Nazir Jahangir
With great courage, may I pose a question to my government, administration, officials of the Cultural Academy, the Vice Chancellor of Kashmir University, and the authorities of the Sahitya Akademi?
Could you spare a few moments to introspect deeply, bow your heads, and look within?
Could you knock on the doors of your conscience, stir the chains of your sense of honor, and truly reflect on your roles and responsibilities?
May I request you to pause and assess whether you have adequately fulfilled the aims and objectives of the institutions you serve or lead? Have you evaluated your competence, capacity, and potential to determine whether your efforts have truly met the expectations placed upon you?
Could you take a moment to ask yourselves if your service has been genuine?
Have you sincerely contributed to the growth of our literature and the welfare of our writers, or have you indulged in luxury, gluttony, and self-gratification funded by public resources through hefty salaries?
Have you nurtured sycophants while sidelining genuine writers?
Have you delivered meaningful work for the institutions you are entrusted with, or have you merely enjoyed the privileges and protocols of your positions?
If people here were not fearful of repercussions for speaking the truth, they would have raised these questions themselves. They would have asked whether the millions and billions spent on these institutions have brought any tangible benefits to our community, our state, or our Union Territory. Is this expenditure from the public exchequer to be considered wasted?
Will future generations write in their history books that today’s governments failed to be rightful custodians of public resources and the exchequer?
Will they judge these institutions and their leadership as unworthy of the trust and responsibility placed in them?
I address the authorities—the senior and junior officials, heads, unscrupulous jury members, and other advisors who, at one time or another, have been associated with these institutions. I tell them: one day, you will have to answer these questions. Those who left this world without answering them carried with them a heavy burden of guilt, a weight that clings to their souls and subjects them to perpetual torment. Even here, when their names are mentioned, sensitive individuals do not speak of them with respect or refer to them with kind words. History does not absolve those who lack integrity; they are remembered, if not with open invectives, then with sadness by their communities.
Now consider this: just a few passionate and sensitive souls with a taste for literature formed a literary organization called the Fiction Writers’ Guild. The founders of this guild are certainly not renowned names in our literary circles, nor are they counted among the esteemed writers. Yet, these literature enthusiasts were driven by passion, zeal, and determination. With very modest funds, they created a platform for local writers that has now been functioning successfully for the past ten years.
This guild has gained remarkable popularity among writers, both established and budding, and its weekly literary gatherings have exceeded all expectations. To date, almost all recognized and established fiction writers have participated in these meetings, alongside some of our most notable poets and intellectuals. Fiction is read here, followed by thoughtful discussions, creating a literary atmosphere that has revived the valley’s literary culture, which had been dormant for thirty years. These gatherings have bridged the gaps between writers, bringing them closer together. Emerging writers, previously unknown, have found the opportunity to introduce themselves to the valley’s renowned and respected authors. In this way, avenues for the growth and promotion of literature are steadily opening.
If such a significant achievement can be made through the efforts of a few individuals and with limited funds, why has no similar accomplishment been realized using the millions of rupees allocated in the name of literature by government-backed institutions such as the Cultural Academy and the University’s Department of Kashmiri Studies, despite their bloated budgets and jumbo-sized staff? Have the heads of these institutions truly earned their livelihoods through honest means?
I acknowledge that the officials and leaders of the Fiction Writers Guild still have much work to do to establish credibility for their association, elevate it to a reputable status, and genuinely raise its standards. In the past ten years, I attended only one meeting of this association, and it appeared to me that it had not yet developed into a well-organized group nor achieved a significant literary standard. In my personal opinion, the association remains where it was a decade ago when it was first established. I still perceive it as a gathering of literary enthusiasts. While there is a crowd of storytellers present at these meetings, there seems to be a lack of individuals who truly understand storytelling, are knowledgeable about its structure and essentials, write stories adhering to its principles, or can provide credible and reasonable critiques—except for a rare few. There is a crowd of people presenting stories at these meetings, there is an absence of individuals who truly understand storytelling, those who are familiar with its structure, essentials, and rules, those who write stories adhering to these principles, or those who can provide credible and reasonable commentary or possess expertise in critical analysis—except for a rare few, as God wills.
In Kashmir, I consider ninety-nine percent of fiction writers to be “hush-mush” writers, meaning those who are ‘uninvited guests imposing themselves’, essentially the kind who follow the “like it or not, here I am” approach. In other words, whether or not they are acknowledged, they proclaim themselves as writers.
However, I am hopeful that if the Guild’s officials work earnestly to move their gatherings beyond mere “katha-bathas” (storytelling sessions) and seriously improve its organization, this Guild can inaugurate a golden chapter in Kashmir’s literary history. Yes, it is my fervent hope that this Guild could achieve the distinction of initiating a golden chapter in Kashmir’s literary history.
Embarrassed Despite Being Innocent
A few months ago, I had the opportunity to attend a meeting of the Fiction Writers Guild. My participation in this meeting was unexpected for the organizers. Nevertheless, I was made the chief guest, even though the Guild had initially listed someone else for this role. I am deeply grateful to the Guild’s organizers for this honor and regard their appreciation for writers as a noble gesture.
The Guild office’s previous room wasn’t those days particularly spacious, but the turnout was fairly large, forcing two or three people to sit on the floor. My seat was just two or three chairs away from the Guild’s Ex.President, Dr. Nazir Mushtaq. This meant there was a small gap of two or three chairs between us.
Among those sitting on the floor was someone serving tea to the attendees. This person was just one or two feet away from me, facing Dr. Nazir Mushtaq. Across from me, near the door, sat the young writer Zubair Qureshi, a very lovely boy, who was conducting the event with great finesse. After someone narrated a story, Zubair would invite participants, one by one, to share their thoughts on it.
However, amidst this, Dr. Nazir Mushtaq would often call out, “Jahangir Sahib…!” I assumed he wanted to hear my thoughts on the story being discussed. Just as I began to express my views, Zubair would address me, saying, “Jahangir Sahib, you are the chief guest; your remarks will be taken last.”
This happened several times. Someone would narrate a story, Zubair would invite a participant to comment, and then Dr. Mushtaq would call out, “Jahangir Sahib…!” Believing he was addressing me, I would begin to speak, only to be interrupted again by Zubair, who would remind me that as the chief guest, I should speak last.
This repeated confusion caused me great discomfort and frustration. I felt insulted and deeply distressed that my dignity was being undermined in this gathering. It seemed to the audience that I was an impatient and restless person eager to speak out of turn. This perception was agonizing.
When the meeting finally ended, I discovered the truth. The person sitting on the floor and serving tea was also named Jahangir. Dr. Nazir Mushtaq had been calling his name repeatedly to direct him to serve tea to certain individuals. I, however, had mistaken these calls as requests for my input on the stories.
Now I’ve decided that if I ever attend another literary gathering, I will make an announcement beforehand: If there is another Jahangir present besides Nazir Jahangir, either he should voluntarily leave the gathering, or Nazir Jahangir will withdraw. A literary meeting can accommodate only one Jahangir; otherwise, it will turn into chaos instead of a dignified literary event.
The author is a noted columnist and journalist