Delhi, the Centre of Urdu

Delhi, the Centre of Urdu

In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

A judgement on the centre of Urdu, with the proof that the centre of every language is the place where it was born. A *qita* (verse fragment):

I walk free, and my creed is peace with all;

I bear no enmity to anyone at all.

A philosophical dispute has broken out about the centre,

but I do not mean by it to break off any friendship.

Just as the centre of a circle is that middle point from which every line drawn to the circumference is equal to every other, so the centre of a language is the place where the world-lighting sun of that language first rose, where it was invented or born. Its rays may spread out from there in every direction, but between nearness to the centre and distance from it there is the same difference that there is in everything between nearness to its source and distance travelled.

It follows that the light of those rays will act more strongly on nearby places than on distant ones; whatever effect is felt near the centre cannot be felt far away. The greater the distance, the more its force falls off and the more the difference grows. The lick and heat of a flame that you feel close to it is not felt at a great distance; the farther you go, the weaker its heat, until at a great distance it can hardly be felt at all and no one is able to tell it is there. Just as that light cannot make every one of its limits into a centre, so a language cannot leave its true home and outlet and set up some other place as its centre or source. The language of every country, and the speech of every city, keeps a particular character of its own. A centre always stays fixed in its own place, as the sun stays fixed in its own station while the other planets revolve around it; in the same way the centre of a language cannot move from its place.

Every tree gives strength from its root to its branches, twigs, leaves, flowers and fruit; the branches, twigs, leaves, flowers and fruit do not come to its help or give it strength. Here the centre should be thought of as the spring or fountainhead, and its lines or rays as the streams that run out in every direction, taking into themselves the influence of every kind of soil, herb and mineral, and changing more and more from their first state as they go.

Whatever the language, those who know and use it fall into two kinds. The first are those whose real home, whose birthplace, whose father's and grandfather's and mother's family's home is the very land and region from which that language came. These are called *ahl-e-zaban* (native speakers) and are counted in the first class. The second are those who have acquired the language from authoritative books, from the verse of the masters, from company, and from the writings and newspapers of native speakers, and who have even come to write and speak almost the same language, apart from its special idioms and usages. Even so, it is possible, and must be admitted, that they will make mistakes, while for native speakers this is impossible and against reason. People of this second kind are called *zaban-dan* (knowers of the language) or *muqallid-e-zaban* (followers of the language), and are counted in the second rank.

It is plain that wherever anything is born, the climate of that place, its soil, the changes that come upon it, its birds and beasts, its produce, its trees and fruits, its minerals and plants, all have their effect upon it. Language too cannot escape these ties and influences. Among the speakers of every language, the shape of the throat, the shape of the mouth, natural feelings and qualities, inner and outer faculties and influences, the gestures and pauses that suit each occasion, and above all accent and tone, play a very large part. It is because of these things that a man from another country or another city, however learned, deep and expert in a language he may become, cannot avoid stumbling, and at the first meeting gives away that he is a stranger. The story of the author of the *Qamus* and his wife, a lady of Arabia, is on everyone's lips. [TN: the *Qamus* is the great Arabic dictionary of al-Firuzabadi; the story alluded to is that, for all his learning, his Arab-born wife could still catch him out in the living language.] He tumbles over masculine and feminine, he slips in accent and tone, he falls over particular hints and allusions, he shies away from bringing a scene to life, he cannot produce a local effect with his words, he cannot paint a copy of joy, he cannot show the painful scene of mourning, he cannot bring out deeds of courage and daring, a soldier's feats and tricks; he cannot make a hero of the battlefield or the banquet, he cannot draw the picture of a just court or of tyrannical wickedness. In short there are hundreds of such things, and they are the share and the inheritance of the native speakers of each place.

Those who have no depth in a language and no true taste for it, and who are held back by shame from claiming as much, are always thinking up schemes by which the condition of being a native speaker, the burden of knowing the language, and the testing of idioms as *taksali* (of the mint, standard) or not, can be done away with altogether, so that they may claim to be reformers of the language, escape the objections of native speakers, and have whatever nonsense they write with a free pen pass current and enter the language. But they do not know that until they have circled the centre of the language, sifted the dust of its every street, been knocked about in its every lane, and been brought up in the laps of its gentlewomen; until the natural qualities and inborn longings of that place are in their clay, in the first sweet their mothers gave them, in their very leaven; until their mothers and elders have taught them the lesson of grief, of joy, of fear, of courage, of laughter, of weeping, of trouble and calamity, of the everyday words and how to use them, of manners and of social life, they cannot equal even a schoolboy of the centre of the language. The proverb fits them exactly: "Sons who have only been taught do not go to court."

However great the authors, however high-ranking the essayists, however peerless the scholars and matchless the learned men, they will remain strangers to this lane. That is, until they have stumbled about as lovers, put up with the airs of the beloved, been on the receiving end of the quips of people of every class and heard their boasts, how will they reach the rank where they can easily claim to be native speakers?

The excellence of a language depends on the graceful use of idioms and usages, on eloquent speech, on particular telling proverbs, on knowledge of the figures of rhetoric, and on company of every kind. Without these there is nothing. Those who are bent on doing away with these special beauties of Urdu are not only destroyers of the language; they are strangers to the savour of the language, the pleasure of its everyday speech and even the taste for poetry, and come from some backward village where a tongue is not thought of as a language at all but only as an idle limb, a lump of flesh or an instrument for making sounds; much less would they know the pleasure of its fine points and subtleties.

After this necessary preface, we now wish to show why Delhi should be called the special centre of Urdu, its special refuge and home, its special mint, its special source and outlet, its special field, so that even those who learned their reading and writing in the fields may understand it well and accept with all their hearts that as long as the word *Urdu* is attached to this language, Delhi, Shahjahanabad, is bound to its very life. Otherwise it is not Urdu but a hotchpotch of a language. If any language holds the seat of honour in literature, in the art of conversation, in composition, in the etiquette of courts, in all authorship and compilation, and in all the sciences and arts, it is this very Urdu; as for the rest, that is the end of the matter.

Nowhere is the language sweeter, smoother, easier to pronounce, more widely understood, more charming, more heart-winning, more moving, more natural and unlaboured, more averse to empty wordiness, freer of heavy, harsh or unfamiliar padding, or more pleasing to the taste than in Delhi. Fluency is packed into it, and in eloquence it is a marvellously bewitching fairy. Its high flights strike against the sky and its breadth goes beyond the expanse of the world. In whose language were the thundering speeches of Sir Syed, which shook the hearts of his hearers and set them fluttering like tumbler pigeons? They were the gift of this same Delhi. And the poems of Khwaja Hali, may his lofty shadow endure, which melt stony hearts to wax and make them writhe and quiver without a knife: whose language are those juicy darlings of? But this was only something that came up in the flow of speech; leave this digression and hear what follows.

What we must see is why Delhi is called the centre of Urdu, and why the name is not allowed to other cities and lands. It is agreed by all and accepted that if Urdu has a source it is Delhi, if it has an origin and outlet it is Delhi, if it has a centre and fountainhead it is Delhi. Where was it born? In Delhi. Where did it come into the world? In Delhi. Where was its birth-cord buried? In Delhi. Where did it come out, that is, where did it issue and spread from? From Delhi. Where were its foundations laid? In Delhi. Where was it given its name, the Urdu of Shah Jahan? In Delhi. Where did it rise to its height? In Delhi. Who was its patron and founder? Shah Jahan, emperor of Delhi and Hindustan. Before the Second Lord of the Conjunction, it is true, the elder who laid the foundation of this language was Khwaja Abul Hasan Amir Khusrau Dehlvi, in the thirteenth century of the Christian era, who saw the reigns of seven kings of Delhi, was their companion and served in posts of honour, and so won the heart of Alauddin Khalji that he could not rest for a moment without him. [TN: "Second Lord of the Conjunction" (*Sahib-e-Qiran-e-Sani*) was a title of Shah Jahan.]

As for Urdu verse, although Wali Muhammad of Gujarat is called its inventor and founder, whatever grace he received he too received by living in Delhi. It was here that he made his verse current coin and put it on the lathe, and it was by the guidance of his spiritual master, Shaikh Saadullah, known as Gulshan Shah of Delhi, that he compiled his Urdu *diwan* (collected poems). If Hazrat Amir Khusrau laid the foundation of the Hindi language mixed with Persian, it was Shah Jahan, emperor of Hind, who trimmed and polished it, gave it rules and order, made it current and named it the Urdu of Shah Jahan; and both of these belong to Delhi above all.

Who does not know that the place from which a language comes, and whose king is its patron, is the place whose language is called *taksali* (standard) and of the court? With the passing of time some old words and idioms may fall out of use and new ones become familiar, but it does not follow from this that its true home and centre must also change, or that there is any difference in its grace, its style and its charming manner. A man of Delhi, even if he sits in a workshop or lives by hard labour, even if he carries a basket on his head, cannot let a word without idiom pass his lips. Only the other day an old maidservant was going to the bazaar to buy provisions, sucking in her breath from the cold, when a shopkeeper asked her, "Old lady, why are you going along all huddled up like that?" She answered, "Brother, the ice is cutting!" Let anyone else try to use that idiom! The old woman has never seen a snowy mountain, nor has she ever seen snow fall, and yet she came out with that standard idiom, which made a picture of the cold. The word "cutting" put still more life into it, and only native speakers can fully enjoy it.

Come into the lanes of Delhi, walk through its bazaars, make the round of its workshops, take the air on the steps of the Jama Masjid, and see what flowers fall even from the mouths of the people of the bazaar; you will find that even their abuse and their jokes are not without novelty. From the ignorant and the people of the bazaar you will hear *qabutar* for *kabutar* (pigeon), your ear will catch *phattar* for *patthar* (stone), you will hear *safil* for *fasil* (rampart), the sound of *balkan* instead of *balki* (rather) will fall on your ears, and likewise you will hear *kadhi* for *kabhi* (ever), *taʿinat* for *mutaʿayyin* (posted), *mugham* for *mubham* (vague), *jaribana* for *jurmana* (fine). Yet from its lilt, its tone, its masculine and feminine, and its eloquent manner, you will know that he is putting it aptly and correctly. These may have gone beyond a common error to "the error of the commonalty, who are like cattle", and be outside written use; but in speech you will find no fault in them.

Native speakers must, however, keep this in mind: they rest their speech on the words that have become current in the present age. The ancients may have used them in some other way, but for correct idiom it is essential to turn to the everyday speech of the present generation. That is, even then native speakers should rely in their use of words and idioms on the idiom of their own city, not lean towards the language of the provinces or keep their eye on words of the ancients that have fallen out of use.

In the same way the follower of the language must also seek out the idiom of the native speakers, so that his speech may be trusted. By "follower" we do not mean a man from a foreign country; we mean anyone who lives in any city or town of Hind other than Delhi, however well he knows the language. Since the language of the people of Delhi has been held to be the true Urdu and the source of eloquence, and this city has been accepted as the mint of the language, the people of the provinces and regions of Hind, even if they live in Lucknow, Akbarabad, Benares, Cawnpore, Meerut or Lahore, cannot step outside the circle of following and the bounds of imitation. On this ground we say that no other city but Delhi, Shahjahanabad, can be held to be the mint and centre of Urdu; for writing Urdu is one thing and speaking it with the right tone is another.

Just as the people of Delhi cannot pronounce the aspirated *h* or the plain *h* in the particular way the people of the east and the people of the Punjab do, and the people of the Punjab are found unable to pronounce the letter *qaf*, so people from places other than Delhi cannot equal the people of Delhi in its accent and tone. The word *hawan* as the gentlemen of the east say it, and the word *bhara* as the people of the Punjab say it, will never come out of a Delhi throat, though Delhi folk beat their heads and die trying. [TN: *hawan* is the eastern (Purbi) form of *wahan*, "there"; the Punjabi *bhara* is said with that language's tone.]

There is no doubt that the people of Delhi can draw different meanings from a single word just by changing the tone. Take only the use of the word *han* (yes) or *aur* (and, more), and see what meanings each gives on different occasions as the tone changes; and so too with *bhala* (well, really), *bahut achchha* (very well) and the rest.

Here it is fitting for us to write out a few couplets which show their beauty only through tone, and do the work of putting across their meaning with force. Although the following verses steer clear of special idioms and usages, if they are read without the right stresses, pauses and tone they become flat and tasteless from beginning to end, with no flavour left in them at all. They are on themes of love, it is true, but since Asian poetry depends on that, what can be done? These verses are by poets who had full command of the language and complete mastery of its stresses and pauses. The verses:

Was it I, then, who drank wine last night at my rival's party?

Is it in my eyes, then, that the drunkenness of wine is seen?

Having rubbed on your *missi* (black tooth powder), don't put your face out of the window;

and if you won't listen, then go, blacken your face!

You are a calamity just sitting there!

If you stood up, what a doomsday it would be!

Don't show me from afar the bud that has not opened, saying "like this";

I ask for a kiss: tell me with your mouth, "like this".

At the moment of slaughter my head lies beneath her foot;

such luck, God is great! This is the very place to roll in the dust.

We are the living ones, O Khizr, known to all the world;

not you, who turned thief for the sake of everlasting life!

You have thrown flowers to the whole world, and even fruit;

O you who lay the garden waste, spare a little for this side too!

Now at least be pleased: we sit here vexed with living.

Now at least be glad: we do just what you say.

Well, my wretched heart, have you seen the outcome of love?

Have you seen anyone who asks after the pain of separation?

What can I say? Say what? The coquettes have killed me,

taking me for a plain, simple, helpless Muslim.

Come back to life, too: the friend is coming!

What a fine breath of life the Messiah has given!

My companions' asking after me every moment has eaten up my breath;

what can I say? There is no breath left in me; grief has eaten me up.

You will live in my heart, though you hide from my eyes;

really? Mind yourself! Where do you think you are going?

Do not tease me so, laughing and laughing, me who sits in the dust;

look! I will shake the lofty sky this very moment!

Drink, then! Pour, too! That is the pleasure of it!

Here the decanter stands, and here the cup is set.

The pleasure is just this: that one word should lead to another;

when there is no grace within grace, then what is there?

Why go from the idol-house to the Kaaba for nothing?

Here too there is God, and there too there is God.

Ah, I would give my life for that manner of hers at parting:

she stretched, and said to me, "Look at me!"

Here am I, and there may you be, on the Day of Judgement;

whatever is to be, let it be before God.

What delight there is in the tavern, what a call there is, Saqi!

The cry keeps coming: "Bring more! Pour more!"

Let me too put love's kindness and faith to the test;

I have been put to the test many times already.

My very life was long ago given in offering to the taker of lives;

what dust is there here to take, that Death has come now?

Mir wanders in disgrace, and no one asks after him;

in this love even the honour of the Sayyids is gone.

Her plain, straight talk pierces the heart deeply;

don't take her for just anyone, Bedil; she is far beyond that.

Speak up, Bedil! What have you made up your mind to?

Your being so downcast is a sign of calamity.

Where are those bursts of laughter, where have those high spirits gone?

I weep as I remember the youth that has passed.

Now not even the strength to draw breath is left;

Bedil is in a bad way; may God save him!

Am I one to be taken in by their tricks?

If the rivals are awkward, among friends too I am Bedil, faint-hearted. [TN: a play on the pen name Bedil, which means "heartless, faint-hearted".]

It was only an answer to your complaint;

otherwise complaining is not my business.

To tell the truth, it is impossible to find in this world

a wise man who is human, or a fool who is mortal.

What joy is there in living, what grief in dying?

What is our life, and what are we?

What can I say? In the garden of the world, what has become of what!

The desert thorn has become a rose, and the flower a thorn.

Just see the playful pranks of the spring breeze:

today, in the garden, the nightingale and the rose are at odds. [TN: literally "a thorn has grown between the nightingale and the rose", an idiom for falling out.]

How far is the tavern, O Shaikh?

Come, we'll just have a drink and be right back.

What cure, cure of what? This too is for a few days;

it was in my fate to bear the whims of the Messiah.

Is this how you comfort a lover, my heart-taker, for God's sake?

With those lowered, lowered glances you do the work for me.

How long could I keep love's secret and not tell it?

The proverb says: what will a dying man not do?

If the decanter's neck had not bowed itself,

would I not have set the Saqi straight?

If she torments this poor lover,

what good will she come to, what profit will she gain?

There was no thought of tickling here, nor any plan of a kiss in my heart;

so why, sitting there at ease, did you suddenly draw yourself up?

Zahid, I beg you in God's name, just come over here:

see what light shines in the glass of the cup!

Just call us, and we will come and sit there as still as idols;

cut out our tongues if we so much as move our lips before you.

We have had our share of rest, preacher;

your talk is one thing and the doctor's talk another.

Having come this far, why did you have to turn back?

Had you come to measure the ground? What was this coming for?

That will never happen: I will not let you sleep today;

stretch and yawn as much as you like now.

The weeping eye has drowned me; why should I curse it?

The burning heart has burnt me; why should I curse it?

There, we ourselves are going into hiding from this world;

now you may fold up that veil of yours and put it away.

I touch your feet: get up and come home, wherever it is;

for God's sake, don't stretch your legs out so far.

Don't stop me, saying "Ah! just listen!";

there is cruelty in this union too, this way of yours: just listen!

Enough, Hazrat Isa, go about your own business;

will the patient of love be cured? Just listen!

If my breath should escape somewhere from the hands of grief,

dust on such a life: you in one place and I in another!

Whatever meeting you mean to have with Mir, have it with an open heart;

you glare at him and then you hide your face as well.

There is something secret to tell: just bring your ear here;

today I have a mind to make a real fool of my rival.

What are you looking at? Let go of my hand, doctor;

there is no life in this body at all; how should the pulse beat?

Do not waste a single hour of your priceless life,

for this precious stuff, once it is gone, does not come back.

In short, just as there is no need for native speakers to shy away from following the everyday speech and idioms of the present generation in their own city, so too it is no duty of the follower of the language to make himself a slave of the old line and take the language of the ancients as the touchstone of speech and the scale of the language.