Fasaadaat Aur Hamaara Adab

The riots of 1947 represent a colossal national tragedy for Muslims, the effects of which have touched the life of every single one of us—some more profoundly than others, but none have remained entirely unaffected. It is highly probable that such events are unprecedented in world history. Because the tragedy struck so close to home, many writers felt a sense of duty to write about the riots. A few wrote from a place of deep personal anguish. In any case, over the past ten or eleven months, numerous short stories and poems on this subject have emerged. While some readers are satisfied with these stories, others complain that our writers have deliberately ignored the Muslim perspective. Still, others wish that writers would refrain from adopting any distinct viewpoint at all, preferring instead that they simply keep their eyes fixed on the glorious future of humanity.

People's likes and dislikes will naturally persist, but the fundamental question that needed to be asked has not yet been raised by anyone. That is: no matter how significant such events might be in the history of humanity or a particular nation; no matter if they are destined to shape life for centuries to come; no matter if they have provoked deep reflection on human nature and grand existential dilemmas, or helped a philosopher arrive at certain intellectual conclusions—can these events, in and of themselves, merely as events, become the subject of literature? When contemplating the answer to such questions, we must set aside our personal and national tragedies for a little while. We must harden our hearts for at least a few moments, because literature, in truth, is quite ruthless. Human history is twenty-five to thirty thousand years old.

God only knows what has already transpired and what is yet to come. Ultimately, whose individual or collective emotions can literature possibly accommodate and respect? If we are to find a satisfactory answer to our question, we must bid farewell to our sense of victimhood for a little while.

We can make things easier for ourselves by taking a similarly monumental event and examining what literature has to say about it. The war of 1914 produced a vast amount of literature, but how much of it is truly alive today? W. B. Yeats, exercising the ruthlessness and hard-heartedness of a true writer, stated plainly regarding the First World War that he had not included a single poem about the war in his new poetry collection, because mere passive suffering is not a subject for literature.

It is worth remembering here that a war poet once remarked that his poetry was in the suffering itself.

The fact is that literature deals with emotional experiences, and passivity is not an experience; it is merely a feeling. If the riots are understood solely in terms of massacre, looting, or physical suffering, then it is an inevitable conclusion that the riots cannot be a subject for literature at all. No matter how much we may weep out of a deep emotional attachment, the greatest literature we possess regarding national tragedies and the physical afflictions of an entire community can be found in certain parts of the Old Testament. However, these texts do not achieve the status of literature simply because they lament the massacre of hundreds of Jewish people, the violation of their women, or the exile of their entire nation. What elevates them to literature is something else entirely.

The Jews believed that they were God’s chosen people, blessed with His special favor. Yet, look at what they suffered at the hands of their enemies. This glaring contradiction between faith and reality inflicted profound spiritual agony upon the Jews, sparking an internal conflict between doubt and certainty, hope and despair, fear and courage, rebellion and loyalty. It was this complex spiritual experience of the Jewish people that elevated the lamentations of the Hebrew prophets to the pinnacle of great literature. Thus, the true subject of these books is not national calamity, but rather a collective human experience.

This does not mean, however, that if such tragedies do not strictly qualify as subjects for literature, writers should not write about them at all. Writers are not engaged in the act of literary creation at every given moment. They bear two kinds of responsibilities: first, as a writer, and second, as a member of society. Undoubtedly, a writer's literary responsibility is their primary one. Yet, there are times when it becomes imperative for a writer to fulfill their secondary responsibilities, and these secondary duties are not necessarily at odds with their primary ones.

To understand this, we should examine the attitudes of writers in various countries during the Second World War. In Russia, writers embraced their secondary responsibilities with such fervor that they completely abandoned their literary obligations. In fact, they elevated writings of mere secondary importance to the status of literature. During the war, the official mandate of the Russian writer was to glorify their nation, its soldiers, and their character, while portraying the Germans as utterly despicable in every respect. Granted, the Russian nation was enduring immense suffering, and the writers were justified in serving their people as much as they did. However, it does not befit a writer to forget their true calling and become a slave to a secondary objective, no matter how noble that objective might be.

Furthermore, if we want Pakistani literature to embody the highest Islamic ideals, such an approach would be unacceptable to us. Muslims have been commanded not to hesitate even if they must testify against themselves. Literature that consists of nothing but the glorification of Muslims cannot be acceptable, even from an Islamic standpoint. In short, the example of the Russian writers is entirely inadequate for our guidance; in fact, it is misleading.

The second example is that of English writers. Since conscription became mandatory during the war, some writers had to fly airplanes, while others had to join the fire brigades. They likely performed these duties gladly and with a profound sense of responsibility. However, as far as I know, no writer of any real merit served the nation through their pen. The reason for this might be that the Germans never managed to set foot on English soil, and the British did not have to endure the humiliation that befell parts of Russia and France. Had that day come, I am certain that English writers would have written extensively in defense of their country. Nevertheless, the war's impact on these writers was such that they felt a deep sense of emptiness in their lives. The flowers and the birds were gone. Loved ones had been separated, and the war had severely curtailed personal freedoms. The disappearance of all these intellectual and personal comforts caused them immense distress, and they began to mourn and lament the loss of a rich, fulfilling life.

Overall, the attitude of the English writers remained largely passive, and no vital literature can be built upon the foundations of such a reaction. Mere irritation, a mere sense of distaste, or mere dissatisfaction cannot sustain literature for long. Even an intense and frenzied hatred would have been more useful. It is certainly commendable that, even while actively performing their national duty, they did not forget their literary identity. However, the kind of mental and emotional experience they acquired was not particularly significant from a literary standpoint.

Even while serving the nation, they kept worrying: today the nation is utilizing our services, but God knows what restrictions it might impose on us tomorrow. This attitude suggests a lack of complete faith and confidence in their own literary identity. While performing their national duty, they should not have worried about how they would be treated in the future. If there was a fear that the nation might impose restrictions on writers after the war, they should have resolved to fight back against the nation with equal vigor should that happen. At the very least, writers should have possessed such an unshakable belief in the importance of literature that they could defend it regardless of the consequences. Instead, the English writers conceded defeat without a fight, assuming that if the nation resorted to oppression, they would be left utterly helpless.

In contrast, the attitude of the French writers was highly balanced and dignified. They did not allow either of their roles to be sacrificed for the other. The fact is, they never conflated these two identities; rather, they maintained a very clear distinction between them in their minds. It is true that a couple of major writers left France as soon as the war broke out, declaring that they had no country and were neither on the side of France nor Germany. Yet, serious writers did not doubt their intentions, nor did they label them cowards or traitors; instead, they continued to respect them. Apart from these few, all other writers opposed the Germans in every possible way. They incited the public to rebel and performed whatever national service they could during that critical juncture. However, the great writers, at least, never tolerated the idea of letting their patriotic fervor lead them to betray the ideas and values they had revered all their lives. Nor did they consider themselves absolved of their literary responsibilities after performing their national duty, or elevate writings produced merely to stoke the nation's desire for freedom to the status of true literature.

The remarkable mental equilibrium of the French writers is illustrated by a small incident. To oppose the Germans and sustain literary activity even during those turbulent times, some writers secretly launched a publishing series called *Éditions de Minuit*—meaning, the series of books published at midnight. When France was liberated, these writers were offered a major literary award. However, they refused to accept it, stating, Whatever we wrote was solely for the purpose of national service. It is not literature at all, nor did we write it with the intention of creating literature. How, then, can we accept a literary award?

During the war, even those French writers who were considered entirely detached from political affairs and devoted solely to pure literature penned propaganda pieces. A writer like André Gide—who never compromised on speaking the truth for the sake of expediency and always preferred his solitary retreat over the bustling crowds—was so moved by the spirit of freedom that he emerged from his isolation, even though he simultaneously continued to praise the Germans. In short, during the war, French writers threw themselves heart and soul into the struggle for freedom. Yet, the moment the war ended, they distanced themselves from politics once again and returned to what they had been doing before the conflict. When it was a matter of their country's life and death, they did not allow literature to obstruct their national duty. But once that critical period had passed, they refused to let any form of politics slit the throat of literature. Even today, while writers across the globe agonize over what to write and what to avoid—wondering if the world might be annihilated by an atomic bomb tomorrow—the French remain unconcernedly engrossed in their creative pursuits, as if they were immortal.

Having considered the reactions of all three types of writers, I, for one, prefer the approach of the French writers. In the face of national tragedies, what other attitude could a true writer possibly adopt? When a nation faces a matter of life and death, a writer’s reaction is no different from that of a *tonga* driver! At such times, the nation can call upon both for service, and neither should remain aloof. Under normal circumstances, however, a writer serves no purpose other than producing literature, and no power, no matter how great, can demand his allegiance. Ultimately, a writer must know when and in what capacity to act—whether as a citizen or as a writer.

It is unfortunate that in our Urdu literary circles, this very point is not clearly understood. Our literary criticism constantly conflates these two distinct identities of the writer. When writers are urged to write about the riots, it is never clarified which of their identities is supposed to do the writing: the writer or the ordinary citizen. The writer-identity cannot write about the riots at all, because riots, in themselves, are not a subject for literature. The citizen-identity, however, can certainly write stories about the riots. But in that case, the writer will possess a specific perspective that is entirely non-literary. Under such circumstances, the writer will adopt a particular political or sociological ideology and advocate for it within their story. There is nothing wrong with this. I have already acknowledged that during certain critical moments, a writer must also perform non-literary duties. The problem, however, is that those who have written stories about the riots stubbornly insist that their perspective is literary. In reality, if they were compelled by some noble sentiment to adopt a specific ideological stance, they should feel no shame in simply admitting it.

Now, let us examine the political or sociological perspectives adopted in the Urdu short stories written about the riots. Our criterion for judging their merit will be whether adopting a specific viewpoint forced the writer to distort reality. We must also ask whether the writer actually believes what they are saying. Even if a writer writes for non-literary purposes, they are not absolved of the responsibility to tell the truth. A writer's service to the nation does not mean blindly supporting their people through lies and deceit. Rather, their true service is this: when the nation faces a severe crisis, and the writer is convinced of their nation's truth, they should use their writings to instill faith and confidence in the public. Regardless of the perspective a writer presents, they must speak the truth under all circumstances. We will judge these short stories about the riots by this very standard.

Most of the Urdu short stories written about the riots so far have been crafted to support a few specific ideas. The fundamental premise of these stories is that the brutality displayed during these riots is a terrible thing. These stories aim to incite hatred against this savagery while simultaneously searching for its cause. The reasoning goes that such barbarism does not naturally exist in human beings; rather, it was manufactured for political gain.

The partition of India is seen as a ploy by the British. If partition had not occurred, there would have been no riots, and Hindus and Muslims would have continued to live like brothers. The hope is that this hatred will soon vanish, and the brothers will embrace once again. Some writers even believe that India and Pakistan will eventually reunite. Consequently, these stories attempt to avoid blaming either side, choosing instead to hold the British responsible. As a result, atrocities are depicted equally on both sides. They completely ignore the fact that there are simply no words left in the dictionary to describe what happened in East Punjab.

In short, this is the intellectual backdrop of these stories. First of all, this ideological framework is so flimsy that the writers themselves must find it hard to believe. Attributing this hatred solely to the machinations of British politics is something only a simpleton or a deceiver could do. Even if we assume the writers have good intentions, they do not believe the very ideas they are presenting. They know that by saying these things, they are deceiving both themselves and others. Consequently, all this literature is entirely insincere, lifeless, and hollow. It lacks even powerful rhetoric, because the entire ideological structure is artificial. These stories are not merely artificial; they also have a dangerous aspect. They contain highly venomous propaganda against Muslims and Pakistan. It is possible that all this is done out of sheer ignorance and naivety, but the cumulative effect is anti-Muslim. First, the bulk of the responsibility for the riots is placed on the Muslims. Second, partition is portrayed as the root of all evil, even though partition—that is, the creation of Pakistan—has been the most cherished political ideal of the Muslims. These stories attempt to disillusion Muslims regarding the foundational principles of Pakistan.

Our writers (that is, the writers who support Pakistan) have made no reasonable effort to counter this literary attack. After all, we too should perform some national service from time to time. However, this does not mean we should spread prejudice against India or defame anyone. Let others have the pleasure of doing that. We have no concern with anyone but ourselves. We only ask our writers to tell us what we have endured and why we have endured it.

We do not want elegies and dirges mourning the massacre of thousands of Muslims. The death of millions of people does not, in itself, hold any profound significance. If five million of our people were to die fighting their oppressors like self-respecting human beings, it would be a matter of great pride. But if even five of our men flee the battlefield merely to save their own lives, that is a tragedy for us. We simply want our writers to critically examine our character and tell us the true nature of the tragedy that has befallen us. They must assess whether our character is worthy of our traditions. This is the only national service we demand from our writers. Not the criticism of others, but the critique of our own nation.

Yet, our writers have completely failed to do this so far. There is only one notable exception, a recently published book: Qudratullah Shahab’s *Ya Khuda*. This story is highly commendable. I am even prepared to say that every educated Pakistani should read this book. It features an introduction by Mumtaz Shirin, in which she reviews the literature concerning the riots. She points out that, swept away by a misguided sense of humanism and justice, writers have been lying to themselves. They have deliberately avoided presenting reality in its true form, exactly as they observed and experienced it. This approach harms both literature and Pakistan, as some individuals are using literature as a smokescreen to spread propaganda against Pakistan. One must applaud Mumtaz Shirin’s candor and intellectual honesty.

In his story, Shahab does not put on a facade of humanism. He focuses less on the atrocities committed by outsiders and more on the moral transgressions of Pakistanis themselves. If this book is an indictment of anyone, it is an indictment of the people of Pakistan. The tragic tale of the book's heroine, Dilshad, is not merely a record of Sikh atrocities. Dilshad’s true tragedy is the stark contrast between what she expected of Pakistanis and what she actually encountered. Shahab has highlighted this tragic aspect of life with remarkable dexterity. The venom in his satire is directed not at others, but at our own people. The book certainly contains elements of sentimentality. However, since we are evaluating it as purposeful literature, such an objection would be misplaced. Shahab has demonstrated immense courage and truthfulness in critiquing the character of Pakistanis. If Pakistani writers continue to write with such fearlessness and dedication to the truth, and if this is the beginning of Pakistani literature, then I foresee a truly brilliant future for literature in Pakistan.

The second testament to the brilliant future of Pakistani literature lies in the short stories of Saadat Hasan Manto that are set against the backdrop of the riots. In truth, these stories are not merely about the riots; they are about humanity itself. Their true subject is the human being placed under highly specific circumstances. It fills me with pride to see that a Pakistani writer was the first to process the experiences of the riots in a genuinely literary manner. He diverted his mind from creating cheap, sensationalist thrills and channeled it into true literary creation. Free from all vested interests, Manto has sought out pure human significance and absolute human truth. This is what true literature is.

The riots of 1947 represent a colossal national tragedy for Muslims, the effects of which have touched the life of every single one of us—some more profoundly than others, but none have remained entirely unaffected. It is highly probable that such events are unprecedented in world history. Because the tragedy struck so close to home, many writers felt a sense of duty to write about the riots. A few wrote from a place of deep personal anguish. In any case, over the past ten or eleven months, numerous short stories and poems on this subject have emerged. While some readers are satisfied with these stories, others complain that our writers have deliberately ignored the Muslim perspective. Still, others wish that writers would refrain from adopting any distinct viewpoint at all, preferring instead that they simply keep their eyes fixed on the glorious future of humanity.

People's likes and dislikes will naturally persist, but the fundamental question that needed to be asked has not yet been raised by anyone. That is: no matter how significant such events might be in the history of humanity or a particular nation; no matter if they are destined to shape life for centuries to come; no matter if they have provoked deep reflection on human nature and grand existential dilemmas, or helped a philosopher arrive at certain intellectual conclusions—can these events, in and of themselves, merely as events, become the subject of literature? When contemplating the answer to such questions, we must set aside our personal and national tragedies for a little while. We must harden our hearts for at least a few moments, because literature, in truth, is quite ruthless. Human history is twenty-five to thirty thousand years old.

God only knows what has already transpired and what is yet to come. Ultimately, whose individual or collective emotions can literature possibly accommodate and respect? If we are to find a satisfactory answer to our question, we must bid farewell to our sense of victimhood for a little while.

We can make things easier for ourselves by taking a similarly monumental event and examining what literature has to say about it. The war of 1914 produced a vast amount of literature, but how much of it is truly alive today? W. B. Yeats, exercising the ruthlessness and hard-heartedness of a true writer, stated plainly regarding the First World War that he had not included a single poem about the war in his new poetry collection, because mere passive suffering is not a subject for literature.

It is worth remembering here that a war poet once remarked that his poetry was in the suffering itself.

The fact is that literature deals with emotional experiences, and passivity is not an experience; it is merely a feeling. If the riots are understood solely in terms of massacre, looting, or physical suffering, then it is an inevitable conclusion that the riots cannot be a subject for literature at all. No matter how much we may weep out of a deep emotional attachment, the greatest literature we possess regarding national tragedies and the physical afflictions of an entire community can be found in certain parts of the Old Testament. However, these texts do not achieve the status of literature simply because they lament the massacre of hundreds of Jewish people, the violation of their women, or the exile of their entire nation. What elevates them to literature is something else entirely.

The Jews believed that they were God’s chosen people, blessed with His special favor. Yet, look at what they suffered at the hands of their enemies. This glaring contradiction between faith and reality inflicted profound spiritual agony upon the Jews, sparking an internal conflict between doubt and certainty, hope and despair, fear and courage, rebellion and loyalty. It was this complex spiritual experience of the Jewish people that elevated the lamentations of the Hebrew prophets to the pinnacle of great literature. Thus, the true subject of these books is not national calamity, but rather a collective human experience.

This does not mean, however, that if such tragedies do not strictly qualify as subjects for literature, writers should not write about them at all. Writers are not engaged in the act of literary creation at every given moment. They bear two kinds of responsibilities: first, as a writer, and second, as a member of society. Undoubtedly, a writer's literary responsibility is their primary one. Yet, there are times when it becomes imperative for a writer to fulfill their secondary responsibilities, and these secondary duties are not necessarily at odds with their primary ones.

To understand this, we should examine the attitudes of writers in various countries during the Second World War. In Russia, writers embraced their secondary responsibilities with such fervor that they completely abandoned their literary obligations. In fact, they elevated writings of mere secondary importance to the status of literature. During the war, the official mandate of the Russian writer was to glorify their nation, its soldiers, and their character, while portraying the Germans as utterly despicable in every respect. Granted, the Russian nation was enduring immense suffering, and the writers were justified in serving their people as much as they did. However, it does not befit a writer to forget their true calling and become a slave to a secondary objective, no matter how noble that objective might be.

Furthermore, if we want Pakistani literature to embody the highest Islamic ideals, such an approach would be unacceptable to us. Muslims have been commanded not to hesitate even if they must testify against themselves. Literature that consists of nothing but the glorification of Muslims cannot be acceptable, even from an Islamic standpoint. In short, the example of the Russian writers is entirely inadequate for our guidance; in fact, it is misleading.

The second example is that of English writers. Since conscription became mandatory during the war, some writers had to fly airplanes, while others had to join the fire brigades. They likely performed these duties gladly and with a profound sense of responsibility. However, as far as I know, no writer of any real merit served the nation through their pen. The reason for this might be that the Germans never managed to set foot on English soil, and the British did not have to endure the humiliation that befell parts of Russia and France. Had that day come, I am certain that English writers would have written extensively in defense of their country. Nevertheless, the war's impact on these writers was such that they felt a deep sense of emptiness in their lives. The flowers and the birds were gone. Loved ones had been separated, and the war had severely curtailed personal freedoms. The disappearance of all these intellectual and personal comforts caused them immense distress, and they began to mourn and lament the loss of a rich, fulfilling life.

Overall, the attitude of the English writers remained largely passive, and no vital literature can be built upon the foundations of such a reaction. Mere irritation, a mere sense of distaste, or mere dissatisfaction cannot sustain literature for long. Even an intense and frenzied hatred would have been more useful. It is certainly commendable that, even while actively performing their national duty, they did not forget their literary identity. However, the kind of mental and emotional experience they acquired was not particularly significant from a literary standpoint.

Even while serving the nation, they kept worrying: today the nation is utilizing our services, but God knows what restrictions it might impose on us tomorrow. This attitude suggests a lack of complete faith and confidence in their own literary identity. While performing their national duty, they should not have worried about how they would be treated in the future. If there was a fear that the nation might impose restrictions on writers after the war, they should have resolved to fight back against the nation with equal vigor should that happen. At the very least, writers should have possessed such an unshakable belief in the importance of literature that they could defend it regardless of the consequences. Instead, the English writers conceded defeat without a fight, assuming that if the nation resorted to oppression, they would be left utterly helpless.

In contrast, the attitude of the French writers was highly balanced and dignified. They did not allow either of their roles to be sacrificed for the other. The fact is, they never conflated these two identities; rather, they maintained a very clear distinction between them in their minds. It is true that a couple of major writers left France as soon as the war broke out, declaring that they had no country and were neither on the side of France nor Germany. Yet, serious writers did not doubt their intentions, nor did they label them cowards or traitors; instead, they continued to respect them. Apart from these few, all other writers opposed the Germans in every possible way. They incited the public to rebel and performed whatever national service they could during that critical juncture. However, the great writers, at least, never tolerated the idea of letting their patriotic fervor lead them to betray the ideas and values they had revered all their lives. Nor did they consider themselves absolved of their literary responsibilities after performing their national duty, or elevate writings produced merely to stoke the nation's desire for freedom to the status of true literature.

The remarkable mental equilibrium of the French writers is illustrated by a small incident. To oppose the Germans and sustain literary activity even during those turbulent times, some writers secretly launched a publishing series called *Éditions de Minuit*—meaning, the series of books published at midnight. When France was liberated, these writers were offered a major literary award. However, they refused to accept it, stating, Whatever we wrote was solely for the purpose of national service. It is not literature at all, nor did we write it with the intention of creating literature. How, then, can we accept a literary award?

During the war, even those French writers who were considered entirely detached from political affairs and devoted solely to pure literature penned propaganda pieces. A writer like André Gide—who never compromised on speaking the truth for the sake of expediency and always preferred his solitary retreat over the bustling crowds—was so moved by the spirit of freedom that he emerged from his isolation, even though he simultaneously continued to praise the Germans. In short, during the war, French writers threw themselves heart and soul into the struggle for freedom. Yet, the moment the war ended, they distanced themselves from politics once again and returned to what they had been doing before the conflict. When it was a matter of their country's life and death, they did not allow literature to obstruct their national duty. But once that critical period had passed, they refused to let any form of politics slit the throat of literature. Even today, while writers across the globe agonize over what to write and what to avoid—wondering if the world might be annihilated by an atomic bomb tomorrow—the French remain unconcernedly engrossed in their creative pursuits, as if they were immortal.

Having considered the reactions of all three types of writers, I, for one, prefer the approach of the French writers. In the face of national tragedies, what other attitude could a true writer possibly adopt? When a nation faces a matter of life and death, a writer’s reaction is no different from that of a *tonga* driver! At such times, the nation can call upon both for service, and neither should remain aloof. Under normal circumstances, however, a writer serves no purpose other than producing literature, and no power, no matter how great, can demand his allegiance. Ultimately, a writer must know when and in what capacity to act—whether as a citizen or as a writer.

It is unfortunate that in our Urdu literary circles, this very point is not clearly understood. Our literary criticism constantly conflates these two distinct identities of the writer. When writers are urged to write about the riots, it is never clarified which of their identities is supposed to do the writing: the writer or the ordinary citizen. The writer-identity cannot write about the riots at all, because riots, in themselves, are not a subject for literature. The citizen-identity, however, can certainly write stories about the riots. But in that case, the writer will possess a specific perspective that is entirely non-literary. Under such circumstances, the writer will adopt a particular political or sociological ideology and advocate for it within their story. There is nothing wrong with this. I have already acknowledged that during certain critical moments, a writer must also perform non-literary duties. The problem, however, is that those who have written stories about the riots stubbornly insist that their perspective is literary. In reality, if they were compelled by some noble sentiment to adopt a specific ideological stance, they should feel no shame in simply admitting it.

Now, let us examine the political or sociological perspectives adopted in the Urdu short stories written about the riots. Our criterion for judging their merit will be whether adopting a specific viewpoint forced the writer to distort reality. We must also ask whether the writer actually believes what they are saying. Even if a writer writes for non-literary purposes, they are not absolved of the responsibility to tell the truth. A writer's service to the nation does not mean blindly supporting their people through lies and deceit. Rather, their true service is this: when the nation faces a severe crisis, and the writer is convinced of their nation's truth, they should use their writings to instill faith and confidence in the public. Regardless of the perspective a writer presents, they must speak the truth under all circumstances. We will judge these short stories about the riots by this very standard.

Most of the Urdu short stories written about the riots so far have been crafted to support a few specific ideas. The fundamental premise of these stories is that the brutality displayed during these riots is a terrible thing. These stories aim to incite hatred against this savagery while simultaneously searching for its cause. The reasoning goes that such barbarism does not naturally exist in human beings; rather, it was manufactured for political gain.

The partition of India is seen as a ploy by the British. If partition had not occurred, there would have been no riots, and Hindus and Muslims would have continued to live like brothers. The hope is that this hatred will soon vanish, and the brothers will embrace once again. Some writers even believe that India and Pakistan will eventually reunite. Consequently, these stories attempt to avoid blaming either side, choosing instead to hold the British responsible. As a result, atrocities are depicted equally on both sides. They completely ignore the fact that there are simply no words left in the dictionary to describe what happened in East Punjab.

In short, this is the intellectual backdrop of these stories. First of all, this ideological framework is so flimsy that the writers themselves must find it hard to believe. Attributing this hatred solely to the machinations of British politics is something only a simpleton or a deceiver could do. Even if we assume the writers have good intentions, they do not believe the very ideas they are presenting. They know that by saying these things, they are deceiving both themselves and others. Consequently, all this literature is entirely insincere, lifeless, and hollow. It lacks even powerful rhetoric, because the entire ideological structure is artificial. These stories are not merely artificial; they also have a dangerous aspect. They contain highly venomous propaganda against Muslims and Pakistan. It is possible that all this is done out of sheer ignorance and naivety, but the cumulative effect is anti-Muslim. First, the bulk of the responsibility for the riots is placed on the Muslims. Second, partition is portrayed as the root of all evil, even though partition—that is, the creation of Pakistan—has been the most cherished political ideal of the Muslims. These stories attempt to disillusion Muslims regarding the foundational principles of Pakistan.

Our writers (that is, the writers who support Pakistan) have made no reasonable effort to counter this literary attack. After all, we too should perform some national service from time to time. However, this does not mean we should spread prejudice against India or defame anyone. Let others have the pleasure of doing that. We have no concern with anyone but ourselves. We only ask our writers to tell us what we have endured and why we have endured it.

We do not want elegies and dirges mourning the massacre of thousands of Muslims. The death of millions of people does not, in itself, hold any profound significance. If five million of our people were to die fighting their oppressors like self-respecting human beings, it would be a matter of great pride. But if even five of our men flee the battlefield merely to save their own lives, that is a tragedy for us. We simply want our writers to critically examine our character and tell us the true nature of the tragedy that has befallen us. They must assess whether our character is worthy of our traditions. This is the only national service we demand from our writers. Not the criticism of others, but the critique of our own nation.

Yet, our writers have completely failed to do this so far. There is only one notable exception, a recently published book: Qudratullah Shahab’s *Ya Khuda*. This story is highly commendable. I am even prepared to say that every educated Pakistani should read this book. It features an introduction by Mumtaz Shirin, in which she reviews the literature concerning the riots. She points out that, swept away by a misguided sense of humanism and justice, writers have been lying to themselves. They have deliberately avoided presenting reality in its true form, exactly as they observed and experienced it. This approach harms both literature and Pakistan, as some individuals are using literature as a smokescreen to spread propaganda against Pakistan. One must applaud Mumtaz Shirin’s candor and intellectual honesty.

In his story, Shahab does not put on a facade of humanism. He focuses less on the atrocities committed by outsiders and more on the moral transgressions of Pakistanis themselves. If this book is an indictment of anyone, it is an indictment of the people of Pakistan. The tragic tale of the book's heroine, Dilshad, is not merely a record of Sikh atrocities. Dilshad’s true tragedy is the stark contrast between what she expected of Pakistanis and what she actually encountered. Shahab has highlighted this tragic aspect of life with remarkable dexterity. The venom in his satire is directed not at others, but at our own people. The book certainly contains elements of sentimentality. However, since we are evaluating it as purposeful literature, such an objection would be misplaced. Shahab has demonstrated immense courage and truthfulness in critiquing the character of Pakistanis. If Pakistani writers continue to write with such fearlessness and dedication to the truth, and if this is the beginning of Pakistani literature, then I foresee a truly brilliant future for literature in Pakistan.

The second testament to the brilliant future of Pakistani literature lies in the short stories of Saadat Hasan Manto that are set against the backdrop of the riots. In truth, these stories are not merely about the riots; they are about humanity itself. Their true subject is the human being placed under highly specific circumstances. It fills me with pride to see that a Pakistani writer was the first to process the experiences of the riots in a genuinely literary manner. He diverted his mind from creating cheap, sensationalist thrills and channeled it into true literary creation. Free from all vested interests, Manto has sought out pure human significance and absolute human truth. This is what true literature is.