A few days ago, I was reading the autobiography of Diwan Singh Maftoon titled Naqabil-e-Faramosh (Unforgettable). It is not just a book; it is the story of a fiery soul—his relentless toil, his lifelong tussles with the princes of India’s princely states, and his uncompromising spirit. Maftoon, a renowned journalist of his time, was the editor of the newspaper Riyasat (The State). He was born on 4 August 1890 in Gujranwala, where he completed his primary education. After his father’s death, he had to leave school midway to support the family and took up a job at a cloth shop.
Maftoon was passionately devoted to Urdu, almost to the point of obsession. The lack of formal education he made up for through self-discipline, effort, and keen learning. His search for livelihood brought him to Delhi, where he worked at a medical store for sixty rupees a month. Later, he joined Hamdam newspaper for a while and then, along with Hasan Nizami, launched Rayyat (The People). Soon after, he started his own weekly, Riyasat, which swiftly became a sensation in journalistic circles. Readers awaited each issue eagerly, especially his two popular columns: Naqabil-e-Faramosh and Jazbaat-e-Mashriq (Emotions of the East). The book Naqabil-e-Faramosh is a collection of those columns.
If one looks at Maftoon’s literary and journalistic achievements in Delhi, it is hard to believe how he managed to survive his constant clashes with the delicate-tempered princes of India’s states. These confrontations led to endless lawsuits and multiple imprisonments across the subcontinent.
One such episode dates back to his imprisonment in Delhi Jail, where he befriended a storekeeper named Sardar Jagir Singh. To while away time, Maftoon often sat with him. One day, Jagir Singh introduced him to another jail employee—a man who drove a bullock cart and transported goods to and from the railway station. Jagir Singh told Maftoon that this man possessed knowledge of spirits and ghosts, that he roamed graveyards and cremation grounds at night, summoning spirits to bring him whatever he desired.
Maftoon had never believed in ghosts or jinns, but the journalist in him was intrigued. He decided to investigate whether there was any truth behind these claims or if it was all folklore. He asked the man directly if he truly communicated with spirits and could bring things through them. The man evaded the question, which only deepened Maftoon’s curiosity. After repeated insistence and persuasion from Jagir Singh, the man finally agreed to demonstrate. Now listen to the rest in Maftoon’s own words:
It was summer, around noon. The man wore only a kurta and pyjama. He asked for a sheet, which was fetched from the storeroom. Wrapping himself in it, he began to chant softly. After a while, he asked, ‘What do you wish for?’
I replied, ‘Bring me some fresh, warm sweets.’
In the mysterious realm of the metaphysical, the scales of logic and reason lose their weight
It was against prison rules to bring or keep sweets, which is why I made that request. After a few minutes, he lifted the sheet and there, in a large bowl made of leaves, lay an assortment of freshly made, steaming sweets.
I did not eat them. Knowing that he roamed graveyards at night and might have summoned them through spirits, a strange revulsion filled me. But several other prisoners sitting nearby took the sweets and ate them before us.
Where had those hot sweets come from? Maftoon was baffled. He asked the man, ‘If you can summon anything from anywhere, why do you live in such poverty?’
The man replied calmly, ‘It is not hard for me to call for anything, but whatever is summoned must be returned to its place, or the spirits grow angry. This rule does not apply to food, however.’
Another incident from Maftoon’s life. During the Delhi summers, the last two weeks of June were scorchingly hot, followed by monsoon rains. Every year, around the sixth or seventh of June, when the heat peaked, Maftoon would travel to Bombay for two weeks and return only when he received a telegram saying rain had begun in Delhi. Once, while he was on such a journey to Bombay, he bought a copy of The Times of India at the railway station. In it, he saw an advertisement: ‘The past and future can be written on paper through the soul. One can also converse with spirits.’ The advertiser was a man named Mahmoud Bey Misri. Maftoon called the given number and secured an appointment for the next evening.
He narrates: ‘When I arrived, Mr Mahmoud Bey received me warmly. He had arranged tea and was seated with a charming European lady, his secretary. Over tea, we spoke about my case and about journalism. When we finished, I told him the real reason for my visit, that I wanted to witness the “spiritual writing” he had advertised.
‘Mr Bey called for his servant, cleared the table, and handed me a blank sheet of paper, asking me to write three to five questions on it—without showing them to anyone—and to fold the paper afterwards. He and his secretary then stepped into another room. Alone, I wrote with a pencil:
Did it rain in Delhi today?
What is the price of wheat in America?
Will I win or lose my court case?
‘I folded the paper and called him back. Mr Bey sat down across from me and told me to hold the folded sheet with the pencil in my hand. He sat at a distance, muttering under his breath. After about five to seven minutes, he told me to unfold it.
‘When I did, I was stunned. Next to each question, an answer had appeared:
It did not rain in Delhi today.
The price of wheat in America is four rupees per maund.
You will win your case.
‘The answers were written faintly in pencil, the handwriting shaky, as though from a trembling hand. I was speechless. The paper had never left my hands; he hadn’t even touched it. Who had written those words?’
This was an account witnessed by Maftoon himself. It is worth remembering that he had never believed in ghosts or spirits, yet these two incidents unfolded before his very eyes. His reaction was one of wonder and astonishment, as if it gripped anyone who measures the world solely by reason and logic. Perhaps, in the mysterious realm of the metaphysical, the scales of logic and reason lose their weight. There exists a mist of enigma that stretches from here to eternity.