Insaan Aur Aadmi

An important point about this essay is that it consumed several weeks. I did not spend this time writing, nor even thinking. Even if I possessed the ability to think continuously and consistently about a theoretical subject for that long, it would remain doubtful whether such a capacity is even suited to a fiction writer. Eloquence and profound reflection are certainly awe-inspiring qualities, but even if I were to lay claim to them, this essay would expose the lie. The truth is, I simply sat dozing with a pen in my hand and paper before me. For weeks, the blank page refused to be stained with ink. One reason for this might be that the subject was beyond my grasp. My feelings, however, were not.

It is entirely possible that due to my limited knowledge, skewed perspective, self-conceit, and intellectual arrogance, my feelings strayed down the wrong path from the very beginning. Yet, whatever these feelings were, I was acutely aware of them. I knew that I sensed a distinct difference between the Human (Insan) and the Man (Aadmi)—two ordinary words that, in everyday usage, are treated as near-synonyms. I favor one of these words, along with its associations and implications, and I dislike the other. When one's feelings are so unambiguous, the pen ought to move swiftly, at least under normal circumstances.

Perhaps my pen hesitated because the feelings I wish to express run contrary to current intellectual fashions, and one naturally hesitates to go against the grain, especially in matters of thought. Perhaps I worried that if my feelings were indeed unfashionable, I should at least elevate them to the status of ideas and present them through academic reasoning, thereby providing some justification for my deviation. While this approach has many merits, it is simply not possible for me to adopt it. I cannot debate the fundamental etymology of these two words, nor do I possess a proper understanding of the history of ethics, religion, and metaphysics, or the gradual evolution of concepts within these disciplines. If I know anything at all, it is about literature. Even in this domain, my familiarity with the classical periods is not deep enough for me to rely entirely on my own judgment, nor can I definitively declare another critic's opinion right or wrong. I know a few things about Urdu literature, mostly through hearsay, and I am directly acquainted with the works of only five or six poets and writers.

Beyond that, my literary acquaintance is largely confined to two countries: England and France. Even there, I am relatively more familiar with the literature of the past century and a half. My most profound experience lies with the literature of this specific period, though given the way I have experienced literature, the word profound might be a slight exaggeration. I have made my own efforts to deepen my understanding of this literature—sometimes with great enthusiasm, sometimes half-heartedly, and sometimes merely to go through the motions. Nevertheless, my primary concern has always been to experience this literature directly, free from the interference of another person's thoughts or feelings. In this pursuit, I have developed a rather bad habit: I have come to regard my literary experiences as purer and more valuable than my other life experiences. Whatever I think or feel about life is inevitably shaped by them. Because these experiences are as tangible to me as human relationships—if not more so—they function as a sixth sense, or rather, they have become an additional instinct. To claim that my literary experiences are my very willpower would certainly be an exaggeration, but it is the sort of exaggeration without which no profound truth can be articulated.

It is through these very experiences that I discovered the vast difference between the Human and the Man. They have also led me to realize that if people do not clearly grasp this distinction soon, the future of human civilization will remain shrouded in uncertainty for centuries to come. These are my feelings, not academic arguments, nor am I capable of presenting them as such. Therefore, if you find mere assertion instead of logical reasoning in my essay, or prejudice, stubbornness, and obstinacy instead of balanced objectivity, I ask for your indulgence. These are simply the hallmarks of deeply felt convictions. My literary experiences are events that have already occurred; they are set in stone. It is beyond my power to alter the past, or to alter my willpower (in certain contexts, these two terms are synonymous).

While I could not transform my feelings into academic arguments, the hesitation I experienced in writing this essay—much like any ordinary man would—demands that I call upon the feelings of at least one other man as my witness. For this purpose, who could be better than the Spanish philosopher and poet Unamuno? Disregarding the dignity of his professorship, he brazenly confessed his fear of death. When he sat down to organize his thoughts and understanding of life into a coherent philosophy, he found himself compelled to write an entirely supplementary opening chapter. Its sole purpose was to declare that a philosophy centered around the abstract Human is of no use to the flesh-and-blood Man. So acutely did he feel the difference between the two that the very first point he made in that chapter was that, to him, the Human and Humanity were highly suspect concepts.

The testimony of a professor from a backward university in a semi-civilized country might not seem particularly reliable. However, a man who is thoroughly versed in classical knowledge and possesses a truly unique soul deserves at least enough respect that, should he express doubt about a modern concept, we ought to investigate why he felt compelled to do so.

Having presented this testimony, I can now explain with some peace of mind what these two words mean to me. The Man is a being who has both material and non-material needs. He eats, drinks, sleeps, wakes, and feels sexual desire. Some of his non-material values are subordinate to these material needs, just as his material needs are forced to submit to certain material values. He influences his external environment and is, in turn, influenced by it. Simultaneously, through his values, past experiences, intellect, and imagination, he has woven an invisible environment around himself—an environment that is just as vital to him as the natural habitat is to an animal.

Beyond these traits, man is a creature capable of both hatred and love, compassion and cruelty. He can experience both elevated and base emotions. For Unamuno, man's greatest defining characteristic is his mortality—the fact that he dies. In my view, his greatest defining characteristic in life is that he remains a perpetual battlefield of entirely contradictory and conflicting tendencies. It is impossible to predict his actions and behavior with absolute certainty, because we can never truly know which conflicting emotions are at play within him at any given moment. Man is an entity who has remained an enigma from the dawn of history to the present day, and he will continue to be an enigma until he evolves into something else entirely.

Two types of people attempt to understand man: the ruler and the artist. Both employ entirely different methods to achieve this understanding. Beyond these two, there is also a third category: the prophets. Prophets possess the vision of both the ruler and the artist. They harbor neither the utilitarian certainty of the ruler nor the realistic skepticism of the artist; their personalities are far more balanced than both. However, we will not be discussing prophets in this essay. Throughout human history, there have been only a handful of prophets, and here we are considering the perspective of ordinary men. Furthermore, understanding the personality of a prophet requires an extraordinary level of insight, which I do not claim to possess. Therefore, we will restrict ourselves to exploring the characteristics of the first two groups.

By rulers, I do not merely mean kings or dictators. I include democratic leaders, social reformers, and philosophers who contemplate collective life—all of them fall under my definition of rulers. In essence, this includes anyone who wants man to live his life in a specific, prescribed manner. When such people seek to understand man, they are driven by a specific objective. Their inquiry is rooted in a distinct and clear utilitarian purpose. In contrast, when an artist attempts to understand man, he has no such explicit agenda. Rulers view men as raw material. For the artist, men are already fully formed and complete entities. A ruler can cherry-pick certain traits from a man's personality and discard others to suit his utilitarian goals. For the artist, there is no room for such selective picking and choosing. The artist is not permitted to turn a blind eye to anything.

A brief caveat seems necessary here. The faculties of the ruler and the artist are not mutually exclusive, nor do they always operate in isolation from one another. A ruler's personality may contain some elements of the artist, just as an artist may possess traits of a ruler. As I just mentioned, when an artist turns his attention to man, he is not driven by a utilitarian motive that demands immediate results. Consequently, in his creations, man always remains man. This is the artist's inherent compulsion. However, an agenda stands between the ruler and man; therefore, the ruler is forced to invent Man. This is the ruler's necessity. Man is not a living, breathing creature of flesh and blood. He is merely a shadow of man—an absolute and abstract concept that shifts from one ruler to the next, its attributes dictated entirely by the rulers' needs. Man is simply the name given to the ruler's wistful fantasy: If only man were like this, it would be so much easier for us to organize and manage him.

Unamuno has enumerated several such versions of Man: Aristotle's featherless biped, the Manchester School's economic man, Linnaeus's rational man, and Rousseau's man of the social contract.

These various concepts undoubtedly have their respective flaws, but my current focus is on Rousseau's Man, which is the prevailing currency of our time. This concept of Man has become so universally accepted that it inevitably surfaces, in one form or another, even among those who mock Rousseau. Before outlining Rousseau's Man, a brief clarification is in order. John Middleton Murry once expressed great indignation, arguing that people unfairly malign Rousseau. He claimed that critics completely ignore certain writings of his and selectively quote others, thereby distorting his actual teachings. I have no intention of refuting Murry's claims, yet I still wish to critique Rousseau. It is entirely possible that Rousseau later revised his own theories, and that, taken as a whole, his ideas achieved a sense of balance and moderation. However, we are not as concerned with Rousseau's pure, original teachings as we are with the specific form in which his theories gained popularity and widespread acceptance.

For us, the historical Rousseau is less important than the Rousseau who has become a symbol for certain intellectual trends and taken on a mythical status. Sometimes, historical facts exert far less influence on human affairs than historical myths. Therefore, our current concern is with the concept of Man that—albeit in a distorted form—was derived from Rousseau. This concept was propagated so vigorously by nineteenth-century Western literature that it has become a foundational element of our era and an integral part of people's emotional lives.

This Man is a pure, unblemished, and innocent being with limitless mental and emotional capacities. He is fundamentally the embodiment of goodness; if he ever goes astray, it is solely due to the influence of his environment and external circumstances. There is no power in the universe higher than him, and he was born simply to overcome every obstacle in his path and continuously expand the horizons of his conquests. There are no limits on his intentions or his desires, save for those he chooses to impose upon himself. (Russian communism, it should be noted, does not grant this right to the individual, but rather to the collective—the masses. The masses hold supreme authority. Their collective willpower is not bound by any external force; it is subject only to its own volition.) Furthermore, this Man, endowed with such attributes, is in a constant state of evolution. He continues to progress without any need to organize or discipline his inner life. Once the external barriers hindering this progress are removed, Man will achieve absolute perfection.

Even if this concept of Man is absent from the practical politics of our time, it is still found, to varying degrees, in most contemporary political theories. It also persists in certain literary circles that, seduced by political slogans, have learned absolutely nothing from the literary history of the past century and a half. It is not just the political theorists of our era, but also many writers, who believe that even if such a Man does not currently exist, he can certainly be created once the external environment is rectified. This hope is what they call the New Man. Such is the allure of this concept of Man that even individuals whose entire lives were devoted to literature genuinely believed, following the emergence of Communist Russia, that the New Man would now inevitably be born.

Therefore, when the first Progressive Writers' Conference was held in 1936, the very first question André Malraux asked the Russian delegates was: The 'New Man' has been born in Russia; we are eager to see his face. Show us a picture of this New Man. When, despite repeated requests, the New Man failed to send his photograph, devoted writers like André Gide set out on a pilgrimage to see him in person. However, upon reaching Russia, they discovered that despite the change in environment, man remained exactly as he had always been—except, perhaps, a bit more self-centered. As a result, the great writers who had been admirers of Russia began to fall away one by one. First, André Gide became an apostate, followed by André Malraux, then Koestler, and then Silone. In short, they all defected.

The lesson these writers learned after becoming disillusioned with the external world could just as easily have been gleaned from literature. The very poetry of those who helped propagate the concept of the Natural Man reveals just how hollow this idea truly is. The foremost desire of the Natural Man is for his happiness to be eternal and limitless. Yet, within a mere six months, these poets realized how meaningless this desire was, and how brief and fleeting a human being's moments of joy actually are. Another obsession of the Natural Man is the desire to dominate the entire universe. Dispelling this delusion is hardly difficult; the minor deprivations of everyday life are enough to set a person straight. As for those nations that rise with ambitions of boundless conquests over the universe, convinced that there is no power in the cosmos above or equal to Man—well, let them enjoy their sweet dreams for a decade or so. For nations, such a period is merely the equivalent of a month. Give it fifty or a hundred years, and the reality will reveal itself to them naturally.

A similar issue arises regarding the idea of Man being free from all forms of restriction. One minor limitation on human action is that physical strength is highly restricted, and even this limited strength cannot be exerted indefinitely. Upon reaching a certain age, a person begins to weaken and, ultimately, dies. If nothing else, this biological reality alone imposes a strict limit on both human action and imagination. If Man were to give his imagination free rein, the inevitable result would be profound despair and bitterness. This is the greatest lesson we learn from Romantic literature. The Romantic poets set out with tremendous hopes, but these hopes were proven false one by one. Consequently, for them, poetry and sorrow became entirely synonymous concepts. They had set out to sing praises of the beauty and power of human life, but their song ultimately culminated in a longing for death. The fundamental reason for this defeat was that these writers conflated the abstract concept of Man with the actual human being, completely ignoring concrete human experiences for the sake of an abstract ideal.

The very first impact of this concept of Man on literature was that poetry devolved into mere weeping and whining. Even this might have been tolerable, but Rousseau's Man went on to produce far more spectacular disasters. When poets realized that Man's limitless desires and capabilities could only be realized in the imagination and not in real life, they decided: why not restrict life entirely to the imagination? Thus, in Villiers de L'Isle-Adam's play Axel, the heroine proposes: We have found such a magnificent treasure. Come, let us go to India and lay the foundation of a new religion. Let us go to China and smoke opium from pipes made of diamonds and jewels. In short, she lists all the countries of the world and the various pleasures to be found in them. Axel replies: If our dreams are so beautiful, why should we try to turn them into reality? The ecstasy we have just experienced by talking to one another will vanish by tomorrow, and in comparison, real life will seem utterly insipid. So, what is the point of living now? As for living, our servants will do that for us. Consequently, exercising the utmost foresight, the two of them consume poison.

The ultimate consequence of acknowledging Man's right to limitless happiness and his inherent capacity for it was that real life itself was left suspended. This is precisely why nineteenth-century French novels are so saturated with suicide and death.

Furthermore, this belief renders a human being selfish and callous. Since limitless happiness can only be achieved with the help of the imagination—and solely within the imagination—a person only needs other people just long enough to set his own imagination in motion. Once that happens, he becomes completely indifferent to them. He loses all sense of the desires and emotions of others, as his imaginative pleasure-seeking leaves him no time for such concerns. To gauge just how ruthlessly a man is compelled to treat even his own beloved under this tradition, one need only read Benjamin Constant's novel Adolphe. Incidentally, Louis Bouilhet has succinctly expressed this very theme in one of his poems. He says to his beloved:

What I loved in your form was my own intoxication. Even if you leave, I lose nothing. We certainly spent days of immense joy together, but you were merely an ordinary instrument; the plectrum that produced the melodies was me. Now, go wherever your heart desires. I have drained my cup, and so the feast is over. If a little wine remains, the servants will drink it.

Because Rousseau's Man is also innocent and pure of soul, despite this callousness, he does not even suspect that he is acting ruthlessly. When Mir Taqi Mir fell in love, he did not forget the lives of ordinary human beings and their constraints:

Jigar kawi, nakaami, dunya hai aakhir

Nahi aaye gar, Mir, kuch kaam hoga

[Heartbreak and failure—it is the world, after all;

If she did not come, Mir, she must have had some work.]

Agar Mir tu yun hi rota rahega

To humsaya kaahe ko sota rahega

[If you keep weeping like this, O Mir;

How will the neighbor ever get to sleep?]

The poets whose work revolves around Rousseau's concept of Man are entirely alien to such sentiments.

Of all the maladies born of this belief, the greatest is boredom. Man's emotional capacities may well be limitless, but real life does not provide the full opportunity to exercise them. There is a world of difference between the life of the imagination and real life. However, for those who have been taught that they are the greatest power in the universe, that they are beyond all forms of restriction, and that they can demand life to fulfill all their expectations, only two options remain. Either they do not engage with real life at all and commit suicide like Axel, or they spend their entire lives in a state of disgust and boredom. But a human being, by nature, cannot endure boredom for very long. To escape this ennui, he begins to invent entirely new diversions.

The hero of a novel by Huysmans spends his own money to introduce a poor young man to the habit of visiting prostitutes. Once the young man becomes thoroughly addicted, the hero stops funding him. Consequently, the young man is driven to theft and even murder. This brings the hero immense satisfaction, knowing his experiment was a success. A character in one of Goethe's works dreams of becoming the sultan of an Eastern country. He imagines lying completely numb on soft cushions, smoking a hookah, with his feet resting on the bare breasts of a slave girl. Baudelaire has succinctly described all the games that sheer boredom can play:

Lekin geedaron, bheron, joon,

Bandaron, bichhuon, gadhon, sanpon... bhonkte, ghurrate,

Daharte ifreeton ke darmiyan

Hamari badkariyon ke sharmanak chiriya ghar hain

Ek ifreet sab se ghinauna, bad-haiyat aur sharir hai!

Yun to woh uchhalta koodta hai na chinghaarta hai

Magar us ka bas chale to sari zameen ko khandhar bana ke rakh de,

Aur ek jamai mein duniya ko nigal jaye

Is ifreet ka naam be-lutfi hai...! Aansoo apne aap us ki aankhon mein dhalak aaye hain.

Woh baitha huqqa pee raha hai aur logon ko sooli charhane ke khawab dekh raha hai.

[But among the jackals, sheep, lice,

Monkeys, scorpions, donkeys, snakes... among the barking, growling,

Roaring monsters

In the shameful menagerie of our vices,

There is one monster most hideous, deformed, and wicked!

Though it neither leaps about nor roars,

If it had its way, it would reduce the whole earth to ruins,

And swallow the world in a single yawn.

The name of this monster is Boredom...! Tears spontaneously well up in its eyes.

It sits smoking a hookah, dreaming of sending people to the gallows.]

With the mention of Baudelaire, a new dimension of the problem emerges. Poets of the Romantic movement, such as De Musset and Vigny, realized that while Man is said to possess limitless potential, this is not the case in practice. This realization filled them with profound sorrow, but they merely wept and resigned themselves to it. They did nothing beyond that. Baudelaire went a step further and asked why this was the case. In his work, Man did not quietly surrender to reality; instead, despite being repeatedly beaten down, he kept getting back up. Baudelaire had inherited the idealized concept of Man from his predecessor philosophers, writers, and poets, while the ordinary man existed within himself—and a highly vital and vigilant ordinary man at that.

Consequently, within him, Man and the ordinary man became locked in a fierce struggle. Baudelaire’s poetry is the epic saga of this very war. Man was also receiving reinforcements from the external environment. Whenever the ordinary man pinned him down, the environment would inject Man with new vigor, forcing him back onto his feet. Rousseau’s natural man could not entirely die within Baudelaire, but the ordinary man certainly demonstrated his power. If Baudelaire’s poetry holds the status of a Bible for twentieth-century civilization—as Epstein suggests—it is because his poetry revealed to us, with the utmost intensity, that the natural man, the god of modern Western civilization, is in fact a false god.

In prose, Flaubert accomplished the same feat. His personality, too, was a battlefield between Man and the ordinary man. He illustrated the gradual stages of Man's defeat in Madame Bovary. A much clearer articulation of this struggle can be found in Flaubert’s letters. The beliefs upon which his personality was forged demanded that he strive to make every desire and emotion limitless. Yet, he found walls closing in on him from all sides; this suffocating realization made him cry out in agony. In a way, Flaubert had realized that a civilization that worships the natural man is simply incapable of producing great personalities. He arrived at this by defining the characteristics and conditions of great art in accordance with the temperament of his era, only to be forced to admit in the end that the greatest artists do not adhere to these conditions. Rather, they achieved greatness precisely by disregarding them.

With the same intensity and passionate absorption that the natural man dedicates all his focus toward attaining a specific kind of pleasure, Flaubert devoted himself to his art. He sacrificed all the normal demands and relationships of an ordinary man's life upon this very altar. So much so that when his lover complained of his neglect and confronted him, saying that he perhaps loved his art more than he loved her, Flaubert bluntly—and without any regard for her feelings—admitted, Yes! You are right.

In his later years, he began to realize that if his personality and art had not fully blossomed, it was precisely because he had constantly stifled the ordinary man within him. In his final novel, Bouvard et Pécuchet—which I consider to be his greatest work—Flaubert satirized this very human tendency to overstep the limits of one's capabilities. Man desires perfection in every sphere of life, yet ultimately remains exactly what he was. In fact, he should consider himself lucky if he escapes punishment for his unwarranted ambitions.

In short, by the end of the nineteenth century, writers and poets had proven through their concrete experiences that this idealized concept of Man was, in itself, enough to destroy humanity. Following this, a new era began in literature. While this belief did not entirely vanish during this period—and how could writers possibly eradicate it when it was backed by all the rulers of the world?—the writers I have in mind continued to grapple with the conflict between Man and the ordinary man. However, they did not stop at merely depicting the defeat of Man; they went on to clearly demonstrate the triumph of the ordinary man. Flaubert had despised the middle class his entire life. Yet, toward the end of his life, when he saw petty shopkeepers going out for a stroll with their families, he would remark with deep regret, Perhaps these are the people who are on the right path.

Marcel Proust, James Joyce, and Thomas Mann eliminated the word perhaps. Joyce, in fact, explicitly stated that his novels would culminate in the victory of the ordinary man. These writers accepted the demands and limitations of ordinary life—not out of compulsion, but by recognizing them as a biological necessity and an essential condition of human existence. Their attitude was resolutely affirmative.

While a handful of writers certainly embraced the ordinary man, the minds of most contemporary writers—and especially our rulers—remain dominated by the idealized concept of Man. Consequently, the threats this concept poses to civilization and humanity remain as potent as ever. Some people do argue that a new collectivism has been established in Russia, eliminating such dangers. They claim that there, the individual is subordinate to the will of society and must adhere to a specific set of moral principles. However, this argument holds true only on the surface. The restrictions imposed on the individual in Russia are purely external. While the actions and deeds of the individual have indeed been curtailed, there are no constraints on his internal life. The jurisdiction of communist morality extends only to outward behavior; it has no direct access to the inner life.

By forcing a dog's tail into a straight pipe, Russian communism convinces itself that the dog will never again feel the urge to lift and wag it. As for internal values, the concept of man that had previously been associated with the individual has simply been transferred to the masses. Nothing more than this has occurred. In the universe, there is no power higher than the masses; the masses are innocent and pure of heart; there are no restrictions on their desires; their powers are limitless. The disciples of this new morality completely ignore the fact that the bitter experiences individuals suffered due to these concepts can also befall an entire nation. Just as a single individual's capabilities are not limitless, neither are the capabilities of a collective group of individuals.

The character of the masses is not entirely straightforward either. It, too, harbors contradictory and conflicting tendencies. The cosmic forces that can disrupt an individual's endeavors can just as easily trouble the masses. However, these are not lessons that can be understood without enduring a massive national tragedy. After all, Russian civilization is still in its infancy. The Russian nation will only gradually realize what it truly means to be the greatest power in the universe.

However, the signs of what is to come are already visible. Since literature points to the potential consequences of any concept a century in advance, we can glean many useful insights about Russian civilization from its literature. The masses is not an absolute, abstract concept; it has material realities, meaning it can only refer to a collective of individuals. Now, if certain attributes are ascribed to the masses or this collective of individuals, a single individual is justified in thinking that even if they do not possess all these attributes, they must surely possess at least a fraction of them. Consequently, all the concepts mentioned earlier begin to return one by one, and their effects will inevitably be more or less the same as they were in a capitalist society.

Russia's new collectivism has only altered external conditions. It has merely provided a new economic, political, and social environment. It has not formulated any new internal system for the cultivation of the self. Instead, its belief regarding humanity is more or less identical to that of the romantic philosophy of life—a philosophy that, given the slightest leeway, drives a person toward individualism. And when the symptoms of this individualism begin to manifest in a person, the collective punishes them. This has already happened to many fine artists in Russia. To control the internal lives of its people, Russian collectivism possesses only one tool: coercion and censorship. After all, there are other examples of collectivism in human history. There have certainly been many civilizations for which a morbid individualism was just as fatal as it is for Russia, yet why did they not resort to such rampant coercion?

Granted, no organized society can tolerate blatant ideological subversion. However, as far as minor deviations from collective sentiments in art and literature are concerned, while they may have been viewed with disapproval, they would never have caused the government itself to panic, equate them with treason, and attempt to crush them instantly. This is akin to taking out one's frustration on a helpless target. If the Russian government desires literature devoid of morbid elements—literature that possesses vitality and balance, and is meant for the entire nation—it must first establish vital and balanced values for internal life. There is little hope of creating a new man simply by rounding up and persecuting those who deviate from the government's wishes. The civilizations that produced robust collective literature were founded on the concrete experiences of individuals and a balanced, realistic conception of life and the universe. Those civilizations formulated a fulfilling system for the entirety of human personality. Consequently, people embraced this collectivism without coercion, achieving a state of profound unity akin to:

Man tu shudam, tu man shudi

[I have become you, and you have become me]

The ultimate test of whether a people have truly accepted a specific way of collective life, and whether it has permeated their very being, is the creation of great works of art without coercion, compulsion, or even persistent urging. Russian civilization fails this test, even though once a year we inevitably hear proclamations that Russia is about to produce the most magnificent literature in human history. Far from producing such literature, those who attempt to create even reasonably good literature either commit suicide shortly thereafter, or the publication of their writings is banned by state decree. This is a highly bizarre situation.

If a new civilization has indeed emerged in Russia, and the overwhelming majority of its citizens are fully satisfied with its values, then why panic over the deviation of a handful of individuals? If the fear is that these few individuals will mislead the majority and lead them astray, it implies that the majority is not entirely satisfied with the values of this civilization and finds them lacking. If the majority is indeed satisfied with this civilization—yet can still be misled—it means that the issue of bread is not the ultimate problem in human life. Rather, there are other equally important issues in life; by invoking them, a person can be so beguiled that they abandon their concern for economic survival and become consumed by a different pursuit altogether. Neither the Russian government nor its admirers attempt to untangle this knot. Instead, anyone who seeks to understand this simply for their own intellectual satisfaction is inevitably branded an enemy of Russia.

There is another point worth considering regarding Russia. Suppose that in Russia, the attributes of the natural man have been transferred to the masses in such a way that no room remains for individualistic tendencies, and an ordinary individual is not permitted to see the reflection of the masses' capabilities within themselves. Let us accept this premise for a moment. However, the masses cannot directly express their will in every single matter. Practical necessity dictates that the masses elect representatives through whom their will can be enacted.

As long as these representatives act on behalf of the masses, they will possess all the attributes and powers of the people. If the masses are considered innocent and sinless, then for that duration, the representatives too will become sinless. At the very least, they will feel somewhat justified in considering themselves infallible. However, these representatives will ultimately be individuals, possessing the same weaknesses as ordinary men. In the absence of a moral framework, the rule of these public representatives will become highly despotic. They will act with the same callousness and cruelty as ordinary men, yet, by virtue of being the people's representatives, they will continue to believe themselves immune to error. Viewing Man—in the form of the masses—as the greatest power in the universe and as the absolute good can lead to no other outcome.

Whether applied to the individual or the nation, the worship of Man very quickly devolves into narcissism and arrogance. This happens because Man is considered absolute in himself; it is only the environment that corrupts him. If the environment is purged of its flaws, Man will become perfect. Since, at least theoretically, environmental flaws have been eradicated in Russia, the Russians feel entitled to view themselves as perfect human beings in every respect. Consequently, their schoolchildren ask foreigners, Sir, do you have trains in your country?

Personally, I fear this cult of humanity because once an individual places his faith in an abstract and absolute concept of Man, he becomes ruthless. This ruthlessness manifests in both individual and collective matters, but especially in the latter. Every individual harbors a tendency to justify the unjustifiable for the sake of the collective good. Anton Chekhov brilliantly illustrated how the worship of Man turns into callousness in one of his stories.

A midwife is called to a lawyer's house. Upon arriving, she observes that the lawyer is highly honest, decent, and principled. Yet, despite this, his wife and children despise him. The reason was that the lawyer held certain preconceived notions about Man and the specific principles he ought to follow. Consequently, he only remembered those abstract principles and had completely forgotten about flesh-and-blood human beings.

Secondly, I fear the cult of humanity because it strips the individual's mind of the capacity for subtle, expansive, and profound experiences, leaving him dull and rigid in many respects. When the attributes of Man are already predetermined, what new experiences can one possibly have regarding him? Nothing can be added to something that is already complete.

This is why I fear that great literature cannot be born from the contemporary concepts of Man and humanity. Here, it is necessary to maintain a distinction. On one hand, the collective sum of all living and dead individuals, along with all their past and present experiences, can also be termed Man or humanity. Such moments arise in every individual's life when he compares his personal experiences with those of others. He generalizes his experiences to some extent and asks himself: What do these experiences mean? Who am I, and who are other individuals like me? Where have we come from, and where are we going? This kind of contemplation can evoke a thousand kinds of joys, a thousand kinds of despairs, and a thousand kinds of wonder within an individual. When an individual thinks in this manner, we can say in very concrete terms that he is thinking about Man or humanity. Literature can never achieve greatness or true stature if it shies away from this kind of contemplation.

The second concept of Man or humanity is the one I have described above. Since all of its attributes have already been predetermined, there is absolutely no need to think about it. In fact, to think about it in a new way would be tantamount to pure apostasy. This version of Man is such a colorless and insipid entity that much can be written about its defeat—and indeed, much has been written for the past century and a half. However, nothing can be written in its praise that a person of refined taste would willingly read three or four times with genuine interest. I have thought long and hard to find a single example of great literature rooted in this particular concept of Man, but I have not succeeded.

At most, one is reminded of that short speech by Hamlet in which he speaks of Man's infinite faculties. First of all, I would argue that this speech represents the very kind of contemplation I mentioned just a moment ago. However, most Shakespearean critics are of the opinion that this speech is a manifestation of the freedom and autonomy that Man acquired after the Renaissance. Well, to each their own literary taste. The true essence of this speech is only revealed when it is juxtaposed against Hamlet's entire character. Coming from the mouth of an individual like Hamlet, this speech is truly a delight.

Presenting Iqbal's poetry to justify the cult of humanity does not offer much help either. Even if Iqbal believes in the infinite potential of Man, he does so within very clear and defined boundaries—namely, the boundaries established by religion. One might argue that Iqbal's personal beliefs are one thing, and his poetic sensibilities are another. However, faith in God is such an essential and fundamental component of his sensibility that, even while making the most grandiose claims about Man, his tone remains that of someone challenging or teasing a power greater than himself. His verses constantly reflect the sentiment: If You are like this, then I too am like this. This attitude is fundamentally different from that absolute worship of humanity which cannot even conceive of a being higher than Man.

Whenever Iqbal leans toward the absolute worship of Man, he is immediately reminded of death and other factors that drag the individual back down to his earthly reality. Yet, it is also true that in his fondness for speaking boldly in the presence of God, Iqbal occasionally fails to maintain his balance. For instance, a highly discerning and respected literary elder once raised an objection to Iqbal's famous and widely beloved line:

Tu shab afridi, chiragh afridam

[You created the night, I created the lamp]

He argued that bringing a mere earthen lamp into comparison with a universal and mysterious concept like the night is somewhat trivial. It makes for good oratory, but not great poetry.

My greatest objection to the cult of humanity is that once an individual is elevated to the status of Man, he becomes exempt from moral standards. Moral standards are only necessary for someone whose personality contains contradictory and conflicting tendencies, making it essential to cultivate some of these tendencies while suppressing others. A being who is inherently good, and who only turns bad when compelled by the evils of his environment, has no need for morality; simply changing the environment is sufficient. Once the environment is changed, his goodness is guaranteed. If there is any lingering compulsion, the law can simply monitor him; there is no need for the presence of principles that operate internally.

The sole moral principle of a humanist civilization is that anyone who abides by the law is virtuous. Consequently, the ordinary man who worships this idealized Man becomes self-centered and selfish. Unlike Baudelaire, he can never bring himself to call himself a hypocrite. Unless his own interests are directly threatened, no moral transgression can shock him. In practice, the worship of Man is simply another name for moral apathy. If an entire nation adopts this worship of Man, its politics, too, becomes free from moral constraints. This explains why there has probably never been as much preaching about peace as there is today. Never before have there been so many committees dedicated to international reconciliation, yet the threat of war constantly looms over our heads.

I have already explained in great detail why I dislike the idealized Man. The question that remains is why I prefer the ordinary man. The answer is quite simple. The ordinary man cannot become the idealized Man; rather, he is compelled to remain an ordinary man. This is a biological compulsion over which he has no control. Therefore, preferring the ordinary man is also a biological necessity.

Now, I want to explain my concept of the ordinary man's life and its demands. To illustrate this, I will share a conversation I overheard while walking down a desolate road on a dark night, just a few days before I began writing this essay. Three figures were walking ahead of me: a man, a burqa-clad woman, and a boy of about eight or nine. As I drew closer to them, the woman was saying in a Saharanpuri accent:

Once the pension starts, we will starve to death.

The boy asked with great concern, Why, Mother, why? Why will we starve?

What will we even get then?

The father agreed, Yes! The money will be cut in half.

The son asked, Father, how much are you getting now?

The father replied, Eighty rupees!

And when the pension starts, how much will you get?

We will get forty rupees, son!

Hearing this, the boy became very worried. How will we manage on forty rupees?

After thinking for a moment, he spoke again, Listen, Father, when I grow up, I will get a job!

The boy's tone when he uttered that last sentence was truly something to hear. There was a joy in his voice, as if he had solved the entire problem. He was amazed at discovering this capability within himself, and he was filled with an eagerness to take on life's responsibilities. He had the courage to fulfill them. Everything that defines an ordinary man's life—all its joys and all its sorrows—is encapsulated in this brief exchange. The life and duties of the ordinary man are entirely mundane, colorless, and unpoetic. Yet, it is the selfless, purposeless, and often inexplicable love between people that brings color to this existence. For centuries, the ordinary man has been caught in this cycle, and whatever modest abilities he possesses are exhausted in these daily struggles, but even so, he has not yet grown weary of these responsibilities.

From the day of his creation to the present, the ordinary man has been engaged in a struggle for biological survival. He has coughed up blood, yet he has never lost heart. The vast majority of his talents are consumed by this seemingly futile struggle, but despite this—and relying solely on his extremely limited capabilities—he has managed to forge a non-biological, cultural life for himself as well. He holds such deep devotion and love for this achievement that he is sometimes willing to sacrifice his very biological existence for its sake. This is the being that truly deserves our respect, rather than that hypothetical construct which is the embodiment of pure poetry and absolute triumph. Here, I must confess to an emotional weakness of mine. I have often felt incredibly small in the presence of pensioners. The maturity of experience that a person attains after fulfilling a lifetime of responsibilities makes every other experience seem somewhat lifeless and hollow by comparison.

Any civilization that creates its values while ignoring the concrete experiences of ordinary men is destined for defeat and despair. Literature, in particular, cannot survive for a moment if it severs its ties with ordinary people. There is no need to offer proof for this claim. The example of modern Urdu literature, especially the modern short story, is right before our eyes. Our short story writers made the idealized Man the focal point of their creations. Consequently, within ten or twelve years, they have all run out of steam. Creatively speaking, only Manto remains alive; his grip on the experiences of living, breathing people was so firm that even the prevailing dogmas could not damage his work. Alternatively, we are now seeing some life returning to the short stories of Aziz Ahmad, as he is slowly migrating away from the idealized Man toward the ordinary man.

This situation is not limited to Urdu literature alone. The humanist literature of the entire world is utterly exhausted. It has no future other than endlessly repeating what has already been written. Writers in every country are asking themselves: what do we do now? If Russian writers were permitted to speak freely, they would say the same thing. The one or two individuals who dared to voice this were immediately taken to task.