Delhi Aur Lucknow Ki Zabaan

Although several Indian cities contributed to the development of Urdu, only two are recognized as its primary centers: Delhi and Lucknow. Consequently, even today—an era where the strict rules of language and idiom are gradually fading, and claims of my word is the authentic one echo from every corner of the country—whenever the correct usage of a word is sought, eyes instinctively turn toward Delhi or Lucknow.

Delhi, of course, attained the status of a master only after ages of toil and dedication. However, the astonishing speed with which Lucknow established its authoritative claim over Urdu is truly remarkable. The era from Asaf-ud-Daula to Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar spans a mere twenty-five to thirty years. Yet, within this brief period, the world witnessed a remarkable spectacle: Lucknow, which had once proudly claimed to be a disciple of Shahjahanabad (Delhi), rapidly traversed all the stages of apprenticeship and mastery, ultimately standing its ground as Delhi's equal and formidable rival.

Until the early eighteenth century, the old city of Ayodhya served as the capital of Awadh, while Lucknow was merely a small town. During the reign of Muhammad Shah, when Nawab Saadat Khan Burhan-ul-Mulk was appointed the governor of Awadh, he laid the foundation for a new settlement on the banks of the Ghaghara River, a short distance from Ayodhya. This settlement was initially known as Bangla and later became famous as Faizabad. Under Burhan-ul-Mulk’s successor, Safdar Jung, this city remained the capital of Awadh. Safdar Jung’s son, Shuja-ud-Daula, did reside in Lucknow for a few years, but following the Battle of Buxar, he too relocated to Faizabad, where he remained until his last breath. It was his successor, Asaf-ud-Daula, who took up permanent residence in Lucknow. Thus, it is fair to say that the rise of Lucknow began in the late eighteenth century, during the reign of Asaf-ud-Daula.

This was a highly turbulent era for Delhi. First came a series of civil wars, followed by the chaos orchestrated by the king-making Syed brothers. Once their power was broken, Delhi suffered a devastating calamity at the hands of Nader Shah. Subsequently, the Afghans, Jats, and Marathas rose up, and for years, Delhi remained a battleground for their mutual power struggles. Yet, paradoxically, the development of Urdu also took place during this very era of upheavals. On one hand, the tumult of marching armies and battlefields raged on; on the other, elegant poetry gatherings continued to be hosted. Whenever a brief respite of peace emerged amidst the military invasions and troop formations, the disrupted literary circles would reconvene, and the inner anguish and passion of the poets would mold itself into the form of the ghazal. However, once Shah Alam retreated into the Red Fort as a mere pensioner of the East India Company, this vibrant cultural gathering was dispersed forever, never to be assembled again.

Some of Delhi’s masters had already bid farewell to their homeland, while others continued to hold on, honoring their old traditions. Eventually, however, the situation deteriorated to the point that, save for Khwaja Mir Dard and one or two other venerable figures, no renowned poet remained in Delhi. For these displaced souls, there were only two or three viable refuges: Murshidabad, Hyderabad Deccan, or Faizabad and Lucknow. Given the lack of travel facilities in that era, most people journeyed as far as Awadh and settled there. A few courageous individuals pressed on, eventually reaching Bengal or the Deccan. Ashraf Ali Khan Fughan first arrived at the court of Shuja-ud-Daula; when he grew weary of it, he set out for Azimabad. Sauda was summoned by Shuja-ud-Daula but initially refused to go. Sometime later, when surviving in Delhi became impossible, he moved to Farrukhabad and from there made his way to Lucknow. Mir Soz was already present in Lucknow before him. Mir Taqi Mir, despite being a deeply contented man who relied entirely on divine providence, was also forced to abandon Delhi in his old age. Aside from these figures, the roster of poets who left Delhi for Lucknow includes names like Mir Hasan, Syed Insha, Mushafi, Qaim, Minnat, Mamnoon, Khwaja Hasan Maudoodi, Baqa, Hairan, Fakhr, Makin, Qateel, Sikandar, Jur'at, Rangeen, Ziya, Ahsan, and Hawas. Some arrived by royal invitation, while others came uninvited. Some were native residents of Delhi, whereas others were connected to Shahjahanabad only insofar as their poetic talents had blossomed there. This exodus was not limited to poets alone. Drawn by the generous patronage of the Nawabs of Awadh, those who left Delhi to settle in Lucknow included physicians, calligraphers, architects, engineers, wrestlers, singers, kite-flyers, storytellers, and royal chefs—in short, masters of every conceivable art.

In those days, although poetry was cultivated in various parts of the country, only the language of Shahjahanabad was deemed authentic. Therefore, unless a poet had resided in Delhi for some time to hone his craft, his language and poetry were hardly considered worthy of attention. Fadvi and Sikandar were Punjabis, yet driven by a passion to master the language, they spent years wandering the streets of Shahjahanabad. Mushafi hailed from Amroha but lived in Delhi for eleven years, eventually attaining the rank of a master through the enriching company of luminaries like Mir, Sauda, Dard, and Qaim. Qaim was originally from Chandpur, but he too had to travel to Delhi to earn his linguistic credentials. During that era, even though Akbarabad (Agra) was ranked second only to Delhi in terms of linguistic refinement, the literary elders of Delhi would still occasionally turn up their noses at the language of the Akbarabadis. Naturally, such purists would never give the time of day to the Urdu-inflected Purbi dialect of Lucknow and Faizabad. While discussing the generous patronage of the people of Lucknow, Maulana Abdul Halim Sharar noted in one of his writings:

Every displaced soul from Delhi settled down permanently the moment they arrived here. They forgot their homeland, and no desire remained in their hearts to seek out any other royal court.

However, Maulana’s assertion is incorrect. Mir Taqi Mir was invited to Lucknow with great honor, and Asaf-ud-Daula held him in the highest esteem. Yet, Mir continuously yearned for Delhi. He composed a continuous ghazal (*musalsal ghazal*) consisting of 32 couplets, the opening verse (*matla*) of which is:

Aye saba gar shehar ke logon mein ho tera guzar

Kahiyo hum sehra-nawardon ka tamami haal-e-zaar

[O gentle breeze, if you happen to pass among the people of the city,

Tell them the complete, wretched tale of us desert-wanderers.]

Throughout this entire ghazal, Mir laments his exile and reminisces about the literary gatherings of Delhi with profound longing. In the opening verse, the city refers specifically to Delhi. It is as if, in Mir’s eyes, the streets and bazaars of Lucknow held no more worth than a barren desert. Elsewhere, he says:

Kharaba Dilli ka woh chand behtar Lucknow se tha

Wahin main kaash mar jata sarasima na aata yan

[That ruin of Delhi was somewhat better than Lucknow,

Would that I had died right there, rather than coming here in distress.]

On yet another occasion, he remarks:

Aabad ujra Lucknow chand din se ab hua

Mushkil hai is kharabe mein aadam ki bood-o-baash

[This desolate Lucknow has only recently become populated,

It is difficult for a human to reside in this wasteland.]

Mir Hasan, despite being a highly dignified and solemn figure, vented his frustrations by composing a satire against Faizabad. These men, of course, were native Delhiites, but even individuals like Mushafi, who had only chanced to live in Delhi for ten or twelve years, could not forget its literary gatherings until their dying breath. For instance, in one place he writes:

Aye Mushafi mat poochh ke Dilli se nikal kar

Kya kahiye ke hum kitne pasheman hue hain

[O Mushafi, do not ask; having departed from Delhi,

How can I express the depths of my regret?]

Since the topic has been broached, one must also hear a *rubai* (quatrain) of his:

Ya Rab shehar apna yun chhuraya tune

Veerane mein mujh ko la bithaya tune

Main aur kahan yeh Lucknow ki khilqat

Aye waaye yeh kya kiya Khudaya tune

[O Lord, thus You made me abandon my city,

And brought me to sit in this desolate wasteland.

Where do I belong, and where are these people of Lucknow?

Alas! O God, what have You done?]

Mushafi’s biographical anthologies (*tazkiras*) of Urdu poets also contain frequent hints that reveal his views on Awadh and its people. For instance, in his entry on Mir Hasan, he writes, Fate cast him towards the East [*Purab*], and regarding Mir Zia, he notes, He wandered off towards the East. In short, these masters from Delhi were forced to settle in Lucknow purely to earn a livelihood; otherwise, the city held no charm for them. In their eyes, the language spoken by the people of Lucknow was not Urdu but *Purbi* (the Eastern dialect)—or rather, a *Purbi* tinged with Urdu. Furthermore, they found neither their accent nor their pronunciation to be accurate, nor did they consider the locals their equals in culture and refinement.

In those days, wherever the people of Delhi went, they were welcomed with open arms and treated with the utmost reverence. Consequently, they received a lavish reception in Lucknow as well. The more renowned figures found their way into the Nawab’s court, while even those who could not secure royal access managed to find some refuge. A major sanctuary for these displaced souls was the estate of Mirza Sulaiman Shikoh, a prince of Delhi who had left his homeland to settle in Lucknow. Besides this, there were several other minor havens. Most importantly, the people of Lucknow—from the commoners to the elite—considered it a matter of immense pride to associate with the Delhiites. They imitated their mannerisms and speech, treating whatever fell from their lips as an authoritative standard. In his book *Darya-e-Latafat*, Syed Insha has praised this enthusiasm of the people of Lucknow. Out of deference to Saadat Ali Khan, he compared Delhi and Lucknow in a manner that preserved Lucknow’s dignity without casting any aspersions on Delhi. Insha was well-versed in the art of courtly diplomacy, which is why he highly praised the language of Lucknow. Ultimately, however, his only real argument was that since all the eloquent masters of Shahjahanabad (Delhi) were now present in Lucknow, why shouldn't Lucknow rival Delhi in matters of language? At the same time, he explicitly clarified that he only considered the language of those who had migrated from Delhi to settle in Lucknow to be truly eloquent.

In short, by the 'residents of Lucknow,' we mean the inhabitants of Shahjahanabad who took up residence in Lucknow after the ruin of the capital. And by the 'residents of Delhi'—whom we consider inferior to those of Lucknow—we mean the inhabitants of Lahore, Kakori... and Meerut [who had settled in Delhi]. Therefore, the superiority of the residents of Lucknow over the residents of Delhi is not established. Rather, it merely proves the superiority of certain people of Shahjahanabad over other people of Shahjahanabad.

He goes on to say that Mirza Badi-uz-Zaman, who migrated from Delhi and settled in Allahabad, undoubtedly knows better Urdu than Jhanda Singh Chopra, who hails from Haibatpur. However, Syed Insha only considers those residents of the East (*Purab*) worthy of linguistic merit who originally migrated from Delhi to settle there. As for those who had been living in the East for generations, Insha did not consider them any better than Jhanda Singh when it came to language. In his view, whether they were Punjabis, *Purbias*, residents of Lucknow and Allahabad, or people from Lahore and Amritsar—when it came to Urdu, they all stood on equal footing. And this perspective was not limited to Syed Insha alone; at that time, this was the unanimous opinion of all Delhiites.

It appears that during the reign of Saadat Ali Khan, the people of Lucknow had begun to assert themselves. The notion had taken root among them that since they had learned the language directly from the Delhiites, they were now fully justified in claiming linguistic mastery. Otherwise, Syed Insha, who had his finger firmly on the pulse of the times, would never have initiated this debate in the first place. This idea is corroborated by other sources as well. For instance, Mushafi says:

*Bhonno ka guman yeh hai ke hum ahl-e-zaban hain*

*Dilli nahi dekhi hai zaban-dan yeh kahan hain*

[Many harbor the illusion that they are native speakers of the language,

They have never even seen Delhi; how can they claim to be masters of the tongue?]

Up until that period, however, the rulers of Awadh were still titled the Nawab Viziers of Awadh. They may have far surpassed the helpless and constrained King of Delhi in wealth, power, and authority, but the outward majesty of the Timurid monarchs remained untarnished. The traditional etiquette and protocols of the empire were still intact, and even the most arrogant rebels would bow their heads before Shah Alam and Akbar Shah II. The King of Delhi, no matter how powerless, was the living legacy of Timur and Babur. Therefore, heads bowed not merely before him, but in reverence to the enduring greatness of Timur, Babur, Akbar, and Alamgir. However, during the reign of Saadat Ali Khan’s son, Ghazi-ud-Din Haider, even this nominal supremacy of the House of Timur was wiped away. The British East India Company bestowed the title of King upon the Nawab Vizier of Awadh, and Ghazi-ud-Din Haider rose from the *masnad* (seat) of a Nawab to ascend a royal throne. Now, a rival royal court stood in direct competition with the court of Delhi, and the people of Lucknow began to vie with the Delhiites in every respect. Until then, they had not dared to claim that the language of Lucknow was superior to the Urdu of Delhi. This final step was taken by Mirza Rajab Ali Baig Surur. He was originally from Akbarabad (Agra) but had settled in Lucknow.

The mention of Mirza Rajab Ali Baig Surur brings an interesting anecdote to mind. Hakim Noor-ud-Din Qadiani had spent a considerable amount of time in Lucknow and Kanpur for his education. By chance, he happened to meet Mirza Rajab Ali Baig Surur during that period. At the time, Surur’s *Fasana-e-Ajaib* was enjoying immense popularity. Hakim Sahib thought it would be auspicious to study *Fasana-e-Ajaib* directly under the author. On the very first day, as they were reading, they reached this passage:

Maulvi Mubin is the pearl of the era, the lamp of the gathering. Maulvi Zahoorullah—*Subhan Allah*! Where does one find such a meticulous jurist? Such men are the rarities of the age. Over there is the pillar of faith, nay, Syed Muhammad, the authoritative *Mujtahid*.

At this, Hakim Sahib asked, Mirza Sahib, since when have you been a Sunni? Mirza was initially a bit flustered, but then asked, How did you figure that out? Hakim Sahib replied, While mentioning the Shia scholars, you used the phrase 'over there' (*udhar*), which implies that you have no personal affiliation with them. Mirza replied, Brother, I am indeed a Sunni, but seeing the prevailing winds of the time, I was forced to conceal my faith. It goes without saying that if a person can conceal his religious beliefs just to please others, he can easily adopt the same approach regarding literature and language. It is beside the point what Mirza Rajab Ali Baig Surur’s actual views were regarding the language of Delhi and Akbarabad. Regardless, he was the first among the people of Lucknow to attempt to establish Lucknow’s linguistic superiority over Delhi.

Surroor began writing *Fasana-e-Ajaib* during the reign of Ghazi-ud-Din Haider and completed it during the era of Nasir-ud-Din Haider. In the book's preface, he exerted his full creative prowess to praise Lucknow, and in doing so, he took frequent jabs at Delhi. For instance, in one place he writes:

If anyone has heard or seen the kind of conversation that echoes in every street of Lucknow, let them come forward and show it. From the reign of Emperor Babur to the rule of Akbar II, the famous proverb applied to Delhi: 'Neither fire in the hearth nor water in the pitcher.' The city of Delhi lay desolate. The everyday speech, accents, and the eloquence of *Urdu-e-Mualla* from the eras of all those kings can be judged from the writings of their poets. Such elegance, eloquence, and rhetorical brilliance were never found there, nor do they exist there today.

Further on, he lashes out at Mir Amman:

In his tale of the *Chahar Dervish*, Mir Amman has made the absurd claim that this language is the exclusive intellectual property and heritage of his people. They are nothing but the rubble of Delhi who have butchered the language and its idioms. May stones rain down on such intellect! It is precisely this kind of immature thinking that brings a person unwarranted disgrace.

As Surroor himself admitted, *Fasana-e-Ajaib* was written as a direct rebuttal to the tale of the *Chahar Dervish*, even though there is a gap of fifty to sixty years between the publication of the two books. However, to someone unaware of their chronological order, Surroor’s language might actually seem older. This is because Mir Amman wrote in a simple, unpretentious style, whereas Surroor conjured a magical illusion of words in the tradition of Persian prose writers. In doing so, he essentially produced an Urdu replica of the highly ornate, rhyming, and rhythmic prose found in Persian works like *Naya Bazar*, *Shabnam-e-Shadab*, and *Panj Ruqqa*. Granted, this was the prevailing literary fashion of the time, and apart from the *Chahar Dervish* or Ghalib’s letter collections *Oud-e-Hindi* and *Urdu-e-Mualla*, one rarely finds examples of straightforward prose. But there was another reason for this. In those days, although Persian was the official language in both Delhi and Lucknow, Lucknow was far more heavily dominated by Persian influence. This was because the Nawabs of Awadh were of Iranian descent and Shia by faith. Lured by the prospect of patronage and rewards, Syeds, scholars, and storytellers from Iran and Iraq flocked to the city. Under their influence, the language of Lucknow was reduced to a mere collection of Persian constructs.

However, there is yet another reason, which, in my view, is even stronger than the first two. The people of Lucknow were acutely aware that they could not compete with the people of Delhi in pure, idiomatic Urdu. They knew that if they merely imitated the language of Mir, Mirza, Insha, and Mushafi, they would always remain subordinate to the Delhiites. The moment they deviated even slightly from proper usage, the Delhiites would immediately interrupt and correct them, saying, That is not how we say it in Delhi; we say it like this. Now, who would bother traveling all the way to Shahjahanabad (Delhi) just to learn their everyday speech and put up with their arrogance? They reasoned: When it comes to Persian and Arabic, both cities are on equal footing; in fact, we might even have the upper hand. Furthermore, the great convenience is that Persian and Arabic dictionaries are readily available. Whenever in doubt, one can simply consult a book. There is no need to pore over the poetry of the old masters, nor is there any need to ask anyone for clarification. With these thoughts in mind, they adopted a linguistic style that largely freed them from the need to imitate Delhi.

In short, truth be told, the very style that the people of Lucknow presented to the world as a testament to their literary excellence and perfection was actually proof of their linguistic inadequacy. Today, the people of Punjab and the Deccan suffer from the same condition. That is, they cannot write two sentences without leaning on Arabic and Persian, and they try their utmost to avoid using pure, idiomatic Urdu. To be honest, mastering idioms is a highly complicated affair, because it is impossible to simply replace one word in an idiom with a synonym and retain its meaning.

The dominance of Persian over the language of Lucknow had begun long before the era of Ghazi-ud-Din Haider or the writing of *Fasana-e-Ajaib*. This is clearly evident throughout the linguistic samples of Delhi and Lucknow that Syed Insha presented in his book, *Darya-e-Latafat*. Among the people of Lucknow, Insha considered Nawab Imad-ul-Mulk to be the most eloquent person after Saadat Ali Khan. A sample of the Nawab's speech is as follows:

Oh Lala Bhara Mal, by God, we are deeply grieved by your circumstances. The Almighty, through His grace, bestowed upon you a life of immense abundance. Yet, your state is such that, compared to any ordinary Muslim you might think of, your palate is entirely unacquainted with true pleasure.

In stark contrast to this are the clean, refined speeches of Mir Ghaffar Munshi and Bi Nooran, which bring delight to both the tongue and the heart when read. Elsewhere in the same book, Insha expresses a single thought through the voices of two different characters: an Urdu speaker from the East (Poorab) and a resident of Shahjahanabad (Delhi). The only difference between their dialogues is that wherever the Delhiite uses common Urdu words, the Easterner substitutes them with Persian terms.

In the very beginning, the people of Delhi considered the language of Lucknow to be their own, because all the renowned poets residing in Lucknow originally hailed from Delhi. Even the poets who had stayed behind in Delhi kept their eyes fixed on the literary developments in Lucknow.

Ghazals by poets like Jur'at, Insha, and Mushafi would arrive from Lucknow, and the poets of Delhi would write their own ghazals in response to them. However, when this era ended and the age of Aatish, Nasikh, Rind, Wazir, Saba, Barq, Goya, Qalaq, Naseem, Shauq, Rashk, Bahr, and Amanat began, rivalries flared up between Delhi and Lucknow. With perhaps one or two exceptions, all of these Lucknow poets were born in the city, and it was there that their poetry flourished. These figures openly raised the banner of rebellion against Delhi. They began incorporating many words from the *Poorbi* (Eastern) dialect—which had not yet been accepted into Urdu—into their writing and speech. Furthermore, they exercised independent judgment regarding the gender of words (masculine and feminine). They amended the traditional rules of gender, compiled a list of obsolete words (*matrukat*), and declared certain words used in both Delhi and Lucknow as un-idiomatic (*taksal bahar*). The literary elders of Delhi certainly frowned upon this audacity. However, since the language and poetry of Lucknow were heavily patronized by the wealthy Kings of Awadh, no one dared to criticize them openly. Yet, one should not assume that the people of Delhi accepted the linguistic modifications made by the people of Lucknow, or that they acknowledged Lucknow's central authority. They still considered Delhi the true center of the language, openly declaring, Whatever lies outside these bounds is foreign. Although Mir Anis spent his life in Lucknow, he remained a follower of the Delhi idiom. While reciting a *marsiya* (elegy), if a specific Delhi idiom appeared, he would remark, Gentlemen, they do not speak like this in Lucknow, or This is not the language of the people of Lucknow. Among the poets of Delhi, Mirza Asghar Ali Naseem was the first to accept the linguistic modifications of Lucknow. Naseem, a disciple of Momin Khan, arrived in Lucknow shortly before Wajid Ali Shah was deposed. Consequently, several *qasidas* (panegyrics) in praise of Wajid Ali Shah can be found in his poetry collection. It remains unknown whether he ever gained access to the royal court, but his language bears a profound influence from Lucknow. This was the prevailing atmosphere when Wajid Ali Shah was deposed and exiled to Calcutta. A year later, the Mutiny of 1857 erupted. The scholars and literati of both Delhi and Lucknow were scattered, and for a long time, no one spared a thought for linguistic disputes. When these uprooted literary circles reconvened in Rampur, the debate between Delhi and Lucknow was reignited. Articles began appearing in newspapers and magazines discussing the gender of words and the origins of idioms. Consequently, the country found itself divided into two linguistic camps. From Lahore to Bareilly, the language of Delhi was considered authoritative, while the entire region from Bareilly to Calcutta fell under the linguistic domain of Lucknow.

In the debate between Lucknow and Delhi, the issue of gender is considered highly significant. Truth be told, however, it is quite difficult to definitively state that a particular word is masculine according to the people of Lucknow and feminine according to the people of Delhi. There are many words over which the writers of Lucknow themselves disagree. Similarly, some master poets of Delhi have treated a specific word as masculine, while others have treated it as feminine. For instance, the word *jaan* (life/soul) is unanimously considered feminine, yet poets like Mir, Sauda, and Soz have also used it as a masculine noun. Regarding the word *saans* (breath), the general consensus is that it is feminine in Lucknow and masculine in Delhi. However, Zauq writes:

*Na bharte dam jo kisi shola-roo ki khwahish ka*

*Toh thandi saans hamesha bhara na karte hum*

[Had we not breathed a sigh of desire for a flame-faced beauty,

We would not be forever heaving cold sighs.]

Furthermore, Zauq’s disciples, Dagh and Azad, have also treated it as feminine. Similarly, Nasikh advocates for the word *lafz* (word) being masculine, but his disciple, Mir Ausat Ali Rashk, writes:

*Wasl ki raat bana nama-e-shauq gesu!*

*Shaam lafzein, mein safedi hai sahar kaghaz ki*

[On the night of union, the tresses became a letter of love!

The words are the evening, and the whiteness of the paper is the dawn.]

Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the gender of certain words—such as *qalam* (pen), *iltimas* (request), *nishat* (joy), *mataa* (wealth), *fikr* (worry), *saans* (breath), *niqab* (veil), *aaghosh* (embrace), *jor* (joint), *mala* (garland), and *lafz* (word)—remains a point of contention between Lucknow and Delhi. At this juncture, however, it seems appropriate to point out that poetic necessity often compels a poet to treat a word as either masculine or feminine. In such moments, the poet forgets whether they are a follower of the Delhi idiom or an adherent of Lucknow. Additionally, it is worth noting that the surrounding words often play a significant role in determining the gender of a particular word.

Jalal Lakhnavi holds the same opinion on this matter. Some time ago, while commenting on an article in the *Awadh Akhbar*, he stated that one could exercise independent judgment regarding gender based on the context and situation.

One of the major achievements attributed to the later poets of Lucknow is their insistence on using Arabic and Persian loanwords in their original forms. However, some Lucknow poets began to take this practice to an extreme. For instance, on one occasion, Rashk used the original Arabic pronunciation *tam'eez* instead of the common Urdu *tameez* (discernment):

*Khauf-e-sayyad usay kya na ho tam'eez jise*

*Murgh-e-tasveer kabhi laiq-e-fitraak nahi*

[Why would one who lacks discernment not fear the hunter?

A painted bird is never worthy of the hunter's saddle-strap.]

*Harkat* (movement) and *barkat* (blessing) are Arabic words. The Iranians, too, have used them with a silent 'r' (as *harkat* and *barkat*). For example, Qudsi says:

*Ke dar khirman-e-umr barkat namand...*

[For no blessing remained in the harvest of life...]

Mulla Fauqi writes:

*Ze-bas khush harkat o shireen ada bood*

[Since she was of such graceful movement and sweet demeanor...]

However, most of the later poets of Lucknow have used the original Arabic vocalization, *harakat* and *barakat*. For example:

*Dil hi dil mein ba-khudaya dabtaan rehti hai*

*Harakat se jo zaban apni yahan rehti hai*

[By God, it remains suppressed deep within the heart,

When my tongue remains in motion here.]

Similarly, they took Arabic and Persian words that had gained currency in Urdu with altered meanings and reverted them to their original definitions. For example, in Urdu, the word *mashkoor* is commonly used to mean thankful. The people of Lucknow, however, would insist on using *mamnoon* in this context. Upon seeing *mashkoor* used to mean thankful in one of Sir Syed’s writings, Maulana Abdul Halim Sharar raised an objection. In response, Sir Syed declared that Maulvi Sharar should accept his writing itself as the authoritative standard.

However, this kind of extremism regarding loanwords is unjustified. When a person leaves their homeland to settle in another country, they do not bring their native laws with them; rather, they abide by the laws of their new home. This holds true whether they come from the holy city of Mashhad or the illuminated city of Medina. The same principle applies to language: Arabic and Persian words that have entered Urdu are now subject to the rules of Urdu. Imposing the rules of Arabic grammar upon them is fundamentally incorrect.

There are also differences in the pronunciation of certain words between Lucknow and Delhi. For example, in Delhi, the word for a swing is pronounced *peeng* (with a long 'ee' sound). In Lucknow, it is pronounced *peng* and is used in the plural form, much like the word *kartoot* (misdeeds). In Delhi, both *pehnana* and *pinhana* (to dress someone) are used, whereas the people of Lucknow only say *pehnana*. Delhi uses both *tanoor* and *tandoor* (clay oven), but Lucknow exclusively uses *tanoor*. In Delhi, the word for pushing is *dhakelna* (with a soft 'dh'), while in Lucknow it is *dhakelna* (with a hard, retroflex 'dh'). Delhi says *kishti* (boat), whereas Lucknow says *kashti*. In Delhi, *sir* (head) is considered the eloquent pronunciation, while in Lucknow, *sar* is preferred. Delhi uses *maror* (twist), while Lucknow uses *maror* (with a hard 'r'). In Delhi, both *theherna* and *theerna* (to stay/stop) are in use, but the people of Lucknow consider only *theherna* to be correct. Additionally, certain words derived from the Poorbi dialect are exclusive to Lucknow. For instance, in Delhi, a greengrocer is called *kunjra* (male) and *kunjran* (female). In Lucknow, the terms *kabariya* and *kabaran* are used for the same meaning. In Delhi, the word *tham* is used to mean a pillar, but the people of Lucknow only say *kham* and do not use *tham* in this context. Lucknow uses both *andhiyara* and *andhera* for darkness, whereas Delhi exclusively uses *andhera*.

There are also differences in the idioms used in the two cities. Some idioms traveled from Delhi to Lucknow, but as they became part of everyday speech, they morphed into something entirely different. For example, the Delhi idiom for making excuses is *aalay baalay batana*. In the same context, the people of Lucknow say *taalay baalay batana*. The speakers in Lucknow likely focused on the literal meaning of the idiom (evasion) and replaced *aalay* with *taalay* (from *taalna*, to put off). Certain idioms are entirely specific to Lucknow. For instance, while Delhi uses *rakhai baratna* (to act aloof), Lucknow also uses *rakhai ki lena*. There is an abundance of idioms that originated in Lucknow and are spoken exclusively there. However, these are mostly associated with kite-flyers, pigeon-fanciers, quail-fighters, or other such pastimes and professions that flourished particularly in Lucknow.

In my view, however, the most significant linguistic modifications made by the people of Lucknow lie in certain grammatical rules, the strict adherence to which was heavily emphasized by the later poets of Lucknow. For example, they established a rule that the infinitive marker (*-na*) cannot be altered. Consider this famous couplet by Dagh:

بات تک کرنی نہ آتی تھی تمہیں

یہ ہمارے سامنے کی بات ہے

[Baat tak karni na aati thi tumhein

Yeh hamaray samnay ki baat hai]

(You did not even know how to converse properly;

This is a matter from our own time.)

According to the scholars of Lucknow, the word *karni* in the first line should be replaced with the standard infinitive *karna*. For instance, Ameer Minai says:

باغباں کلیاں ہوں ہلکے رنگ کی

بھیجنا ہیں ایک کم سن کے لیے

[Baghban kaliyan hon halkay rang ki

Bhejna hain aik kamsin ke liye]

(O gardener, let the buds be of a delicate hue;

They are to be sent to someone young and tender.)

It is true that the poets of Lucknow themselves occasionally broke this rule, but such examples are quite rare. Daya Shankar Naseem writes:

سوچا کہ یہ زلف کف میں لینی

ہے سانپ کے منہ میں انگلی دینی

[Socha ke yeh zulf kaf mein leni

Hai saanp ke munh mein ungli deni]

(I thought that taking this lock of hair in my hand

Is like putting a finger in a snake's mouth.)

Rashk says:

لکھنی ہے مجھ کو تہنیت ابتدائے خط

[Likhni hai mujh ko tehniyat ibtada-e-khat]

(I must write a greeting at the beginning of the letter.)

Ameer Minai, too, deviated from this principle in one instance:

مشکل پڑی حضور کو گھر رات کاٹنی

دیکھے ہمارے نالۂ شب گیر کے خواص

[Mushkil pari huzoor ko ghar raat kaatni

Dekhay hamaray nala-e-shab-geer ke khawas]

(It became difficult for you to pass the night at home;

Behold the effects of my midnight lamentations.)

Furthermore, they established a rule regarding Arabic words that are feminine in their singular form: when pluralized according to Arabic grammar, they must be treated as masculine in Urdu. Consequently, words like *karamat* (miracles), *aayat* (verses), *inayat* (favors), and *aafat* (calamities) are considered masculine by the people of Lucknow.

This raises the question: why did the literary masters of Lucknow deviate from the established linguistic principles of their time? There could be two reasons for this. The first is that these venerable figures wanted to spread the Urdu language across the entire country, and therefore, they devised these rules to simplify it. However, if we consider the prevailing attitudes of that era, it becomes clear that no one was actually interested in promoting the language. On the contrary, rather than spreading it, these masters wanted to confine the language strictly to their own city. The second, more plausible reason seems to be that the people of Lucknow adopted this method to avoid the endless disputes over grammatical gender (masculine vs. feminine). In my opinion, this is the stronger argument. At that time, Lucknow's poetry was at its zenith, and its literary masters made grand claims about their linguistic expertise. Despite this, the people of Delhi never accepted their language as authentic. Consider Mirza Ghalib: although he praised certain poets from Lucknow, when someone asked him about the correct gender of the word *rath* (chariot), he penned this biting remark: In the East [Awadh], they even say *hathni aaya* (the female elephant *came* [using a masculine verb]). In short, by establishing these two rules, the people of Lucknow managed to free themselves, to a certain extent, from the complications of grammatical gender.

Another major undertaking by the masters of Lucknow was declaring certain commonly used words of the time as obsolete (*matrook*). Firstly, for any individual—no matter how great a master they may be—to arbitrarily declare specific words as outside the mint (unacceptable) is sheer high-handedness. Words that do not naturally fit into a language fade away on their own. Secondly, this list of obsolete words included terms whose exact nuances could not be conveyed by any other word. For example, we even find the word *so* (so/therefore) on this list, and it is obvious that no other word can perfectly capture its meaning. In addition, the use of words and phrases like *beej* (in/middle), *peh* (on), *peh* (when used to mean *lekin* or 'but'), *talak* (until), *yaan* (here), *waan* (there), *leejay* (please take), *mat* (do not), *aaye hai* (comes), *jaaye hai* (goes), *howay* (may be), *laik* (but), and *baaray* (at last/finally) was also abandoned. However, people of literary taste accepted very few of these omissions. Words like *baaray*, *aaye hai*, *jaaye hai*, *so*, and *talak* can still be found in the works of Lucknow’s own poets. Hasrat Mohani, while quoting Naseem Dehlvi’s line, *Rahm aa jata hai dushman ki giraftari par* (I feel pity upon the capture of my enemy), rightly pointed out that it would have been much better had he written *Rahm aa jaaye hai* instead.

Among the objections raised by the people of Lucknow against the language of Delhi, a major one is that Delhi’s language is heavily influenced by Punjabi. In my view, this is not an unforgivable crime. The poetry of Mir and Sauda, and even the poets who came after them, contains Punjabi words that were only later discarded. For example, *disna* for seeing; *jad*, *tad*, and *kad* instead of *jab* (when), *tab* (then), and *kab* (when); *tain* instead of *tu* (you); *newna* for bowing; *noonh* instead of *nakhun* (nail); and *dhee* instead of *beti* (daughter). And why limit this to the poets of Delhi? The language of Lucknow itself contains an abundance of Punjabi words and idioms. For instance, *dukhiyan sunana* (to tell one's tales of sorrow) is a Punjabi idiom. Shauq writes:

موا دکھیاں مجھ پہ چھوڑا کیا

[Mua dukhiyan mujh pe chhora kiya]

(The wretched fellow kept pouring his tales of sorrow upon me.)

The proverb *Kuch gehun geelay aur kuch jandray dheelay* (Partly the wheat is wet, and partly the millstones are loose) also comes from Punjabi. The words *jandar* and *jandray* (millstones) are nowhere to be found in the Urdu dictionary. These idioms are common to both Delhi and Lucknow. There are also certain words that are spoken exclusively in Punjab and Lucknow. For example, in Delhi, *ghutna* refers to a garment similar to shorts, and nowadays, even shorts are called *ghutna*. However, in both Lucknow and Punjab, *ghutna* refers to a tight-fitting pajama.

Another objection is that, under the influence of Punjab, the people of Delhi make mistakes in their use of the postposition *ne*. In Punjab, *ne* is used incorrectly in two specific contexts. However, examples of this incorrect usage are very rarely found in the works of Punjabi poets and prose writers. As far as I can recall, only one famous poet has used *ne* incorrectly in a line of verse, and even that was done deliberately. The line is:

*Tu ne ulfat mujh se karni hai toh kar mere liye*

[If you must love me, then do it for my sake]

Grammatically, this verse is correct because *ne* is the subject marker. According to the rules, it should indeed be *tu ne* (you). But what can be done when idiom—whose court is higher than that of grammar—does not deem this verse correct? According to its decree, it should be: Tujh ko ulfat mujh se karni hai toh kar mere liye (If you must love me, then do it for my sake). This error is specific to Punjab. No example of it can be found in the work of any poet from Delhi.

The people of Punjab make another mistake in the use of *ne*. They write sentences like Main ne Dilli dekhi hui hai (I have seen Delhi). This error is even more egregious because both grammar and idiom rule against it. Grammatically, this is not a verbal sentence but a nominal sentence because it lacks a verb entirely. *Dekhi hui* (seen) is a past participle, and *hai* (is) is a copula. It is obvious that in a sentence without a verb, there can be no subject. Therefore, instead of Main ne Dilli dekhi hui hai, one should say Dilli meri dekhi hui hai (Delhi is seen by me). However, this mistake is also present among the poets of Delhi, and examples of it are found in abundance in the poetry of Bahadur Shah Zafar. For instance:

*Tum ne gar hota usay ae meherbaan dekha hua*

[O kind one, had you seen him]

Or again:

*Hum ne hai khoob uss ki tarz-e-naaz pehchani hui*

*Chaal pehchani hui, aawaz pehchani hui*

[I have well recognized her coquettish ways / Recognized her gait, recognized her voice]

But if this was how people spoke in the Red Fort, then I would hesitate a thousand times before accepting the decree of grammar. I have already submitted that idiom being influenced by Punjab is not an unpardonable sin. Look at the phrase *lag gaye* (started/began); today, it is only on the tongues of Punjabis, and when a Punjabi poet or prose writer writes *lag gaye*, fingers are pointed at them. Yet, Mir Taqi Mir is also a partner with the Punjabis in this crime. Thus, he says in one place:

*Be-sarfa rone lag gaye hum bhi agar kabhi*

*Toh dekhiyo yeh baad yeh saara baha phira*

[If ever I too started weeping without restraint / Then watch, all this would be washed away]

Lucknow made hundreds of alterations to Urdu within thirty or forty years. It changed many of the very rules of the language. If Punjab altered two or three idioms, what does it matter? Just consider it as: *Hum se bhi ek laghzish-e-mastana ho gayi* [We too committed an intoxicated slip].

And now the world itself has changed. Urdu has been completely exiled from U.P. The situation in Delhi is almost the same. That is, even there, Khari Boli—which until yesterday was of no consequence—is displacing Urdu and taking its place. And the displaced people of Delhi, who once populated Faizabad and Lucknow, have now pitched their tents in Lahore and other cities of Western Punjab. It would be no surprise if, in the future, some other city attains the same status that Lucknow held for an era:

*Meri nigah nahin su-e-Basra-o-Baghdad*

*Karenge ahl-e-nazar taaza bastiyan aabad*

[My eyes are not fixed on Basra and Baghdad / The people of vision will populate new settlements]

Although several Indian cities contributed to the development of Urdu, only two are recognized as its primary centers: Delhi and Lucknow. Consequently, even today—an era where the strict rules of language and idiom are gradually fading, and claims of my word is the authentic one echo from every corner of the country—whenever the correct usage of a word is sought, eyes instinctively turn toward Delhi or Lucknow.

Delhi, of course, attained the status of a master only after ages of toil and dedication. However, the astonishing speed with which Lucknow established its authoritative claim over Urdu is truly remarkable. The era from Asaf-ud-Daula to Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar spans a mere twenty-five to thirty years. Yet, within this brief period, the world witnessed a remarkable spectacle: Lucknow, which had once proudly claimed to be a disciple of Shahjahanabad (Delhi), rapidly traversed all the stages of apprenticeship and mastery, ultimately standing its ground as Delhi's equal and formidable rival.

Until the early eighteenth century, the old city of Ayodhya served as the capital of Awadh, while Lucknow was merely a small town. During the reign of Muhammad Shah, when Nawab Saadat Khan Burhan-ul-Mulk was appointed the governor of Awadh, he laid the foundation for a new settlement on the banks of the Ghaghara River, a short distance from Ayodhya. This settlement was initially known as Bangla and later became famous as Faizabad. Under Burhan-ul-Mulk’s successor, Safdar Jung, this city remained the capital of Awadh. Safdar Jung’s son, Shuja-ud-Daula, did reside in Lucknow for a few years, but following the Battle of Buxar, he too relocated to Faizabad, where he remained until his last breath. It was his successor, Asaf-ud-Daula, who took up permanent residence in Lucknow. Thus, it is fair to say that the rise of Lucknow began in the late eighteenth century, during the reign of Asaf-ud-Daula.

This was a highly turbulent era for Delhi. First came a series of civil wars, followed by the chaos orchestrated by the king-making Syed brothers. Once their power was broken, Delhi suffered a devastating calamity at the hands of Nader Shah. Subsequently, the Afghans, Jats, and Marathas rose up, and for years, Delhi remained a battleground for their mutual power struggles. Yet, paradoxically, the development of Urdu also took place during this very era of upheavals. On one hand, the tumult of marching armies and battlefields raged on; on the other, elegant poetry gatherings continued to be hosted. Whenever a brief respite of peace emerged amidst the military invasions and troop formations, the disrupted literary circles would reconvene, and the inner anguish and passion of the poets would mold itself into the form of the ghazal. However, once Shah Alam retreated into the Red Fort as a mere pensioner of the East India Company, this vibrant cultural gathering was dispersed forever, never to be assembled again.

Some of Delhi’s masters had already bid farewell to their homeland, while others continued to hold on, honoring their old traditions. Eventually, however, the situation deteriorated to the point that, save for Khwaja Mir Dard and one or two other venerable figures, no renowned poet remained in Delhi. For these displaced souls, there were only two or three viable refuges: Murshidabad, Hyderabad Deccan, or Faizabad and Lucknow. Given the lack of travel facilities in that era, most people journeyed as far as Awadh and settled there. A few courageous individuals pressed on, eventually reaching Bengal or the Deccan. Ashraf Ali Khan Fughan first arrived at the court of Shuja-ud-Daula; when he grew weary of it, he set out for Azimabad. Sauda was summoned by Shuja-ud-Daula but initially refused to go. Sometime later, when surviving in Delhi became impossible, he moved to Farrukhabad and from there made his way to Lucknow. Mir Soz was already present in Lucknow before him. Mir Taqi Mir, despite being a deeply contented man who relied entirely on divine providence, was also forced to abandon Delhi in his old age. Aside from these figures, the roster of poets who left Delhi for Lucknow includes names like Mir Hasan, Syed Insha, Mushafi, Qaim, Minnat, Mamnoon, Khwaja Hasan Maudoodi, Baqa, Hairan, Fakhr, Makin, Qateel, Sikandar, Jur'at, Rangeen, Ziya, Ahsan, and Hawas. Some arrived by royal invitation, while others came uninvited. Some were native residents of Delhi, whereas others were connected to Shahjahanabad only insofar as their poetic talents had blossomed there. This exodus was not limited to poets alone. Drawn by the generous patronage of the Nawabs of Awadh, those who left Delhi to settle in Lucknow included physicians, calligraphers, architects, engineers, wrestlers, singers, kite-flyers, storytellers, and royal chefs—in short, masters of every conceivable art.