I’ve read one or two short stories by Ismat Chughtai before. I’ve wanted to read a proper collection of her short stories and so decided to read this book.
There are 29 short stories in the book. ‘The Quilt‘ (‘Lihaaf‘), her most famous story is there. When it first came out, it created a lot of controversy. It gave Ismat Chughtai her reputation as a bold, outspoken writer, who pushed the boundaries. This story resulted in a case being filed against her and calls for banning the story. Fortunately for us, the court sided with Ismat, and we now can read this story and find out what the fuss was all about.
I liked many of the stories in the book. There were a few stories which were underwhelming, but I liked the majority of the stories, and my favourite stories were all exceptional. One of my favourite stories was ‘Kallu‘ in which a 7-year old boy who is working in the home of a rich family is thrown out of the house. Many years later he comes back as a grown-up man and the reunion is very interesting. Another favourite story was ‘Bichu Phupi‘ in which a sister and a brother have a big fallout and the sister goes to war against her brother, but the love these two siblings have towards each other comes out in unusual ways. Another of my favourite stories was ‘The Wife‘ (‘Ghar Waali‘). Laajo, one of the main characters in the story, is a free spirit who refuses to bow to anyone and she is one of my favourite characters in the book. Another of my favourite stories was ‘Sacred Duty‘ (‘Muqaddas Farz‘) in which a young woman and a young man fall in love, but they are from different religions and their parents are against it. How this young couple trick their parents and how their parents trick them back and who wins this game forms the rest of the story. In ‘Professions‘ (‘Pesha‘), our narrator is a teacher. Her neighbour appears to be a modern day courtesan. The courtesan one day walks into the teacher’s house and asks for her help. What happens after that is the rest of the story. There is a twist in the end which is quite fascinating. There are other beautiful stories in the book, but I’ll stop here.
There was an interesting epilogue to this reading experience. I discovered that I have another collection of stories by Ismat Chughtai. It had 15 stories in it. Nearly all of them were already there in this collection that I’d read. But there were also two new stories in it. I always love it when I discover surprises like this. Those two stories were translated by a different translator, Syeda S. Hameed. I liked them both, but one of them, ‘Poison‘ (‘Zehr‘) was very beautiful. It had a fascinating twist at the end.
The edition of the book I read was published by Women Unlimited. It had a beautiful cover, thick soft paper, and a big font. It was an absolute pleasure to read.
I loved reading Ismat Chughtai’s short stories. They brought back to life a different era. Ismat’s outspoken style and her humour comes through in many of the stories. I don’t know how many feathers she ruffled during her time, and how much she defied and tested the censors during her time, but I’m glad she wrote these stories. She has written a few novels too. Hoping to read them sometime.
Have you read Ismat Chughtai’s short stories? What do you think about them? Which short stories of hers are your favourites?
I discovered ‘Umrao Jan Ada‘ through its movie adaptation which was screened in my college. I wasn’t mature enough to understand and appreciate the movie at that time. Later, when I discovered that it was based on a book, and I saw the book at the bookshop, I thought I’ll be able to understand the book version better and I got it. But since then it has been lying on my bookshelf. So now I decided to pick it up and read it.
The narrator, who is the author Mirza Muhammad Hadi Rusva himself, is having an informal Urdu poetry recital session with his friends. Then a maid comes from the house next door and says that her mistress wants to meet him. Our narrator goes to meet the neighbour next door and discovers that she is an old acquaintance of his, the famous courtesan Umrao Jan Ada. She praises the poetry that our narrator and his friends are reciting. Our narrator invites her for the recital session and requests her to recite her own poetry. After some initial hesitation Umrao Jan agrees. They all have a wonderful time listening to each other’s poetry and admiring it and commenting on it. After sometime, this becomes a regular happening there. After one of those recitals, our narrator and one of his friends ask Umrao Jan to tell them the story of her life, and how she ended up as their next door neighbour. The rest of the book is about Umrao Jan’s life in her own words.
‘Umrao Jan Ada’ is a beautiful love letter to the Lucknow of a bygone era. In it, Umrao Jan describes the life of a courtesan in the 19th century, the good and the not-so-good things, the Nawabs she knew, the fascinating eccentric characters she met, the adventures she had. How a girl like her from a respectable family ended up becoming a courtesan is itself a heartbreaking story. There are many fascinating characters in the story – Khanum, her mentor who employs her, her fellow courtesans Bismillah and Khurshid, the Nawab who falls in love with her, the robber who falls in love with her and gives her expensive gifts, the mysterious Begum who treats her like her best friend though they are from totally different social classes – these and other wonderful characters populate the story. Umrao Jan herself is a fascinating person and her voice that we hear while reading the book is beautiful. The final chapter in which Umrao Jan shares her insights on life is one of the most beautiful chapters in the book.
There is a beautiful preface by the translator David Matthews at the beginning of the book in which he gives the historical, social and cultural context behind the story and it is very insightful to read. I loved that preface.
There is one thing to nitpick though. It has nothing to do with the story or the author or the translator. It is this. There are many lines of poetry in the book. They’ve all been translated into English, and they are probably faithful translations. But in English they lose much of their beauty. Urdu is a very beautiful language, and in my opinion, one of the most beautiful languages ever. When we read about a moth moving towards the flame, it is very beautiful in Urdu. The words are beautiful, the emotion is beautiful. In English, it doesn’t sound the same, it doesn’t feel the same. Translating poetry is always hard because the emotion conveyed in the original language is mostly lost. But we feel that loss much more starkly in Urdu. Because of this, I feel that the poetry part of this book will read much better in Urdu than in English translation. Also, sometimes the humorous lines and humorous conversations read much better in Urdu than in English translation. Though in this case, the humour manages to get through.
I loved ‘Umrao Jan Ada’. It is a beautiful book. It is a classic of Urdu literature, and I’m glad I read it. I know that there are atleast two movie adaptations of the book, one starring Rekha as Umrao Jan and another starring Aishwarya Rai as Umrao Jan. I want to see the Rekha version first.
Sharing one of my favourite passages from the story.
“When I heard the maulvi and Bua Husaini and other elderly people talking about former times, it seemed to me that their age must have been much better than our own. For that reason I used to praise it in its absence, and for no reason reviled the age into which I was born. I never realised that they thought well of earlier times simply because everyone regards one’s youth as the best, when everything in the world was so wonderful. ‘When you are young, the world is young; when you are dead, the world is dead.’ Young people see the elderly and adopt their ways, and this age-old misunderstanding has become a generally accepted custom.”
Have you read ‘Umrao Jan Ada’ or seen the movie version? What do you think about it?
I’ve wanted to read Intizar Husain’s classic novel ‘Basti‘ for a long time. I finally got around to reading it.
The story starts in the early 1970s, sometime before the start of the war in Bangladesh. Zakir is a history teacher in college. He lives in Lahore. (The city is not named in the story but it looks like Lahore.) There is a kind of unrest in the streets. It takes Zakir’s mind back to an earlier time, to the early 1940s, when Zakir and his family were living in a small town in India. We get to see the story and history unfold through Zakir’s eyes, as the story moves back and forth between the 1940s and the 1970s and even moves further back to the 1850s. All these time periods had traumatic events which resulted in many innocent people getting killed and getting displaced from their homes, and we get an eerie feeling that history as tragedy just keeps repeating itself.
The contrast between the 1940s and the 1970s is so beautifully depicted – different time periods, different countries, separated by a traumatic event. The depiction of the 1940s is charming at the beginning till things turn dark because of the Partition and the ensuing violence.
I loved the way Intizar Husain blends literature and mythology from different cultures seamlessly into the story. The notes section and the glossary at the end of the book were very informative and were a pleasure to read. I learnt a lot from there.
I loved many of the characters in the book. Zakir’s father Abba Jan was one of my favourite characters in the book and he speaks some of my favourite lines from the story. Zakir’s cousin and beloved Sabirah who ends up in India while he moves to Pakistan was another of my favourite characters in the book.
Intizar Husain’s prose is beautiful and it was a pleasure to read. I couldn’t stop highlighting my favourite passages – there were so many.
The book has a brilliant introduction by Muhammad Umar Memon which discusses and analyzes the plot. It is best read after reading the book. There is also a beautiful interview with Intizar Husain at the end, which is a pleasure to read.
These days ‘Basti’ is published by NYRB. I personally feel that NYRB just buys the rights of pioneering editions and translations which came out earlier and puts them out at prohibitive prices. The edition of ‘Basti’ I read is by Oxford University Press. If you can get hold of this edition, it is much better than NYRB – hardback, thick paper, big font, and so an absolute pleasure to read.
‘Basti’ is one of the masterpieces of Pakistani Urdu literature. It was moving, haunting and heartbreaking. I loved it and I’m glad I finally read it though it took me a while to get to it. I’ve heard that Intizar Husain is famous for his short stories and so hoping to read one of his short story collections sometime.
I’ll leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.
“Just then thunder rumbled in the clouds, scaring them both, and at once the rain came down so hard that before they got from the open roof to the staircase they were both drenched.
How forcefully the rainy season began! Inside, outside, everywhere was commotion; but when it went on raining at a steady pace, the atmosphere slowly filled with a kind of sadness and voices were gradually silenced. When evening fell, the stray call of a peacock came from deep in the forest, and mingled more sadness with the sad, rainy evening. Then night came, and the rain-soaked darkness grew deep and dense. If anyone woke in the night, the rain was falling as though it had been raining for an endless eternity, and would keep on raining for an endless eternity. But that night was so well-populated by voices.”
******
“The rain poured down all night inside him. The dense clouds of memory seemed to come from every direction. Now the sky was washed and soft. Here and there a cloud swam contentedly in it, like a bright face, a soft smile. How deeply self-absorbed he was! For him, the outer world had already lost its meaning.”
“Other people’s history can be read comfortably, the way a novel can be read comfortably. But my own history? I’m on the run from my own history, and catching my breath in the present. Escapist. But the merciless present pushes us back again toward our history. The mind keeps talking.”
“Zavvar was the youngest of us all, but he established himself among us as a learned scholar, and his brilliance and maturity of mind fully made up for his youthfully downy cheeks. At such an early age, after reading books of all types and descriptions, he announced that wisdom doesn’t come from books, but from passing through the experiences of life. Thus, in search of wisdom, he sat for a few days with Afzal, trying out liquor. Then, believing it inadequate, he tried marijuana, hashish, and opium. Taking baths, changing clothes, and shaving he considered to be a waste of time, and insofar as possible he avoided such extravagances. Partly because his shoes were rather old, and partly because they were unpolished and covered with dust and dirt, they looked ancient. He himself took out and threw away their inner soles, and contrived to leave the nails protruding. He used to walk for miles, and come back to the Shiraz with his heels covered with blood.
“Yar, why don’t you get a shoemaker to fix your shoes?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“To become a man, one ought to have the experience of torment; and great art is born only through suffering.”
Anisah watched this whole scene with sadness. She said, The Imperial has gone into a total decline. How did it happen? When I left, the Imperial was really at its peak. Who could have imagined then that such a fate would overtake it?’
“That’s the trouble with peaks. Those who are on them never even imagine that they could be brought down from such a height! And when the decline starts, it can’t be stopped halfway. The decline doesn’t stop even for a moment, until it reaches its limit.”
“You’ve started talking about the decline of nations. I was talking about the Imperial.”
“Whenever and wherever decline begins, it works in exactly the same way.”
“What’s happened to my walk today? He hesitated, then reflected that before today he’d never even paid attention to his walk. We keep on walking, and never pay attention to how we walk. Here I am, walking along. Immediately he was brought up short. When he observed his own non-human walk, the strange thought came to him that it was not he who was walking, but someone else in his place. But who? He fell into perplexity. Gradually he controlled his doubt. He walked in measured paces, and listened to the sound of his footsteps. No, I’m myself all right. I’m walking here on a paved sidewalk in my city, and this is the sound of my footsteps. But while he was reassuring himself like this, a sudden impression came to him that the sound of his footsteps was gradually drawing away from his footsteps. It’s a strange thing. I’m walking along here, and the sound of my footsteps is coming from over there – from where? Or perhaps I’m here, and I’m walking somewhere else? Where? Where am I walking? On what earth are my footsteps falling? He looked around him in surprise. Everything was silent and desolate. As though the town had emptied, the way a matchbox empties. “Houses and inns and places, all empty.” No noise, no voice, no sound of footsteps, no nothing…”
“Yesterday when I was drinking tea with Sabirah, my eyes fell on the part in her hair. How elegantly straight a part she had made. I saw that among the black hairs one hair was shining like silver. So, my friend, time is passing. We’re all in the power of time. So hurry and come here. Come and see the city of Delhi, and the realm of beauty, for both are waiting for you. Come and join them, before silver fills the part in her hair. and your head becomes a drift of snow, and our lives are merely a story. That’s all.”
“Well, listen now, where is the key to the storeroom?”
“Storeroom? What storeroom?”
“Ai hai, you’ve already forgotten! Was there not a storeroom in our mansion?”
“Oh, the storeroom in the mansion.” Abba Jan was silent, then said, “Zakir’s mother, twenty-five years have passed.”
“Well, I’m asking about the key to the storeroom, not the number of years.”
“When you asked about the key to the storeroom, I thought I ought to tell you how much time has passed.”
“Oh, what does time have to do with it time always goes on passing, but if the key to the storeroom’s been lost, it’s a disaster! All our old family heirlooms are shut up in there. All the things from my dowry are in there…”
******
“From somewhere deep within the bag, under some papers, he brought out a bunch of keys. He looked at them closely, and said, “That day you were thinking about the keys to the mansion, and here they are.”
Her lined face brightened. “Truly?” She looked longingly at the bunch of keys. “Well, you wouldn’t believe, that day when you said you didn’t know where they were, my heart almost stopped beating. I thought my soul had left my body.” She paused, then said, “And the rust hasn’t gotten to them?”
Abba Jan examined the keys once more. “No, I didn’t let them get rusty. From now on, it’s up to Zakir.” Then he addressed him : “Son, these are the keys of a house to which we no longer have any right. And when did we ever have any right? The world, as Hazrat Ali has said, is a guest-house. We and our desires are guests in it. Guests have no rights. Whatever the earth deigns to bestow on us guests, it’s a favor, and the earth has shown us great kindness indeed. These keys are a trust. Guard this trust, and remember the kindness shown by the earth we left, and this will be your greatest act of dutiful behavior.” As he spoke, suddenly his breath choked. He closed his eyes with the pain, and pressed his hand to his chest. Ammi at once jumped up anxiously, “Why, what’s happened?” She helped him to lie down. “Son, call the doctor!” Abba Jan opened his eyes. He made a sign to say no. Slowly, with the greatest difficulty, he said, “Hazrat Ali has come!”
“Afzal was right. This was indeed the time to have a long sleep. A man should go into a cave, apart from everyone, and sleep. And go on sleeping for seven hundred years. When he wakes up and comes out of the cave, then he’ll see that the times have changed. And he has not changed. It’s a good idea, it’s better than getting up every morning and looking in the mirror, suspecting that his face has changed, and being tormented all day by the thought that his face is changing! When a man sees people changing all around him, such suspicions arise. Or it also happens that no suspicions arise, and then a man changes. How? How have they gone on changing? Those people, every one of whom believed that the others were changing, while he himself looked the same as before. Everyone looked at everyone else and was stupefied. “My dear friend! What’s happened to you?”
“To me? Nothing’s happened to me. But I can see that something’s happened to you.”
“My dear friend, nothing’s happened to me But I do see that your face –”
One tangled with another, the second tangled with a third. One clawed at another, the second clawed at a third. They all clawed at each other and were injured and deformed. I was afraid that I too – I came away. I should go into my cave and sleep. And keep sleeping until the times have changed.”
Have you read ‘Basti’? What to you think about it?
I discovered Umera Ahmed’s ‘Peer-e-Kamil‘ (‘The Perfect Mentor’) through a friend’s recommendation. I’ve read many books by Pakistani writers written originally in English, but I’ve never read a full book by a Pakistani writer written originally in Urdu. I’ve read only Urdu short stories. So I decided to read Umera Ahmed’s book now.
Imama is a student in medical college. She is a good student and hopes to become a great ophthalmologist one day. But things don’t go according to plan. A friend tells her something and one thing leads to another and Imama has a huge religious crisis and loses faith in her parents’ religion. Her family is conservative and they are distinguished in their community and so there will be a huge earthquake at home if she shares this with her family. To complicate things further, Imama has been engaged to someone for a while, but now she falls in love with a new guy. Imama musters up courage and decides to tell these two things to her parents. As expected all hell breaks loose. What happens after that forms the rest of the story. (Not exactly. Imama’s neighbour is Salar. He is a brilliant, talented person, but he has a devil-may-care attitude. Imama’s and Salar’s paths cross and what happens after that forms the rest of the story 😊)
The whole book is the story of Imama and Salar and how their life paths cross and what happens after that. For the first half of the book, both their stories happen in parallel, but halfway through the book one of the main characters disappears from the story. Whether she or he comes back again – you have to read the book to find out.
Umera Ahmed’s writing is spare and moves along the plot nicely. Umera Ahmed doesn’t waste her time with long descriptions, monologues and sculpted sentences. There is no redundant sentence, there is no wasted word. The job of the prose is to move the plot at a good pace, and it does that effectively. The pages just fly and though the book is around 550 pages long, it doesn’t feel that way.
I loved Imama. She was a beautiful soul. Salar was such a huge contrast to Imama and he was more complex and in many ways the opposite to Imama. Sometimes he looked like a loveable rogue, at other times he was hard to like. But he was the character who evolved the most through the story. There were also many minor characters whom I liked very much, like Furqan the doctor, Saeeda Amma, Dr.Sibt-e-Ali who is the epitome of kindness, and many others.
The book has this legendary conversation –
“What is your question?”
“A very simple question, but everyone finds it hard to answer. What is next to ecstasy?” he asked Imama.
She looked at him for a while, then said, “Pain.”
“And what is next to pain?” he shot another question at her.
“Nothingness.”
“What is next to nothingness?” he asked in his typical style.
“Hell,” she replied.
“What is next to hell?” Imama watched him in silence. “What is next to hell?” he repeated.
“Aren’t you afraid?” He heard her query in an unfamiliar tone.
“Afraid of what?” he was surprised.
“Of hell – the place which has nothing ahead… everything is left behind. What remains after being condemned and destroyed that is worth your knowing?” she asked sadly.
“I fail to understand your argument – it’s gone over my head,” Salar declared.
“Don’t worry: there’ll come a time when all this will make sense to you. Then your laughter will end to be replaced by fear – fear of death, of hell too.”
I also loved this passage –
“Sometimes in our lives we do not know whether we have emerged from darkness into light or if we are entering into the dark – the direction is unknown. But one can differentiate, in any case, between the earth and the sky. When you raise your head, it is the sky above; and when you lower it, it is the earth below – whether or not it is visible. To move forward in life, you need just four points of direction – right and left, ahead and behind – the fifth is the ground under your feet. If that were not there, it would be an abyss, hell, and on arriving there one would have no need of direction.”
I loved ‘Peer-e-Kamil’. It is a beautiful story about faith. It is also a beautiful love story. Hope you like it if you decide to read it. It is a perfect read for the month of Ramadan. Hoping to read more books by Umera Ahmed.
Have you read ‘Peer-e-Kamil’? What to you think about it? Which is your favourite Umera Ahmed book?
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