India’s Outlook magazine recentlycame up with a charming photo essay about the disappearing tribe of Delhi’skatibs or Urdu calligraphers. Those haunting images of old and greying men,diligently scribing their way to glory in the madness and chaos of the crumblingUrdu Bazar near Delhi’s iconic Jama Masjid, took one down memory lane.
Years ago, as a journalism student atOsmania University, I had tried to draw attention to the fast vanishing tribeof Deccan’s own calligraphers in Hyderabad’s Chatta Bazar, known for its mazeof old litho printing presses, numerous little known newspapers and oldbookshops. The dying art of Urdu calligraphy had been the subject of mydissertation.
As someone who aspired to be an artistamong many other things, calligraphy held a strange fascination for me. I grewup watching my father dabble in calligraphy in his spare time and come up withexquisite renditions of Quranic verses, hadith and mostly Iqbal’s poetry, oftensharing his labour of love with friends and family. The man of many partsthat he was, calligraphy had been his lifelong passion, along withliterature. For many though, it is a calling and bread and butteressential.
Incredible as it may sound today, not longago, entire newspapers would be handwritten by katibs or calligraphers everyday, day after day, with distinct and striking results. One still missesthe grandeur and beauty of those banner headlines, lovingly and intimately puttogether by accomplished masters of their art.
All that changed with Pakistan’s Jang,the largest circulated Urdu newspaper in the world, embracing computerizationin the late 1980s. Soon the trend was replicated across the subcontinent.In India, Siasat had been the first to follow in the footstepsof Jang.
As a direct consequence of thecomputerization of the Urdu press and publishing industry and a lack ofpatronage by the state, most calligraphers, long prized and patronized fortheir fine skills, fell on hard times. Some of them who were young and willingto adapt were successfully absorbed by newspapers when they managed to learnthe use of computers.
Today, there are few patrons and takers forthe art of calligraphy and the hard work and time that go into producing a workof art, a beautiful book here or a painting there. Some of thepractitioners of the art are still to be found in the Urdu Bazar of Delhi orChatta Bazar of Hyderabad producing Urdu books, small-time newspapers oroccasional posters and wedding invitations. But as an art and calling,calligraphy is fast disappearing and dying, meeting the same fate as thelanguage with which it has largely been associated. In any case, in theage of television, the Internet, Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp, who has gotthe time for old fashioned books and newspapers–especially Urdu books andnewspapers!
The decline of calligraphy is hardlysurprising. When Urdu itself has fallen on hard times and risks beingwiped out from the land of its birth, it is perhaps only natural and inevitablethat its calligraphers should find themselves in dire straits.
So this is more of an elegy for Urdu ratherthan the endangered arts like calligraphy that are associated with it.Doubtless, today, more than ever, state patronage is vital for the survival andprogress of any language and literature. Unless languages are linked tolivelihood and economic empowerment, they risk being eventually consigned tothe dustbin of history.
Is the same fate awaiting Urdu in India?Universally admired for its lyrical beauty and rich, inimitable poetry, it haslong come to be, rightly or wrongly, associated with the Muslims ofIndia. Indeed, it has proved to be its undoing, especially after theviolent separation of India and Pakistan in 1947. Which is a terribleirony considering the language came into being as a result of the encounter andlove affair between Islam and India.
A heady blend of Persian, Sanskrit, Arabicand Khari Boli, Urdu or ‘Hindustani,’ as Gandhi chose to call it, is what isspoken and understood by most Indians and Pakistanis today. The mostpotent example of the composite Hindu-Muslim culture, it is the language ofBollywood although the world’s biggest movie industry insists on calling itself’Hindi cinema.’
Urdu had been the language of revolutionand India’s independence struggle, providing the war cry of ‘Inquilab Zindabad’and freedom song of ‘Saare Jahan Se Achcha’ to the nation.
Yet it is increasingly perceived today asan alien legacy associated with the invaders and aggressors, not the preciousgift of those who passionately and intensely loved India and all that itrepresented.
Today everything that is associated withMuslims and their 1000-year old love affair with India is viewed through theblinkers of suspicion and hatred. The recent move by Maharashtra toderecognize thousands of madrassas in the state fits this general pattern ofhostility emerging across the country.
The fact that these madrassas accommodatethousands of poor children, who otherwise should be the responsibility of thestate seems to be of no consequence to anyone.
Given this environment of antagonism andopen hostility coupled with the absence of state patronage, the very survivalof Urdu is at stake. The signs are not good. With most Urdu schoolsbeing shut and few teachers being available to teach the language, mostchildren of Urdu speaking families are unable to pick the language even as asecond or third option. It remains my lifelong regret that my own children,growing up in Dubai as they did, have been deprived of learning their mother tongue. Our efforts at home to provide them with a nodding acquaintance with thelanguage that is so close to our hearts haven’t been too successful.
It is a depressing state of affairs. Language is more than a vehicle and medium of communication. It forms ourvery cultural identity. And it is perhaps more true of Urdu than anyother language given the unique cultural milieu and environment in which it wasborn and blossomed.
Urdu can and will survive in the land ofits birth only if the Urdu wallahs consciously strive to keep it alive. Merely attending mushairas (poetry reading sessions) religiously and glancingthrough Urdu newspapers will not save the language. We will have toembrace, promote and practice it in our day-to-day lives to save it for generationsto come. We have to give it all we have got.
The Jews kept the Hebrew language alive formore than 2000 years even as they were hunted and persecuted across theglobe. It remained at the heart of their identity. Can thosechampioning Urdu not do the same? It’s easier said than done but notimpossible.
Aijaz Zaka Syed is an award-winning journalist and former editor.