Author Nuzhat Khan weaves a story of love and loss against the backdrop of Uttarakhand’s forest fire catastrophe in her latest novel.
Author Nuzhat Khan | Photo Credit: Special Arrangement
Author Nuzhat Khan is among the growing tribe of writers confronting the world’s most pressing issue — climate emergency and the unfolding weather catastrophe — through a genre of fiction set in natural ecosystems. In her latest novel Whistling Woods (Petals Publishers), she highlights the impact of forest fire on people’s livelihood in Uttarakhand along with the story of two strangers — Akshay and Kaveri — who embark on a journey of self-discovery to the hills.
Nuzhat says the book is her way of doing her bit for Nature and the environment. “Growing up in Almora hill station amidst the snow-capped Himalayan ranges of Uttarakhand, I was blown away by the stunning landscape. This is the case with anyone who belongs to the hills. It pained me to watch forest fires ravage the serene hills.” She decided to act by writing a light-hearted story around the issue to reach out to more people. “I thought presenting plain facts and figures would be drab on topics like, what’s fuelling forest fires that continue to scorch hectares of green cover? I have tried to propose a solution, although it may not be the perfect one,” she says.
Her style of storytelling, both evocative and driven by research, helps readers get a grip of the issue while enjoying the budding romance between the lead characters. “I have attempted to capture a mix of human emotions, complexity of relationships, and the innocence of love. The setting helped me run parallels between urban and rural lives. For people in villages, even access to clean drinking water can be challenging ” explains Nuzhat adding that the book has been in the making for five years which also involved several trips to institutes like Avani Bio-Energy plant in Pithoragarh, the Naula Foundation, an NGO that creates awareness on the problems of dying aquifiers (naulas) in the hills of Uttarakhand.
“My interactions with the locals and forest department officials was an eye-opener. They are constantly working to mitigate the problem. Organisations like the Himalayan Institute For Environment, Ecology & Development have developed fire reporting apps that can alert people on forest fires across various locations.”
She points out that the ashram described in the book that works towards empowering girl children was inspired by the Lakshmi Ashram run by a couple in Uttarakhand. “Some of the characters are not entirely fictional,” she hints.
The book also touches upon excessive tourism in the hills. “Several unplanned constructions in the form of resorts have come up usurping the forest cover and triggering landslides. The region is also prone to earthquakes.” She wants people to sit up and take note of Uttarakhand. “Everyone wants to live in the hills. I want to tell them it is beautiful, but everyday life can be challenging.”
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Books / by K Jeshi / December 26th, 2023
Saleem Kidwai’s translations of Qurratulain Hyder’s novels bring out the author’s command over the Urdu idiom.
Qurratulain Hyder’s last novel, Chandni Begum, almost predicted an increasingly intolerant India. (HT Team)
Saleem Kidwai died earlier this year. Apart from being a translator par excellence he was a medieval historian, and queer rights activist, best known for co-authoring Same-Sex Love in India: Readings from Literature and History.
Urdu phrase in Chandni Begum – Allah maaf kare as “Allah, forgive my sins”. I thought the phrase had lost its zing and frankly told him that the dramatic, half-mocking Allah maaf kare should have been retained like Aye bahu, a lament that is difficult to express in English.
We discussed the possible alternatives, Kidwai graciously half-defending the phrase, and then he revealed that he was translating Hyder’s Safina e Gham e Dil (Ship of Sorrows). Both books are my absolute favourites, and I re-read them after his untimely demise.
Lamat R Hasan (Courtesy the reviewer)
Chandni Begum, 1989
The novel centres around the lives of two aristocratic families living on a controversial estate with a mosque and a temple in its compound. The story moves at a fierce pace, shuffling between the past and the present, from the Partition of India to the Mandir-Masjid dispute in Ayodhya, amplifying the complexities of life, trying to find coherence in the class-caste chaos.
She wrote this tale of love and loss a few years before Babri Masjid was razed to the ground, almost predicting the future course of events, of an India that would become increasingly intolerant. This was Hyder’s last novel.
Ship of Sorrows, 1952
Only when I was holding “Ship of Sorrows”, Hyder’s part memoir, part fictional work in hand, did I learn that Kidwai had decided to abandon the project midway.
Unlike other Partition stories written from the perspective of average men and women who witnessed its horrors, this novel is a coming-of-age story, without a conventional storyline, of a privileged set of six friends from Awadh. The author herself debuts as Anne Hyder and fictionalises her experience during the communal riots in Dehradun.
Kidwai praises Hyder’s command over the Urdu idiom, with its Persian and Arabic inflections, and her equal ease with English and western idioms. Her fiction is not easy to read and she was impatient with critics who tried to evaluate the impact of modernism and of particularly Virginia Woolf, on her work. Kidwai was indeed overwhelmed by her genius, but after two years of hard work he successfully anchored his ship.
In Kidwai’s memory next up on my reading list is his biography of the legendary singer Malika Pukhraj. Song Sung True (Kali for Women, 2005) was first published in translation in India. The original Bezubaani Zubaan Na Ho Jaey was recently published in Pakistan.
Lamat R Hasan is an independent journalist. She lives in New Delhi.
source: http://www.hindustantimes.com / Hindustan Times / Home> Books / by Lamat R Hasan / December 17th, 2021
Barsa, written by Kadeeja Mumtas, is the first Malayalam novel to be set in Saudi Arabia and as its introduction states, is a record of “a woman’s scrutiny of Islamic scriptures and Muslim life”.
Barsa, as its introduction states, is the first Malayalam novel to be set in Saudi Arabia. Written by Kadeeja Mumtas and translated into English by K M Sherrif, the book acts as a record of “a woman’s scrutiny of Islamic scriptures and Muslim life”.
Sabitha, the protagonist of the novel, after moving to Saudi Arabia, starts questioning every aspect of her every day life – including religion.
The novel traces her personal journey as she is caught amidst culture, religion, and personal agency, and struggles to assert her own identity.
One hot afternoon, Rasheed and Sabitha first stepped out like refugees on the large expanse of land surrounding the grand mosque which housed the holy Ka’aba. Other travellers who knew their way hurriedly moved on while the two of them stood hesitantly at the crossroads, unsure of their next step. The coppery glare of the sun sat on their heads like the legs of a giant spider.
Rasheed glanced at Sabitha. He could sense her discomfort in the headscarf and the abaya, looking like a lawyer’s coat, which the Malayali workers at the airport had helped her buy. But he thought that even in those uncomfortable clothes, Doctor Prabhakaran’s niece, with her wheatish complexion, had a particular charm. He wanted to tell her this with a little smile, but with his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. He just couldn’t do it, which was a pity. If he had, maybe the wrinkles on her forehead would have lost at least one crease.
A yellow taxi backed up and stopped near them. Th e face of a man with a shabby headdress clamped down by a black ring came into view, and an arm jerked out of the window at the driver’s seat. “Fain aabga ruh?” Rasheed guessed he was asking where they wanted to go and replied, “Mudeeriya Musthashfa”—the Health Directorate. He had gleaned the Arabic expression from the conversation he had had in halting English with the Palestinian doctor they had met at the airport emergency service. He had seen Sabitha too write it down in her diary.
“Ta’al ”—come. Th e driver opened the car doors and invited them in. As he could not understand the driver’s sarcastic remark, directed obviously at his fairly large suitcase, Rasheed, with some embarrassment, chose to put it on his lap as he sat down and leaned back comfortably.
As the car sped at breakneck speed, Sabitha felt a tremor run through her, but she suppressed it immediately. She felt helpless at having to depend on a complete stranger, an Arab driver whose language she did not know. But she was also reassured by Rasheed’s presence. They had reached this far, trusting strangers, many of whose languages they did not know.
As they boarded the Saudi Airlines flight to Riyadh from Mumbai, Thambi, the man from their ticketing agents Ajanta Travels, had said reassuringly, “The flight will take about four and a half hours. Someone from the Ministry will be waiting to receive you. There is nothing to worry about, Riyadh is a nice city. Okay then, happy journey!”
From the moment Thambi, with that characteristic city dweller’s way of waving goodbye had raised his hands and walked away, Rasheed and Sabitha had taken comfort in each other’s presence. They could make this journey together only because of their decision to stick to each other, come what may. At the interview in Mumbai, it was Sabitha who was selected first, as a lady gynaecologist. The interview for ophthalmologists had not yet been conducted and, as there were a large number of applicants, Rasheed was not too hopeful of getting in. When she was asked to sign the contract, Sabitha hesitated, “I will sign only if my husband too is selected.” She had by then realised that lady gynaecologists were much in demand. “You sign; even if he is not selected, he can come with you on a family visa and then try for a job there.”
The man at Ajanta Travels, a go-getter, tried to hustle her. “No, I am not that keen to go to the Gulf to work. I will go only if he also gets a job there.” Her stubbornness paid off . An interview was fixed for Rasheed as a special case.
Excerpted with permission from Barsa, by Kadeeja Mumtas, Yoda Press. You can buy this book at 20% off at the FII-Yoda Press Winter Book Sale on 21st and 22nd December 2018 in New Delhi. For more details, check out the sale page.
source: http://www.feminisminindia.com / Feminism In India – FII / Home> Culture> Books / by FII Team / December 21st, 2018
Ghazala Wahab explains what it is to be a Muslim, a member of the largest religious minority in India today, and why the community lives in fear as prejudices persist.
The book opens with an unputdownable 42-page introduction that delves into the root of fear and despair among Muslims who have embraced the country as theirs but are polarised because of the identity they bear.
The shock and shame of communal riots, orchestrated mass violence and lynchings that served political agendas and led to societal divisions during the past decades hits you, as journalist Ghazala Wahab lays bare instances from her life.
Balanced narrative
She meticulously balances her narrative because she wishes to build a bridge of conversation. While she addresses fellow Muslims asking them to embrace modernity and be an integral part of positive change, she also alerts non-Muslim Indians about their perception of Muslims based on prejudice and hearsay, not facts.
Self-examining her own community members, she admits it never struck her how an average Muslim struggles to stay alive because she looked at things from her position of privilege. As she researched, she found equal opportunity and justice are only concepts and that law- making and law-enforcing agencies act in contradiction to vilify and stigmatise Muslims.
It is a vicious cycle, writes Ghazala, because the post-partition Muslims have remained an irrelevant votebank and sought security in their ghettos perpetuated by illiteracy, poverty and unemployment. The mullahs and clergy have easily taken them under their religious fold to exploit them. The general backwardness of the community has fed into a sense of loss of identity and unmet aspirations for Muslim youth, men and women.
Personal experience
In the mid-80s, Ghazala’s father shifted from their ancestral home in a middle class mohalla to an upscale Hindu-majority neighbourhood in Agra. His successful business and hobnobbing with the powerful, gave him the comfort of keeping his family under a security net. But that was till Agra was engulfed in violence post-kar seva after BJP leader L.K. Advani rolled out his rath yatra from Somnath to Ayodha in October, 1990, and was subsequently arrested. As sporadic violence spread across north India, Ghazala’s family wondered where they would be more secure — in their new neighbourhood or in a Muslim majority insulated mohalla.
Ghazala’s father called his brothers to safety and her mohalla uncles requested them to move back to the old Muslim locality. Ultimately everybody stayed where they were as fury was unleashed on their community everywhere. A young collegian then, Ghazala, her parents and three siblings were at home when an angry mob led by a neighbour shouted slogans, smashed windows, pelted stones and damaged their car. Desperate phone calls for help went unanswered.
When Ghazala’s father went to the police station to enquire about the adult males who were forcibly picked up from the mohalla during search operations, senior officials known to him avoided him. Those he thought had accepted him treated him as nothing more than a Muslim when it came to communal division. For Ghazala’s father it was not about being a victim but it was more about the humiliation, a betrayal of belief.
Turning point
Her family survived the riots but it left a scar. Her parents chose to go silent and it irked Ghazala that a victim should feel ashamed. She saw the same resignation and defeatist attitude when the Babri Masjid was razed. It unnerved her because she sensed it was a turning point not just for her family but for most Indian Muslims.
“Civility was the first casualty, replaced by communal prejudice and demonstrative religion,” she writes.
Many members in her extended family began to draw comfort from religious conservatism. She talks about a cousin who started wearing a headscarf and told her she was more comfortable with her Muslim friends as they didn’t have to pretend with one another, whereas to her Hindu friends she was a validation of their liberal outlook.
The conversation disturbed Ghazala as she never perceived two distinct identities in herself — a Muslim and an Indian. The issue was complex and so were several disparate questions.
Ghazala leans on poignant narration about the average Muslim being confused and scared through examples of those who have hidden their identity and reverted to Hinduism under perceived coercion. “They could never participate as equal partners in the country’s development. Only 2.6 per cent of Muslims are in senior-level jobs and a small number have achieved a reasonable upward mobility,” she writes.
On a positive note, Ghazala says Muslim society is changing. The protests against CAA/NRC in December 2019, she feels, has given rise to an assertive community even though her 1990 experience returned to haunt her in February 2020 when her paternal aunt’s family panicked as a mob reached their northeast Delhi colony. Anger and helplessness resurfaced when her aunt called her for help and her uncle refused to escape or abandon his life’s savings. The sense of fear doesn’t leave, she says.
Born a Muslim: Some Truths about Islam in India ; Ghazala Wahab, Aleph Book Company, ₹999.
soma.basu@thehindu.co.in
source: http://www.thehindu.com / The Hindu / Home> Books. Reviews / by Soma Basu / May 15th, 2021
New Book , First ever English translation of Nizami’s invaluable Urdu book Begumat ke Aansoo
pix: amazon.in
Apart from the fifteen years that Sher Shah Suri snatched upon defeating Humayun, the flag of the grand Mughal Empire flew over Delhi undefeated for over 300 years.
But then, 1857 arrived and the mighty sword fell helpless in the face of a mightier British force.
After the fall of Delhi and Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar’s tragic departure from the Red Fort in 1857, members of the royal Mughal court had to flee to safer places. Driven out from their palaces and palanquins onto the streets in search of food and shelter, the dethroned royals scrambled to survive. Some bore their fate with a bitter pride, others succumbed to the adversity.
Through twenty-nine accounts of the survivors of the Uprising of 1857, Khwaja Hasan Nizami documents the devastating tale of the erstwhile glorious royalty’s struggle with the hardships thrust upon them by a ruthless new enemy.
In vivid and tragic stories drawn from the recollection of true events, Nizami paints a picture of a crumbling historical era and another charging forward to take its place.
With the reminiscence of past glory contrasted against the drudgery of everyday survival, Tears of the Begums – the first ever English translation of Nizami’s invaluable Urdu book Begumat ke Aansoo – chronicles the turning of the wheel of fortune in the aftermath of India’s first war of independence.
source: http://www.amazon.in / Amazon / Home> Books> History> World / as on August 06th, 2022
Tarana Husain Khan doesn’t write women only as damsels in distress, she writes them as women who challenge.
Tarana Husain Khan.
I don’t remember when my mother first told me, “Boys will be boys.” as an explanation. But I trusted it. The 20-year-old I am now knows it’s an eraser. A cleaning towel that wipes away the grim men produce. Over our words. Over our careers. Over our bodies. It’s an explanation that deletes a lived history with a swift and casual swipe. Tarana Husain Khan’s The Begum and the Dastan resists this erasure.
Khan’s character, Ameera’s grandmother, whom she calls Dadi, tells her the dastan about Feroza Begum, Ameera’s great-grandmother. Feroza Begum attended sawani celebrations at Nawab Shams Ali Khan’s Benazir Palace, defying her family, only to be kidnapped by the Nawab. Although the premise sounds simple, Khan crafts the dastan carefully, preserving the dynamics in Sherpur, a princely state, like one would sour pickle in a jar. Her writing serves as a citation for the overused “Show, don’t tell” technique, arranging the elements of time, location and character through a nuanced understanding of history.
She weaves together the stories of three women, Lalarukh, Feroza and Ameera, with the help of three dastangos, about Kallan Mirza, Ameera’s Dadi, and herself. Each story, within another story, surrenders as a cautionary tale. Sometimes, as a spoiler, that hands you the reins to ride through the rest of the story.
Blame slithers across each story, hissing at every woman who defies and exercises her need for independence. During the forced marriage to the Nawab, women around the bride were “tut-tutting over Feroza’s heartlessness”, believing she aborted her pregnancy from her previous marriage. The blame congeals on Feroza, a victim of forced abortion by the Nawab. In the rumours, the Nawab is a man she loves, not her abuser. The cruelty of these women steps outside the realm of gossip, nipping at Feroza’s right to refuse consent to her nikah.
“‘Feroza Begum, daughter of Altaf Khan urf Miya Jan Khan, your wedding has been arranged to Nawab Shams Ali Khan Bahadur, son of Nawab Murad Ali Khan Bahadur for a sum of two lakh rupees as meher. Do you agree?’
What if she just didn’t say anything?
‘She says “yes”!’ A middle-aged woman dressed in her bridal dress, suddenly shouted towards the curtains. Feroza turned towards the woman. The old lady in charge of her elbowed her ribs.
‘Uh?’ she turned sharply towards the offending lady.
‘I heard it too. She said “yes”!’ said the old lady, then another woman joined in bearing witness to her acquiesce and then another.”
“Why wouldn’t a divorced woman who aborted her child marry the Nawab?” is the rhetoric that these women echo. It’s a form of enabling, but Khan exerts dialogue, channelling prose to amplify Feroza’s reaction, forgotten amidst placeholder approval. She choreographs the myth “she asked for it” by excluding the chorus of the maulvi asking for consent thrice, as is tradition, to exacerbate the rumours that enable, and more terrifyingly, erase. Another dialogue chimes in to note this eager “consent” by Feroza. In these instances, Khan’s narrator, Dadi, is not just a storyteller; but an advocate for forgotten history.
But Khan doesn’t write women only as damsels in distress; she writes them as women who challenge. Feroza wears what she wants, despite the word that the patriarchy will impose on her: nautch. Khan examines how the question of her attire serves as a justification for the harassment. When Bibi, Feroza’s maid, asks her to “let it be”, as she was “wearing that dress”, Feroza doesn’t surrender to the blame. Instead, Feroza asks these questions: what if she was one of the common women? What if she was a nautch?
Khan tackles clothing not only as a form of rebellion but as an identifier of communion and the dismissal of “the other”. When Feroza sights a British woman wearing a “strange gown”, she argues that she should’ve worn “our dress” because she’s in “our country”. Other times, this divide is a form of empowerment.
“Strangely, guys don’t pester scarf-wearing girls with ‘I want to be your friend’ proposals. So us scarfed girls choose to talk to guys we like and make boyfriends on our own. It’s pretty cool that way, though I long to throw away the scarf and open up my hair like I used to at St Mary’s.”
Ameera’s perception of the scarf rewrites the reputation of the vilified veil, untying the folds that make it an oppressive tool while recognising how being “the other” means a kind of protection. A woman’s scarf, her dress, and her jewellery make an argument in this novel. But the expectations that pin a scarf around Ameera’s head, and a nath on Feroza’s nose, encourage a misplaced trust in the men in their lives.
Across the three stories in the novel, protagonists expect men to protect, not because they victimise themselves, but because that’s what’s taught to women: dependence is a desired trait. Khan acknowledges how patriarchy dribbles on the men, drawing out how Lalarukh, Feroza and Ameera feel betrayed by the men in their lives for not protecting them. The cadence of this betrayal morphs across the stories as Khan manipulates language like a glassblower does glass.
“I do believe that in this day and age nobody should bully you into selling your property – these are not the Nawab’s times; but if it was Jugnu’s fees and his exams, Abba would sell off the shops and chuck the case in a heartbeat. We females always depend on our fathers or males to rescue us – our default response to a crisis. Imagine, poor Feroza Begum’s father dumped her in the harem and ran away!”
Khan wields the tone of each story, carefully grafting the premise of a woman wronged in different periods and spaces. She uses the first-person perspective to narrate Ameera’s life, crumbling with her family’s negligence towards her, using a voice akin to a teenager simmering with anger. But for Lalarukh and Feroza, Khan, or rather Dadi and Kallan Mirza, uses the third-person perspective, a voice that is omniscient and viscous, dripping of superiority.
They narrate the violence of Nawab and Tareef Khan, Lalarukh’s kidnapper, without embellishments. The abusers are not kings or sorcerers in the chapters that harrow. They are written as, to no surprise, violators. Khan’s treatment of the dynamic between the Nawab and Feroza contradicts this claim sporadically. But when Feroza reciprocates the Nawab’s ‘love’ for her, he continues to dredge her in the limitations of his harem, remaining free himself, further testifying the degree of his abuse. Feroza is a flawed character, but she is not a flawed victim, and Khan asserts that.
Like Khan, both Dadi and Kallan Mirza are biased narrators, intervening to train their listener(s) to root for the protagonist. They collectively fuel a question: How does tradition, along with law, permit the violation of women? Unfortunately, the stories, or rather the lived experiences that ask this question, are muzzled. But the dastangos, both the real and the fictitious, bite through the labour that accompanies such storytelling. The story prompts the question: How can one write history without condoning it? In The Begum and the Dastan, history is an inspiration, a tool, and an anchor, but it is not a justification.
pix: amazon.in
source: http://www.scroll.in / Scroll.in / Home> Book Review / by Isa Ayidh / (book cover image edited in, amazon.in) /June 27th, 2021
