Once home to many Urdu calligraphers, Delhi’s historic Urdu Bazaar now has only one, Muhammad Ghalib, who continues his craft in a quiet corner as machines replace handmade art
NEW DELHI — In the heart of Old Delhi’s Urdu Bazaar, where once the rhythmic strokes of Urdu calligraphy echoed through narrow lanes, a single man remains as the last thread connecting a glorious past to a fading present.
Muhammad Ghalib, a 60-year-old calligrapher, sits quietly in a corner of a stationery shop, patiently waiting for someone to come and ask for his art. He is now the only calligrapher left in the area, once famous for its deep literary and artistic culture.
Ghalib started calligraphy 36 years ago, when his skill was in high demand. “There was a time when calligraphy was in demand,” Ghalib recalls. “People used to write titles for books, invitations, advertisements — all by hand. There were many of us then.”
But with the arrival of computers, digital fonts, and printing technology, the demand for traditional Urdu calligraphy has almost disappeared. One by one, the calligraphers left. Now, only Ghalib remains.
He says: “If some interested person comes, I write a title or a line or two. It is fine, but in the coming days there is no future. Computers have arrived. Now most of the work is done by computers.”
His words are filled with sadness, not just for his own uncertain future, but for the art form itself. “This is not just about me. This is about Urdu, about the beauty of the language, about its soul,” he adds.
Ghalib’s small table, surrounded by ink pots, bamboo pens, and yellowing pages, is like a time capsule. He sits surrounded by the smell of old paper and fading ink, still hopeful that someone might walk in and ask for a line of poetry or a book title.
“I learnt this from my ustad (teacher), who learnt it from his ustad. This was passed down. But who will I pass it on to?” he asks, looking down at his hands. “The youth don’t want to do this. They are looking for modern jobs.”
The Urdu Bazaar, located near the historic Jama Masjid, once stood as a centre of Urdu literature, book publishing, and calligraphy. It was not just a market, but a gathering of poets, writers, printers, and artists. Today, most of the shops have moved on to selling printed books, stationery, or general goods.
Local shopkeepers say they have seen the change over the years. “Earlier, people would come asking for handwritten work. Now everything is typed and printed,” says Abdul Khaliq, owner of a nearby bookshop. “We hardly see anyone asking for calligraphy anymore.”
Ghalib does not complain about modernity. He understands that times change. But he worries that something valuable is being lost. “When you write by hand, you feel the words. The letters have life. The curves, the dots — they speak to you. Computers can’t do that,” he says.
Despite his struggles, he refuses to give up. “As long as I can hold a pen, I will write,” he says with quiet pride. “This is my life.”
Some Urdu scholars and cultural activists believe that efforts must be made to save what remains of this art. “Traditional Urdu calligraphy is a cultural heritage. It needs support from the government, from educational institutions, and society,” says Prof Zubair Ahmed, a retired Urdu lecturer. “We need to introduce it in schools, fund training programmes, and support calligraphers like Ghalib.”
But such efforts are slow, and time is running out.
Ghalib, meanwhile, continues his lonely duty—writing a line of poetry here, a nameplate there, his brush dancing slowly across the paper, while outside, the sounds of traffic and digital printing machines grow louder.
“It’s like I’m writing the last lines of a forgotten book,” he says. “When I am gone, maybe nobody will write like this again.”
