Remembering CM Naim

It was sometime in late fall of 1999, a few months after I had arrived at the University of Chicago, that I first heard of Professor CM Naim – or Naim sahib, as some of my fellow students called him. He was a prominent scholar of Urdu literature and literary tradition, and had taught Urdu to hundreds of students at the University of Chicago over the years. His reputation was, as was conveyed to me by those in his class, of a serious instructor with exacting standards. It was perhaps my own residual trauma of instructors with exacting standards that I had encountered in Pakistan, and my own ignorance of how important it is to spend time with scholars of literature, that I never sought to meet him. I heard plenty of stories about his classes and his encyclopedic knowledge, his insistence on proper pronunciation, and his attention to every single word in text. I learned from friends that he was also the organiser of Friday afternoon chai which, among other things, used to have samosas. In the typical fashion of graduate students who longed for free food, I would show up, just after the mehfil had ended, to see if there were some left over samosas. I did not have the courage to meet Naim sahib.

Years later, when some of my trauma dissipated and my love for literature reignited, I came across many of his writings, scholarly and otherwise. I was inspired and mesmerised. I especially loved his articles on the history of jasoosi novels (an umbrella term that combines spy novels, crime fiction and detective stories). I learned about Tirath Ram Ferozpuri and the early Urdu translations of English detective stories. His most recent book on the topic, Urdu Crime Fiction 1890-1950: An informal History, is as engaging as it is insightful.

Over the years, I learned about him from others who had spent their lifetime studying south Asia, Urdu literature, or cultural traditions in the region. I regretted the fact that I did not get to benefit from his wisdom while he and I were on the same campus. I was too busy in the lab, too myopic in my worldview and too naïve to appreciate the opportunity.

Then, one day in early 2024, I learned that Naim sahib had written to a mutual acquaintance, Professor Manan Ahmad, about my Urdu book, Aaina haaye khud shanasi, that had been reviewed in a newspaper, and he had expressed interest in reading it. This was my cue, and I was not going to miss this opportunity. I immediately sent him a copy. A couple of weeks later, in March 2024, I got a note from him. He wrote, "Biradaram, I finished your book. Wish it was longer. Wise, sincere in the sense of being really what its title says and not nursing some hope or grudge. But you do write high Urdu; humour comes in Yusufi's manner. Your book is such that should read by all bright young people."

I know that I do not deserve such praise, and that he was being extremely generous, but I was over the moon.

This was just the first part of the email. In the second part, he was the exacting professor once again and pointed to several typos that need to be corrected. That day, I regretted my decision of not seeking his company on campus even more.

That email exchange in March opened a new chapter in my interactions with Naim sahib. I sent him my other book that he liked just as much. We regularly communicated about essay writing in Urdu, the publishing industry, the nature of language and what we both were reading these days. I would send him my Urdu essays and he would comment on their diction, style and structure. I would read and re-read his every email, not because they were complicated or layered, but because there was a sincerity and honesty in them that I craved. In one of his last emails to me, he encouraged me to write more and ended his note with: Zor-i qalam paayanda baad. Naim sahib passed away last week, but I know the strength of his pen lives on.