Zia Mohyeddin column
Curiosities
"Some books are to be tested, others to be swallowed, and some few are to be chewed and digested"
-- Francis Bacon
John Sutherland's Curiosities of literature, which I finished last week, is certainly one which has to be chewed and digested. Sutherland, academic, critic and an expert on all things bookish, has written a brilliant and funny book for all those who take their literature seriously -- and for those who do not take it seriously.

Adabiyaat 83-84,

2009-07-28

Editor: Mohammad Asim Butt

Publisher: Pakistan Academy

of Letters, Islamabad

Pages: 540

Price: Rs200'

Original voices are rare in literature. Often we find the overwhelming dominance of traditional themes. The brilliant poets of the post-Partition era never parted from each other and extracted inspiration from the same or similar sources because they shared a common tradition and past.

Munir Niazi was one exception who managed to strike his own note when all these artists were addressing and mingling with the new spirit of time.

With the recent issue of Adabiyat, Mohammad Asim Butt has done well to bring out a voluminous book which would always remain relevant and helpful in understanding and appreciating not only Munir Niazi, but also the entire time period and personalities surrounding him.

The issue opens with an editorial and a poem both by Fakhar Zaman, an ardent admirer of Munir. He writes: "Munir is an extremely important modern poet of our times. With the new and unprecedented climate of his poetry, he has marked the beginning of a new chapter and tradition in Urdu literature".

The book has a long list of contributors and the articles by his contemporaries or seniors are in fact reproduced here. These are primarily critical in nature and were previously published as prefaces or flaps of his books. These writings include those by Majid Amjad, Faiz, Ahmad, Nadeem Qasmi, Ashfaq Ahmad, Dr. Sohail Ahmad Khan, Intizar Husain, Mohammad Salim ur Rehman and Shamim Hanafi. New or less known articles include those by Dr. Salim Akhtar, and Dr. Saadat Saaed, both using valid tools of applied criticism.

Dr. Salim Akhtar comments that Niazi developed a personal diction in order to express his thoughts and imagination which are morbid to a certain extent.

Dr. Saadat Saeed has analysed his poetry in a modernistic perspective in his well-written article.

Dr. Shamim Hanafi is of the view that the sensibility produced out of union of the cosmic uniqueness with that of the individual's life cannot be witnessed more conspicuously as in Niazi's poetry.,

Majid Amjad wrote "Munir has discovered and expressed the unexplored domains of human passion which no one else could do before. This is his prime strength and the biggest misfortune too!"

Faiz in the preface to Saat-e-Sayyar, which is reproduced here, expressed his liking for the poet in a calculated and guarded manner. Intizar Hussain and Mohammad Salim ur Rehman share a common view that the prime theme of his poetry emerged out of the fear and fascination of the "unknown," while Ashfaq Ahmad beautifully writes about the contours of Niazi's ancestral town, its climate and the factors which always haunted him and became a source of inspiration.

Many articles are written by the authors of a generation younger to Niazi and are replete with fondness and tender memories. Younus Javed, Ali Tanha, Kazy Javed, Fatima Hassan and Iqtidar Javed write interesting accounts. But the boldest are the views of Zafar Iqbal, a magnificent poet himself. While acknowledging the beauty and uniqueness of Niazi's poetry he evaluates him as a "good poet of an average calibre…He used a small brush to paint with, therefore his poetry remained restricted to a mini-canvas." Zafar Iqbal recalls the days when they used to meet in the office of Saat Rang in Sahiwal, the journal owned and edited by Niazi. Majid Amjad used to join them while Nasir Shehzad and Haji Bashir Ahmad Bashir were the other frequent visitors who primarily came for Majid Amjad. It was a time when Nasir Kazmi was extremely popular and Niazi remained in constant touch with him. He states that Niazi was a handsome man and was acutely aware of it. Once he said to Adeem Hashmi, "Well, since I am beautiful, so is my poetry. How could an ugly man like you create beautiful verses?" Iqbal criticises such humiliating remarks Niazi often passed on his associates in poetry. For Iqbal, great poets have to be humble -- a quality which was lacking in Munir Niazi and Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi. Acording to Iqbal, Niazi was a repelling host and never offered even a glass of water to his admirers who visited him. He charged money for writing flaps of the books by new authors and accepted expensive gifts.

This frank and rather blunt account may be annoying for many since Niazi is dead, but the observations maybe true. Iqbal has also praised Niazi paying him tribute by contributing a few ghazals created to Munir's Zameens. It reminds one of Manto's Ganjay Farishtay where he described his dead friends in an identical manner.

In the end of the book, a fascinating Punjabi drama Qissa Do Bharewaan Da by Niazi is also reproduced.

Munir Niazi is perhaps the only poet of his kind. Both in Urdu and Punjabi, his poetry is filled with a vaguely defined mysticism mingled with intense romanticism. The aroma of his charismatic personality can be felt more in his nazms while it remains less striking in his ghazals. He displayed a pious affection for Islam and Pakistan and enjoyed a sort of imperial sway over the intelligentsia for quite some time. His poetry remains extremely haunting. He would always be remembered as a poet of nostalgia, colours, weathers and beauty and a somnolence full of meaningful dreams.

Twilight

By Azhar Abidi

Publishers: Penguin Books

India, 2008

Pages: 215

Price: Rs595

Khushwant Singh calls Azhar Abidi's Twilight "a skilfully crafted tale of Mohajir disenchantment in Zia's regime. A soulfully rendered evensong of a dream turned sour." I think Khushwant Singh owes me a refund, for it was primarily due to his glowing words that I thought I should read this book. As much as I respect the lovely Khushwant Singh, I will have to respectfully disagree with his praise for Twilight and wait, in vain, for my refund.

Centring on Begum Bilquis and her household, the book ambitiously attempts to address the pain of Partition, the social fabric of the city of Karachi, the problems that arise when offsprings choose to marry the girl of their choice, especially a foreigner, and so on. Abidi, however, fails to achieve any of its aims, and the book fails to impress throughout.

The prose is badly written, and the plot is half-baked. Twilight has all the elements that seem to appeal well to a global audience, and even appeal to the Pakistani audience: the pain of Partition, General Zia's dictatorial regime, the differences between the different social strata of the country, and the freedom fighter/jihadi. But while these may be tried and tested elements that work well for a bestseller recipe, the essential ingredient, good writing is sadly missing. The strongest character in the book, the matriarch of the family, Begum Bilquis is barely developed, as are the other characters introduced to us in the book. Abidi has concentrated on trivial details like a walk from his residence in Defence to a teashop in Saddar, which are badly written and reek more of a rich boy's vague attempt to connect with the poor, and in the process, barely give the reader an idea of life in Karachi or the turmoil in the rich boy's soul. An important element in this book, the divide between the newly rich and the old wealthy crowd of Karachi, is barely touched upon, and when it is, makes one wonder if this was just a half-hearted stab at appealing to a wider audience. Abidi, judging from what his website has to say about his own personal life, has tried unsuccessfully to incorporate far too many elements of his life into the book.

Abidi dedicates many a page to the description of a wedding reception held at the Sind Club and owes Kamila Shamsie an apology for treading, rather trampling with muddy feet, on her domain. While writers tend to write what they know about best, it is sometimes not a bad idea to move away from the known, else one ends up getting stale and repetitive. Thankfully, Kamila Shamsie learned this lesson four books later, which makes one wonder why Abidi, who has penned a novel before this and various short stories, can't do this as well. At the wedding reception, the turmoil that goes on in Kate's mind (the foreign bride), her attempts to connect with her new Pakistani in-laws are badly fleshed out, and does not mention what the Pakistani in-laws think of her in return. The only redeemable angle of the book, if one is to be generous, is the dilemma that Bilquis' son goes through when trying to re-examine his relationship with his mother

In another sub-plot, the love story, which ensues between a servant and Omar the Pathan chowkidar, is again unrealistic and riddled with clichés that one would expect in a bad Harlequin romance novels. Spouting lines such as "but you are not my sister," the oddly philosophical Omar tries to get the servant to turn against her employers, and it is at this point that one wants to pull out their hair in despair. Fiction must be armed with a healthy dose of reality; else, as in Twilight, it drowns itself in the absurd.

Perhaps the biggest travesty is that this book is primarily centred in Karachi. Pakistan's largest city, the City of Lights, (rather Loadshedding now), has stories that would take perhaps a thousand books to write. Yet it seems that the fiction writers currently writing about Karachi would rather touch upon this side of the bridge/that side of the bridge divide, the rich and famous and their lives and leave the reader wondering why they didn't pick up a book on the history of Karachi's money crowd if they wanted to read up on how they serve tea. As tempted as I was to throw away this book mid-way and write it off as a lost cause, the suicidal element in me persevered, as I kept hoping that at some point the plot line would engage me, the clichés would vanish...in vain. Or maybe I kept reading it to see how much worse the book would get.

It is encouraging though that more and more Pakistani-born writers are getting their books published. This is Abidi's second novel, and he will hopefully improve with each successive effort. But there is a lesson for Abidi and other writers here: the last two prominent books published by Pakistani authors that have won accolades internationally in the past year are brilliant examples of how to write effective, heart wrenching stories about Pakistan while steering clear of clichés: ?Mohammad Hanif's A Case of Exploding Mangoes, while about the Zia era, uses political satire to effectively tell its story. Daniyal Mueenuddin's debut collection of short stories was earthy, realistic and effective. Abidi unfortunately has fallen into the trap that many an author from the subcontinent have fallen victim to before -- clichés about their own country and more importantly its people, which sound flat, dull and tired, and fail to connect, at least, with the local audience.

"Some books are to be tested, others to be swallowed, and some few are to be chewed and digested"

-- Francis Bacon

John Sutherland's Curiosities of literature, which I finished last week, is certainly one which has to be chewed and digested. Sutherland, academic, critic and an expert on all things bookish, has written a brilliant and funny book for all those who take their literature seriously -- and for those who do not take it seriously.

Literary fiction has often been taken as fact. When Dante published his Inferno, the simplicity of the age accepted it as a true narrative of his descent into hell. The same is true of Gulliver's Travels. It was a long while after publication that many readers were convinced that Gulliver's Travels were, in fact, fictitious.

Sutherland points out that our age has not entirely outgrown simple-mindedness. People are still gullible enough (especially in America) to accept fiction as fact. He cites two books, which sold well. The first one is Ian Mc Ewan's novel Enduring Love.

Now whether it was a publicity stunt or a private joke, McEwan affixed a bibliography of

authentic psychological references to his novel, authenticating the mania of one of his characters. He cited an article published in the British Review of Psychiatry.

As a result, it was not just the readers but the reviewers, and qualified psychologists too, who took McEwan's citation at face value. In fact the journal, the article and the author were as fictional as the novel's hero and heroine. Incredibly enough, the New York Times reviewer loftily complained that the article contained insufficient imagination in the novel. When the bubble eventually burst, a whole batch of reviewers of respectable papers like the Los Angeles Times and the Washington Post admitted that they had been bamboozled by the research paper which had been fabricated.

The second example is even more startling. In 1969, George MacDonald Fraser published the first of his Flashman book. Fraser told the story of the British Empire through Flashman, a dandy who was expelled from Rugby (the school that we all know through Tom Brown's Schooldays) by its fearsome headmaster, Dr.Arnold, for drunkenness and dissipation. Inverted Victorianism was the gimmick Fraser employed in the book.

The long-delayed acceptance, publication and eventual runaway success of Flashman and its many sequels can be the subject of a memorable television documentary. Suffice it to say that when the Flashman books were published in America they became bestsellers. The reviewers were enthusiastic. Nearly forty percent of the critics accepted Flashman as a genuine historical character. One critic hailed the publication as the most important discovery since Boswell's Papers.

When interviewed by the Daily Telegraph, a few years ago, Fraser, the author, said he was appalled to see that ten out of twenty reviewers including a professor at a University had been gulled into taking Flashman seriously as a real historical character.

"Curiosities" is full of random pleasures to be found in reading literature and reading about it. "Had he stayed in his native St. Louis," he points out wittily, "the author of Wasteland (which one suspects he could never have written alongside the Mississippi) would have been Thomas S. Eliot, not as he became (along the Thames) T.S.Eliot".

T.S. Eliot is not the only eminent writer who like public schoolboys, is generally known by surname alone. There are many others, notably D.H.Lawrence and H.G.Wells. Writers have a variety of reasons for initialisation. (Our own poet, Nazar Mohammad Rashed chose the initials N.M. because he didn't fancy his first two names)

With Lawrence and Wells, Sutherland tells us, initialisation had a different origin. It linked back to the subtle inexplicable phenomenon known as the class distinction. The two great men of letters had working class origins. Lawrence's father was a coal miner, lowest perhaps in social status; Wells's father was a professional cricketer turned small- town shopkeeper. Cricket in the earlier part of the 20th century was a most class-ridden sport. Until the 1950s, there was an annual 'Players versus Gentlemen' match -- the implication being that the professionals were not gentlemen.

Unfortunately, both Wells and Lawrence were named miles above their social status: David Herbert and Herbert George. Such names along with Cyril and Cecil have always been heavy burden for the working class child guaranteeing jeers from school mates. A

right Herbert is a class insult.

Sutherland points out that in young manhood Lawrence was called Bert, "which was fine for the schoolyard but not for his publishing house. Bert Lawrence would have grated horribly on the title page of The White Peacock, Lawrence's first published book Herbert Lawrence offended his class-loyal ear. Hence D.H. Similar reasoning probably dictated Wells's choice.

I love Sutherland's observations on authorial epithets. Some authors' lives, lifestyles, reputations and literary works, he remarks, "distil conveniently into adjectivality; others inconveniently resist conversation." True or not, it is certainly curious. We say 'Brontean' and 'Thackerayan,' but not Murdochian'. In Sutherland's view 'Brontean' and 'Byronic' carries overtones of passion explosively suppressed; "Thackerayan', by contrast, exudes an expansive clubman's ethos richly aromatised with Havana cigars and Madeira"

The question he raises arouses our curiosity. Why do some authors, even great authors, remain adjectiveless? Why, for example, dose not one use the term 'Austenian' or Austenic? In commemoration of the "World Book Day" last year, bibliophiles placed Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice on the top of their list. The lack of a handy term for the author's essence handicaps Austen scholars.

His observations on some other adjectivals are astute. You can say 'Hobbesian' but the tongue rebels against 'Bunyanian' or 'Domnneian'; 'Worthworthian' is acceptable but 'Scottian is wholly objectionable. 'Swiftean' yes but 'Popian' no and why not, he asks, when Trollopian is so acceptable that a journal has been so named? Marlow and Shaw convert happily to Marlovian and Shavian but 'Defoevian' is unacceptable. 'Yeatsian' is a commonplace but never 'Audenian'.

In the twentieth-century the Bloombury authors Virginia Woolf and E.M.Forster have their nominal epithets (Forsterian, Woolfian) but very few others of recent times. The only exception is 'Orwellian'. Poor Orwell. Sutherland thinks that if the author of 1984 had a pound for every time 'Orwellian' is used by politicians, broadcasters, journalists and critics, his estate would have been richer than Ken Follet's.

The book ends on an ominous note. The joy of reading literature and reading about it, may soon become a thing of the past. Big bookstores in big cities have already announced that soon they would be launching ebooks, whatever that may mean. A book, a codex book, which has been around for nearly a thousand years may vanish soon. Us bookreaders, he warns, with our primitively-wired book brains, will be like Neanderthals

A sobering thought.