The thought of joining the Indian Navy never occurred to a young Khurram Shahzad Noor while he was growing up in a village of Western Uttar Pradesh.
It was a meeting with a colonel while he was attending a tuition class. The Army officer encouraged him to consider a career in the armed forces. Today, after retiring from the Indian Navy at the rank of Rear Admiral, a fairly senior leadership position, he remembers the encounter with the stranger who changed his life.
Today, he has a distinguished career in the Indian Navy behind him and is active as a poet, writer, and motivational speaker. His life demonstrates that a person need not have to choose between discipline and imagination, or public service and passion. Both can coexist and enrich life.
Though the armed forces do not believe in flaunting the religious identities of the officers and men, Dr Rear Admiral (retd) Khuram Shahzad Noor is the first Muslim to reach such a top position in the Indian Navy.
Rear Admiral Khurram Shahzad Noor
Born into a family with roots in the village of Nagina, Bijnor, Noor’s childhood did not suggest the extraordinary career that lay ahead. Born prematurely at around seven months, he was physically weaker than many children of his age. He took longer to learn to walk and found ordinary sporting activities demanding. Running for a short distance could leave him exhausted.
For a child growing up with such limitations, the prospect of joining the armed forces might have appeared distant. Yet those early difficulties eventually became a source of strength. Rather than allowing physical limitations to define his future, Noor chose to challenge them.
The road ahead required discipline, education and perseverance. Noor eventually joined the Indian Navy and went on to serve the country for approximately 35 years. His professional journey was closely associated with technology, education and training. He developed expertise in anti-submarine warfare, a specialised field that requires precision, patience and the ability to understand complex underwater operations.
Reflecting on his professional responsibilities, Noor says, “I teach anti-submarine warfare, where I look after the training of Navy officers.” The statement offers a glimpse into another important aspect of his career: preparing the next generation of naval officers for the responsibilities that come with serving at sea.
Rear Admiral Khurram Shahzad Noor at an event
Submarine warfare is a highly specialised domain in which knowledge, technology, judgment and teamwork have to work together. Noor’s role as an instructor placed him not merely in the position of an experienced officer but also that of a mentor responsible for transferring knowledge to those who would eventually shoulder the nation’s maritime responsibilities.
Speaking about the Navy’s role during Operation Sindoor, Noor explained that naval operations have a distinct character. “The role of the Navy in wars is very specific. We do not come out in the open until it’s a full-fledged war declared,” he said.
For Noor, the Navy’s contribution is not limited to moments when ships are deployed in direct combat. He highlights the less visible but equally significant role of maritime engagement.
“The Navy does a lot of Sea Diplomacy, which no other armed forces get to do. This is a positive part that the Navy contributes to,” he said. “Sea diplomacy allows a country’s naval presence to serve strategic and diplomatic purposes during peacetime. Through maritime cooperation, international engagements and interaction with other nations, naval forces can help strengthen relationships while simultaneously protecting national interests”, Noor added.
Noor also explained the distinction between the Navy’s role during a declared war and its responsibilities at other times. “When it’s a properly declared war, we cut lines and follow orders at sea. Otherwise we are never in attack mode, but in support of what is going on the borders, to make things easy for the army,” he said.
His observations underline the coordinated nature of India’s defence structure. Different branches of the armed forces have distinct responsibilities, but their larger objective remains common, safeguarding the country and supporting one another when circumstances demand it.
Recalling tough days during his training, a young cadet ran away from the academy. Five days later, the boy returned with a letter from his father. The letter said the boy had two choices – face his father’s wrath at home or return to the Naval forces.
Recalling the incident with a laugh, Noor said the young cadet chose to return to the academy.
Rear Admiral Khurram Shahzad Noor
Yet behind the uniform and military responsibilities was another personality, one connected with words. “I deeply believe in languages”, Noor shared.
Noor’s love for poetry did not disappear amid the demands of naval life. Instead, literature became another way through which he could explore human emotions, relationships and society. The contrast is striking: a professional trained to listen for faint signals beneath the sea also became a poet attentive to the quieter signals of the human heart.
His creative interests extend beyond poetry. He has also explored short filmmaking and storytelling, using creative expression to examine human relationships and social themes. These pursuits reveal a personality that refuses to be confined to a single professional identity.
Noor’s life challenges the assumption that a person’s early circumstances determine the limits of his future. The child who struggled to keep pace on a football field eventually spent decades undertaking demanding naval responsibilities. The officer associated with submarine warfare also became a teacher and mentor. The military professional developed into an educator, poet and communicator.
source: http://www.awazthevoice.in / Awaz, The Voice / Home> Stories / by Vidhush Gaur, New Delhi / August 23rd, 2026
Started as a local bi-weekly newspaper, Madinah soon commanded a massive subcontinent-wide circulation. While most newspapers at the time focused on major colonial urban centres such as Lahore, Delhi or Calcutta, Madinah instrumentalised its place of inception—Bijnor—as a political shield.
‘Madinah,’ a bi-weekly newspaper founded in 1912 by Mohammad Majeed Hasan, began in his courtyard in the small qasbah of Bijnor in the Northwest United Provinces (present-day Uttar Pradesh). Its inception is later recounted in a dream narrative published in Madinah’s silver jubilee edition in 1939, which describes how Hasan dreamt of “a bright moon shining in the sky, being eclipsed by another moon appearing from behind and drifting away from it, becoming brighter as the dream continued.”
Hasan had been working as a journalist in Lahore while also preparing for a career as a judge. He is said to have had the dream shortly after abandoning his training and returning to Bijnor to continue working for the family newspaper Sahifa, whose modest readership had already begun to dwindle. Hasan later interpreted the dream as a sign that he should start his own newspaper, symbolised by a new shining moon.
Hasan’s first wife, Muhtarma Kaneez Fatimah, whose altruistic nature and firm belief in his venture compelled her to help him start the paper, sold her jewellery to support it. She later proved to be an intelligent and capable assistant in the newspaper’s production, despite being unable to read or write.
It was she who inspired the newspaper to include a separate women’s section named Akhbar-i-Nisvan on one of its last pages. The section frequently appeared during the newspaper’s first three years, from 1912 to 1915, and was intended to serve the interests of Muslim women by including editorials and creative pieces written by both men and women.
Soon, the paper had distinctly identified itself among its audience by creating a space for Muslim women, with a special focus on mothers, to discuss their issues through genres such as poetry and fiction.
The unlikely epicentre: importance of the Qasbah
Started as a local bi-weekly newspaper, Madinah soon commanded a massive subcontinent-wide circulation. While most newspapers at the time focused on major colonial urban centres such as Lahore, Delhi or Calcutta, Madinah instrumentalised its place of inception—Bijnor—as a political shield. In the same year as Madinah’s inception, Maulana Azad, at the age of 23, started the paper Al-Hilal in Calcutta, which was lauded among the Muslim elite and others for its publishing style and genre, soon reaching a pinnacle of readership.
In contrast, Madinah’s unique approach, which embraced the values of the gentry while also appealing to a broad readership beyond the traditional urban elite, distinguished the paper from the incessant urban cynicism that was becoming a prevalent theme throughout the landscape of production. Due to better readership and the greater availability of resources in urban areas, similar endeavours to Madinah redirected themselves to these spaces.
In its founding years, Madinah also addressed British officials, adopting varying strategic and bargaining stances against surveillance and strict government policies through explicit deference to colonial authorities. For instance, Hasan, the proprietor of the newspaper, cited the Ijazat (permission) of the Magistrate and Collector of Bijnor in its inaugural issue. This attentiveness to British intelligence provided the necessary immunity required for the functioning of the newspaper, unlike Azad’s Al-Hilal, which came under heavy scrutiny from the colonial government and had to cease publication by the end of 1914.
Newspapers in urban centres, such as Awadh Akhbar, persisted in their efforts to speak to a broad audience delineated more by language and culture than by religion, while papers such as Madinah reinforced an already rich discursive tradition surrounding religion and identity in the social crevices known as qasbahs (small towns). They also engaged with contested political themes debated by scholars and leaders, including the shaping of early narratives of separatism and communalism among Indian Muslims.
The success of Madinah can be attributed to the spatio-temporal advantages of the qasbah, which can be defined as a place of bureaucratic and market significance where a Muslim minority or majority lived alongside populations from other communities, alongside an influential enclave of intellectual vivacity and economic and political importance for Muslims. Scholar M. Raisur Rahman described qasbahs as “an alternative site for contestation with strong autonomous networks of culture, literature and religion”, while simultaneously defining them as a ‘unique space’ and a ‘microcosm of larger idealized national life’.
These spaces have been significantly important sites in the history of South Asian culture, shaping identities and literary traditions while remaining distinct from the typologies of urban environments, where modernity had already seeped through the sutures of cultural exchanges with the outside world.
Madinah and its role in politics
The political trajectory of Madinah transformed profoundly during the period of World War I, following the Balkan Wars. The paper broadened its purview by juxtaposing the localised ethos and culture of the qasbah with larger international crises, particularly the imminent dismantling of the Ottoman Empire.
Navigating the intricacies of a contested political landscape, Madinah supposedly guarded a global Islamic consciousness through its promotion of the Khilafat Movement and its shared affiliation with Jamiat Ulema-e-Hind. Consequently, its support for the Indian National Congress and its anti-separatist stance against Jinnah became apparent, aligning with Jamiat’s idea of Composite Nationalism, as Madinah continued to anchor itself in the secular, anti-colonial bedrock of Urdu journalism.
According to scholar Gyanendra Pandey, Madinah served as a vital barometer of Muslim public opinion across this shifting timescape. Driven by the ideological synergy of Hindu-Muslim unity during the Non-Cooperation and Khilafat movements, the publication commanded an astounding peak circulation of 12,500 copies by 1922. However, this radical nationalism invited severe repercussions from the colonial state, notably resulting in the paper being banned in Punjab following its courageous and explicit reporting on the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh massacre. Following the ban, the paper was relaunched in August 1919 under a new name—Yasrab (Madinah in Arabic)—as an act of strategic defiance against the colonial government, with a couplet from Iqbal:
Khāk-i Yasrab az do ‘ālam khūshtar ast, Ā’e khunak shahre ke ānjā dilbar ast
(The dust of Madinah is better than both worlds, How wonderful is the city where the beloved is.)
As the landscape of production became increasingly fragmented by communal cynicism and the mass political momentum of the early 1920s waned, the paper witnessed a decline in readership, with circulation dipping to 6,500 in 1927 and further to 6,000 by 1931.
Despite this dwindling circulation, Madinah remained a formidable and persistent critic of communal separatism throughout the 1930s and 1940s. Engaging with the contested political themes of the era, the paper sought to dismantle the early narratives of the All-India Muslim League. Pandey highlights a remarkably bold editorial from the 1930s that dismissed the League as being “neither dead nor alive”, asserting that its existence was confined merely to “the brain and mind of Mr. Jinnah”.
By 1942, the newspaper had effectively transformed into an open town hall, enabling ordinary citizens to debate and largely resist the looming Pakistan movement from within the landscape of the qasbah.
The script and scripture
The prevalent Urdu script, Nastaliq, which had been used throughout South Asia for centuries and was imported from Persia, featured intricate details, ornamentation and a complex structural form forged through the meticulous amalgamation of the Naskh and Ta’liq calligraphic traditions. It became the most recognisable Urdu script and developed strong cultural and ideological ties with the Urdu language. However, due to the rise of globalisation and the growing demand to produce literature for the public, it became increasingly difficult to produce works in the script lithographically on a mass scale. By the end of the 1970s, Nastaliq began to advance with the help of Mirza Jamil Ahmad, who created more than 20,000 combinations to bring the script into the digital world under the name Noori Nastaliq.
By the time the digitisation process began, Madinah was already out of business, shutting down its press with its last issue in 1976. During the seven decades that the paper survived, its editors had no keys to the press and no screens to reflect upon. Instead, the issues of Madinah were produced solely by hand, by calligraphers and artists alike.
The Urdu script Nastaliq had been established as the standard for almost every copy of the holy book Quran in South Asia since the Mughal period. By the time Madinah began using the same script as its standard, it already carried connotations of purity, holiness and divinity within the cultural landscape. Combined with the organic practice of producing it by hand rather than by machine, the paper was considered by its readers to embody a deliberate resistance against illegitimate mechanisation and the rising industrialisation of the subcontinent, curating a new political discourse based on the cultural symbolism of the script.
By using and retaining lithographic practices in an era when other papers were increasingly relying on mechanical typography for efficiency, Nastaliq was perceived as a tactile and handcrafted discipline that preserved the inherent spirit of prose, shielding the paper’s contributions from the mechanical and indifferent processes of Western print capitalism.
The inevitable descent
By the 1940s, Madinah had begun engaging in intense print debates with the supporters and proponents of pro-Muslim League newspapers and writers, arguing in a polemical fashion that religion could not be the sole determinant of a nation’s survival. Despite the paper’s persistent efforts to resist the pro-League and separatist stance, it witnessed the partition of the Indian subcontinent into two parts. The social capital of Madinah was on the verge of collapse, as the paper saw affluent members of the Muslim community, who had constantly contributed to its production and editorials, leave for the other side of the border.
The Language Act of 1951 became a huge blow to the publishing house of Madinah, as Hindi was soon adopted as the state language in Uttar Pradesh, mandating officials and government offices to maintain all data in Hindi and extensively replacing Urdu in institutions under the newly formed Indian government. Although the apparent marginalisation of the paper’s foundational language and the loss of its social capital were significant blows in the paper’s history, they were unable to overshadow its continuing legacy.
Madinah, managing to survive, remained a prominent, albeit ageing, symbol of pre-Partition nationalist Muslim political identity, advocating for the preservation of Urdu heritage amid the growing socio-political shifts in Uttar Pradesh. At the same time, it continued to struggle against declining circulation as newer, faster-printed typographic dailies overtook the market. Its reports on the Indo-Pakistani War of 1971 and the creation of Bangladesh vindicated the paper’s historical assertion that religion alone could not hold a nation together, while it also continued reporting on rising communal tensions in the country.
The prodigious endeavour was about to culminate in the years following the Indo-Pakistani War. Near the end of its operational life, the paper’s traditional lithographic format and qasbah roots struggled to attract younger, urbanised readers. The deteriorating health of Hasan finally caught up with him, leading to his death in 1972. The handling of the newspaper remained in the hands of Hasan’s family until its last editor, Syed Hasan, finally ceased publication, quietly closing the press in 1975.
References
Jones, J. (2023). Megan Eaton Robb: Print and the Urdu Public: Muslims, Newspapers, and Urban Life in Colonial India. New York: Oxford University Press, 2021; pp. xi + 247. Journal of Religious History, 47, 151–153. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9809.12917
Abduhu, G. R. (1973). The Educational Ideas of Maulana Abul Kalam Azad. Sterling Publishers.
Rahman, M. Raisur. (2014). “Beyond Centre-Periphery: Qasbahs and Muslim Life in South Asia.” South Asian History and Culture, 5, 163–178. https://doi.org/10.1080/19472498.2014.883762.
In ‘Print and the Urdu Public’, Megan Eaton Robb writes about the impact and role of popular Urdu newspaper Madinah and how it pushed back against censorship.
File photo | Gen. Reginald Dyer | Wikimedia Commons
Madīnah’s community of editors, subeditors, and proprietors illustrate the interconnected network of professionals working on newspapers across North India, with a shared commitment to confounding censorship laws. Editors of Madīnah were products of qasbahs and lived in Bijnor or nearby while employed by the publication. At least one assistant editor, Ḥamīd Ḥasan “Fakīr” Bijnorī (1903–1991), was a relative, having married Majīd Ḥasan’s daughter in the 1910s before he became the editor of Madinah Press’s children’s magazine Ghunchah after 1922. Ḥamīd Ḥasan would later be listed as an assistant editor from 1930 to 1935 and even take over as editor for several months when the need arose in 1945. When a new editor took over the work of Madīnah and was not already resident in Bijnor, he would move into the Ḥasan compound, which acted as the administrative office of the paper. Several small apartments attached to the main verandah, so editors could live in comfort with their families, remaining accessible to the newspaper office while maintaining privacy. Maulānā Majīd Ḥasan’s name, along with the name of the current chief editor, always appeared on the paper’s title page. At any given time there could be up to three editors of the paper, with the chief editor being referred to as “mudīr-i mas’ūl.”
Although Majīd Ḥasan’s proprietorship provided continuity for the newspaper, its different editors influenced the paper’s tone and focus. The turnover between editors could be rapid when legal troubles emerged. For instance, in 1924, when the editor Qāẓī Badrul Ḥasan Jalālī (1891–1956) was prosecuted by the British Raj for an article, he resigned his editorship, but he stepped back into his position once the dust of government scrutiny had settled. If Majīd Ḥasan attracted too much scrutiny from government surveillance, he could retreat from view behind the shadow of his prominent editors, continuing to exert the same influence behind the scenes. This allowed his outfit to survive draconian censorship measures while retaining the continuity essential to the newspaper’s success.
When he launched the newspaper in 1912, Majīd Ḥasan had little local influence. The only person of significance attached to the newspaper initially was a prominent journalist of the period, Nūr ul-Ḥasan Zahīn, who wrote for Ṣaḥīfa as well. Colonial censors initially dismissed Madīnah as a “bigoted Muhammadan organ, inclined to make trouble between Hindus and Muhammadans.” Madīnah first earned the ire of colonial administrators by criticizing the headmaster of Bijnor High School for complying with the British Educational Code. This was only the first of many encounters with censorship legislation.
April 1917 marked the beginning of Editor Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn Shairkoṭī’s tenure, and the newspaper’s shift to publishing more explicitly political, anti-British stances. Shairkoṭī, a novelist as well as a journalist, was born in the Shairkoṭ qasbah of Bijnor in 1888. Initially educated by Maulānā ‘Abdul Qayūm Arshāq and Miyānji Sa‘ad Allah Sahib, he had attended Deoband as a pupil of Maulānā Mahmud ul-Ḥasan Asīr Mālṭā, known as Shaikh ul-Hind. After completing his education at Deoband, Mazh̤ ar ud- Dīn returned to Shairkot, where he worked on the newspaper Dastūr under the management of Ḥakīm Asrār ul-Nabī and on the newspaper Nagīnah.
Maulānā Majīd Ḥasan saw Maz̤har ud-Dīn’s affiliation with the newspaper as the beginning of a new period of commitment to the Muslim community and wrote an illustrious introduction for his new editor. Majīd Ḥasan’s message in his introduction was clear: he had brought in a power player to man the ship of Madīnah, a man who indubitably linked the paper to a network of powerful publications and individuals. The new editor transformed Madīnah into a more explicitly political entity. Maz̤har ud-Dīn associated with prominent political Muslims of the period, including Syed Ḥasan Imām, who presided over the Indian National Congress’s consideration of the Montagu-Chelmsford Reforms in Bombay in 1918. His other associates included Nawab Muḥammad Ismā’il Khān. He was, along with Khalīquzzamān, a key organizer of the UP Muslim League, and a prominent member until 1947; he remained in India after independence.
After the end of World War I in November 1918, discussions of independence and postwar reality in India began in earnest. The state of Islam, and the progress of both national and local branches of organizations such as the Muslim League and Congress, became matters of intense concern. Mohandas Karamchand “Mahātmā” Gāndhī (1869–1948) featured in several articles musing on the way forward for political Muslims. In addition, discussions of the fall out of World War I in Turkey and the caliphate took center stage. Under Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn’s leadership, the newspaper emphasized the connection between the fate of Indian Muslims and of those in Turkey and other nations with significant ties to Islam.
Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn presided over Madīnah’s publication of an article critical of the government’s role in the Jallianwallabagh massacre, which led to a dramatic conflict with the British Raj. In April 1919 Madīnah published an article criticizing Lieutenant Governor Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s (1864–1940) endorsement. Putting Madīnah on the Muslim Map of the actions of Colonel Reginald Dyer, who had overseen the disproportionate response at Jallianwallabagh. The article minced no words:
His honour O’Dwyer’s government of Panjab, from the very beginning, kept as the foundation of its policy a despotic course of action [ . . . ] This was his honor O’Dwyer’s last period of government; therefore it was necessary that he make amends for his past course of actions. This was the time when, instead of extinguishing the fire with the water Of gentleness and kindness, he inflamed the hearts of the ahl-i Punjab. Perhaps it could be said that he did not put out the fire with water, but instead doused it with oil. If that were not the case, then why would he at the conclusion of his reign, give orders that were so repellent, so far from resembling affection that they approximated hate?
It was actually illegal at this point in time to question the motives of the colonial government; thus, the final statement of the quotation accusing O’Dwyer of “hate” fell afoul of censorship laws. The government banned Madīnah from circulating in Punjab as a result of this piece. Mazh̤ arud-Dīn and Majīd Ḥasan’s response was defiant: in August 1919 they renamed the newspaper Yasrab, an Arabic synonym of Madīnah, as a bid to evade censorship.64 On the cover of each issue of Yasrab an Iqbal couplet appeared, a knowing wink to its readership base:
The dust of Madinah is better than both worlds. How wonderful is the city where the beloved is.
Khāk-i yas̱rab az do ‘ālam khūshtar ast Ā’e khunak shahre ke ānjā dilbar ast.
The couplet hinted at the paper Yasrab’s true identity, offered praise for the paper’s unpretentious popularity, and emphasized the link between the newspaper and the city Madīnah. Madīnah’s proprietor and editors were men who wore their few educational laurels lightly. More important than formal education was the ability to use that knowledge in the service of Indians generally and Muslims particularly. Unsurprisingly, the attempt at flouting the circulation ban was quickly detected. The paper reverted back to the title Madīnah after a few weeks, and the ban on circulation was lifted eventually.66 Madīnah was a space offering a figurative point of access to the community of Islam, the qaum, and it was a space increasingly under siege of colonial censorship laws.
Madīnah had been only one of many significant voices in the press commenting on the Jallianwallabagh fiasco. As the UP fortnightly report complained, “[The] occurrences in the Punjab [ . . . ] practically absorbed the entire attention of the press.” Along with Madīnah/Yasrab, the British excluded from Punjab al- Khalīl of Bijnor, The Independent of Allahabad (a Nehru paper), Hamdam and Akhuwat of Lucknow (Farangi Mahalli papers), Swadesh of Gorakhpur, and Amrita bazar patrika of Calcutta. The government demanded securities, or large sums of money as surety against future crimes of sedition, from papers in Bengal, Nagpur, Lucknow, and Madras. Madīnah’s inclusion in this censorship was a testament to its growing influence; its subterfuge demonstrated a growing sense of urgency in its mandate to reach readers and an emerging resolve to flout British restrictions.
In the 1920s, Madīnah focused on coverage of the Muslim League and the Indian National Congress, showing a preference for Congress.
It was per- haps Maz̤har ud-Dīn’s affection for the League that motivated him ultimately to resign from Madīnah in 1921. It is also possible that Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn’s taste for politics pulled him closer to Delhi and toward the League after the political awakening accompanying the Khilafat Movement.
It was common for editors to move around among different qasbah-based newspapers, and after leaving Madīnah, Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn joined Munshī Safīr Aḥmed’s Naginah-based paper Almān as its first editor; he was instrumental in relocating that paper to Delhi. He later became close to the leadership of the All-India Muslim League, including Muḥammad ‘Alī Jinnāh. In the 1930s he founded a paper entitled Vaḥdat (Unity) in order to assist the propagation of Muslim League ideals. When Maulānā Shabbīr Aḥmed ‘Usmānī, a Deobandi who supported the creation of Pakistan, resigned from the pro-Congress Jam‘īat ‘Ulamā and declared his allegiance to the Muslim League and Jinnah, he did so from Mazh̤ ar ud-Dīn’s office. This demonstrated Madīnah was one node in an important network of political power and publishing prestige in this period and had to make considered choices when it came to balancing shifting political alliances.
This excerpt from Print and the Urdu Public: Muslims, Newspapers, and Urban Life in Colonial India has been published with special permission from Oxford Univerity Press.
source: http://www.theprint.in / The Print / Home> Page Turner> Book Excerpts / by Megan Eaton Robb /May 15th, 2021
CM Naim’s translation of 19th-century reformer Ashrafunnisa Begum’s biography was published in 2021. Naim, a translator and scholar of Urdu, died on July 9.
Choudhri Mohammed Naim, aka CM Naim, a prominent scholar of Urdu language and literature, died on July 9 at the age of 89. He was a professor emeritus at the University of Chicago.
Naim was also the founding editor of the Annual of Urdu Studies and Mahfil (now Journal of South Asian Literature), as well as the author of the definitive textbook for Urdu pedagogy in English.
He was born on June 3, 1936, in Barabanki, Uttar Pradesh and educated at Lucknow University, Lucknow, Deccan College, Poona, and the University of California, Berkeley. In 1961, he joined the faculty of the Department of South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago, which he chaired from 1985 to 1991. He retired in 2001. He was a national fellow at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla, in 2009, and a visiting professor at the Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, in 2003.
Some of his best-known works are Ambiguities of Heritage (1999), Urdu Texts and Contexts (2004), and The Muslim League in Barabanki (2013). He also translated Urdu writings into English some of which are Ghalib’s Lighter Verse (1972), Inspector Matadeen on the Moon: Selected Satires (1994), Curfew in the City (1998), and A Most Noble Life: The Biography of Ashrafunnisa Begum (1840–1903) (2021).
A Most Noble Life: The Biography of Ashrafunnisa Begum (1840–1903)by Muhammadi Begum (1877–1908) is the first complete English translation of Hayat-e Ashraf (1904), the extraordinary story of Ashrafunnisa Begum. Ashrafunnisa, born in a village in Bijnor, Uttar Pradesh, taught herself to read and write in secret, against the wishes of her elders and prevailing norms. She went on to teach and inspire generations of young girls at the Victoria Girls’ School – the first school for girls in Lahore. Her unusual life was written about with great poignancy by Muhammadi Begum – the first woman to edit a journal in Urdu, the weekly Tahzib-i-Niswan. Muhammadi Begum was a prolific writer of fiction and poetry for adults and children, and instructional books for women during her brief life. She aptly titled the biography Hayat-e Ashraf: it echoes the name of her subject, but also means “the noblest life”. Indeed, both biographer and subject may be described, says Professor CM Naim, as “noble lives”.
The two women, who met by chance at a wedding, instantly developed a strong mutual affinity, which grew into a lifelong bond. In Ashrafunnisa Begum, Muhammadi Begum saw not only the mother she had lost as a child, but also an inspiring role model who had led a principled life of her own making, and shown amazing grace and strength against grave odds.
This annotated translation by CM Naim, an eminent scholar of Urdu literature and culture, also provides the first detailed study of the life and works of its author, Muhammadi Begum, and highlights, in an “Afterword”, two key social issues of the time, women’s literacy and widow remarriage, which remain as relevant today.
In this conversation with writer Githa Hariharan (in 2022), CM Naim spoke of the lives and times of Muhammadi Begum and Ashrafunnisa Begum, their work, and the unique friendship that nurtured both of them.
Let me begin with asking you to comment on the ways in which this slim biography of Ashrafunnisa by Muhammadi Begum dispels the gloomy image of the silent and secluded Muslim woman of the 19th and possibly 20th century.
The trouble, as I see it, lies in the “totality” and “exclusivity” we allow to these claims. In the 19th century, a huge number of Muslim men were not literate, just as a huge number of Muslim women were not secluded, or not any more secluded than the non-Muslim women of the same class, occupation or region. The wives of Muslim weavers and barbers and food-sellers may have kept their faces covered while toiling alongside men but their lives were not secluded the way we assume them to be – rightly – for the women of the upper classes. Then there were the differences we see in Bibi Ashraf’s life. Her family was Shi’ah; the women of the household held weekly majlis where they read out texts from religious books. She lost her mother when she was only eight; otherwise, she would have learnt to read and write the way other girls in the family did. We also see a young Muslim widow, a Pathan, taking up employment with the family as a Qur’an instructress.
I found A Most Notable Life a fascinating entry point into the lives of two women I want to know more about. But I also want to know more about the context of their times and work. Ashrafunnisa’s account of how she learnt to read and write is, for me, the most moving section of the book. She encounters obstacles in learning how to read, but the challenges she faces in learning how to write seem far more severe. I am curious about this. Is it far-fetched to conclude that a writing woman presents a greater threat to the patriarchal establishment, because she assumes the power of an “inscriber” rather than merely being a body (or mind) to be inscribed upon?
The chief obstacles are the wilful grandfather and uncle. The grandfather holds the most authority, and the uncle is more immediately present in the lives of the women in the household. The grandfather is not against female literacy in principle. He willingly allows it until the widowed female teacher gets remarried. That is a worse “sin” in his eyes than reading and writing. But then he considers the fact of his son, Bibi Ashraf’s father, taking up a pesha, a profession – he moved to Gwalior and became a lawyer – an equal threat to his honour. The family’s attitude toward writing is complex. Her grandfather tolerated some girls in the family learning writing from their mothers; her father rejoiced when he learned that Bibi Ashraf could read and write so well, but her uncle became more furious and punitive. I feel writing in the upper classes, where seclusion was more closely observed, was seen as an instrument that could make it possible for women to break out of that seclusion. We should not assume that writing was then considered an integral element of education. Transmission of essential or requisite knowledge to a majority of males and females could be done orally. Or so, arguably, the society believed at the time.
I am amazed by the use of multiple genres by both women – poetry, essays, memoir, biography, novels, stories for children, “instruction” manuals. Was this characteristic of the “educated” of the times, or was it driven by the need to be useful to a range of readers? And would you say that in the case of women, or these two women at least, the autobiographical element links all the genres they make use of?
That’s a very interesting question, and I don’t have a clear answer. I can only assert with some confidence that before the 20th century, most prose writings also contained verses. Very often, these were original verses by the author of the text, alongside quoted verses by well-known or obscure poets. The purpose could have been to emphasise a point by reiteration in a more memorable form, or adding the authority of the past to the point being made. The same is done, for instance, by using proverbs. Nazir Ahmad, the reformist novelist, was a great versifier and public orator. His lectures and long poems at the annual sessions of the organisations he supported were hugely popular. So, anyone who learned to read in those days encountered poetry from day one. And if you had creative impulses, you trained yourself to write verses as well as sentences. In the case of Muhammadi Begum, she was indeed driven by a powerful urge to be useful to other women – her sisters, bahneñ – in particular her contemporaries, i.e. young wives, and girls, and wrote in several genres.
Since the education of women is so crucial in the context of the two women’s lives and work, the writing does a balancing act between the creative and the expression of the self on the one hand, and the didactic on the other. To what extent does such didactic literature – or “instructional books” – differ when authored by men (such as Nazir Ahmad, whose work took up women’s education as well as conduct), and women such as Ashrafunnisa and Muhammadi Begum? My friend, writer and critic Aamer Hussein, writes that “Muhammadi Begum reworks and amends, with affection and insight, the reforms suggested by Nazir Ahmad.” In what ways do the women, Muhammadi in particular, take the project forward, not only as writers, but as journalists, teachers and publishers?
What we now label “didactic fiction” was not thought of as merely instructional by its authors; they meant it to entertain too. It would have been Khel khel meñ kam ki bateñ, “useful words in playtime”. The authors simply called them novels. And this applies to female writers and readers too, until they began to learn English.
As for your core question, I can best answer it by exaggerating my response. Nazir Ahmad, Hali and other male reformists wanted to educate women so that they would be good mothers to their children and proficient in managing their homes. Bibi Ashraf and Muhammadi Begum prize these goals too, but they also prize education as a means of mental and spiritual self-improvement. For better self-expression, even. But the most important thing with Muhammadi Begum is that she lays great emphasis on a commonality of sorts, on a sisterhood of peers. She also wishes to make women proficient beyond her kinfolk, and even beyond the threshold of her own home. To that extent, it may be more the aspiration of an upper-class woman. But it also suggests that for her, female literacy was a given. As indeed it was by that time for the salaried middle-class.
It’s clear that propriety is the framework within which these two women, and others like them, have to work to reap some gains. Keeping this in mind, may I ask you to unpack the word “hayat” for us? The biography is called Hayat-e Ashraf, and you have translated it as A Most Noble Life. I am thinking of the difference in English between “respectable” and “noble” when I ask you to explain “hayat” for those of us who do not know Urdu.
“Unpacking” hayat would require explaining what “life” meant to Muhammadi Begum or to an Urdu writer in the 19th century – a tall order. I can only say that Muhammadi Begum seems to have chosen the most apt title for her book. It echoes the title of Altaf Husain Hali’s iconic biography of Sir Syed, Hayat-i-Javaid (An Everlasting Life), published only three years earlier. Hayat-i-Ashraf can be read as “The Life of Ashraf[unnisa Begum]” or as “An Ashraf Life,” i.e. “A Most Noble Life.” Ashraf is the superlative of sharif, and the latter, of course, is a marker of numerous presumed personal attributes, ranging from nobility of birth to modesty in speech and much more. Muhammadi Begum organised her book in a similar manner: first, a chronological account, followed by short sections on what she considered her subject’s exemplary traits or, as she put it, her “Disposition, Habits and Manners.” Throughout the text, she never fails to remind her readers – her “sisters” – to exert themselves and follow Bibi Ashraf’s example.
Pioneers have to be remembered not only for what they did – given their times – but also in connection with their descendants. Would you speculate on the ways in which Muhammadi opened doors for the Urdu women writers who came after her in the 20th century?
Muhammadi Begum was not the first woman poet in Urdu, nor the first fiction writer. She was, however, the first in several other ways. She was the first woman to edit an Urdu journal and to write on many of the issues that were of great concern to women of her community and class. She also wrote “manuals” for women – on writing letters, on managing the household, or on meeting their peers outside the kinship network. In everything she wrote, she made it clear there were no limits to women’s abilities. And most importantly, she made it clear that women can help each other in discovering and putting to use these abilities. I should emphasise one point here. It was her husband’s dream to publish a journal for sharif women that was also edited by a sharif woman – contra the two journals that had appeared earlier and failed. Mumtaz Ali was a champion of Muslim women’s causes, and he strongly believed in gender equality. No doubt he viewed himself as a wise guide, and never hesitated to publish in the journal his own views on some subjects of concern; but what impressed me was his readiness to give space to opposing views, never adopting a patronising or dismissive tone in his responses.
Coming back to your question, Muhammadi Begum’s journal, Tahzib-i-Niswan, gained wide circulation, though subscriptions were slow in coming. But it soon became the journal of choice for aspiring female writers. Hijab Imtiaz Ali, Qurratulain Hyder and Rasheed Jahan made their debut in its pages. And Ismat Chughtai made her first appearance in print as an excited reporter from Aligarh informing the “Tahzib Sisters” that Rasheed Jahan had completed her medical course. So I think it is not so much the matter of opening doors that makes Muhammadi Begum’s journal important; it is the spirit of confident sisterhood that she identified and fostered.
I don’t want the two women, Ashrafunnisa and Muhammadi, to get lost in the jungle of history though, whether it is the history of women’s education or journalism or literature. I want to pay a tribute to their friendship – which allowed them to have a rich relationship that encompasses a role model, a colleague and a surrogate family. And this despite their age difference, despite one being Sunni and the other, Shia. Would you say their friendship gives an edge to their interest in writing memoir and biography?
Their close friendship, their deep trust in each other, was to my mind the most thought-provoking and inspiring thing about them. No doubt, they both had very painful childhoods – having lost their mothers at a tender age. But they also seemed to see in each other a kind of partner-in-arms, joined in some cause. The much older Bibi Ashraf unhesitatingly treated Muhammadi Begum, barely out of her teens, almost as her leader in a cause that concerns all women.
We should also recall that the “seclusion” of sharif women in those days was stricter. It even meant seclusion from the company of a great many females within the extended families as well their neighbourhoods. Muhammadi Begum started her journal Tahzib-i-Niswan in 1898, and amazingly, from the very beginning, she thought of it as a gathering place where women, previously strangers to each other, could meet and become “sisters”. She coined the expression tahzibi bahnen, ‘Tahzibi Sisters’, to describe this coming together. Then, acutely aware of the larger issue, she quickly proceeded to write a manual on the art of Mulaqat, explaining how a sensible woman should behave in the company of other women outside her own family, complete strangers. It was, of course, the time when men in government jobs at all levels, including the salariat middle- and lower-middle class jobs, were liable to be transferred from one district to another, requiring their wives to also move from place to place with them. They led a very lonely life unless they made an effort to know their neighbours – strangers or peers – with no past experience to guide them.
