Adab Aur Taraqqi

Shayar ki nawa ho ke mughanni ka nafas

Jis se chaman afsurda ho woh baad-e-sahar kya

Iqbal

(Whether it is the poet's melody or the singer's breath,

What good is the morning breeze if it leaves the garden withered?)

About nine or ten years ago, a renowned physicist summarized the shift in our understanding of the material world by stating: What we once considered objects, we now understand as a series of events. Many of us might not immediately grasp the novelty of this statement. The fact remains that he was a scientist, and his discourse was confined to the realms of chemistry and physics. A major flaw among scientists is their tendency to either turn everything into technical jargon, speaking in such an esoteric language that only their exclusive circle understands them while the rest of the audience is left staring blankly. Or, even if they say something comprehensible to everyone, their language is drier than dead wood and utterly colorless. No matter how groundbreaking the idea, we fail to feel its novelty.

The truth is that the speaker made a profoundly important point in his own terminology, attempting to clarify our modern intellectual inclinations with great simplicity and ease. Think of it this way: the things we once assumed to be static have, upon investigation, proven to be in constant motion, transforming from one state to another at every moment. Today, movement can be detected in even the most solid of material objects. The most meaningless and obsolete words in the dictionary today are Static and Absolute, simply because they cannot be accurately applied to life or any of its facets.

Life is simply another name for perpetual motion. Nothing is eternal or permanent except motion itself. Everything is contingent and temporary. Even what we call the Ultimate Reality—the driving spirit of the universe, which we have stubbornly insisted on viewing as absolute and immutable—is entirely characterized by movement and change. Why is it that from the dawn of humanity until now, the search for truth has continued, yet no one has truly found it? The reason is that truth is not static; it is dynamic. Before anyone can grasp it, it changes its form. It would be far more accurate to declare motion and contingency as the Ultimate Reality.

You might be eager to point out that this is not a new intellectual trend. The world's literatures are full of it, and it has been a favored subject of Persian and Urdu poets. The turning of the heavens and the revolutions of time are not new concepts to us.

Har ghari munqalib zamana hai

Yahi dunya ka karkhana hai

(Time is in a state of revolution at every moment;

This is the very nature of the world's workshop.)

This is a very old idea, and it is true. We have been conscious of movement and change long before this. However, until now, this concept has only been attributed to the material world (the realm of form), and we have tried to dismiss it as mere illusion (Maya). We have always considered the realm of meaning, or the realm of ultimate reality, to be permanent and immutable. Humanity's true nature is inherently mutable and drawn to innovation, yet humans have artificially constructed a second nature for themselves—one that yearns for stability and permanence. Consequently, human life has become a constant state of conflict. Man wishes to defy the laws of nature, and when he finds himself helpless and constrained, he invents tales of form and meaning, matter and spirit, illusion and reality, unity and multiplicity. By declaring one to be transient and the other eternal and immortal, he offers himself a false sense of comfort.

Indeed, our writers and poets have always been aware of the reality that the world is in constant flux and that nothing remains in a single state, yet we continually try to evade this truth. The mournful tone and sorrowful manner in which we have historically spoken of this all-encompassing, universal reality breeds despair and melancholy within us, ultimately robbing us of our vitality. Even a poet like Ghalib, who so profoundly understood the essence and nuances of life, says:

Gardish-e-rang-e-tarab se darr hai

Gham-e-mehroomi-e-javed nahi

(I fear the fleeting nature of joy;

I do not grieve over eternal deprivation.)

He presents this same concept in a different shade:

Mustaqil markaz-e-gham par bhi nahi thay warna

Hum ko andaza-e-aaeen-e-wafa ho jata

(We were not even permanently stationed at the center of sorrow, otherwise

We would have understood the true measure of the law of fidelity.)

This is the voice of those traditional ideas that have unconsciously flowed through human veins, generation after generation. Yet, Ghalib was a philosophical poet. He recognized the truth that this very fleeting nature of joy is the essence of life. All the activity, passion, and fervor in the world exist precisely because we know that no form or state is permanent.

Hawas ko hai nishat-e-kaar kya kya

Na ho marna toh jeenay ka maza kya

(How boundless is ambition's joy in action!

If there were no death, what would be the joy of living?)

He also understood that humanity's greatest misfortune would be for life to stagnate at a single point, leaving no difference between the present and the future. He says:

Zaan nami tarsam ke gardad qa'ar-e-dozakh jaye man

Waye gar bashad hameen imroz-e-man fardaye man

(I do not fear that the depths of hell might become my abode;

Woe is me if my tomorrow is exactly the same as my today.)

But Ghalib was Ghalib; he was frequently at war with his era and its traditions and prejudices. Other poets were not endowed with this perspective. Whenever they reminded us of this fleeting nature of things, it only evoked pure melancholy within us, or at best, a sense of cautionary dread.

Well, those were people of a bygone era, expressing the thoughts of an older time. One cannot blame them. What is truly surprising is that even today—when the twentieth century has already exhausted so many decades, passing through numerous stages to arrive at the current global peril—whenever we hear a voice speaking of this motion and transience (which is the very essence of life), its tone remains largely the same, and just as depressing. Yass Azeemabadi is among those poets whose ghazals largely reflect a modern literary mindset. His poetry is brimming with life's new passions. Yet, even he could not shake off this despairing tone. Two of his couplets come to mind:

Har shaam hui subh ko ik khwab-e-faramosh

Dunya yahi dunya hai toh kya yaad rahegi

(Every evening became a forgotten dream by morning;

If this is all the world is, what will be remembered of it?)

Yaksaan kabhi kisi ki na guzri zamane mein

Yaadash bakhair baithay thay kal aashiyane mein

(No one's days have ever passed unchanging in this world;

Fondly remembered are the days when we sat in our nest yesterday.)

Even a preacher of action and dynamism like Iqbal, when he tells us:

Sukoon muhaal hai qudrat ke karkhane mein

Sabaat ek taghayyur ko hai zamane mein

(Stillness is impossible in nature's workshop;

Only change has permanence in this world.)

...despite the fact that both the poet's concept and style reflect a modern sensibility, we still detect an underlying sense of surrender and helplessness within the verse. However, because Iqbal always kept a definitive message in view—preaching the gospel of life, action, and evolution—there was no real room for this mournful melody in his work. A poet who seeks a star in a spark, and a sun in a star, and who considers the sun, the moon, and Jupiter as his peers, will naturally welcome movement and change with open arms. Whether it is literature or any other sphere of life, its true purpose is to foster life's vitality, not to drain it.

Movement and change are the very nature of life. Life is an organic reality that continuously grows and improves. We must not only perceive and accept this reality but also rejoice in it and welcome the new future, for it will be far more beautiful and magnificent than both the past and the present. This is precisely what Hegel and Marx termed Dialectics, and what Bergson called Creative Evolution. Life is not merely inclined toward evolution; throughout this evolutionary process, it constantly generates entirely new forms. Life negates one form only to give rise to another that is higher and superior.

Having accepted this reality, let us now cast a brief glance at humanity and the world it has built in this light. If you study history and civilization closely, without yielding to stubbornness, you will find yourself forced to shatter many of your most cherished idols. I maintain that if we keep the history of human civilization in view, we can neither remain conservatives and traditionalists, nor can we become the standard-bearers of perpetual rebellion. The clamor for perpetual rebellion is, in itself, an inverted form of traditionalism. We simply wish to blindly follow a beaten path—no matter what that path may be. However, this desire of ours is neither rational nor attainable; if it were possible, human life would not have undergone so many transformations.

Consider how many eras of life have passed from prehistoric times to the present day, and how many milestones have been crossed from the age of bestiality and barbarism to our current era of knowledge and wisdom. The human society that began with tribal chieftainship has now reached the frontiers of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, passing through countless stages along the way. As the structure of life has transformed, all its spheres have evolved in the same manner and proportion. This is essential for the health and progress of life. For now, however, we must confine the scope of our discussion to one specific sphere: literature.

Until now, we have been laboring under a grand illusion. We have treated literature as something akin to yoga or asceticism, largely dependent on some unseen, divine inspiration. For centuries, the notion has taken root in our minds that poets and artists possess a transcendental vision—a special gift from God—that the common masses lack. The masses are indeed deprived of this vision, but not because some arbitrary divine will has denied it to them. Rather, it is because the elite, in order to maintain their dominance and authority, never allowed the common people the opportunity to rise to their level in any capacity. The elite have consistently usurped the rights of the masses, keeping them trapped in the delusion that life's blessings are bestowed by God and cannot be attained through one's own efforts.

In any case, a writer is not a creature from some higher realm, nor can his world remain detached from or indifferent to the world of ordinary people. A writer is the product of a specific era, a specific social structure, and a specific system of thought, just as much as a farmer or a laborer is. Similarly, literature is influenced by external causes and conditions just as our everyday actions and behaviors are. Even if we were to accept the poet's language as divinely inspired, this revelation is, in reality, the voice of his time and environment.

There is no denying that whatever a poet or writer expresses stems from an internal impulse or creative spark, which we often consider an individual, God-given trait. However, this creative spark is actually the unconscious result of those influences and tendencies collectively known as the social system or society. Were this not the case, such vastly different literatures would not have emerged across different countries and eras, and the history of literature would be a meaningless term today. After all, why was the Quran not revealed in India, or the Vedas in Arabia? Why are epics like the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Shahnama, or the Iliad not being written in any country today? The truth is that these are historical imperatives that cannot be bypassed. Literature has evolved alongside life, progressing era by era and stage by stage. This proves that literature cannot be divorced from life; as life is, so shall its literature be. If it is otherwise, then literature has forgotten its true purpose and does not deserve to survive, for it has become ahistorical.

Literature is the expression of humanity's finest thoughts and emotions, and human thoughts and emotions do not emerge in a vacuum; rather, they are the product of a specific culture and a specific environment. You must be tired of hearing the old adage, A man is as he thinketh. This proverb stands reality on its head. Let us set it back on its feet and turn it into a human reality: A man's thoughts are shaped by who he is. (A man thinketh as he is.) A human being is first, and thinks later.

The primary reason Marx gave such precedence to Being over Thinking, and to Practice over Theory, is that he had grasped the true secret of life. This does not mean we should dismiss thinking as inconsequential or reject our intellectual life as a mere illusion; rather, everything must be kept in its proper place. Can we deny that our thoughts and emotions are a direct reflection of the life we lead? Just as an individual's thoughts mirror their economic and social conditions, these very thoughts serve as the foundational elements of literature.

If we were to divide the history of human civilization from its inception to the present day into just three chapters, they would be as follows:

(1) Purohit Kaal (The Age of the Priests): The era when the priestly and clerical class held power and ruled over society. During this period, literature was regarded as something akin to incantations and spells.

(2) Samant Kaal (The Feudal Age): The era when the balance of society rested in the hands of powerful feudal lords and landowners, and the lives of the common people moved at their command. The vision of life presented by literature during this period was, directly or indirectly, derived from the lives of these favored servants of God and served to protect their interests.

(3) Mahajan Kaal (The Age of the Capitalist): This is the era of the moneylenders and financiers, a period we ourselves have lived through. In this age, the reins of culture and society are firmly in the grip of major capitalists, who have become the arbiters of the standard of living. Whichever sphere of life you examine, their currency has been dominant for a long time. Be it literature or ethics, economics or politics, everything bears the stamp of these lords of wealth.

In short, no matter the era, the reins of civilization have always remained in the hands of a select, elite group that ruled over the masses under the guise of guidance and leadership. At the same time, however, we must acknowledge that the circle of this elite group has continuously expanded, with its numbers growing day by day. Our civilization may indeed be the civilization of a minority, but this minority has steadily been moving toward becoming a majority.

Because literature is a mirror of social conditions and trends, it too has historically represented this small, leisured, and powerful class known as the elite. In a true sense, literature has never genuinely concerned itself with the lives of the common people in any country or era. The thoughts and ideas that have shaped literature and philosophy thus far have been drawn exclusively from the lives of the wealthy and the noble.

In this context, let us cast a glance at Urdu literature to examine what it has been thus far, why it has been so, and what it ought to become. We are well aware of the crucial historical necessity that brought the Urdu language into existence. Who does not know that the foundations of Urdu were laid in military camps and marketplaces? This language was born to forge a connection and unity between the rulers and the ruled, the high and the low, Hindus and Muslims—in short, across diverse classes and communities. Its genesis, therefore, stemmed from a democratic need. Yet, it very quickly strayed far from its original purpose.

Urdu poetry was nurtured by ascetics and mystics, and upon coming of age, it became the darling of kings and aristocrats. It spent its childhood in Sufi lodges and its youth in royal palaces; what concern could it possibly have with the common masses? If Urdu poetry is so heavily saturated with the pursuit of romantic love on one hand, and the renunciation of the world on the other, it is precisely because it spent its life in the company of monarchs and dervishes. Otherwise, in the daily, practical lives of ordinary people, neither romantic love nor ascetic piety plays such an all-consuming role.

Truth be told, literature has never been truly accessible to the masses in any country. To this day, writers have addressed the elite rather than the common people. However, Urdu literature—the vast majority of which consists of poetry—has remained particularly isolated from the general populace, existing solely as the domain of a select, privileged class. The irony is that the demand for literature to be accessible to the common man is emphasized more in Urdu than perhaps in any other language. This is, in fact, the voice of a guilty conscience. Otherwise, in a country where the illiteracy rate is so staggeringly high, how can the question of literary accessibility even arise? Especially regarding Urdu literature, which has historically had so little to do with the lives of ordinary people.

Nothing I have said thus far is meant to insult or disparage Urdu literature. I myself have spent my life writing in Urdu, blackening thousands of pages like a ledger of my life's deeds. Even if I wished to speak against Urdu literature, it would hardly befit me to do so. But that is not my intention. I merely want the reality of the situation to be brought to light so that we do not pass judgments in the dark.

Today, in every country around the world, there is a faction bent on degrading literature and other intellectual pursuits. In their view, literature teaches nothing but idleness and escapism. They argue that, first of all, we have little need for literature; and if we do need it, it must be a literature that serves us in the daily struggles of life. We need a literature that can authentically represent life—and by representing life, this faction means that literature should make every facet of our material and practical existence its subject, without adding any imaginative color to it.

This faction, known as the Leftists, does not seek revolution in life; rather, it seeks chaos. It possesses neither a vision for life nor a manifesto that it can present with confidence and clarity. This group desires only destruction. It has no concept of construction in its mind, for if it did, it would not so ruthlessly dismiss the value of our ancestors' achievements. Denying the importance of the past is clear proof that history has not been studied. To become so fixated on the shortcomings of the past that one denies its role in the building and expansion of life is a sign of narrow-mindedness and shallowness. Extremists are generally narrow-minded and shallow. In times of turmoil and upheaval, the number of such people multiplies. The present era is a testament to this claim.

In India, too, there is a substantial number of such individuals who dismiss the literature of the past as nonsense, while making demands of new literature that they themselves cannot clearly articulate or understand. The new generation’s primary objection to Urdu literature, and to Urdu poetry in particular, is that it lacks life. In response, I need only reiterate that literature is a mirror of the people's lives. If there is no life in the people, how can there be life in their literature?

The objection that Urdu poetry contains nothing but the rose and the nightingale (gul-o-bulbul), or the candle and the moth (shama-o-parwana), has become common to the point of banality. To this day, I have not truly understood the crux of this objection. Is the rebellion against the words rose and nightingale and candle and moth, or against their underlying meaning? Those who object merely to the words have never reflected upon their true significance. The rose and the nightingale, the candle and the moth, the cypress, the turtledove, and other such words that appear so abundantly in Urdu poetry are no longer mere dictionary terms with limited meanings. They have evolved into symbols and motifs that, much like algebraic symbols, possess a universal and boundless scope. They are what the famous contemporary literary critic T.S. Eliot terms Objective Correlatives. Were this not the case, the verses of Urdu and Persian ghazals would not have become so widely used as proverbs, nor would they so aptly apply to a multitude of different situations.

When a word is transformed into a symbol, it acquires an infinite variety of meanings and loses its rigid, specific identity. In Urdu and Persian poetry, the terms rose and nightingale have rarely, if ever, been used to mean an actual rose and an actual nightingale. These words are not as hollow as they are often made out to be. However, when most people object to the rose and nightingale and similar poetic conventions, their real grievance is that Urdu poetry offers nothing beyond tales of beauty and romance. To a certain extent, this complaint is justified.

The theme of beauty and love has been so overwhelmingly dominant in Urdu poetry that we now feel like turning a deaf ear to it. However, this was merely a demand of the times; our poets and writers were not exposed to the other realities of life. They had constructed an imaginary paradise, believing that within it, armed with a sense of superiority, they could keep themselves distant and safe from life's harsh realities. Ultimately, Urdu poetry can only be accused of excess in this regard. After all, beauty and love have been the universal themes of poetry in every language. If the Urdu language considers the ghazal its crowning achievement, other languages similarly view lyrics as their proudest asset. And the element of beauty and love is just as dominant in lyrics as it is in ghazals.

Writing about beauty and love is not a crime. Unless humanity is entirely stripped of its individuality—a prospect highly unlikely even in the most distant future—the emotions of love will remain an essential element of our lives. Consequently, we will always need literature that explores the theme of love. However, this subject will no longer be given the unnecessary and disproportionate importance it has received thus far. From now on, hunger, thirst, and other human realities will be given the same space in literature and poetry that was previously reserved for beauty and love. The plow, the sickle, and the hammer will now be mentioned in literature just as the arrow of a glance (teer-e-nigah) and the dagger of coquetry (khanjar-e-naaz) have been until now. This is because the truth has finally dawned upon us: in life, bread is just as essential and beloved as our romantic ideal.

Literature has never been devoid of the spirit of the age (Zeitgeist), a concept so heavily emphasized today. Urdu literature, too, has never been entirely disconnected from its time and environment. In fact, whatever it has been up to this point is solely because its era and surroundings shaped it that way. Like the literature of any other nation, Urdu literature has been bound by historical destiny, continuously changing its form from one era to the next. However, its pace of progress has been remarkably slow. While there were other reasons for this, a major factor was that its life began just as the yoke of slavery was placed around the nation's neck, and the local society had already fallen into decline.

The literature of an enslaved nation is also enslaved. The paths to progress are blocked for it, and it lacks the vitality to participate meaningfully in the struggles of life. Despite all these unfavorable conditions, the progress Urdu literature has made over the past sixty or seventy years is quite encouraging. Looking at the new trends and possibilities that have emerged within it over the last twenty-five to thirty years—especially in prose—we can confidently say that even if Urdu literature previously lacked the capacity to survive and the ability to progress, it has certainly developed them now.

The delirious phase of life the world is currently passing through is not an era of creative achievement. In such times, delirium and convulsive symptoms are to be expected. The healthy, natural movements of life become so entangled with these symptoms that distinguishing between the two becomes incredibly difficult. The majority of the literature being produced everywhere today is delirious in nature. It is impossible to say how much of it will survive and prove beneficial to human life, and how much will simply fade away. Human life is currently enduring a state of agony, and we cannot pass any definitive judgment on the signs and symptoms it is exhibiting.

In the second half of the nineteenth century, the famous English writer and poet Matthew Arnold said of his era: We are standing between two worlds. One is dead, and the other is powerless to be born. This was said about the nineteenth century, during the initial stages of the affliction that is now remembered by the grandiose name of modern civilization. The Industrial Revolution was barely a hundred and fifty years old. Its experiences were entirely new and untested, enchanting the world with a new illusion of hope. Capitalist civilization was being hailed as the culmination of humanity and its sole means of salvation.

This is the twentieth century. The world has already endured the Great War and its aftermath. The Russian Revolution and its aftershocks have impacted the entire globe. The illusions of capitalism have been shattered. The sculpted idols of plutocracy and capitalist civilization are breaking one by one. Matthew Arnold's quote is no longer literally true today, because that new world has indeed been born; however, like a newborn, it is surrounded by countless dangers. It is impossible to say whether this infant will survive these perils unscathed or fall victim to them. Even if it escapes these dangers with its life, what will happen next? We cannot make any definitive predictions about that either. In short, we have left the old world behind, and the new world stands before us. Yet, we are still not fully acquainted with it.

We are passing through a transitional era. Our thoughts and emotions, our principles and beliefs, our entire system of life, and all its standards are currently in flux. The old values have all been rendered obsolete and discarded. New values have yet to be firmly established and integrated into the various spheres of life. While we have conceived of them in our minds, we remain hesitant and somewhat skeptical about them. Periods of skepticism and uncertainty naturally occur in the course of life. However, such eras do not produce the finest examples of thought and action, as they are not periods of true creation. For literature, the situation in such times is even more precarious. The creation of literature requires the establishment of certain life values and standards in which we firmly believe. This is precisely what we lack in this current era of turmoil and chaos.

Countless new trends have emerged in the world today, though they remain scattered. Some of these will fade away with time, but others hold permanent value and are destined to bring new blessings to human life. The most important and universal among these trends is democracy. Day by day, literature is drawing closer to the lives of the masses and moving further away from the lives of the elite. This is a sign of health and a blessing for humanity. However, every new trend and every new direction carries its own risks, which we must be wary of. The trend of democracy is not devoid of dangers either. We must, therefore, understand the true meaning of democracy.

There is a faction of revolutionaries who believe that democracy simply means erasing all the refinements and subtleties that civilization and culture have cultivated in life thus far. They argue this because, until now, these blessings of civilization have been restricted to the upper and middle classes. Whether overtly or covertly, this group wants the entire system of human society to be dragged down to the lowest level—the level at which the uneducated and uncultivated masses currently exist. We must remember, first of all, that such an outcome is impossible, as regression contradicts the laws of nature. Even if it were possible, it should not be allowed to happen; otherwise, the true purpose of democracy would remain unfulfilled, and the socialist revolution would undermine its own foundations.

Lenin understood this point. That is why he dismissed the idea of a proletarian culture (Proletcult) as mere hot air, the delirious invention of diseased minds. Despite all his extremism, Trotsky, in his famous book Literature and Revolution, also describes proletarian culture and proletarian literature as dangerous terms. He feared that these concepts would degrade the standards of civilization and culture. In Trotsky's view, if proletarian culture could have any meaning at all, it would simply be the resolute and steadfast elevation of the social standards of the workers—that is, the masses—to the highest possible level. Lenin, too, in his monumental book What Is to Be Done?, emphasizes that we need to spread education and training to the greatest number of people as quickly as possible, so that the intellectual level of the workers is raised and their consciousness is refined.

This means that the civilization, knowledge, and literature currently existing in the world should not be considered the exclusive inheritance of the upper class. Instead, they should become the property of the masses as quickly as possible, restoring to the common people the rights that a small, wealthy elite has usurped. This is the true purpose of democracy. The purpose of literary democracy is exactly the same. Literature that serves to fulfill this democratic purpose will be called democratic literature. Democratic literature does not mean that it must be exclusively produced by writers from the lower classes, nor does it mean presenting the uncultured and unenviable life of the masses as an ideal standard of living. The task of literature is to refine the lives of the masses and continuously improve them.

A flawed understanding of democracy has also created another danger. The faction of the new generation known as the Leftists interprets democracy or socialism to mean that the distinct personality of the individual should be entirely stripped away, leaving no room for the expression of individuality. This is, if not an outright insane demand, certainly a delusional one. It was in response to such impossible and absurd demands that Lenin described Leftism as an Infantile Sickness. As long as human beings remain human, individuality will persist within them, and no socialist or revolutionary manifesto can instantly eradicate it. Russia has already tested this and seen the results.

In the early days of the revolutionary era, there was an association of Russian writers and publishers in Russia called RAPP. It was a government department. Its function was to thoroughly review every new piece of writing before publication to determine whether it could provide any practical support to the socialist organization and movement. Any book, article, or speech that was deemed useless from this perspective, or whose subject was anything other than socialism, or which featured a prominent element of individuality, was rejected as anti-social and denied publication. However, the detriments of this approach soon became apparent, and by 1932, it was realized that the entire world of Russian literature and fine arts had been reduced to a joyless and exhausting wasteland. Consequently, RAPP had to be dissolved in 1932. Today, Russia no longer enforces the kind of literary censorship that made life miserable for readers and writers just eight or ten years ago.

Recently, a critic commenting on modern literary trends informed us that the driving spirit of literature is no longer I, but We. The impersonal theory of poetry currently gaining currency, and the examples being produced by global poetry, are symbols of this very democratic trend. However, the I has not perished, nor should it. The I has merged with the We and is working in harmony with it, which is exactly what it ought to do. The I is not the name of some ascetic mystic who has no connection to the world and everything in it. True individuality lies in keeping one's personality intact and healthy while making it an essential, life-giving element of the collective whole.

Individuality is not mere eccentricity. The kind of individuality we must wage war against is egotism. Until now, we have understood individuality to mean considering oneself superior to and distinct from the countless masses, and keeping one's life entirely alienated and disconnected from theirs. This form of individuality is certainly vanishing from the world, because it was always destined to vanish. But the true individuality that I have just defined remains, and it will continue to remain as long as the very nature of humanity does not change. This individuality is an essential element of literature that aids in its growth and development. Without it, instead of diversity, literature would be plagued by an exhausting monotony that would destroy both its essence and its purpose.

Not so long ago, the extremist faction of revolutionaries did not believe in any kind of diversity in literature. They had dictated both the subjects and the styles for their writers. Any writer who deviated from these prescribed subjects and styles to write something different was either excluded from the ranks of writers by this group, or, at best, stigmatized and disgraced as an anti-revolutionary or reactionary writer. But now, even this faction has set out on the right path and has begun to feel the need for diversity in literature, and consequently, the need for individuality to achieve that diversity. Furthermore, literature, unlike philosophy and mysticism, does not belong to the realm of abstraction. Mere meditation and contemplation do not constitute literature. Abstract and pure concepts are not the proper subjects of literature.

Literature is connected to the tangible and commonly occurring events of the material world. John Strachey, in his monumental work The Coming Struggle for Power, has very rightly written that literature attempts to shed light on the specific situation of a specific man or a specific woman, in a specific place, at a specific time. In other words, diversity and individuality form the very essence of literature. However, this does not mean that the bizarre psychology of madmen and ascetics, or the astonishing circumstances of their lives, should be made the subject of literature—unless such psychology and circumstances hold some democratic significance and their depiction brings some benefit to the common people.

The world has now come to understand the true nature and purpose of literature. Literature is undoubtedly a weapon in the hands of society, and to some extent, it has served this function in every era. It is a different matter that this weapon differs from others, but its ultimate purpose remains the same: to aid in the expansion, progress, refinement, and fulfillment of collective life. In the past, the group that wielded literature as a weapon was a minority. Today, it belongs to the majority or the masses, and very soon, it will belong to a unified collective of all humankind, where neither minority nor majority will exist. Life, and every sphere of it, is currently leaning toward democracy and humanism, and its universal scope is expanding day by day.

Today, it is justifiably demanded that literature should serve as propaganda or an instrument of dissemination. However, I do not consider literature to be propaganda in the same sense that newspapers are, or in the way Marx’s Communist Manifesto was. Nor is all propaganda literature. If that were the case, newspapers would hold the highest place in literature, and the daily political speeches made in support of specific parties or factions would be hailed as literary masterpieces. Today, even the most radical revolutionary does not classify newspapers as literature. Russia’s famous collective organ of publication, Pravda, is not considered a literary achievement. Literature is not a public proclamation, and a writer is neither a town crier nor a preacher. Yet, literature is undoubtedly a form of dissemination in the sense that it contains a hidden, imperceptible, and purposeful inclination. This inclination is an essential structural component of literature, and any writing devoid of it cannot be called literature.

I do not subscribe to pure Aestheticism or the theory of art for art's sake. In this world of causes and connections, nothing can be its own cause or its own ultimate purpose. The function of literature is to represent life and to foster its growth. However, I cannot blindly agree with the faction that views literature, much like politics, merely as a mirror of contemporary conditions, reducing it to something fleeting and temporary. This group refuses to acknowledge the value of past achievements and wishes to erase them like a misspelled word. This is a faction of shallow and frivolous minds, lost in the turmoil and chaos of their own time. Neither human life nor literature can ever deny the past. Whatever humanity is today has been shaped by the past, and whatever it becomes in the future will be the result of both the past and the present. As Iqbal’s Candle said to the poet:

Gul ba-daman hai meri shab ke lahoo se meri shama

Hai tere imroz se na-aashna farda tera

[My candle blooms with the blood of my night,

Your tomorrow is unacquainted with your today.]

This is precisely what I wish to say to the faction that, in its obsession with the future, has forgotten the importance of the past, and which clamors for progress without understanding the secrets of history and evolution. To remain lost in the past is indeed a harbinger of death. However, to this day, no nation has ever secured a future without possessing a past, and no literature can progress unless it embodies the spirit of the past alongside the spirit of the age. Many members of the Progressive movement ask us what they are supposed to do with the impure archives of poetry and panegyrics we have inherited. After all, of what use are Mir and Sauda, Zauq and Ghalib, Dagh and Amir to us? This is a question that is no longer raised even in revolutionary Russia. In the early days, there was a faction in Russia that discarded the achievements of their predecessors as mere rubbish, but today, that very same Russia takes immense pride in the literary triumphs of its ancestors.

For the construction of its modern revolutionary literature, Russia has come to realize the necessity of not only preserving the poets and writers of the pre-revolutionary era but also enabling the greatest possible number of people to read their works. By absorbing their finest influences, they can apply them to the new trends and emerging needs of life. We can utilize Mir and Ghalib in the exact same way. Studying them will refine our new poets and writers and solidify the value of their own literary endeavors. Furthermore, studying the classical masters will cultivate historical insight within us. If literature is to progress and play a prominent role in the construction and fulfillment of life, it must continuously re-evaluate the past, remain actively engaged with the present, and keep its sights set on the future. In countries where literature is advancing, this is exactly what is happening; in countries where it is not, literature is fading into oblivion.

Consider the example of Germany, where Dr. Goebbels is instructing the public that our intellectual pursuits have poisoned our nation. It is a place where a poet’s thumbs were severed simply because the poor man requested permission to write a letter to his wife from prison; where personal libraries were confiscated because they contained books by the famous English author D.H. Lawrence and the visionary Russian novelist Dostoevsky. The fate of literature in such countries is glaringly obvious. However, I assure you that Germany will have to change its treatment of literature. Otherwise, it will very soon be forced to admit that it holds no standing among the civilized and developed nations of the world. In this regard, Italy appears only marginally more sensible and far-sighted than Germany.

A nation devoid of its own historical literature is like a person missing a rib, and a nation whose literature fails to evolve with the times is of no more value than an embalmed corpse. Literature is just as essential for the development of humanity as any other sphere of life. It can only survive and progress when it proves instrumental in the expansion and advancement of democratic and collective life.

Naturally, at this juncture, our minds turn once again toward Urdu literature. To what extent is Urdu literature keeping pace with the times, and what kind of future can be deduced from its present state? I can state with absolute certainty and confidence that its condition is not as dismal as we might think. It is true that its pace has been quite sluggish, and it may now be required to take a massive leap forward, but ever since the Mutiny, it has steadily and diligently marched along the path of progress. Modern trends have permeated every branch of Urdu prose. The manner in which Urdu fiction and Urdu literary criticism are absorbing new trends and possibilities—even if not yet entirely satisfactory—is more than enough to offer us reassurance.

Our greatest apprehension was regarding Urdu poetry. Firstly, poetry, by its very nature, is more tightly bound by the chains of tradition and convention than prose. Secondly, Urdu poetry survived entirely on the strength of these traditions, treating innovation and invention as virtually forbidden. However, observing its trajectory over the past twenty-five or thirty years, we can confidently say that its condition is not as dire as we might think, nor is it as backward as its critics claim.

The note of progress in Urdu poetry, first struck by Hali and later amplified by Iqbal’s philosophical message of action and Chakbast’s patriotism, continues to resonate today, acquiring greater breadth and depth with each passing day. Those who have grown weary of the ghazal should rest assured that Urdu poetry is now exploring new horizons beyond it, discovering fresh possibilities and new vitality. The ghazal still exists and will continue to endure, as it will always be needed to express the intense emotional states of our individual lives. However, we have also come to realize that the ghazal cannot fulfill the other needs of our existence; in particular, it completely fails to encompass our impersonal and external lives. Driven by this realization, the growing popularity of the nazm is a highly encouraging sign.

Today, there is an entire generation of nazm writers who are absorbing the influence of life's new potentials and reshaping poetry. Those who dismiss Urdu poetry as mere hypnosis should read the works of Josh, Ehsan Danish, Ravish Siddiqi, Majaz, and Ali Sardar, and decide for themselves whether or not Urdu poetry is capable of expressing the most modern revolutionary trends. In short, ample signs of progress have already emerged in Urdu literature, and they will continue to do so. We simply need to remain mindful of the direction in which life is heading and the new catalysts and motivations arising within it.

Finally, I would like to emphasize a few general points regarding literature. The new generation’s primary objection to the literature produced thus far is that the majority of it is either recreational or escapist. This criticism is not unfounded. Until now, the recreational purpose of literature has been overemphasized, while its utilitarian and practical objectives have been neglected. Today, the world has grasped the true nature of literature. Literature is a purposeful movement of life; it cannot be reduced to mere entertainment. However, it is equally undeniable that one of literature's purposes is indeed recreation and the alleviation of life's exhaustion. Even Karl Marx, who analyzed everything through an economic and sociological lens, acknowledged the recreational significance of literature.

In his biography of Karl Marx, Franz Mehring notes that Marx sought mental recreation and rejuvenation through the study of literature. Marx’s literary insight was entirely free from his political and social biases. He was, however, opposed to Pure Aestheticism and considered art for art's sake to be a dangerous ideology. The fragmented accounts of Lenin’s private life, recorded by Maxim Gorky and Clara Zetkin, clearly reveal that even during times of severe crisis, Lenin believed in the recreational value of literature. From it, he derived the peace and vitality that the psychologist William James termed a Moral Holiday—a respite that infuses us with renewed vigor for practical life.

The truth is that literature consists of two elements: the first is internal, individual, or aesthetic; the second is external, collective, or utilitarian. Since the risk of extremes—excess and deficiency—is a common characteristic of life, literature too sees one element dominate at times, and the other at different times. Until now, the internal and aesthetic element has been disproportionately dominant in literature, which is why its recreational aspect has been heavily emphasized. Today, conversely, the external element is gaining dominance, and literature's practical and utilitarian aspects are being stressed more than necessary. However, truly successful literature is that in which both of these elements seamlessly blend into a single, unified temperament.