Reward in heaven calls to you,‘If you want me, then help them.
I lie concealed within the thirst and hunger of the poor.’
It is religion that he looks to to give him and his countrymen the comfort and the strength they need to meet the challenges of the age in which they live, and though he is a Muslim he urges his fellow Hindu countrymen to look similarly to their religion:
Akbar, in all the verse you write make this your theme repeatedly:
Muslim, take up your rosary, and Brahmin, wear your sacred thread.
But these externals must be the symbols of something deeper:
They think that circumcision is the essence of religion:
Men claim that they are Muslims who have never said their prayers.
The Hindu pandits and Muslim maulvis are no better. And so, he concludes:
Away with pandits and with maulvis too.
I do not want religion, I want faith.
* Nightingale: see p. 83.
* A reference to Sir Sayyid’s income from British official sources—not pension in the sense of retirement pension.
†In other words, he believes in the doctrine of the Trinity which, to the Muslim, is at best ridiculous, and at worst blasphemous.
* Here the word simply means an elder of the Muslim community, without the pejorative sense it bears in the Urdu ghazal.
THE NOVEL
The Novel
The most substantial contribution to the prose literature of the New Light is to be found in the fiction of the early novelists like Nazir Ahmad, Sarshar and Sharar.
The work of the Sarshar and Sharar is for the most part of greater social and historical than of literary importance. Ratan Nath Sarshar (1846–1902) is best known for The Tale of Azad (Fasana i Asad), of which you saw an extract in the last section.* It appeared between 1878 and 1885 as a serialized novel. At his best he writes with vivid realism but he is a very uneven writer and does not often reach this level. Abdul Halim Sharar (1860–1926)†is famous mainly as the author of numerous historical romances which exalt the past glories of Islam and contrast these with the evil deeds of the Christians of that period. It is generally considered that the best is Flora Florinda (the title is the names of the two central characters), published serially between 1893 and 1899. He is a clear and fluent writer but not a great one. His appeal for his contemporaries was similar to that of Hali’s Musaddas—he reminded his fellow Muslims of their glorious past; but his simplistic characterization and melodramatic story lines are not likely to appeal to a modern Western reader.
Nazir Ahmad (1836–1912) is in another class altogether. He was a man of many parts—a powerful and immensely popular public speaker, a writer of educational books, a good letter-writer, a scholar of Arabic, a talented translator (both from Arabic and English), and a voluminous writer on religious themes.* Of all his writings his ‘novels’ are best known. The first, The Bride’s Mirror (Mirat ul Arus) appeared in 1869. They are not novels in the now generally accepted sense of the word, and he never claimed that they were—he himself made clear that they were stories written to point a moral. But the realism of his characterization and his ability to keep the reader engaged ensured their popularity. The best known is The Repentance of Nasuh (Taubat un Nasuh), which begins with a vivid description of a cholera epidemic, and the effect on Nasuh of thinking that his last days have come.
Nazir Ahmad’s mastery of Urdu prose is astounding, and far surpasses that of any of his contemporaries. For the most part the language is that of vigorous, near-colloquial speech (because this is what his themes generally demand). But he has an equal command over the formal, elaborate style which the older literary canons prescribed, and where he thinks it appropriate to employ this style he does so with much of the same power as Ghalib did in his Persian prose. Unfortunately the very passages which make the greatest impact on Urdu readers defy effective translation into English and for that reason his novels are not represented in this selection. Their power derives from a skilful use of a range of literary devices which, for the most part, are unfamiliar and unappealing to contemporary English-speaking readers. To people of my generation the nearest parallel is the solemn and sonorous prose of, for example, the general confession in the Book of Common Prayer or such passages as that on faith, hope and love in the Bible. Strongly marked rhythms, alliteration, and the multiplication of near synonyms (‘erred and strayed’, ‘devices and desires’) are features of such passages, and Nazir Ahmad’s prose shows these features too. But it also shows many more—self-consciously poetic diction, hyperbole, play upon words, rhyming phrases, and successive, parallel statements on a single theme expressed first in splendid language abounding in Arabic and Persian loan words and then in the homely language of indigenous colloquial speech. The contemporary English-speaking reader would be disconcerted to come upon passages in this sort of style in a modern novel. But Nazir Ahmad’s readers, people whose first acquaintance with the written word was made through the poetical prose of the Quran, people in whom the love of poetry and an appreciation of just such literary devices was universal, would have enjoyed reading such prose as much as he must have enjoyed writing it.
There is however one outstanding nineteenth-century novel, Umrao Jan Ada by Mirza Muhammad Hadi Rusva (1858–1931), first published in 1899. Rusva was a man of extraordinarily wide interests and talents. His works include long theological treatises, translations from English, cheap thrillers written to earn money, and three serious novels. Umrao Jan Ada is the story of a Lucknow courtesan, whose name forms the title of the book. It takes the form of her autobiography, as related to the author, and there are some grounds for thinking that in essentials it is a true story. It was an immediate success and has remained popular ever since.
The story spans the years 1840–1870—that is, the decades spanning the great watershed of the revolt of 1857. In that period courtesans of Umrao Jan’s class, besides being expert singers and dancers, were highly educated in the traditional culture of their day and were quite often poets, as Umrao Jan herself was—‘Ada’ is her takhallus, her poetic name.*They played a role in Lucknow society closely comparable to that of the hetaerae in ancient Athens. In India, as in ancient Athens, respectable women were not permitted to reach the educational and cultural level which would have enabled them to give anything more than sexual satisfaction and domestic comfort and affection to their husbands, and cultured men who could afford it commonly kept a courtesan mistress as well as a wife. The courtesan would move freely in cultured society, and through her experiences one could see something of the social and cultural history of the times. It was Rusva’s intention that this should be so. In the preface to another novel he brackets Umrao Jan Ada with two others and writes of them, ‘My novels should be regarded as a history of our times, and I hope it will be found a useful one.’ Rusva shows Umrao herself as being aware of the relevance of her experience to an understanding of the historical period through which she lived. Each chapter begins with a verse—the one where she starts to tell her story begins:
Which is the story you would rather hear?
The story of my life or of my times?
In this selection, it seems sensible to let the Urdu novel be represented by substantial extracts from this one novel, rather than by a number of shorter extracts from the whole range.
* See p. 310.
†See p. 250.
* See p. 295.
* Takhallus: see p. 149.
Umrao Jan Ada
RUSVA
1
The novel begins with Rusva’s account of how it came to be written:
Ten to twelve years ago a friend of mine named Munshi Ahmad Husain who lived near Delhi came on holiday to Lucknow. He took a room in the Chauk* near Sayyid Husain Gate, and in the evenings friends of his would often visit him there. These were very enjoyable occasions. Munshi Sahib had an excellent understanding of poetry; he occasionally wrote poetry himself,
and it was good poetry; but generally he preferred to listen to others reciting theirs. So poetry would be the usual theme of our gatherings.†There was another room adjoining his which was occupied by a courtesan. But her style of living was completely different from that of most courtesans. No one had ever seen her sitting on the balcony overlooking the street‡ and there were no comings and goings to her room. Both doors were curtained, day and night, and the door which opened onto the Chauk was always closed. There was another door which opened onto a little side street, and her servants would come and go by this door. Were it not for the fact that one could sometimes hear the sound of singing coming from the room one would not even have known that the room was occupied. In the room in which we sat there was a little hatch connecting our room with hers, but it was secured by an iron ring.
One day we were assembled as usual, reciting our ghazals to one another and acknowledging one another’s praise. When my turn came I recited a couplet, and it was immediately greeted by a ‘Wah!’ from the other side of the hatch. I stopped reciting and everyone turned that way. Munshi Ahmad Husain called out, ‘Absent praise is not appropriate! If you like poetry please come and join us.’There was no response to this, and I began to recite again. We had dismissed what had happened until shortly afterwards a maidservant presented herself, paid her respects to us, and asked,‘Which of you gentlemen is Mirza Rusva?’They pointed me out and the girl then said,‘My lady has asked if you would please come to see her for a moment.’ I said,‘What lady? Who is she?’The girl said,‘She told me not to tell you her name. Otherwise I am at your service.’ I felt rather reluctant to go with her, and my friends began to chaff me about it.‘Oh yes!You must be old acquaintances! That’s why she’s sent for you.’ I was wondering who it could be behaving so familiarly when the girl spoke again.‘My lady knows you well, sir. That is why she has sent for you.’ In the end I had to go, and when I got there I saw that it was Umrao Jan.
The moment she saw me she said,‘Well, Mirza Sahib, it seems that you’ve forgotten me completely.’
‘How did I know where you’d been carried off to?’ I replied.
‘I’ve often heard your voice, but I could never pluck up the courage to send for you. But today your ghazal made such an appeal to me that I couldn’t help myself, and without thinking I called out. Someone said,“Come and join us,” and I was overcome with embarrassment. I thought I’d best keep quiet and leave it at that. But I couldn’t persuade myself. So in the end, bearing in mind our closeness to each other in days gone by I put you to the trouble of coming here. Please forgive me... and do please just recite that couplet again.’
‘I shall certainly not forgive you. And I shan’t recite the couplet either. If you feel so pleased, come and join us.’
I’d have no objection, but I feel that your host or some of his guests might not like it.’
‘Are you mad? Would I invite you anywhere where you weren’t welcome? We’re all familiar friends, and if you come we’ll enjoy ourselves even more.’
‘Maybe so. But I hope no one will get too familiar.’
‘No one will. No one there except me can behave familiarly with you.’
‘All right then, I’ll come tomorrow.’
‘Why not today?’
‘You can see for yourself. I’m not dressed for the occasion.’
‘You aren’t going there to perform.’
‘Mirza Sahib, your arguments are unanswerable. Very well then. You go. I’m coming.’
I left her, and soon afterwards, after she’d changed her clothes and made herself presentable, she came. I introduced her in a few words, praising her taste in poetry and her mastery of music. Everyone was very pleased, and now that she had come it was decided that all of us would recite verse turn by turn and that she would do so too. In short it was a very enjoyable occasion, and after that she often came. We would meet for an hour or two, and sometimes it would be poetry, while at other times she would sing for us...
On one occasion she was the first to recite, and she recited this couplet:
‘Ada, who is there who will hear the tale I have to tell?
I went astray; and thus I saw all that this age could show.’
‘What a couplet, Umrao Jan Sahiba!’ I exclaimed.‘It really reflects your own experience. Recite us some more.’
‘Thank you, Mirza Sahib, but I swear to you that this is the only couplet of that ghazal I can remember. And God knows how long ago I wrote it. I can’t remember it by heart, and I’ve lost the book in which I wrote my ghazals down.’
‘What was the couplet?’ Munshi Sahib asked.‘I didn’t hear it.’
‘How could you?’ I said.‘You were busy getting ready to entertain us.’
And Munshi Sahib really had done all that needed doing to make our gathering a success. It was summer. An hour or so before sunset water had been sprinkled on the open roof, so that by evening it would be cool. A carpet had been laid down, and on it a gleaming white covering; pitchers of brand new earthenware had been filled with fragrant water and set out along the parapets, each with an earthenware drinking vessel on top of it. Ice too was provided. There were little paper cups, each containing seven cones of paan wrapped in a red cloth soaked in fragrant water. There was scented chewing tobacco, hookahs with their tubes soaked with water and wrapped in garlands of flowers. It was a moonlit night with little need for much artificial lighting. So a single candle to be passed round had been lit in a glass shade. By eight o’clock everyone had assembled—Mir Sahib,Agha Sahib, Khan Sahib, Shaikh Sahib, Pandit Sahib* and the rest. First everyone was given a cup of milk jelly, and then the poetry session had begun.
Now Munshi Sahib again asked,‘What was that verse?’
‘I’ll recite it again,’ said Umrao, and did so.
When the mushaira was over, the other guests dispersed, and Munshi Sahib, Umrao and I sat down to a meal. Munshi Sahib asked Umrao to recite again the couplet she had recited at the beginning of the mushaira. She recited it:
‘Ada, who is there who will hear the tale I have to tell?
I went astray; and thus I saw all that this age could show.’
At this Munshi Sahib, said,‘The story of your experiences would certainly be most interesting. I have been thinking so ever since you recited that couplet. Your life story would be a very interesting one.’
I seconded this. Umrao was evasive, but in the end his eagerness and my encouragement overcame her reluctance, and she agreed to tell us her story.
Umrao Jan spoke excellent Urdu, as one would expect. She was well-read, and had been brought up among high-class courtesans, moving in the society of princes and noblemen. She had had access to the royal court, and had seen with her own eyes things that others had probably not so much as heard of.
After every instalment of her story, I would, without letting her know, write it down, and when the story was complete I showed her the manuscript. At first she was very angry with me, but what was done, was done, and after a while she thought it over and changed her attitude. She read through the manuscript and made good occasional omissions.
I have known Umrao Jan ever since the time she met the Nawab Sahib. In those days I too often used to visit her. I feel not the slightest doubt that her story is true in every detail. But this is my personal opinion. It is for my readers to form their own.
2
Umrao’s Story Began
There would be no point in my telling you what sort of family I came from, and the fact is that I don’t remember. I do remember that our house was in a muhalla on the outskirts of Faizabad. Ours was a brick-built house. All the others were just huts, or mud houses. The people too were lower-class people—water-carriers, barbers, washermen, potters and so on. The only other brick-built house was Dilawar Khan’s.
My father was employed at the tomb of Bahu Begum. I don’t know what he did or how much pay he got. All I remember is that people called him jamadar...*
When I was nine years old
I had been engaged to be married to my cousin, and his parents were now pressing for the marriage to take place. My aunt†had married a man who owned land and lived in Nawab Ganj [in Lucknow]. Their house was much bigger than ours—mud-built, but very large. I’d been there several times before my engagement had been arranged. They had cows, oxen, buffaloes, and plenty of everything you could want to eat and drink... I’d seen my fiancé too—had played with him, in fact. My father had already got my dowry together and the wedding date had been fixed. When my father and mother used to talk about it at nights I used to listen secretly and feel extremely happy. My bridegroom-to-be was better looking than Kariman’s. (Kariman was the cotton-carder’s daughter and the same age as me.) Hers was really dark, and mine was really fair. Hers had a great long beard, and my bridegroom’s moustache was only just starting to grow. Kariman’s dressed in a grubby loincloth. Mine dressed in fine clothes...
Their neighbour Dilawar Khan had a grudge against Umrao’s father. He was mixed up with a gang of armed robbers and had just come out of jail after serving a twelve-year sentence; and it had been the evidence of Umrao’s father that had convicted him. One day he tricked Umrao into coming into his house:
As soon as I was in he locked the door from the inside. I wanted to scream, but he stuffed some wadding into my mouth and tied my hands tightly together. There was a door at the back of the house. He sat me down on the floor and then went to that door, opened it, and called out,‘Pir Bakhsh!’ Pir Bakhsh came in. Then the two of them pushed me onto an ox-cart and got moving. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing I could do. I was at the mercy of these two brutes. Dilawar Khan, with bloodshot eyes, and a knife in his hand, seated himself inside the cart, holding me fast under his knees. Pir Bakhsh was driving, and driving the oxen fast. Soon it was nightfall, and there was darkness everywhere. It was winter, and a bitter wind was blowing, I was shivering from head to foot, and weeping continuously, and thinking,‘Daddy will be home by now and looking for me. Mummy will be frantic. My little brother will be playing. He won’t know what trouble his sister’s in.’ I could see my father and mother and my brother, the house and its courtyard and kitchen as clearly as if they had been before my eyes. And at the same time I was terrified that they were going to kill me. Dilawar Khan kept on brandishing his knife and I thought that at any moment he’d plunge it into me. He’d taken the wadding out of my mouth, but I was too frightened to speak. And there were they, Dilawar Khan and Pir Bakhsh, talking and laughing together, and cursing my father and me at every breath.‘Do you see, friend Pir Bakhsh?’ said Dilawar Khan.‘We soldiers take our revenge even after twelve years. What a state the bastard will be in now!’
A Thousand Yearnings Page 31
