The Publication of Ismat Chughtai’s autobiography in English by Penguin this year has generated once a new interest in Chughtai in the sub-continent. Ismat Chughtai is one of the foremost feminist writers of the Indian subcontinent and she is read avidly by readers throughout the world. But for long, her works remained mostly in Urdu and only few selected works had ever been translated into English.
This has happened with other urdu writers like Saadat Hasan Manto and Faiz Ahmed Faiz as well. the peculiarities of the Urdu language and all its finer uses are often not easy to translate into any language. The effort made by M Asaduddin, Professor of English at Jamia Millia Islamia is therefore quite appreciable. He tried to not just translate the memoirs of Chughtai, but to a large extent retained the flavour of the original Urdu work.
The title of the Book 'A life in Words'- is not an exact translation of the original title " Kagazai Hai Pairahan. Incidentally the title that Chughtai had chosen for her memor formed the lines of an obscure poem by Mirza Ghalib whose later days as an accused in court resembled those of the author, albeit on a philosophical plain.
Asaduddin's language is very restrained, refined and and even if one is not told about it being a translation of Cghugtai, the text is readable on its own merit. "Read Excerpt below"
It must have been about four, maybe a four-thirty in the evening when the
doorbell rang loudly. The servant opened the door and stepped back
aghast.
“Who is it?”
“The Police!”
If there’s a robbery in the neighborhood servants are the first to be
questioned.
“The Police?” Shahid got up hurriedly.
“Yes sir.” The servant was trembling. “But Sahib, I haven’t done
anything, I swear Sahib.”
“What’s the matter?” Shahid asked at the door.
“It’s a summons.”
“Summons? But … Alright, give it to me.”
“Sorry, we can’t give it to you.”
“But … summons? Who for?”
“Ismat Chughtai. Please get her.”
The servant heaved a sigh of relief.
“At least tell me …”
“Please get her. The summons is from Lahore.”
I was cooling the formula I had just prepared for my two-month old
daughter Seema. “A summons from Lahore?” I asked, shaking the bottle
under cold tap water.
“Yes, from Lahore,” Shahid said, sounding quite irritated.
I came out in my bare feet, still holding the bottle in my hand.
“Ar®, what kind of a summons is this?”
“Read it yourself,” the police inspector said dryly.
I burst out laughing. It said: ISMAT CHUGTAI VS. THE CROWN.
“Arrey, what have I done that His Majesty has slapped me with a court
case?”
“Don’t joke,” the Inspector Sahib said harshly. “Read it and sign it!”
I read the summons further. It took a while to figure out that I had
been charged with obscenity for my short story “Li√≥f” (quilt) and that I
was to appear in the Lahore High court in January. Severe action would
be taken against me if I failed to show up on the appointed day.
“Look here, I’m not accepting this summons,” I said. Handing the
paper back to the inspector, I continued shaking the bottle of milk in my
hand. “Please take it back.”
“You have to accept it.”
“Why?” Out of sheer habit I began arguing with the man.
“Ar®, I say, what’s going on?” Mohsin Abdullah said as he hurriedly
came up the stairs. God knows where he had been roaming about.
“Look, these people are forcing this summons on me. Why should I
take it?” Mohsin had studied law and had passed with high marks.
“Hunh,” he said after perusing the summons. “Which story?”
“Oh God, there is a wretched story, it’s become such a bother now.”
“You’ll have to accept the summons.”
“Why?”
“As much a wrangler as ever. There’s that same obstinacy again!”
Shahid flared up.
“I will not take it. Never!”
“You’ll be arrested if you don’t,” Mohsin yelled.
“Let them arrest me. But I will not take the summons.”
“You’ll be thrown in jail.”
“I will? Can’t ask for more. I’m dying to see a jail. Haven’t I asked
Yusuf many times already to take me to a jail and show me around? But
the wretch always laughs off my request. Inspector Sahib, please take me
to jail. Have you brought any handcuffs?” I asked amiably.
The Inspector Sahib’s anger mounted. But he held it back and said,
“Please don’t joke about the matter. Just sign.”
That was when Shahid and Mohsin both lost their tempers. I hadn’t
taken any of it at all seriously and had been laughing throughout. When
Abba Mian was a judge in Sanihar the court used to be held next to the
men’s quarters of the house. We would sit in the window and watch the
thieves and dacoits being brought in handcuffed. Once the police captured
a band of extremely dangerous dacoits. A ravishingly beautiful
woman in britches and a coat, with the eyes of a hawk, a supple waist and
long black hair, accompanied them. She had made a tremendous impression
on me.
Shahid and Mohsin made me very nervous. I stuck the milk bottle
out toward the police inspector so that I could free my hand to sign the
summons. But he shrank back as if I had pointed the muzzle of a gun at
him. Mohsin quickly snatched the bottle from my hand and I signed the
paper.
“Please come to the station to post the bail, which is five hundred
rupees.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have five hundred rupees at the moment.”
“Not you, someone else will have to put up bail for you.”
“I don’t want to involve anyone else. If I don’t appear in court the
bail will be forfeited.” I tried to impress the inspector with my knowledge.
“You can arrest me.”
This time the Inspector Sahib didn’t lose his cool. He smiled at
Shahid, who was sitting on the sofa with his head held between his hands,
and said to me gently, “Please come along, it won’t take more than just a
few minutes.”
“But the bail?” I said, softening a bit. I was embarrassed by my foolish
behavior.
“I’ll post the bail,” Mohsin said.
“But my daughter is hungry, her ayah is new and is only a young
girl.”
“You may feed her first,” the Inspector Sahib said.
“Well in that case, please come inside.” Mohsin led the policemen in.
The Inspector Sahib turned out to be a fan of Shahid’s and talked so amicably
to him that Shahid’s mood improved.
Shahid, Mohsin and I went together to the Mahim Police Station.
After signing all the required forms I asked, “Where are the convicts?”
“You want to see them?”
“Absolutely.”
A dozen or so men were lying crisscross in a cramped space behind
bars.
“They’re criminals, not convicts. They’ll be presented in court
tomorrow,” the Inspector Sahib explained.
“And what are their crimes?”
“Brawling, rioting, pick-pocketing, creating a disturbance while
drunk.”
“And what will they get?”
“Fines, maybe a few days in jail.”
