetry is deeper than analyzing it.
Because poetry ultimately belongs not to critics or scholars—but to anyone whose heart responds to its music.
When the Ride Ended
Sooner than expected, the car reached Okhla.
The journey felt strangely short.
Perhaps conversations have a way of bending time.
As I gathered my bags and prepared to step out, Deeraj spoke once more.
His voice carried a quiet clarity.
“Madam… aaj samajh aaya.”
“Rind bura nahi hota.”
“Kabhi kabhi woh sachcha hota hai.”
I smiled.
“Bilkul.”
Yes.
Sometimes the so-called rebel is simply the most honest person in the room.
Listening to the Stories Around Us
As I walked away from the car, the sounds of the city returned immediately.
Honking vehicles.
Crowded sidewalks.
Restless movement everywhere.
Yet something inside me had shifted.
We often rush through our rides—treating drivers as anonymous figures who exist only to transport us from one destination to another.
We rate them for punctuality, politeness, and driving skills.
Rarely do we pause long enough to listen.
Yesterday evening, I listened.
And in that listening, I discovered something unexpected.
A word became a philosophy.
A ghazal became a bridge.
A driver became a storyteller.
And an ordinary ride became unforgettable.
Life as a Ghazal
Perhaps life itself resembles a ghazal.
Some verses reveal their meaning instantly.
Others require patience.
And a few only unfold when a stranger asks a simple question at the right moment.
A question like:
“Madam… rind ka matlab kya hota hai?”
In that brief curiosity lay an entire philosophy of life—one that reminds us that wisdom often travels quietly, hidden within ordinary conversations on ordinary roads.
Sometimes all we need to do is pause, listen, and allow the poetry of everyday lives to reveal itself.
