Re-examining the Question of Originality Around Parveen Shakir
“O you who believe! If a wrongdoer comes to you with news, verify it, lest you harm people in ignorance and become regretful for what you have done.” (Qur’an 49:6)
And the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“It is enough falsehood for a man to speak of everything that he hears.” (Sahih Muslim)
Before we pull back the curtain on this sensitive literary debate, these two guiding lights must remain before us: verification before accusation, restraint before repetition.
Because reputations are not paper boats. They are legacies.

Nearly fifty years ago, when I was a young observer of literature in Lyallpur — today’s Faisalabad — a storm passed quietly through the literary corridors. A writer known as Seen Meem Asim published an essay claiming that several Pakistani poets had translated poetry from English, German, and Persian — yet presented those translations as their own original creations.
The allegation was not casual. It was unsettling.

He even mentioned the towering name of Allama Muhammad Iqbal. Soon after, a senior writer, journalist M.A. Moodi, seconded that position. Literary circles were stirred. Some called it courage. Others called it provocation.

Time moved on. The dust settled. But the question lingered.
A few weeks ago, a columnist revived a similar accusation — this time regarding the Sindhi poet-philosopher Sheikh Ayaz of Sukkur. And last year, yet another voice suggested that the beloved Urdu poetess Parveen Shakir might also be sailing in the same controversial boat.

The word attached to such claims is heavy: plagiarism.
A word that can wound across generations.
At that moment, I paused and asked myself — not the public, not the critics — but my own conscience:
Is it true?

Because translation, in itself, is not — and has never been — a literary crime.
I say this not merely as a commentator but as a participant. Years ago, I translated works from Romanian literature. They were published in an Urdu periodical titled Talaba Magazine. And clearly, transparently, it was written that the work was a translation of Lucian Blaga.
Translation is honourable.

Deception is not.
So where does Parveen Shakir stand in this spectrum?
In Urdu literature, some names are spoken softly — almost reverently. Parveen Shakir is one of them. Her first collection, Khushbu, did not merely introduce a poetess; it introduced a voice. A woman speaking in the first person about love, longing, waiting, rejection, professional life, and emotional vulnerability.
She feminised the ghazal from within.

Her diction was modern. Her imagery is urban. Her emotional exposure is unapologetic.
And perhaps that freshness invited scrutiny.

We must draw a clear intellectual line:
Influence is natural.
Imitation may be unconscious.
Plagiarism is deliberate concealment.

By the 1970s, Pakistan’s educated class was bilingual. English literature was widely read. Confessional poets in the West had already explored female interiority with psychological depth.
When Shakir wrote of waiting for a phone call, of wounded pride, of a beloved who failed to understand her emotional landscape — some critics detected a resemblance to Western modes.
But resemblance is not replication.

Love, betrayal, waiting — these are not patented emotions. They belong to humanity.
True plagiarism reveals itself through structural duplication: identical metaphor sequencing, parallel narrative architecture, and matching emotional climax. Without a documented, side-by-side comparative analysis, your accusations remain speculation.

Journalism must not confuse suspicion with proof.
There is also a cultural angle worth considering. When a male poet borrows tone, it is called intertextuality. When a female poet introduces bold modernity, it sometimes becomes “influence.” When she becomes wildly popular, it can become “suspicion.”

Was part of the discomfort rooted not in text, but in transformation?
Post-colonial societies produce hybrid literature. Writers think in one language, feel in another, and express themselves in a third emotional register. Hybridisation is not plagiarism. It is evolution.

If Shakespeare borrowed plots and reshaped them…
If Ghalib absorbed Persian aesthetics…
If modern poets converse across continents…
Then originality must be measured not by isolation, but by transformation.

To claim that most of Parveen Shakir’s work was copied from English poetry requires extraordinary evidence: archival documentation, structural comparison, and published scholarly analysis.
To date, no widely recognised academic research has conclusively proven systematic translation-based copying in her case.
Absence of proof does not mean blind acceptance. But it certainly forbids reckless condemnation.

Mass popularity often invites elite scepticism. Parveen Shakir was not merely admired; she was embraced. Young women found their reflections in her words. When a poet becomes the emotional mirror of a generation, critics sharpen their questions.

That is healthy.
But inquiry must be disciplined.
Perhaps the real question is broader: in a globalised literary world, can emotional vocabulary ever remain untouched by influence? In bilingual societies, boundaries blur. Ideas travel. Metaphors migrate.

Perfume travels across borders. But fragrance is not automatically theft.
Let scholars compare texts.
Let critics analyse structures.
Let evidence speak.
Until then, legacy deserves caution.
For words can assassinate.
And words can illuminate.
Between reverence and accusation lies scholarship.
And in the court of time, only two things endure:
Truth.
And transformation.