By Various

Date:17-07-06

Source: Dawn

Un-progressively Progressive
Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi never backed off from his original literary commitments
By Sarwat Ali

Since he lived to be around ninety, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi had to cope with many intellectual upheavals that threatened to undermine the broad consensus that had given birth to the Progressive Writers Association in the nineteen-thirties. He was born in the middle of the World War I, the first disaster to have hit the western world since its smug carving up of the rest of the world into colonial spheres of influence. As a consequence of this war the Ottoman Empire ceased to exist and the Russian Empire of the Czars underwent a sea-change to become the Soviet Union. Communism, the ideology which had been gaining momentum and acceptance in the West, became for the first time the ideology of the new state, and had a far-reaching impact not only in Russia but also in the rest of the world.

The colonies, in particular, were inspired by this ideology; it soon found a place in their impoverished thought-bank which had became insolvent with their political capitulation by the middle of the nineteenth century. Besides the liberal humanistic ideas derived from the West, this set of ideas was considered a potent instrument to help power the way to political and economic freedom. The elixir of these ideas was accepted more greedily by intellectuals than by the classes supposed to be in the vanguard of the movement, and in the content and form of literature, as indeed in painting, theatre and dance, this revolution could be felt in its greatest violence.

The first group of people to be inspired ranged from the veteran Prem Chand to Hasrat Mohani to writers who had just started to establish themselves, but a whole younger crop blooded by the new movement was soon to appear as significant voices in the chorus. To have an individual voice was not at all easy, but the remarkable thing about this movement was that, despite its ideological unanimity, a fresh individuality became its dominant aspect. It had struck at the right spot to release the fountains of creativity among writers and intellectuals.

Qasmi was well grounded in his own ethos and his calls for freedom and the liberation of the masses were rooted in his own past. For him Iqbal was a poetical and intellectual force to be benefited from rather than to be challenged, as he had been challenged by some of his fellow travellers, and he was totally drawn into the feeling of helplessness that the Muslims experienced after the abolition of the Khilafat in Turkey. He looked up to the leaders of that movement, and his first creative outpouring was in the form of a poem for Muhammad Ali Jauhar in 1931. He was then inspired by Maulana Altaf Hussain Hali, and more so by Zafar Ali Khan, for their simple but rousing verses written directly for the Muslim community. It was a little later that he took to writing in other forms of literature.

When Pakistan was created the question of the identity of the new nation became the trickiest one to handle, especially in its cultural context. Muhammad Hasan Askari took the issue by the horns and called for a specific entity known as Pakistani literature. Of course, this prescriptive drive was not received well in the camp of the artists and writers. On the other extreme were those who did not see the need of manufacturing a specific identity but liked to see it grow and evolve with an evolving sensibility. This was taken as denial by the more hardline writers, and a war of words ensued which pushed the central issue into the background and brought forth the battle lines on ideological and political affiliations of the writers.

Qasmi did not subscribe to the prescriptive diktat of Hasan Askari, nor could he blindly follow the line taken by the more hardline writers denouncing Iqbal and most other literary efforts as reactionary and backward-looking. He chartered a middle path for himself, where heritage, especially that of the Muslims as it has evolved itself in the Indian soil, was of foremost value. It is always very perilous to walk this middle road, as it exposes you to attacks from both sides and this is exactly what happened with Qasmi. He was first denounced by those talking Pakistani Cultural-specifics and much later by the Progressives.

Sex has always been a dominant theme in world literature, but for the Progressives sex was best understood in its social context. The writers wrote about the exploitation of sex in a society that was inequitably divided on the basis of haves and have-nots.

But for some writers, sex was the overwhelming reality that they needed come to terms with independently of its social manifestations. If there was a social recounting of it, the entire configuration was a consequence of a primordial sex drive. This resulted in an open conflict between the two point of views. For writers like Saadat Hassan Manto the dictation of what to write about sex was seen as prescriptive and hence censorial. This focussing on sex came in for criticism on the basis of salacity, sensation and obscenity. Manto rebelled against cutting the cloth according to the prescribed size.

Qasmi drew his inspiration from the living conditions of the people around him and made them his subject; he discovered the litmus test of good writing. Since he weaved his plots around characters who were found in the streets and villages, his writings did not court the danger of becoming dated. Like some of his other illustrious contemporaries he made the rural Punjab that he knew so well the material of his fiction. Its thematic structure were culled from the limited ambitions, economic deprivations, small joys and endless struggle for survival of its people. Sex was also placed, by him, within these confines.

In the nineteen-sixties another trend in poetry and fiction, called modernism, revolted against the socialist realism that had started to choke the Progressives in their creative effort. But Qasmi stuck to his guns and wrote on the steam of his own understanding of his land and people. He found himself flanked by some of the greatest writers in prose and poetry, but he remained undaunted; rather he drew strength from the tribe which was equally busy in giving a new shape to the realism injected into subcontinental literature forcibly by the colonial masters in the later half of the nineteenth century. Realism was finally able to wear off the stigma of a borrowed sensibility, and it flowered during the Progressive Writers’ movement.

Qasmi was equally prolific in poetry, trying out both the nazm and the ghazal, not paying too much attention to the criticism of his fellow travellers that the form, being dated, ought to be condemned. He did write many ghazals which became so famous as to be quoted by those with not exceptionally good memories, and his nazms were better known for their subject than the artistic peculiarities of their blank verse.

In retrospect
This is an excerpt from an interview of Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi by Sarwat Ali and Asha’ar Rehman, published on November 19, 2000, on the occassion of his 84th birthday

This is an excerpt from an interview of Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi by Sarwat Ali and Asha’ar Rehman, published on November 19, 2000, on the occassion of his 84th birthday

I come from a pir family. My father Ghulam Nabi was a very respected pir. But I myself was appalled by what took place around me. As a young boy I once went to an urs near Jalalpur Jattan. Somehow the followers got to know which family I belonged to and a show of their reverence for my father followed. So much so that they took off my shoes and didn’t hesitate to kiss them... I rebelled."

There was also an economic factor behind this rebellion, for Qasmi Saheb saw and absorbed the hardships of the people in his area. It was a hilly area, meaning that land-holdings there were small and insufficient to guarantee even three proper meals a day. Consequently rose the haunting images of people living on roti and salt, and left a sharp image on the sensitive observer’s mind. When these stories were written, the writer didn’t have the Progressive Writers’ manifesto before him. The two came together naturally.

Among his early literary influences, Qasmi Saheb listed Iqbal and Zaffar Ali Khan. Akhtar Sheerani’s poems also left their mark on a young mind and the two men came closer when Akhtar regularly printed Qasmi Saheb’s writings in ‘Roomaan’.

Qasmi Saheb says that he was also angry a finding unfavourable remarks about Sir Syed in a book of tafseer he read as a child, for he held Sir Syed in high esteem. From his huge collection of memories, he chooses to recall selective moments. His only meeting with Iqbal stands out.

The meeting took place in 1937, at Javed Manzil in Lahore. Qasmi Saheb arrived there with Maulana Abdul Majeed Salik and Chiragh Hasan Hasrat, and for the entire duration of the meeting, his was the role of an attentive listener, as the three heavy-weights went about chatting in the Javed Manzil lawns. "The discussion focused on humour and satire, perhaps because both Hasrat and Salik were well-known humorists of their time," Qasmi Saheb says. "Suddenly, Allama asked Hasrat why was he so unusually quiet that day. Hasrat replied, ‘Mein aapke huqqe ki khudi per ghaur kar raha hoon’. The fact was that Iqbal had been puffing at his huqqa without offering it to his guests. He enjoyed Hasrat’s remark greatly."

That light-hearted meeting apart, Qasmi Saheb’s love for Iqbal — "he is the greatest poet since Ghalib" — has not subsided to this day. He says he can still recall whole stanzas from Bange Dara.

In the 1930s, he was in contact with Saadat Hasan Manto, who was living in Bombay and writing for films. In an effort to help Qasmi Saheb make some extra money, Manto invited him to write the dialogues for a film called Dharam Patni.

"I was to leave from Multan and Manto from Bombay, and we were to meet in Delhi. It was to be our first meeting," Qasmi said. "I was given the address of an office in the Chawari Bazaar. As I arrived in Delhi wearing shalwar kameez and sherwani, I had no idea what Chawari Bazaar was. But the realisation came as soon as I saw all those women standing in their balconies. I asked Manto and his plain reply was that this was his adda. But soon after, we were given another place to work. I would write the dialogues and Manto would then type them in. He would even make some minor alterations, since he was more familiar with writing for films than I was. Later on he sent me the money for writing the dialogues. He only wanted to help a friend."

Another encounter with a filmy seth, involving Manto, Qasmi Saheb and Krishan Chandar is even more interesting. The year was 1941. The venue was Bombay and Qasmi Saheb had been asked to write the songs for a film titled Banjara. As the three of them proceeded for a meeting with the ‘seth’, Manto advised Qasmi Saheb to be patient and to not get too disturbed over what the seth had to say. He was told that the seth owed Krishan Chandar and Manto money for the story of the film, and any undue confrontation was not advisable.

It so happened that the seth wanted the word ‘ummeed’ in one place replaced with ‘asha’. An attack followed — not by Qasmi Saheb, nor by Krishan Chandar, but by the incorrigible Manto. "Manto said nothing doing, and told the seth he didn’t know a thing about poetry. Intimidated, the seth retorted: ‘yeh kyah bari bari aankhen nikaal ke dekhta hai’ (why are you looking at me with these wide eyes.) The substitution of ummeed with asha was overruled and the cheque was handed over to Manto.

"The story didn’t end there, as Manto insisted that the money must be drawn immediately. "You never know with these seths. We have to buy a suit for this man (Qasmi). In this dress (shalwar kameez and sherwani) it looks as if he is a landlord and we his retinue." He understood the seth mentality well. When we reached home, a man from the seth’s office was already there. He asked the cheque be returned because Japan had just attacked the Pearl Harbour."

When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, Qasmi Saheb was in the process of establishing himself as a writer and poet, as well as an editor. In 1945, he had briefly to resort to his village, after excessive work led to a nervous break down. After recovering, he spent some time at the Peshawar Radio Station, where Noon Meem Rashed was to follow him as an assistant station director. Qasmi Saheb says that it is an honour for him that he wrote Pakistan`s first national song. The song was recorded in the voice of Tahir Sarwar Niazi, the station director Peshawar Radio, and broadcast at midnight on August 14, 1947.

Also during his stay in Peshawar, Qasmi Saheb came in contact with the Communist Party branch in the city. He was asked to read a paper at a meeting by Communist Party office-bearer in Peshawar, Niaz Haider. He read the foreword to his first book ‘Jalal o Jamal’, which was quite close to Progressive ideas, but also contained a reference to the writer’s desire to present Islam in its true perspective. Following the meeting, Haider had to face questioning from the Communist Party high command and was eventually transferred.

Qasmi Saheb himself came back to Lahore in 1948. He was acceptable enough among the Progressives to be elected the PWA secretary general the same year. "I didn’t want the responsibility and instead proposed Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s name. But since he was reluctant, the onus fell on me. In the end, we didn’t allow Faiz to get away and made him the treasurer. He laughed at it... there were no funds."

Qasmi Saheb continued to edit journals and says it was he who had proposed ‘Naqoosh’ as he title when Muhammad Tufail approached him with the idea of a new magazine.

"Soon after I started editing ‘Naqoosh’, I went to Manto asking him to give us a non-controversial story so that we didn’t have to fight another case. He gave us his famous story ‘Khol Do’."

Qasmi Saheb’s fears of Manto were not without basis. Only some time back, the two of them had been dragged into a court case over ‘Boo’, which Qasmi Saheb had printed in ‘Adbe Lateef’. ‘As we entered the court, we found that the magistrates were smoking huqqa. They asked me and Manto if we had read Bostan and Gulistan and we replied yes we had. Then one of the magistrates remarked: ‘And yet you print lewd stories like ‘Boo’. We acquit you of the charges. Be careful in the future.’"

The Progressive Writers Movement received a setback when some of its members were linked to the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case in 1951. Many others had to go underground to avoid arrest. The government went about crushing the movement in West and East Pakistan, using the Safety Act as a tool. The situation called for an urgent stock-taking and this was precisely the objective of the Progressive Writers’ meeting in Karachi in 1952. The attempt failed to revamp the movement, as the government went all out to suppress the movement. Finally, as organising meetings and other related work became impossible, Qasmi Saheb resigned from the general secretary-ship. "Later attempts made to revive the movement in Karachi and Lahore failed," Qasmi Saheb says.

He joined ‘Imroze’ as its editor in 1953 and remained there till the takeover of the Progressive Papers Limited by the Ayub government in 1959. "Qudratullah Shahab was my friend, but only he could have advised Ayub to seize control of PPI, as well as to establish the Writers’ Guild — which aimed at countering not only the Progressives but Halqae Arbabe Zauq as well. After the PPI takeover Shahab took me to Noorjahan’s Mausoleum in Shahdara and asked me to convince him why I wouldn’t continue with my job at Imroze. I told him I couldn’t stay when my colleagues Sibte Hasan (who edited ‘Imroze’s’ sister concern ‘Lail-o-Nahar’ and Mazhar Ali Khan (editor ‘The Pakistan Times’) were leaving. I resigned, leaving Zaheer Babar in charge of Imroze.

Qasmi Saheb remained out of a permanent job for the next 15 years, until he was appointed the director of Majlise Taraqqi Adab in 1974, when Haneef Ramay was the chief minister of Punjab. "I accepted it only after I was convinced that the Majlis was an autonomous organisation and it had nothing to with politics. Its brief was to print Urdu classics." he said.

He issued his own magazine ‘Funoon’ in 1962. For the last 32 years of his life, Qasmi Saheb oversaw the Majlis’s work, at the same time adding to his own contribution as a leading poet and short story writer. He planned to come out with his poetry for children and promised a collection in Punjabi as well.

The fellowship of dust
Rural themes pervade Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi’s work to a remarkable extent
By Abrar Ahmad

Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi is now an integral part of our memories, and will remain so till the time we ourselves are reduced to memories. I vividly remember listening to his husky, unique voice on the radio, as my father listened to the weekly musharia. I saw him for the first time during my school days, in a local college mushaira. In those days, newspapers devoted a good number of pages to literature. Qasmi was then perhaps in charge of the literary supplement of ‘Imroz’. I remember an impressive critical writeup of his analysing a poem

by Ahmad Faraz. That was the day I began to recognise Ahmad Faraz as a poet of substance and stature.

It was also a time when our singers took seriously to ghazal gaiki. Ghazals were enjoyed by the youth of that time in the way the youth of today enjoys pop music. It was Ghulam Ali who sang a beautiful ghazal of Qasmi’s, which moved me to get hold of ‘Rim Jhim’, a collection of his poems.

Around five years back, a friend of mine came to me and told me that Qasmi was suffering from persistent cough and breathlessness. I examined him the next morning and was astonished to learn that he was on homeopathic medication while suffering from left heart failure. It took me some time to convince him to immediately consult a cardiologist. From his office I called my physician/poet friend Dr. Mahmood Nasser Malik and he took charge of Qasmi’s health, which soon improved.

Ahmed Nadim Qasmi was born in Anga, District Khushab, a quiet area, deprived and far away from any big city of the province. His father was a sufi, totally indifferent to worldly gains, absorbed in himself. Qasmi lost his father when he was only eight years old. His mother, who suffered immensely but succeeded in providing her children the security and early education they needed, became the centre of his little universe.

Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi was, in his heart and soul, a villager. This was evident in his everyday behaviour, but more so in his creative pursuits. Many of his short stories convey different shades of village life. The only comparable name which comes to mind is Prem Chand’s. His background infused in him a consistent longing for village life and its beauties. Surprisingly, this element, while it dominates his short stories, seldom appears in his poetry. The sedate way of life, the close-knit families, the purity of love and hatred and the morality dominating isolated rural communities, are all splendidly depicted in his stories.

In ‘Thal’, a unique short story portraying a reluctant and superstitious attitude towards progress, he describes with artistic command the suspicions of the simple villagers as they witness the laying down of the railway. In ‘Gundasa’ he unfolds the power of love to reduce an otherwise exceptionally brave man to a helpless slave of his emotion. It’s beyond the scope of this article to mention the details of countless such stories of his, in which the reader is transported to his green fields, quiet village streets and mud houses where life displays itself in all its beauty and simplicity. Outstanding short stories written by him include ‘Permaisher Singh’, ‘Lawerence of Thalliya’, ‘Sannate’, ‘Sawah’, ‘Ghar say ghar tak’ and many others. Of course, rural settings are not his only topic; still it may be safely concluded that his work represents this area of life most successfully.

Whenever a member of an older generation departs, I have the feeling that there existed a wall between us, the younger ones, and death, which has crumbled, and it is now our turn to gradually travel towards the eternal silence. In Lawrence Binyon’s words:

They shall grow not old and
we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn:
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We will remember them.