Adab-o-fun Mein Fohsh Ka Mas'ala

Last month, during his discussions, Firaq Sahib selected a few couplets generally considered obscene and explained why they are not. In any debate—and particularly in this debate on obscenity—rather than establishing rigid formulas and arguing over absolute principles, it is far better to examine concrete examples and evaluate their merits and flaws. We must look beneath the surface; beyond their mere literal meaning, we should examine them in the light of other dimensions of meaning, such as intention, mood, and tone. Beyond clarifying and sharpening the debate, this approach also offers a broader educational and cultural benefit.

However, I am not optimistic enough to believe that those who accuse modern literature of obscenity will be swayed by this objective. For their benefit, I must recount an entirely different anecdote. J.K. Huysmans was a French Naturalist, and in the eyes of some, the most distinguished among them. His literary principles were not driven by a social purpose, but rather by the desire to write an epic of evil. It would perhaps be fitting to call his book Against the Grain—which was practically worshipped in Oscar Wilde’s circle—an encyclopedia of sexual perversions. Ultimately, however, he repented and, like many authors who once worshipped evil, converted to Roman Catholicism. Around this time, he sent a message to Anatole France, saying, You have played with filth long enough. Repent and become a true Christian. Anatole France replied with the utmost politeness: Give my regards to Monsieur Huysmans and tell him that Monsieur France advises him to have his urine tested.

Like Firaq Sahib, I too have selected a few examples for this discussion. Some of these are drawn from painting and sculpture. Ideally, they should be analyzed from the perspectives of line, surface, proportion, and volume, but I am a novice in these arts. While simply leafing through pages, I have picked out a few examples that have been deemed obscene, or that certain puritanical gentlemen might consider to be so. I have specifically chosen examples from religious art.

However, we cannot fairly evaluate religious art unless we consider the feelings of others to be just as valid and worthy of respect as our own beliefs. Perhaps feelings hold a higher status than beliefs—at least in the realm of art. And what is religion, after all, if not the formation of a specific perspective on life and the universe? According to my religious convictions, the beliefs of an African snake-worshipper might be wrong. Yet, if I am honest, I cannot deny the depth, sincerity, and fundamental nature of the emotion that compels him to worship snakes. In fact, it is entirely possible that his devotion is more powerful and more genuine than my monotheism, and that it aids him far more in forging a connection with the soul of the universe. My words may seem contrary to Islam, but I believe I am merely echoing the essence of the Quran and the Pahlavi tongue:

Musiya, aadaab daanaan deegarand.

[O Moses, those who know the formalities of religion are a different people.]

The point is that we cannot reject the religious art of any era or any nation simply because it does not reflect our own religious beliefs. Once we accept this fundamental principle, we can look across the spectrum—from prehistoric and African tribal paintings and engravings (which are entirely religious) to Egyptian, Hindu, and Christian religious art. Even in the most sacred paintings and sculptures, no attempt was made to conceal the sexual organs, despite the fact that in such contexts, the intrusion of any alien or inappropriate emotion would have been intolerable. It is unimaginable that on such solemn occasions—where the goal was to depict not merely an individual's reaction to the universe, but the collective response of an entire community—any elements would be introduced with the intent of sexual provocation, arousal, or curiosity. When an artist’s entire soul is consumed by feelings of devotion and reverence, or by fear and awe, how could the thought of sexual gratification even cross their mind? Furthermore, how could any artist so carelessly destroy the unity of impression in their own masterpiece? This is especially true when the artist is not merely expressing personal emotions, but fulfilling a monumental duty entrusted to them by the entire nation—a situation where even the slightest misstep could risk eternal damnation. In such profound contexts, only those devoid of any aesthetic sensibility, or those whose minds are perpetually fixated on cheap and frivolous thrills, could possibly have their thoughts wander toward sex.

It is also worth remembering that the practice of concealing sexual organs in sculptures and paintings only begins when an era becomes decadent and embraces its own decline—when the intensity of spiritual fervor fades, and the mind begins to wander. It happens when the artist fears they will no longer be able to keep the audience's attention focused on the true essence of the work. Fig leaves are introduced only when the nation loses its ability to perceive the unity of a work of art, beginning instead to view it merely as an assemblage of disjointed parts. Aside from this, a partial veil sometimes makes an image far more obscene, inevitably drawing the mind toward indecent thoughts. This is because it introduces that very element of sneaking that Firaq Sahib mentioned. The paintings and sculptures of the Royal Academy serve as glaring examples of this. An artist who feels compelled to use a fig leaf is not only morally weak, but is perhaps not a very good artist to begin with. They simply do not know how to integrate certain anatomical features into their overall composition. Behind the fig leaf, they are not hiding nudity, but rather their own artistic inadequacy.

To observe and to depict the naked human body requires immense vitality, profound seriousness, and a deeply rooted moral and spiritual sensibility. Perceiving the body and its sexual organs as pure is perhaps the most difficult challenge the human soul can face. To feel that the body is as pure and ethereal as the soul is an elevated state that individuals and nations can only achieve at the absolute pinnacle of civilization. This is the distinguishing hallmark of the world’s greatest civilizations—the Hindu and the Greek—and neither of their artistic traditions shies away from physical realities.

Here, I would like to mention a specific characteristic of Greek art. The guiding principle of Greek art is the pursuit of the ideal and the most perfect form. It distorts reality only to present it in its most beautiful manifestation. It did not focus its attention exclusively on the female form; in fact, there was an era when the male body was considered the ultimate ideal of beauty. Greek art demonstrated that there is just as much beauty, truth, and virtue in the male genitalia as there is in the breasts of Venus. If beauty is defined by balance, proportion, and harmony, and if beauty is truth, then these physical manifestations possess as much beauty, truth, and virtue as the face of Apollo. Here again, we must remember that Greek art is also profoundly religious, even if the center of its worship is not some abstract deity, but humanity itself. It is not merely an expression of isolated objects, but rather the articulation of a comprehensive worldview regarding the entire universe. While hedonism may have crept into the later periods of Greek civilization, its early era was absolutely innocent.

Do not assume that the inclusion of sexual organs in a painting is justified merely by the principle of realism—the idea that because they are part of the body, they must be depicted. No. If an artist is truly capable, these parts can aid their expression just as much as any other part of the body. The most profound spiritual states can be articulated more clearly through their proper use. A work of art is a unified whole. Every element within it must not only be subordinate to the central emotion but must also actively contribute to its expression and clarity. Furthermore, a great artist utilizes even the smallest detail to serve their purpose.

I have before me a photograph of an African wooden sculpture that captures the feeling of being terrified by the cosmic spirit, frozen in sheer awe. One only needs to look at it to realize how much a small piece of wood—situated between the bent, tense thighs and proportionate to the rest of the body—amplifies the overall impact. Then there is Agostino di Duccio’s marble relief, Madonna and Child. Of all the depictions of the infant Christ I have seen, this is my favorite. Usually, artists expend all their energy on evoking a sense of holiness, but this piece presents something far more elevated than mere sanctity and purity. It captures the surge of life within the child, the restless vitality. The innocent playfulness and ripples of a smile that are so evident on the face are mirrored perfectly in the folds of the thighs. And the manner in which the sexual organs are depicted multiplies the innocence of the face manifold.

Consider Michelangelo’s famous painting, The Entombment. Christ is depicted completely nude because the artist intended to manifest the impact of death through every part of the body, especially the legs. His face is suffused with profound peace and spirituality. The artist was confident that exposing the sexual organs would not detract from this spiritual beauty. Had there been even the slightest doubt of this, a master like Michelangelo would never have indulged in nudity merely for its own sake. In contrast, Rubens partially covered the body in his painting The Dead Christ, even though the face lacks that divine beauty and instead resembles an ordinary crucified corpse. This covering is necessary because the head is tilted backward. If the sexual organs, which are positioned prominently in the foreground, had been left exposed, they would have arrested the viewer's gaze and detracted from the expressive power of the arms. Ultimately, it is the artist's aesthetic sensibility that dictates where nudity is appropriate and where it is not.

In William Blake’s painting Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels, the sexual organs merge with the abdominal muscles to form a triangle, the lines of which appear to sever the legs from the upper torso. This separation transforms the legs into pillars, making them appear firmly rooted to the ground. Besides, a fig leaf would hardly suit Satan anyway.

Consider Rodin’s sculpture, The Age of Bronze. It depicts the awakening of the consciousness of nature within man. This sensation surges from the feet all the way to the head, and the sheer intensity of the emotion causes the figure's hands to rise upward. This concept could never have been conveyed had the figure been clothed; even if it were attempted, the effect would not have been nearly as powerful or robust. If there had been even a small shred of cloth in the middle, it would certainly have spared the pious the trouble of lowering their gaze. However, the continuity of the lines would have been shattered. The viewer's gaze would have been caught in the middle, abruptly halting the fluid progression of that awakening. The sculpture would have lost the profound sense of spontaneity and self-abandonment it currently possesses. As it stands, the intensity of the impression and the harmony of the form are such that the entire body appears to have gone numb, with all sensation drawn up into the head and the clenched fist—as if the soul has suddenly ignited at a single point. What effect does the tranquility of the sexual organs create here? Perhaps it obliterates the distinction between body and soul.

The extent to which Jacob Epstein has been condemned and ostracized due to nudity is a saga in itself. He sculpted figures representing the various stages of men's and women's lives for a building on the Strand, pouring all his innocence and purity of heart into the work. They were, in fact, idealized representations of the relationship between man and woman, brimming with pure emotion. Yet, respectable women saw nothing but lust in them—and ironically, despite their loud complaints, they flocked in droves to view them. Similarly, his sculpture Genesis was branded obscene and filthy. But then, why is the Venus de' Medici not considered obscene? Most likely because her breasts are highly erotic, whereas Epstein’s sculpture merely struck people as grotesque and unsettling.

Since the Royal Academy contents itself with endlessly reviving the tradition of painting oranges and tangerines, its masterpieces pose no threat to our mothers, sisters, and daughters. Yet, simply by depicting a swollen belly and unappealing breasts, Epstein was declared an enemy of morality. This is despite the fact that, in this work, he penetrates to the very foundations of sexuality. Some critics have even suggested that the figure is not merely a pregnant woman, but Mother Earth herself. Looking at it, one truly grasps the profound significance and majesty of sex.

Then there is another of Epstein’s sculptures, Adam. A work that caused monocles and spectacles to drop from the hands of scandalized ladies, and about which it was famously said that it was not created by a single man, but by the entire human race. But the human race, it seems, crossed all bounds of decency by depicting the father of mankind in a state of physical arousal. First, to harbor such a suspicion about Adam, and then to depict him in such a state—how scandalous!

However, rather than listing hyperbolic adjectives to describe this sculpture, I will attempt to explore the artistic significance of this audacity. Whether Greek and other ancient sculptors depicted movement or not, ever since Lessing decreed that sculpture cannot express motion—that it can only capture stillness or freeze a single moment of action—sculptors have been terrified of violating this rule. To break this tradition, Rodin created sculptures of men in mid-stride. But modern sculptors, such as Epstein and Henry Moore, hold a deep reverence for the material they are working with. Consequently, they do not force stone to assume forms that belong exclusively to flesh and blood.

To express movement, they generate it from within the stone itself, rather than contorting and twisting it from the outside. In this particular sculpture, Epstein wanted to depict humanity’s relentless drive for progress and its courage in the face of adversity. Yet, he did not sculpt Adam running; in fact, even his arms are pressed tightly against his body. Instead, he infused the sculpture with such tension, such an upward surge and raw power, that Adam appears to be tearing himself away from the earth, drawn upward, expending every ounce of his strength in the effort. Consider for yourself how that slight indecency enhances this effect. It also serves to suggest that sexuality is not a hindrance to human progress, but rather a catalyst; its cultivation is just as essential as the development of our mental and spiritual faculties.

Ah, I was almost forgetting one of the most religious eras of all: the Middle Ages in Europe. The sexual realism and bawdy humor of that period are well known, but these elements had even found their way into religious plays. These plays were not merely a source of entertainment; they were a form of worship. Yet, even in these, explicit sexual references were not considered objectionable. Noah and his wife would bicker just as fiercely as any ordinary couple, and the language used by Noah’s wife was not expected to be any more refined than that of a common woman.

If you want to see the various purposes nudity and explicitness can serve, look no further than Émile Zola. Whenever he introduces a female character, he rarely moves on without describing her breasts. Perhaps not even a scientist has categorized as many types as Zola does in a single book. However, this is not mere titillation; it is an exercise in psychology and characterization. Through this physical description, he manages to convey thirty percent of the woman's character, as well as her life story. Zola’s masterpiece is Germinal. It is an epic depicting the war between capital and labor, and its literary stature is so immense that André Gide believed it should have been written in an international language rather than just French. In the novel, the workers have rebelled and are going about destroying everything in their path. In this frenzy, they murder a shopkeeper who used to exploit their young daughters, sever his genitals, and parade them on a pike. One might call this Zola’s mental filth—but the context is profoundly serious, leaving no room for such an accusation. This is especially true for a book where Zola is openly championing the proletarian revolution.

Zola is a master of mob and group psychology. With the possible exception of Tolstoy, hardly anyone can rival him in this regard. This gruesome act by the workers represents the ultimate extreme of an enraged mob's frenzy, and as a master psychologist, Zola does not hesitate to depict it. In doing so, he also delivers a scathing critique of middle-class morality, exposing its hypocrisy and helplessness in the face of the advancing assault of new values. When the workers march past the factory manager’s house in this state, his daughter asks her father (or mother) what it is they are carrying. She receives no answer, and ultimately, both step away from the window in deep embarrassment.

Regarding psychology, consider the example of Shakespeare. While his comic characters and many of his male figures certainly let slip some rather colorful language, Shakespeare presents his female characters—especially his heroines—with the utmost delicacy, beauty, and innocence. It is unimaginable that he would ever render one of his heroines vulgar, let alone the heroine of a tragedy. Shakespeare did not portray his Cleopatra as merely lustful, but rather as ambitious and majestic—so much so that vilest things become themselves in her. Yet, her dialogue is laden with sexual symbolism. After Antony departs for Rome, this element becomes even more pronounced, and her sexual restlessness throbs in her every word. When a messenger arrives from Rome, she immediately bursts out:

O! from Italy

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,

That long time have been barren-

By having Cleopatra speak these words, Shakespeare was not reducing her to a Shoreditch whore. Rather, his psychological insight was illustrating the very psychological phenomena that Freud would only analyze centuries later. Nor does this detract from the grandeur of her character. On the contrary, it only deepens Cleopatra’s humanity. The sheer intensity of her sexual passion makes her ultimate sacrifice all the more profound.

Shakespeare makes brilliant use of contrast. In Othello, on one hand, we have the absolute innocence and naivety of Desdemona, who cannot even bring herself to utter the word whore. On the other hand, there is the foul-mouthed Iago, who never misses an opportunity for obscenity. Eventually, his vulgarity infects Othello, and his mind, too, becomes consumed by horrific sexual imagery. This is certainly not obscenity for the sake of obscenity, nor is it cheap titillation meant to pander to the groundlings. The intense, and at times neurotic, atmosphere of obscenity that pervades the play only serves to heighten Desdemona’s innate nobility and purity. It makes her appear as an angel surrounded by demons.

To illustrate the powerful effect such contrast can produce when employed skillfully, I will offer the example of a poem by C. Day-Lewis, written about the current war. It is a very short poem in which anti-aircraft guns are likened to the male phallus—standing erect, ready to sow the seeds of destruction into the womb of the world. Is this, perhaps, the mental filth of the poet? Was there no other metaphor left in the world? But consider this: the sheer force generated by this metaphor could not have been achieved by any other. It is not merely about the visual force of the erection; rather, it points to the tragic reality that the very things that could have been a blessing for humanity have today become a curse. The phallus is a symbol of procreation and vitality, yet here it is presented as an instrument of annihilation. The gun also represents science and technological progress. The original purpose of these advancements was to aid humanity in its struggle against nature, but today, they are bent on humanity's own destruction. Try conveying this profound idea in such a short poem using any other symbol—while ensuring that it does not become preachy, just as Day-Lewis’s poem remains entirely free of moralizing.

Ultimately, it depends entirely on the individual artist and how they choose to employ explicitness. It can be—and has been—used to express the purest of human emotions. Rilke once stated that the purpose of art is to praise. However, in our times, offering praise is no easy task. If Rilke himself managed to offer praise, he did so by retreating from life, insulating himself from worldly interference, and inducing a specific kind of mystical and metaphysical state within himself. D.H. Lawrence also offered praise, but only for a specific manifestation of life—a particular flame that engulfs a person so completely that praise escapes the lips involuntarily. But to descend to the level of mundane, everyday life, to accept its superficial realities without turning up one's nose, and to offer praise without seeking divinity, manifestations of God, or some grand universal principle within it—that is not something just anyone can do. This is especially true in our era, marked by such profound alienation and antagonism between the individual and society.

Yet, James Joyce managed to offer exactly this kind of praise. In the very section of Ulysses that led to the book being banned, Marion Bloom is depicted as an utterly ordinary woman, and an equally lustful one. There is nothing elevated or pure about her, and this same brutal honesty is maintained throughout her soliloquy. However, the sheer explicitness of her thoughts is what makes her so profoundly real. Her connection to our world, to our earth, grows increasingly stronger, until finally, her sexuality transforms into a hymn of praise for the earth and for life itself—an emotion as exalted and sublime as any other.

Chaucer has created an equally substantial character in the form of his Wife of Bath. Both women derive immense pleasure from life. Both possess a boundless desire to live. However, the Wife of Bath has one additional trait: she is not even afraid of dying. She is completely satisfied with whatever life has given her. In contrast, the characters of our time, despite being weary of life, tremble at the thought of death and time. She certainly feels saddened by the thought of her fading youth, but she focuses her attention on making the most of her remaining years. She conquers time through her sexuality. She believes that God has commanded humanity to multiply. For this reason, she thanks God for having had five husbands and is entirely prepared to welcome a sixth. She has no desire to remain chaste; rather, she intends to offer the flower of her entire life to marriage. She asks the Literature Reform Conference:

Tell me this as well: what was the purpose of creating reproductive organs? ... Why have people written in their books that a man must pay his debt to his wife? How will he make this payment if he does not use his fine instrument? As a wife, I will use my instrument as freely as my Creator has bestowed it upon me. If I hold back, may God’s curse be upon me. My husband can have it both morning and evening. Let him come whenever he pleases and pay his debt... But alas! Age, which poisons all things, has snatched away my beauty and my vigor. Well, let it go, farewell. Let the devil go with it. The flour is already gone. Why dwell on it? Now, however possible, I will just have to sell the bran. But even now, I will live with absolute vitality.

Observe the melancholy of this excerpt, yet also its tranquility and profound acceptance.

But lord crist! whan that is rember th me

Upon my yowthe and on my joilitee

It tickleth me aboute myn here roote!

Unto this Day it dooth my herte boote

That I have had my world , as in my time.

[But Lord Christ! When I remember my youth and my jollity, it tickles me to the root of my heart! To this day it does my heart good that I have had my world in my time.]

Place this excerpt alongside the complaints about time and all the whining that has become second nature to the poets of our era, and consider the kind of spiritual vastness the world has lost. Virginia Woolf remarks with great longing and sorrow:

This laughter, which rose from the very depths of the belly, will never be heard on the face of the earth again.

A certain Chaucerian scholar has expunged all these passages from his book. Similarly, Middleton Murry (whose opinion I deeply respect in all matters) states that:

The unprintable words that Lawrence has used in Lady Chatterley's Lover do not serve the subject matter in any way; they are simply profanity for the sake of profanity.

Perhaps... but my personal reaction is that because of these profanities and certain coarse behaviors, Mellors and Lady Chatterley are brought much closer to ordinary human beings—something that rarely happens in Lawrence’s books. This not only enhances the substance and humanity of the novel but also aids in conveying Lawrence’s message. Its reality is brought closer to us, and it no longer remains something so distant that we cannot even aspire to reach it.

Similarly, the realism in Lawrence’s poems about the he-goat and she-goat is an expression of the fierceness, savagery, and, to a certain extent, the absurdity of the sexual drive. In fact, this realism reflects the Prophet of Sex's own hesitation, fear, and revulsion toward sex.

The mention of Lawrence brings another question to mind. Apologists for nudity have sometimes attempted to define the difference between the obscene and the non-obscene. Wiping their faces with a white handkerchief, they declare that any mention of sex must be devoid of the expression of pleasure or the element of arousal. I disagree with this, because reality itself disagrees with it. After all, why is there such panic over pleasure? If we can describe a tree, a character’s face, their clothing, or a political rally with absolute relish—and literary criticism considers this a commendable trait—then what is the fundamental flaw in describing a woman’s body or a sexual act with pleasure? In truth, the foundation of this objection lies in that traditional sensibility which recoils from certain body parts and bodily functions, viewing them as inherently filthy and impure, and their very existence as the stain of an eternal curse. This is the exact mentality that, on the one hand, imposes restrictions on literature and art, while on the other, gives birth to countless obscene books. Pleasure, in and of itself, cannot render an artwork condemnable; rather, its acceptance or rejection depends on the nature of that pleasure. It depends on its level, and on the temperament and perspective of the artist. Are Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, Titian’s nude women, or Rodin’s sculptures Eternal Springtime, The Kiss, and The Embrace entirely devoid of pleasure and arousal? An even more important question is: can we simply dismiss them by labeling them obscene?

This definition of obscenity based on arousal was likely put forward by the Progressives. However, this issue extends much further. Moving well beyond the question of obscenity, one must either definitively conclude that sex is an utterly filthy and undignified thing, making the expression of pleasure and arousal derived from it inappropriate—a premise I am willing to accept—or, if the objection is not to sex itself but to the act of incitement (arousal/persuasion), then inciting revolution or social change through literature is equally inappropriate. By raising the issue of incitement, the Progressives inadvertently wander into a neighborhood whose very shadow they flee from: that of James Joyce. Joyce’s theory posits that the aesthetic emotion does not contain movement (kinetic energy) but rather stasis (stillness). Art neither produces a desire for something in our hearts, nor a loathing for it. Art that adheres to this principle is proper art, whereas art that attempts to evoke desire or loathing is improper art—whether it deals with obscenity or morality. In this context, Joyce offers the example of the statue of Venus.

Some people argue that we admire the thighs of Venus because they are capable of producing a highly robust child, and her breasts because they display a great capacity to nourish and sustain that child. In this way, Venus becomes the ideal model of the duties of a woman and a mother, and for this reason alone, it is considered a great work of art. However, according to Joyce, these sentiments do not lead us toward aesthetics, but rather toward eugenics. We admire Venus simply because she possesses beauty and harmony.

Joyce's statement is fundamentally quite accurate, or at the very least, highly useful, but it also borders on the extreme. Perhaps there has been some Übermensch who produced such a work of art, or whose reaction to it was so perfectly measured. At the very least, a work of art certainly stirs something within me, even though this stirring is not the kind provoked by obscenity or moralizing. Joyce's own work contains a fair amount of hatred and disgust, and the character of Marion Bloom is by no means devoid of provocation. As for Lawrence, the very concept of provocation takes on a different meaning; he actively preaches a new element of sexual relations. If a work encourages healthy sexual intimacy, I am not prepared to label it as obscenity. You might immediately object that, by this logic, even the Koka Shastra becomes literature. However, I am not expending my literary efforts here to prove that obscenity is art; rather, I simply want to save art from being misconstrued as obscenity.

The real question is not about provocation versus non-provocation, but about art versus non-art. For non-art, I propose a term: sentimentality. This sentimentality can take any form—sensuality, revolutionary zeal, or moralism. The entire confusion stems from the fact that a work of art is generally treated as something very simple, and its inherent complexity is ignored. We latch onto just one of its facets, a single emotion, and mistake it for the entire work of art. We then base our judgments on this very misunderstanding. This is where sentimentality begins. It reduces the work to either a moral sermon or sheer obscenity. And when this sentimentality resides within the reader or the viewer, it twists and distorts a perfectly good work of art into non-art—take, for example, the Islah-e-Adab Conference (Conference for the Reform of Literature).

There is another way out of this confusion. According to our literary criticism, art is simply the expression of one's emotions and the transmission of those emotions to others. Hearing this, Herbert Read could not hold back his laughter. I, however, have not yet mustered the courage to outright deny it. Nevertheless, art is not a hypodermic syringe used to inject new emotions into us. Why should I ramble on? You are already familiar with Aristotle's theory of Catharsis. Art possesses a purgative quality that expels the excess from our emotions, restoring balance and tranquility within us. Sentimentality has no restraints; it cannot impose any limits on emotions. Art, on the other hand, sets boundaries for emotions, organizes them, and arranges them into a specific pattern.

After viewing a nude painting by Titian, we do not leap into the marketplace and start tearing the clothes off women walking by; rather, we experience a greater sense of balance and sublimation in our sexual desires. Obscenity, perhaps, produces the former effect. If art evokes any emotion within us at all, it is, in the words of Herbert Read, the emotion of wonder. If the art is genuine and the reader draws the wrong conclusion from it, or if it inflames some corrupt element within them, the work of art cannot be held responsible. Art does not teach us lust, nor does it teach us to weep bitterly over the sins of the world, or to grab a red flag and start jumping two yards in the air. Instead, it teaches us to look upon beauty, order, and harmony with a sense of wonder.

If obscenity exists in contemporary literature, there is no rational reason to turn it into a bogeyman. If you truly wish to protect people from the harms of obscenity, give them the opportunity to understand what constitutes art and what does not, and why art is superior to and more elevated than obscenity, morality, politics, and economics. For anyone who becomes acquainted with the true pleasure of art, obscenity will automatically become dull and insipid. At the very least, as long as they maintain their mental health, they will not even want to touch obscenity. The most subtle distinction between obscenity and art is this: you can never derive the exact same pleasure from obscenity a second time as you did the first. Art, however, offers a new delight every single time. As an example of this balance and sublimation, I am reminded of a couplet by Firaq:

Milay der tak, saath so bhi chukay

Bohat waqt hai, aao baatein karein

[We embraced for long, and have slept together too,

There is still much time, come, let us talk.]

In the erotic poetry of Urdu, there are very few couplets that possess such innocence, such intellectual subtlety, and such artistic wonder. I can never tire of repeating these lines.

The inherent proportion and symmetry of art is such that it renders even the most vulgar subject matter harmless. In the visual arts, this proportion manifests in the form of lines, colors, and so on. In literature, the essential elements of narrative style serve a similar function. Take, for example, Sheikh Saadi’s famous hemistich: Hameen ba jumla awwal asay-e-sheikh bakhuft [At the very first instance, the Sheikh's staff went to sleep]. And then, of course, laughter washes away even the greatest of filth. As for intellect—recall the names of those whose intellect was truly formidable, and then consider the sheer amount of nudity and explicitness they employed in their work. Let me give you a few names: Rabelais, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Swift, Voltaire, and Joyce.

Well, I had saved one final purgative pill for the very end. Here it is, an English idiom:

THAT’S THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

I have altered it to say:

THAT’S THE HE AND SHE OF IT

Last month, during his discussions, Firaq Sahib selected a few couplets generally considered obscene and explained why they are not. In any debate—and particularly in this debate on obscenity—rather than establishing rigid formulas and arguing over absolute principles, it is far better to examine concrete examples and evaluate their merits and flaws. We must look beneath the surface; beyond their mere literal meaning, we should examine them in the light of other dimensions of meaning, such as intention, mood, and tone. Beyond clarifying and sharpening the debate, this approach also offers a broader educational and cultural benefit.

However, I am not optimistic enough to believe that those who accuse modern literature of obscenity will be swayed by this objective. For their benefit, I must recount an entirely different anecdote. J.K. Huysmans was a French Naturalist, and in the eyes of some, the most distinguished among them. His literary principles were not driven by a social purpose, but rather by the desire to write an epic of evil. It would perhaps be fitting to call his book Against the Grain—which was practically worshipped in Oscar Wilde’s circle—an encyclopedia of sexual perversions. Ultimately, however, he repented and, like many authors who once worshipped evil, converted to Roman Catholicism. Around this time, he sent a message to Anatole France, saying, You have played with filth long enough. Repent and become a true Christian. Anatole France replied with the utmost politeness: Give my regards to Monsieur Huysmans and tell him that Monsieur France advises him to have his urine tested.

Like Firaq Sahib, I too have selected a few examples for this discussion. Some of these are drawn from painting and sculpture. Ideally, they should be analyzed from the perspectives of line, surface, proportion, and volume, but I am a novice in these arts. While simply leafing through pages, I have picked out a few examples that have been deemed obscene, or that certain puritanical gentlemen might consider to be so. I have specifically chosen examples from religious art.

However, we cannot fairly evaluate religious art unless we consider the feelings of others to be just as valid and worthy of respect as our own beliefs. Perhaps feelings hold a higher status than beliefs—at least in the realm of art. And what is religion, after all, if not the formation of a specific perspective on life and the universe? According to my religious convictions, the beliefs of an African snake-worshipper might be wrong. Yet, if I am honest, I cannot deny the depth, sincerity, and fundamental nature of the emotion that compels him to worship snakes. In fact, it is entirely possible that his devotion is more powerful and more genuine than my monotheism, and that it aids him far more in forging a connection with the soul of the universe. My words may seem contrary to Islam, but I believe I am merely echoing the essence of the Quran and the Pahlavi tongue:

Musiya, aadaab daanaan deegarand.

[O Moses, those who know the formalities of religion are a different people.]

The point is that we cannot reject the religious art of any era or any nation simply because it does not reflect our own religious beliefs. Once we accept this fundamental principle, we can look across the spectrum—from prehistoric and African tribal paintings and engravings (which are entirely religious) to Egyptian, Hindu, and Christian religious art. Even in the most sacred paintings and sculptures, no attempt was made to conceal the sexual organs, despite the fact that in such contexts, the intrusion of any alien or inappropriate emotion would have been intolerable. It is unimaginable that on such solemn occasions—where the goal was to depict not merely an individual's reaction to the universe, but the collective response of an entire community—any elements would be introduced with the intent of sexual provocation, arousal, or curiosity. When an artist’s entire soul is consumed by feelings of devotion and reverence, or by fear and awe, how could the thought of sexual gratification even cross their mind? Furthermore, how could any artist so carelessly destroy the unity of impression in their own masterpiece? This is especially true when the artist is not merely expressing personal emotions, but fulfilling a monumental duty entrusted to them by the entire nation—a situation where even the slightest misstep could risk eternal damnation. In such profound contexts, only those devoid of any aesthetic sensibility, or those whose minds are perpetually fixated on cheap and frivolous thrills, could possibly have their thoughts wander toward sex.

It is also worth remembering that the practice of concealing sexual organs in sculptures and paintings only begins when an era becomes decadent and embraces its own decline—when the intensity of spiritual fervor fades, and the mind begins to wander. It happens when the artist fears they will no longer be able to keep the audience's attention focused on the true essence of the work. Fig leaves are introduced only when the nation loses its ability to perceive the unity of a work of art, beginning instead to view it merely as an assemblage of disjointed parts. Aside from this, a partial veil sometimes makes an image far more obscene, inevitably drawing the mind toward indecent thoughts. This is because it introduces that very element of sneaking that Firaq Sahib mentioned. The paintings and sculptures of the Royal Academy serve as glaring examples of this. An artist who feels compelled to use a fig leaf is not only morally weak, but is perhaps not a very good artist to begin with. They simply do not know how to integrate certain anatomical features into their overall composition. Behind the fig leaf, they are not hiding nudity, but rather their own artistic inadequacy.

To observe and to depict the naked human body requires immense vitality, profound seriousness, and a deeply rooted moral and spiritual sensibility. Perceiving the body and its sexual organs as pure is perhaps the most difficult challenge the human soul can face. To feel that the body is as pure and ethereal as the soul is an elevated state that individuals and nations can only achieve at the absolute pinnacle of civilization. This is the distinguishing hallmark of the world’s greatest civilizations—the Hindu and the Greek—and neither of their artistic traditions shies away from physical realities.

Here, I would like to mention a specific characteristic of Greek art. The guiding principle of Greek art is the pursuit of the ideal and the most perfect form. It distorts reality only to present it in its most beautiful manifestation. It did not focus its attention exclusively on the female form; in fact, there was an era when the male body was considered the ultimate ideal of beauty. Greek art demonstrated that there is just as much beauty, truth, and virtue in the male genitalia as there is in the breasts of Venus. If beauty is defined by balance, proportion, and harmony, and if beauty is truth, then these physical manifestations possess as much beauty, truth, and virtue as the face of Apollo. Here again, we must remember that Greek art is also profoundly religious, even if the center of its worship is not some abstract deity, but humanity itself. It is not merely an expression of isolated objects, but rather the articulation of a comprehensive worldview regarding the entire universe. While hedonism may have crept into the later periods of Greek civilization, its early era was absolutely innocent.

Do not assume that the inclusion of sexual organs in a painting is justified merely by the principle of realism—the idea that because they are part of the body, they must be depicted. No. If an artist is truly capable, these parts can aid their expression just as much as any other part of the body. The most profound spiritual states can be articulated more clearly through their proper use. A work of art is a unified whole. Every element within it must not only be subordinate to the central emotion but must also actively contribute to its expression and clarity. Furthermore, a great artist utilizes even the smallest detail to serve their purpose.

I have before me a photograph of an African wooden sculpture that captures the feeling of being terrified by the cosmic spirit, frozen in sheer awe. One only needs to look at it to realize how much a small piece of wood—situated between the bent, tense thighs and proportionate to the rest of the body—amplifies the overall impact. Then there is Agostino di Duccio’s marble relief, Madonna and Child. Of all the depictions of the infant Christ I have seen, this is my favorite. Usually, artists expend all their energy on evoking a sense of holiness, but this piece presents something far more elevated than mere sanctity and purity. It captures the surge of life within the child, the restless vitality. The innocent playfulness and ripples of a smile that are so evident on the face are mirrored perfectly in the folds of the thighs. And the manner in which the sexual organs are depicted multiplies the innocence of the face manifold.

Consider Michelangelo’s famous painting, The Entombment. Christ is depicted completely nude because the artist intended to manifest the impact of death through every part of the body, especially the legs. His face is suffused with profound peace and spirituality. The artist was confident that exposing the sexual organs would not detract from this spiritual beauty. Had there been even the slightest doubt of this, a master like Michelangelo would never have indulged in nudity merely for its own sake. In contrast, Rubens partially covered the body in his painting The Dead Christ, even though the face lacks that divine beauty and instead resembles an ordinary crucified corpse. This covering is necessary because the head is tilted backward. If the sexual organs, which are positioned prominently in the foreground, had been left exposed, they would have arrested the viewer's gaze and detracted from the expressive power of the arms. Ultimately, it is the artist's aesthetic sensibility that dictates where nudity is appropriate and where it is not.

In William Blake’s painting Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels, the sexual organs merge with the abdominal muscles to form a triangle, the lines of which appear to sever the legs from the upper torso. This separation transforms the legs into pillars, making them appear firmly rooted to the ground. Besides, a fig leaf would hardly suit Satan anyway.

Consider Rodin’s sculpture, The Age of Bronze. It depicts the awakening of the consciousness of nature within man. This sensation surges from the feet all the way to the head, and the sheer intensity of the emotion causes the figure's hands to rise upward. This concept could never have been conveyed had the figure been clothed; even if it were attempted, the effect would not have been nearly as powerful or robust. If there had been even a small shred of cloth in the middle, it would certainly have spared the pious the trouble of lowering their gaze. However, the continuity of the lines would have been shattered. The viewer's gaze would have been caught in the middle, abruptly halting the fluid progression of that awakening. The sculpture would have lost the profound sense of spontaneity and self-abandonment it currently possesses. As it stands, the intensity of the impression and the harmony of the form are such that the entire body appears to have gone numb, with all sensation drawn up into the head and the clenched fist—as if the soul has suddenly ignited at a single point. What effect does the tranquility of the sexual organs create here? Perhaps it obliterates the distinction between body and soul.