Reflections on a Literary Gathering
We had long cherished the pleasant notion that within Nadwah every soul walked firmly upon the earth, yet the recent experience shattered that charming illusion. How delightful was the moment when the veil lifted before our eyes and we discovered that in Nadwah some celestial settlements, too, are thriving!
It was the night of the fifteenth of October, scarcely ten o’clock, when, in the noble company of my honoured brother Mawlānā ‘Abd al-Ḥayy Nadwī, Mawlānā Yūsuf As‘ad and a few other esteemed friends, we were granted entry to the presence of Mawlānā ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Bhaṭkalī, the new muhtamim of Nadwat al-‘Ulamā’. The stillness of night, the gravity of the assembly and the refined companionship of the brethren at once created a pleasing atmosphere. Little, however, did we imagine that the occasion would surpass a mere courteous visit and turn into a veritable symposium of poetry, in which, one after another, the blossoms of verse would be scattered from the garden of memory.
No sooner had Mawlānā opened his lips than a spring of eloquence began to flow. Couplets arrived in such unbroken succession that the classic vibrancy of gatherings devoted to refined taste stood vividly before our eyes. Scarcely would one verse conclude before the next appeared; a single theme would settle in the heart only for another to open a fresh window of thought. There was no faltering of memory, no affectation of speech, no searching for words or meanings—only a seamless freshness, a lively spontaneity, each verse finding its proper station with ease.
Before our gaze it was as though the season of spring had revealed itself in the garden of literature. The whole charm of the sitting lay in its delicacy, its proportion, its harmony, and the beauty of order and arrangement. From Mawlānā’s tongue the melodies of poetry poured forth like the song of a sweet-throated bulbul in a soul-enlivening orchard; every corner of the majlis was scented with the fragrance of taste and longing. The variety of verses, the novelty of themes and the captivating elegance of delivery had transformed the gathering into a meadow of tulips. We sat absorbed in wonder and astonishment: how had such precious treasures of speech been compressed within a single breast, and how had mastery over their expression attained such perfection? It seemed that every rare pearl stored in the academy of memory was now appearing upon the shore of the tongue, while we, with folded hands, enjoyed that generous effusion.
It would not be exaggeration to say that, on this night, Mawlānā captivated the assembly by the vastness of his memory, the freshness of his choice and the charm of his lively expression. Verses issued from his lips as the morning breeze awakens the flowers of the garden. At times the listeners nodded in admiration, at times they raised their eyes in surprise, and at times they looked at one another, marvelling at the abundance of poetry.
During our student days we were ever slightly in awe of Mawlānā. At any moment, who knew what command he might issue, what unexpected calamity might descend upon us! We therefore considered it prudent to slip past him with our cloaks gathered, confessing in the language of our state that the surest delight lay in passing by unscathed. Alas, had we even an inkling of his sweet-voiced eloquence, we would never have fled so hastily; rather, we would have remained captives of his company and perhaps, unrestrained, cried out: Who would abandon the lanes of Delhi for any other delight?
Yet what is to be done? The suspicion of that time deprived us of this boundless pleasure. Tonight’s symposium tore away the veil of our long-standing misapprehension and unveiled the secret that the very person before whom we once trembled is capable of such melodious song that time itself grows wings and flies, leaving no sense of its passage. In this charming gathering, how swiftly the hours slipped by—we had no awareness of them. It was as though the very moments, enslaved by Mawlānā’s melody, had forgotten their pace.
Still, in that rose-garden of speech there came a point at which our critical gaze halted. Amid the radiant constellation of verses, one couplet caused the crescent of a question to rise upon the horizon of the mind:
Bayṭh jātā hūñ jahāñ chhāõñ ghanī hotī hai
Āh! kyā chīz g̱harīb-ul-waṭanī hotī hai
I sit wherever the shade is deep;
Ah! what a thing is estrangement from one’s homeland!
Taken in itself, the verse was attractive, its theme subtle, its feeling poignant. But when we viewed it through the prism of Mawlānā’s own life a delicate problem emerged. Nadwah is certainly no foreign land to him: its air is not unfamiliar, the circle of friends not strange, nor its scholarly ambience alien. For him Nadwah is like home, a familiar garden whose every branch exudes the fragrance of attachment and affection.
What then was this lament of exile? Of what migration did the sigh speak? What sense of deprivation did the verse convey? Is g̱harīb-ul-waṭanī confined only to spatial distance, or may a person sometimes feel alien even within his homeland? Is it possible that the soil of one’s birthplace is one’s own, yet the heart’s sought-after shade of tranquillity be found in another clime?
To resolve the enigma we reflected upon one possibility: perhaps, for Mawlānā, Nadwah affords more repose than Bhaṭkal itself; perhaps love of native soil remains, yet the scholarly atmosphere of Nadwah has engendered such intimacy in his heart that the emotional distinction between his actual homeland and his cherished place of residence has disappeared. If so, then the verse of exile harbours within it a subtle psychological truth: a person may be a stranger in his birthplace and at home in the place of his service.
All, however, was conjecture. We had no knowledge of Mawlānā’s inner state, nor was it proper to pass judgements upon his heart on the basis of a single couplet. Our difficulty was merely that we sensed a fine distance between the chosen verse and the poet’s well-known environment, and that very distance yielded a pleasurable literary point in the memory of the gathering.
We have always regarded ourselves devotees of Ḥāfiẓ and Khayyām, those who, after kissing the pages of Gulistān and Būstān, turn them one by one, and who grant to Mīr, Ghālib and Iqbāl the rank of prophets of poetry; yet tonight’s symposium transformed the entire world of the heart. Now the soul yearns that every living creature leave its homeland and set course for Nadwah, that people bid farewell to their own madāris and become moths about this illuminated assembly of Nadwat al-‘Ulamā’. Where are the sweet tales of Gulistān and Būstān, where the goblet of verse in Ḥāfiẓ and Khayyām, and where this fountain of grace from which pearls of poetry tumble with such flow that one is left dumbfounded! The heart now declares: if one wishes to witness the summit of poetic taste, if one wishes to surrender to the enchantment of sweet speech, then let one traverse every corner of the world and present oneself at this very threshold, for here there is poetry and perception, melody and that captivating beauty before which even the proudest claimants of literature bow their heads.
Āh, a hundred times āh! When we departed from the gathering, the echo of verses resonated in the heart, the colours of themes glowed in the mind, and upon the tongue was the confession of Mawlānā’s lively eloquence. We all were astonished at such mastery of recollection and acknowledged the spontaneous brilliance of his speech. The night had ended, yet the lamp of discourse still burned within the hearts.
The fruit of that night was that Mawlānā ‘Abd al-‘Azīz Bhaṭkalī, with his sweet voice, transformed the majlis into a garden, astonished the connoisseurs by the expanse of his memory, and, through a single verse, opened the door to reflection upon the meaning of exile. If his tongue was akin to a sweet-voiced bulbul, his selection of poetry, at times, became a riddle for the critic.
Thus, we departed from Nadwah that night with our cloaks filled with the flowers of verse, yet the question of g̱harīb-ul-waṭanī lingered in a corner of the heart, like some bright flower in the garden that, along with its fragrance, conceals a subtle secret.
