Raza
Ali Abidi pens his impressions of the famous
Urdu writer Qurratulain Hyder.
The day the news became public that I was to
read a paper on Qurratulain Hyder and that
too with her sitting before me in the
audience, indeed, life seemed a bit more
difficult. Various people under various
pretexts whispered in my ears, "what is this
trouble you have brought upon yourself...
who persuaded you to do this...?" As it is,
it is not easy to talk about Qurratulain and
if she is in front of you then it is quite
terrible. She gets angry at the slightest
criticism. She suffers no one. She is very
difficult... Beware!
The thing is that people put chains around
even the poor, small, weak, pen and what I
have come here to say today is that the
biggest achievement of Qurratulain Hyder is
that she has broken the chains around the
pen and liberated it and has bestowed
distinction on the Urdu language.
* * * * *
My relationship with Qurratulain is fully
thirty years old. I began my first job with
the Jang newspaper in Karachi and on
getting my first pay I went to Sultan Book
Depot, on the corner of Burns Road in front
of the Eidgah ground, and bought a copy of
Mere Bhi Sanam Khane Mein. This event
took place a long time back. Now on my very
small piece of marble there are many streaks
with her name on it. In these thirty years I
have gone far hand in hand with prose,
especially Urdu prose and stories in
particular. In its touch I have even felt
its heat and sometimes I think that
Qurratulain is among those people whose
existence is very providential.
God knows what evil eye has touched Urdu.
This language has somehow not been able to
establish its compatibility with stories.
The thing is that now some of the best
stories in the subcontinent are written in
Tamil, Telegu, and Malayalam but this
woebegone, having emerged from the shadows
after great effort, has now been hemmed in
within four walls. Poetry is its home and
poetry is its hearth.
But is this the fault of the language, or
those who speak it? I feel that centuries of
using it for verses has breathed in a kind
of laziness in its soul. It is unable to
bear the pain of creating good stories.
After tying up matters of the heart within
two verses its state now is that it cannot
carry out the labour of laying out the
experience of life in a detailed manner. Who
wants to bear the intense pain of creating,
who will break his legs and sit down and
research [a story]. Such a tradition never
took off.
In such a state of affairs the fact that
Qurratulain exists is of great comfort. She
does not write her story until she does her
entire homework. She puts down her entire
life's observation and study in such a way
in her writing that nothing seems made up.
If in her story in some place a train passes
by the back of the house, it is certain that
somewhere, sometime she must have been
present in a house which has trains passing
by at the back.
It is the same with her characters; everyone
seems to be like her cousins, friends,
colleagues and she too changes her name and
joins in. This must be the reason why
whatever her characters say in her stories
the critics declare it to be her own words.
All the places in her stories are also very
familiar to her and her narrative carries on
with such ease as though we too belong to
that place. It is the same of the house in
Nehtore as of the house in Earls Court.
After space comes the question of time and
Qurratulain has used every new style of
telling a story in a manner in which the
traditional mode finds itself very lacking.
Sometimes time stands still and space
changes by itself. At places space is fixed
solid and time changes. Sometimes both these
travel together in the same direction and
sometimes one of them changes its gait. Here
I will not use an impressive term like
labyrinth technique. There is some
difference still between the pillars of
Panipat and me. Nevertheless, here I cannot
refrain from talking of the tragedy that has
befallen Urdu.
* * * * *
The thing is that we live in Roorkee and
create relationships with Rilke; we lie in
Mangalore and create a nearness to Malarme.
We do not pause to think that the
sensitivities of this place are distinct,
the obsessions of this place are different,
the wisdom singular and the madness unique.
Our land and our time is a thing apart.
Neither have we passed through the stages of
tradition that the Germans passed through,
nor have we borne the levels of social
evolution that the French underwent. None of
this happened, however, what did happen is
that one day we woke up and felt ourselves
and found that we had transformed into Kafka
and Sartre.
What Qurratulain did was that she discovered
all the possibilities but she did not jump
over the boundaries of the possibilities.
Strange names and faraway places have kept
entering casually in her narrative...
sometimes these are so strange that the
katib's [copier's] pen must have
trembled and the proof reader must have not
kept quiet because ultimately the blame
would fall on the katib... but the one who
either keeps the text alive or lets it die,
has discovered the hidden mystery behind
this style. He is the one who does not take
the signed copy of the author's book without
paying for it, in fact he buys books from
his city's vendor.
Now let us come to differing viewpoints!...
I have never been able to understand why
people do not differentiate between
disagreement and quarrel. If, like
fingerprints, each person's level of
intellect is different then what is the big
deal with people having varied opinions.
Wherever there will be complex literary
pieces there will be more than one
interpretation of it and only then will the
final version be meaningful.
Once again we come to the pillars of Panipat.
I want to reiterate this very simple fact
that whenever educated, intelligent people
will talk among themselves then people with
varied understanding will say varied things
and in the end will arrive at some
consensus. The basic rule of differences of
opinion is that what I am saying is
absolutely correct, but whatever you are
saying may not be wrong as well.
Without taking the name of any book I will
say that if Qurratulain has a dispute with
any nation, any system or any group then why
not? There is only one freedom available to
mankind in this era and that is the freedom
to form an opinion. Is this to be snatched
away too, and indeed just as I have the
right to a viewpoint you have the right to
reject it. The concept that is not correct
will by itself find its place in the heap of
rubbish.
I have just read a recent work by
Qurratulain, Qaidkhane Mein Talatum Hai,
[There is turbulence in the prison].
There is much turbulence in the text as
well. Time and space have not a moment's
rest. Paragraphs remain half done, sentences
are left unfinished, within the mention of
Nazi Germany comes the marsia
[lament] over Karbala, and within the
marsia of Karbala dovetail the
Palestinian camps. There are no commas or
full stops. From the beginning till the end
there is discontinuity. The debate over
Tum Sab Wajibul Qatal Ho [All of you
should be murdered] has complicated the
matter even more.
I have no dispute with this style, but my
own understanding places me on a different
path. According to Zehra Nigah, one who
returned late all tired out and felt that
the pulse beat of his temples has become
even faster. I am not Zia Moheyuddin who can
say, Aini write a traditional story and show
us. But I am the reader who runs to the
bookshop and can say that of course recite
verses for the elite but do keep the
dialogue open with the masses.
This was about her art and in the end her
personality! One afternoon in a brief
interlude it was revealed that Aini Apa does
not eat salt... not anyone's! And when she
wants to eat it then no one gives it to her
but eats it himself. Barring one or two
publishers none pay her any royalty.
In the same way as children staying at home
during the long summer holidays having
nothing better to do make themselves a
peanut butter sandwich and eat it, in the
same way when Aini Apa is bored she puts on
new lipstick.
If a new idea is explained to her she
blossoms like a young girl. When she gets
through a phone call that she has been
trying for long to get she is as happy as a
lass from Bijnaur.
The other day she was saying something
excitedly and by mistake referred to India's
famous poetess, Kamla Das as Kamla Jharia.
She put her hand over her mouth and laughed
for a long time at her mistake just like
some student who has passed her O-level exam
last June
She is great. I want to tell her just this,
keep writing. Try out new styles. Put chairs
and sit in the courtyard of possibilities
every evening and say what you have to say
because in the matter of understanding what
you are saying, indeed, all of us have
passed the O-level examination.
(The Urdu Markaz
organized a large gathering in honour of
Qurratulain Hyder's visit to London. This
paper was read out there.)
Translated into English by Aquila Ismail.
Raza Ali Abidi is a journalist who
started his career with Jang Karachi. He
joined the BBC's Urdu. Service in 1972 and
is still associated with it after his
retirement.
The book is a collection of character
sketches and articles. The personalities
featured in the book are grouped as writers,
poets, like Ghalib, Anis and Dabeer, and
great people. There are essays on Urdu
literature and language, and also a
reflective piece by the author on why he
writes and for whom. |
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