In the context of north India during the 19th and 20th centuries, only a limited number of books were formally proscribed by governmental or judicial fiat. However, the label of being ‘cursed,’ often conferred through insidious whispering campaigns, represented a more insidious form of censorship. Such campaigns effectually dismantled a book’s search for a loyal audience, obscuring it in social disapproval. This essentially denied such works the questionable honour of notoriety that formal bans or acts of destruction often provide to works of literature. Therefore, this form of suppression, though subtle, is one of the harshest fates a book can endure.

Certain books, particularly in the context of Urdu literature, flourish on the spurious aura of being banned — a phenomenon that is often more rooted in public perception than in formal prohibition. An illuminating example of this is the controversy surrounding Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. There have been several recent developments regarding the official ban of this book in India. Especially noteworthy is an affidavit submitted by the Government of India to the Delhi High Court that clarified that no executive order or legally binding directive has ever prohibited the commercial import of the book. Contrary to what is believed widely across the country, The Satanic Verses was never officially banned. Notwithstanding this, the fact that a notification or internal advisory restricting its import exists, which was likely aimed at appeasing certain community sentiments, is reason enough not to claim that the book’s availability and presence in India wasn’t restricted. The affidavit suggests that such a directive, if it ever existed, did not have the legal validity of an executive fiat and has, therefore, become obsolete now.

In the same vein, there are several other misconceptions surrounding bans in Urdu literature. Premchand’s feted collection of stories, Soz-i Watan, is often mistakenly thought to have been officially banned. In reality, the term ‘ban’ has a specific legal connotation that warrants formal notification. Historical accounts suggest that a superior officer, perhaps an Inspector of Schools, directed Premchand — who was then just a modest schoolteacher — to stop circulating the remaining copies of the collection. There is no documentary evidence to substantiate the claims of any formal and legally binding prohibition.

Yet another lasting myth exists that relates to the Urdu poem Zehre-Ishq (Poisonous Love). This work was allegedly banned because it apparently led to a series of elopements among Muslim girls. This apocryphal tale does not have any factual foundation as no such ban was ever officially issued. Additionally, the poem is not at all incendiary and is a rather ordinary text that was a runaway commercial hit, selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Its popularity amongst men far exceeded that with women, as the literacy amongst women in the sociocultural milieu of the time was far lower. These examples exemplify how myths about bans, often unsupported by documentary evidence, serve to sensationalise literary works and create unjustified legacies.

The 20th century was replete with such literary bans. However, the Mughal era seems to have been a comparatively tolerant period with very little evidence of official book bans. Even during the tempestuous period when Aurangzeb ruled, which was marked by insurgency and the consolidation of conservative religious authority, there is no evidence of formal censorship of literature. This period was when the term ‘home salt’ came into circulation — which indicates the increased influence of orthodox religious scholars over the populace, a trend that reached its zenith in the 18th century. Remarkably, as political instability intensified, so too did allied social challenges, which included pervasive unemployment and the exacerbation of social evils, with homosexuality often quoted as a major concern of the time.

A noteworthy example of literary prohibition in the Indian subcontinent was Rangeela Rasool, a polemical book of a religious nature that was considered blasphemous. The book was verboten in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, and its ban remains enforced under the legal frameworks of these nations to this day. This example illustrates the intersection of religion and state authority when regulating controversial literary works. Such instances set precedents for subsequent cases of censorship in the region.

Mir Taqi Mir (1723–1810) spent a significant portion of his life, from 1739 to 1782, in Delhi, before relocating to Lucknow, where he lived until his death. This latter phase coincided with one of the most turbulent periods of political insurgency in the region. Between 1741 and 1782, Mir reigned as the undisputed master of Urdu poetry, earning the epithet Khuda-i Sukhan (God of Poetry). During this time, Lucknow’s navvabs, despite being largely puppets of the British colonial administration, indulged in lives marked by sexual permissiveness, with homosexuality being a candidly acknowledged aspect of the social fabric. These socio-political dynamics were expressed in the poetry of the period in a nuanced way, of which Mir’s oeuvre is a prime example. His verses are an incisive commentary on the dehumanising effects of colonial exploitation and talk about political instability and cultural subjugation that reduced individuals to mere tools meant to serve imperial interests.

Outstandingly, Mir’s autobiography has a singular status in Urdu literary history. It is a text that is considered ‘cursed’ not by religious orthodoxy but by a conspicuous figure of literary authority — Maulvi Abdul Haq (1870–1961) who was the General Secretary of the prominent Urdu organisation Anjuman Taraqqi Urdu (Hind). Haq, who took on the mantle of the Anjuman’s head in Karachi in 1948, was invested in linguistic chauvinism. He was deeply interested in the imposition of Urdu as a symbol of Muslim identity and as a critical component of Jinnah’s vision for Pakistan. His ideological zeal reached a nadir when he narrowly escaped violence during a visit to Dhaka, where he attempted to persuade Bengali Muslims to embrace Urdu over their native language. Haq’s efforts to relocate the Anjuman to Pakistan were thwarted by stalwarts like Dr Zakir Husain (1897–1969), President of the Anjuman in post-independence India, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad (1888–1958), the Anjuman’s first Assistant Secretary in 1903, and, of course, Jawaharlal Nehru.

This complex history underscores the layered interplay of literary production, political ideology, and cultural hegemony. Mir’s autobiography stands as a testament to these tensions, having been marginalised not for its content per se but as collateral in a broader battle over identity, language, and power.

The Anjuman took nearly 98 years to liberate Mir’s autobiography, Zikr-i Mir, from the shadow of its ‘cursed’ status — a designation perpetuated through a persistent whisper campaign. Maulvi Abdul Haq first edited the concluding portion of Zikr-i Mir, the earliest known autobiography by an Urdu poet, in 1926. This excerpt was first published in Urdu Adab, which is the quarterly journal of the Anjuman, and later in book form in 1928. Despite these efforts, for nearly a century — from 1928 to 2024 — no significant demand emerged from Urdu scholars or literary organisations to publish the complete text of the autobiography.

In the past eight months, three complete editions of Zikr-i Mir have been published in Urdu translation by the Anjuman itself and these publications haven’t seen any significant opposition, even amidst the current fraught debates surrounding Muslim identity. This is a significant indicator of a shift in attitudes, given the contentious history of the text. Extraordinarily, Mir’s poetry, celebrated since the 18th century, does have hundreds of sexually explicit couplets that have long been cherished and studied within the Urdu literary tradition. I present a few examples here to illustrate the enduring appeal and audacity of his verses:

What share have I in the pleasures of the world?I have a harlot by me but suffer from impotence!

Last night I dragged her to me in an inebriated state, She retorted thusly, ‘You too are now intoxicated!’

Day and night, they take turns to roll atop each other;These lads with soft shoulders are akin to a velvet duvet.

When that silver-formed beauty shed her garments, then at her altarA thousand souls were sacrificed, let alone mortal lives and worldly riches.

I became mum upon laying my mouth on the bower of her lips.At this fascinating juncture, where is the need for mere words?

Sadaf Fatima has a PhD from Jawaharlal Nehru University. Her specialisation is Delhi’s history in 18th and 19th centuries.