Sajjad Zaheer Ka Nazariya-e-adab

When writing letters, our elders would generally conclude with this phrase: Son, consider this brief note as much, and write back with detailed news of your well-being and circumstances.

This customary phrase from old letters feels profoundly meaningful to me right now as I read the writings of Sajjad Zaheer. The landscape of his life's work looks something like this: a few novels and short stories, a little poetry, a bit of literary criticism, and a massive amount of political activism—a lifelong struggle for an ideal born of a specific ideology. However, my concern lies with the little. And even within that, the portion that is the smallest: his short stories and novels. It may be a very small body of work, but I am beginning to realize that this little is actually quite a lot. In literature, after all, works are weighed, not counted. Yet, as the proverb goes, The plaintiff is sluggish, but the witness is zealous. I was still searching for a logical argument to support this feeling when Sajjad Zaheer himself interjected. In the foreword to his novel London Ki Ek Raat (A Night in London), he wrote the following lines:

Living in Europe for several years as a student, completing one's education, and then, just before leaving, sitting in Paris and writing a hundred or a hundred and fifty pages under the influence of a specific emotional turmoil is one thing. But returning to India, participating in the revolutionary movement of workers and peasants for two and a half years, breathing alongside millions of people, and listening to their heartbeats is quite another. I can no longer write that kind of book, nor do I consider it necessary to do so.

Did you hear that? It is like the old saying about the goat that gave milk, only to kick the bucket over. Well, let it go. It does not matter. The plaintiff may be sluggish, but this humble witness remains zealous. I am reminded of D.H. Lawrence’s advice, which I have taken to heart. He said: never trust the teller, trust the tale. What reliability do storytellers have, anyway? When Leo Tolstoy was overcome by religious fervor, he dismissed all his own masterpieces as utter rubbish. Franz Kafka, on the other hand, was not possessed by the fervor of any religion or ideology. He wrote a few stories and novels in his own kind of madness. But when another wave of that madness struck, he left a will instructing his friend to burn all his manuscripts after his death.

However, the readers of their novels and stories completely ignored what both men had said. I, too, let Sajjad Zaheer’s statement go in one ear and out the other. The truth of the matter is that a good poem, a good short story, or a good novel breaks free from its creator's grasp the moment it is brought into existence. From then on, it becomes its own interpreter. It refuses to be bound by the author's own explanations or justifications.

So, regarding this novel and the handful of stories included in the collection Angaaray (Embers), I was mentioning my feeling that these writings, despite being few in number, seemed quite substantial. But how? I could not quite figure it out. The writings of Sajjad Zaheer’s admiring critics offered me no help either. Ultimately, it was a fellow fiction writer who solved my problem. While writing about Sajjad Zaheer’s personality, Ismat Chughtai recounted a conversation she had with him. Whether out of humility or a genuine sense of sorrow, Zaheer expressed the feeling that he had not been able to accomplish any major work in literature. Ismat, exasperated by this, replied, You don't realize it, but you have opened doors, you have shattered windows. You have shown the way. Is that not a creative act in itself?

There it was; I finally understood. The fact is that up until that point in our literature, particularly in the realm of novels and short stories, certain paths had become rigidly fixed. By the time of Premchand, the exact form of the novel and the precise mold of the short story had been firmly established. For instance, it was a settled rule that a short story must have a clear beginning and a defined plot. This would be followed by the development of the narrative, leading to a climax, a sense of suspense, and finally, a perfectly calculated ending designed to startle the reader. Once this definition of the short story was unanimously agreed upon, the door was firmly shut to prevent anyone from straying off the path. Any piece of writing that deviated from this strict definition was simply not considered a short story. The windows were bolted, the doors locked.

It was after all these rules had been set in stone that a collection of short stories was published under the title Angaaray. It included five stories by Sajjad Zaheer. What was the style and tone of these stories? Consider this excerpt from a story titled Neend Nahin Aati (Sleep Eludes Me):

This agonizing heat, God forbid, oh, God forbid. These mosquitoes have made life a living hell. Sleep is utterly ruined. Bzz, bzz. Smack. Got him. Why on earth do these wretched things have to buzz right next to the ear? I pray to God there are no mosquitoes on the Day of Judgment. But who knows? Nothing is certain. What divine wisdom was there in God creating mosquitoes and bedbugs in this world, anyway? I wonder if prophets ever got bitten by bedbugs and mosquitoes... Nothing is certain, nothing at all. What is your name? What is my name? Nothing is certain. Bravo, bravo, divine wisdom! Khudawandi (divine) and Rindi (debauchery) and Bhandi (mockery). No, wait, it’s Bhin-di (okra). It’s not Bhandi. Mian Akbar, don't cross the line now. And what was it they said?

Bahr-e-Rajaz mein daal ke Bahr-e-Ramal chalay

[Stepping into the meter of Rajaz, he walked in the meter of Ramal.]

Walked in the meter of Ramal. Excellent.

Woh tifl kya giray ga jo ghutnon ke bal chalay

[How can a child fall when he crawls on his knees?]

The grapes are sour. You like sour things. Like? What does liking have to do with anything? You actually have to get your hands on the thing. I like horse-drawn carriages. But the moment you get close, the horse kicks so hard you have to run for your life. And what else do I like? My darling. But you are dearer to me than my own life... Oh, get away, just leave it be. I have had enough of your sweet talk... Why, what happened? What...

Well, what kind of story is this? Do you see any coherence or continuity here? The entire narrative proceeds in this exact manner. There is no plot, no conventional storyline. There is no climax, no suspense. And the story concludes just like this:

My stomach is rumbling with hunger, and here you are, obsessed with freedom. I desire neither death nor freedom. I just want someone to fill my stomach. Bzz, bzz, bzz. Smack. Damn this mosquito! Nin, tin, tin. Tin, tin...

This book was banned and confiscated immediately upon publication. But even if it had not been banned, it would have caused an uproar anyway—an uproar within the literary world itself. Objections would have been raised, questioning what sort of disjointed, chaotic writings were being passed off as short stories. The reality was that, at the time, our literary circles were completely unaware of the radical transformations the novel and the short story had undergone in the Western world—the very place from which we had borrowed these genres. We had no idea what stream of consciousness was, or what on earth free association meant. Nor did we know who people like James Joyce and Marcel Proust were.

In his novel, however, Sajjad Zaheer does not go to the extremes seen in his short stories. Take the story Phir Yeh Hangama (Then This Tumult) or, even more so, Neend Nahin Aati (Sleep Eludes Me)—on the external surface, nothing happens at all. Everything is brewing beneath the surface. Emotions are boiling over. There are disjointed, incongruous images. Sometimes one thought connects to another; at other times, there is a massive leap. One moment the narrative speaks of Iran, the next of Turan. In his novel, however, the links in the chain are clearly connected. Yet, it remains entirely different from a traditional novel. You cannot view it as a continuation of classics like Umrao Jaan Ada or Godan. It can only be understood as a deviation from that established mold. True, things do appear to happen on the external surface here, but far more is occurring within the internal realm. Consequently, there is far more soliloquy and internal monologue than actual dialogue:

Daroon-e-khana hangamay hain kya kya

Charagh-e-rahguzar ko kya khabar hai

[What tumults rage within the house,

What does the streetlamp know of it?]

How aware were the novels and stories of the past of these internal tumults? It is only now that we have realized that the true essence of a person lies within. How much of it actually surfaces on the outside?

And so, the door was broken down, the window thrown open. New doors opened for the short story, and a new path emerged. But Sajjad Zaheer soon abandoned this path. Having broken down the door, he wandered off in another direction. It was others who reaped the benefits of his breakthrough. But who, exactly? Logically, the Progressive short story should have been the one to benefit, but that did not happen. While reading these stories, I was suddenly reminded of a few others: Haramjadi, Chaye Ki Pyali, and College Se Ghar Tak. But these were the stories of Muhammad Hasan Askari, a staunch opponent of the Progressive Movement. It is a strange irony that the new mode of expression—discovered by twentieth-century Western fiction—which Sajjad Zaheer introduced to the Urdu short story, merely brushed past Krishan Chander's work and completely bypassed the rest of Progressive fiction. Instead, it flourished among the reactionaries—most notably in the writings of Muhammad Hasan Askari.

But wait. The reference to Krishan Chander that just slipped in needs some clarification. And here, I must quote a statement from Askari himself. While discussing the story Do Furlong Lambi Sarak (A Two-Furlong Long Road), he says, This short story hit Urdu literature like an atom bomb... He goes on to say, This story is a defining event in my intellectual life... The immediate impulse to read and write literature came to me from this very story by Krishan Chander. It is quite possible that had I not read this story, I might never have read Marcel Proust or James Joyce... After reading it, I discovered a form—not merely of storytelling, but of experiencing—that allowed me to write my own first short story, College Se Ghar Tak, within a month.

Well, here I was, tracing the lineage of Askari's stories back to Sajjad Zaheer, while Askari himself credited Krishan Chander's story as his source of inspiration. Anyway, before moving on, I should add one more thing about Krishan Chander. Certain critics in India seem to believe that the greatness of Manto and Bedi can only be upheld if Krishan Chander's fiction is first dragged through the mud. Regardless, there is one distinction that cannot be taken away from Krishan Chander. It is the distinction of adopting the revolutionary modes of expression of the twentieth century and introducing them into Urdu—an achievement in which none of his contemporary fiction writers can rival or match him. As for the rest, these critics can keep indulging in their baseless chatter.

Now, I return to my earlier point. I wonder if Askari was entirely unaware of the first explosion—the one triggered by Sajjad Zaheer. Perhaps the reality was that this initial explosion got muddled with the uproar surrounding Angaaray and faded from public view. Even Sajjad Zaheer himself forgot about this work of his, a story that was simply never read. Later on, when Krishan Chander wrote Do Furlong Lambi Sarak, the echo of that explosion was heard far and wide, and a true revolution finally arrived in the Urdu short story. But then, moving beyond Sajjad Zaheer and Krishan Chander, we saw the true manifestation of this revolution in the stories of Askari. It goes to show that sometimes in literature, ideological differences are cast aside, and writers connect—and draw inspiration from one another—on an entirely different plane, a purely creative one. It is also worth noting that to express his Progressive ideology in fiction, Sajjad Zaheer bypassed the social realism that had illuminated the stories and novels of Maxim Gorky, and instead drew upon the modes of expression discovered by the Joycean school.

This same approach was adopted by Professor Ahmed Ali, the other major fiction writer of Angaaray. In fact, he made a conscious decision to draw specific inspiration from Kafka. Perhaps this, too, was an act of breaking down doors and throwing open windows. The intention was to demonstrate that Progressive thought is not bound to any single, specific mode of expression. No mode of expression is inherently progressive or reactionary in and of itself. It is up to the writer to determine, based on their own temperament and experience, which style and technique of expression will suit them best.

Sajjad Zaheer left his fiction incomplete and immersed himself in Party work. Yet, his passion for breaking down doors never quite left him. I recall a time, not too long ago, when a few young male and female poets in Lahore and Karachi raised the banner of the prose poem. Many senior critics and poets—who had already accepted free verse—flatly refused to even acknowledge it as poetry. Meanwhile, various poets within this new group were claiming to be the inventors of the prose poem. Then, a well-informed individual pointed out, Look here, a senior writer in India has already written prose poems, and his collection has even been published under the title Pighla Neelam (Melted Sapphire). And so, when Sajjad Zaheer turned his attention to poetry, he broke down a door there as well. He proved that free verse is not the final word in poetic expression. There are worlds beyond the stars!

I will not get into a debate about the literary value of the fiction he wrote—whether it only holds historical significance or if its creative stature is also exceptionally high. Taking a cue from Ismat Chughtai, I have merely tried to point out that this venerable figure broke down a few doors and opened a few windows in our literature. If he chose not to travel far down the new path he discovered, that was his prerogative. But perhaps, in the realm of literature, he was destined only for the honor of breaking down doors. And this is no small honor. How many writers among us can we say laid the groundwork for a new style or established a new tradition? Oh, I almost forgot about the door he broke down that he had erected himself. He did, after all, write a little literary criticism as well. One of his most important writings in this regard was published in book form under the title Zikr-e-Hafiz. It was prompted by a senseless statement issued by Z. Ansari against the ghazal genre and in condemnation of Hafiz's poetry.

While reading this book, I felt a great deal of pity for Z. Ansari. The poor man was unfairly made a scapegoat. He had merely repeated the same arguments regarding Hafiz that critics had long been making about the ghazal and classical ghazal poets.

Sajjad Zaheer took his comrade severely to task for his critique of Hafiz. He argued that it was unwise to accuse Hafiz's poetry of passivity, escapism, extreme subjectivity, and hedonism, and thereby throw this priceless jewel of our cultural heritage onto the rubbish heap. He then explained that, my dear friend, this is not how poetry is examined and evaluated. The method adopted to squeeze a message out of the entirety of Hafiz's poetry is both unliterary and unscholarly. Furthermore, the relationship between material social conditions and artistic creation has been understood in a flawed and mechanical manner.

But friends, let us be fair! Z. Ansari had not invented these ideas out of thin air. He merely repeated the same lesson regarding Hafiz that Progressive critics had been preaching all along. If this method of evaluating poetry was wrong, why should Z. Ansari alone be taken to task? But perhaps Sajjad Zaheer's true intention was to address Z. Ansari while making sure the rest of the neighborhood heard him loud and clear. Meaning, he wanted the other Progressive critics to listen carefully and take heed.

And so, Sajjad Zaheer broke down a door here as well. And this was a door that his own movement had built. However, I also felt a sense of regret. Sajjad Zaheer was a little too late. Had Progressive criticism received this guidance at the very inception of the movement, it would have been immensely beneficial for it. But at that time, passions were running high. It would not have been surprising if, in the fervor of revolution, some zealot had declared, Look, even Banne Bhai has become a reactionary!

When writing letters, our elders would generally conclude with this phrase: Son, consider this brief note as much, and write back with detailed news of your well-being and circumstances.

This customary phrase from old letters feels profoundly meaningful to me right now as I read the writings of Sajjad Zaheer. The landscape of his life's work looks something like this: a few novels and short stories, a little poetry, a bit of literary criticism, and a massive amount of political activism—a lifelong struggle for an ideal born of a specific ideology. However, my concern lies with the little. And even within that, the portion that is the smallest: his short stories and novels. It may be a very small body of work, but I am beginning to realize that this little is actually quite a lot. In literature, after all, works are weighed, not counted. Yet, as the proverb goes, The plaintiff is sluggish, but the witness is zealous. I was still searching for a logical argument to support this feeling when Sajjad Zaheer himself interjected. In the foreword to his novel London Ki Ek Raat (A Night in London), he wrote the following lines:

Living in Europe for several years as a student, completing one's education, and then, just before leaving, sitting in Paris and writing a hundred or a hundred and fifty pages under the influence of a specific emotional turmoil is one thing. But returning to India, participating in the revolutionary movement of workers and peasants for two and a half years, breathing alongside millions of people, and listening to their heartbeats is quite another. I can no longer write that kind of book, nor do I consider it necessary to do so.

Did you hear that? It is like the old saying about the goat that gave milk, only to kick the bucket over. Well, let it go. It does not matter. The plaintiff may be sluggish, but this humble witness remains zealous. I am reminded of D.H. Lawrence’s advice, which I have taken to heart. He said: never trust the teller, trust the tale. What reliability do storytellers have, anyway? When Leo Tolstoy was overcome by religious fervor, he dismissed all his own masterpieces as utter rubbish. Franz Kafka, on the other hand, was not possessed by the fervor of any religion or ideology. He wrote a few stories and novels in his own kind of madness. But when another wave of that madness struck, he left a will instructing his friend to burn all his manuscripts after his death.

However, the readers of their novels and stories completely ignored what both men had said. I, too, let Sajjad Zaheer’s statement go in one ear and out the other. The truth of the matter is that a good poem, a good short story, or a good novel breaks free from its creator's grasp the moment it is brought into existence. From then on, it becomes its own interpreter. It refuses to be bound by the author's own explanations or justifications.

So, regarding this novel and the handful of stories included in the collection Angaaray (Embers), I was mentioning my feeling that these writings, despite being few in number, seemed quite substantial. But how? I could not quite figure it out. The writings of Sajjad Zaheer’s admiring critics offered me no help either. Ultimately, it was a fellow fiction writer who solved my problem. While writing about Sajjad Zaheer’s personality, Ismat Chughtai recounted a conversation she had with him. Whether out of humility or a genuine sense of sorrow, Zaheer expressed the feeling that he had not been able to accomplish any major work in literature. Ismat, exasperated by this, replied, You don't realize it, but you have opened doors, you have shattered windows. You have shown the way. Is that not a creative act in itself?

There it was; I finally understood. The fact is that up until that point in our literature, particularly in the realm of novels and short stories, certain paths had become rigidly fixed. By the time of Premchand, the exact form of the novel and the precise mold of the short story had been firmly established. For instance, it was a settled rule that a short story must have a clear beginning and a defined plot. This would be followed by the development of the narrative, leading to a climax, a sense of suspense, and finally, a perfectly calculated ending designed to startle the reader. Once this definition of the short story was unanimously agreed upon, the door was firmly shut to prevent anyone from straying off the path. Any piece of writing that deviated from this strict definition was simply not considered a short story. The windows were bolted, the doors locked.

It was after all these rules had been set in stone that a collection of short stories was published under the title Angaaray. It included five stories by Sajjad Zaheer. What was the style and tone of these stories? Consider this excerpt from a story titled Neend Nahin Aati (Sleep Eludes Me):

This agonizing heat, God forbid, oh, God forbid. These mosquitoes have made life a living hell. Sleep is utterly ruined. Bzz, bzz. Smack. Got him. Why on earth do these wretched things have to buzz right next to the ear? I pray to God there are no mosquitoes on the Day of Judgment. But who knows? Nothing is certain. What divine wisdom was there in God creating mosquitoes and bedbugs in this world, anyway? I wonder if prophets ever got bitten by bedbugs and mosquitoes... Nothing is certain, nothing at all. What is your name? What is my name? Nothing is certain. Bravo, bravo, divine wisdom! Khudawandi (divine) and Rindi (debauchery) and Bhandi (mockery). No, wait, it’s Bhin-di (okra). It’s not Bhandi. Mian Akbar, don't cross the line now. And what was it they said?

Bahr-e-Rajaz mein daal ke Bahr-e-Ramal chalay

[Stepping into the meter of Rajaz, he walked in the meter of Ramal.]

Walked in the meter of Ramal. Excellent.

Woh tifl kya giray ga jo ghutnon ke bal chalay

[How can a child fall when he crawls on his knees?]

The grapes are sour. You like sour things. Like? What does liking have to do with anything? You actually have to get your hands on the thing. I like horse-drawn carriages. But the moment you get close, the horse kicks so hard you have to run for your life. And what else do I like? My darling. But you are dearer to me than my own life... Oh, get away, just leave it be. I have had enough of your sweet talk... Why, what happened? What...

Well, what kind of story is this? Do you see any coherence or continuity here? The entire narrative proceeds in this exact manner. There is no plot, no conventional storyline. There is no climax, no suspense. And the story concludes just like this:

My stomach is rumbling with hunger, and here you are, obsessed with freedom. I desire neither death nor freedom. I just want someone to fill my stomach. Bzz, bzz, bzz. Smack. Damn this mosquito! Nin, tin, tin. Tin, tin...

This book was banned and confiscated immediately upon publication. But even if it had not been banned, it would have caused an uproar anyway—an uproar within the literary world itself. Objections would have been raised, questioning what sort of disjointed, chaotic writings were being passed off as short stories. The reality was that, at the time, our literary circles were completely unaware of the radical transformations the novel and the short story had undergone in the Western world—the very place from which we had borrowed these genres. We had no idea what stream of consciousness was, or what on earth free association meant. Nor did we know who people like James Joyce and Marcel Proust were.

In his novel, however, Sajjad Zaheer does not go to the extremes seen in his short stories. Take the story Phir Yeh Hangama (Then This Tumult) or, even more so, Neend Nahin Aati (Sleep Eludes Me)—on the external surface, nothing happens at all. Everything is brewing beneath the surface. Emotions are boiling over. There are disjointed, incongruous images. Sometimes one thought connects to another; at other times, there is a massive leap. One moment the narrative speaks of Iran, the next of Turan. In his novel, however, the links in the chain are clearly connected. Yet, it remains entirely different from a traditional novel. You cannot view it as a continuation of classics like Umrao Jaan Ada or Godan. It can only be understood as a deviation from that established mold. True, things do appear to happen on the external surface here, but far more is occurring within the internal realm. Consequently, there is far more soliloquy and internal monologue than actual dialogue:

Daroon-e-khana hangamay hain kya kya

Charagh-e-rahguzar ko kya khabar hai

[What tumults rage within the house,

What does the streetlamp know of it?]

How aware were the novels and stories of the past of these internal tumults? It is only now that we have realized that the true essence of a person lies within. How much of it actually surfaces on the outside?

And so, the door was broken down, the window thrown open. New doors opened for the short story, and a new path emerged. But Sajjad Zaheer soon abandoned this path. Having broken down the door, he wandered off in another direction. It was others who reaped the benefits of his breakthrough. But who, exactly? Logically, the Progressive short story should have been the one to benefit, but that did not happen. While reading these stories, I was suddenly reminded of a few others: Haramjadi, Chaye Ki Pyali, and College Se Ghar Tak. But these were the stories of Muhammad Hasan Askari, a staunch opponent of the Progressive Movement. It is a strange irony that the new mode of expression—discovered by twentieth-century Western fiction—which Sajjad Zaheer introduced to the Urdu short story, merely brushed past Krishan Chander's work and completely bypassed the rest of Progressive fiction. Instead, it flourished among the reactionaries—most notably in the writings of Muhammad Hasan Askari.

But wait. The reference to Krishan Chander that just slipped in needs some clarification. And here, I must quote a statement from Askari himself. While discussing the story Do Furlong Lambi Sarak (A Two-Furlong Long Road), he says, This short story hit Urdu literature like an atom bomb... He goes on to say, This story is a defining event in my intellectual life... The immediate impulse to read and write literature came to me from this very story by Krishan Chander. It is quite possible that had I not read this story, I might never have read Marcel Proust or James Joyce... After reading it, I discovered a form—not merely of storytelling, but of experiencing—that allowed me to write my own first short story, College Se Ghar Tak, within a month.

Well, here I was, tracing the lineage of Askari's stories back to Sajjad Zaheer, while Askari himself credited Krishan Chander's story as his source of inspiration. Anyway, before moving on, I should add one more thing about Krishan Chander. Certain critics in India seem to believe that the greatness of Manto and Bedi can only be upheld if Krishan Chander's fiction is first dragged through the mud. Regardless, there is one distinction that cannot be taken away from Krishan Chander. It is the distinction of adopting the revolutionary modes of expression of the twentieth century and introducing them into Urdu—an achievement in which none of his contemporary fiction writers can rival or match him. As for the rest, these critics can keep indulging in their baseless chatter.

Now, I return to my earlier point. I wonder if Askari was entirely unaware of the first explosion—the one triggered by Sajjad Zaheer. Perhaps the reality was that this initial explosion got muddled with the uproar surrounding Angaaray and faded from public view. Even Sajjad Zaheer himself forgot about this work of his, a story that was simply never read. Later on, when Krishan Chander wrote Do Furlong Lambi Sarak, the echo of that explosion was heard far and wide, and a true revolution finally arrived in the Urdu short story. But then, moving beyond Sajjad Zaheer and Krishan Chander, we saw the true manifestation of this revolution in the stories of Askari. It goes to show that sometimes in literature, ideological differences are cast aside, and writers connect—and draw inspiration from one another—on an entirely different plane, a purely creative one. It is also worth noting that to express his Progressive ideology in fiction, Sajjad Zaheer bypassed the social realism that had illuminated the stories and novels of Maxim Gorky, and instead drew upon the modes of expression discovered by the Joycean school.

This same approach was adopted by Professor Ahmed Ali, the other major fiction writer of Angaaray. In fact, he made a conscious decision to draw specific inspiration from Kafka. Perhaps this, too, was an act of breaking down doors and throwing open windows. The intention was to demonstrate that Progressive thought is not bound to any single, specific mode of expression. No mode of expression is inherently progressive or reactionary in and of itself. It is up to the writer to determine, based on their own temperament and experience, which style and technique of expression will suit them best.

Sajjad Zaheer left his fiction incomplete and immersed himself in Party work. Yet, his passion for breaking down doors never quite left him. I recall a time, not too long ago, when a few young male and female poets in Lahore and Karachi raised the banner of the prose poem. Many senior critics and poets—who had already accepted free verse—flatly refused to even acknowledge it as poetry. Meanwhile, various poets within this new group were claiming to be the inventors of the prose poem. Then, a well-informed individual pointed out, Look here, a senior writer in India has already written prose poems, and his collection has even been published under the title Pighla Neelam (Melted Sapphire). And so, when Sajjad Zaheer turned his attention to poetry, he broke down a door there as well. He proved that free verse is not the final word in poetic expression. There are worlds beyond the stars!

I will not get into a debate about the literary value of the fiction he wrote—whether it only holds historical significance or if its creative stature is also exceptionally high. Taking a cue from Ismat Chughtai, I have merely tried to point out that this venerable figure broke down a few doors and opened a few windows in our literature. If he chose not to travel far down the new path he discovered, that was his prerogative. But perhaps, in the realm of literature, he was destined only for the honor of breaking down doors. And this is no small honor. How many writers among us can we say laid the groundwork for a new style or established a new tradition? Oh, I almost forgot about the door he broke down that he had erected himself. He did, after all, write a little literary criticism as well. One of his most important writings in this regard was published in book form under the title Zikr-e-Hafiz. It was prompted by a senseless statement issued by Z. Ansari against the ghazal genre and in condemnation of Hafiz's poetry.

While reading this book, I felt a great deal of pity for Z. Ansari. The poor man was unfairly made a scapegoat. He had merely repeated the same arguments regarding Hafiz that critics had long been making about the ghazal and classical ghazal poets.

Sajjad Zaheer took his comrade severely to task for his critique of Hafiz. He argued that it was unwise to accuse Hafiz's poetry of passivity, escapism, extreme subjectivity, and hedonism, and thereby throw this priceless jewel of our cultural heritage onto the rubbish heap. He then explained that, my dear friend, this is not how poetry is examined and evaluated. The method adopted to squeeze a message out of the entirety of Hafiz's poetry is both unliterary and unscholarly. Furthermore, the relationship between material social conditions and artistic creation has been understood in a flawed and mechanical manner.

But friends, let us be fair! Z. Ansari had not invented these ideas out of thin air. He merely repeated the same lesson regarding Hafiz that Progressive critics had been preaching all along. If this method of evaluating poetry was wrong, why should Z. Ansari alone be taken to task? But perhaps Sajjad Zaheer's true intention was to address Z. Ansari while making sure the rest of the neighborhood heard him loud and clear. Meaning, he wanted the other Progressive critics to listen carefully and take heed.

And so, Sajjad Zaheer broke down a door here as well. And this was a door that his own movement had built. However, I also felt a sense of regret. Sajjad Zaheer was a little too late. Had Progressive criticism received this guidance at the very inception of the movement, it would have been immensely beneficial for it. But at that time, passions were running high. It would not have been surprising if, in the fervor of revolution, some zealot had declared, Look, even Banne Bhai has become a reactionary!