This translation of an abridged version of author and poet Sardar Jafri’s essay by Arif Ansari was one of the two winners of the Jawed Memorial Prize 2025. Jafri article was part of a collection titled Lucknow ki Panch Ratein (‘Five Nights of Lucknow’). The judges said the translation “stands out among other entries for its lucid and smooth prose and its fidelity to the source text”.I find human hands very beautiful. There is melody in their movement and poetry in their silence. The river of creation flows from its fingers. These are those angels that take the revelations and inspirations of the highest heaven of the mind and heart and descend on the humble surface of the paper to leave their immortal impressions on it. The world appreciates these papers as poetry and tales, and articles and books, and achieves spiritual satisfaction through them.In the continuity of mankind there is a biological process that takes the form of a man and a woman begetting a child, but the continuity of humanity is dependent on the creativity of the hands. (…) That is why I have always thought of the pen as the sanctity of the hands, greatness of the mind, and the vastness of the human heart and I have prostrated before every impression that the pen has made. That is why when the pen lies or cheats, I feel that my hands have become dirty. I expect every writer to hold his pen in high esteem because its respect and honor can be maintained in this way alone.In my childhood I used to write on a wooden tablet, on which I have practiced writing this couplet hundreds of times if not thousands.The pen says, “I am the king of the world”By the power of the pen alone, I become the master of this kingdom.It is possible that for some, this wealth (that the pen produces) transforms to gold and silver, since, like those who sell their conscience, there has never been a dearth of those who sell their pen. But for me this is a wealth of knowledge, skills, sincerity, and truth, and esteem for the pen implies esteem for this wealth. And it is this feeling of esteem that is repeatedly stopping my pen.Arif Ansari, the translator of this essay and winner of the 2025 Jawed Memorial Prize.Will my pen be able to convey the truth? Truth is not a flat-out reality. It is a diamond that is constantly being shaped and the fire of life and action is creating a new brightness in it and giving it new colors. This does not mean that truth changes; it actually keeps evolving. Like good poetry and great art, truth is layered. That is why a single human, a single nation, a single race cannot corral it and no single ideology has been able to dominate it. Incompleteness has been its hallmark and there is intense beauty in this incompleteness.Even more difficult is to present that truth which is related to one’s self. A human being does not tell the world as many lies as he tells his own heart, and to give these lies a semblance of truth, he sometimes uses trickery and sometimes deception. In order to lie to the world, you must first lie to your own heart. That is why I am even more afraid to answer the question whether personalities and events have influenced my life.The impressions of bygone memories change with time. One impression merges into another and images get distorted. From the fiery field of interpretations, the cool and soothing shade of dreams is not visible. And we often create new dreams and put them in the category of old dreams. The wrinkles of thousands of days and thousands of nights have been placed on the forty-four years of life and each wrinkle holds hundreds of thousands of moments. Who has the courage to awaken them? The withered flowers of boisterous laughter, the frozen pearls of tears, the broken bows of honor, the flameless candles of the countenance, the torn pages of books, knowledge, consciousness, jealousy, envy, love, hatred, stupidity, arrogance – they all have their arms around each other. Today it is difficult to say who taught us what and what has influenced us. It is difficult to draw a line between conscious and subconscious influences.Ruins are filling my memories.Ruins sometimes reveal a lost grandeur and sometimes tell a story of decadence without any grandeur. It is not necessary for every ruin to be ancient. Such ruins can be found whose every brick is intact, whose every door opens, and whose walls are standing. But still, looking at the building gives you the feeling that it is a ruin. There is a wordless story written on its walls. Doors without tongues are telling a story. And the winds around it are blowing in the rain of decay. The ruins that I am referring to are like this. They create a sense of desolation in the heart as soon as you look at them.A thousand or a thousand and a half miles north of Bombay is the edge of the Himalayan foothills from where the snow-capped mountains are visible. Balrampur is a small town there with a population of fifteen or twenty thousand and is the capital of a taluqdari. The taluqdari is known as riyasat and the taluqdar is known as maharaja.(…)In all this apparatus that I have mentioned, nothing belonged to us except our small house. Everything belonged to the riyasat, which had been given to my father and paternal uncle to run in connection with their employment. My uncle was in a senior position and my father in a lower position, but the entire family had a commanding authority. My uncle was known as Syed Sahib and my father was famously known as Badey Bhaiyya. My mother was called Badee Bahu by the entire town.(…)This was a very honest, bound by religion, abstinent, and virtuous household. That is why at a young age I was admitted to Sultanul Madaris in Lucknow so that I would become a maulvi and the prospects of the family would improve for the Day of Judgement. But the free-spirited temperament deprived me of this good fortune and I ran away from Lucknow three times. My father and my uncle never took any bribe and despite the reputation for wealth they led a life of patience and contentment. All my mother’s jewelry was sold but nobody had even a clue that there was bankruptcy in the home. They used to carry out their employment very earnestly and at every opportunity proved their fidelity to their employers. They usually wore black caps which were called Iranian caps for some reason. But on the occasion of Dussehra, which was celebrated with great fanfare in the riyasat, they would tie a colorful turban, sit on an elephant, and go in a procession to give offerings to the Maharaj and Maharani. Eid, baqreid, 13th of Rajab, and Eid-e-Ghadeer were celebrated with much splendor. On Diwali, besides the work for the riyasat, they would organize the festivities in the villages that were leased to us for the expenses of our family. All year round they would pray and fast during Ramzan. In the month of Sha’ban, they would celebrate the birthday of the 12th Imam and would go to submit an ‘ariza. They would observe Muharram with much passion and zeal. Shortly before his death, when my father was unable to get out of bed, his cot would be placed in the ‘azakhana, the congregation hall for the mourning of Muharram, and he would lie there listening to the proceedings of the majlis, the mourning assembly in memory of the Karbala martyrs.(…)Majlisen and gatherings were held in the other months of the year as well, thanks to which I had heard all the famous Zakirs of that time and kissed the hands of all the renowned scholars and religious authorities. Maulana Sibte Hasan’s speeches were boundless; his eloquence and fluency of speech would make waves with the audience and his gestures and the sharpness of his movements would torment them. I have seen the Dulha Sahib in a state where he was sitting almost doubled over at the foot of the pulpit, two men helped him to sit up, and once he took the marsiya in his hand, straightened himself up, and started to read, he was a different being altogether.The names of men are written on the blades of swords(…)Perhaps it was the influence of this that I myself started writing marsiye at the age of fifteen or sixteen and the influence of marsiye remains on my poetry even today. The language, similes, metaphors, arrangements, everything about these marsiye was Anis’, none of it was my own. I would write sixty or seventy stanzas but the marsiya would not end. Otherwise, some of these stanzas were sufficient to read in a majlis.Who comes carrying a candle to lead in God’s wayCarrying forward an army of righteousness with him– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –My God! The beauty of Fatima’s moon-like faceThe sunlight goes hiding behind the grains of sandAnd when I read this from the pulpit, my father and uncle embraced me heartily and my mother put her hand on my head and recited prayers of blessing. My uncle would read the last two verses of the marsiya and weep.I will let Akbar sleep in my field of sorrowI will rock Asghar in my lap like a swingMy confidence got a lot of boost from this success and within the next fifteen or twenty days I wrote another marsiya. It began like this.Ibn-e Fatih-i-Khaybar comes in all his gloryHubhub in the east and west, north and southA stir in the valleys, plains, and mountainsEven the sun has fled from on high to its declineThe ground turns on its side in pain and sufferingEarth shakes with the beat of the horse’s gallopI still remember that I got a lot of praise for the cadence of the last verse but I also heard some people saying that I get someone else to write them and then I recite them as my own. I felt so offended at this that I began a new marsiya with these verses.O nightingale, you toil at your song and sing with melodyO new bride with the youthful temperament, you embraceO passionate pen, you speak so beautifully with such flourish|O jealous one, ravaged with envy, you should be ashamed there Is it my sin to be an ignoramus in an august companyThis is the gift of mercy of the Forgiving LordIn this I had also written:I am a gleaner, a collector of benefaction from Anis’ gardenThen I wrote another marsiya from which I remember only these two verses.The sparkle of the dewdrops started to reach the empyreanWhen the cold breeze blew, the stars began to fall asleepThese marsiye have been preserved in Balrampur till now and are read in the majlisen of Muharram.In the caravan of Karbala, the most veneration I had after Imam Hussain was for Hazrat Abbas and Hazrat Zainab, peace be upon them. And Anis’ marsiye had put a splendor to this veneration.My father had a big collection of religious books. (…) From the fables of Nimrod and Khalil to the events related to the martyrdom of Hussain had created a fervor within me and I would recite these couplets of Iqbal with much undulation and passion in my voice.That imam of lovers of the Lord, that son of Batul [Fatima]That liberated cypress tree from the garden of the MessengerWhose father led the sacrificial feastThat he might give a mighty offeringLike the grains of desert sands Hussain’s enemies were countlessWhile the number of his friends equaled God’s name [Yazdan]From Hussain we learned the secrets of the QuranAnd at his flame kindled our torches of freedomFrom the womb of life these conflicting potencies, these opposing forces were bornLike Moses and Pharoah, like Shabbir [Hussain] and YazidBut the truth survives only with the strength of ShabbirIn the end falsehood is destined to perish with the final anguish of regretful deathVanished now from ken, Damascus’ might and the splendor of BaghdadGranada’s majesty, all lost to the mindYet still the strings he smote within our soulVibrate, still ever new our faith abidesIn those days, a few questions made me restless and a few questions created a very big rebellion in my life. The question of why this world is and where it comes from never bothered me, but the question of why this world is the way it is has always bothered me. My mind started asking this question as early as my childhood days.I have seen the worst instances of Asian poverty. First in the village of the riyasat and then in my hometown, I was extremely fond of hunting and horse riding. With a gun slung on my back, I would ride around from village to village and from jungle to jungle. I would stay in the towns and sub-divisions of the riyasat. In this way I became acquainted with the rural life of Awadh. It is a land of beautiful songs, fields of paddy and wheat, and abject poverty. It doesn’t have as many trails as the blood streams that have been absorbed into its body. Its most gruesome pictures are preserved in my memory. Beneath the scorching summer sun, stooped farmers with bricks laden on their backs are being kicked viciously. And they are pleading for mercy. Women hanging from branches of trees by their hair. Children with rickety legs and protruding stomachs. Big black eyes but they seem extinguished with a vacant stare. Once a peasant woman was stripped naked in front of me. These and innumerable other images are such that if a painter would paint them on a canvas, the world would cry out. Going to these villages, I realized for the first time that millions of people eat only once in twenty-four hours.Like the other taluqdaris of Awadh, Balrampur also had a practice of harvahi.In our village itself, there were many harvah, both men and women. They did not have their own land or homes. They would work in the fields of the landlords and the leaseholders and after the harvest, they would be paid for their labor in the form of coarse grains which was not sufficient to feed them. They were compelled to take loans which neither they themselves could repay in their lifetimes nor could their future generations. And so, generations after generations became bonded labor in the fields of the landlords and the leaseholders. They were a kind of semi-slaves. The landlord had full right over their life, their possessions, their honor, and their dignity. Among all of God’s creation, I have never seen people in a more wretched condition than them. I came to know much later that to escape this scourge of harvahi, these people would run away to cities such as Bombay and Calcutta, because it was impossible for them to find refuge in any district or village of Awadh. Like the slaves of the ancient times, they were the property of their masters, and other masters would force them to return to their masters.Once a female harvah came to our home to sift grains. She would sift rice and every once in a while, she would put a fistful of rice in her mouth. Suddenly, my brother-in-law noticed it and scoldingly asked her what was in her mouth. The harvah panicked and quickly started to chew the raw rice. My brother-in-law jumped up and punched her in the mouth. The harvah spit the rice out with a mouthful of blood. The poor thing hadn’t had anything to eat for many days.Poverty makes for some mirthful images as well but in reality it is very painful. I remember my school masters in the same way. Among them was one Munshi Badri Pershad, a short old man. He wore a dhoti and an old dirty coat. A dirty and greasy black felt cap on top of machine-cut close-cropped hair would droop down on his small and narrow forehead. He had a short neck, raised shoulders, and a slight stoop when he walked. He used to teach mathematics from the third grade to the sixth grade. He used to repeatedly clear his throat while teaching. Munshiji would put on his reading glasses with a frame that was falling apart, stand up to take attendance and then start teaching. He would ask questions as he taught and those boys who did not give the correct answer would get into trouble. After caning the boy three or four times, Munshiji would clear his throat, would declare the student to have a weak mind, and would suggest that he put oil in his scalp to illuminate the mind, sharpen the memory, and not have difficulty understanding mathematics. As he expounded that idea, he would take out a bottle of hair oil from his pocket and sell it to the student. I don’t know whether he made that hair oil himself or bought it from somewhere. Once I too bought his hair oil and put it in my scalp with the same confidence that every drop of it would illuminate my mind as the understanding that kerosene makes the lantern light up. But in the morning, the only thing I heard regarding the illumination of my mind was my mother remarking, “Where is the smell of a dead mole coming from?”Today, when I think of Munshi Badri Pershad, I feel nothing but extreme affection for him, even though in childhood, after being on the receiving end of his cane, I too, like other boys, have hid behind a tree and called him names. But Munshiji never looked back or paid any attention to the boys who were calling him names. He would come with his neck stooped and leave with his neck stooped. I never went to his home nor do I know anything about the failures and regrets of his life. Perhaps he would have swallowed all his desires a long time ago. And he must have sold that hair oil only because his meager salary was insufficient for him and his lentils were devoid of any ghee. If I were to meet Munshi Badri Pershad now, I would touch his feet and ask for forgiveness for all my indiscretions, of which he was probably unaware, and would be willing to be caned by him all his life and not make a sound in order to buy the bottles of hair oil from him.Then there was one Mir Baq Chun-Chun, whose arms and legs had been rendered limp by palsy. People used to tease him with the nickname Chavanni Chapat. Once his face was blackened, he was made to ride a donkey, and a fake wedding was held in which he was married to an old sweeper woman. And all this only because he was helpless and handicapped. There are dozens of other characters like him, all of them of damaged and defective bodies and owners of sad hearts.I would think, where have these God’s creations come from and why are these atrocities being committed. Why wasn’t there any outcry against it? My family was content in its belief that it was all the Almighty’s doing. The rich and the poor have always existed, atrocity and tyranny have always existed.It was during this time that I first learned that there is no concept of land ownership in Islam, and it was the first time I looked at my father and uncle questioningly. It was the first time I realized that there was a high wall between societal life and the life of personal faith. The questions that were bothering me did not bother others. I tried to reconcile these things with the help of the Quran and Hadis. “Eat and drink from the sustenance given by God and don’t cause any mischief or unrest over land.” From this I concluded that the gentlemen who caused mischief and unrest over land were those who were in authority and in whose employment were my father and uncle, who had no idea how downtrodden and subjugated they were. But the common perception was that it was the farmers who caused mischief and unrest over land. If they didn’t refuse to toil over the land, with or without adequate compensation, paid the land revenue, wore ordinary coarse garments, ate less than they needed to satiate their hunger, and thanked the Almighty for it all, there would be no trouble.I don’t remember the year, but once it so happened that the farmers of the village rebelled. In retaliation, the army of the riyasat set fire to the village and dishonored the peasant women. This caused a furor, it was reported in the newspapers, and representing the Congress party, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru came to investigate the matter. The administration of the riyasat prevented him from reaching the village. Pot holes were dug up in many places along the unpaved road so that Pandit Nehru’s car wouldn’t reach there.Perhaps it was the day of Eid-e-Ghadeer or there was a gathering at our home for some other reason. Instead of reading a qasida in that gathering, I went to the public meeting where Pandit Nehru condemned the atrocity and tyranny of feudalism. After attending this meeting, when I returned home, everyone was angry with me and I was angry with the entire universe. The first understanding of the societal reasons for the disgusting oppression and poverty had lit a flame in my heart.It was at that time that I read two incredibly important books that turned my life upside down. One was Mahatma Gandhi’s “The Story of My Experiments with Truth,” and the other was Plutarch’s “Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans.” (…)But instead of answering my questions, these books lit more fires in my heart. Who could have doused these fires? Neither was anyone there at home to answer my questions nor at school. There were no books, magazines, or newspapers either. My father and uncle loved me very much and that is why they considered my questions to be lunacy. Their affection could not douse the fire in my heart. An incident fueled this fire. In another village there was a rebellion and the farmers killed the Tehsildar, the tax collector of the sub-division. My brother-in-law, who was the zaildar, the sub-collector, barely escaped with his life. Everybody’s sympathies were with my brother-in-law and the Tehsildar who was killed. My sympathies were with the farmers.Now I started hating everything that had the slightest odor of aristocracy. My reaction was purely emotional and the intellect could not find a way to organize these emotions. In this state of mind, I wrote a poem that the Almighty is neither in the chambers of Granada and Baghdad nor in the palaces of the rich. The Almighty is in the bread, in the patched up chadar of the poor, and in the sword of Hussain Ibn Ali that shines in Karbala. Now I don’t remember a single verse of this poem. I read it in many majlisen and people appreciated it too. No one understood this poem but there was an acquaintance of my father and uncle, Iltija Hussain Sahib, a government employee working as a Tehsildar, whose ears perked up. He loved me very much and he praised this poem. And then he asked me, “Do you believe in God?” He wanted to lead me in the direction that the rich and the poor have all been created by God. But the conversation got to the point where I said, “I believe in God because I believe in His Messenger.” Frowns appeared on the forehead of the elders and they glared at me. But I had become insolent in front of them and even said to them, “You don’t have any proof that God exists. But I do, and it is that the Messenger said that there is God.” I said this much, got up and left, and read Iqbal’s Baang-e-Dara (The Call of the Marching Bell) for a long time.Your existence has been there since eternity without any beginningNeither the flower adorned the garden nor had the fragrance dispersedThe precondition is justice, O sir, kindness for allHow could the scent of rose have spread if there wasn’t a gentle breezeFor the sake of the peace of mind of the people we had this anxietyOr else Your followers were madly in love with your belovedI grinned from ear to ear with glee at the thought that I had just used Iqbal’s argument in front of my elders.Now I had earned a little respect in the family and people would smile furtively at the mention of my name.I stopped eating delicacies or fancy meals and had almost given up playing tennis or hunting. I spent most of my time reading books. But there were few useful books. My favorite book was Baang-e-Dara which I had memorized. It was during that time that I found some old copies of the magazine Nigar, perhaps some editions from 1924. In them, probably in some writings of Niaz Fatehpuri, for the first time I found a mention of the Russian Revolution. I combined the guidance of Iqbal with it and started to build a new world of my dreams.(…)It was perhaps around 1930 that I decided to leave Balrampur. It was by chance that I heard the news that Indians were now being accepted for Royal Navy training. Some wanderlust combined with a desire to leave Balrampur made me ask my father for permission to join the Royal Navy. Permission was granted and I toiled for months preparing for the entrance exam. Then I went to Lucknow to take the exam and was successful. The call came from Bombay. I was immensely happy and started preparing for the journey. And then one day there was an incident which shattered all my dreams.(…) But when, in 1946, the sailors of the Royal Indian Navy rebelled, my heart ached at the thought that I could not be a part of this rebellion. You can call it a kind of romanticism, but it is this romanticism that injects fervor in life.Now, once again, it was the well called Balrampur and me. There seemed to be no way out. Confusion of the mind was increasing and I was helpless. And I was writhing inside with anger.In this state of mind, I reached Aligarh in 1933. (…)This period is as important in the history of India as it is in the history of Urdu literature and the history of Aligarh. The Aligarh Movement had changed the course of Urdu in the nineteenth century. The credit for the reform of the ghazal genre of Urdu poetry in the early twentieth century also goes to a worthy son of Aligarh, Maulana Hasrat Mohani. In the second decade of the twentieth century, Aligarh played a significant role in the romantic movement of Urdu poetry. And in the third decade, when the progressive movement gave Urdu literature a new direction, then too Aligarh was not behind.(…)The questions that lay dormant in my mind started to awaken again. One day, by sheer coincidence, an incident put me on a new path. I was fond of making speeches and so was my friend Farhatullah Ansari. Since his speeches were in English, it was the era of the height of fascism in Europe, and the waves of the independence movement in India were rising high, like the speeches of Ahmad Abbas, his speeches too had an abundance of political words. One day I heard the word ‘bourgeois’ from Farhat’s mouth and I asked him for its meaning. Instead of answering me, he started to laugh. Once again, I ran to the library. This time when I returned, I had Lenin’s biography under my arm. I do not remember at all who its author was, all I remember is that the doors that opened slightly in reading Gandhi’s book and listening to Nehru’s speeches, and would then close, were now completely open. And I had found a way to bring down the peasant women hanging from the trees and restore their dignity. I am thankful to Farhat that one laugh of his restored the smile on the lips of so many.(…) The same night, I met Majaz at the Students’ Union mushaira. Both his composition and the melodic rendering were magical. The poem was Inquilab (‘Revolution’) and in its every verse I could feel my heartbeat. From that day on we became friends. For twenty-two years, this friendship remained as selfless and as beautiful as it was on the first day.In this mushaira, I had read my poem Samaj (‘Society’) which ended with these couplets.How long will life be trapped in entanglements of desiresHow long will toys be handed out to take the minds off povertyA new spring is about to swell forth from fissures in the rockHow eager is time to turn over on its sideWhen I came out after the mushaira ended, a student with extremely intelligent eyes and an emaciated face took me to his hostel room, only saying, “I am a revolutionary.” A huge portrait of Victor Hugo hung in his room and on the table was a photograph of him with friends with a quote from Gorky on the back. This was Saadat Hasan Manto. He gave me articles on Bhagat Singh to read. And he introduced me to Victor Hugo and Gorky. (…)