In India, the words Muslim and ghetto seem to go together. The word ‘ghetto’ comes from medieval Venice where it was used to describe the quarter of the city where Jews were required to live. ‘Required’ is the important word in this definition; Webster’s second definition of the word expands upon the coerced nature of this segregated togetherness: “a quarter of a city in which members of a minority group live especially because of social, legal, or economic pressure”.
Predominantly Muslim neighbourhoods in India are often ghettoes in this precise sense of the word. Muslims live in them because they can’t afford rents in non-Muslim localities or because they feel unsafe elsewhere or find it near-impossible to rent or buy homes in other localities from non-Muslim house owners.
My mother used to rent a small flat above the garage in her home in Delhi. An estate agent she knew called to say that he had the perfect tenant: a single woman, who lectured at a nearby college. My mother was pleased; a working woman herself who had married very late in life, she was predisposed towards independent single women. There was, however, a ‘but’: the prospective tenant was a Muslim and the estate agent needed to know before he arranged a meeting if that was a problem for my mother. Affronted, my mother asked if he asked that question of every house owner. “Everyone,” he said firmly. “I don’t want my client embarrassed in a face-to-face meeting.”
This is an anecdote but it’s a leaf in a forest of anecdotes exactly like this one. I had a distinguished colleague whose first name didn’t give her Muslim identity away so she would often get to meet house owners to rent a flat only to be told it had been taken the moment the penny dropped. Another colleague, a young lecturer called Nazim masqueraded as Naveen to rent a cheap room in a laldora neighbourhood, one of the many villages swallowed up by the expanding city.
When Indians talk about Muslim ghettoes, they tend to disregard the involuntary aspect of this clustering. In bhadralok minds, a Muslim ghetto is the result of a shunning of modernity (and therefore cosmopolitan urban living), a determination to send their children to medieval seminaries instead of KendriyaVidyalayas and a natural affinity for the company of their own kind. In this view, the Muslim basti is a rash of burqa-and-topi iron filings, tightly grouped within the magnetic field of a mosque.
The Muslim ghetto thus defined becomes a microcosm of the Muslim condition: a backward community held back by a self-harming and blinkered view of the world. From here it is a step to arguing that Muslim emancipation depends on Muslim self-help: these bearded men and shrouded women must bootstrap themselves into the modern world by shifting their loyalties from the fatwas of the pajama-edmaulana to the exhortations of the trousered modernist.
This Muslim ghetto out of Mere Mehboob or Chaudhvinka Chand is home to a small selection of types. The woman in a burqa is one such, about whom a great deal has been written both in the West and, more recently, in India. Her male counterpart is the bearded man in a skull cap who wears a dirty-white kurta and a pair of flood-level pajamas that stop at his ankles.
Now this man exists just as the woman in the burqa does. The fact that they are stereotypes doesn’t make them less real. In JamiaMilliaIslamia where I teach, you can see dozens of young men dressed exactly like this, most of whom have done their schooling in a madrasa and then travelled to the great city to go to university. So far, so true to type. What is interesting is that these young men who are hugely outnumbered by young Muslims in denims who crowd the same campus, become emblematic of Muslim-ness in the minds of non-Muslims. In exactly the same way, women in burqas come to stand in either for Muslim women or Muslim backwardness.
One way of achieving perspective on this is to look at other communities. No one, for example, thinks of a bearded and turbaned Sikh as a walking anachronism or as the antithesis of the modern man despite the fact that the overwhelming majority of Sikhs sport beards and turbans. New York is home to nearly two million Jews out of which a very visible minority of Orthodox Jews wear skull caps, old fashioned hats, white shirts, black jackets and black trousers. Long, twisted tendrils of hair frame their faces. People think they are quaint and anachronistic but no one thinks that their orthodoxy defines America’s Jews. The reason they don’t is that tendrilled Jews, turbaned Sikhs and tufted Hindus aren’t seen as the rearguard of a failed community; bearded Muslims are.
Muslims are radically under-represented in middle class circumstances in India, so it is tempting to attribute their poverty or their backwardness to their Muslim-ness. The burqa and the skull-cap are a shorthand for that quality. If Muslims were more prosperous than they are, if they were, say, as prosperous as Sikhs, bearded Muslims wouldn’t be seen as representative of the community because their quintessential Muslim-ness couldn’t then be used as an explanation of a community’s failure.
But Muslims in India aren’t prosperous. They are by some measures more deprived than Dalit communities. The readiness with which Muslims are urged to cast off their burqas and skull caps the better to emerge from their ghettoes, isn’t always an expression of concern for their welfare; it’s often a way of holding them responsible for their plight. Muslims, in this view of the world, are losers; and they are losers because they are stubbornly and excessively Muslim. The BharatiyaJanata Party’s ostentatious concern for the plight of Muslim women and its contempt for the bearded Muslim aren’t hard to understand but the secular modernist’s critique needs explanation.
It is inappropriate in civil company to blame the poor for their poverty. But it is still acceptable to publicly admonish poor people in skull caps and burqas because they haven’t embraced reason and modernity. For modernizers, backward Muslims are lineal descendants of the feckless poor, both guilty of the cardinal sin of failing to help themselves. The Victorian philanthropist commended the deserving poor dedicated to the ‘chapel, the friendly society and the co-op’; in just this way must the backward Muslim be seen to embrace individualism, modernity and the market to win the approval of his benevolent yet bracingly liberal compatriot.
We shouldn’t attribute Muslim isolation and backwardness to patriarchal bad practice in Muslim communities. If polygamy were outlawed and if the burqa was progressively given up, the rights and freedoms of Muslim women would be expanded. This would be good in itself. What this progress wouldn’t do is liberate Muslims from their ghettoes because that confinement has little to do with Muslim traditionalism and orthodoxy. That single lecturer looking for a tiny flat and my colleague routinely ambushed by the abruptly filled vacancy, weren’t applying from inside a burqa; they epitomized the modern Indian working woman: single, independent, actively looking to live a life not defined by religious identity or male relatives. How is the Muslim to embrace a market that is set to reject her by default?
The gendered orthodoxies of Muslim communities should be separated from their backwardness. The one doesn’t lead to the other. The Muslim poor are no more responsible for their poverty than any other kind of poor. Less so, if anything, because their condition isn’t mitigated by affirmative action, it is aggravated by prejudice. The work of several scholars, notably Anirudh Krishna, has shown how hard it is to climb out of poverty in India and how easy it is to slide deeper into it. To argue that Muslims are held back by an unconscionable hostility to the modern world and that their backwardness is down to bad Muslim leadership is to make several mistakes at once.
It is to absolve the State of its duty of uniform care: education, public health, security and basic procedural equality. It is to give civil society a free pass on prejudice and discrimination. And it is to succumb to the idea of the saviour: the absent but longed for leader who will lead his people into a new dawn. A republic’s citizens shouldn’t (and shouldn’t have to) look to community redeemers to do the secular work of State and civil society.
(The Telegraph, Kolkata)
INDESCRIBABLE JOHN ELI
By Shabbir Aariz
This indeed is proverbially a herculean task to describe or define John Elia in any particular frame. Whosoever while mentioning him, is either trapped in contradictions of one’s own opinion or is able to confine to a few verses of John Elia to judge him. But the more one tries to understand John, the more confused one is and I believe that you need another John Elia to explain him. He is a phenomenon, a thing like a live fish to hold in your hand or an elephant amongst blinds to be described. Wusatullah Khan, a noted broadcaster, holds that knowing John is as good as dating with a liberated lady. And it is quite obvious that a man who in him is a philosopher, a scholar, a biographer, a linguist with command over Urdu, Arabic, English, Persian, Sanskrit and Hebrew and needless to say that the Ismaili sect of the subcontinent could not find anyone other than John to translate Ismaili treatises from Hebrew, it becomes a tedious affair to be conclusive about John. Common perception though with an element of truth is that John is a progressive Marxist, an unconventional poet and always in denial of everything including himself while himself saying in three line verse,
“KISKO FUSAT K MUJSAY BAHAS KARAY…..
OOR SABIT KARAY K MERA WAJOOD….
ZINDZGI K LIYAY ZARORI HAY
(Anyone prepared to argue and prove that my existence is imperative for life). His poetry is admittedly very close to life and his verses in the words of a legendry poet, Majrooh Sultanpuri, are like a dialogue which no other poet has the distinction to be capable of. John has an extra-ordinary craft of connecting with his audience that has created an unprecedented fan following which no other contemporary poet can claim to have. So magical is his poetry and its rendition that it has created a cult of his admirers with such an obsession and longing for the life of melancholy lead by John Elia himself. It is no secret that he was never a happy man with defiance and protest against everything and anything around. Loudly a nonconformist when he says
“unjaman main mayri khamooshi…..
burdabari nahin hay wehshat hay”.
His style made him famous and popular. He appears to be disgusted even with creation when he says … “HASILE KUN HAY YEH JAHANE KHARAAB….
YAHI MUMKIN THA AYSI UJLAT MAIN”.
His admirers strangely wish to pass through the same pain and despair that is hallmark of John’s poetry besides satire and the disdain for the system which contributed to his sadness in life. He has so glorified and romanticized the pain and sadness that it leaves his audience in frenzied ecstasy.
John Elia was born in the year 1931 and died in 2002. He originally belonged to Amroha in the state of Uttar Pradesh, younger brother of Rayees Amrohi, a known journalist and writer. John migrated to Pakistan in the year 1957 and settled in Karachi where he is buried now. But Amroha never left his heart and mind. He never felt comfortable after leaving Amroha partly because his stay in Karachi brought him in conflict with the system too. Many other things have also contributed to his sadness in life. He was married to a well-known writer of Pakistan, Zahida Hina but in mid-80’s , the relation between the two became bumpy and ended up in divorce which left John devastated and for ten long years thereafter went in depression without writing a word.
As is true about many in the history of literature, John earned his name and fame more after his death than in his life time while he was not received well and felt a strange type of suffocation when he says,
“AAP APNAY SAY HUMSUKHAN REHNA…..
HUMNISHEEN SAANS PHOOL JATI HAY”.
Thanks to the electronic boom and You Tube that brought him to the lime light and enabled audience to reach him and his works. As if this was not enough that his first poetic collection only came to be published when he reached the age of 60. It is worthwhile mention that he has as many as seven poetic collections to his credit namely SHAYAD, YANI, LEKIN, GUMAAN, GOYA, FARMOD and RAMOOZ. Except one, all other are published posthumously. This is besides his scholarly works in prose which may require greater insight to go into.
John all his life remained honest, direct and straightforward in expressing his views on matters of public interest. He also never demonstrated any pretentions or reservations while expressing the truth of his personal life. He never made any secret of his fantasies, love affairs or drinking habits. Yet he was never at peace either with the times or with himself. John Elia, in my humble opinion lived ahead of times and even the desire of dying young without being bed ridden was not granted to him except that he strangely enough wanted to die of tuberculosis and which he did.
(The author, a senior lawyers, is a well known poet and writer. Feedback at: [email protected])
Manto: Why I wanted to read a ‘lewd’ writer
By Naveed Hussain
I first read Saadat Hasan Manto as a teenager and the spirit of what I’m writing now was etched on my memory in those years.
I was too young to understand the intricacies of his stories but I enjoyed what I read and craved for more. Back then, Manto wasn’t available in the small town of Haripur where I lived. A friend introduced me to a schoolteacher, a bibliophile who had a modest collection of Manto in his personal library.
“Why do you want to read Manto, he’s a ribald, lewd writer,” he quipped. “This is exactly why I want to read him,” I replied, almost impulsively. He smiled and agreed to lend me Manto’s books. Thus began my journey to explore Manto. The more I read, the deeper my love for him became.
Manto was a nonconformist, an unorthodox and ruthlessly bold writer. He didn’t believe in the so-called literary norms of ‘decency’ and ‘civility’ set by didactic writers of his time. For him, truth is truth. No matter how bitter and despicable the reality, Manto never dilutes the truth. Like a muckraker, he pokes his nose into the muck, rakes it, and then holds it up to the reader – in all its profound ugliness and twisted beauty. “If you don’t know your society, read my stories. If you find a defect, it’s the defect of your society, not my stories,” he says.
Manto wrote on socially taboo topics like sex, incest and prostitution, which earned him the wrath of contemporary traditionalists, conservatives and even progressives. For some of his ‘lewd’ and ‘obscene’ stories he had to face lawsuits – among them were great stories such as Thanda Gosht, Bu, Khol Do, Dhuan and Kali Shalwar.
But it is to miss the point to simply say that Manto wrote about sex. He wrote about the sexual debauchery of men and the sexual exploitation of women; about our patriarchal society where women are often treated as a ‘sex toy’, not a human being. Unlike many, I don’t compare Manto with DH Lawrence, because Manto is not lustful, even though he explicitly writes about the female anatomy. He’s more like Guy de Maupassant, who sees the throbbing heart, not the sensuous body, of the prostitute.
Manto blames the ‘diseased mind’ for reading ‘ribaldry’ into his stories. If a sex maniac derives morbid gratification from Venus De Milo, should we blame Alexandros of Antioch for chiselling such a ‘graphic’ sculpture? No, certainly not.
For contemporary literary pundits, Manto was also unacceptable because he wrote ‘indecent’ language. “They [the critics] criticise me when my characters verbally abuse one another – but why don’t they criticise their society instead where hundreds of thousands of profanities are hurled on the streets, every day,” he wonders.
I also love Manto because he was honest. He was an unflinchingly true writer who believed in calling a spade a spade. Sketch-writing was introduced as a genre in Urdu literature much earlier, but Manto created his own peculiar tell-all style. He didn’t write only the good qualities of his characters. “In my bathroom, everyone is naked. I don’t clothe them because it’s the tailor’s job,” he writes.
Manto’s sketches, which he initially wrote for the Lahore-based Daily Afaq newspaper, were later collected and published as Ganjay Farishtay. Manto wasn’t a hypocrite. He minced no words while writing about his dead friends. “I curse a thousand times a so-called civilised society where a man’s character is cleansed of all its ills and tagged as ‘May-God-Bless Him’,” Manto wrote in Ganjay Farishtay. Manto wrote sketches of filmstars Ashok Kumar, Shyam, Noor Jahan, literary figures such as Meera Ji, Agha Hashar and Ismat Chughtai and some politicians. “I have no camera that could have washed smallpox marks off the face of Agha Hashar or change obscenities uttered by him in his flowery style.”
Before embarking on his literary career, Manto had read Russian, French and English masters like Chekhov, Gorky, Victor Hugo, de Maupassant and Oscar Wilde and translated some of their works into Urdu. Surprisingly enough, despite his love for revolutionaries, Manto was not a Marxist ideologue. He was a humanist who was pained to see social injustices, economic disparities and exploitation of the underprivileged. He hated the obscurantist clergy and parasitic elites alike.
Although Manto had migrated to Pakistan after 1947, he couldn’t understand the rationale of partitioning a land along religious lines. His stories of bloodshed and cross-border migration, such as Teetwaal Ka Kutta and Toba Tek Singh, made him unpopular with ‘patriotic’ Pakistanis. To this day he remains a shadowy figure on the official literary lists of Pakistan: our school curricula, our national awards, our drawing room conversations.
Manto was acknowledged as a creative genius even by his detractors. And he knew this, which is perhaps why he wanted these words to mark his grave: “Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with him lie all the secrets and mysteries of the art of short story writing. Under tons of earth he lies, still wondering who among the two is the greater short story writer: he or God.”
Manto’s family feared his self-written epitaph would attract the unwanted attention of the ignorantly religious, so on his grave one finds a Ghalib couplet. He faced censorship all his life and even now has chunks of his stories taken out by the authorities. But as we mark his centenary year, I can say this with the instant certainty I felt as a young man in Haripur: the words and stories of Saadat Hasan Manto will outlive us all.
Gauhar Raza: Giving Poetry the Power to Protest
By Asheesh Mamgain
If things were different his poems would have been different, or maybe he would not have been a poet at all. But things are what they are. And that is why Gauhar Raza, the poet is writing, and it is why he writes his poetry of protest.
“Maybe I would have written about love, the beauty of nature and science. But as things stand my poetry is predominantly about resistance and protest,” said Raza, who is faithful to the tradition of resistance poetry to the extent that he has throttled, without much difficulty, the romantic and the scientist in him. “The need to write poetry always arose when something happened around me which affected me, to the core. I have never written and will never write poetry just for the sake of it.”
“The murder of Safdar Hashmi, the breaking up of the Soviet Union, the demolition of the Babri Masjid, the killing of an activist in Afghanistan, the death of Rohith Vemula are some of those things,” he said.
Raza’s second published collection of ghazals and nazms (71 in all) came out in November 2017 and is titled Khamoshi, or Silence.
Is there a lot of anger in his poems? Yes, there is definitely a lot of anger. But then there is also hope. That is where Raza becomes special.
“For me, a poem that merely complains or rants about the injustice, violence and persecution happening all around is not enough. A poet has to go beyond this; he has to give a vision. The vision of an alternative world, of a better world. Only then will his poetry be successful and meaningful. A poet has to show the consciousness he wants to bring into society.”
So how does he define good poetry? “Well, a good poem should be able to raise the level of the reader at least one notch higher, and also give him a fresh perspective about the aspect being dealt in the poem. Something new to dwell upon,” said Raza.
The influences that shaped his poetic thought came pretty early, at home and at the Aligarh Muslim University where he studied. Raza’s father, Wizarat Hussain, worked in the education department there and was a second-generation Leftist.
“The question about the existence of God came up very early in my life and soon I became an atheist for life,” said Raza. Literature was read with passion at home and by the time he was 15 he had read all the Urdu literature available at the AMU library as well as a solid portion of Russian literature.
“During my growing years, Leftist thought had a major presence in the university. On the other hand, the fundamental forces were also steadily getting stronger. I was smitten by the leftist idea. I was part of a literary study circle, we served tea at the secret meetings of leftist groups and listened to discussions at home between my father and other intellectuals such as Irfan Habib and Iqtidar Alam Khan.”
There was a lot of churning in his mind and soon he started pouring the remnants of all that into his poems. When it comes to poetry some of Raza’s major influences have been Ghalib, Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Sahir Ludhianvi. He is often seen reciting their work at length during his various lectures, with Sahir Ludhianvi’s long poem ‘Parchhaiyan’ or Shadows one of his favourites.
“Writing the kind of poetry I do is not easy. Each time a write a poem I must relive all the pain and emotion I went through when the particular incident happened that forced me to write. All those disturbing images come rushing back to me. It is a difficult thing to undergo.”
Nor is poetry Raza’s only means of reaching the people. He recently retired as chief scientist from the Council of Scientific and Industrial Research. He is also into documentary filmmaking, his documentaries on Bhagat Singh and the 2002 Gujarat genocide being very well known.
Where does poetry stand today, as a means of communication with the reader? According to Raza, “for one, social media has helped. It has helped poets reach a wider audience. Also, the tradition of musharias and kavi sammelans (poetry meets) is still very strong in India. So even if a poet is competing with the multimedia world, it is easy to reach one’s audience with one’s poetry, provided you have something pertinent to say.”
More broadly speaking, however, “I have to say that things have progressed in a disturbing direction. A poem I wrote 20 years ago, I could rededicate it to Rohith Vemula and then to Gauri Lankesh. This disturbing trend is seen all over the world. I believe that the fall of the USSR has been a major turning point in the way our World has evolved.”
A few lines from one of his poems brings out his concern and struggle.
Mein phool khilata hoon jab bhi,
Woh baad e khizan le aate hain,
Mein geet sunata hoon jab bhi,
Yeh aag se ji bahlate hain.
Whenever I make a flower blossom
They bring the autumn wind
Whenever I sing a song
They give the soul succour with flame.
But Raza is still hopeful. “There has been a resurgence of resistance poetry in Urdu in the recent past. The trend of religious poetry in Urdu has also reduced in recent times. The youth today has become more involved in this attempt to bring a positive change. I have seen young people reading protest poetry and reacting to it. Once again universities have become a place of resistance and struggle for change.”