Urdu Ke Afsaanvi Adab Ki Samaajiyaat
To recognize the reflection that emerges in the mirror of our yesterday, history offers a vast repository. It holds the details of crowns and thrones, the chronicles of wars won and lost, the decrees of governments, and every trace of military movements. Unfortunately, however, history lacks the means to understand the inner life of human beings. Yet, whether it is history or civilization, their true foundation is built upon the mysterious and complex emotions and thoughts that arise from within the human soul—the faint echoes of which can be heard in literature. Therefore, literature can serve both as a medium for history and as its precursor.
Literature encompasses an entire universe of its own. First, its genres are distinct, and each possesses a unique mode of expression. Second, unlike history and science, literature does not state reality directly; it conveys it through a literary lens. Consequently, there is always a risk that someone unacquainted with literature might rely solely on the literal and superficial meanings of a text without delving into its depths, thereby drawing incorrect conclusions and distorting the truth. The tone of literature is shaped not only by its contemporary era but also by literary tradition and style. Its similes and metaphors, its symbols and motifs, its characters and events, and the interplay of light and shadow in its imaginative rhythms—all of these cast colorful veils over thought and reality.
Furthermore, literature is not merely a combination of thought and emotion. If it were purely thought, it would become philosophy; if it were purely emotion, it would be reduced to romance, madness, or prophecy. Its purpose is not simply to provide information or to peddle thoughts and feelings, but rather to use them to achieve a new aesthetic insight. In this pursuit, literature creates and shatters countless molds of thought, imagination, feeling, and focus. Through this very process, it recognizes itself, discovers its relationship with nature, navigates the dynamics of conflict and harmony with the life scattered around it, and establishes a balance with other human beings. Therefore, before drawing any conclusions from literature, one must carefully consider the uniqueness of its expression, while also keeping its aesthetic mission and underlying significance in mind.
Poetry contains far greater complexities in its modes of thought and feeling. The more a poetic genre relies on a specialized mode of expression and employs symbols and motifs, the more these complexities multiply. Consequently, drawing conclusions about historical truths from a *ghazal* couplet is exceedingly difficult and perilous. What we might perceive as the poet's genuine expression could simply be a traditional stylistic convention or merely the echo of a resonant rhyme. Therefore, relying on the *ghazal* in particular, and poetry in general, to understand the temperament of the nineteenth century is a risky endeavor. The most accessible medium is perhaps fiction, through which the spirit of the age reveals itself in vibrant new colors and rhythms.
Setting drama aside, nineteenth-century fiction took three distinct turns, and these three shifts are sufficient to illuminate the temperament and character of the entire century. The first phase saw the rise of the *qissa* (folk tale), the second phase belonged to the *dastan* (epic romance), and the third phase witnessed the emergence of the novel. The *qissa* is rooted in the collective, the *dastan* in the imagination, and the novel in the individual. Furthermore, the collective, the imagination, and the individual are each tied to specific types of societies, cultures, and economic systems. The complete story of the nineteenth century's social and economic journey is encapsulated within these three concepts.
What exactly is a *qissa*? It is a gallery painted by anonymous artists, a repository of stories that seem to simply float in the air around us. Grandmothers narrate them to their grandchildren, and friends hear them from friends. No one knows who originally authored these tales. Eventually, a writer transcribes them into their own words, and they begin to circulate in written form. These stories travel from one country to another, bridging different cultures. Stretching across the expanses of East and West, they transcend the boundaries of time and space.
(One example is the famous story in which two women claim to be the mother of the same child. The matter is brought before a judge, who decrees that the women should pull the child in opposite directions and split him in half. The real mother, unable to bear the thought of the child's suffering, withdraws her claim, and the child is rightfully awarded to her. This tale, originally found among Buddhist stories, survived all the way into the twentieth century, culminating in Bertolt Brecht’s play, *The Caucasian Chalk Circle*.)
These *qissas* share several distinct characteristics. First, their plots, and sometimes even their characters, are widely known and familiar. They are usually rooted either in an ancient tradition or allusion, or in a recent event that the target audience is already well aware of. Thus, the storyteller’s task is simply to present these pre-existing events and familiar characters with the vibrant flair and expressive power of oral storytelling. It is entirely reasonable to deduce the underlying realities of that era from the intellectual fabric of these tales. Which types of events were deemed important and from what perspective? What kinds of characters were considered credible? What sort of cultural atmosphere resonated with that period? All these elements serve as evidence that holds not only literary, but also historical and cultural significance.
Therefore, the primary characteristic of all these *qissas* is their social and collective acceptance. During this era, the individual's connection to the collective had not yet been severed; rather, it would be more accurate to say that the individual had not yet emerged as an independent entity distinct from the collective body. The individual was merely a vessel for expressing the collective spirit. Through their voice, their era and their people spoke, and their individuality existed solely to give voice to the thoughts and feelings of the community.
The second major characteristic is the underlying moral rhythm that drives all these *qissas* and imbues them with meaning. This morality is not philosophical, but practical; it serves as the binding thread that weaves together a diverse array of concepts. This moral framework is not driven by an urge to preach or reform, but rather by a desire to preserve the practical truths of the era in an accessible and engaging manner. These tales are, in essence, the fictional embodiments of the wisdom of their time.
Third, in all these *qissas*, the boundaries between the human and the supernatural are blurred and ambiguous. Logic does not dictate the connection between events; an effect does not always require a logical cause, and the chain of motives and reasons is often left to mere coincidence. If humanity possesses any infallible means of achieving victory in these tales, it is through divine intervention, the intercession of an enlightened spiritual guide, or the power of an amulet or incantation—forces that make the impossible possible and steer an inevitable tragedy toward a happy ending.
When examining early prose narratives, the following works must be considered: Fazli’s *Karbal Katha*, Iswi Khan’s *Dastan-e-Mehr Afroz o Dilbar*, *Ajaib-ul-Qasas* (attributed to Shah Alam), Tahseen’s *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani*, and the tales written under the influence of Fort William College, among which Mir Amman’s *Bagh-o-Bahar* holds the most prominent position. All these narratives share the following characteristics:
(1) With the exception of *Karbal Katha*, none of them use religion as their primary mode of expression, and they all share a secular, tolerant atmosphere.
(2) They maintain the style of those famous and widely popular tales whose tradition has long existed in our folk literature.
(3) Glimpses of urban society are prominent in all these stories; depictions of rural life are either entirely absent or merely incidental and secondary.
(4) All these tales have, in one form or another, remained a part of our folk tradition. The colorfulness of expression and imagination has given diverse and unique forms to their fixed and established narrative structures. These include stories that have been popular in our villages and countryside, tales passed down by our grandmothers, and those whose lineage traces back to the *Panchatantra*, the *Hitopadesha*, or the *Arabian Nights* (*Alf Laila*). Such stories have their own distinct genealogy, and their migration has historically been influenced by trade and other relations between countries and civilizations.
Consequently, countless such stories were exchanged through India, Egypt, Babylon, Syria, Iran, and Central Asia. It has been repeatedly suggested that Indian stories may very well have traveled alongside trade goods to the land of the *Arabian Nights*, and from there, reached the ports of Italy via Arab merchants, ultimately providing Shakespeare with several plots for his plays. (Professor Moulton, in his book *World Literature*, has traced the genealogy of such folk tales back to three global civilizations: Greek, Semitic, and South Asian.)
In the tradition prior to *Karbal Katha*, at least two tales hold a notable position. One is Mulla Wajhi's *Sab Ras*, whose allegorical style is exemplary and which presents a prevalent tale in a new manner under an allegorical veil. Here, too, the narrative revolves around Beauty and Heart (*Husn-o-Dil*), which some researchers consider to be an adaptation of Krishna Mishra's *Prabodh Chandrodaya*, while others attribute it to Fattahi's Persian work, *Dastur-ul-Ushaq*. In either case, there is no doubt that Mulla Wajhi's tale is rooted in a prevalent folk story, nor is there any doubt about its moral significance or its manner of utilizing supernatural elements. For Mulla Wajhi, the realism of the story is not important; what matters is its moral allegory, the nature of which is not religious or mystical, but rather secular, liberal, and based on the primacy of love.
The second category consists of those allegorical tales or riddles that were common in the Deccan under the name of *Shikar Nama* (Hunting Tales), and which have generally been attributed to Khwaja Gesu Daraz Banda Nawaz. An example of this is as follows:
We were four brothers from a village. Three had no clothes, and the fourth was stark naked. The naked brother had cash in his sleeve. All four of us went to the market to buy a bow and arrows. Doom struck, all four were killed, and twenty-four stood up alive. At that moment, four bows appeared; three were broken and defective, and one lacked a grip and string-notches. The naked brother with the money bought this grip-less and notch-less bow. We then needed arrows, and four arrows appeared. Three were broken, and the fourth lacked feathers and an arrowhead. We bought the featherless and headless arrow and set off into the desert in search of prey. Four deer appeared. Three were dead, and the fourth was lifeless. The featherless and headless arrow was loosed upon the lifeless deer. Now, a saddle-strap was needed to tie the prey. Four lassos appeared; three were torn to shreds, and one had neither ends nor a middle. The prey was bound with this endless and middle-less lasso. Now, a house was needed to rest and hang the prey. Four houses appeared; three were ruined, and one was missing its roof and walls. We entered this roofless and wall-less house.
In the end, the author of the *Shikar Nama* invites people of insight to solve this riddle. It is obvious that this riddle is allegorical, and this tale, which must have been widely popular, has been molded into the terminology of Sufism.
*Karbal Katha* narrates a semi-religious, semi-historical tale so that women who do not understand Persian can read and hear the account of the martyrdom of Imam Hussain and his companions in their own language. *Karbal Katha* was written almost a hundred years before the elegies (*marsiyas*) of Anees, but even here, the shadows of Indian society are visible in the appearances, clothing, and conduct of Imam Hussain and his companions. The story was obviously written for Indians, which is why numerous Indian details and particulars have been included in it, giving it an Indian form. The story here, too, is not original; it is traditional, and of a kind that had already become a part of our folk literature, upon which elegies, lamentations, *nohas*, and *salams* had long been composed in North India and the Deccan.
Fazli, however, has given it an Indian hue by providing it with a moral axis. The nature of the conflict is tangible. The characters are clearly presented in black and white; the good are entirely good, and the bad are entirely bad. It is another matter that, by divine wisdom, defeat here falls to the lot of the chosen and righteous servants. This is the very voice that is heard echoing far and wide in the poetic heritage of that era. Whether it is the pessimistic tone of Mir, or the *Shahr Ashob* (poems lamenting urban ruin) of Hatim, Qaim, and Nazeer, or the *Shahr Ashob* of Sauda—in all of them, the mourning over the humiliation and wretchedness of the virtuous and the talented is found everywhere.
Take Shah Alam's work *Ajaib-ul-Qasas*, which has been recently discovered. Here, too, the framework of the story follows the same *Alf Laila* or *dastan* (epic romance) style. It is a traditional tale in which attaining the beloved depends on bringing back the answers to seven questions. The answers to these seven questions cannot be obtained merely through worldly knowledge, but are found through the guidance of a perfect spiritual master, divine grace, and spiritual discipline. In terms of its scope, after *Sab Ras*, *Ajaib-ul-Qasas* is the most expansive of all these tales, but here too, apart from certain parts of the story, the prevalent traditional color dominates. Here, too, moral centrality has established dominance over the other aspects of the narrative, and its attempt is to piece together folk tales to give them the form of a *dastan*. The characters are flat and one-dimensional, and apart from the *Alf Laila* technique of a story-within-a-story, there is no other novelty in it.
In this context, it is essential to mention Saadat Yar Khan Rangeen’s work, *Akhbar-e-Rangeen*. In it, Rangeen has compiled various events and anecdotes of his time with a unique narrative device: he imagines the heart as a king, and casts himself as a court chronicler in the king's service, bringing him news of the city and the world. The heart comments on every event, and each commentary is followed by an Urdu proverb or idiom, along with one Urdu and one Persian couplet. Among these is a famous couplet that seemingly captures the entire atmosphere of the era:
Yeh jo kuch hai jahan mein is ke besh-o-kam ko dekha hai
Hamein kya dekhte ho hum ne ik aalam ko dekha hai
[Whatever exists in this world, we have seen its abundance and its lack;
Why do you stare at us? We have seen a whole world.]
Here, too, we see an attempt to weave together traditions and everyday occurrences through various tales, alongside the intention of drawing a moral lesson from them. This reflects the author’s deep connection to folk traditions and the society that preserves them. It is also worth noting that Mir, Sauda, and Qaim made similar everyday events and famous romances the subjects of their *masnavis* (narrative poems).
Next is the *Qissa-e-Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar* (The Tale of Mehr Afroz and Dilbar), believed to have been written around 1732. Disillusioned with his crown and throne, a king retreats to the wilderness in hopes of having an heir. There, he meets a mendicant whose prayers lead to the birth of a son, Mehr Afroz. At the age of fourteen, while pursuing prey, Mehr Afroz stumbles upon a wondrous, enchanting garden featuring fountains reminiscent of Mughal gardens. It is here that he meets Dilbar.
The prince pursues her but loses his way in the forest. At the suggestion of the vizier’s son, the prince begins to sing, and his voice tames all the wild animals. The king of the monkeys then leads him to a dervish named Arzu Bakhsh. The dervish recounts the tale of Prince Munawwar, who fell in love with Dilruba, the princess of Khata, in a dream and became ensnared by dark magic. His only means of escape was to shoot an arrow precisely into the beak of an emerald parrot. Prince Munawwar missed the target, and as a result, his head was severed. However, the prince’s loyal companion, a merchant’s son, struck the target perfectly and rescued him. Later in the story, as Dilruba travels with her lover Munawwar Shah, she is abducted by a thief. Once again, it is the king of Qambarabad, Sidi Jawahar, and a moneylender’s son who ultimately rescue her.
These two incidents illustrate the growing social importance of merchants and moneylenders. This influence would eventually grow to such an extent that Mughal emperors, from Shah Alam to Bahadur Shah, found themselves in debt to the merchants and moneylenders of Delhi. Even the East India Company relied on financial backing from prominent moneylenders like Omi Chand and Jagat Seth. Furthermore, the overarching atmosphere of *Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar* is deeply colored by a non-religious, secular, and composite Indian culture. For instance, after their wedding, Mehr Afroz and Dilbar go out for a moonlit stroll on the night of the full moon (*pooran masi*). At that very moment, Raja Indra is flying through the heavens with his celestial nymphs (*apsaras*). The text describes the scene:
It so happens that Indra has come out for an excursion with his apsaras. Seeing the splendor of the moonlight, the enchanting beauty, and the arrangement of music and dance, he is spellbound and stops in his tracks. At that moment, Chatar Roop Patra is dancing, and Gun Tarang Pakhawajan is playing the *pakhawaj* [a traditional drum]... Indra, watching from his hiding place, involuntarily cries out in praise... and showers them with flowers.
Immediately following this excursion, Mehr Afroz dies. However, much like the tales of the *Shuka Saptati* (The Parrot's Seventy Tales), a parrot prevents Dilbar from committing suicide and consoles her by narrating various stories. The bird guides her into the forest to the abode of a dervish named Murad Bakhsh. Following the parrot's advice, Dilbar plays the *been* (a traditional stringed instrument) and entrances the dervish. Deeply moved, he vows to grant her any wish. True to his word, the dervish resurrects Mehr Afroz, and the parrot, too, is transformed into a human.
The purpose of recounting this tale in some detail is to highlight how its twists and turns incorporate elements from numerous Sanskrit tales and ancient traditions. Furthermore, it provides the foundational narrative structure for later works, such as the *masnavis* *Sihr-ul-Bayan* and *Gulzar-e-Naseem*, as well as the *Inder Sabha* plays by Amanat and Madari Lal. These stories essentially represent the intersection of urban and rural life. At this juncture, the artist’s connection to folktales and traditional myths remained profound, and he sought to preserve the cultural treasures scattered around him in various ways. This is why the narrative style occasionally employs the *Nakh-Shikh* tradition (the classical head-to-toe description of beauty), while at other times, as the compiler notes, he transcribes into prose many verses from the poets of the Krishna Bhakti tradition, which were commonly used as proverbs in the regions around Delhi and Agra. Consider this description of the city, which clearly reflects its rural fringes:
As the prince draws nearer to the city, he is filled with such joy that it is as if his heart is a farmer and his body a parched field. The dense, lush trees of Hasanabad appear as dark rainclouds, and the flowers falling from their branches are like raindrops showering upon the field of his body. The canals flowing on all four sides of the city, and the brimming ponds with their rippling waters—these are not mere waves; rather, they rise to extinguish the flames of the lover who burns in separation from Dilbar.
The composition of *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa* was completed between 1768 and 1775. While its story is widely known, it is particularly noteworthy that here, too, all four dervishes are merchants, and the king himself sits in their company. In *Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar*, the four pillars of kingship are explicitly outlined:
The nobles and the army are like fire. Second are the viziers, the educated, and the wise, who are like the wind. Third are the merchants and moneylenders, who are like water. Fourth are the subjects and the common people, who are like dust.
Furthermore, alongside references to the Mother of Brahmins, the manner in which the *Farangis* (Europeans) are mentioned demands attention. The vizier recounts the tale of a merchant named Khwaja Sag-Parast (the Dog-Worshipper), whose dog wears a collar studded with jewels. Believing this to be a blatant lie, the king orders the vizier to be beheaded. The text reads:
Suddenly, the envoy of the Franks stood up with folded hands, spoke in defense of the vizier, and pleaded:
Kijiye jaan bakhshi aur taqseer maaf
Baat is ki ke na boojho tum zilaaf
[Grant him his life and forgive his offense;
Do not consider his words to be false.]
'For a just and benevolent king such as yourself to shed innocent blood and bear the burden of the vizier's life would be a matter of immense sorrow and regret. It is imperative that you first investigate the matter.' (Page 244).
This reflects the portrayal of the King of the Franks and Akhtar, the King of the Franks, in the tale narrated by Khwaja Sag-Parast. They are depicted as individuals of exceptional sagacity, unparalleled in their compassion and service to humanity.
*Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*, the precursor to *Bagh-o-Bahar*, is itself indebted to the structural molds of numerous similar tales. Here, too, we clearly find all the elements previously identified in our discussion of these stories. *Bagh-o-Bahar* is a product of Fort William College, an institution established to train British officers. Its purpose was not merely to teach Urdu, but also to familiarize these officers with the culture and atmosphere of India—a goal easily achieved through storytelling. However, John Gilchrist’s dream could not be fully realized, and the endeavor to acquaint British rulers with India's folk culture was abruptly cut short. He had written:
A prophet is not required to predict that in a few years more, the gleam of learning in the day of Hastings and Jones will be totally eclipsed by that precious dawn in the Eastern love apparent now and which will then break forth with the meridian splendor to promote and confirm the happiness and prosperity of the British India.
(Gilchrist, British Orientalists. p. 84)
The stories produced at Fort William College are not merely achievements in accessible language and narrative style. Through them, an attempt was made to reconstruct India's fictional past so that novices would not only learn the language but also understand the very conscience of the East, familiarizing themselves with the cultural values and atmosphere reflected in these tales. Translations of the *Gulistan*, *Bostan*, *Anwar-e-Suhaili*, and various *Pand Namas* (books of advice), along with *Araish-e-Mahfil*, *Tota Kahani*, *Singhasan Battisi*, various short stories, and introductions to the tales of the *Hitopadesha* and *Panchatantra*—all were part of this broader campaign. In this context, moral instruction was not the central focus; rather, comprehending India was the primary objective. Yet, underlying these stories was the same traditional narrative structure that radiated a deep harmony with collective social bonds.
In this context, two other significant prose tales written outside of Fort William College must be mentioned: Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* and Rajab Ali Baig Surur’s *Fasana-e-Ajaib*. In terms of its atmosphere, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* is essentially a manifestation of the folktale. Despite containing original elements, its setting, events, characters, and narrative style ultimately serve as the voice of a specific society, reflecting the very elements that provided it with comfort and prosperity. We see the same sadhus and dervishes whose incantations never fail, the same reliance on supernatural elements, and the same secular, Persianate characters whose roots trace back to an urban civilization nurtured by artisans. We also find the same concept of morality, where a colorful, romantic temperament is not a sin but a natural part of the joy of life. In short, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* emerges as a vital thread in the fabric of the collective social structure.
The same holds true for the narrative of *Fasana-e-Ajaib*. While original elements are present here as well, the overarching structure of the tale remains traditional. There is a profound affection for the city; indeed, every word seems steeped in love for it. Supernatural elements are employed here too, and the fate of the monkey serves to highlight the moral dimensions of the story.
The character of Pisar-e-Majistan introduces the new cultural elements that were beginning to permeate Indian society. Furthermore, a secular tone is clearly reflected in the character of the *jogi*, who champions the composite culture that—having evolved through Kabir, Namdev, Nanak, and Nazir—had become the intellectual foundation of Urdu literature:
He invoked the name of Hari Guru, then recited the *Kalima*, and departed from this world. He breathed his last. The *jogi*, a traveler to the void and a dweller of Baikunth, passed on, leaving Jan-e-Alam weeping uncontrollably... In accordance with his will, the prince bathed and shrouded him, but upon lowering him into the grave, found nothing. Ultimately, the shroud was torn into equal halves: one half was cremated by his Hindu disciples, while the other half was buried in the hermitage by his Muslim followers. The Hindus built a *chhatri* over his ashes, and the Muslims built a grave, draping it with a green cloth.
In *Fasana-e-Ajaib*, motifs such as the helpful parrot, voyages across various lands, and the assistance provided by dervishes and wise old men are all common features of classical tales, appearing as integral parts of the collective social structure. Another link in this chain is Mahjoor’s *Nau Ratan*, which presents folktales in the format of a continuous narrative.
While there are similarities in the foundational molds of these tales, they do not share a single, uniform structure. Secondly, the events in all these stories are more or less based on pre-existing, well-known tales, making them a part of the collective social fabric. Thirdly, a moral dimension consistently weaves a sense of unity throughout them. Generally, warfare and conflict do not form the core of these stories. Although such elements are employed occasionally, all these characteristics undergo a drastic transformation as they evolve into our later *dastan* (epic romance) literature.
Although the tradition of the *dastan* is ancient, the immense popularity and development it achieved in Lucknow are unparalleled elsewhere. Undoubtedly, the *dastans* also drew upon famous pre-existing tales and utilized supernatural elements. However, the vast, intricately adorned world of imagination constructed within them is entirely absent from the structural framework of the earlier tales. Furthermore, the *dastans* offer a far greater and much more refined scope for original events and characters.
Generally, the *dastan* molded itself around representative characters. Amir Hamza and his *ayyars* (tricksters)—with Umro Ayyar standing as their chief—are depicted battling against the Lord of Eternity. Here, the central conflict is not merely about conquering lands or breaking magical talismans (*tilisms*); rather, the moral objectives of the earlier tales have evolved a step further, taking on distinct religious purposes. While elements of a composite culture are still visible throughout, the overall atmosphere is far more Islamic. The entire struggle shifts from a universal battle between good and evil to a specific holy war between Islam and disbelief. The key significance of this shift is that it is solely through divine grace and worldly astuteness that the Amir and his *ayyars* triumph over the sorcery of magicians, accomplishing supernatural feats. Much like the earlier tales, these stories narrate mind-boggling accounts of the weak triumphing over the strong. Such narratives were essential for maintaining confidence and morale during an era plagued by defeat. As Goddard has written:
The Earlier stories are invariably the tales of the physically strongest and most perfect over-thrown and defeated by the weaker by the less physically strong, by the more intellectually potent, It is Always a giant killed by the insignificant jack, of the fire-rating dragon killed by rainfly knight, Grendel killed by Beowulf, of barer for outwitted by barer rabbit.
The fundamental difference between *qissas* (tales) and *dastans* (epics) lay not merely in their form and style, but also in their focus on the individual versus the collective. In the *qissas*, the ideal character was an individual facing various adventures. As Jan-e-Alam, he would wander in search of beautiful women under the guidance of a parrot; at other times, as Kunwar Uday Bhan, he would roam from forest to forest, ultimately reaching his destination through the blessings of dervishes and ascetics. In the *dastans*, however, Amir Hamza and his entire band of tricksters (*ayyars*) were arrayed against the formidable forces of Khudawand-e-Baqa. Their objectives were generally collective, although individual romances and personal conquests did occur along the way. Umro Ayyar, in particular, would constantly fill his magical pouch (*zanbeel*) through his comical antics. Furthermore, unlike the *qissas*, the primary emphasis here was on warfare and combat.
Although the depictions of joyous, festive gatherings in these narratives are unparalleled, the core adventures remain martial. Viewed from this perspective, the chaotic struggle that contemporary Indian society was waging against British imperialism found a substitute in the imaginary world of the *dastans*. A civilization defeated in the real world was establishing new fronts behind the veil of imagination, beating the drums of victory. Even in that realm, there was an acknowledgment that the enemy was far more powerful and resourceful. However, virtues like reliance on God, contentment, the power of faith, and divine assistance—which often fell short in the practical world—were displaying their true mettle in the imaginary world of the *dastan*. Much like the novels of Abdul Halim Sharar, these epics provided emotional solace during moments of defeat.
This was no longer the voice of the class living on the fringes of towns and villages, merely compiling scattered tales from the collective consciousness that had become the accepted currency of their society. Now, the class emerging behind the *dastans* was one that had severed its ties with rural life. The portrayal of villages and the mockery of the rustic culture of rural dwellers bear testament to this shift. To achieve emotional and imaginative satisfaction, this class now required original stories filled with color, flair, and the thrilling sensations of warfare. Caught in an urban economy, this class was experiencing the fragmentation and collapse of a civilization, and it was using the *dastan* to combat this reality on the level of imagination.
This difference is equally prominent in terms of form and style. Structurally, the *dastan* employs a story-within-a-story technique. Because the chain of collective adventures is continuous, multiple heroes—rather than a single protagonist—are seen demonstrating their intelligence, wisdom, and valor in various ways. The characters here are also highly stylized and absolute: the good are exceptionally good, brave, beautiful, and chaste, while the bad are the embodiment of all vices. There is no evolution in their core personalities; time cannot alter them. They might be turned to stone, only to revert to their human forms later. They possess the mastery to change not just their faces but their entire bodies. Though human, they are endowed with supernatural powers. The telescopic technique of extracting one *dastan* from within another is unique to this genre. These narratives serve as a martial anthem for the eternal nature of the chronicle, presented in a somewhat religious guise.
Stylistically, the *dastans* maintained their imaginative flair. A dreamlike prose style emerged that could sustain the full intensity of the imagination, making the narrative flow as captivating and descriptive as possible. *Dastans* were traditionally recited in public gatherings; the practice of printing and reading them privately developed later. Consequently, the rhetorical maneuvers required for public storytelling were consistently employed. The culture of various social classes, the distinct speech patterns of their men and women, their social etiquette, manners, entertainment, and modes of interaction were all articulated in their authentic dialects. To achieve this, the storyteller (*dastan-go*) adopted a highly ornate and decorative style of expression. Furthermore, it is important to note that the fundamental conflict in the *dastans* is entirely tangible—it is fought for visible objectives and against visible transgressions.
By the time literature reached this stage, the cultural chessboard of India had been completely overturned. Politically, India had been subjugated by the British. The trajectory of its economy and society had shifted, and the spoils of economic exploitation were now flowing to England. As a result, the artisan class was decimated, and the foundations of the composite culture that had been developing around various cities, commercial centers, and towns since the era of Akbar began to crumble. Following the final war of independence in 1857, the capacity for resistance was exhausted, and efforts began to reach a compromise with the West on cultural, economic, political, and intellectual fronts. It was out of these efforts that the novel emerged, adopting social reform as its primary objective and introducing a new style of storytelling. These new narratives contained no supernatural elements, no Mir Amman, no talking parrots, and no Jan-e-Alam. The subject of the novel became the individual and the determination of their relationship with a society born out of new economic realities. The profound intellectual shift and reconciliation required for this transition gave birth to the modern novel. This is why Deputy Nazir Ahmad referred to his novels as *qissas* (tales); to him, their moral and reformative aspects were far more important than plot structure or character development.
First and foremost, the novel transformed the structural framework of the narrative. The *dastan*'s story-within-a-story technique was abandoned, as was the otherworldly and highly imaginative atmosphere of the *qissas*. Supernatural elements were also discarded because the very conception of life had changed. The previous worldview freely employed supernatural elements, considered them an integral part of human existence, anticipated the unexpected, and relied on coincidences. In contrast, the new perspective viewed the relationships between motives, causes, and effects as indispensable. The plot of the novel was original. Although created with the help of other literary sources, the individual personality of the artist was no longer content with merely compiling the scattered tales of the surrounding society. The author sought to imbue these events with his own individual rhythm. Through these original narratives, he aimed to present not the ancient tales, but the contemporary realities of his era from a fresh perspective. Here, the story and its structure bore the distinct stamp of the author's personality.
But what exactly was this isolated individual, this new individuality? It can be easily identified through its characters and their problems. Now, the princes of traditional epics (*dastans*) and the noblemen of fables were replaced by ordinary young men from the middle class, and the problems of their lives became the subject of the novel. These subjects did not merely include visible conflicts or struggles for tangible things and goals; rather, for the first time, the echo of a clash of values could be heard. In *Taubat-un-Nasuh*, Nasuh and Kaleem do not clash over the pursuit of a beloved. In Sarshar's *Fasana-e-Azad*, although Azad sets out to win Husn Ara, the entire novel concludes with a speech in the fourth volume whose true subject is the transformation of values, not Husn Ara. Against this backdrop, the culture of Lucknow emerges like a tragic hero.
In *Umrao Jaan Ada*, Umrao Jaan's central crisis is one of values. It is about regaining social validation and respect. In this scenario, the heroes are all virtuous, brave, and a collection of good qualities, but they are not uniquely or incomparably beautiful. (Nasuh's appearance and Umrao Jaan's looks are described as ordinary, and no extraordinary physical attraction is shown in them). Furthermore, the villain's personality contains certain charming elements that sometimes make him even more appealing than the hero. No traditional storyteller or *dastan* narrator would have dared to make a dry, pious, and uninteresting character like Nasuh—who is neither physically attractive nor exceptionally brave—the hero.
A woman like Umrao Jaan Ada, who is a courtesan and whom society refuses to accept, could not have been made the central character of a traditional fable or *dastan*. Similarly, a character as charming as Kaleem—unmatched in poetry and literature, generous in friendship, and highly interesting—could not have been a villain in a fable or *dastan*. It is also worth noting that in these novels, often contrary to the novelist's own desires, the villain or a secondary character gains more importance than the hero. Nazir Ahmad holds Nasuh dear, but the reader finds Kaleem's dashing charm much more appealing than Nasuh, and the secondary character of Zahir Dar Baig leaves a far deeper impression on the reader's heart than the others. Likewise, Sarshar's novel is the story of Azad, but the character of Khoji assumes a central position, leaving Azad's character far behind. The same is true of Sharar's Sheikh Wujoodi, who becomes far more fascinating than the hero of *Firdaus-e-Bareen*.
For the first time, individuality and depth emerge in the characters of the novel. These characters are neither mere archetypes nor just agents of action; there is a value system behind them, and their inner lives are not entirely devoid of conflict. They think and grow restless, they suffer and cause suffering, and the cause of their anxiety and anguish is not merely love or faith, but the search and quest for values that can sustain them in changing circumstances. Here, the nature of the conflict is not visible or tangible, nor are the villain and hero presented in clear-cut, separate, black-and-white terms. Instead, not only do the high and low aspects of human character—good and evil—appear together within them, but a new depth and complexity also become evident in their personalities. The goal of the conflict is not tangible either; the objective here is neither the acquisition of a beloved nor the conquest of impenetrable castles. In short, the axis of the fundamental conflict shifts from the external to the internal, and the clashing elements become invisible and transcendent rather than visible, or conceptual rather than material.
The novel has been called the epic of the industrial age. In India, even before the arrival of the industrial age, the novel had begun to rise under Western influence. Alongside the rise of the middle class, the transformation of values and the desire for adaptation and harmony with new social conditions gave birth to the concept of the novel. This was, in a way, a declaration that the reins of power had been snatched from the artisan class living on the borders of rural and urban life, and that the individual's ties to the collective structure were gradually loosening. This was also because the fables and popular tales echoing in the halls of collective life no longer satisfied him; he was no longer merely a part of society but was becoming detached from it, and he needed to create his own new mythology and new enchantments from which new stories could be woven.
Through this path, various forms of the novel entered Urdu literature. Among them were historical novels, which used historical events and characters as raw material, giving them a new form and color. In these, writers sought a medium to express not only their own personalities but also the deprivations, unfulfilled desires, defeats, and aspirations of their era. Numerous novels by Abdul Halim Sharar, which reached the pinnacle of popularity in their time, are the result of this kind of imaginative satisfaction and emotional compensation. Then there are novels that can be termed cultural classics, in which the individual emerges as an index of civilization, and his story serves as an excuse for a broader depiction of culture and society. Its most representative example is *Fasana-e-Azad*, in which the grand finale of a magnificent civilization has been recorded. Then there is that conflict of adaptation and the search for balance between the individual and society, which became the subject of Nazir Ahmad's novels. Then comes *Umrao Jaan Ada*, which attempted to present the inner self of the individual with greater depth and empathy, studying the interplay of light and shadow of forming and dissolving values within her being.
Beyond this lies the frontier of the twentieth century, which gave birth to Premchand. His novels embraced peasants and laborers, reflecting the new intellectual and class dimensions of a new India. He provided a new concept of the individual, which evolves from Surdas, Hori, and Dhaniya, all the way to Ghisu and Madho in his short stories. Here, the internal conflict of the individual also becomes deeper, more complex, and more meaningful, and society, divided into several classes, begins to serve as a medium for expressing a clearer social and class consciousness. This tradition of realism in the short story arrived through the novel itself, and Premchand's short story Kafan (The Shroud) became its most distinct and revolutionary symbol.
Then there is the entire tradition of the twentieth-century Urdu novel. One of its threads is tied to the romanticism of Niaz's *Shahab Ki Sarguzasht* and Qazi Abdul Ghaffar's *Laila Ke Khutoot*, while the other is connected to the novelists of the Progressive Writers' Movement. This includes Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai, Rajinder Singh Bedi, and in our own era, writers ranging from Qurratulain Hyder, Abdullah Hussein, Khadija Mastoor, Mumtaz Mufti, and Shaukat Siddiqui, to Hayatullah Ansari, a novelist outside the Progressive circle. Alongside them is the caravan of the short story, which traversed the paths of thought and art, succeeding in presenting the conflicts of the novel on a smaller canvas with greater eloquence.
The other end of this narrative meets that symbolic mode of expression which completely transformed the very nature of the conflict, molding it into a symbolic form rather than an external one—a style that gained particular popularity in the modern era.
To recognize the reflection that emerges in the mirror of our yesterday, history offers a vast repository. It holds the details of crowns and thrones, the chronicles of wars won and lost, the decrees of governments, and every trace of military movements. Unfortunately, however, history lacks the means to understand the inner life of human beings. Yet, whether it is history or civilization, their true foundation is built upon the mysterious and complex emotions and thoughts that arise from within the human soul—the faint echoes of which can be heard in literature. Therefore, literature can serve both as a medium for history and as its precursor.
Literature encompasses an entire universe of its own. First, its genres are distinct, and each possesses a unique mode of expression. Second, unlike history and science, literature does not state reality directly; it conveys it through a literary lens. Consequently, there is always a risk that someone unacquainted with literature might rely solely on the literal and superficial meanings of a text without delving into its depths, thereby drawing incorrect conclusions and distorting the truth. The tone of literature is shaped not only by its contemporary era but also by literary tradition and style. Its similes and metaphors, its symbols and motifs, its characters and events, and the interplay of light and shadow in its imaginative rhythms—all of these cast colorful veils over thought and reality.
Furthermore, literature is not merely a combination of thought and emotion. If it were purely thought, it would become philosophy; if it were purely emotion, it would be reduced to romance, madness, or prophecy. Its purpose is not simply to provide information or to peddle thoughts and feelings, but rather to use them to achieve a new aesthetic insight. In this pursuit, literature creates and shatters countless molds of thought, imagination, feeling, and focus. Through this very process, it recognizes itself, discovers its relationship with nature, navigates the dynamics of conflict and harmony with the life scattered around it, and establishes a balance with other human beings. Therefore, before drawing any conclusions from literature, one must carefully consider the uniqueness of its expression, while also keeping its aesthetic mission and underlying significance in mind.
Poetry contains far greater complexities in its modes of thought and feeling. The more a poetic genre relies on a specialized mode of expression and employs symbols and motifs, the more these complexities multiply. Consequently, drawing conclusions about historical truths from a *ghazal* couplet is exceedingly difficult and perilous. What we might perceive as the poet's genuine expression could simply be a traditional stylistic convention or merely the echo of a resonant rhyme. Therefore, relying on the *ghazal* in particular, and poetry in general, to understand the temperament of the nineteenth century is a risky endeavor. The most accessible medium is perhaps fiction, through which the spirit of the age reveals itself in vibrant new colors and rhythms.
Setting drama aside, nineteenth-century fiction took three distinct turns, and these three shifts are sufficient to illuminate the temperament and character of the entire century. The first phase saw the rise of the *qissa* (folk tale), the second phase belonged to the *dastan* (epic romance), and the third phase witnessed the emergence of the novel. The *qissa* is rooted in the collective, the *dastan* in the imagination, and the novel in the individual. Furthermore, the collective, the imagination, and the individual are each tied to specific types of societies, cultures, and economic systems. The complete story of the nineteenth century's social and economic journey is encapsulated within these three concepts.
What exactly is a *qissa*? It is a gallery painted by anonymous artists, a repository of stories that seem to simply float in the air around us. Grandmothers narrate them to their grandchildren, and friends hear them from friends. No one knows who originally authored these tales. Eventually, a writer transcribes them into their own words, and they begin to circulate in written form. These stories travel from one country to another, bridging different cultures. Stretching across the expanses of East and West, they transcend the boundaries of time and space.
(One example is the famous story in which two women claim to be the mother of the same child. The matter is brought before a judge, who decrees that the women should pull the child in opposite directions and split him in half. The real mother, unable to bear the thought of the child's suffering, withdraws her claim, and the child is rightfully awarded to her. This tale, originally found among Buddhist stories, survived all the way into the twentieth century, culminating in Bertolt Brecht’s play, *The Caucasian Chalk Circle*.)
These *qissas* share several distinct characteristics. First, their plots, and sometimes even their characters, are widely known and familiar. They are usually rooted either in an ancient tradition or allusion, or in a recent event that the target audience is already well aware of. Thus, the storyteller’s task is simply to present these pre-existing events and familiar characters with the vibrant flair and expressive power of oral storytelling. It is entirely reasonable to deduce the underlying realities of that era from the intellectual fabric of these tales. Which types of events were deemed important and from what perspective? What kinds of characters were considered credible? What sort of cultural atmosphere resonated with that period? All these elements serve as evidence that holds not only literary, but also historical and cultural significance.
Therefore, the primary characteristic of all these *qissas* is their social and collective acceptance. During this era, the individual's connection to the collective had not yet been severed; rather, it would be more accurate to say that the individual had not yet emerged as an independent entity distinct from the collective body. The individual was merely a vessel for expressing the collective spirit. Through their voice, their era and their people spoke, and their individuality existed solely to give voice to the thoughts and feelings of the community.
The second major characteristic is the underlying moral rhythm that drives all these *qissas* and imbues them with meaning. This morality is not philosophical, but practical; it serves as the binding thread that weaves together a diverse array of concepts. This moral framework is not driven by an urge to preach or reform, but rather by a desire to preserve the practical truths of the era in an accessible and engaging manner. These tales are, in essence, the fictional embodiments of the wisdom of their time.
Third, in all these *qissas*, the boundaries between the human and the supernatural are blurred and ambiguous. Logic does not dictate the connection between events; an effect does not always require a logical cause, and the chain of motives and reasons is often left to mere coincidence. If humanity possesses any infallible means of achieving victory in these tales, it is through divine intervention, the intercession of an enlightened spiritual guide, or the power of an amulet or incantation—forces that make the impossible possible and steer an inevitable tragedy toward a happy ending.
When examining early prose narratives, the following works must be considered: Fazli’s *Karbal Katha*, Iswi Khan’s *Dastan-e-Mehr Afroz o Dilbar*, *Ajaib-ul-Qasas* (attributed to Shah Alam), Tahseen’s *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani*, and the tales written under the influence of Fort William College, among which Mir Amman’s *Bagh-o-Bahar* holds the most prominent position. All these narratives share the following characteristics:
(1) With the exception of *Karbal Katha*, none of them use religion as their primary mode of expression, and they all share a secular, tolerant atmosphere.
(2) They maintain the style of those famous and widely popular tales whose tradition has long existed in our folk literature.
(3) Glimpses of urban society are prominent in all these stories; depictions of rural life are either entirely absent or merely incidental and secondary.
(4) All these tales have, in one form or another, remained a part of our folk tradition. The colorfulness of expression and imagination has given diverse and unique forms to their fixed and established narrative structures. These include stories that have been popular in our villages and countryside, tales passed down by our grandmothers, and those whose lineage traces back to the *Panchatantra*, the *Hitopadesha*, or the *Arabian Nights* (*Alf Laila*). Such stories have their own distinct genealogy, and their migration has historically been influenced by trade and other relations between countries and civilizations.
Consequently, countless such stories were exchanged through India, Egypt, Babylon, Syria, Iran, and Central Asia. It has been repeatedly suggested that Indian stories may very well have traveled alongside trade goods to the land of the *Arabian Nights*, and from there, reached the ports of Italy via Arab merchants, ultimately providing Shakespeare with several plots for his plays. (Professor Moulton, in his book *World Literature*, has traced the genealogy of such folk tales back to three global civilizations: Greek, Semitic, and South Asian.)
In the tradition prior to *Karbal Katha*, at least two tales hold a notable position. One is Mulla Wajhi's *Sab Ras*, whose allegorical style is exemplary and which presents a prevalent tale in a new manner under an allegorical veil. Here, too, the narrative revolves around Beauty and Heart (*Husn-o-Dil*), which some researchers consider to be an adaptation of Krishna Mishra's *Prabodh Chandrodaya*, while others attribute it to Fattahi's Persian work, *Dastur-ul-Ushaq*. In either case, there is no doubt that Mulla Wajhi's tale is rooted in a prevalent folk story, nor is there any doubt about its moral significance or its manner of utilizing supernatural elements. For Mulla Wajhi, the realism of the story is not important; what matters is its moral allegory, the nature of which is not religious or mystical, but rather secular, liberal, and based on the primacy of love.
The second category consists of those allegorical tales or riddles that were common in the Deccan under the name of *Shikar Nama* (Hunting Tales), and which have generally been attributed to Khwaja Gesu Daraz Banda Nawaz. An example of this is as follows:
We were four brothers from a village. Three had no clothes, and the fourth was stark naked. The naked brother had cash in his sleeve. All four of us went to the market to buy a bow and arrows. Doom struck, all four were killed, and twenty-four stood up alive. At that moment, four bows appeared; three were broken and defective, and one lacked a grip and string-notches. The naked brother with the money bought this grip-less and notch-less bow. We then needed arrows, and four arrows appeared. Three were broken, and the fourth lacked feathers and an arrowhead. We bought the featherless and headless arrow and set off into the desert in search of prey. Four deer appeared. Three were dead, and the fourth was lifeless. The featherless and headless arrow was loosed upon the lifeless deer. Now, a saddle-strap was needed to tie the prey. Four lassos appeared; three were torn to shreds, and one had neither ends nor a middle. The prey was bound with this endless and middle-less lasso. Now, a house was needed to rest and hang the prey. Four houses appeared; three were ruined, and one was missing its roof and walls. We entered this roofless and wall-less house.
In the end, the author of the *Shikar Nama* invites people of insight to solve this riddle. It is obvious that this riddle is allegorical, and this tale, which must have been widely popular, has been molded into the terminology of Sufism.
*Karbal Katha* narrates a semi-religious, semi-historical tale so that women who do not understand Persian can read and hear the account of the martyrdom of Imam Hussain and his companions in their own language. *Karbal Katha* was written almost a hundred years before the elegies (*marsiyas*) of Anees, but even here, the shadows of Indian society are visible in the appearances, clothing, and conduct of Imam Hussain and his companions. The story was obviously written for Indians, which is why numerous Indian details and particulars have been included in it, giving it an Indian form. The story here, too, is not original; it is traditional, and of a kind that had already become a part of our folk literature, upon which elegies, lamentations, *nohas*, and *salams* had long been composed in North India and the Deccan.
Fazli, however, has given it an Indian hue by providing it with a moral axis. The nature of the conflict is tangible. The characters are clearly presented in black and white; the good are entirely good, and the bad are entirely bad. It is another matter that, by divine wisdom, defeat here falls to the lot of the chosen and righteous servants. This is the very voice that is heard echoing far and wide in the poetic heritage of that era. Whether it is the pessimistic tone of Mir, or the *Shahr Ashob* (poems lamenting urban ruin) of Hatim, Qaim, and Nazeer, or the *Shahr Ashob* of Sauda—in all of them, the mourning over the humiliation and wretchedness of the virtuous and the talented is found everywhere.
Take Shah Alam's work *Ajaib-ul-Qasas*, which has been recently discovered. Here, too, the framework of the story follows the same *Alf Laila* or *dastan* (epic romance) style. It is a traditional tale in which attaining the beloved depends on bringing back the answers to seven questions. The answers to these seven questions cannot be obtained merely through worldly knowledge, but are found through the guidance of a perfect spiritual master, divine grace, and spiritual discipline. In terms of its scope, after *Sab Ras*, *Ajaib-ul-Qasas* is the most expansive of all these tales, but here too, apart from certain parts of the story, the prevalent traditional color dominates. Here, too, moral centrality has established dominance over the other aspects of the narrative, and its attempt is to piece together folk tales to give them the form of a *dastan*. The characters are flat and one-dimensional, and apart from the *Alf Laila* technique of a story-within-a-story, there is no other novelty in it.
In this context, it is essential to mention Saadat Yar Khan Rangeen’s work, *Akhbar-e-Rangeen*. In it, Rangeen has compiled various events and anecdotes of his time with a unique narrative device: he imagines the heart as a king, and casts himself as a court chronicler in the king's service, bringing him news of the city and the world. The heart comments on every event, and each commentary is followed by an Urdu proverb or idiom, along with one Urdu and one Persian couplet. Among these is a famous couplet that seemingly captures the entire atmosphere of the era:
Yeh jo kuch hai jahan mein is ke besh-o-kam ko dekha hai
Hamein kya dekhte ho hum ne ik aalam ko dekha hai
[Whatever exists in this world, we have seen its abundance and its lack;
Why do you stare at us? We have seen a whole world.]
Here, too, we see an attempt to weave together traditions and everyday occurrences through various tales, alongside the intention of drawing a moral lesson from them. This reflects the author’s deep connection to folk traditions and the society that preserves them. It is also worth noting that Mir, Sauda, and Qaim made similar everyday events and famous romances the subjects of their *masnavis* (narrative poems).
Next is the *Qissa-e-Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar* (The Tale of Mehr Afroz and Dilbar), believed to have been written around 1732. Disillusioned with his crown and throne, a king retreats to the wilderness in hopes of having an heir. There, he meets a mendicant whose prayers lead to the birth of a son, Mehr Afroz. At the age of fourteen, while pursuing prey, Mehr Afroz stumbles upon a wondrous, enchanting garden featuring fountains reminiscent of Mughal gardens. It is here that he meets Dilbar.
The prince pursues her but loses his way in the forest. At the suggestion of the vizier’s son, the prince begins to sing, and his voice tames all the wild animals. The king of the monkeys then leads him to a dervish named Arzu Bakhsh. The dervish recounts the tale of Prince Munawwar, who fell in love with Dilruba, the princess of Khata, in a dream and became ensnared by dark magic. His only means of escape was to shoot an arrow precisely into the beak of an emerald parrot. Prince Munawwar missed the target, and as a result, his head was severed. However, the prince’s loyal companion, a merchant’s son, struck the target perfectly and rescued him. Later in the story, as Dilruba travels with her lover Munawwar Shah, she is abducted by a thief. Once again, it is the king of Qambarabad, Sidi Jawahar, and a moneylender’s son who ultimately rescue her.
These two incidents illustrate the growing social importance of merchants and moneylenders. This influence would eventually grow to such an extent that Mughal emperors, from Shah Alam to Bahadur Shah, found themselves in debt to the merchants and moneylenders of Delhi. Even the East India Company relied on financial backing from prominent moneylenders like Omi Chand and Jagat Seth. Furthermore, the overarching atmosphere of *Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar* is deeply colored by a non-religious, secular, and composite Indian culture. For instance, after their wedding, Mehr Afroz and Dilbar go out for a moonlit stroll on the night of the full moon (*pooran masi*). At that very moment, Raja Indra is flying through the heavens with his celestial nymphs (*apsaras*). The text describes the scene:
It so happens that Indra has come out for an excursion with his apsaras. Seeing the splendor of the moonlight, the enchanting beauty, and the arrangement of music and dance, he is spellbound and stops in his tracks. At that moment, Chatar Roop Patra is dancing, and Gun Tarang Pakhawajan is playing the *pakhawaj* [a traditional drum]... Indra, watching from his hiding place, involuntarily cries out in praise... and showers them with flowers.
Immediately following this excursion, Mehr Afroz dies. However, much like the tales of the *Shuka Saptati* (The Parrot's Seventy Tales), a parrot prevents Dilbar from committing suicide and consoles her by narrating various stories. The bird guides her into the forest to the abode of a dervish named Murad Bakhsh. Following the parrot's advice, Dilbar plays the *been* (a traditional stringed instrument) and entrances the dervish. Deeply moved, he vows to grant her any wish. True to his word, the dervish resurrects Mehr Afroz, and the parrot, too, is transformed into a human.
The purpose of recounting this tale in some detail is to highlight how its twists and turns incorporate elements from numerous Sanskrit tales and ancient traditions. Furthermore, it provides the foundational narrative structure for later works, such as the *masnavis* *Sihr-ul-Bayan* and *Gulzar-e-Naseem*, as well as the *Inder Sabha* plays by Amanat and Madari Lal. These stories essentially represent the intersection of urban and rural life. At this juncture, the artist’s connection to folktales and traditional myths remained profound, and he sought to preserve the cultural treasures scattered around him in various ways. This is why the narrative style occasionally employs the *Nakh-Shikh* tradition (the classical head-to-toe description of beauty), while at other times, as the compiler notes, he transcribes into prose many verses from the poets of the Krishna Bhakti tradition, which were commonly used as proverbs in the regions around Delhi and Agra. Consider this description of the city, which clearly reflects its rural fringes:
As the prince draws nearer to the city, he is filled with such joy that it is as if his heart is a farmer and his body a parched field. The dense, lush trees of Hasanabad appear as dark rainclouds, and the flowers falling from their branches are like raindrops showering upon the field of his body. The canals flowing on all four sides of the city, and the brimming ponds with their rippling waters—these are not mere waves; rather, they rise to extinguish the flames of the lover who burns in separation from Dilbar.
The composition of *Nau Tarz-e-Murassa* was completed between 1768 and 1775. While its story is widely known, it is particularly noteworthy that here, too, all four dervishes are merchants, and the king himself sits in their company. In *Mehr Afroz-o-Dilbar*, the four pillars of kingship are explicitly outlined:
The nobles and the army are like fire. Second are the viziers, the educated, and the wise, who are like the wind. Third are the merchants and moneylenders, who are like water. Fourth are the subjects and the common people, who are like dust.
Furthermore, alongside references to the Mother of Brahmins, the manner in which the *Farangis* (Europeans) are mentioned demands attention. The vizier recounts the tale of a merchant named Khwaja Sag-Parast (the Dog-Worshipper), whose dog wears a collar studded with jewels. Believing this to be a blatant lie, the king orders the vizier to be beheaded. The text reads:
Suddenly, the envoy of the Franks stood up with folded hands, spoke in defense of the vizier, and pleaded:
Kijiye jaan bakhshi aur taqseer maaf
Baat is ki ke na boojho tum zilaaf
[Grant him his life and forgive his offense;
Do not consider his words to be false.]
'For a just and benevolent king such as yourself to shed innocent blood and bear the burden of the vizier's life would be a matter of immense sorrow and regret. It is imperative that you first investigate the matter.' (Page 244).
This reflects the portrayal of the King of the Franks and Akhtar, the King of the Franks, in the tale narrated by Khwaja Sag-Parast. They are depicted as individuals of exceptional sagacity, unparalleled in their compassion and service to humanity.
*Nau Tarz-e-Murassa*, the precursor to *Bagh-o-Bahar*, is itself indebted to the structural molds of numerous similar tales. Here, too, we clearly find all the elements previously identified in our discussion of these stories. *Bagh-o-Bahar* is a product of Fort William College, an institution established to train British officers. Its purpose was not merely to teach Urdu, but also to familiarize these officers with the culture and atmosphere of India—a goal easily achieved through storytelling. However, John Gilchrist’s dream could not be fully realized, and the endeavor to acquaint British rulers with India's folk culture was abruptly cut short. He had written:
A prophet is not required to predict that in a few years more, the gleam of learning in the day of Hastings and Jones will be totally eclipsed by that precious dawn in the Eastern love apparent now and which will then break forth with the meridian splendor to promote and confirm the happiness and prosperity of the British India.
(Gilchrist, British Orientalists. p. 84)
The stories produced at Fort William College are not merely achievements in accessible language and narrative style. Through them, an attempt was made to reconstruct India's fictional past so that novices would not only learn the language but also understand the very conscience of the East, familiarizing themselves with the cultural values and atmosphere reflected in these tales. Translations of the *Gulistan*, *Bostan*, *Anwar-e-Suhaili*, and various *Pand Namas* (books of advice), along with *Araish-e-Mahfil*, *Tota Kahani*, *Singhasan Battisi*, various short stories, and introductions to the tales of the *Hitopadesha* and *Panchatantra*—all were part of this broader campaign. In this context, moral instruction was not the central focus; rather, comprehending India was the primary objective. Yet, underlying these stories was the same traditional narrative structure that radiated a deep harmony with collective social bonds.
In this context, two other significant prose tales written outside of Fort William College must be mentioned: Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* and Rajab Ali Baig Surur’s *Fasana-e-Ajaib*. In terms of its atmosphere, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* is essentially a manifestation of the folktale. Despite containing original elements, its setting, events, characters, and narrative style ultimately serve as the voice of a specific society, reflecting the very elements that provided it with comfort and prosperity. We see the same sadhus and dervishes whose incantations never fail, the same reliance on supernatural elements, and the same secular, Persianate characters whose roots trace back to an urban civilization nurtured by artisans. We also find the same concept of morality, where a colorful, romantic temperament is not a sin but a natural part of the joy of life. In short, Insha’s *Rani Ketki Ki Kahani* emerges as a vital thread in the fabric of the collective social structure.
The same holds true for the narrative of *Fasana-e-Ajaib*. While original elements are present here as well, the overarching structure of the tale remains traditional. There is a profound affection for the city; indeed, every word seems steeped in love for it. Supernatural elements are employed here too, and the fate of the monkey serves to highlight the moral dimensions of the story.
The character of Pisar-e-Majistan introduces the new cultural elements that were beginning to permeate Indian society. Furthermore, a secular tone is clearly reflected in the character of the *jogi*, who champions the composite culture that—having evolved through Kabir, Namdev, Nanak, and Nazir—had become the intellectual foundation of Urdu literature:
He invoked the name of Hari Guru, then recited the *Kalima*, and departed from this world. He breathed his last. The *jogi*, a traveler to the void and a dweller of Baikunth, passed on, leaving Jan-e-Alam weeping uncontrollably... In accordance with his will, the prince bathed and shrouded him, but upon lowering him into the grave, found nothing. Ultimately, the shroud was torn into equal halves: one half was cremated by his Hindu disciples, while the other half was buried in the hermitage by his Muslim followers. The Hindus built a *chhatri* over his ashes, and the Muslims built a grave, draping it with a green cloth.
In *Fasana-e-Ajaib*, motifs such as the helpful parrot, voyages across various lands, and the assistance provided by dervishes and wise old men are all common features of classical tales, appearing as integral parts of the collective social structure. Another link in this chain is Mahjoor’s *Nau Ratan*, which presents folktales in the format of a continuous narrative.
While there are similarities in the foundational molds of these tales, they do not share a single, uniform structure. Secondly, the events in all these stories are more or less based on pre-existing, well-known tales, making them a part of the collective social fabric. Thirdly, a moral dimension consistently weaves a sense of unity throughout them. Generally, warfare and conflict do not form the core of these stories. Although such elements are employed occasionally, all these characteristics undergo a drastic transformation as they evolve into our later *dastan* (epic romance) literature.
Although the tradition of the *dastan* is ancient, the immense popularity and development it achieved in Lucknow are unparalleled elsewhere. Undoubtedly, the *dastans* also drew upon famous pre-existing tales and utilized supernatural elements. However, the vast, intricately adorned world of imagination constructed within them is entirely absent from the structural framework of the earlier tales. Furthermore, the *dastans* offer a far greater and much more refined scope for original events and characters.
Generally, the *dastan* molded itself around representative characters. Amir Hamza and his *ayyars* (tricksters)—with Umro Ayyar standing as their chief—are depicted battling against the Lord of Eternity. Here, the central conflict is not merely about conquering lands or breaking magical talismans (*tilisms*); rather, the moral objectives of the earlier tales have evolved a step further, taking on distinct religious purposes. While elements of a composite culture are still visible throughout, the overall atmosphere is far more Islamic. The entire struggle shifts from a universal battle between good and evil to a specific holy war between Islam and disbelief. The key significance of this shift is that it is solely through divine grace and worldly astuteness that the Amir and his *ayyars* triumph over the sorcery of magicians, accomplishing supernatural feats. Much like the earlier tales, these stories narrate mind-boggling accounts of the weak triumphing over the strong. Such narratives were essential for maintaining confidence and morale during an era plagued by defeat. As Goddard has written:
The Earlier stories are invariably the tales of the physically strongest and most perfect over-thrown and defeated by the weaker by the less physically strong, by the more intellectually potent, It is Always a giant killed by the insignificant jack, of the fire-rating dragon killed by rainfly knight, Grendel killed by Beowulf, of barer for outwitted by barer rabbit.
The fundamental difference between *qissas* (tales) and *dastans* (epics) lay not merely in their form and style, but also in their focus on the individual versus the collective. In the *qissas*, the ideal character was an individual facing various adventures. As Jan-e-Alam, he would wander in search of beautiful women under the guidance of a parrot; at other times, as Kunwar Uday Bhan, he would roam from forest to forest, ultimately reaching his destination through the blessings of dervishes and ascetics. In the *dastans*, however, Amir Hamza and his entire band of tricksters (*ayyars*) were arrayed against the formidable forces of Khudawand-e-Baqa. Their objectives were generally collective, although individual romances and personal conquests did occur along the way. Umro Ayyar, in particular, would constantly fill his magical pouch (*zanbeel*) through his comical antics. Furthermore, unlike the *qissas*, the primary emphasis here was on warfare and combat.
Although the depictions of joyous, festive gatherings in these narratives are unparalleled, the core adventures remain martial. Viewed from this perspective, the chaotic struggle that contemporary Indian society was waging against British imperialism found a substitute in the imaginary world of the *dastans*. A civilization defeated in the real world was establishing new fronts behind the veil of imagination, beating the drums of victory. Even in that realm, there was an acknowledgment that the enemy was far more powerful and resourceful. However, virtues like reliance on God, contentment, the power of faith, and divine assistance—which often fell short in the practical world—were displaying their true mettle in the imaginary world of the *dastan*. Much like the novels of Abdul Halim Sharar, these epics provided emotional solace during moments of defeat.
This was no longer the voice of the class living on the fringes of towns and villages, merely compiling scattered tales from the collective consciousness that had become the accepted currency of their society. Now, the class emerging behind the *dastans* was one that had severed its ties with rural life. The portrayal of villages and the mockery of the rustic culture of rural dwellers bear testament to this shift. To achieve emotional and imaginative satisfaction, this class now required original stories filled with color, flair, and the thrilling sensations of warfare. Caught in an urban economy, this class was experiencing the fragmentation and collapse of a civilization, and it was using the *dastan* to combat this reality on the level of imagination.
This difference is equally prominent in terms of form and style. Structurally, the *dastan* employs a story-within-a-story technique. Because the chain of collective adventures is continuous, multiple heroes—rather than a single protagonist—are seen demonstrating their intelligence, wisdom, and valor in various ways. The characters here are also highly stylized and absolute: the good are exceptionally good, brave, beautiful, and chaste, while the bad are the embodiment of all vices. There is no evolution in their core personalities; time cannot alter them. They might be turned to stone, only to revert to their human forms later. They possess the mastery to change not just their faces but their entire bodies. Though human, they are endowed with supernatural powers. The telescopic technique of extracting one *dastan* from within another is unique to this genre. These narratives serve as a martial anthem for the eternal nature of the chronicle, presented in a somewhat religious guise.
Stylistically, the *dastans* maintained their imaginative flair. A dreamlike prose style emerged that could sustain the full intensity of the imagination, making the narrative flow as captivating and descriptive as possible. *Dastans* were traditionally recited in public gatherings; the practice of printing and reading them privately developed later. Consequently, the rhetorical maneuvers required for public storytelling were consistently employed. The culture of various social classes, the distinct speech patterns of their men and women, their social etiquette, manners, entertainment, and modes of interaction were all articulated in their authentic dialects. To achieve this, the storyteller (*dastan-go*) adopted a highly ornate and decorative style of expression. Furthermore, it is important to note that the fundamental conflict in the *dastans* is entirely tangible—it is fought for visible objectives and against visible transgressions.
By the time literature reached this stage, the cultural chessboard of India had been completely overturned. Politically, India had been subjugated by the British. The trajectory of its economy and society had shifted, and the spoils of economic exploitation were now flowing to England. As a result, the artisan class was decimated, and the foundations of the composite culture that had been developing around various cities, commercial centers, and towns since the era of Akbar began to crumble. Following the final war of independence in 1857, the capacity for resistance was exhausted, and efforts began to reach a compromise with the West on cultural, economic, political, and intellectual fronts. It was out of these efforts that the novel emerged, adopting social reform as its primary objective and introducing a new style of storytelling. These new narratives contained no supernatural elements, no Mir Amman, no talking parrots, and no Jan-e-Alam. The subject of the novel became the individual and the determination of their relationship with a society born out of new economic realities. The profound intellectual shift and reconciliation required for this transition gave birth to the modern novel. This is why Deputy Nazir Ahmad referred to his novels as *qissas* (tales); to him, their moral and reformative aspects were far more important than plot structure or character development.
First and foremost, the novel transformed the structural framework of the narrative. The *dastan*'s story-within-a-story technique was abandoned, as was the otherworldly and highly imaginative atmosphere of the *qissas*. Supernatural elements were also discarded because the very conception of life had changed. The previous worldview freely employed supernatural elements, considered them an integral part of human existence, anticipated the unexpected, and relied on coincidences. In contrast, the new perspective viewed the relationships between motives, causes, and effects as indispensable. The plot of the novel was original. Although created with the help of other literary sources, the individual personality of the artist was no longer content with merely compiling the scattered tales of the surrounding society. The author sought to imbue these events with his own individual rhythm. Through these original narratives, he aimed to present not the ancient tales, but the contemporary realities of his era from a fresh perspective. Here, the story and its structure bore the distinct stamp of the author's personality.
But what exactly was this isolated individual, this new individuality? It can be easily identified through its characters and their problems. Now, the princes of traditional epics (*dastans*) and the noblemen of fables were replaced by ordinary young men from the middle class, and the problems of their lives became the subject of the novel. These subjects did not merely include visible conflicts or struggles for tangible things and goals; rather, for the first time, the echo of a clash of values could be heard. In *Taubat-un-Nasuh*, Nasuh and Kaleem do not clash over the pursuit of a beloved. In Sarshar's *Fasana-e-Azad*, although Azad sets out to win Husn Ara, the entire novel concludes with a speech in the fourth volume whose true subject is the transformation of values, not Husn Ara. Against this backdrop, the culture of Lucknow emerges like a tragic hero.
In *Umrao Jaan Ada*, Umrao Jaan's central crisis is one of values. It is about regaining social validation and respect. In this scenario, the heroes are all virtuous, brave, and a collection of good qualities, but they are not uniquely or incomparably beautiful. (Nasuh's appearance and Umrao Jaan's looks are described as ordinary, and no extraordinary physical attraction is shown in them). Furthermore, the villain's personality contains certain charming elements that sometimes make him even more appealing than the hero. No traditional storyteller or *dastan* narrator would have dared to make a dry, pious, and uninteresting character like Nasuh—who is neither physically attractive nor exceptionally brave—the hero.
A woman like Umrao Jaan Ada, who is a courtesan and whom society refuses to accept, could not have been made the central character of a traditional fable or *dastan*. Similarly, a character as charming as Kaleem—unmatched in poetry and literature, generous in friendship, and highly interesting—could not have been a villain in a fable or *dastan*. It is also worth noting that in these novels, often contrary to the novelist's own desires, the villain or a secondary character gains more importance than the hero. Nazir Ahmad holds Nasuh dear, but the reader finds Kaleem's dashing charm much more appealing than Nasuh, and the secondary character of Zahir Dar Baig leaves a far deeper impression on the reader's heart than the others. Likewise, Sarshar's novel is the story of Azad, but the character of Khoji assumes a central position, leaving Azad's character far behind. The same is true of Sharar's Sheikh Wujoodi, who becomes far more fascinating than the hero of *Firdaus-e-Bareen*.
For the first time, individuality and depth emerge in the characters of the novel. These characters are neither mere archetypes nor just agents of action; there is a value system behind them, and their inner lives are not entirely devoid of conflict. They think and grow restless, they suffer and cause suffering, and the cause of their anxiety and anguish is not merely love or faith, but the search and quest for values that can sustain them in changing circumstances. Here, the nature of the conflict is not visible or tangible, nor are the villain and hero presented in clear-cut, separate, black-and-white terms. Instead, not only do the high and low aspects of human character—good and evil—appear together within them, but a new depth and complexity also become evident in their personalities. The goal of the conflict is not tangible either; the objective here is neither the acquisition of a beloved nor the conquest of impenetrable castles. In short, the axis of the fundamental conflict shifts from the external to the internal, and the clashing elements become invisible and transcendent rather than visible, or conceptual rather than material.
The novel has been called the epic of the industrial age. In India, even before the arrival of the industrial age, the novel had begun to rise under Western influence. Alongside the rise of the middle class, the transformation of values and the desire for adaptation and harmony with new social conditions gave birth to the concept of the novel. This was, in a way, a declaration that the reins of power had been snatched from the artisan class living on the borders of rural and urban life, and that the individual's ties to the collective structure were gradually loosening. This was also because the fables and popular tales echoing in the halls of collective life no longer satisfied him; he was no longer merely a part of society but was becoming detached from it, and he needed to create his own new mythology and new enchantments from which new stories could be woven.
Through this path, various forms of the novel entered Urdu literature. Among them were historical novels, which used historical events and characters as raw material, giving them a new form and color. In these, writers sought a medium to express not only their own personalities but also the deprivations, unfulfilled desires, defeats, and aspirations of their era. Numerous novels by Abdul Halim Sharar, which reached the pinnacle of popularity in their time, are the result of this kind of imaginative satisfaction and emotional compensation. Then there are novels that can be termed cultural classics, in which the individual emerges as an index of civilization, and his story serves as an excuse for a broader depiction of culture and society. Its most representative example is *Fasana-e-Azad*, in which the grand finale of a magnificent civilization has been recorded. Then there is that conflict of adaptation and the search for balance between the individual and society, which became the subject of Nazir Ahmad's novels. Then comes *Umrao Jaan Ada*, which attempted to present the inner self of the individual with greater depth and empathy, studying the interplay of light and shadow of forming and dissolving values within her being.
Beyond this lies the frontier of the twentieth century, which gave birth to Premchand. His novels embraced peasants and laborers, reflecting the new intellectual and class dimensions of a new India. He provided a new concept of the individual, which evolves from Surdas, Hori, and Dhaniya, all the way to Ghisu and Madho in his short stories. Here, the internal conflict of the individual also becomes deeper, more complex, and more meaningful, and society, divided into several classes, begins to serve as a medium for expressing a clearer social and class consciousness. This tradition of realism in the short story arrived through the novel itself, and Premchand's short story Kafan (The Shroud) became its most distinct and revolutionary symbol.
Then there is the entire tradition of the twentieth-century Urdu novel. One of its threads is tied to the romanticism of Niaz's *Shahab Ki Sarguzasht* and Qazi Abdul Ghaffar's *Laila Ke Khutoot*, while the other is connected to the novelists of the Progressive Writers' Movement. This includes Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai, Rajinder Singh Bedi, and in our own era, writers ranging from Qurratulain Hyder, Abdullah Hussein, Khadija Mastoor, Mumtaz Mufti, and Shaukat Siddiqui, to Hayatullah Ansari, a novelist outside the Progressive circle. Alongside them is the caravan of the short story, which traversed the paths of thought and art, succeeding in presenting the conflicts of the novel on a smaller canvas with greater eloquence.
The other end of this narrative meets that symbolic mode of expression which completely transformed the very nature of the conflict, molding it into a symbolic form rather than an external one—a style that gained particular popularity in the modern era.
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