Those who are interested in Naim sahib’s biographical details can read many of the obituaries floating around the internet, including a wonderful page dedicated to him on Prof Frances Pritchett’s website or the one maintained by himself. Of course, there’s a Wikipedia page on him as well. In the mid ’90s, I began to interact with the Urdu and/or South Asian literary and academic circles in the US and beyond, both in person and via the internet, joining for instance the crucial listserv known as sasialit, which brought so many of us with an interest in South Asian literature together. The sasialit listserv boasted of having in its membership academics such as Frances Pritchett and writers such as Tahira Naqvi. Although CM Naim, to my knowledge, never joined the list, his name hovered there. I vaguely remember when one of his essays discussing his birthplace, Barabanki, came out in an academic journal; it was a rage on our listserv. In this succinct homage to a wonderful person, I’d like to recall a few interactions I have had with him in person or otherwise.

Those who have known my love affair with translation know of my friendship with Prof Umar Memon, who like Naim sahib was a selfless servant of the promotion of Urdu on the US soil. There was rarely a conversation with Memon sahib that didn’t include praising or critiquing people like Ajmal Kamal, Asif Farrukhi, Ikarmullah, Elizabeth Bell, Ralph Russell, Naiyer Masud, Intezar Hussain, Tahira Naqvi, Frances Pritchett, Fahmida Riaz, Christina Oesterheld, Shams-ur Rahman Faruqi and Naim sahib, among others. In the same vein, he was sometimes irritated that people didn’t give him enough credit for steering the ship of Annual of Urdu Studies through rough and calm waters, but they always insisted on mentioning Naim sahib’s name instead as the founder of the respected journal. At the end of the such conversations, while one realiesed the debt Urdu-wallas owed to Memon sahib, it doubtlessly re-established the pre-eminent status Prof CM Naim enjoyed in the realm of Urdu studies and South Asian studies in the US.

When I visited India in 1998 on Katha’s invitation, one of the highlights of the trip was the opportunity to meet some of the authors I had looked up to. They included Krishna Sobti, for whom I’d carried a letter from my friend Aditya Behl, who passed away too soon; Naiyer Masud; Sara Rai; Joginder Paul; Raj Narayan Raz; Asaduddin; Shamim Hanafi; and of course, Qurratulain Hyder. Since I had gone to India to receive a translation award for a story by Naiyer Masud, our conversations often turned to the state and problem of translation. While Krishna Sobti talked about the issues she’d had with Aditya bhai’s translation of one of her books, Qurratulain Hyder brought up the episode of her minor quarrel with Naim sahib. According to her, Naim sahib had translated one of her works. She asked to be allowed to proofread it. Naim sahib felt as if she didn’t trust her craft and expertise. She insisted. He refused. I still remember her words, “lo bhai, voh to naraz ho gaye!”

The first time I finally got to meet him was when my friend Ijaz Syed brought him to Alameda to meet with our friend Roshni Rustomji-Kerns and her husband Chuck Kerns at an Indian restaurant. I joined them along with my father-in-law Col Nadir Ali. All I remember of our brief meeting was what a wonderful conversation we all had with Naim sahib holding the court. As if to reward us for our attentive listening, he distributed small posters of Persian and Urdu calligraphy to take home with us.

My desire to meet with Naim sahib only grew with time. Once I was visiting my brother-in-law, Dr Omar Ali, in Wisconsin and as it turned out, Ijaz Syed, who was doing a short work stint near Chicago, would drive over to spend weekends with Naim sahib. I had planned to drive to Chicago to meet my friend and noted writer Syed Afzal Haider. Anyway, Ijaz Syed invited me to join Naim sahib and him for dinner at his apartment near the University of Chicago campus. Again, his depth of knowledge - not just about literature but also of history, art and politics - lit up the evening. Author and translator Tahira Naqvi recently told me about how pleasantly surprised she was to learn of Naim sahib’s interest in Urdu mystery fiction. However, the words that stayed in my memory are not about his academic prowess or world knowledge but those reflecting his humility. During the gobbling up of his dishes, Ijaz felt the need to lavish praise on his culinary skills. Naim sahib was not the kind to accept flattery. He replied, “Arrey naheeN, sahib, aisi koi baat naheeN hai. Bilkul saadah sa khana hai. Bas aap chup chap kha lijye!” I felt a similar peace and love when I met him at Ijaz’s residence years later and later drove him to his son’s place 20 minutes away.

A couple of years ago, I reached out to Naim sahib, among others, for his counsel when I accused a Western academic of plagiarising my translations. While several people in the translation and/ or academic circle had offered helpful suggestions, his was the most humane: to forgive and let that person live with it. Belatedly I wondered that perhaps here was a man who knew the weight of un-forgiveness and the lightness of forgiving. I did act on his advice.

I must steel myself to also share our last exchange. I was one of the recipients of links to important articles he liked to send to his friends. That inclusion was a source of joy and pride for me. If there was a need, I would reply, agreeing or disagreeing and a short back and forth would ensue. The second last article he’d sent me was one by Harsh Mander published in Himal under the title of The Gaza apocalypse and India’s guilt, along with a short note: “Long, historical and passionate. Mander, less known in the West compared to Arundhati Roy, is of much more effective significance in India.” His last email came on June 28 with the following message: “I just finished reading [a novel] . . . It begins with a horrific incident in Lahore, in its infamous Hira Mandi to be exact. The murder is never ‘solved’ in the conventional sense — we know or can guess all the facts of the incident very soon — but over 300+ pages, the narrative fully held my attention as I learned more about its protagonists and their fates in the nation of Pakistan circa 1969-1976. Came out in 2022. It is a serious ambitious piece of fiction. The writer teaches English at the University of Minnesota and is the daughter of . . ., the editor/translator of the excellent anthology of women poets of Pakistan long back.”

I wrote back, “I read it last year and didn’t like it for the most part. Too exotic, too native informant type, too generational saga, reeking of neo-orientalism. But at times her prose was decent. On a similar note, I did like Tara Dorabji’s Call Her Freedom, totally devoid of exoticism and neo-orientalism. These are the type of writers who have zero ability to write about a place where they have lived for decades, where their children are born and raised, a place whose social and political changes affect the lives of their children and yet, it’s always like, ‘let me explain Pakistan or India or both better than a gora could. I’ll throw in a bit of local politics, a courtesan a la Pakeeza style, I’ll throw in a spoonful or two of Hindi art cinema [with a touch of Smita Patel] . . .”

His reply said, “Arre bhai, kamaal ho gayaa . . . thought she was not doing all that. Gimmicky, perhaps, but ambitious in purpose. Now I’ll read Tara Dorabji. I don’t read ’serious’ fiction much. For that, I prefer the past masters.”

Picking up on his use of ‘the past master’, I wrote: “a high school sophomore, who has only recently arrived in the US, just came to my reference desk and asked me to renew [the due date for] War and Peace. I let him feel how much love I felt for him and that he should soon move on to Dostoevsky.)” His last words to me were, “More power to you and that sophomore.”

Knowing CM Naim over a long period of time was to know a river that one visited occasionally. It always impressed one with his wisdom, kindness and fearlessness in forward movement. May his soul rest in peace and continue to inspire those who looked up to him.

The writer is a librarian and a writer based in San Francisco. His last two novellas were A Footbridge to Hell Called Love and His Unsolaced Faces We Meet In Our  reams. The third novella We Don’t Love Here Anymore has just been released