The Matchless City: In Praise of Lucknow

The Matchless City (In Praise of Lucknow)

The charming chronicler's account of the matchless city: of the perfect masters of learning and art, of those who know the secrets of speech, and a record, for remembrance, of its craftsmen and shopkeepers.

This cotton-mouthed know-nothing, the writer of this tale, the imitator of those gone before, faulty from head to foot, Mirza Rajab Ali, whose pen name is Suroor, is a native of the matchless, heart-pleasing land, the envy of the garden of Paradise, the dwelling of houris and heavenly youths: a place that breeds men, whose people are clever, understanding and sharp of mind. If anyone looks at this city with the eye of fairness and a careful gaze, he will have no longing left to see the world, and each time he will say, a verse:

"The land where, I hear, even Rizwan comes to glean, (Rizwan, the keeper of Paradise)

that, without doubt, is the soil of Lucknow."

Glory and praise be to God! What a wonderful city of gardens! Every lane is delightful; every street is a garden in spring. Every man is well turned out in his own fashion. And the bazaar with shops on both sides, what style it has! In every shop is stock for coquetry and courtship. Though the goods and gear of the whole world are to be had in every quarter, yet from the Akbari Gate to the Jilau Khana and the Pakka Pul, which is the straight path itself, what a gathering it is! The bakers are skilled: sheermal, kababs, naan, nihari, indeed every dainty in the world, of such quality that the heart gains strength from its smell and the brain is perfumed. If an angel passed by he would sniff, grow drunk and nod off. However full you are, it takes no time at all: hunger comes from the mere sight. That seasoning of the nihari with reddened onions, that tuneful sizzle! The sheermal the colour of vermilion, crisp and crumbling: eat it once and you know the taste of the blessed bread, and spend the rest of your life licking your lips.

Kababs of such lustre that the hearts of the birds of the air and the fishes of the river are always roasting on the skewer of sighs from the longing of going without. The shredded ginger from Mian Khairullah's shop, cut finer than a hair, an aid to digestion, not to be found elsewhere. Husaini's sohan halwa has a wonderful bloom; at talk of its sweetness lips are sealed; the world loves it. The papri is delicious, thick, perfumed, flecked with pistachio and almond: chew it with the lips, and the teeth will hanker after it all their lives without ever getting a bite. The jauzi is good; the habshi is the favourite of the people of Hindustan; the milky sheer-khurma a babe at the breast could drink up.

Every greengrocer-woman has such a sharp glance that a man stands looking at her face, unable to speak for the awe of her beauty. The sugar-sellers are fairy-born, cypress-tall, the envy of the box tree. In the shops fruits of every kind are neatly arranged. Their everyday sayings you have never seen or heard. Now one cries out, bursting into laughter for no reason, "I've made the heap a ha'penny! You eaters, what a taste!" Another of ready wit throws out an apt phrase, showing the glint of her youth: "The taste of grapes in the oranges!" From one side comes the cry, "Here's sugar-cane, the poonda kind!" On another side the betel-sellers, with red mouths, speak in hints and riddles, chewing their words in their banter and boasting all the while: "Maghai leaf, your face is black; Mahoba leaf, I've trampled you in the dust! What a fine bundle, just opened! No abir, no gulal, yet half a leaf and your face is red!" (abir and gulal, the coloured powders of Holi)

In the lanes at dawn comes the cry: "Sheermal, of ghee and milk! The poor man's heart is restless; it's a craving for the pennies' worth of chaat! Where are the buyers? Cones of namish, cups of kheer! How well roasted, how crisp: gram, parmal and puffed rice!" In the heat of Jeth and Baisakh, when the kite drops its egg, two cones of ice kulfi for two paise: eat them and your body shivers. Shout for more and you will die of palsy and paralysis.

At the head of the Chowk shoulder always rubs against shoulder; the breeze itself cannot find a straight path. Whoever has eaten the sweets of Shaikh Koli is sour on all the sweetness of the world; he forgets the khajla of Benares and laughs at the peda of Mathura. The fineness and fragrance of the barfi: its khoya has made men lose their senses. That grainy texture, that bloom of silver leaf: if the cook of any other city saw it, or its taste came to his lips, his life would turn bitter, and as long as he lived he would bite his own hands. Every coil of the endless imarti gives a twist to the palate and is an answer to the cordial of rubies; put it in your mouth and, in truth, it is the pure honey of the river of Paradise going down the throat. The dates of the lane of the Parachas: dripping with pleasure, steeped in flavour, better than grapes, glossy beyond words, both a treat and a good deed.

When the cream of Nura's shop came into view, the heart grew clouded at the clearness of crystal; saying "Light upon light", without sugar or candy, thanking God, he cut it with a knife and ate it. Such madaria hookahs were invented, and the bowl-makers became such masters, that at the sound of their crackle the coiled hookah lost its breath; everyone liked them. A madaria worth a pice is not to be seen anywhere in the world, nor had for two rupees. Pathana's tobacco has the scent of musk and ambergris; whoever drew one puff swore by it ever after. The tobacco shop next to Agha Baqir's imambara is sought by the whole world. Its name is Muhammadi; people take it away as a blessed thing; it is on the lips of high and low.

The dyers are light of hand and quick of mind: whatever flower you showed them, they made it bloom on the cloth as fresh as life and matched the copy to the real thing.

Above all, for a man who loves a show, this city is a lathe; here is a master of every art. Hundreds of louts, clods, unhewn blocks, rakes only in their own conceit, come here from all around and in a week or ten days become dandies of fashion. They take a dip in the Gomti and wash off the stains of village ways; they become men. They go to Abu Turab Khan's market and have their beards trimmed by Mian Khairati at someone else's charity; the cheeks of twelve years of age take on a curve, though the neck gets a crick; for four watches they feel for the stubble and find not a trace. He erases what the scribe of nature has written, such a line does he draw.

At the gate of Sayyid Husain Khan's market is the shop of Abdullah the perfumer, the sitting place of every young man of fashion. For two paise, oil of jasmine, of chameli or henna, poured on freely, such a mischief-maker rubbed on that the attar of Suhag was put in the shade and one's heart went cold on Jaunpur. With attar-soaked cotton in his ear he goes and sits in some opium-dealer's shop. White china cups, beautiful, of rare colours. The Faizabad opium of the Lala of Gulab Bari, so rich that it has made the intoxication of Egyptian theriac taste gritty. A dazzle like crimson and saffron wine appears; the ruby swallows diamond for envy. To change the taste, trays of firni set with silver leaf; the almond's heart breaks in two and is ground fine at the flecks of pistachio. Or the soft, juicy Bombay poonda cane, steeped in candy and honey: a toothless man could chew it with his gums and a draught of syrup would slide down his throat. Here a sip was taken, or a round of bulbul's-tears went on and on, and roses bloomed in his eyes. Then after a moment he drew on the hookah, and the veil of shyness was lifted. He moved on from there and a voice came to his ear: "Jasmine garlands for the dashing dandy! Put one on and off to the Firangi fair!" When he was all decked out, he strutted, walking on his toes. He was puffed up and forgot the gait and ways and customs of his home. Many come from outside and, putting on this style, are content to have lost even what they had in the hope of becoming qazi of Jaunpur; they lose their savings and are ruined.

If it is the rainy season, the city is like this: here the rain falls, the water runs off from everywhere, and lane and street are left clean. In Sawan and Bhadon walk about in shoes of gold embroidery; there is an art to it, but not even dust will cling, let alone mud. The gardens bloom with the handiwork of the Lord; Rizwan himself longs for them; they are worth seeing. Every day a fair of sights in the Aish Bagh, at every hour a gathering of ease. The water of the Moti Jhil shows the lustre of the spring of life and sets thirsty hearts rolling. The air under the trees by the road, where the jidha and khajwa sway. Crowds of people in the wood of harsingar. Garments of every colour, glances back and forth, for which beds of tulips and narcissus are a sacrifice. The light step and graceful gait of the special lords: at every step the partridge forgets its walk and rubs its brow in homage; the cypress bough does not stand stiff before such box-tree statures. Lovers by the thousand thousand, a scene of candles and moths, crowd upon crowd together. Ripe mangoes dropping in the mango trees, and the royal swing hung there; hearts dropped upon those who swung. The swings of love flew higher, and those who watched called blessings. In the garden the cry of koel, papiha and peacock; over the swing the clouds massed thick and dark. The showers of Sawan and Bhadon, and those gay swingers!

When this gathering comes to mind in the wilderness of exile, the heart is shattered and the liver rises to the mouth. Not like the rains of Cawnpore, alas, alas! There, you cannot set foot outside the door without slipping. Step into the lane and a spatter of mud reaches your head. In that season you never see two people together unless they are stuck in the mire. And those who cannot afford a carriage, how can they go anywhere? For them the rains are a wrong: a lock-up, the house a prison; captives of the mud, no coming and going. If in a dream they go out somewhere, they start up thinking they have slipped. And as for the market people and men of business, this is what they look like: shoes in hand, trousers rolled up, smeared with mud, falling here, falling there, and by the grace of God getting home alive. And if out of vanity they will not go barefoot, then, a verse:

"This is the custom I have seen in this town:

the shoe is in the lane, the man at home."

Now back to the point. The royal bazaar, which is a wide and well-laid-out city, has made Mani and Bihzad jealous of its plan; never mind a portrait, they could not even sketch its outline; their hands trembled. The mansions Farah Bakhsh and Dilkusha, every tower a world-showing glass, Sultan Manzil and Istri Manjan, raisers of joy, breakers of vows: a man is struck dumb at the sight; their workmanship is beyond fancy and guess. The pavilion of twelve doors on the high road is studded with jewels. Beside it a canal runs like a fairy's face, a costly piece of work; whoever saw its garden below took it for the garden of Iram; even with a thousand tongues like the lily he could not praise it, and was like a dumb man who has had a dream.

The Rumi Darwaza is of such height and majesty, the passage of a whole world: climb it and the roof of heaven seems low, and the counsels of the angels reach your ear; the first sphere is its floor; there is no second like it in the six directions. The mosque is choice; the imambara is beyond compare. The lofty tombs are such rare buildings that the sky watches with its starry eyes and, in search of their equal, wanders lane to lane with the torches of moon and sun lit day and night; if one could find room in them to stretch out one's feet, one would want to die on the spot. The canal has the look of the Gomti, and the heart rolls like its waves; buildings and dwellings on both banks, here a game park, there a garden laid out; morning and evening such a spring that the evening of Awadh and the morning of Benares are sacrificed to it.

An elegant city, the gathering place of nobles; here a master of every art is to be had. The calligrapher Hafiz Ibrahim wrote a qit'a of such a cut that had Mir Ali or Agha been alive, they would have wept over their own writing and washed their sheets with tears of regret. If a practice-sheet of Mirzai Sahib met the eye, Nairezi would cry "Pour it out, pour it out!", and Yaqut, writer of jewels, would swallow diamonds. (Mir Ali, Agha, Nairezi and Yaqut, famous calligraphers of the past)

The reciter of marsiyas, Janab Mir Ali Sahib, invented so new a style of reciting marsiyas that the old sky acknowledged him as a master beyond dispute. In the science of music he attained such perfection, and sang and composed such dhrupad, khayal and tappa, as never entered the fancy of any nayak. He has drawn a coloured circle; whoever came into it flourished and became his follower, and whoever took a different way was counterfeit, off-colour. If Tansen had been alive he would have taken his ears in his hands at his name and begged for his bread rather than sing. Of his thousands of pupils, each became a master to the world; the Maulvi was the fairy-born among them all. Among the nobles, Husain Ali Khan is a nightingale of a thousand songs, sweet-voiced. The matchless writer of marsiyas, Mian Dilgir: pure of heart, good of conscience, kindly, eloquent, a humble man. I never saw him downcast by the troubles of the age. By God's grace a fine poet and a pleasing writer; with the fortune of Alexander in the shape of a beggar. He never bore the weight of a favour from the wealthy. In a short time he composed a great diwan of marsiyas and salams. He was the friend and companion of every noble in the city.

Every physician works the miracles of the Messiah and claims the power of "Rise, by My leave". Whoever you see is the Hippocrates, Socrates and Galen of the age; in this sense this land is the envy of the soil of Greece. Mirak Jan Sahib became so expert in the art of swimming that the people of land and sea are busy singing his praise. The poets and masters of language are such that they point out the mistakes of Urfi and Khaqani and make one forget Firdausi and Anvari. Shaikh Imam Bakhsh Nasikh took Hindi to pieces and made the everyday language so pure and eloquent that the speech of those before him was cancelled. The masters of eloquence of Shiraz and Isfahan, seeing the temper of this sword-tongue, acknowledged its steel; they were ashamed of their own faults and recognised the beauty of this language. He raised the ground of poetry to the sky and made hundreds into masters. From Khwaja Haidar Ali's fiery speech and scattering of sparks there is burning and melting in the breasts of the heart-scorched. A contented man, a distinguished poet. (Khwaja Haidar Ali Atish, rival of Nasikh)

What can I write of Firangi Mahal! Where has tongue or hand the strength to write even a jot? Maulvis and scholars without equal, every man a master of all the sciences, the textbooks known by heart from beginning to end. In the traditional and the rational sciences no fine point is left; with the exercise of mathematics they have made the sky into the earth. The world is lit by the radiance of Maulvi Anwar and the reflection of his bounty. Maulvi Mubin, far-seeing, the lamp of the gathering, an ocean of the sciences. Maulvi Sayyid Makhdum, gatherer of all learning. Maulvi Zahurullah, glory be to God! Where are such jurists and scholars to be found! These are the rarities of the age.

On the other side, the pillar of the faith, without dispute, Mir Sayyid Muhammad, the accepted mujtahid. Mirza Kazim Ali, the God-fearing. Akhund Muhammad Raza, seeker of God's good pleasure. A bearer of the Quran, knowing all, lacking in no science: on the face of the earth there is no reciter like Aqa Muhammad Tabrizi.

But as the saying goes, the good among the bad: this is the root of it. The beloved's lips beside the maulvis, that is, next door to them, moon-faced dolls, of fairy form and Venus brow, every woman a robber of faith, with the nature of Jupiter; cruel in coquetry, fierce in manner, magic in charm, a talisman in the wink, a calamity in their airs, a fury in their ways, a doom in their bodies, a miracle in their talk; so that not only Harut and Marut but, God forbid, if all the angels came down from the Throne to the dust of the earth, the wells of Lucknow would fill with them for love of these women. Sit knee to knee with them for an hour and the truest repentance breaks, and one cannot leave their door. The dancing-girl of the sky circles round them, a sacrifice. Every one of them, houri-like, is a calamity of the age; good-humoured, judges of men, their daily speech polished, their talk all hints and allusions. By the grace of this lane a man acquires manners; by the shaping and polishing of their company he becomes something quite different.

The kalawants and qawwals are without equal. Chhajju Khan and Ghulam Rasul have reached perfection in music. The fame of Shori's power and vigour is in the world; that he invented the tappa, everyone knows. Bakhshu and Salari played the tabla so that they put the pakhawaj to shame.

Kites have been made and flown here so that it is famous near and far. A string of seventy or seventy-five threads, a kite from the hand of Khairati or Chhanga, made for the tricks of the fight, the kind that makes even Rustam's peace uneasy; on a curved hand-and-foot Maulvi Amdu flew one and let it out so far on purpose that in that tangle the cherubim left off their worship and ran and ran to loot the string; slipping past unseen, he cut the line and did not spare Farishte Khan's kite. Mirza Nazar Ali brought such strength to hand and eye that he flew a kite of sixty threads, throwing away the spool. On six or seven seers of string he gave and drew, and no one could catch his bridle. Mardan Beg, who coated the string with glass, has never been equalled in sight or hearing.

In short, the things that were newly made and invented here, that craftsmen drew out of their minds, had never been from the ancients until today. Such gold embroidery was made, of such fineness, that if the Bandu of outside found a scrap of the aurgi trim he would wear it on his head instead of a plume or turban jewel. It is a thing of utmost wonder: plain aurgi of gold thread costing seventy or eighty rupees. And Babar Ali made the small-toed gheetla shoe with such style that the world liked it; whoever got one found comfort, his heart found ease. Dhaniya the palanquin-bearer's woman paid five ashrafis to have a pair made up.

For forty years I have looked at the world; I never saw such a city or such people. Mian Muhammad Ashraf, for instance, was superintendent of the kitchen in the time of Nawab Mo'tamad-ud-Daula Bahadur. Humanity, kindness, spirit: thousands of men profited by him and ate the good things of the world. His craftsmen were such that a hundred nobles sat at Mo'tamad-ud-Daula's table, and for six months, a dish that appeared one day was never repeated the next. From pulao to qalia to bread, every day everything set on the cloth had a new form, a taste never seen or heard of. And his word was: "If it is ordered, for a whole year, whatever is set before you each day, it is impossible that its smell will come again the next." Such were his craftsmen; even nobles will not have his spirit.

And more than that: a pauper like Pir Bukhara, a little fellow, devoted to the Lord of Martyrs, would, whatever he earned in a year, feed it to the needy as an offering to Husain in the first ten days of Muharram. Such single-mindedness was in his nature that he gambled all his life and never staked half on a double throw: one rupee or a hundred, he said "Pau!" Hundreds of throws were played, but the word "five" never left his mouth. There too a crowd stays gathered; men are thrown off balance when they see such people.

The tombs of shaikhs and fakirs are fine, where the seekers and the God-intoxicated rest in the sleep of peace: Shah Mina, Shah Pir Muhammad, Shah Khairullah, each finer than the last, glory be to God! In appearance dead, in truth they live and eat and drink subtle things. Maulvi Abdur Rahman, chosen of God, a scholar who lived his learning, a perfect dervish. Khwaja Basit and Mir Nasir, who have no equal or peer. Khwaja Husain and Hasan, the heads of the gathering. Since my nature is bent on brevity, I have written a phrase for each, though it would be right to write books in praise of these saints. But, a verse:

"No one has finished the business of the world:

whatever you take up, take it up briefly."

I have acted on this, and I ask the fair-minded for fairness; what can one say to the stubborn? Before a liar, the truthful man weeps. Suppose a critic says, "Where were these people from?" this answer is enough and more: this city was such that they never left it while they lived, and when they died they stayed here. And as for the rest:

"No one says his own buttermilk is sour."

The talk that is heard in every lane of Lucknow: if anyone has ever heard it elsewhere, let him say so; if he has seen it written, let him show it. From the reign of Babur Shah to the rule of Akbar the Second, when, as the proverb says, there was "no fire in the hearth and no water in the pot", the city of Delhi lay waste and its people were distressed and bewildered. The idiom and accent of the age of each king, and the eloquence of the exalted Urdu, are known from the works of the poets; such grace and purity and eloquence were never there, nor are they there even now. (Suroor's claim, much disputed by the writers of Delhi)

Leaving that aside, people of this kind spend from their own pockets and hold gatherings. So, a kind friend of mine, known to all the world, Janab Mirza Muhammad Raza, all goodness from foot to head, whose pen name is Barq ("Lightning"). Truly his eloquent verse is a lightning bolt on the harvest of the envious man's being; before him the market of his brother poets is slack. A handsome young man, brave, a delightful friend, good-natured. On moonlit nights a mushaira is held at the Mirza's house. Nobles, lords, young and old come. In that wide house there is no room for the crowd; the air gets in only with a struggle when the fan makes the effort. Masters of verse without spite, sweet of speech, delicate of understanding, keen of sight, good of nature, gather; people enjoy them and they enjoy people. The pupils of the said Mirza stand ready to serve. Fresh new madaria hookahs, puff after puff. Paan rolled in silver leaf, scented with catechu, lime of marble whiteness, without end. Before the ghazals are read the opium goes round; some drink it, some eat it. If anyone wants tea, milk-tea is set out, even for babes at the breast. That evening's gathering always runs till morning, and no one grows weary. Those going home hear the cock crow and the call "Allahu akbar". Though everyone here is a marvel, this gentleman is the ornament of the city.

And such as the market people of Lucknow are, the men of seven thousand horse of other cities are not. The brokers are well off, well dressed, spruce and polished; while the seths of other lands, millionaires, worth a lakh, go in a loincloth or a dhoti, and when they make a great effort they put on a coarse cotton jacket. The one who speaks the truth ends on the gallows; Mansurnagar is his quarter. Hear this point with the ear of heart and soul: "The truth is bitter." For fear of the envious I have cut this account short; had I written more it would have become a tale in itself. The short-sighted are annoyed at the name of Lucknow, grow jealous, slander it, fret themselves and burn to death. (Mansur, the mystic hanged for saying "I am the Truth")

A good beginning ends well; God Most High does not let anyone's labour go to waste. This tale was begun in the time of Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar Badshah and finished in the reign of the sultan son of a sultan, Abu'n-Nasr Nasir-ud-Din Haidar, may his kingdom endure. (Nasir-ud-Din Haidar, King of Awadh 1827–1837)

God, God! What a wonderful king of Jamshed's glory came to the throne, who wiped the name of Hatim off the page of generosity like a mistake and made fakirs into nobles. When his nature turned to pleasure and joy, he made the humblest greengrocer-woman higher than a lord of seven thousand. Princesses envied the palanquin-women. He gave the maidservants the right to a drum, mounted them in chandols and sukhpals, and had elephants and palkis go in their train. A thousand or twelve hundred women of the assembly, houri-like, lightning in deed, with the gait of the partridge and charming speech, drowned from foot to head in a sea of jewels, stood before him with folded hands at all times, with the dainties of the world laid before them. He gave crores of rupees to the asils, and the attendants enjoyed the ease of kingship. When his heart turned to Qudsiya Mahal, at once he raised her rank and glory to the seventh heaven. This chosen one spent many crores of rupees; she emptied the treasuries and filled the houses of the needy. The experienced used to say that after them this city would be desolate and ruined; there would be no begum of such spirit, no king of such heart. At every hour there was a gathering finer than the court of Raja Indar; attar flowed in the canals. He had such buildings made that the turning sky circled round them as a sacrifice. Indrasan, Gulshan-e-Iram, which shall I name! Such gardens and mansions the eyes and ears of Sinimmar never saw or heard of. He built such a shrine of the Twelve Imams that the turning sky has never seen another even in a dream. In Indrasan a tank of attar brimmed over, and the whole city was fragrant. (Sinimmar, the legendary architect of the palace of Khawarnaq)

The Mughlani seamstresses built palaces of silver and gold from the clippings of gold lace and trim; the women of the royal kitchen piled up heaps of cloves, cardamom and saffron in their own homes. Makka the tailor is loaded with the wealth of the world; he boasts of needing nothing, and as for sewing, he barely puts in a stitch.

Apart from grief for Husain, the king has no sorrow or care. Who is there in this age who is not glad and happy? Mourning is kept up to the fortieth day; God's people weep in mourning for Husain. Lakhs of rupees are spent on this way; for forty nights he does not sleep; he sows the seed of good deeds in the field of the next world. On the birthday of every Imam and the night of the death of the dear ones of the best of men, a lakh of rupees at a time is spent; before this spirit the generous men of the past are put to shame. Beauty of face, pomp and dignity, rank and wealth, all the good things of the world, God has given him. Every night is Shab-e-Barat and every day the two Eids. When the whim came to him to go boating, he had a canal brought from the Ganges; in this too the poor flourished and the agents grew rich. Though the pen of the author writes briefly, however much one writes in his praise is very little. So I have closed the matter with this ghazal; this is not a tale that can be written out, so I have ended it perforce. A ghazal:

"Till the end of time may the ruler of Lucknow endure,

this Nasir-ud-Din Haidar, the king of Lucknow.

Though I should find Paradise itself to live in instead of Lucknow,

I start up from it, crying, 'Alas, Lucknow!'

Though the sky, in its envy, should part me from Lucknow,

I will believe it only when it makes my heart forget Lucknow.

Once we walked about in them, and now has come this upheaval:

every moment the lanes of Lucknow pass before my eyes.

What longings envy breeds in their indifference!

The beggars of Lucknow do not even spit on Jamshed's cup.

Why should the nightingale's song not seem the crow's,

if one remembers those singers of Lucknow?

To save one's life from every quarter is hard even for Jesus:

the miracle-workers of Lucknow do not leave one alive.

Why should not jinn and men, beasts and birds all be ruled,

when the ruler of Lucknow these days is a Solomon?

What if wildness has ruined me in the desert of exile?

Something of the air of Lucknow still blows from my heart.

O Lord, may it stay peopled till the age of Jupiter;

wherever I am, I pray the prayer for Lucknow.

Suroor, the nightingale of Shiraz envies Nasikh:

he has made the lanes of Lucknow into Isfahan."

O God, by the sanctity of the chief of the righteous, Ahmad the Chosen, and for the sake of the pure Imams, keep Lucknow peopled. Keep the ruler of the land, its master, the cherisher of his subjects, happy on the throne of rule. As long as water flows in the Ganges and the Jumna, may this delightful, joy-giving land stay peopled. A single verse:

"O God, may Lucknow stay peopled till the Day of Resurrection:

that city was once the home of Suroor, who now wanders the desert."

And the imitators here are better than the inventors; pupils become the equals of their masters. Most of the presses in this city are lithographic, models of wonder; but our kind and gracious friend, the same face to face and behind one's back, Janab Maulvi Muhammad Yaqub Sahib, may his shadow last, dear to all hearts, has every good quality and is famous and known far and wide. Earlier he had a printing house in Firangi Mahal, (for the wise a hint is enough) the envy of the sons of the age. A newspaper was printed there, yet his own address was never in print. Such calligraphers gathered there that the copyists wept over their own writing; each matchless in his own style, a memorial of Agha, a peer of Mir. The machines from Europe made the heart restless; their refinement was that they moved at a sign, without feet. One trembled to look at the press; however strong a young man was, without being told he panted to pull out a single sheet. The stones had such a polish that at the moment of looking the foot of the glance's runner slipped on them. Look closely at this clearness and you would say it was written with a hair brush that on every stone is the radiance of Sinai. For old books it was a picture of the raising of the dead, a proof of the miracle of Jesus. When the cry "Show me!" came from the eager, from the roller came no answer but "You shall see." Though writing has always been in the world, the radiance of light in black ink is in this works alone. Every book that was printed was a picture from Mani's album; there was no question of a letter being rubbed out; it was like the writing of fate. ("Show me" and "You shall not see me": the words of Moses and of God at Sinai, Quran 7:143)

The fame of this press was in all the cities; who knew the turning of fate! Suddenly the sky took a turn, and rubbed out the city like a wrong letter. The Pleiades were seen in the shape of the Bier and its Daughters (the Great Bear); such a scattering came that there was no more news of anyone. At the summons of Maharaja Isri Prashad Narain Singh Bahadur, Raja of Benares, may his glory endure, this fakir came to Benares. A hundred thanks that I found a high-ranked ruler, protector of his subjects, kind to the poor, cherisher of the needy, keen of sight, a judge of worth, generous, brave, understanding of verse, spreading justice. Meanwhile, at the urging of friends, the Maulvi Sahib decided to take up his old work, and first resolved on the Tale of Suroor; he wrote to me for its correction; I had no choice but to agree, and could not bear to refuse. (the "turn of the sky" is the uprising of 1857 and the fall of Lucknow)

Though this tale, in the fashion of the age, took on a new colour in every printing house, and whoever wished ran water over whatever phrase and washed it off the page of the book; in my words: what was not understood or could not be read was hacked out with a blunt adze; the prose-writers showed the sharpness of their pens and my friends corrected the script. A verse:

"My rivals can do nothing else, yet

they write out the name of Soz and burn it."

They do not understand that:

"Favour in hearts and grace of speech are the gift of God."

"You honour whom You will and You abase whom You will." (Quran 3:26) The envious burn flickering like a poor man's lamp; what light can they give? They fall on their faces and take the crooked path. This fakir sweated beyond measure over revising it; for fear of the Lord I took the utmost pains. Wherever I found the place and the occasion I have added what phrases! What strength my nature has shown in old age! It may be called a tale, a story, but everywhere a picture has been drawn; it is Mani's album. Every page is the envy of a rose garden, a garden all spring, but in the heart of the envious it rankles like a thorn. In what treasury is such costly stuff, whose place is in the breasts of discerning judges of worth? The keen-sighted, subtle and easy-tempered will see for themselves what is in the other copies and what is written in this. I have set a river of eloquence flowing. Till the Resurrection its lovers will not grow fewer in the world; the pity is that I shall not be here. O God, as long as the spring breeze blows in the garden of the world by the movement of the sky, keep the master green and his work going.

I am the least of the pupils and a gleaner of the harvest of speech of my revered master, kind to his pupils, honoured and distinguished, a gathering of learning and excellence, of good conduct and blessed qualities, wise, a teacher of knowledge, the memorial of Janab Mir Soz, the Urfi of the age, the Saadi of the time, the envy of Anvari and Khaqani, Agha Nawazish Husain Khan Sahib, known as Mirza Khani, whose pen name is Nawazish. The truth of the matter is that the style of Rekhta and of everyday Urdu ends with him. Verse was made for him and he for verse. Apart from composing, his reading is of such a kind that if he recites a schoolboy's verse with his miracle-working tongue, by the grace of his mouth and the effect of his speech it would please Sahban Wa'il himself. Not only in our time: the ancients, the founders of the art, who beat the drum of "Whose is the kingdom?", had in their diwans perhaps ten or five verses of verbal harmony or rhetorical figures, and were proud of them, and later poets cite them proudly as authority. So let any man of perfect understanding, or who has reached the rank of mastery in this art and has a lofty mind, look at his diwan with an eye of fairness and close attention: there will not be one ghazal empty of feeling. Every line is witness to a thousand arts, every verse a proof of meaning, full of feeling. From the opening couplet to the last, every ghazal is a fairy's face. Many of his verses I have written here as a blessing and for good luck, as a memorial; wherever the word "Master" appears, take it to be his verse. (Sahban Wa'il, the proverbial eloquent Arab orator)