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Man who breathed literature 
Anis Nagi's creativity, stretched over nearly half a century, enriched Urdu literature and made a huge impact on the literary discourse
By Adnan Adil
On the night of October 7, in the dark and dusty graveyard of Raza Block, Allama Iqbal Town, Lahore, as per custom I took a fistful of dust and tossed it over the coffin of my friend, Anis Nagi, with whom I had spent countless hours chatting literature and with whom I had shared the warmth of life for 25 years.

Is this the grand design?
Hawking and Mlodinow are confident that only science can answer the most important ontological questions 
By Bilal Ibne Rasheed
The Grand Design
By Stephen Hawking and
Leonard Mlodinow
Publisher: Bantam, 2010
Pages: 198
Price: $28 
If you have been a regular reader of popular science books then Stephen Hawking's latest book The Grand Design, co-authored with the Caltech physicist Leonard Mlodinow, has not much to offer. The initial half of the book, as aptly remarked by Paul Di Fillipo in his review, constitutes "a survey of physics and cosmology so very similar to the literally hundreds of others that have preceded it." But if you have not come across any popular science book as yet, especially regarding theoretical physics, then it is likely to be a swift and enlightening read for you.

On the night of October 7, in the dark and dusty graveyard of Raza Block, Allama Iqbal Town, Lahore, as per custom I took a fistful of dust and tossed it over the coffin of my friend, Anis Nagi, with whom I had spent countless hours chatting literature and with whom I had shared the warmth of life for 25 years.

My friendship with Anis Nagi started with a brief encounter with him at Lahore's Pak Tea House sometime in the mid-1980s. At the café, I saw a man who looked like Albert Camus -- tall, smart, with fair complexion and a bookish face. He was reading a French book and carrying a French-to-English dictionary. My friend, Hafeez Zafar, a poet and a journalist, introduced me to him, saying many good things about him. At that time, Nagi had translated the poems of Pablo Neruda and published the anthology in a booklet form. He himself had typed the book as Urdu computer-publishing had not yet started.

In subsequent years, he presented me dozens of his books and introduced me to some of the world's best writers. He had an eye for outstanding literary works. On his recommendation, I translated from English a short story Brooch by Isaac Singer, a Nobel laureate and Jewish writer, who was not known among Urdu literary circles.

Nagi was a regular, but not a daily, visitor to the tea house and mostly he sat on his separate table where his close friends would surround him. The other table where he would spend some time was where writers and political activists such as Altaf Ahmed Qureshi, Saleem Shahid and Baba Younus Adeeb sat. Mostly, he would pass a critical comment on some writer under discussion, dish out free copies of his latest book or magazine, Danishwar, and then stroll down to his house located nearby.

Nagi used to live in a small rented apartment in a multi-storey building behind the popular restaurant, Shezan. He was a civil servant who served in several lucrative positions including the offices of the Settlement Commissioner, Food Department etc, but lived a modest life. To supplement his income, his wife used to run a small private school at Islampura.

In a society where people are usually either hooked to religion or politics, Nagi was one of those rare people who remained passionate about literature, the most, and perhaps the single-most, important thing in his life. The fact that he died of heart attack while reading at the Punjab Public Library, Lahore, speaks a lot about the man. His contribution to Urdu literature is massive; he made a huge impact on Urdu literary discourse. Both at the level of form and content, he aimed at charting a new path abandoning the old and worn-out expression. Along with other writers such as Gilani Kamran, Iftikhar Jalib, Sami Ahuja, he assiduously campaigned for adopting a new diction in poetry and prose, and tried to bring the Urdu writing more in synch with the present-day world. At a theoretical level, he was under the influence of existentialist movement; the inspiration he drew from existentialist writers like Sartre and Camus is evident in his novels and novellas.

One distinctive characteristic of Nagi's novels is that they deal with the contemporary life. Diwar Ke Peeche, Mein Aur Woh and Zawwal are my favourite ones. In his fiction, he selected his characters from the world around him unlike other Urdu writers who seemed mired in the past. Nagi tried to grasp the existing reality and depicted the dilemmas and sorrows of an individual in the existing surrounding. For instance, when plague afflicted India's Gujarat during the mid-1990s, he wrote a novella Choohon Ki Kahani in which a Pakistani national gets caught in India on the suspicion of importing the disease, and when he returns home, the state agencies arrest him on the charge that he had connections with the enemy country. The novella describes how much the two countries have become de-humanised in their rivalry. His novel Mohasara is perhaps the only illustration in Urdu of the emergence of a newly-rich middle class in Lahore during the 1980s as a result of petro dollars coming from the Middle East. In his novel, Zawwal, his character presents the torment of an honest man in a society riddled with moral and financial dishonesty.

It goes to Anis Nagi's credit that for more than a decade, he single-handedly edited and published a three-monthly literary magazine, Danishwar, that would publish his book reviews and the works of other contributors. The magazine was famous for its critical reviews of books by contemporary writers. He won many enemies for his blunt opinion while evaluating the works of other writers. He would not even spare big names like Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Intizar Hussain, thus inviting the ire of their ardent fans. One might say Nagi was unsympathetic, and sometimes outrightly dismissive, of his contemporaries, but largely it was due to the high standards he had set for judging a literary work.

On the other hand, there is no dearth of writers on whom he showered praises. He was a big admirer of short story writer, Saadat Hasan Minto, on whom he attempted to make a documentary film within his modest resources. Similarly, he was quite inspired by Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus and translated into Urdu some of their works including Camus's novel, The Fall. He also published a dedicated issue of his magazine on Sartre, which is one of the best collections of essays in Urdu on the French writer. He also translated in Urdu the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Octavio Paz.

Unfortunately, Anis Nagi's fiction was not adequately appreciated. The critics either ignored him or viewed him in an unkind manner. But he was a man of strong nerves and stayed on his chosen track despite disapproval, and even rejection, by many. Critics raised objections over Nagi's language as he did not conform to the typical standards and the traditional idiom of the Urdu language. He considered it legitimate to bring in the Punjabi language's flavour, idiom and style in his Urdu prose. On that score, his approach was close to that of Ashfaque Ahmad, but fell short of the finesse and flair which characterised the latter's writings. Also, he would get somewhat impatient about the publishing of his work and would not give due attention to the finer details.

The man, who would poke his contemporaries, has now passed away leaving behind more than half a dozen novels, a large collection of critical essays and a voluminous anthology of poems besides a huge library. His creativity and consistent hard work stretched over nearly half a century and enriched Urdu literature. With his death, the Urdu literature has lost one of its dedicated contributors. His son, Dr Daniyal Nagi, may like to publish afresh his father's works, which is one way of paying tribute to him.

The Grand Design

By Stephen Hawking and

Leonard Mlodinow

Publisher: Bantam, 2010

Pages: 198

Price: $28 

If you have been a regular reader of popular science books then Stephen Hawking's latest book The Grand Design, co-authored with the Caltech physicist Leonard Mlodinow, has not much to offer. The initial half of the book, as aptly remarked by Paul Di Fillipo in his review, constitutes "a survey of physics and cosmology so very similar to the literally hundreds of others that have preceded it." But if you have not come across any popular science book as yet, especially regarding theoretical physics, then it is likely to be a swift and enlightening read for you.

The book tries to answer three fundamental questions of philosophy: Why is there something rather than nothing? Why do we exist? Why this particular set of laws and not some other? According to Hawking and Mlodinow, "philosophy is dead" because it "has not kept up with the modern developments in science, particularly physics." To dismiss philosophy altogether and argue that only scientists are "the bearers of the torch of discovery in our quest for knowledge" appears a bit amateurish on part of the two esteemed scholars. According to Will Durant "philosophy means and includes five fields of study and discourse: logic, aesthetics, ethics, politics, and metaphysics." Now which field of study Hawking and Mlodinow are referring to, one wonders. In light of Durant's definition it can be argued that philosophy is a much wider field than physics. A careful observation can lead us to conclude that physics, since it employs a lot of mathematics, uses logic to arrive at different conclusions. To say that physics does not require any logic would be ridiculously absurd. If physics employs logic and logic is one of the five fields of study in philosophy, how can philosophy be dead?   

The Grand Design argues that M-theory, a network of many different and overlapping theories, is a strong candidate for the ultimate theory of everything. Hawking and Mlodinow are very confident that M-theory would be able to answer "the question of creation" and in their book they describe how it may offer these answers. But 'M-theory', writes Roger Penrose, "enjoys no observational support whatever." Hawking and Mlodinow are also aware of this lack of observational support for M-theory but still go ahead with it, apparently because of the lack of any alternative. M-theory, named so by the American physicist Edward Witten, is considered to be a marriage of general relativity and quantum mechanics.

Einstein's theory of general relativity explains the movement and behaviour of large bodies like stars and planets but breaks down at the sub-atomic level. The movement and behavior of particles at the sub-atomic level are explained with the help of quantum theory. But the limitation of quantum theory is that it cannot be applied at the macro level. General relativity holds good at the macro level but breaks down at the micro level while quantum theory holds good at the micro level but breaks down at the macro level. This incompatibility of the two theories can be explained to the lay-readers with the help of a crude but simple analogy. The principles and protocols governing a relationship between two friends (micro level) cannot be applied to the relationship between two countries (macro level) and the principles and protocols governing international relations (macro level) cannot be applied at a personal level (micro level).

The quantum theory of gravity is what the physicists have been trying to figure out for the past several decades. Einstein also spent several years trying to do this and was very critical of quantum theory which he had earlier helped develop. One of Einstein's famous remarks "God does not play dice" written in a letter to Max Born amply sums up his frustration with quantum mechanics. But according to Hawking and Mlodinow, "God really does play dice."

Hawking and Mlodinow are confident that only science can answer the most important ontological questions and "it is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the universe going." This statement caused a lot of brouhaha in the electronic and print media all over the globe when the book was launched this September (which is always good for the sales of a book). Much of it had to do with the last sentence of Hawking's earlier bestseller A Brief History of Time's last sentence where he says "it [theory of everything] would be the ultimate triumph of human reason - for then we would know the mind of God."

The sentence was taken out of the context and as Richard Dawkins wrote in The God Delusion "it has led people to believe, mistakenly of course, that Hawking is a religious man." Which is certainly not the case as is evident from the arguments put forward in his latest book. In a recent conversation with the physicist Brian Cox, Hawking clarified his position and said, "in A Brief History of Time I used the word "God" like Einstein did as a shorthand for the laws of physics. However, this is not what most people mean by God, so I have decided not to use the term. The laws of physics can explain the universe without the need for a God."

The Grand Design is likely to be read by the general public not only because of the hype created around it by the media but also because the prose is lively and catchy. The authors have tried to put a few funny-looking one-liners to keep the readers hooked. ("So aliens who evolved in the presence of X-rays might have a nice career in airport security.") If this narrative is consumed and digested by the general public it would fashion M-theory as the ultimate theory of everything without any observational support which would be as great a disservice to independent inquiry as is considered religion by scientists.

Not only Hawking and Mlodinow but many other prominent theoretical physicists have 'faith' in M-theory that it will be the holy grail of physics. Roger Penrose pointed out in an interview that "people somehow got the view that you can't question it [quantum theory]" and that it was considered "almost sacrilegious" to question it. It would be all the more better if the general public is also told about any alternatives to M-theory.  

Life's ironies never end. I am sitting in my small study in Edgbaston trying to work how best to summarise a novel given to me for my comments by an aspiring writer. A purple butterfly is beating its wings against the window. Butterflies somehow find their way into my study but for some reason are unable to get out again using the same route in reverse. I try to catch it in my cupped hands but it keeps avoiding me. Finally, I ensure it and taking it out to the partially opened window release it. It takes off to freedom in the direction of the garden, but a bird swoops down from nowhere and eats it. I feel dreadfully guilty and I think of Ashby.

* * * * *

Years and years ago when I had just left drama school in London I developed a severe pain in my gullet. I couldn't swallow anything; it felt as though I had a nodule stuck in my throat. I didn't have a doctor in those days. My landlady advised me to go to the nearest hospital which was in Belsize Park. I went there and, within an hour, I was admitted. This happened in the golden era of the National Health Service when hospitals had more beds than patients and you could be admitted for anything, even tiredness.

You don't feel depressed or ill-tempered if you have quinsy (an abscess in the region around the tonsils); you just feel a peculiar loss of appetite because you know you won't be able to get any food down on account of the hurdle that stands between your mouth and your esophagus. Drinking any liquid is equally wearisome. I used to fill an eye dropper with water and insert a drop on the side of my mouth hoping it would by-pass the lump. I would grimace and squint my eyes during this futile exercise, which made my ward companion, a freckle-faced boy, chuckle a great deal.

His name was Ashby. His mother had died soon after his father had ditched the family and moved to Argentina. He lived with his grandmother, a sturdy Cockney lady, his sole visitor. I once made the mistake of calling him Ashby-de-la-Zouche and he winced at my lack of originality. I apologised and he said, "Oh you can't help it. No one can…" but he forgave me with a heart-warming smile.

I had no idea how serious his condition was until he told me one day, quite matter-of-factly, that he had a hole in his heart. "They say I'll make it. Make what?" he said and looked puzzled, "They say a lot of stupid things like 'every cloud has a silver lining'. Clouds don't have linings." He wasn't bitter when he said this. He didn't know what bitterness meant. The only time he ever twinged with an inner pain was when the night nurse, tucking him in, cooed "Now be good. Remember worse things happen at sea."

"Silly moo," Ashby said after the nurse had left, "Why do worse things happen at sea than on land?" Then as an afterthought, he said, "What are these worst things?" "Well, Moby Dick, perhaps." I tried to be flippant. "Aw, come on, it's naff. It's like saying 'All other things being equal…' They always say it when they examine me. What other things? And being equal to what?" There he had the better of me. Ashby had a probing mind. He confided in me that it only served to disappoint him when people told him to cheer up. He usually felt pretty cheerful anyway.

I owe a great deal to Ashby for acquainting me with some of the oddities of the English Language. It was he who told me that to 'put up or shut up' means to tolerate. "When you put up with someone, it means you can stick him," he went on to say. "Ha Ha!" I said, "That's daft. Stick him like what? Stick him in the back?" "No, silly," he laughed, "When you stick someone like that it means you hate him, but to say you can stick him means you like him," "So" I said "You stick me, I stick you?"

"Yeah" he beamed.

Sometimes I wondered if it was his affliction that gave him a kind of wisdom unassociated with boys of his age. Some of his observations were truly amazing. I had no answer when he asked my why we have to change our clothes during the day when we wear the same pair of pyjamas night after night.

He often used words that I had never heard of. All I could do was to register real surprise and this delighted him no end. 'Hey smudger', he once said to me and I looked at him quizzically. A 'smudger' meant a friend, a mate; 'brass monkeys' meant cold, "How come?" I asked and he assured me, "It is … like saying, 'brass monkey's weather', don't you know?" I would learn later that in Cockney lore the racks of cannon balls on board a warship were called brass monkeys and that it was a sailor who first said that it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

Other words he taught me were: Rosie Lee (rhyming slang) which meant tea, and 'Kate and Sidney' which, of course, was steak and kidney. It certainly evoked the image of a dish more appetizing than the canteen steak and kidney 'pud', which tasted like cat food mixed with chewy stodge.

When I came back to the ward after my operation, Ashby looked after me like an angel. He sat by my bed in case I needed a drink or a tissue. The two nurses who alternated their duties chided him. "Is he paying you a lot of money?" they said mockingly. He remained unnerved. He left my side only when it was time for his grandmother's visit. After she left, he would put the bunch of grapes, which she had brought for him, on my bedside table. I was so touched I nearly sobbed.

When I took leave of him he didn't cry or snivel. "Goodbye smudger, will you come and see me?" he asked, his eyes ever so alert. It was I who snivelled. "Of course I will."

Within a day or two, I got a two-week spear-holding engagement with the Derby Rep. When I returned to London I went to the hospital. The ward had some old patients, but Ashby was not to be seen. I went to the reception. The matron at the desk informed me that the 'poor boy' had gone to his maker.

My 'smudger' had, at last, made it.