Ghalib's khwaab-e-khayal-e-khams wa-arbaʿoon

Tho' those who inherit Faith from the Five Pure Ones, may not greatly care

To explain, why, of Prophesy, Dreams are but the forty-fifth share

& tho' the Aisling of an Ind, united, is as Poitín to its blighted old soak

Yet, all Contrition, affrighted, Sins against the Family of the Cloak.

Envoi-

Yam! Jam! Osiris! Krisis! All thou Norn crowned since Adam's Fall!

& in its fifth stream, Eden, drowned beyond its own dream recall

Yet are a Trinity squared by Wine

Till, in Summer, I drink with Dragons Ninety Nine.

 

Commentary-

The ‘Five Pure Ones’ (Panj tan Pak) or ‘Family of the Cloak’ are Prophet Muhammad, his daughter, son-in-law, and their two children who during the ‘mutual cursing’ competition with the Christians, sheltered under the same cloak. When our Contrition is sincere, we become the sixth of that company- if only in dream. Otherwise ninety-nine dragons will sting us in our grave.

The question asked by the poem is why Dream is referred to as only the 45^th share (in inheritance) of Prophesy (which is symbolized by the number 9). The answer is provided by genius Poet, Vivek, who is the Moses of the Buddha of the Gandhi of the Ghalib of this age, and whose incomparable mastery of Mathematics causes Ramanujan to bite the finger of envy and Terence Tao to shit himself most copiously. Briefly, it is this. Vivekji has discovered that 6 multiplied by 9 equals 45. Other mathematicians are thinking the answer is 54. They are wrong because otherwise Contrition would not really permit a sixth to come under the cloak of protection from the curses of the Trinitarians. It is not the case that Contrition, of its nature, squares a Triune God as is asserted by Catlicks- like Virendra Fernandes who took my comic book collection in return for his assurance that his Aunty, the Cardinal, would get me unconditional admission to Pope Skool even if I failed my Tenth Plus. That fucker lied. His Aunty didn’t lift a finger to help me. This is main reason some fucking American, not a nice Iyer boy, is now living large in Vatican City.

I may mention Vivekji is not just an ordinary Iyer. He is the hereditary King of Iyerland from which he has been excluded by a Maratha leprechaun named Leo Varadkar. Aisling poetry of that country depicts Iyerland taking the form of a celestial woman and appearing to a poet to complain of her bitter bondage to a fucking Maratha-leprechaun and her longing to be reunited with Vivekji who has a special taste for the Poitin liquor she knows well how to distil in her shebeen. Is this alcoholic beverage the fifth stream of Eden? Is it what Mansoor al Hallaj drank? Who actually gives a fuck? It is obvious that the author wrote this shite after reading some article about anyons or spin lattices or other such stuff he stumbles upon in his drunken search for donkey porn on the internet.