‘I have a natural attachment to Urdu’: Punjabi poet Kanwar Mohinder Singh Bedi writes in his memoir

Immediately after Partition, Urdu came under attack. Religious and provincial prejudice regarded it merely as the language of Muslims. Hindi, in fact, was being forcibly imposed. Hindi was recognised as our national language, and in due course, it might naturally have become the language of the people. But the well-wishers of Hindi wanted it to prevail everywhere overnight.

A strong reaction to this was only natural. Thus, in the South – especially in Madras – demonstrations broke out against Hindi, which turned into a prolonged agitation, the effects of which can be seen even to this day.

In these circumstances, Urdu newspapers and journals gave up the ghost. Delegations were sent to various political authorities regarding Urdu, resolutions were passed and efforts made to secure its rightful place. Leading politicians and ministers attended mushairas and, in their inaugural or presidential addresses, praised Urdu and spoke warmly in its favour. Even Pandit Nehru and Indira Gandhi lauded it. The president of India, Giani Zail Singh, too, spoke at length in support of Urdu. Yet Urdu could not be granted the status of a regional language.

Still, the campaign continued. It was Bihar that took the lead, becoming the first state to recognize Urdu as a second language. Uttar Pradesh also passed an ordinance to this effect, but it has yet to be implemented.

Even so, the relentless struggle did have its effect: in almost all the states of India, Urdu Academies were established, and they were granted substantial funds so that they might provide stipends to writers, poets, journalists and promising students.

Some of the academies – particularly the Delhi Urdu Academy, of which I am proud to have served as chairman of the Programme Committee – undertook truly constructive work. From the very beginning, the Delhi Urdu Academy has been actively engaged in preserving the Urdu language and literature, and fostering its growth as part of Delhi’s shared linguistic and cultural heritage. It has consistently worked to publish and encourage high-quality literary works in Urdu, as well as books for children.

Mushairas too have played a prominent role in endearing Urdu to the people. I have observed that even in places where the number of Urdu speakers is small, mushairas are recorded and enjoyed for long afterwards. Singers of ghazals have also done excellent work in popularising Urdu. As vice president of the Taraqqi-e-Urdu Board, Government of India, I can attest that applications reach the Board even from places where very few people know Urdu.

These requests often say: “Teach us Urdu, so that we may listen to, understand and fully appreciate the ghazals of Mehdi Hassan, Ghulam Ali, Chitra Singh, Jagjit Singh, Talat Aziz, Talat Mahmood, Akhtari Bai Faizabadi and many others.”

My heart has ached whenever the language has been neglected, treated with indifference, or subjected to prejudice. Yet Urdu seems to have been born drinking from the Fountain of Immortality. Hundreds of storms have passed over it, thousands of tempests have risen against it, but its flame has never been extinguished. On the contrary, it has only shone more brightly, continuing to enlighten the people. Today, I can say with some confidence that the sense of despair we felt 25 years ago is no longer as acute. The government, too, has now come to realise that Urdu is not merely a good language, but a truly great one, and that it must be kept alive.

I do not boast of my poetry. But I do take pride in the fact that God Almighty granted me both the opportunity and the ability to serve the Urdu language.

My mother tongue is Punjabi, and in college I earned a distinction in English. But I have always felt a natural attachment to Urdu. I have spoken of how my affection for my Urdu teacher at the Government Primary School in Sahiwal drew me towards the language itself. When I came from Sahiwal to Chiefs’ College in Lahore, I found still more caring and supportive teachers. Among them were Maulvi Karamatullah and the headmaster, Syed Jalaluddin Haider, who was also a poet. Among the students, too, were many who shared a passion for poetry – Nawab Iftikhar Ali Khan Pataudi, the late Diwan Keshav Das Akil, the late Mian Iftikharuddin of Baghbanpura, and myself.

Syed Jalaluddin Haider would every week, or sometimes every ten days, give us a line as a misra-e-tarah, or an opening line, and all of us would test our poetic skills against it. Those who composed a worthy ghazal were rewarded with a silk handkerchief, a fountain pen or a necktie. I remember well the first couplet I composed on one of his given lines:

Zara hoshiyār rahna dekhna dhokha na kha jāna
HasinoN ne chhupaya āstīN meiN mār hota hai

Be a little cautious – take care; do not be deceived, f
or beauties often conceal a viper in their sleeves.

During my years at Chiefs’ College, my poetry remained confined to the college. In 1925, I entered Government College, Lahore. There, too, I enjoyed the company of like-minded companions such as Diwan Keshav Das Akil, Rafiq Badr and Kamal Ahmad Talib. Yet even then, poetry held only a passing claim upon my attention.

After completing my Bachelor of Arts in 1929, I returned to my zamindari for four years, absorbed in physical exercise, kabaddi, wrestling, horse-riding and other sports. Poetry again received little attention.

In 1934, I was nominated to the Civil Service by the Governor of Punjab and posted to Lyallpur that July. At the start of service, there was not much work. Unfortunately, however, in Lyallpur there were hardly any men with an interest in poetry. From Lyallpur I was transferred to Rohtak. There, for once, I found a few gentlemen who were interested in poetry and composed verses themselves.

It was in Delhi, truly, that I found at last an environment favourable to my poetic inclinations. By then I had spent some time in Delhi and had become acquainted with the city’s literary circles. A few self-styled guardians of literature, however, developed a gratuitous hostility towards me, though I had never offended, nor intended to offend, any poet, writer, critic or patron of letters.

One gentleman, known for plastering the city with posters, issued a broadside proclaiming that certain people were trying to use their government office to pass themselves off as poets. “This is Delhi,” the poster declared, “Gurmukhi poetry will not do here.” My name was not mentioned, but the target was plain.

At the same time, Sardar Diwan Singh Maftoon began a similar campaign in his newspaper Riyasat. Soon he was openly attacking me. In his support, Suroor Taunsvi too endorsed the charges in Shan-e-Hind. Since I was in government service, I could issue no public statement. But I should explain now why Diwan Singh turned against me.

For years, he had been writing against Sir Shankarlal, the owner of Delhi Cloth Mills, with whom I enjoyed a close friendship. One day, a journalist brought me a message from Diwan Singh, saying his financial condition was poor, and would I please speak to Sir Shankarlal and arrange some help? I replied: “Diwan Singh Sahib has been writing against him for so long. How can I now ask him to help? Yes, if Diwan Singh stops writing against him, then after some time I can recommend him to Sir Shankarlal. But in the present circumstances, I cannot.”

The result was that Diwan Singh turned his pen against me. And since Suroor Taunsvi was his disciple, he too joined him. Their only accusation was that I did not compose poetry myself, but, being a government officer, used my authority to have others write verses for me which I then claimed as my own. Such charges have been levelled against poets throughout history. Even Shakespeare, regarded as the greatest poet in the world, has not escaped this accusation. To this day, debate continues as to whether Shakespeare wrote his works himself or had them written for him.

I cannot say for English poetry, but in Urdu poetry, we are fortunate to have a test to prove such a charge true or false. It is not difficult to know who composes his own verses and who has them composed by others. Hold a fil-badiha mushaira, a gathering for extempore verse, and the truth is revealed at once.

So when this propaganda grew too loud, I held a gathering at my bungalow on Boulevard Road, Tees Hazari, and invited all the poets, writers, critics and journalists of Delhi. About two hundred gentlemen attended. After they had been served tea and refreshments, I gave a short speech, explained my position and suggested that a line be proposed and everyone present compose an extempore verse on it.

Khwaja Shafi supported the idea, as did Maulana Mahir Qadri, Sabir Dehlvi, Naqsh Jarchavi and Shakeel Badayuni. A line was proposed, and it was agreed that verses be composed on it. The moment this was decided, about a hundred and fifty gentlemen suddenly remembered urgent errands – “I’ll just be back”, “I must fetch a paan”, “I must stretch my legs” – and they vanished. Those who remained recited their verses, as did I.

I continued this series of fil-badiha mushairas for two years. In the end, my critics had to concede that I did, in fact, compose my own poetry.

But now they began to say that writing poetry was no great achievement, all while asserting that Delhi’s idiom was beyond the reach of Punjabis. In response, for two to three years, I composed ghazals on the ghazals of great masters such as Daagh, Bekhud Dehlvi, Nawab Saail and Nuh Narvi. By God’s grace, I emerged with honour from these trials, and the matter ended.

What gave me greater happiness was that one day, Sardar Diwan Singh Maftoon, accompanied by Josh Sahib, came to me and extended his hand in friendship. Suroor Taunsvi too became my friend and supporter. It is a sorrow that Sardar Diwan Singh is no longer with us. For as long as he lived, he remained among my dearest companions. He was as fine an adversary as he was a friend.

An excerpt from A Celebration of Memories, Kanwar Mohinder Singh Bedi ‘Sahar’, translated from the Urdu by Kamna Prasad, Speaking Tiger Books.