Nazir Jahangir
Over the years, a slew of literary organizations sprang up across Kashmir like mushrooms after rain. Yet, most failed to make a lasting imprint on the region’s cultural and literary landscape. Sooner or later, they fizzled out like damp squibs. Of course, this is my perception—others may beg to differ. After all, no two snowflakes are alike, so how can two minds or their conclusions ever be a perfect match?
In my estimation, it wasn’t until the 1970s that intellectual circles in Kashmir truly began to engage meaningfully with literature. The surge in literacy rates around that period played a pivotal role. A new class of sensitive, thinking individuals emerged—men and women who gravitated toward creative expression, literary pursuits, and critical thought.
The post-1970 era saw a flowering of literary talent. Writers such as Rafiq Raaz, Iqbal Faheem, M.H. Zafar, Zarif Ahmad Zarif, Chaman Lal Chaman, Moti Lal Saqi, Bansi Nirdosh, Omar Majeed, Shamsuddin Shameem, Hirday Kaul Bharti, Hari Krishan Kaul, Shafi Shauq, Gulshan Majeed, Majeed Asami, Nazir Fida, Shaukat Farooqi, Abdal Mehjoor, Avtar Krishan Rahbar, Basheer Akhtar, Mishal, Shad Ramzan, Majrooh Rasheed, Farooq Nazki, Muhammad Zaman Azardah, Rafiq Masoodi, Farooq Masoodi, Ghulam Rasool Ponpor, Margob Banahali, Faiyaz Dilbar, Muneeb ur Rahman, Shahzada Rafiq, and Ghulam Nabi Shahid carved a niche for themselves. While not all were “Sahib-e-Tasnif,” each left a significant mark on our literary heritage.
Simultaneously, the stalwarts—Muhammad Yusuf Teng, Mirza Arif, Amin Kamil, Rehman Rahi, Ali Mohammad Lone, Pushkar Bhan, Nadim, Muzaffar Azim, Qazi Ghulam Mohammad, Somanath Sadhu, Akhtar Mohiuddin, Hajni, Ghulam Rasool Nazki, Ghulam Nabi Khayal, and Rashid Nazki—were already well established. Literary giants like Mahjoor and Azad had achieved legendary status even before 1947.
As the 20th century drew to a close and the 21st began, another generation began to light up the literary firmament. Farooq Fayaz, Shahnaz Rashid, Satish Vimal, Talha Jahangir, Ghulam Nabi Haleem, Rukhsana Jabin, Naseema Shifaye, Ayaz Rasool Nazki, Ali Shaida, Shabir Ahmad Shah, Shakil Rehman, Mohi-ud-Din Reshi, Gazanfar Ali, Manshor, Bashir Dada, Fayaz Tilgami, Razi Tahir, Mushtaq Mehdi, Rahim Rahbar, and Rajish Koul rose with their distinct voices and visions.
The idea of forming literary associations gained traction only after the 1970s, when young writers, burning with zeal, yearned for platforms to be seen and heard. For some, forming an Anjuman was more than a goal—it was a labor of love. The famed Coffee House in Srinagar played a key role in fostering literary camaraderie. Serendipitous encounters between seasoned and budding writers were commonplace there—offering fledgling writers the rare chance to rub shoulders with veterans. For me, the Coffee House wasn’t just a gathering place; it was a sanctuary, a space for catharsis and soul-searching. Its closure felt like a dagger to the heart of Kashmir’s literary spirit. The indifference of successive governments toward reviving it speaks volumes—perhaps they simply lacked the appetite for books or the thirst for wisdom.
From what I have seen, a certain miserliness plagued many literary aspirants in Kashmir. With rare exceptions, senior writers hesitated to loosen their purse strings. But let’s face it—whether political, social, religious, or literary, no organization can stand on its own two feet without financial backing. Money is the lifeblood of collective action. Without it, dreaming of lasting institutions is like building castles in the air.
Still, driven by passion and idealism, young writers plunged headlong into forming literary groups with whatever meager resources they could muster. And thus, a multitude of organizations came into being—each a testament to undying zeal, even if many were doomed from the outset.
Some of these groups barely took their first steps before collapsing like a house of cards. Others became little more than talking shops, mired in hollow debates and self-congratulatory banter. Some distributed certificates, shawls—even samavars—in a manner that reminded one of the saying, “a blind man distributing sweets—only to his own.” A few groups cornered government grants and squandered them on personal indulgence—what we call in Kashmiri “shunyaah tunyaah”.
In the end, most of these organizations contributed little, if anything, to the literary landscape. On the contrary, they diluted its essence—metche-e-noon deun—as we say in Kashmiri, giving salt to the soil.
Even government institutions, initially launched with noble intentions to promote Kashmiri literature, soon fell into the hands of crafty opportunists who were in it for personal gain. They, too, ended up offering metche-e-noon deun.
None of these organizations—public or private—had any solid, workable plan. Their aims and objectives, if ever written, remained confined to paper. In practice, it was all smoke and mirrors—haathi ke daant khane ke aur, dikhane ke aur.
Sadly, many of those who rose to lead these organizations were ill-equipped for the task—ignorant, boastful, clownish, or simply incompetent.
In 1984, I too ventured into this realm, co-founding the Writers’ Action Committee along with the noted writer Iqbal Fahim. I served as Chairman, Iqbal Fahim as General Secretary, and Premi Romani as Secretary. The Urdu daily Srinagar Times published news of our formation as its second lead story, while Daily Aftab regularly covered our meetings.
I personally bore the expenses of printing brochures and posters. Later, I handed over a receipt book, brochures, and some funds to Meem Hai Zafar, who had just returned from Rajasthan with a PhD in philosophy. He raised additional funds under the Committee’s banner, but he deviated from our objectives and used the money to publish a Kashmiri magazine titled Waad (The Argument), though after taking Iqbal Faheem and me into confidence. It merits a mention here that my name appeared on its editorial board, while I had no active editorial role. My involvement remained limited to financial support and contributing literary work. Predictably, like many such ventures, it flickered briefly and faded away.
Now, allow me to state this with clarity and conviction: no fiction writer in the history of Kashmiri literature matches my imaginative range and literary depth. Mediocrity reigns. I’ve repeatedly challenged both fiction writers and critics to point out anyone who rivals my creative vision. No one has—because they simply cannot. I am acutely aware of the limitations that pervade the literary circles here.
I also firmly believe that at times, it becomes necessary for a writer to speak up about their own craft. Artificial humility is just that—artifice. Cloaking talent in false modesty is hypocrisy. Why should a writer shy away from showcasing their own work? Literary courage lies not just in writing, but in presenting that writing to the world.
This tradition of calling oneself khaaksaar, aajiz, naacheez, and ahqar stems from a defeated mindset. Often, it masks an inferiority complex. Why can’t I sing of myself? Is there any law that prohibits self-acknowledgment? Isn’t posting selfies on social media a form of self-praise? Doesn’t a person with selfitis do just that—seeking attention and admiration?
Everything must be seen in context. Arrogance is condemned in Islam, yes—but when truth must be told, why tiptoe around it? Sometimes, to puncture the inflated egos of others, one must speak boldly.
So yes, there are moments when praising oneself is not only acceptable—it is necessary. Not to show off, but to defend one’s truth and counter misconceptions. This article, I admit, is aimed at someone who needs to hear this.
Several years ago, Storystar.com, an American platform for global short story writers, celebrated its 10th anniversary. Of the nearly 5,000 writers from over 120 countries who submitted more than 12,000 stories, the website selected only 60 for a landmark anthology. Stories were judged on ratings, votes, views, comments, and the overall contribution of the author. My story was chosen, and my name appeared at serial number 7.
So I ask again: Why can’t I sing of myself? If I’ve a reason to do do!
The author is a noted journalist
