Cold is Cold and Heat is Heat
The history of humankind is such that in every age of reason we have invented chains of the scaffold and the gallows. From the early days of schooling until graduation from Nadwah, in the hours devoted to composition and essay writing, we were made to write on many worn-out topics. These topics were generally uninteresting, but being compelled to write on them sharpened our powers of observation, clarified the distinctions between similarity and difference, trained us in the creation of meaning, and taught us the manner of expressing thoughts and ideas.
Among such topics was one: “Which is better, cold or heat?” Each student, according to his inclination, would write an essay—some extolling the virtues of cold, others the merits of heat. Both types of essays would be read aloud in class, and we would learn from one another. Never did it happen that those who praised the cold formed their own party, and those who praised the heat formed a rival party. Rather, as soon as we left the essay hour, we forgot who had preferred what, and we remained together as before—like milk and sugar. Never did it occur that the strength of argument on one side should compel the cold to desire to become heat, or the heat to aspire to become cold. However firm our arguments, they had no power to alter realities.
It also happened that the same student who on one occasion would set forth the virtues of cold would, on another, celebrate the excellences of heat. For a long time, I myself was enamoured of the heat; then there came a time when I fell in love with the cold, and so bore witness to my fickleness.
This brings to mind how, at the very time that Mirza Hairat Dihlawī was writing a book denying the martyrdom of Ḥusayn, every Friday he would deliver sermons on the martyrdom, with such moving eloquence that the listeners, weeping, would be overtaken by sobs.
Here in London is a park called Hyde Park. One corner of it, near Marble Arch, from where coaches to Oxford depart, is famous as Speaker’s Corner. Every Sunday, preachers stand there and shout out their speeches on different subjects. It is one of the entertainments of Londoners. Some of these preachers are hired. You may see the same man one Sunday speaking in favour of some issue, and the next Sunday opposing it.
The contest between cold and heat, which has been raging in India for centuries, once flared up in Baghdad between the veil and the banner. Saʿdī Shīrāzī has narrated the detail of this contest in his Gulistān (Chapter Two: On the Morals of Dervishes). The Shaykh, by his excessive advocacy of the veil, made it the hero of the debate. Otherwise, to the fair-minded, the words of the banner deserve to be written in letters of gold:
من و تو هر دو خواجهتاشانیم
بندهٔ بارگاه سلطانیم
“You and I are both attendants of the nobles,
Slaves alike in the court of the Sultan.”
It is not hidden from the intelligent that the merit of one is not the disparagement of another. For this reason, sensible people, when they hear someone praising their beloved, do not take it as satire upon their own beloved. If Qays ʿĀmirī narrates the beauty of Laylā, Farhād is not offended. And if Farhād sings the songs of love for Shīrīn, Qays does not envy him.
In England, Oxford and Cambridge are in constant competition—sometimes one ahead, sometimes the other. In some subjects Oxford excels, in others Cambridge. Yet despite this rivalry there is astonishing cooperation between their colleges, faculties and professors. Both, in peace and friendship, strive to outdo each other, without Oxford wasting time refuting Cambridge, or Cambridge destroying its energies in denouncing Oxford.
ركهتے ہيں عاشقان حسن سخن
لكهنوى سے نه دہلوى سے غرض
“The lovers of the beauty of speech,
Care not whether it comes from Lucknow or from Delhi.”
In India during the Mughal period, both Farangī Maḥall and the Madrasa Raḥīmiyyah produced astonishing achievements, reviving the memories of Baghdad and Cordoba, and leaving Bukhara and Samarqand as tales of the past. Yet neither harboured envy nor jealousy. The scholars of Farangī Maḥall did not make it their mission to refute the scholars of Raḥīmiyyah, nor did Raḥīmiyyah get entangled in the mire of declaring others misguided.
Then, alas, peace and security became a tale of the past. India turned into an arena of polemics, of vainglory and boastfulness. From every side came the cry: “There is none like us!” From every direction rose the shout: “These are my forefathers; bring me others like them!” New sects were fashioned, new idols of Lāt and Manāt were carved, and Muslims were declared worse than unbelievers and polytheists, even worse than demons and devils.
روز اس شہر ميں اكـ حكم نيا ہوتا ہے
كچه سمجه ميں نہيں آتا ہے كه كيا ہوتا ہے
“Each day in this city a new decree is issued;
I cannot fathom what is happening here.”
The words kufr, shirk, bidʿah and ḍalālah were repeated so often that even from the mouths of the preachers they gave off a stench of corruption. It was emphasised: if you do not become like us, we will not let you live. It was decreed that since we can see only black and white, therefore those whose eyes perceive red, yellow, green or other colours are superstitious—and so we declare them blind. The list of the blind grew longer and longer, and continues to grow.
ناقص كا صفا كيش سے مطلب نه بر آئے
جو كور ہو عينك سے اسے كيا نظر آئے
“The imperfect can never understand the pure-hearted;
And what can a blind man see through spectacles?”
In this environment of constant tug-of-war, there is always the fear that if you praise your teacher, another will write a whole book cataloguing his faults. If you commend an author, another will say you have thereby satirised all their scholars and will brand you a rebel against your elders. If you speak of the special qualities of your institution, your very right to live will be denied. If you acknowledge the worth of your teachers, this will be regarded as so great a crime that henceforth the dawn of guidance will be forbidden to rise upon the darkness of your nights.
سعديا حب وطن گرچه حديثے ست صحيح
نه تواں مرد به سختى كه من آں جا زادم
“Saʿdī, though love of homeland is indeed a sound ḥadīth,
Yet it is not manly to endure hardship merely because I was born there.”
Psychologists describe the feeling of superiority as a branch of the feeling of inferiority. Why have our scholars and our madrasahs become so weak? They should have raised their standards, improved their performance, and silently demonstrated that “true musk is that which announces itself, not what the perfumer declares.”
How long can we continue lamenting? For how many of the maladies of our ummah shall we shed tears? Truly—
غم حسنين پايانے ندارد
“The grief for Ḥasan and Ḥusayn has no end.”
—
Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI. Original post: https://t.me/DrAkramNadwi/7007
