Adab Aur Ishq

A king heard tales of a queen's beauty and fell in love with her. He then abandoned his throne and crown, setting off toward that strange land just to catch a glimpse of her. But Prince Jan-e-Alam went a step further; swayed by the words of a parrot, he became the unseen lover of Anjuman Ara and wandered from door to door, covered in dust. Then there was the prince who saw a face in a dream, and upon waking in the morning, described her features and grace to his father, declaring, If I marry, I will marry only her, otherwise I will drown myself. And there was even a prince who saw a shoe and said, If the shoe is this beautiful, how beautiful must its wearer be? and he gave his life for the owner of that shoe.

It wasn't just limited to princes; in those days, everyone fell in love, and they did it in this very manner. A young woodcutter, while chopping a tree, would hear a sweet voice, and that voice would sweep him off his feet. If the voice is like this, what must the owner of the voice be like? Then, as he slowly finished cutting down the tree, a fairy-faced woman would emerge, and she would become kind to him. I have used the word kind intentionally. A woman can only be kind; she cannot fall in love—love has traditionally been a man's vocation. If a woman partakes in this vocation, it is her favor; if she does not, one shouldn't complain. And when both happen to be university graduates, complaining is entirely unbecoming.

Anyway, the point was that love in those days was quite literally blind. A mere glimpse held the same value as the nectar of union. But glimpses were rare. The beloved's fragrance would permeate everywhere, yet she herself remained unseen. But perhaps this sounds too poetic. To put it in plain prose: in those days, man was blind, and woman was a dark continent. The dark continent both beckoned the man and intimidated him. This beckoning and intimidation gave birth to quests, battles, and epic encounters. Blind love became the vision of the age, and by its light, people navigated the world and went about their lives. In this light, suicides were committed, journeys were undertaken, and battles were fought. Sometimes they brought defeat, sometimes victory.

This was an era when man's faith in passion remained unshaken. He felt no shame whatsoever in acting upon his feelings. Sri Krishna was both the sage of his time and a devoted lover. It was faith in passion that dragged Achilles to the battlefield, and it was this very faith that made him turn away from the war in disgust. He sulked, laid down his weapons, and declared, To hell with the wretchedness of Greece. Agamemnon has taken my beloved. I will fight no more.

Wars shape and shatter our modes of feeling. The nature of the conflict dictates the mindset it breeds. The epic tale of a siege gave birth to Homer. Homer believed that passion held profound meaning. His faith was so absolute that, to him, a battle fought for passion possessed such universality that by narrating it, a poet could interpret the emotions, sensibilities, beliefs, and ideologies of his entire age. But the Second World War gave birth to Camus. Not only did he write The Outsider, but he also asserted that every writer attempts to give form to the passions of their time. Yesterday’s passion was love. Today, the passions for unity and freedom have thrown the world into turmoil. Until yesterday, a man might commit suicide over love; today, collective passions pave the way for global annihilation.

Monsieur Camus does not consider love to be the passion of our times, but he is a considerate man. He has granted us the permission that, should we find spare time from our essential duties, there is no harm in indulging in love every now and then. Incidentally, if it is merely a matter of sparing time from essential duties, it is best to fall in love during one's student years. At that age, one does not have essential duties. The truth is, unless we have committed emotional suicide through smuggling, black-marketeering, or similar exploits, this drop of blood within us will inevitably stir up a storm at some point. It is better if this storm erupts during our student days. At worst, we might miss our exams for a year.

In the old world, love was not a part-time hobby. It was not relegated to the status of a secondary or non-essential task. The onset of love meant the suspension of all essential duties, and a person’s entire being was consumed by it. It is the achievement of the industrial age that love was denied its place as a profound personal experience and life's representative passion. As for Europe, the reality is that alongside the industrial age, human contexts have steadily vanished from it. Europe fought two great wars in the twentieth century, both devoid of any human context. Twentieth-century Europe could not muster the courage to wage a war for a Helen. The drop of blood did stir up a storm, but not for a living, breathing being, nor for the sake of a pure and genuine passion. Both Hitler and his adversaries were driven by inhuman, abstract concepts and imperialist motives.

Wars do not destroy nations. Nations are destroyed when the very motives for war change. The responsibility for Europe’s moral decay lies in the fact that it forsook passion and fought two wars based on inhuman contexts. How, then, could an Iliad or an Odyssey be born? Only The Outsider could have been written—a work where all human relationships have lost their meaning.

As for us, Western imperialism had already decimated us back in 1857. After the events of '57 came Maulana Hali, and the poor man made a simple, honest confession:

Kuchh dil se hain dare hue kuchh aasman se hum

[We are somewhat terrified of our hearts, and somewhat of the heavens]

Terrified of the heavens, we submitted to British subjugation, and terrified of our hearts, we sought refuge in the Victorian morality of the English. Thus began the innovation of Natural and National poetry, while poetry rooted in the experiences of love was condemned. Maulana Hali issued the decree:

Bhaiyo! dil na lagana, na lagana hargiz

Jeete ji maut ke tum munh mein na jana hargiz

[Brothers! Never lose your heart, never at all

Do not walk into the jaws of death while still alive, never at all]

Granted, long before this, Mir Sahib had already said:

Wasiyat Mir ne mujh ko yahi ki

Keh sab kuchh hona to aashiq na hona

[This is the only will Mir left for me:

Become anything in life, but never a lover]

However, there is a profound, fundamental difference between the two voices. Hali’s voice is that of a terrified man—a man who is afraid of love. Mir’s voice is the counsel of a battered and ruined lover, a man who has lived through the entire ordeal. In a way, this is akin to the advice given to naive, inexperienced young princes in folktales: Travel in all directions, but do not go toward the fourth corner, or Open all the doors, but do not open the seventh door. But this was hardly advice; it was a challenge. It meant: if you have the courage, open the seventh door; otherwise, sit quietly like a respectable gentleman. In those days, that drop of blood was in a state of perpetual rebellion. And so, the princes would accept the challenge, open the seventh door, and bring ruin upon themselves. The ruin was already in their blood.

Brahmins would cast horoscopes and warn of impending madness and signs of ruin, advising that the child should not be allowed to look at the sky or sleep in the moonlight for twelve years. Yet, the restlessness in the blood would inevitably disrupt the course of history. On the final night of the twelfth year, the prince would catch a glimpse of the sky, and a fairy would spirit him away. However, for the man who was not a prince but a poet, every night of his life became that final night of the twelfth year. The recurring vision of a fairy in the moon constantly disturbed his sleep and appetite. His name was Mir Taqi. His father had advised him, Son, devote yourself to love. The obedient son took his pure-hearted Sufi father's advice to heart. He fell in love, descended into madness, and composed ghazals.

An era passed, and then came Maulana Hali. Times had changed. The fear of the heart was one thing, the fear of the heavens another. Maulana Hali could neither become Syed Ali Muttaqi (Mir's father) nor Mir Taqi. The age of lovers and Sufis had faded, giving way to the age of reformers. Preaching replaced profound inner experience. Maulana Hali distanced himself from the ghazal and turned toward reformist poetry. He advised the youth of the nation to abstain from love and study English. The youth accepted this advice; they learned English and produced reformist literature. When the demands of love arose, they replied, Do not ask of me, my beloved, that same love as before. They meant the kind of love that inevitably descended into madness, where the distinction between a torn collar and a torn hem vanished. Yet, love, no matter its form, remains love. The insight of the modern poet brought forth this realization:

Aur bhi gham hain zamane mein mohabbat ke siwa

Rahatein aur bhi hain wasl ki rahat ke siwa

[There are other sorrows in the world besides love,

There are other comforts besides the comfort of union.]

Tere mathe pe yeh aanchal bohat hi khoob hai lekin

Tu is aanchal se ik parcham bana leti toh achha tha

[This veil upon your forehead is truly beautiful, but

It would have been better had you made a banner out of it.]

This is the morally subversive poetry of Urdu. The truth is, clerics have had much to say regarding moral and immoral literature. Maulana Hali and Deputy Nazir Ahmad also shared their views. However, D.H. Lawrence made a point as well. But wait! Before we get to that, consider the moral trial of the writers of the 1936 movement. When their various poems and short stories were accused of obscenity, they offered this defense: if the depiction of sex evokes a sense of pleasure, it is obscenity; however, in our stories and poems, sex is presented with a sense of revulsion and lacks any element of pleasure, therefore it cannot be labeled obscene. The implication here was that passion itself is a repulsive thing, and it is best to remain averse to it. Now, consider Lawrence's perspective. He argued that when a writer puts his thumb on the scale, attempting to tip the balance to suit his own agenda, that is what is truly immoral.

Faiz Sahib committed one immoral act by placing his thumb on the scale to tip the balance, and he committed a second immoral act by creating a division among the sorrows of life. Sorrows are not compartmentalized; they exist all together. One sorrow is inextricably linked to another, and that to a third. They all merge into a single unity, manifesting as the overarching sorrow of life. If you refuse to accept this, the result will be that you either dismiss Mir Taqi Mir as an escapist poet, or you will dig out a few second- or even third-rate couplets from his collected works to prove that he was aware of the sufferings of his time and possessed political consciousness. But in Mir's poetry, the anguish of the individual and the anguish of the era blend seamlessly to become Mir's unique sorrow. When all these sorrows fused into a single unity, they became the sorrow of love. How, then, can you distinguish one sorrow from another?

Dil ki veerani ka kya mazkoor hai

Yeh nagar sau martaba loota gaya

[What can be said of the desolation of the heart?

This city has been plundered a hundred times.]

How will you separate the sorrow of the era and the sorrow of the self in this couplet? And in which category will you place this couplet by Ghalib:

Is chaman mein aag barsegi ke aayegi bahaar

Ik lahoo ki boond kyun hungama aara dil mein hai

[Will it rain fire in this garden, or will spring arrive?

Why is a single drop of blood raising such a tumult in the heart?]

In the category of political poetry? Or in the category of romantic poetry?

The truth of the matter is that all other sorrows are only understood through the medium of the sorrow of love:

Pohncha jo aap tak toh woh pohncha Khuda ta'een

Maloom ab hua ke bohat main bhi door tha

[He who reached you, reached God Himself,

I realize now that I, too, was very far away.]

Reaching God, and reaching the era. Now, I return once more to Lawrence, who asserted that in human affairs, the most profound bond will always be the relationship between a man and a woman. The relationships between man and man, woman and woman, or parents and children are all secondary. The bond between a man and a woman will shift at every moment, at every hour, and in every manifestation, it will serve as a new key to understanding human life. What matters most is neither the man, nor the woman, nor the children born of their union, but the relationship itself. Thus, the ghazal and the dastaan recognized this relationship as the key to human existence. They comprehended all human connections through the profound experience of love. The ultimate realization was that man is but mortal, that man's greatest devil is man himself, and that it is a blessing to have seen all your flaws. Therefore, O flawed one, come, let me love you.

This final statement belongs to Firaq. Yet, it is an insight he inherited from the classical ghazal. In that era, the lover tore many a collar, wandered through the dust of the deserts, and dashed his head against walls, but to no avail. Fathers advised their sons, Son, devote yourself to love, and the sons did just that. This included both the sons who recognized passion as the ultimate truth, and those who placed intellect and wisdom on a pedestal. However, one profound insight was indeed gained—an insight into the nature of man. This very insight is the true wealth of the classical ghazal and dastaan. In contrast, the wealth of the literature from the reformist and progressive eras is mere didacticism. For the writer of today, both paths remain open. If he chooses, he can adopt the didactic approach; this will provide him with popular, ready-made formulas, making the task of producing literature quite easy. Alternatively, he can choose the former path. But that path is arduous. Reaching the destination of true insight through the crucible of profound inner experience is a demanding journey.

A king heard tales of a queen's beauty and fell in love with her. He then abandoned his throne and crown, setting off toward that strange land just to catch a glimpse of her. But Prince Jan-e-Alam went a step further; swayed by the words of a parrot, he became the unseen lover of Anjuman Ara and wandered from door to door, covered in dust. Then there was the prince who saw a face in a dream, and upon waking in the morning, described her features and grace to his father, declaring, If I marry, I will marry only her, otherwise I will drown myself. And there was even a prince who saw a shoe and said, If the shoe is this beautiful, how beautiful must its wearer be? and he gave his life for the owner of that shoe.

It wasn't just limited to princes; in those days, everyone fell in love, and they did it in this very manner. A young woodcutter, while chopping a tree, would hear a sweet voice, and that voice would sweep him off his feet. If the voice is like this, what must the owner of the voice be like? Then, as he slowly finished cutting down the tree, a fairy-faced woman would emerge, and she would become kind to him. I have used the word kind intentionally. A woman can only be kind; she cannot fall in love—love has traditionally been a man's vocation. If a woman partakes in this vocation, it is her favor; if she does not, one shouldn't complain. And when both happen to be university graduates, complaining is entirely unbecoming.

Anyway, the point was that love in those days was quite literally blind. A mere glimpse held the same value as the nectar of union. But glimpses were rare. The beloved's fragrance would permeate everywhere, yet she herself remained unseen. But perhaps this sounds too poetic. To put it in plain prose: in those days, man was blind, and woman was a dark continent. The dark continent both beckoned the man and intimidated him. This beckoning and intimidation gave birth to quests, battles, and epic encounters. Blind love became the vision of the age, and by its light, people navigated the world and went about their lives. In this light, suicides were committed, journeys were undertaken, and battles were fought. Sometimes they brought defeat, sometimes victory.

This was an era when man's faith in passion remained unshaken. He felt no shame whatsoever in acting upon his feelings. Sri Krishna was both the sage of his time and a devoted lover. It was faith in passion that dragged Achilles to the battlefield, and it was this very faith that made him turn away from the war in disgust. He sulked, laid down his weapons, and declared, To hell with the wretchedness of Greece. Agamemnon has taken my beloved. I will fight no more.

Wars shape and shatter our modes of feeling. The nature of the conflict dictates the mindset it breeds. The epic tale of a siege gave birth to Homer. Homer believed that passion held profound meaning. His faith was so absolute that, to him, a battle fought for passion possessed such universality that by narrating it, a poet could interpret the emotions, sensibilities, beliefs, and ideologies of his entire age. But the Second World War gave birth to Camus. Not only did he write The Outsider, but he also asserted that every writer attempts to give form to the passions of their time. Yesterday’s passion was love. Today, the passions for unity and freedom have thrown the world into turmoil. Until yesterday, a man might commit suicide over love; today, collective passions pave the way for global annihilation.

Monsieur Camus does not consider love to be the passion of our times, but he is a considerate man. He has granted us the permission that, should we find spare time from our essential duties, there is no harm in indulging in love every now and then. Incidentally, if it is merely a matter of sparing time from essential duties, it is best to fall in love during one's student years. At that age, one does not have essential duties. The truth is, unless we have committed emotional suicide through smuggling, black-marketeering, or similar exploits, this drop of blood within us will inevitably stir up a storm at some point. It is better if this storm erupts during our student days. At worst, we might miss our exams for a year.

In the old world, love was not a part-time hobby. It was not relegated to the status of a secondary or non-essential task. The onset of love meant the suspension of all essential duties, and a person’s entire being was consumed by it. It is the achievement of the industrial age that love was denied its place as a profound personal experience and life's representative passion. As for Europe, the reality is that alongside the industrial age, human contexts have steadily vanished from it. Europe fought two great wars in the twentieth century, both devoid of any human context. Twentieth-century Europe could not muster the courage to wage a war for a Helen. The drop of blood did stir up a storm, but not for a living, breathing being, nor for the sake of a pure and genuine passion. Both Hitler and his adversaries were driven by inhuman, abstract concepts and imperialist motives.

Wars do not destroy nations. Nations are destroyed when the very motives for war change. The responsibility for Europe’s moral decay lies in the fact that it forsook passion and fought two wars based on inhuman contexts. How, then, could an Iliad or an Odyssey be born? Only The Outsider could have been written—a work where all human relationships have lost their meaning.

As for us, Western imperialism had already decimated us back in 1857. After the events of '57 came Maulana Hali, and the poor man made a simple, honest confession:

Kuchh dil se hain dare hue kuchh aasman se hum

[We are somewhat terrified of our hearts, and somewhat of the heavens]

Terrified of the heavens, we submitted to British subjugation, and terrified of our hearts, we sought refuge in the Victorian morality of the English. Thus began the innovation of Natural and National poetry, while poetry rooted in the experiences of love was condemned. Maulana Hali issued the decree:

Bhaiyo! dil na lagana, na lagana hargiz

Jeete ji maut ke tum munh mein na jana hargiz

[Brothers! Never lose your heart, never at all

Do not walk into the jaws of death while still alive, never at all]

Granted, long before this, Mir Sahib had already said:

Wasiyat Mir ne mujh ko yahi ki

Keh sab kuchh hona to aashiq na hona

[This is the only will Mir left for me:

Become anything in life, but never a lover]

However, there is a profound, fundamental difference between the two voices. Hali’s voice is that of a terrified man—a man who is afraid of love. Mir’s voice is the counsel of a battered and ruined lover, a man who has lived through the entire ordeal. In a way, this is akin to the advice given to naive, inexperienced young princes in folktales: Travel in all directions, but do not go toward the fourth corner, or Open all the doors, but do not open the seventh door. But this was hardly advice; it was a challenge. It meant: if you have the courage, open the seventh door; otherwise, sit quietly like a respectable gentleman. In those days, that drop of blood was in a state of perpetual rebellion. And so, the princes would accept the challenge, open the seventh door, and bring ruin upon themselves. The ruin was already in their blood.

Brahmins would cast horoscopes and warn of impending madness and signs of ruin, advising that the child should not be allowed to look at the sky or sleep in the moonlight for twelve years. Yet, the restlessness in the blood would inevitably disrupt the course of history. On the final night of the twelfth year, the prince would catch a glimpse of the sky, and a fairy would spirit him away. However, for the man who was not a prince but a poet, every night of his life became that final night of the twelfth year. The recurring vision of a fairy in the moon constantly disturbed his sleep and appetite. His name was Mir Taqi. His father had advised him, Son, devote yourself to love. The obedient son took his pure-hearted Sufi father's advice to heart. He fell in love, descended into madness, and composed ghazals.

An era passed, and then came Maulana Hali. Times had changed. The fear of the heart was one thing, the fear of the heavens another. Maulana Hali could neither become Syed Ali Muttaqi (Mir's father) nor Mir Taqi. The age of lovers and Sufis had faded, giving way to the age of reformers. Preaching replaced profound inner experience. Maulana Hali distanced himself from the ghazal and turned toward reformist poetry. He advised the youth of the nation to abstain from love and study English. The youth accepted this advice; they learned English and produced reformist literature. When the demands of love arose, they replied, Do not ask of me, my beloved, that same love as before. They meant the kind of love that inevitably descended into madness, where the distinction between a torn collar and a torn hem vanished. Yet, love, no matter its form, remains love. The insight of the modern poet brought forth this realization:

Aur bhi gham hain zamane mein mohabbat ke siwa

Rahatein aur bhi hain wasl ki rahat ke siwa

[There are other sorrows in the world besides love,

There are other comforts besides the comfort of union.]

Tere mathe pe yeh aanchal bohat hi khoob hai lekin

Tu is aanchal se ik parcham bana leti toh achha tha

[This veil upon your forehead is truly beautiful, but

It would have been better had you made a banner out of it.]

This is the morally subversive poetry of Urdu. The truth is, clerics have had much to say regarding moral and immoral literature. Maulana Hali and Deputy Nazir Ahmad also shared their views. However, D.H. Lawrence made a point as well. But wait! Before we get to that, consider the moral trial of the writers of the 1936 movement. When their various poems and short stories were accused of obscenity, they offered this defense: if the depiction of sex evokes a sense of pleasure, it is obscenity; however, in our stories and poems, sex is presented with a sense of revulsion and lacks any element of pleasure, therefore it cannot be labeled obscene. The implication here was that passion itself is a repulsive thing, and it is best to remain averse to it. Now, consider Lawrence's perspective. He argued that when a writer puts his thumb on the scale, attempting to tip the balance to suit his own agenda, that is what is truly immoral.

Faiz Sahib committed one immoral act by placing his thumb on the scale to tip the balance, and he committed a second immoral act by creating a division among the sorrows of life. Sorrows are not compartmentalized; they exist all together. One sorrow is inextricably linked to another, and that to a third. They all merge into a single unity, manifesting as the overarching sorrow of life. If you refuse to accept this, the result will be that you either dismiss Mir Taqi Mir as an escapist poet, or you will dig out a few second- or even third-rate couplets from his collected works to prove that he was aware of the sufferings of his time and possessed political consciousness. But in Mir's poetry, the anguish of the individual and the anguish of the era blend seamlessly to become Mir's unique sorrow. When all these sorrows fused into a single unity, they became the sorrow of love. How, then, can you distinguish one sorrow from another?

Dil ki veerani ka kya mazkoor hai

Yeh nagar sau martaba loota gaya

[What can be said of the desolation of the heart?

This city has been plundered a hundred times.]

How will you separate the sorrow of the era and the sorrow of the self in this couplet? And in which category will you place this couplet by Ghalib:

Is chaman mein aag barsegi ke aayegi bahaar

Ik lahoo ki boond kyun hungama aara dil mein hai

[Will it rain fire in this garden, or will spring arrive?

Why is a single drop of blood raising such a tumult in the heart?]

In the category of political poetry? Or in the category of romantic poetry?

The truth of the matter is that all other sorrows are only understood through the medium of the sorrow of love:

Pohncha jo aap tak toh woh pohncha Khuda ta'een

Maloom ab hua ke bohat main bhi door tha

[He who reached you, reached God Himself,

I realize now that I, too, was very far away.]

Reaching God, and reaching the era. Now, I return once more to Lawrence, who asserted that in human affairs, the most profound bond will always be the relationship between a man and a woman. The relationships between man and man, woman and woman, or parents and children are all secondary. The bond between a man and a woman will shift at every moment, at every hour, and in every manifestation, it will serve as a new key to understanding human life. What matters most is neither the man, nor the woman, nor the children born of their union, but the relationship itself. Thus, the ghazal and the dastaan recognized this relationship as the key to human existence. They comprehended all human connections through the profound experience of love. The ultimate realization was that man is but mortal, that man's greatest devil is man himself, and that it is a blessing to have seen all your flaws. Therefore, O flawed one, come, let me love you.

This final statement belongs to Firaq. Yet, it is an insight he inherited from the classical ghazal. In that era, the lover tore many a collar, wandered through the dust of the deserts, and dashed his head against walls, but to no avail. Fathers advised their sons, Son, devote yourself to love, and the sons did just that. This included both the sons who recognized passion as the ultimate truth, and those who placed intellect and wisdom on a pedestal. However, one profound insight was indeed gained—an insight into the nature of man. This very insight is the true wealth of the classical ghazal and dastaan. In contrast, the wealth of the literature from the reformist and progressive eras is mere didacticism. For the writer of today, both paths remain open. If he chooses, he can adopt the didactic approach; this will provide him with popular, ready-made formulas, making the task of producing literature quite easy. Alternatively, he can choose the former path. But that path is arduous. Reaching the destination of true insight through the crucible of profound inner experience is a demanding journey.