Nazm Ki Zabaan

The concept of language cannot be imagined without society. An individual does not have a language of their own; they learn a language from society. Despite the importance of writing, the foundation of language lies in speech. Once a language is learned, it becomes a habit. Class differences are also found in language, and it undergoes constant change. As Mario Pei noted, a language that does not change becomes a dead language. This change occurs in sounds, words, grammar, and semantic relationships. While language continues to change, it also strives to achieve a standard and then maintain it.

Literary styles, a strong central government, uniformity in the educational curriculum, means of trade and transportation, military service, a developed bureaucratic system, and the concept of a single religion or nationality also help in establishing this standard. If the power to maintain the standard weakens, the capacity for change exerts an even greater influence. Generally, changes in written language follow changes in spoken language. A good language is one that reflects the entirety of its culture.

If we keep this concept of language in mind, literary language will not be considered so sacred, nor will its extreme distance from spoken language be tolerated merely for the sake of some of its merits. Obviously, literary language is the standard language; it is another name for the best possible arrangement of words. Here, words are not merely keys to information as they are in scientific language, nor are they merely functional as in spoken language; here, the expression of words is creative. They leave a profound impact, open the windows of the mind, build nameless bridges in the void, and capture time and space. Gradually, however, they suffer the same fate as polished rice from which the life-giving essence has been extracted. If literary language distances itself from spoken language, no matter how beautiful it may appear, it becomes like paper flowers that look pleasing to the eye but yield no fragrance, nor do bees buzz around them.

The language of poetry is different from that of prose. Poetry is creative expression; prose is constructive. The language of poetry evokes emotion, while prose imparts knowledge. One moves the reader, the other persuades them. Nevertheless, both are two facets of the standard language that support each other and compensate for each other's shortcomings.

Eliot has mentioned the three voices of poetry. The first is the voice of the poet talking to himself. The second is when he addresses an audience, and the third is when he speaks through the voice of a fictional or real character. When the poet is talking to himself, even though he is still using this social tool of language, he becomes somewhat detached from the world. In my view, the language of the *ghazal* represents this first voice. Since our *ghazal* is no longer merely an account of matters of the heart, its language has not remained confined to the poet's soliloquy; rather, the rhythm of the other two voices has also been incorporated into it. This is a positive development, but the *ghazal* is fundamentally the spokesperson of the first voice. Therefore, it cannot fully represent the second and third voices.

It is a great favor of Ghalib and Iqbal that they transformed the discourse of love into the book of the universe, but this book is like Mughal miniature paintings. It is a book of hints and allusions, and we cannot remain solely reliant on it. The language of the *nazm* (poem) must differ from the language of the *ghazal* because the canvas of the *nazm* is vastly broader. It can also utilize the constructive capacity of prose. It requires explicitness rather than mere allusion. It has room for the poet's second and third voices, and even the first voice can be heard in such a way that the different voices blend into a symphony, becoming a treasure trove of joy and insight.

Eliot has also said elsewhere that a poet who possesses originality goes directly to life, whereas a poet who is imitative and derivative tends to lean toward literature. This can also be stated by saying that the first type of poet uses a living language, while the second type uses a bookish one. The language of Urdu poetry is largely bookish, and a major portion of this bookish language consists of *ghazals*. This does not mean that I am ignoring Mir, Sauda, Soz, Dard, Jur'at, Aatish, Zauq, Daagh, Hasrat, Arzoo, and others. However, it is certainly true that despite them, my intention is to point out how the language of the *ghazal* as a whole has been influenced by Nasikh, Ghalib, Iqbal, and Fani.

Bookish language can be clarified with another example. Wordsworth called the language of eighteenth-century English poetry artificial. He found a lack of life in its richness and maturity, and sought to bring the language of poetry closer to spoken language by reducing the prevailing distinction between prose and poetry. He even experimented with this in his own poems, some of which were successful and others unsuccessful. Coleridge tempered his rebellious zeal. But there is no doubt that Wordsworth had put his finger on the exact problem, and through his influence, English poetry gained new emotion, new energy, new life, a new tone, and a new style. What is the secret of his power? Wordsworth, despite being natural, is artificial because he is literary; yet his effort is healthy and has yielded very positive results. In our tradition, too, this kind of effort begins with Hali. Similar indications are found in his work:

San'at pe ho farefta aalam agar tamaam

Haan saadgi se aaiyo apni na baaz tu

[Even if the entire world is enamored with artifice,

Do not, however, abandon your simplicity.]

In his *Muqaddama-e-Sher-o-Shairi* (Prolegomena to Poetry), drawing upon a sentence by Milton found in one of his essays on speech, Hali also emphasized simplicity, authenticity, and passion. But can we honestly say that Hali's perspective has completely transformed our concept of the language of poetry? There is no doubt that Hali had a profound impact, but overall, the language of the *nazm* still retains a strong classical hue and rhythm, and the dominance of the *ghazal's* language over it is undeniable.

The influence of the *ghazal's* language is profound for another reason as well. The sensibility of the average Urdu poet can only express a few fixed and formulaic themes: romantic love, a vague sort of humanism, conventional morality, a limited concept of knowledge, the superiority of love over intellect, class consciousness, an urban temperament, and a specific religious hue. Here, I am not merely speaking in the sense in which Azad criticized the language of Urdu poetry, nor only in the sense in which Firaq lamented the lack of ancient Indian elements in Urdu. Rather, I am talking about the limitation of the cultural atmosphere, which is more indicative of a feudal mindset—one that lacks a full realization of social changes and mourns change more than it welcomes it. It is a mindset that believes more in stagnation than in construction, and which considers the past to be limited only to the recent past, unwilling to venture further back.

Therefore, in my view, it would be ideal if the language of the *nazm* could rise above the richness of the *ghazal's* language, its symbolism, its cultural inclinations, and its social and moral values. There is no denying the impact and beauty of a surgeon's scalpel, but in the age of the spade, the battles of life cannot be won with a scalpel alone. The scalpel will still be needed, but merely taking pride in it will no longer suffice.

The foundation of the *nazm's* language must undoubtedly be everyday speech. However, since the *nazm* is a branch of literature, the carelessness and disorder of spoken language—its unevenness and its bluntness regarding sexual matters—must be passed through the sieve of a literary standard. This filtering should be done in a way that retains all of the language's accessible, vibrant, and emotionally resonant elements, while sifting out its niche slang, immaturity, vulgarity, and casual stumbles. Furthermore, the holes in this sieve must be large enough to allow a good amount of bran to pass through along with the flour, thereby preserving its nutritional value. This language will also have to completely free itself from the grammatical constraints of Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit.

Today, in our prose, we do not combine Hindi and Persian words using the Persian possessive construct (*izafat*), though classical writers paid little attention to this rule. We still use Persian compound words that are understood only by a limited elite. This is why the average Urdu speaker, whose knowledge of Persian is practically nonexistent, cannot understand what we are saying. While acknowledging and respecting the greatness of Ghalib and Iqbal, we should not hesitate to admit that even if the Ghalibs and Iqbals of the future were capable of using this exact same language, very few people would understand them. To reach the widest possible audience, they will have to rely on spoken Urdu as their foundation. In doing so, they would essentially be adopting the approach of the classical masters. This would not be unprecedented; many before them have bypassed the recent past to forge a connection with a more distant one.

Secondly, to articulate and assert their ideas, these poets will have to move away from mere hints, allusions, fleeting glimpses, and dazzling displays. Instead, they must adopt a sustained and constructive mode of expression—one with a clear beginning, middle, and end. In other words, they will need to embrace a profound understanding of form. Consequently, the *nazm* must evolve beyond being just a short *masnavi*, a *musaddas*, or a few loosely connected stanzas; unrhymed and free verse will need to be developed further. Because the Urdu literary world is largely conservative and traditional, it did not treat the unrhymed or free verse movement kindly. However, as T.S. Eliot noted, free verse does not mean liberation from the constraints of art; rather, it represents a fresh and far deeper loyalty to it. It frees itself from a few trivial restrictions only to shoulder much heavier responsibilities.

The third voice of poetry can only be fully represented through unrhymed or free verse. Our classical *masnavis* contain thousands of couplets, but the strict symmetry of their lines can be as monotonous as the highly regulated, smooth, and marching poetry of the eighteenth century. When the rigid equality of metrical feet becomes tedious and chops a thought into perfectly equal fragments, even the minor constraint of a rhyme scheme acts as a dam against the natural flow of consciousness. The point here is not to completely abandon the *radif* (refrain) or *qafiya* (rhyme), nor is it a proposal to banish metered poetry from literature altogether.

Unlike Azmatullah Khan, I am absolutely not prepared to declare that the *ghazal* should be ruthlessly beheaded. This is merely a matter of expanding our understanding of language and art. If our poetic genres were freed from the dictatorship of rhyme, refrain, and rigid meters—a vice grip that squeezes the very marrow out of words, leaving us to string together necklaces of their dry bones—we would no longer have to dilute the potency of our wine for fear of melting the glass. We would not have to place so many dams on our thoughts, nor settle for presenting them in fragmented pieces. Our ideas would not be distorted by the technical compulsions of art; instead, they would finally have the opportunity to display their full intensity and impact.

The experiment with unrhymed and free verse would have been far more successful had it been rooted in everyday spoken language. However, not only did it fail to adopt the spoken tongue, but the themes it often selected were entirely disconnected from ordinary life. It became a thick veil used to conceal the deviance of a few morbid and warped minds. N.M. Rashid’s mindset is vastly different from Iqbal’s, yet his language is no less steeped in Persian. And because Rashid, unlike Iqbal, makes little effort to actively communicate with his audience, one has to exert considerable effort to untangle the complexities of his mind.

There is a marked difference between the Rashid of *Mawara* and the Rashid of *Iran Mein Ajnabi*. The Rashid of *Iran Mein Ajnabi* does not merely want to unburden himself of his experiences; he actually wants to say something. Consequently, there is less reliance on the spellbinding magic of complex vocabulary here. However, because he has not fully succeeded in breaking out of his shell, he is still forced to take refuge in a bookish language. Meeraji is much more successful in this regard. If we set aside the poems where sexual experiences are expressed through a highly symbolic style, he writes in a remarkably clean and clear language. In poems like *Clerk Ka Naghma-e-Mohabbat* (The Clerk's Love Song), he is highly successful and demonstrates a mastery over language that does true justice to his subject matter.

Rashid and Meeraji had their own internal conflicts that constrained them, but the political poets also wreaked their fair share of havoc on the literary chessboard. Fundamentally, there is no difference between the language of Iqbal and the language of Josh, even though their messages are worlds apart. Like Josh, Iqbal is acutely aware of the agonies of the present. However, for Iqbal, the remedy does not lie in burning the past to ashes; rather, it lies in extracting wholesome, foundational values from the past to forge a path through the swamp of the present. When he declares that the people of vision will build new settlements, those settlements may not literally be Kufa and Baghdad, but the essence of Kufa and Baghdad will certainly be present in them in a new hue. Josh, on the other hand, is utterly disillusioned with the past. Yet, he clings so stubbornly to its archaic language that if someone casually remarks, We haven't met in a long *arsa* (using *arsa* in its common Urdu sense of 'time' or 'period'), he knits his brows and retorts, What, you haven't met a battlefield? (insisting on the classical Arabic meaning of the word).

Josh claims to interpret life, yet he writes in a bookish language. To borrow T.S. Eliot’s terminology, Iqbal is an original poet, whereas Josh is a derivative one. In Josh’s work, the new life is merely a new cloak; through its slits, the old garment constantly peeks through. Similarly, certain Progressive poets did not err by adopting the language or themes of the common people. Their mistake was twofold: first, they exploited these themes and this language for narrow political and temporary objectives. They built embankments around a stream that was naturally flowing in its own rhythm, forcing it onto what they considered the straight path, and thereby destroying its beauty. Second, by injecting a bookish mindset into the language of the masses, they birthed a kind of poetry that carried the ugliness and mentality of politics. It contained the dry dregs of the common people's language, but its true essence and flavor had vanished.

Poetry of the people is not created merely by reading books, drafting political documents, or participating in party programs. It can emerge despite these things, provided the poet truly *becomes* the people—just as Flaubert declared, I am Madame Bovary, or as Romain Rolland said, I am Annette. The minds confined within classrooms, offices, drawing rooms, and party headquarters lacked the flexibility required for this transformation. The example of Josh and a few Progressive poets—who either experimented with political themes using traditional, constrained forms, or produced formulaic poetry under the guise of free verse and folk songs—serves as a cautionary tale. It is particularly alarming because some people drew entirely the wrong conclusions from it.

Instead of the mindset required for true revolutionary poetry, they merely possessed a rebellious one. Instead of the language needed for such poetry, they relied on a language suited only for the social entertainment of a *mushaira* (poetry symposium). It could not illuminate the mind, nor were their literary experiments conducted with complete honesty. For these experiments to succeed, one light in the mind had to be extinguished so that another could be lit. The artificial atmosphere of urban life and its cunning intellect had to be replaced by absorbing the simple, unpretentious, and innocent atmosphere of the villages. This experiment failed not because success was impossible, but because it lacked sincerity. To make matters worse, these folks made a spectacle of it, auctioning off the harvest the moment the seeds were sown.

No matter how disdainfully some might view the revival of cultural activities in modern India, it represents an independent nation's natural effort to strengthen its foundations and discover its true self. It is an attempt to absorb the pain, scars, passion, and vitality of the entire country within our otherwise limited, artificial, and commercial environment. It is an endeavor to arrive at the true concept of culture. It is an effort to enrich literature through a comprehensive understanding of culture, drawing upon the familiar and tested experiences of the fine arts, and filling it with the treasures of insight, hard work, service, sorrow, and solace. This approach is far healthier than merely adopting Western experiments, which immature minds glean from books. The patterns of humanism, tolerance, and unity in diversity that emerge on this cultural canvas are essential for national integrity. Only through this path can we truly benefit from Western experiments in any meaningful way.

I do not believe that the language of Urdu poetry is foreign. However, I do concede that, by and large, it represents the thoughts and mindset of a very limited demographic in our country—namely, the urban middle class of North India. I also acknowledge that unlike modern English poetry, which remains accessible despite its literary qualities, our poetry is not easily understood by the common person. At the same time, I firmly believe that our language possesses the full potential to reflect the entirety of our cultural landscape. To achieve this, however, our poets must cultivate a deep faith and confidence in the power, excellence, and grandeur of poetry.

Whether or not a poet's lifeblood becomes a commercial commodity, it will inevitably continue to write the laws of cultivating the barren desert. No matter how much it confronts the cruelty and callousness of the industrial age, it will continue to carve a river of milk from its Mount Behistun, for the trials of love never truly end. However, the poet must decide: in interpreting their era, are they content merely playing the role of a public health inspector? Are they simply dazzled by the bandmaster’s shiny uniform and the cheering crowds? Or do they intend to avenge their own failures and frustrations by declaring every bunch of grapes sour simply because they haven't tasted them?

A poet is not obligated to shiver in the cold while feigning ecstasy over the brilliance of festival lights, nor must they sing praises of successful government schemes at someone else's behest. Their loyalty must extend beyond their own self, their region, or their community; it must belong to the entire nation. For it is within the nation's myriad colors that the poet's own spring blossoms, and within its garden that their own flowers bloom. If the poet embraces a national, democratic, and collective vision, they will discover a boundless horizon for their thought and art.

In discussing the language of the poem, I have touched upon the true concept of language, its cultural backdrop, its themes, the national perspective, and the canvas of the common people. I do so because, in my view, any concept of language remains incomplete without these elements. Supported by these pillars, we can not only succeed in representing our own era but also clear many thorns from the path of future generations. We will have to redefine our standards for what constitutes correct or incorrect vocabulary, though this does not mean our standards will be entirely upended. Rather, they will acquire a significant degree of flexibility. We will no longer need to lean so heavily on the crutches of Persian constructs, for crutches, to a certain extent, are proof of the weakness in one's own legs. We will also need to liberate ourselves considerably from the rigid constraints of traditional meters, rhymes, refrains, and the established genres of poetry.

We must elevate the poem to a level where it can, on one hand, interpret the mind of a farmer plowing the earth, and on the other, reflect the consciousness of space explorers who observe the beauty of the Earth free from the pull of gravity. For this monumental task, our current knowledge and the limited vocabulary of our language will not suffice. While remaining rooted in the spoken language, we will occasionally need to draw upon modern academic and scientific terminology. In particular, we will have to derive much greater benefit from both the structural freedom of Hindi meters and the science of music.

Those who believe that if the modern *nazm* begins to reflect the modern mind it will become even more difficult, are mistaken. This difficulty exists only for the intellectually complacent mind, not for the mind that is intimately aware of its cultural heritage on the one hand, and the achievements of the modern intellectual world on the other. When modern poetry becomes overly difficult and exclusive, it is reduced to the intellectual recreation of a limited class, or a spellbinding display of its own confusions and psychological complexes. This is the stage where the poet, overwhelmed by society, breaks away from its circle and begins to view his own self as the universe. Urdu poetry must re-enter the vast circle of the universe—a universe that encompasses oceans seven miles deep and stars millions of miles away, and in which humanity today stands at the crossroads of total annihilation and eternal salvation.

It must cultivate a new romance with language, so that it can comprehend its every nuance. It must carve out a place for itself on its own soil and forge a deep connection with every color and rhythm of its land. It must draw upon the experiences of the classical masters. It must not merely imitate the mind of Mir, but rather absorb Mir himself. It must penetrate the very soul of politics, religion, and sexuality, and cultivate a faith in humanity and a confidence in its own mission that serves as both an intoxication and a salvation. We have already drawn a great deal from Ghalib and Iqbal. We can still draw much from Mir, Nazir, and Hali, as well as from that tradition of Hindi poetry whose mysteries conceal countless radiant portraits of our culture and history. The realization of this need exists, but it is not yet widespread. Therefore, we must now abandon our safe havens and step out into the open field.

In the open air, some lamps are extinguished, but new ones are also lit. Our language is so vibrant that just as it has given voice to a refined bohemianism thus far, it will be equally capable of giving voice to every dance of civilization. The inclination toward this dance has already begun. It is now our duty to carry it forward, until it becomes our representative style.

The concept of language cannot be imagined without society. An individual does not have a language of their own; they learn a language from society. Despite the importance of writing, the foundation of language lies in speech. Once a language is learned, it becomes a habit. Class differences are also found in language, and it undergoes constant change. As Mario Pei noted, a language that does not change becomes a dead language. This change occurs in sounds, words, grammar, and semantic relationships. While language continues to change, it also strives to achieve a standard and then maintain it.

Literary styles, a strong central government, uniformity in the educational curriculum, means of trade and transportation, military service, a developed bureaucratic system, and the concept of a single religion or nationality also help in establishing this standard. If the power to maintain the standard weakens, the capacity for change exerts an even greater influence. Generally, changes in written language follow changes in spoken language. A good language is one that reflects the entirety of its culture.

If we keep this concept of language in mind, literary language will not be considered so sacred, nor will its extreme distance from spoken language be tolerated merely for the sake of some of its merits. Obviously, literary language is the standard language; it is another name for the best possible arrangement of words. Here, words are not merely keys to information as they are in scientific language, nor are they merely functional as in spoken language; here, the expression of words is creative. They leave a profound impact, open the windows of the mind, build nameless bridges in the void, and capture time and space. Gradually, however, they suffer the same fate as polished rice from which the life-giving essence has been extracted. If literary language distances itself from spoken language, no matter how beautiful it may appear, it becomes like paper flowers that look pleasing to the eye but yield no fragrance, nor do bees buzz around them.

The language of poetry is different from that of prose. Poetry is creative expression; prose is constructive. The language of poetry evokes emotion, while prose imparts knowledge. One moves the reader, the other persuades them. Nevertheless, both are two facets of the standard language that support each other and compensate for each other's shortcomings.

Eliot has mentioned the three voices of poetry. The first is the voice of the poet talking to himself. The second is when he addresses an audience, and the third is when he speaks through the voice of a fictional or real character. When the poet is talking to himself, even though he is still using this social tool of language, he becomes somewhat detached from the world. In my view, the language of the *ghazal* represents this first voice. Since our *ghazal* is no longer merely an account of matters of the heart, its language has not remained confined to the poet's soliloquy; rather, the rhythm of the other two voices has also been incorporated into it. This is a positive development, but the *ghazal* is fundamentally the spokesperson of the first voice. Therefore, it cannot fully represent the second and third voices.

It is a great favor of Ghalib and Iqbal that they transformed the discourse of love into the book of the universe, but this book is like Mughal miniature paintings. It is a book of hints and allusions, and we cannot remain solely reliant on it. The language of the *nazm* (poem) must differ from the language of the *ghazal* because the canvas of the *nazm* is vastly broader. It can also utilize the constructive capacity of prose. It requires explicitness rather than mere allusion. It has room for the poet's second and third voices, and even the first voice can be heard in such a way that the different voices blend into a symphony, becoming a treasure trove of joy and insight.

Eliot has also said elsewhere that a poet who possesses originality goes directly to life, whereas a poet who is imitative and derivative tends to lean toward literature. This can also be stated by saying that the first type of poet uses a living language, while the second type uses a bookish one. The language of Urdu poetry is largely bookish, and a major portion of this bookish language consists of *ghazals*. This does not mean that I am ignoring Mir, Sauda, Soz, Dard, Jur'at, Aatish, Zauq, Daagh, Hasrat, Arzoo, and others. However, it is certainly true that despite them, my intention is to point out how the language of the *ghazal* as a whole has been influenced by Nasikh, Ghalib, Iqbal, and Fani.

Bookish language can be clarified with another example. Wordsworth called the language of eighteenth-century English poetry artificial. He found a lack of life in its richness and maturity, and sought to bring the language of poetry closer to spoken language by reducing the prevailing distinction between prose and poetry. He even experimented with this in his own poems, some of which were successful and others unsuccessful. Coleridge tempered his rebellious zeal. But there is no doubt that Wordsworth had put his finger on the exact problem, and through his influence, English poetry gained new emotion, new energy, new life, a new tone, and a new style. What is the secret of his power? Wordsworth, despite being natural, is artificial because he is literary; yet his effort is healthy and has yielded very positive results. In our tradition, too, this kind of effort begins with Hali. Similar indications are found in his work:

San'at pe ho farefta aalam agar tamaam

Haan saadgi se aaiyo apni na baaz tu

[Even if the entire world is enamored with artifice,

Do not, however, abandon your simplicity.]

In his *Muqaddama-e-Sher-o-Shairi* (Prolegomena to Poetry), drawing upon a sentence by Milton found in one of his essays on speech, Hali also emphasized simplicity, authenticity, and passion. But can we honestly say that Hali's perspective has completely transformed our concept of the language of poetry? There is no doubt that Hali had a profound impact, but overall, the language of the *nazm* still retains a strong classical hue and rhythm, and the dominance of the *ghazal's* language over it is undeniable.

The influence of the *ghazal's* language is profound for another reason as well. The sensibility of the average Urdu poet can only express a few fixed and formulaic themes: romantic love, a vague sort of humanism, conventional morality, a limited concept of knowledge, the superiority of love over intellect, class consciousness, an urban temperament, and a specific religious hue. Here, I am not merely speaking in the sense in which Azad criticized the language of Urdu poetry, nor only in the sense in which Firaq lamented the lack of ancient Indian elements in Urdu. Rather, I am talking about the limitation of the cultural atmosphere, which is more indicative of a feudal mindset—one that lacks a full realization of social changes and mourns change more than it welcomes it. It is a mindset that believes more in stagnation than in construction, and which considers the past to be limited only to the recent past, unwilling to venture further back.

Therefore, in my view, it would be ideal if the language of the *nazm* could rise above the richness of the *ghazal's* language, its symbolism, its cultural inclinations, and its social and moral values. There is no denying the impact and beauty of a surgeon's scalpel, but in the age of the spade, the battles of life cannot be won with a scalpel alone. The scalpel will still be needed, but merely taking pride in it will no longer suffice.

The foundation of the *nazm's* language must undoubtedly be everyday speech. However, since the *nazm* is a branch of literature, the carelessness and disorder of spoken language—its unevenness and its bluntness regarding sexual matters—must be passed through the sieve of a literary standard. This filtering should be done in a way that retains all of the language's accessible, vibrant, and emotionally resonant elements, while sifting out its niche slang, immaturity, vulgarity, and casual stumbles. Furthermore, the holes in this sieve must be large enough to allow a good amount of bran to pass through along with the flour, thereby preserving its nutritional value. This language will also have to completely free itself from the grammatical constraints of Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit.

Today, in our prose, we do not combine Hindi and Persian words using the Persian possessive construct (*izafat*), though classical writers paid little attention to this rule. We still use Persian compound words that are understood only by a limited elite. This is why the average Urdu speaker, whose knowledge of Persian is practically nonexistent, cannot understand what we are saying. While acknowledging and respecting the greatness of Ghalib and Iqbal, we should not hesitate to admit that even if the Ghalibs and Iqbals of the future were capable of using this exact same language, very few people would understand them. To reach the widest possible audience, they will have to rely on spoken Urdu as their foundation. In doing so, they would essentially be adopting the approach of the classical masters. This would not be unprecedented; many before them have bypassed the recent past to forge a connection with a more distant one.

Secondly, to articulate and assert their ideas, these poets will have to move away from mere hints, allusions, fleeting glimpses, and dazzling displays. Instead, they must adopt a sustained and constructive mode of expression—one with a clear beginning, middle, and end. In other words, they will need to embrace a profound understanding of form. Consequently, the *nazm* must evolve beyond being just a short *masnavi*, a *musaddas*, or a few loosely connected stanzas; unrhymed and free verse will need to be developed further. Because the Urdu literary world is largely conservative and traditional, it did not treat the unrhymed or free verse movement kindly. However, as T.S. Eliot noted, free verse does not mean liberation from the constraints of art; rather, it represents a fresh and far deeper loyalty to it. It frees itself from a few trivial restrictions only to shoulder much heavier responsibilities.

The third voice of poetry can only be fully represented through unrhymed or free verse. Our classical *masnavis* contain thousands of couplets, but the strict symmetry of their lines can be as monotonous as the highly regulated, smooth, and marching poetry of the eighteenth century. When the rigid equality of metrical feet becomes tedious and chops a thought into perfectly equal fragments, even the minor constraint of a rhyme scheme acts as a dam against the natural flow of consciousness. The point here is not to completely abandon the *radif* (refrain) or *qafiya* (rhyme), nor is it a proposal to banish metered poetry from literature altogether.

Unlike Azmatullah Khan, I am absolutely not prepared to declare that the *ghazal* should be ruthlessly beheaded. This is merely a matter of expanding our understanding of language and art. If our poetic genres were freed from the dictatorship of rhyme, refrain, and rigid meters—a vice grip that squeezes the very marrow out of words, leaving us to string together necklaces of their dry bones—we would no longer have to dilute the potency of our wine for fear of melting the glass. We would not have to place so many dams on our thoughts, nor settle for presenting them in fragmented pieces. Our ideas would not be distorted by the technical compulsions of art; instead, they would finally have the opportunity to display their full intensity and impact.

The experiment with unrhymed and free verse would have been far more successful had it been rooted in everyday spoken language. However, not only did it fail to adopt the spoken tongue, but the themes it often selected were entirely disconnected from ordinary life. It became a thick veil used to conceal the deviance of a few morbid and warped minds. N.M. Rashid’s mindset is vastly different from Iqbal’s, yet his language is no less steeped in Persian. And because Rashid, unlike Iqbal, makes little effort to actively communicate with his audience, one has to exert considerable effort to untangle the complexities of his mind.

There is a marked difference between the Rashid of *Mawara* and the Rashid of *Iran Mein Ajnabi*. The Rashid of *Iran Mein Ajnabi* does not merely want to unburden himself of his experiences; he actually wants to say something. Consequently, there is less reliance on the spellbinding magic of complex vocabulary here. However, because he has not fully succeeded in breaking out of his shell, he is still forced to take refuge in a bookish language. Meeraji is much more successful in this regard. If we set aside the poems where sexual experiences are expressed through a highly symbolic style, he writes in a remarkably clean and clear language. In poems like *Clerk Ka Naghma-e-Mohabbat* (The Clerk's Love Song), he is highly successful and demonstrates a mastery over language that does true justice to his subject matter.

Rashid and Meeraji had their own internal conflicts that constrained them, but the political poets also wreaked their fair share of havoc on the literary chessboard. Fundamentally, there is no difference between the language of Iqbal and the language of Josh, even though their messages are worlds apart. Like Josh, Iqbal is acutely aware of the agonies of the present. However, for Iqbal, the remedy does not lie in burning the past to ashes; rather, it lies in extracting wholesome, foundational values from the past to forge a path through the swamp of the present. When he declares that the people of vision will build new settlements, those settlements may not literally be Kufa and Baghdad, but the essence of Kufa and Baghdad will certainly be present in them in a new hue. Josh, on the other hand, is utterly disillusioned with the past. Yet, he clings so stubbornly to its archaic language that if someone casually remarks, We haven't met in a long *arsa* (using *arsa* in its common Urdu sense of 'time' or 'period'), he knits his brows and retorts, What, you haven't met a battlefield? (insisting on the classical Arabic meaning of the word).

Josh claims to interpret life, yet he writes in a bookish language. To borrow T.S. Eliot’s terminology, Iqbal is an original poet, whereas Josh is a derivative one. In Josh’s work, the new life is merely a new cloak; through its slits, the old garment constantly peeks through. Similarly, certain Progressive poets did not err by adopting the language or themes of the common people. Their mistake was twofold: first, they exploited these themes and this language for narrow political and temporary objectives. They built embankments around a stream that was naturally flowing in its own rhythm, forcing it onto what they considered the straight path, and thereby destroying its beauty. Second, by injecting a bookish mindset into the language of the masses, they birthed a kind of poetry that carried the ugliness and mentality of politics. It contained the dry dregs of the common people's language, but its true essence and flavor had vanished.

Poetry of the people is not created merely by reading books, drafting political documents, or participating in party programs. It can emerge despite these things, provided the poet truly *becomes* the people—just as Flaubert declared, I am Madame Bovary, or as Romain Rolland said, I am Annette. The minds confined within classrooms, offices, drawing rooms, and party headquarters lacked the flexibility required for this transformation. The example of Josh and a few Progressive poets—who either experimented with political themes using traditional, constrained forms, or produced formulaic poetry under the guise of free verse and folk songs—serves as a cautionary tale. It is particularly alarming because some people drew entirely the wrong conclusions from it.

Instead of the mindset required for true revolutionary poetry, they merely possessed a rebellious one. Instead of the language needed for such poetry, they relied on a language suited only for the social entertainment of a *mushaira* (poetry symposium). It could not illuminate the mind, nor were their literary experiments conducted with complete honesty. For these experiments to succeed, one light in the mind had to be extinguished so that another could be lit. The artificial atmosphere of urban life and its cunning intellect had to be replaced by absorbing the simple, unpretentious, and innocent atmosphere of the villages. This experiment failed not because success was impossible, but because it lacked sincerity. To make matters worse, these folks made a spectacle of it, auctioning off the harvest the moment the seeds were sown.

No matter how disdainfully some might view the revival of cultural activities in modern India, it represents an independent nation's natural effort to strengthen its foundations and discover its true self. It is an attempt to absorb the pain, scars, passion, and vitality of the entire country within our otherwise limited, artificial, and commercial environment. It is an endeavor to arrive at the true concept of culture. It is an effort to enrich literature through a comprehensive understanding of culture, drawing upon the familiar and tested experiences of the fine arts, and filling it with the treasures of insight, hard work, service, sorrow, and solace. This approach is far healthier than merely adopting Western experiments, which immature minds glean from books. The patterns of humanism, tolerance, and unity in diversity that emerge on this cultural canvas are essential for national integrity. Only through this path can we truly benefit from Western experiments in any meaningful way.

I do not believe that the language of Urdu poetry is foreign. However, I do concede that, by and large, it represents the thoughts and mindset of a very limited demographic in our country—namely, the urban middle class of North India. I also acknowledge that unlike modern English poetry, which remains accessible despite its literary qualities, our poetry is not easily understood by the common person. At the same time, I firmly believe that our language possesses the full potential to reflect the entirety of our cultural landscape. To achieve this, however, our poets must cultivate a deep faith and confidence in the power, excellence, and grandeur of poetry.

Whether or not a poet's lifeblood becomes a commercial commodity, it will inevitably continue to write the laws of cultivating the barren desert. No matter how much it confronts the cruelty and callousness of the industrial age, it will continue to carve a river of milk from its Mount Behistun, for the trials of love never truly end. However, the poet must decide: in interpreting their era, are they content merely playing the role of a public health inspector? Are they simply dazzled by the bandmaster’s shiny uniform and the cheering crowds? Or do they intend to avenge their own failures and frustrations by declaring every bunch of grapes sour simply because they haven't tasted them?

A poet is not obligated to shiver in the cold while feigning ecstasy over the brilliance of festival lights, nor must they sing praises of successful government schemes at someone else's behest. Their loyalty must extend beyond their own self, their region, or their community; it must belong to the entire nation. For it is within the nation's myriad colors that the poet's own spring blossoms, and within its garden that their own flowers bloom. If the poet embraces a national, democratic, and collective vision, they will discover a boundless horizon for their thought and art.

In discussing the language of the poem, I have touched upon the true concept of language, its cultural backdrop, its themes, the national perspective, and the canvas of the common people. I do so because, in my view, any concept of language remains incomplete without these elements. Supported by these pillars, we can not only succeed in representing our own era but also clear many thorns from the path of future generations. We will have to redefine our standards for what constitutes correct or incorrect vocabulary, though this does not mean our standards will be entirely upended. Rather, they will acquire a significant degree of flexibility. We will no longer need to lean so heavily on the crutches of Persian constructs, for crutches, to a certain extent, are proof of the weakness in one's own legs. We will also need to liberate ourselves considerably from the rigid constraints of traditional meters, rhymes, refrains, and the established genres of poetry.

We must elevate the poem to a level where it can, on one hand, interpret the mind of a farmer plowing the earth, and on the other, reflect the consciousness of space explorers who observe the beauty of the Earth free from the pull of gravity. For this monumental task, our current knowledge and the limited vocabulary of our language will not suffice. While remaining rooted in the spoken language, we will occasionally need to draw upon modern academic and scientific terminology. In particular, we will have to derive much greater benefit from both the structural freedom of Hindi meters and the science of music.

Those who believe that if the modern *nazm* begins to reflect the modern mind it will become even more difficult, are mistaken. This difficulty exists only for the intellectually complacent mind, not for the mind that is intimately aware of its cultural heritage on the one hand, and the achievements of the modern intellectual world on the other. When modern poetry becomes overly difficult and exclusive, it is reduced to the intellectual recreation of a limited class, or a spellbinding display of its own confusions and psychological complexes. This is the stage where the poet, overwhelmed by society, breaks away from its circle and begins to view his own self as the universe. Urdu poetry must re-enter the vast circle of the universe—a universe that encompasses oceans seven miles deep and stars millions of miles away, and in which humanity today stands at the crossroads of total annihilation and eternal salvation.

It must cultivate a new romance with language, so that it can comprehend its every nuance. It must carve out a place for itself on its own soil and forge a deep connection with every color and rhythm of its land. It must draw upon the experiences of the classical masters. It must not merely imitate the mind of Mir, but rather absorb Mir himself. It must penetrate the very soul of politics, religion, and sexuality, and cultivate a faith in humanity and a confidence in its own mission that serves as both an intoxication and a salvation. We have already drawn a great deal from Ghalib and Iqbal. We can still draw much from Mir, Nazir, and Hali, as well as from that tradition of Hindi poetry whose mysteries conceal countless radiant portraits of our culture and history. The realization of this need exists, but it is not yet widespread. Therefore, we must now abandon our safe havens and step out into the open field.