Tanqeed Kya Hai?
Western influence has brought several welcome additions to Urdu, the most significant of which is the art of criticism. However, this does not mean that Urdu literature lacked critical consciousness prior to Western influence, or that there were no discussions about poetry and literature, no commentaries on poets, or no debates regarding the merits of language and expression. Great creative achievements cannot come into existence without a sound critical consciousness. Creative genius goes astray without critical consciousness, just as critical consciousness remains lifeless without creative aptitude.
In Urdu, from Wajhi to Hasrat Mohani, every good poet possessed a clear and well-tested critical consciousness. Furthermore, a rich repository of *bayaz* (personal notebooks), *tazkiras* (biographical anthologies), *taqreez* (commendatory notes), prefaces, and letters has existed from the very beginning. In *mushairas* (poetry recitals) and literary gatherings, poets and literature were continuously evaluated. Mir was repulsed by the frivolous romanticism of Jur'at. Khan Arzu referred to Sauda's verses as Hadith-e-Qudsi (divine sayings). Atish likened Dabeer's elegies to the bombastic epic tales of Landhoor bin Sa'dan. Shefta dismissed Nazeer's poetry as vulgar; he was such a staunch advocate of sobriety in style that, regardless of how profound the meaning might be, he considered any verse absurd if it lacked dignity. For Ghalib, poetry was the creation of meaning, not mere rhyming. He also believed in a certain *cheez-e-digar* (an ineffable, transcendent quality) in poetry, and he found sharper emotional scalpels in Atish's work than in Nasikh's.
This critical consciousness was also the bearer of fine traditions. It possessed an awareness of the subtleties of art and a deep respect for the rigorous practice required to master it. However, it was somewhat limited and traditional, overly fixated on discipline and order. It sought to smooth out every peak and valley, attempting to mold every mind into a single template. It communicated in hints and allusions, shying away from clarity, explicitness, and detail. It consisted largely of either absolute praise or outright condemnation, and its standards were more technical than literary. There is no denying that literary criticism, in the truest sense, began with Hali. Before Hali, poets deferred to *ustads* (master poets) rather than critics. If a high degree of critical aptitude can be found in anyone before him, it is Shefta—without whose approval even Ghalib did not consider his own ghazal complete. Yet, even Shefta was an advocate of familiar, pre-approved beauty; he was incapable of discovering new forms of beauty.
Hali raised fundamental questions regarding poetry, literature, life, morality, society, the ghazal, and the *nazm* (poem). He sought to establish a standard for poetry and attempted to evaluate our literary heritage against it. In formulating this standard, he was certainly influenced by the West, though his criteria were not purely Western. He maintained a regard for artistic craft, yet never let go of nature. He critiqued certain conventions but did not disregard literary traditions entirely. Hali’s approach proved highly beneficial, sparking a broader conversation about criticism and its principles. Consequently, Urdu now boasts an abundance of essays, journals, and books that debate the principles of criticism, critique specific writers or literary movements, or interpret and explain various literary theories.
In the West, literary criticism has undergone numerous transformations, and the impact of these shifts is being felt in our literature as well. Nevertheless, it remains a fact that widespread misunderstandings persist today regarding the meaning, purpose, necessity, fundamental prerequisites, scope, and characteristics of criticism. Therefore, there is a pressing need to clarify exactly what criticism is and what significance it holds in both literature and life.
Coleridge once mentioned a man and a woman who were observing a waterfall. The man exclaimed, How majestic it is! The woman replied, Yes, it is very beautiful. It was not that the poor woman lacked an appreciation for beauty; she had the feeling, but not the refined taste. She possessed awareness, but it was neither trained nor cultivated. Consequently, she could not distinguish between different shades of beauty, nor did she understand the difference between the sublime and the overwhelming—or if she did, she lacked the vocabulary to express it. This affliction is not confined to the general public; it plagues the intellectual elite as well. Many esteemed figures are concerned not with the spectacle itself, but with their own preconceived vision. They do not see the inherent beauty of things; rather, they only see the beauty of a specific idea projected onto those things.
Even today, many people conflate Progressive literature with New literature. Many perceive beauty only in a specific attire, ultimately mistaking the attire itself for beauty. Many are mere worshippers of tradition, while others are solely flag-bearers of rebellion. There are those who, like Fani and Jigar, consider the ghazal to be the only true form of poetry, dismissing the *nazm* as mere rhyming. Conversely, some, like Kaleemuddin, dismiss the ghazal as a semi-barbaric poetic genre. Then there are those like Krishan Chander, who insist on the progressivism of Rashid’s poetry even while acknowledging its escapism and sexual complexes. Some interpret revolutionary poetry as nothing more than sheer rebellion and a bloodbath. Others, like Akhtar Raipuri, in their ideological zeal, reduce Akbar’s poetry to mere satirical versification. Some wish to turn literature into propaganda; some formulate principles but fail to apply them; and some can paint excellent individual portraits but are incapable of perceiving unity within multiplicity.
The root cause of these extremes is that our literature has rarely been allowed to exist purely as literature; instead, it has been transformed into mysticism, philosophy, or propaganda. Superficial readers failed to see the inner self of Iqbal’s language, treating it merely as a display of craft. They ignored the vibrant hues of his lifeblood poured into his work. In reaction, others attempted to disregard the technical nuances of art altogether, thereby losing the intellectual weight of their own arguments. While some excellent critical essays have been written in Urdu, true criticism—whose path is finer than a strand of hair—has failed to make significant strides for this very reason. Various factions have exploited criticism for their own agendas, dedicating very little rigorous practice to the discipline itself.
Since Hali, Urdu has not produced a single critic who possesses what T.S. Eliot termed a Universal Intelligence—and by universal intelligence, I do not mean an international mindset. Many critics forgot their true calling and instead began seeking applause in the wrestling ring of literary feuds. Many disgraced themselves in their eagerness to flaunt philosophical jargon. Many descended into literary dictatorship, while others reduced themselves to mere spokespersons for a single school of thought, a specific era, or a particular tradition. While some fine theories were certainly put forward, very few were capable of aiding the study of poetry from three hundred years ago, the poetry of today, and the poetry of three hundred years hence—even if they were not the final word on the matter.
It is regrettable that Urdu never produced its own Aristotle. Hali’s Eastern sensibilities and his inherent decency sometimes made him overly lenient when expressing opinions about his contemporaries. As George Bernard Shaw noted, a writer must prioritize literature first, and concern themselves with politeness and courtesy later. This very distinction marks the difference between the Hali of the *Muqaddama* (Introduction) and the Hali of the *Maqalat* (Essays).
The primary reason for the scarcity of literary criticism in Urdu is that it has generally been regarded as a secondary pursuit. A well-wisher of mine in Aligarh, whenever he reads a piece of criticism, remarks, What is the point of this? You quote a few verses, provide a summary, add some introductory remarks or footnotes, and your criticism is ready. There is no doubt that literary magazines are replete with such critiques, but true criticism is much more than this. Shibli included lengthy excerpts in his *Mawazna-e-Anees-o-Dabeer* (A Comparison of Anees and Dabeer) because the true merit of an elegy (*marsiya*) cannot be judged from just a stanza or two. Similarly, many of Iqbal’s critics have quoted his poetry extensively while expressing fewer of their own thoughts.
While compiling a selection of poetry is not criticism in itself, the act of selection greatly enhances critical awareness. In making a selection, representing the poet accurately is more important than indulging one's personal preferences. Representing a poet's work is by no means an easy task. However, those who grow skeptical of an abundance of quotations should realize that criticism cannot exist in a vacuum. Quotations keep criticism grounded in accuracy and truth. Those who merely see the quotations but ignore the deep research and inquiry that goes—and must go—into selecting them, possess a poor understanding of literature. Consequently, one cannot hold a very high opinion of their intellectual capacity.
Even today, some people believe that creative literature directly reflects the consciousness of life, whereas critical literature merely interprets, analyzes, or dissects that creation, and therefore, can never equal it. Others argue that since critics are rarely poets themselves—and if they are, they are seldom good ones—their opinions cannot be entirely trusted. After all, what can these free-flying pigeons of the sanctuary roof (the critics) truly know or say about the captive birds with tethered feet (the poets)? It is our duty to carefully examine both of these assumptions.
Yusuf Husain wrote *Rooh-e-Iqbal* (The Spirit of Iqbal) on Iqbal’s poetry, attempting to interpret his work. Someone else then wrote a critique of *Rooh-e-Iqbal*, disagreeing with Husain’s perspective. Yet another person wrote a rebuttal to that disagreement. The result is that an overabundance of interpretations can sometimes turn the original dream into a confusing nightmare. Tagore once experienced something similar. He recited a new poem to his circle; one gentleman offered a specific interpretation, while another contradicted him, offering a different one. An argument ensued between the two, and Tagore quietly slipped away from the scene. In our traditional education system, the practice of relying heavily on commentaries, marginalia, and exegeses often led to minor details gaining more importance than the original text, thereby narrowing one's perspective. Personal, subjective, and impressionistic criticism certainly carries this risk.
Occasionally, a critic’s extraordinary personality, their grand principles, and their captivating phrasing can overawe the reader. The reader becomes accustomed to viewing everything through the critic’s lens (though for the general reader, having such an intellectual guide is better than falling prey to mere literary whims). However, good criticism draws the reader back toward the creative literature itself. It is inherently creative; rather than sealing the reader's mind, it cultivates and trains it. No critique of creative literature can ever render the original work obsolete; there is no unbridgeable gulf between the two. Creative literature is already driven by a critical consciousness; literary criticism simply brings it to light. Criticism is neither a mere summary nor a detraction, but it must penetrate to the foundational idea of the creative work. In common parlance, it performs a surgical operation on the creation, but this procedure is conducted poetically and unfolds within the very atmosphere of the work itself.
Suspicion toward criticism is generally harbored by those who are not accustomed to looking at literature profoundly—those who seek mere entertainment in it, or, in Iqbal’s words, the intoxicating pleasure of the poppy. If they were to look past superficial differences and reflect deeply, they would realize just how essential it is for the vitality of creative literature to draw support from criticism. Sometimes, this skepticism also arises because the criticism typically found in book reviews, prefaces, introductions, and forewords presents entirely different shades of critique. In reality, each of these forms operates in its own distinct domain.
A preface or introduction introduces the book or its author, highlights its significance, determines its value, and often delivers a definitive verdict. A book review points out certain key characteristics of the work. However, forewords generally demonstrate more politeness and courtesy than mature critical insight. Some of these are undoubtedly misleading. Limited criticism is, by its nature, restricted in scope and therefore not overly harmful. However, criticism that claims to be comprehensive but is actually narrow and highly specific is both misleading and deceptive. I admit that in subjective, impressionistic criticism, such judgments are inevitable, and this illusion is quite common in both the East and the West. This is why I consider impressionistic criticism to be flawed; it falls under the category of mere Appreciation. It has its own distinct value, but it cannot be elevated to the status of great criticism. Great criticism is in no way inferior to creative literature; rather, it becomes a creative act in itself.
As for the question of what non-poet critics can possibly say about poetry, or what opinions non-novelists can form about a novel—this question is based on a fundamental misunderstanding. The world knows that Maulvi Abdul Haq was not a poet, yet this fact never hindered him from being an excellent critic. Jigar is a fine poet, but he cannot be called a good critic. Poetry requires a sweet madness, whereas criticism demands a sacred solemnity. Matthew Arnold referred to this as High Seriousness. Occasionally, both of these traits are found in a single individual. Every good poet possesses a technical awareness of their craft, but this awareness offers little help in evaluating other literary genres; in fact, it often proves to be a hindrance. The strength of one domain naturally becomes the weakness of another. Ghazal poets, for instance, often fail to gauge the structural capabilities of a *nazm* (a continuous poem). Those enamored with subtle allusions often overlook the beauty of detail, clarity, and explicit explanation. The profound depth and complete surrender required for literary creation are precisely what a critic must rise above in order to evaluate it objectively.
Every artist’s personality consists of two parts. One part undergoes experiences—enduring sorrow and pain, or experiencing comfort and joy. The other part observes this sorrow and joy from a higher vantage point and determines its true value. Therefore, it is understandable if an artist can occasionally view their own suffering and happiness from this elevated perspective. However, this does not diminish the importance and greatness of the critic; rather, it reaffirms it. For instance, the selection of Mir's poetry made by Mir Hasan is superior to the selection Mir himself made in *Nikat-ush-Shu'ara*. Similarly, the self-selections made by poets in the January 1941 issue of the journal *Nigar* were certainly not always the best representations of their work. Thus, it is clear that a critic can be excellent even without being a poet, or at least without being a poet of the same caliber. What is essential, however, is that the critic possesses a deep understanding of literature. They must be able to reach the very soul of poetry. They must possess a broad empathy, a flexible mind, and an all-encompassing nature capable of soaring alongside the poet in the realm of poetry—and sometimes even flying ahead of them. While the artist gives birth to experiences, it is the discerning critic who makes artists true artists in the real sense of the word.
T. S. Eliot was not wrong when he observed: When one creative mind is better than another, the reason often is that the better one possesses greater critical ability. Hudson stated it even more plainly: Since true criticism also draws its material and emotion from life, it is, in its own way, creative as well. Therefore, it is incorrect to shy away from critical literature simply because it carries the scent of books. Good criticism is in no way inferior to good creative writing; in fact, for certain reasons, it holds a superiority over it.
In short, considering criticism a secondary or inferior pursuit is a grave mistake. Good criticism does not merely provide information; it performs all the functions of a historian, a psychologist, a poet, and a prophet. Criticism illuminates the mind, and this illumination is so essential that, in its absence, one sometimes feels a distinct lack within the creative essence itself. The early nineteenth century in England was an era of extraordinary creative output. Yet, in Matthew Arnold’s view, despite its immense creativity, the poetry of this period lacked intellect; it lacked true knowing. Its major poets were either intellectually hollow or obscure, or they lacked variety and vibrancy. To a large extent, this observation applies to our poetry as well. Our classical literature is somewhat lacking in intellectual depth and variety, though, owing to a specific artistic consciousness, it is not obscure.
In contrast, our modern literature possesses intellectual depth, weight, and variety, but it suffers from greater obscurity. Previously, the emphasis was on flavor and linguistic relish; now, the focus has shifted to sensationalism and shock value. The reason for this is twofold: first, intellect is less prominent than emotion. Second, there is less clarity in the mind and more haze or confusion (the causes of this confusion lie elsewhere; it is not caused by criticism). Psychologists might smile at this rigid distinction between intellect and emotion, but I have used these terms here in a metaphorical sense. It is possible that some people, like Horace, consider emotion alone to be the essence of poetry, but I believe that a harmony between thought and emotion is essential. The lack of knowledge and erudition in our literature is essentially a lack of cultural refinement and intellectual training. By knowledge, I do not merely mean bookish learning, but a profound understanding of life and the universe. This deficiency is the direct result of neglecting critical consciousness and remaining indifferent to the cultivation and refinement of literary taste.
Every human being possesses at least some capacity to be moved by beauty and to respond to artistic creation, but not everyone’s taste is refined, mature, and deeply cultivated. For some, mental development does not keep pace with their age; for others, the hardships of life deny them the opportunity for such growth. Some seek a cheap intoxication in literature and remain content with it—just as many choose to live a life of idle comfort, leaving pain and scars, passion and creation, yearning and quest to Iqbal’s Satan. This is precisely the secret behind the popularity of magazines like *Beesween Sadi*, *Mast Qalandar*, *Kehkashan*, and others of their ilk.
However, I am not addressing those who seek vulgarity and frivolity in literature. Rather, I am speaking to those who use literature not only to ease the burdens of worldly life but to find the courage to struggle against them, thereby elevating the possibilities of humanity and life itself. Such individuals derive genuine pleasure from good literature. They find joy in encountering a great literary figure, or in discovering a literary masterpiece or triumph. Yet, in their joy and delight, the element of praise and admiration remains dominant. When they encounter a different kind of literary achievement, this admiration may take on a different hue. Such admiration often lacks balance and can even be misguided. Therefore, it becomes all the more essential to assign every new discovery its proper place, to integrate every new truth into the broader framework of life's ultimate realities, and to recognize falsehood even when it masquerades as truth. In this way, criticism serves as a guiding light—for writers, for those who derive joy and enrichment from literature, and for literature itself.
Having clarified the purpose and status of criticism, it is now necessary to examine its actual function: What does criticism do? Here, too, when we look at the intellectual heritage of the East and the West, we encounter diverse theories, hundreds of maxims, and thousands of distinct trends. The function of criticism is to pass judgment; it separates the wheat from the chaff. Criticism is elucidation, clarification, interpretation, exegesis, commentary, deconstruction, and analysis. Criticism does not merely determine value; it provides a measuring scale for both literature and life. Criticism dispenses justice, establishing the standards by which we distinguish the inferior from the superior, falsehood from truth, and the profound from the superficial. Criticism highlights the timelessness within every specific era, as well as the contemporary relevance of the timeless. In literature, criticism performs the dual task of innovation and preservation. It is both an iconoclast and an idol-maker. Without criticism, literature is like a wild jungle—teeming with abundant growth, but entirely lacking in proportion and order. These, and many similar observations, can be made about criticism, and none of them would be incorrect.
If we look at the roster of great critics, we find that some have leaned toward passing judgment, while others have emphasized analysis and deconstruction. Some have dedicated themselves to the art of interpretation, striving for absolute impartiality. However, in literature, permanent impartiality is not merely difficult; it is nearly impossible. Criticism is not simply about presenting both sides of the picture. Nor is it an exercise where one seeks compromise or reconciliation, merely fulfilling one's duty by saying, mention its flaws as well. Rather, after carefully examining both sides, it is essential to definitively acknowledge the true significance and value of the work.
Linguistic criticism is merely a superficial form of criticism; what is far more important is the artistic consciousness embedded within the words and the awareness of life and the universe within the art itself. Although merely reciting poetic meters (*fa'ilatun fa'ilat*) does not constitute criticism, this does not mean that a good critic can afford to be ignorant of prosody and its rules. A good literary critic also has his finger on the pulse of the language. He is not only well-versed in prosody, everyday speech, and idioms, but he also understands that sometimes, despite lapses in these areas, great and enduring poetry is still possible. In the realm of fiction, some people still search for lyrical prose (*insha-e-lateef*), and it is for this reason that they deny the extraordinary artistic heights achieved by Rajinder Singh Bedi. This approach is incorrect. Similarly, in poetry, from Rumi to Iqbal, great poets have considered being labeled as mere poets an accusation against themselves. Here, mere poetry likely refers to the superficial display of artistic skill.
Beyond this knowledge of language, an understanding of literary styles is also essential, along with an appreciation for the sincerity, individuality, expression, and aesthetic beauty inherent in each style. The beauty of language and expression can provide surface brilliance and color, but it cannot breathe a soul into the work. The primary requirement is the accuracy of the material or the authenticity of the events. If a critic lacks this knowledge, or if his knowledge is flawed, then his very foundations are weak. This is precisely why modern criticism is riddled with errors stemming from ignorance or misunderstanding. A critic does not merely recount facts; therefore, he is not bound to compile dossiers. Criticism is by no means a mere cataloging or ledger of events. However, without an accurate presentation and a true understanding of those events—that is, without a proper historical consciousness—every step he takes will lead him further astray.
It is imperative for a critic, when analyzing a masterpiece from the past, to transport himself into that era. Turning a blind eye to the past is never justifiable. The first major flaw in modern criticism is that it tends to ignore or distort certain facts, and it cannot tolerate hearing arguments that contradict its own stance. Its second flaw is that it lacks a true sense of the past. It is true that our literature has suffered from an excessive reverence for the past. For years, poets and writers prioritized critical conformity over invention, formal and traditional styles over originality, and mere craft over true literature. However, this does not mean that, out of sheer reactionary spite, we should become completely indifferent to the great achievements of the past. In its early days, Progressive criticism was more akin to propaganda than actual criticism, primarily because it had not yet learned to appreciate the past. However, the critical works being produced now demonstrate a historical consciousness, an understanding of evolution, and a proper appreciation of the past.
Good criticism cannot remain trapped in the binary of the classical versus the romantic. It cannot be compartmentalized into such narrow boxes. Many critics still analyze poets and writers solely by highlighting how they differ from their predecessors. While this is valid, it is insufficient. One must also examine to what extent these writers are the custodians of the literary heritage, the mirrors of tradition, and the manifestations of the temperament bestowed upon them by their culture and civilization. We must ask to what extent they are modern and to what extent they are traditional; furthermore, we must explore how much of the old is embedded within their newness. In other words, their worth should not be judged solely by their innovation and uniqueness, but also by their literary quality. By literary quality, I mean the established literary standards that have evolved over time. The example of Iqbal will make this point clear.
In Iqbal’s poem *Shama Aur Shair* (The Candle and the Poet) or in the ghazals of *Bal-e-Jibril* (Gabriel's Wing), we encounter new ideas, but these ideas are presented with a poetic sensibility that is familiar and adheres to established structural molds. This means that while Iqbal is modern, his modernity does not make him indifferent to classical poetics. He employs the very same metaphors of the tavern and the wine cup—which were traditionally used to express the mystical observation of the Divine Truth—to articulate the observation of life itself. Despite his innovativeness, Iqbal is not merely a rebel, just as Hali is not merely a rebel. Both certainly establish a new tradition, but this tradition is characterized more by conscious choice than by coercion, and more by expansion and enrichment than by outright rejection of the past. Hali and Iqbal stand taller than critics like Abdur Rahman Bijnori and Azmatullah Khan because, despite being liberated thinkers in their own times, they are not entirely alienated from the past. They are neither as extremist nor as exclusive in their approach.
Kaleemuddin Ahmad articulates ideas that are newer, more deeply considered, and more thought-provoking than those of many other critics. However, his criticism would have reached even greater heights had he not been so dismissive of our classical heritage, had his awareness of the historical and literary continuum been more pronounced, and had his criticism not devolved into a mere search for thorns in a rose garden.
However, having a sense of the past is one thing; being shackled to it is quite another. If a critic merely reveres traditions, blindly follows the beaten path, and simply seeks to drag the twentieth-century mind back to the seventeenth century, he will fall from his rightful stature. An awareness of the past and the ability to perceive the glow of literary continuity through the mists of history cannot justify an indifference toward experimentation, uniqueness, novelty, and originality. To the question, What is the need for free verse when traditional poetry suffices? the counter-question is, What is the need for traditional poetry itself? What is wrong with the ghazal? After all, just as there is no single way to arrange a room, just as beauty can manifest itself in both circles and straight lines, and just as a painter can project his mind's reflection onto a canvas in hundreds of ways, why must there be only one structural mold for the arrangement and rhythm of words? Why should every thought be forced to shrink itself just to squeeze through the narrow strait of a rhyme scheme? Why must one wade through several lines of verse just to arrive at a single thought?
Even Hali acknowledged that rhyme (*qafiya*) and refrain (*radeef*) are not essential for poetry; only meter (*wazn*) is necessary. Therefore, objecting to every literary experiment by questioning its very necessity is unjustified. Experimentation indicates that people are no longer satisfied with familiar structural molds. It refuses to let beauty remain confined; rather, it broadens the mind by unveiling new forms of beauty. Experimentation is vital in any literature. However, it is not necessary for experiments to manifest solely in new forms; they should also emerge through new subjects, new concepts, and new themes. A good critic must respect this novelty just as much as he respects tradition. His intellectual curiosity and desire to understand the new must never die.
In the book *Mudawa*, the most objectionable aspect of its critique of modern poetry was its intense aversion to novelty, its blind infatuation with familiar paths, and its sheer superficiality. A critic and a worshipper are two entirely different creatures. A critic is neither a blind devotee, nor a moral censor (*muhtasib*), nor a police chief (*kotwal*). To object to the poems or short stories of this era by asking why they are so bitter, why they lack smiles or optimism, why their writers seem consumed by sexual frustration, why they weep instead of laughing, or why they have become so cynical, only proves that the objector is making no effort to understand the specific problems of our time. I would like to discuss one particular characteristic of this era in somewhat greater detail.
In the past, wars were fought by professional soldiers, or their leaders would test their strength against one another. The battle was decided by the defeat of a leader or the victory and loss of an army. It was not everyone's job to fight, nor was it everyone's privilege to enjoy beauty. Some people were born to relish the moonlight, greenery, beauty, and women, while others were born to plow fields, pay off debts, and live their lives like sheep and goats. Today, the paradigms of war and peace have changed; war belongs to everyone, and so does peace. Churchill was the savior of England, but as soon as peace was established, the public discarded him as easily as one plucks a fly from milk. The war has shown that every dream can be realized and every hut can become a palace. It has made dreams more vibrant and failures more bitter. It has altered the scales of both creation and destruction, and the scars of unfulfilled desires have multiplied. It is only natural for this to impact literature, and no critic can remain oblivious to it.
Classical criticism viewed each poet in isolation. One was labeled the master of pessimism, another the prophet of optimism; one a mystic, another a worldly man. It primarily discussed their personal circumstances and individual experiences. While there was an awareness of personality, classical criticism remained unaware of the extent to which the environment influences creative works, how it subtly manifests within a personality, and the strange and mysterious ways it finds its way into art. Modern criticism has popularized terms like objectivity, realism, social consciousness, and cultural criticism. It has guided us from the depiction of minute details to an understanding of the whole. It has illuminated the shadows of emotion with the light of thought—a light that literature desperately needed.
If you examine Hali’s poetry in isolation from the 1857 Uprising and Sir Syed’s movement, it will appear soulless, and the secret of its greatness will remain incomprehensible. Similarly, the differences between Chakbast, Iqbal, and contemporary progressive poets, or between Premchand and his followers, cannot be understood without an awareness of their respective environments. This makes the task of criticism even more difficult. The critic must understand the artist's personality and analyze their individual experiences, and then examine these elements in the light of their environment. Only then can true literary insight be achieved. Only then can one truly understand Fani’s pessimism, or the despair, melancholy, bitterness, alienation, and even the death wish found in modern poets.
Even if a critic understands their own era and is well-versed in others, a danger still remains. They can easily slip into the embrace of philosophy, politics, or psychology. When Matthew Arnold sought to establish boundaries for literature, he had to wage a crusade against the misguided individuals of his time to popularize his ideas. Whether that crusade was successful or not, Arnold’s writings exposed the deprivations of literature. This danger threatens not only the moralist but also the champions of politics.
Criticism should not become a slave to politics; rather, it should walk alongside it and be its companion. Similarly, criticism must not get bogged down in the swamp of psychology. The science of psychology is highly useful to us, but it is also deeply deceptive. It is like a funhouse mirror that shrinks large objects and magnifies small ones, flattening and elongating faces. It makes mountains out of molehills; it untangles one knot only to create hundreds more. Psychological criticism has set up shop as a grand apothecary with nothing but a single root of turmeric. It claims to be a science and even borrows some of its tools, but it has not yet truly become one. Therefore, while I acknowledge the importance of psychological awareness, I consider contemporary psychological criticism to be misleading. Thus far, the metrics of psychology are merely attempts to capture the ocean in a teacup.
In short, a critic is not merely a philosopher, a preacher, or a psychologist; they are a person of profound vision. As I.A. Richards suggests, the critic does for the mind what a doctor does for the body. The critic is a creator, practitioner, and disseminator of values. As a creator of values, they can observe the spectacle of these values being practiced from a higher vantage point. And as a practitioner, they hold a higher station than a mere disseminator (or preacher). For this reason, their advocacy is superior to that of others; it possesses a greater sense of eternity.
Having clarified that criticism requires striking a balance between tradition and rebellion, past and present, environment and individuality, as well as art and philosophy, it must also be said that some critics have achieved prominence even by sacrificing this balance. Shefta was an excellent critic of his time. He believed in classical discipline and order, and considered literature a noble art. He had no concern for the common masses. By ignoring Nazeer, he ultimately harmed his own legacy, yet acknowledging his significance remains essential. Among the critics preceding Hali, he possessed the finest critical consciousness, and his work *Gulshan-e-Bekhar* is the greatest achievement of its time. Azmatullah Khan, in his zeal for novelty, went so far as to declare that the ghazal should be unceremoniously beheaded. Because of this, his stature could not rise very high. Nevertheless, he holds a prominent place among those who forged new paths. Yet, a higher rank belongs to those who maintained their intellectual balance—those who have one foot in the present and one in the past, who belong to their own era as well as to all eras—in other words, those who possess a universal mind.
Now, the only question that remains is whether a single, comprehensive term can be coined for criticism. In my opinion, the word *Parakh* (evaluation or assaying) is the most suitable. It encompasses introduction, interpretation, and judgment all at once. The word *Parakh* brings to mind a standard or a touchstone. It is essential for a critic to have such a standard in mind. Interpretation and analysis are necessary for evaluating and weighing a work. A commentator or evaluator does not obsess over forcing others to accept their judgment, and all critics agree that a critic must not act like a dictator. T.S. Eliot says that in important matters, a critic should not be coercive, nor should they hastily pass judgments of good or bad. They should merely elucidate, and the reader will arrive at the correct conclusion on their own.
When a critic introduces a writer, it is not the loud announcement of a herald, but rather the discovery of an explorer. The critic is the Columbus of his own world; he guides readers into the very atmosphere whose beauty he has unearthed. Every act of criticism marks the beginning of an intellectual journey. An introduction should not merely be a proclamation, nor should interpretation become a rigid philosophy. To successfully fulfill the duty of interpretation, a critic must learn objectivity. Some even consider objectivity to be the foundation of morality. A good critic is one who allows the author to speak through his voice and write with his pen, letting the author's essence absorb into him for a while, thereby doing true justice to the work. Science teaches us this objectivity to a great extent, which is why a critic should draw upon scientific principles. For the sake of this interpretation, one sometimes has to speak against one's own biases. In doing so, the notion of what ought to be must temporarily be set aside in favor of what is. Only after passing through this stage does the critic earn the right to insist on what ought to be.
For instance, many of Ismat Chughtai’s short stories feature not just sexual inclinations, but sexual deviance as well. As Patras remarked, her stories are the call of the body, and her sketch *Do Zakhmi*, despite its unparalleled realism, feels somewhat morbid. Nevertheless, one cannot question Chughtai’s realism, creativity, characterization, technical maturity, mastery of language, awareness of her environment, and overall literary merit. Only after acknowledging these numerous qualities does one earn the right to critique her. A critic is a moral teacher, but not merely a moral teacher; he is a judge, but not merely a judge—he is an evaluator and a connoisseur. Criticism also requires passion and emotion, but bad criticism is purely passionate or emotional. In good criticism, emotion is refined by a delicate, mature, and civilized sensibility. This is why good criticism is never purely destructive. It does not merely look for flaws or shortcomings; it looks at the heights a work achieves and assesses the true nature of that elevation.
In the words of Hali, it uncovers astonishing manifestations of beauty. It is aware of the depths, yet it does not stoop low itself. When observing hints of pederasty in Mir’s poetry, it does not get lost in psychoanalyzing his temperament and subconscious; rather, it keeps its sights set on the poet's artistic heights. A good critic guides the reader away from the poet and toward the poetry, whereas a mediocre critic remains entangled in the persona of the poet. In the Urdu literary world, even today, both the elite and the general public remain bound by the opinions of others, blindly accepting every verdict. This stems not only from hero-worship but also from intellectual laziness. Consequently, they do not bother to look at both sides of the picture. A single perspective, a single verdict, or a single formula is enough to satisfy them; they refuse to take the trouble of critically evaluating things for themselves. Becoming a true connoisseur requires immense discipline, rigorous practice, and a highly perceptive mind. This is precisely why Urdu criticism is full of preachers and heralds, but severely lacks true evaluators and discerning critics.
Western influence has brought several welcome additions to Urdu, the most significant of which is the art of criticism. However, this does not mean that Urdu literature lacked critical consciousness prior to Western influence, or that there were no discussions about poetry and literature, no commentaries on poets, or no debates regarding the merits of language and expression. Great creative achievements cannot come into existence without a sound critical consciousness. Creative genius goes astray without critical consciousness, just as critical consciousness remains lifeless without creative aptitude.
In Urdu, from Wajhi to Hasrat Mohani, every good poet possessed a clear and well-tested critical consciousness. Furthermore, a rich repository of *bayaz* (personal notebooks), *tazkiras* (biographical anthologies), *taqreez* (commendatory notes), prefaces, and letters has existed from the very beginning. In *mushairas* (poetry recitals) and literary gatherings, poets and literature were continuously evaluated. Mir was repulsed by the frivolous romanticism of Jur'at. Khan Arzu referred to Sauda's verses as Hadith-e-Qudsi (divine sayings). Atish likened Dabeer's elegies to the bombastic epic tales of Landhoor bin Sa'dan. Shefta dismissed Nazeer's poetry as vulgar; he was such a staunch advocate of sobriety in style that, regardless of how profound the meaning might be, he considered any verse absurd if it lacked dignity. For Ghalib, poetry was the creation of meaning, not mere rhyming. He also believed in a certain *cheez-e-digar* (an ineffable, transcendent quality) in poetry, and he found sharper emotional scalpels in Atish's work than in Nasikh's.
This critical consciousness was also the bearer of fine traditions. It possessed an awareness of the subtleties of art and a deep respect for the rigorous practice required to master it. However, it was somewhat limited and traditional, overly fixated on discipline and order. It sought to smooth out every peak and valley, attempting to mold every mind into a single template. It communicated in hints and allusions, shying away from clarity, explicitness, and detail. It consisted largely of either absolute praise or outright condemnation, and its standards were more technical than literary. There is no denying that literary criticism, in the truest sense, began with Hali. Before Hali, poets deferred to *ustads* (master poets) rather than critics. If a high degree of critical aptitude can be found in anyone before him, it is Shefta—without whose approval even Ghalib did not consider his own ghazal complete. Yet, even Shefta was an advocate of familiar, pre-approved beauty; he was incapable of discovering new forms of beauty.
Hali raised fundamental questions regarding poetry, literature, life, morality, society, the ghazal, and the *nazm* (poem). He sought to establish a standard for poetry and attempted to evaluate our literary heritage against it. In formulating this standard, he was certainly influenced by the West, though his criteria were not purely Western. He maintained a regard for artistic craft, yet never let go of nature. He critiqued certain conventions but did not disregard literary traditions entirely. Hali’s approach proved highly beneficial, sparking a broader conversation about criticism and its principles. Consequently, Urdu now boasts an abundance of essays, journals, and books that debate the principles of criticism, critique specific writers or literary movements, or interpret and explain various literary theories.
In the West, literary criticism has undergone numerous transformations, and the impact of these shifts is being felt in our literature as well. Nevertheless, it remains a fact that widespread misunderstandings persist today regarding the meaning, purpose, necessity, fundamental prerequisites, scope, and characteristics of criticism. Therefore, there is a pressing need to clarify exactly what criticism is and what significance it holds in both literature and life.
Coleridge once mentioned a man and a woman who were observing a waterfall. The man exclaimed, How majestic it is! The woman replied, Yes, it is very beautiful. It was not that the poor woman lacked an appreciation for beauty; she had the feeling, but not the refined taste. She possessed awareness, but it was neither trained nor cultivated. Consequently, she could not distinguish between different shades of beauty, nor did she understand the difference between the sublime and the overwhelming—or if she did, she lacked the vocabulary to express it. This affliction is not confined to the general public; it plagues the intellectual elite as well. Many esteemed figures are concerned not with the spectacle itself, but with their own preconceived vision. They do not see the inherent beauty of things; rather, they only see the beauty of a specific idea projected onto those things.
Even today, many people conflate Progressive literature with New literature. Many perceive beauty only in a specific attire, ultimately mistaking the attire itself for beauty. Many are mere worshippers of tradition, while others are solely flag-bearers of rebellion. There are those who, like Fani and Jigar, consider the ghazal to be the only true form of poetry, dismissing the *nazm* as mere rhyming. Conversely, some, like Kaleemuddin, dismiss the ghazal as a semi-barbaric poetic genre. Then there are those like Krishan Chander, who insist on the progressivism of Rashid’s poetry even while acknowledging its escapism and sexual complexes. Some interpret revolutionary poetry as nothing more than sheer rebellion and a bloodbath. Others, like Akhtar Raipuri, in their ideological zeal, reduce Akbar’s poetry to mere satirical versification. Some wish to turn literature into propaganda; some formulate principles but fail to apply them; and some can paint excellent individual portraits but are incapable of perceiving unity within multiplicity.
The root cause of these extremes is that our literature has rarely been allowed to exist purely as literature; instead, it has been transformed into mysticism, philosophy, or propaganda. Superficial readers failed to see the inner self of Iqbal’s language, treating it merely as a display of craft. They ignored the vibrant hues of his lifeblood poured into his work. In reaction, others attempted to disregard the technical nuances of art altogether, thereby losing the intellectual weight of their own arguments. While some excellent critical essays have been written in Urdu, true criticism—whose path is finer than a strand of hair—has failed to make significant strides for this very reason. Various factions have exploited criticism for their own agendas, dedicating very little rigorous practice to the discipline itself.
Since Hali, Urdu has not produced a single critic who possesses what T.S. Eliot termed a Universal Intelligence—and by universal intelligence, I do not mean an international mindset. Many critics forgot their true calling and instead began seeking applause in the wrestling ring of literary feuds. Many disgraced themselves in their eagerness to flaunt philosophical jargon. Many descended into literary dictatorship, while others reduced themselves to mere spokespersons for a single school of thought, a specific era, or a particular tradition. While some fine theories were certainly put forward, very few were capable of aiding the study of poetry from three hundred years ago, the poetry of today, and the poetry of three hundred years hence—even if they were not the final word on the matter.
It is regrettable that Urdu never produced its own Aristotle. Hali’s Eastern sensibilities and his inherent decency sometimes made him overly lenient when expressing opinions about his contemporaries. As George Bernard Shaw noted, a writer must prioritize literature first, and concern themselves with politeness and courtesy later. This very distinction marks the difference between the Hali of the *Muqaddama* (Introduction) and the Hali of the *Maqalat* (Essays).
The primary reason for the scarcity of literary criticism in Urdu is that it has generally been regarded as a secondary pursuit. A well-wisher of mine in Aligarh, whenever he reads a piece of criticism, remarks, What is the point of this? You quote a few verses, provide a summary, add some introductory remarks or footnotes, and your criticism is ready. There is no doubt that literary magazines are replete with such critiques, but true criticism is much more than this. Shibli included lengthy excerpts in his *Mawazna-e-Anees-o-Dabeer* (A Comparison of Anees and Dabeer) because the true merit of an elegy (*marsiya*) cannot be judged from just a stanza or two. Similarly, many of Iqbal’s critics have quoted his poetry extensively while expressing fewer of their own thoughts.
While compiling a selection of poetry is not criticism in itself, the act of selection greatly enhances critical awareness. In making a selection, representing the poet accurately is more important than indulging one's personal preferences. Representing a poet's work is by no means an easy task. However, those who grow skeptical of an abundance of quotations should realize that criticism cannot exist in a vacuum. Quotations keep criticism grounded in accuracy and truth. Those who merely see the quotations but ignore the deep research and inquiry that goes—and must go—into selecting them, possess a poor understanding of literature. Consequently, one cannot hold a very high opinion of their intellectual capacity.
Even today, some people believe that creative literature directly reflects the consciousness of life, whereas critical literature merely interprets, analyzes, or dissects that creation, and therefore, can never equal it. Others argue that since critics are rarely poets themselves—and if they are, they are seldom good ones—their opinions cannot be entirely trusted. After all, what can these free-flying pigeons of the sanctuary roof (the critics) truly know or say about the captive birds with tethered feet (the poets)? It is our duty to carefully examine both of these assumptions.
Yusuf Husain wrote *Rooh-e-Iqbal* (The Spirit of Iqbal) on Iqbal’s poetry, attempting to interpret his work. Someone else then wrote a critique of *Rooh-e-Iqbal*, disagreeing with Husain’s perspective. Yet another person wrote a rebuttal to that disagreement. The result is that an overabundance of interpretations can sometimes turn the original dream into a confusing nightmare. Tagore once experienced something similar. He recited a new poem to his circle; one gentleman offered a specific interpretation, while another contradicted him, offering a different one. An argument ensued between the two, and Tagore quietly slipped away from the scene. In our traditional education system, the practice of relying heavily on commentaries, marginalia, and exegeses often led to minor details gaining more importance than the original text, thereby narrowing one's perspective. Personal, subjective, and impressionistic criticism certainly carries this risk.
Occasionally, a critic’s extraordinary personality, their grand principles, and their captivating phrasing can overawe the reader. The reader becomes accustomed to viewing everything through the critic’s lens (though for the general reader, having such an intellectual guide is better than falling prey to mere literary whims). However, good criticism draws the reader back toward the creative literature itself. It is inherently creative; rather than sealing the reader's mind, it cultivates and trains it. No critique of creative literature can ever render the original work obsolete; there is no unbridgeable gulf between the two. Creative literature is already driven by a critical consciousness; literary criticism simply brings it to light. Criticism is neither a mere summary nor a detraction, but it must penetrate to the foundational idea of the creative work. In common parlance, it performs a surgical operation on the creation, but this procedure is conducted poetically and unfolds within the very atmosphere of the work itself.
Suspicion toward criticism is generally harbored by those who are not accustomed to looking at literature profoundly—those who seek mere entertainment in it, or, in Iqbal’s words, the intoxicating pleasure of the poppy. If they were to look past superficial differences and reflect deeply, they would realize just how essential it is for the vitality of creative literature to draw support from criticism. Sometimes, this skepticism also arises because the criticism typically found in book reviews, prefaces, introductions, and forewords presents entirely different shades of critique. In reality, each of these forms operates in its own distinct domain.
A preface or introduction introduces the book or its author, highlights its significance, determines its value, and often delivers a definitive verdict. A book review points out certain key characteristics of the work. However, forewords generally demonstrate more politeness and courtesy than mature critical insight. Some of these are undoubtedly misleading. Limited criticism is, by its nature, restricted in scope and therefore not overly harmful. However, criticism that claims to be comprehensive but is actually narrow and highly specific is both misleading and deceptive. I admit that in subjective, impressionistic criticism, such judgments are inevitable, and this illusion is quite common in both the East and the West. This is why I consider impressionistic criticism to be flawed; it falls under the category of mere Appreciation. It has its own distinct value, but it cannot be elevated to the status of great criticism. Great criticism is in no way inferior to creative literature; rather, it becomes a creative act in itself.
As for the question of what non-poet critics can possibly say about poetry, or what opinions non-novelists can form about a novel—this question is based on a fundamental misunderstanding. The world knows that Maulvi Abdul Haq was not a poet, yet this fact never hindered him from being an excellent critic. Jigar is a fine poet, but he cannot be called a good critic. Poetry requires a sweet madness, whereas criticism demands a sacred solemnity. Matthew Arnold referred to this as High Seriousness. Occasionally, both of these traits are found in a single individual. Every good poet possesses a technical awareness of their craft, but this awareness offers little help in evaluating other literary genres; in fact, it often proves to be a hindrance. The strength of one domain naturally becomes the weakness of another. Ghazal poets, for instance, often fail to gauge the structural capabilities of a *nazm* (a continuous poem). Those enamored with subtle allusions often overlook the beauty of detail, clarity, and explicit explanation. The profound depth and complete surrender required for literary creation are precisely what a critic must rise above in order to evaluate it objectively.
Every artist’s personality consists of two parts. One part undergoes experiences—enduring sorrow and pain, or experiencing comfort and joy. The other part observes this sorrow and joy from a higher vantage point and determines its true value. Therefore, it is understandable if an artist can occasionally view their own suffering and happiness from this elevated perspective. However, this does not diminish the importance and greatness of the critic; rather, it reaffirms it. For instance, the selection of Mir's poetry made by Mir Hasan is superior to the selection Mir himself made in *Nikat-ush-Shu'ara*. Similarly, the self-selections made by poets in the January 1941 issue of the journal *Nigar* were certainly not always the best representations of their work. Thus, it is clear that a critic can be excellent even without being a poet, or at least without being a poet of the same caliber. What is essential, however, is that the critic possesses a deep understanding of literature. They must be able to reach the very soul of poetry. They must possess a broad empathy, a flexible mind, and an all-encompassing nature capable of soaring alongside the poet in the realm of poetry—and sometimes even flying ahead of them. While the artist gives birth to experiences, it is the discerning critic who makes artists true artists in the real sense of the word.
T. S. Eliot was not wrong when he observed: When one creative mind is better than another, the reason often is that the better one possesses greater critical ability. Hudson stated it even more plainly: Since true criticism also draws its material and emotion from life, it is, in its own way, creative as well. Therefore, it is incorrect to shy away from critical literature simply because it carries the scent of books. Good criticism is in no way inferior to good creative writing; in fact, for certain reasons, it holds a superiority over it.
In short, considering criticism a secondary or inferior pursuit is a grave mistake. Good criticism does not merely provide information; it performs all the functions of a historian, a psychologist, a poet, and a prophet. Criticism illuminates the mind, and this illumination is so essential that, in its absence, one sometimes feels a distinct lack within the creative essence itself. The early nineteenth century in England was an era of extraordinary creative output. Yet, in Matthew Arnold’s view, despite its immense creativity, the poetry of this period lacked intellect; it lacked true knowing. Its major poets were either intellectually hollow or obscure, or they lacked variety and vibrancy. To a large extent, this observation applies to our poetry as well. Our classical literature is somewhat lacking in intellectual depth and variety, though, owing to a specific artistic consciousness, it is not obscure.
In contrast, our modern literature possesses intellectual depth, weight, and variety, but it suffers from greater obscurity. Previously, the emphasis was on flavor and linguistic relish; now, the focus has shifted to sensationalism and shock value. The reason for this is twofold: first, intellect is less prominent than emotion. Second, there is less clarity in the mind and more haze or confusion (the causes of this confusion lie elsewhere; it is not caused by criticism). Psychologists might smile at this rigid distinction between intellect and emotion, but I have used these terms here in a metaphorical sense. It is possible that some people, like Horace, consider emotion alone to be the essence of poetry, but I believe that a harmony between thought and emotion is essential. The lack of knowledge and erudition in our literature is essentially a lack of cultural refinement and intellectual training. By knowledge, I do not merely mean bookish learning, but a profound understanding of life and the universe. This deficiency is the direct result of neglecting critical consciousness and remaining indifferent to the cultivation and refinement of literary taste.
Every human being possesses at least some capacity to be moved by beauty and to respond to artistic creation, but not everyone’s taste is refined, mature, and deeply cultivated. For some, mental development does not keep pace with their age; for others, the hardships of life deny them the opportunity for such growth. Some seek a cheap intoxication in literature and remain content with it—just as many choose to live a life of idle comfort, leaving pain and scars, passion and creation, yearning and quest to Iqbal’s Satan. This is precisely the secret behind the popularity of magazines like *Beesween Sadi*, *Mast Qalandar*, *Kehkashan*, and others of their ilk.
However, I am not addressing those who seek vulgarity and frivolity in literature. Rather, I am speaking to those who use literature not only to ease the burdens of worldly life but to find the courage to struggle against them, thereby elevating the possibilities of humanity and life itself. Such individuals derive genuine pleasure from good literature. They find joy in encountering a great literary figure, or in discovering a literary masterpiece or triumph. Yet, in their joy and delight, the element of praise and admiration remains dominant. When they encounter a different kind of literary achievement, this admiration may take on a different hue. Such admiration often lacks balance and can even be misguided. Therefore, it becomes all the more essential to assign every new discovery its proper place, to integrate every new truth into the broader framework of life's ultimate realities, and to recognize falsehood even when it masquerades as truth. In this way, criticism serves as a guiding light—for writers, for those who derive joy and enrichment from literature, and for literature itself.
Having clarified the purpose and status of criticism, it is now necessary to examine its actual function: What does criticism do? Here, too, when we look at the intellectual heritage of the East and the West, we encounter diverse theories, hundreds of maxims, and thousands of distinct trends. The function of criticism is to pass judgment; it separates the wheat from the chaff. Criticism is elucidation, clarification, interpretation, exegesis, commentary, deconstruction, and analysis. Criticism does not merely determine value; it provides a measuring scale for both literature and life. Criticism dispenses justice, establishing the standards by which we distinguish the inferior from the superior, falsehood from truth, and the profound from the superficial. Criticism highlights the timelessness within every specific era, as well as the contemporary relevance of the timeless. In literature, criticism performs the dual task of innovation and preservation. It is both an iconoclast and an idol-maker. Without criticism, literature is like a wild jungle—teeming with abundant growth, but entirely lacking in proportion and order. These, and many similar observations, can be made about criticism, and none of them would be incorrect.
If we look at the roster of great critics, we find that some have leaned toward passing judgment, while others have emphasized analysis and deconstruction. Some have dedicated themselves to the art of interpretation, striving for absolute impartiality. However, in literature, permanent impartiality is not merely difficult; it is nearly impossible. Criticism is not simply about presenting both sides of the picture. Nor is it an exercise where one seeks compromise or reconciliation, merely fulfilling one's duty by saying, mention its flaws as well. Rather, after carefully examining both sides, it is essential to definitively acknowledge the true significance and value of the work.
Linguistic criticism is merely a superficial form of criticism; what is far more important is the artistic consciousness embedded within the words and the awareness of life and the universe within the art itself. Although merely reciting poetic meters (*fa'ilatun fa'ilat*) does not constitute criticism, this does not mean that a good critic can afford to be ignorant of prosody and its rules. A good literary critic also has his finger on the pulse of the language. He is not only well-versed in prosody, everyday speech, and idioms, but he also understands that sometimes, despite lapses in these areas, great and enduring poetry is still possible. In the realm of fiction, some people still search for lyrical prose (*insha-e-lateef*), and it is for this reason that they deny the extraordinary artistic heights achieved by Rajinder Singh Bedi. This approach is incorrect. Similarly, in poetry, from Rumi to Iqbal, great poets have considered being labeled as mere poets an accusation against themselves. Here, mere poetry likely refers to the superficial display of artistic skill.
Beyond this knowledge of language, an understanding of literary styles is also essential, along with an appreciation for the sincerity, individuality, expression, and aesthetic beauty inherent in each style. The beauty of language and expression can provide surface brilliance and color, but it cannot breathe a soul into the work. The primary requirement is the accuracy of the material or the authenticity of the events. If a critic lacks this knowledge, or if his knowledge is flawed, then his very foundations are weak. This is precisely why modern criticism is riddled with errors stemming from ignorance or misunderstanding. A critic does not merely recount facts; therefore, he is not bound to compile dossiers. Criticism is by no means a mere cataloging or ledger of events. However, without an accurate presentation and a true understanding of those events—that is, without a proper historical consciousness—every step he takes will lead him further astray.
It is imperative for a critic, when analyzing a masterpiece from the past, to transport himself into that era. Turning a blind eye to the past is never justifiable. The first major flaw in modern criticism is that it tends to ignore or distort certain facts, and it cannot tolerate hearing arguments that contradict its own stance. Its second flaw is that it lacks a true sense of the past. It is true that our literature has suffered from an excessive reverence for the past. For years, poets and writers prioritized critical conformity over invention, formal and traditional styles over originality, and mere craft over true literature. However, this does not mean that, out of sheer reactionary spite, we should become completely indifferent to the great achievements of the past. In its early days, Progressive criticism was more akin to propaganda than actual criticism, primarily because it had not yet learned to appreciate the past. However, the critical works being produced now demonstrate a historical consciousness, an understanding of evolution, and a proper appreciation of the past.
Good criticism cannot remain trapped in the binary of the classical versus the romantic. It cannot be compartmentalized into such narrow boxes. Many critics still analyze poets and writers solely by highlighting how they differ from their predecessors. While this is valid, it is insufficient. One must also examine to what extent these writers are the custodians of the literary heritage, the mirrors of tradition, and the manifestations of the temperament bestowed upon them by their culture and civilization. We must ask to what extent they are modern and to what extent they are traditional; furthermore, we must explore how much of the old is embedded within their newness. In other words, their worth should not be judged solely by their innovation and uniqueness, but also by their literary quality. By literary quality, I mean the established literary standards that have evolved over time. The example of Iqbal will make this point clear.
In Iqbal’s poem *Shama Aur Shair* (The Candle and the Poet) or in the ghazals of *Bal-e-Jibril* (Gabriel's Wing), we encounter new ideas, but these ideas are presented with a poetic sensibility that is familiar and adheres to established structural molds. This means that while Iqbal is modern, his modernity does not make him indifferent to classical poetics. He employs the very same metaphors of the tavern and the wine cup—which were traditionally used to express the mystical observation of the Divine Truth—to articulate the observation of life itself. Despite his innovativeness, Iqbal is not merely a rebel, just as Hali is not merely a rebel. Both certainly establish a new tradition, but this tradition is characterized more by conscious choice than by coercion, and more by expansion and enrichment than by outright rejection of the past. Hali and Iqbal stand taller than critics like Abdur Rahman Bijnori and Azmatullah Khan because, despite being liberated thinkers in their own times, they are not entirely alienated from the past. They are neither as extremist nor as exclusive in their approach.
Kaleemuddin Ahmad articulates ideas that are newer, more deeply considered, and more thought-provoking than those of many other critics. However, his criticism would have reached even greater heights had he not been so dismissive of our classical heritage, had his awareness of the historical and literary continuum been more pronounced, and had his criticism not devolved into a mere search for thorns in a rose garden.
However, having a sense of the past is one thing; being shackled to it is quite another. If a critic merely reveres traditions, blindly follows the beaten path, and simply seeks to drag the twentieth-century mind back to the seventeenth century, he will fall from his rightful stature. An awareness of the past and the ability to perceive the glow of literary continuity through the mists of history cannot justify an indifference toward experimentation, uniqueness, novelty, and originality. To the question, What is the need for free verse when traditional poetry suffices? the counter-question is, What is the need for traditional poetry itself? What is wrong with the ghazal? After all, just as there is no single way to arrange a room, just as beauty can manifest itself in both circles and straight lines, and just as a painter can project his mind's reflection onto a canvas in hundreds of ways, why must there be only one structural mold for the arrangement and rhythm of words? Why should every thought be forced to shrink itself just to squeeze through the narrow strait of a rhyme scheme? Why must one wade through several lines of verse just to arrive at a single thought?
Even Hali acknowledged that rhyme (*qafiya*) and refrain (*radeef*) are not essential for poetry; only meter (*wazn*) is necessary. Therefore, objecting to every literary experiment by questioning its very necessity is unjustified. Experimentation indicates that people are no longer satisfied with familiar structural molds. It refuses to let beauty remain confined; rather, it broadens the mind by unveiling new forms of beauty. Experimentation is vital in any literature. However, it is not necessary for experiments to manifest solely in new forms; they should also emerge through new subjects, new concepts, and new themes. A good critic must respect this novelty just as much as he respects tradition. His intellectual curiosity and desire to understand the new must never die.
In the book *Mudawa*, the most objectionable aspect of its critique of modern poetry was its intense aversion to novelty, its blind infatuation with familiar paths, and its sheer superficiality. A critic and a worshipper are two entirely different creatures. A critic is neither a blind devotee, nor a moral censor (*muhtasib*), nor a police chief (*kotwal*). To object to the poems or short stories of this era by asking why they are so bitter, why they lack smiles or optimism, why their writers seem consumed by sexual frustration, why they weep instead of laughing, or why they have become so cynical, only proves that the objector is making no effort to understand the specific problems of our time. I would like to discuss one particular characteristic of this era in somewhat greater detail.
In the past, wars were fought by professional soldiers, or their leaders would test their strength against one another. The battle was decided by the defeat of a leader or the victory and loss of an army. It was not everyone's job to fight, nor was it everyone's privilege to enjoy beauty. Some people were born to relish the moonlight, greenery, beauty, and women, while others were born to plow fields, pay off debts, and live their lives like sheep and goats. Today, the paradigms of war and peace have changed; war belongs to everyone, and so does peace. Churchill was the savior of England, but as soon as peace was established, the public discarded him as easily as one plucks a fly from milk. The war has shown that every dream can be realized and every hut can become a palace. It has made dreams more vibrant and failures more bitter. It has altered the scales of both creation and destruction, and the scars of unfulfilled desires have multiplied. It is only natural for this to impact literature, and no critic can remain oblivious to it.
Classical criticism viewed each poet in isolation. One was labeled the master of pessimism, another the prophet of optimism; one a mystic, another a worldly man. It primarily discussed their personal circumstances and individual experiences. While there was an awareness of personality, classical criticism remained unaware of the extent to which the environment influences creative works, how it subtly manifests within a personality, and the strange and mysterious ways it finds its way into art. Modern criticism has popularized terms like objectivity, realism, social consciousness, and cultural criticism. It has guided us from the depiction of minute details to an understanding of the whole. It has illuminated the shadows of emotion with the light of thought—a light that literature desperately needed.
If you examine Hali’s poetry in isolation from the 1857 Uprising and Sir Syed’s movement, it will appear soulless, and the secret of its greatness will remain incomprehensible. Similarly, the differences between Chakbast, Iqbal, and contemporary progressive poets, or between Premchand and his followers, cannot be understood without an awareness of their respective environments. This makes the task of criticism even more difficult. The critic must understand the artist's personality and analyze their individual experiences, and then examine these elements in the light of their environment. Only then can true literary insight be achieved. Only then can one truly understand Fani’s pessimism, or the despair, melancholy, bitterness, alienation, and even the death wish found in modern poets.
Even if a critic understands their own era and is well-versed in others, a danger still remains. They can easily slip into the embrace of philosophy, politics, or psychology. When Matthew Arnold sought to establish boundaries for literature, he had to wage a crusade against the misguided individuals of his time to popularize his ideas. Whether that crusade was successful or not, Arnold’s writings exposed the deprivations of literature. This danger threatens not only the moralist but also the champions of politics.
Criticism should not become a slave to politics; rather, it should walk alongside it and be its companion. Similarly, criticism must not get bogged down in the swamp of psychology. The science of psychology is highly useful to us, but it is also deeply deceptive. It is like a funhouse mirror that shrinks large objects and magnifies small ones, flattening and elongating faces. It makes mountains out of molehills; it untangles one knot only to create hundreds more. Psychological criticism has set up shop as a grand apothecary with nothing but a single root of turmeric. It claims to be a science and even borrows some of its tools, but it has not yet truly become one. Therefore, while I acknowledge the importance of psychological awareness, I consider contemporary psychological criticism to be misleading. Thus far, the metrics of psychology are merely attempts to capture the ocean in a teacup.
In short, a critic is not merely a philosopher, a preacher, or a psychologist; they are a person of profound vision. As I.A. Richards suggests, the critic does for the mind what a doctor does for the body. The critic is a creator, practitioner, and disseminator of values. As a creator of values, they can observe the spectacle of these values being practiced from a higher vantage point. And as a practitioner, they hold a higher station than a mere disseminator (or preacher). For this reason, their advocacy is superior to that of others; it possesses a greater sense of eternity.
Having clarified that criticism requires striking a balance between tradition and rebellion, past and present, environment and individuality, as well as art and philosophy, it must also be said that some critics have achieved prominence even by sacrificing this balance. Shefta was an excellent critic of his time. He believed in classical discipline and order, and considered literature a noble art. He had no concern for the common masses. By ignoring Nazeer, he ultimately harmed his own legacy, yet acknowledging his significance remains essential. Among the critics preceding Hali, he possessed the finest critical consciousness, and his work *Gulshan-e-Bekhar* is the greatest achievement of its time. Azmatullah Khan, in his zeal for novelty, went so far as to declare that the ghazal should be unceremoniously beheaded. Because of this, his stature could not rise very high. Nevertheless, he holds a prominent place among those who forged new paths. Yet, a higher rank belongs to those who maintained their intellectual balance—those who have one foot in the present and one in the past, who belong to their own era as well as to all eras—in other words, those who possess a universal mind.
Now, the only question that remains is whether a single, comprehensive term can be coined for criticism. In my opinion, the word *Parakh* (evaluation or assaying) is the most suitable. It encompasses introduction, interpretation, and judgment all at once. The word *Parakh* brings to mind a standard or a touchstone. It is essential for a critic to have such a standard in mind. Interpretation and analysis are necessary for evaluating and weighing a work. A commentator or evaluator does not obsess over forcing others to accept their judgment, and all critics agree that a critic must not act like a dictator. T.S. Eliot says that in important matters, a critic should not be coercive, nor should they hastily pass judgments of good or bad. They should merely elucidate, and the reader will arrive at the correct conclusion on their own.
When a critic introduces a writer, it is not the loud announcement of a herald, but rather the discovery of an explorer. The critic is the Columbus of his own world; he guides readers into the very atmosphere whose beauty he has unearthed. Every act of criticism marks the beginning of an intellectual journey. An introduction should not merely be a proclamation, nor should interpretation become a rigid philosophy. To successfully fulfill the duty of interpretation, a critic must learn objectivity. Some even consider objectivity to be the foundation of morality. A good critic is one who allows the author to speak through his voice and write with his pen, letting the author's essence absorb into him for a while, thereby doing true justice to the work. Science teaches us this objectivity to a great extent, which is why a critic should draw upon scientific principles. For the sake of this interpretation, one sometimes has to speak against one's own biases. In doing so, the notion of what ought to be must temporarily be set aside in favor of what is. Only after passing through this stage does the critic earn the right to insist on what ought to be.
For instance, many of Ismat Chughtai’s short stories feature not just sexual inclinations, but sexual deviance as well. As Patras remarked, her stories are the call of the body, and her sketch *Do Zakhmi*, despite its unparalleled realism, feels somewhat morbid. Nevertheless, one cannot question Chughtai’s realism, creativity, characterization, technical maturity, mastery of language, awareness of her environment, and overall literary merit. Only after acknowledging these numerous qualities does one earn the right to critique her. A critic is a moral teacher, but not merely a moral teacher; he is a judge, but not merely a judge—he is an evaluator and a connoisseur. Criticism also requires passion and emotion, but bad criticism is purely passionate or emotional. In good criticism, emotion is refined by a delicate, mature, and civilized sensibility. This is why good criticism is never purely destructive. It does not merely look for flaws or shortcomings; it looks at the heights a work achieves and assesses the true nature of that elevation.
In the words of Hali, it uncovers astonishing manifestations of beauty. It is aware of the depths, yet it does not stoop low itself. When observing hints of pederasty in Mir’s poetry, it does not get lost in psychoanalyzing his temperament and subconscious; rather, it keeps its sights set on the poet's artistic heights. A good critic guides the reader away from the poet and toward the poetry, whereas a mediocre critic remains entangled in the persona of the poet. In the Urdu literary world, even today, both the elite and the general public remain bound by the opinions of others, blindly accepting every verdict. This stems not only from hero-worship but also from intellectual laziness. Consequently, they do not bother to look at both sides of the picture. A single perspective, a single verdict, or a single formula is enough to satisfy them; they refuse to take the trouble of critically evaluating things for themselves. Becoming a true connoisseur requires immense discipline, rigorous practice, and a highly perceptive mind. This is precisely why Urdu criticism is full of preachers and heralds, but severely lacks true evaluators and discerning critics.
Additional information available
Click on the INTERESTING button to view additional information associated with this sher.
About this sher
rare Unpublished content
This ghazal contains ashaar not published in the public domain. These are marked by a red line on the left.
