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phenomenon Filling the
spaces Zia
Mohyeddin column
phenomenon The literary tradition upheld by Halqa Arbab-e-Zauq is diminishing on account of the persistent violation of the values it cherished By Abrar Ahmad Present times are
witnessing the beginning of the end of an institution like Halqa Last year the elections attracted audience because the venue was Pak Tea House opened only for the evening of elections on the request of the some Halqa members. The formal annual gathering was gracefully held at Alhamra addressed by Zafar Iqbal with not a single vacant seat. This year, however, things are different. The Halqa elections went uncontested and the new executive was declared unopposed. This walk-over is not unknown for Halqa but on previous occasions, there had been different stories. Years ago, celebrated poet and critic Gilani Kamran was persuaded by leading Halqa members to contest the elections. He expressed his willingness to run it only if he was elected unopposed. Ajmal Niazi filed his papers despite requests by others not to. Gilani Kamran was assured by many that Niazi would not be allowed to bag more than two votes. But Kamran withdrew his papers and a walk-over was offered to Niazi. But this year, the most alarming element was a total disinterest of Halqa members. The office bearers from last year -- Sheraz Raj and Co -- ran the Halqa reasonably well throughout the year. The venue of the weekly meetings, Chaupal Nasir Bagh, is a desolate gloomy place with no facility of comfortable seats or tea for those who just wanted to come and be a part of the gathering. The meetings are well attended by students of nearby colleges but no seasoned or celebrated writers regularly attends. The unjust closure of Pak Tea House has changed things drastically. The Alhamra administration has reserved a Hall for writers named 'Adabi Baithak' for which formal identity cards have been issued. This has led to a few unpleasant incidents when the staff at the gate of Baithak refused entry to some notable writers on their failure to produce these identity cards. .************** The ever-expanding city and long distances have raised many 'mini-Halqas' causing the dispersal of an otherwise coherent interactive community of the literati. But on July 7 the old Halqa executive arranged the customary annual gathering of formal handing over ceremony in Aiwan-e-Iqbal -- on a Saturday as opposed to the usual Sunday. The gathering was presided over by Nasreen Anjum Bhatti. The attendance remained exceptionally thin. Sheraz Raj had added few new things during his office -- including the launch of Halqa website formally inaugurated by Younus Javed during the annual meeting. Hussain Majruh conducted the proceedings. The famous classical signers Badr-uz-Zaman, Qamar-uz-Zaman were scheduled but couldn't make it. Nasreen Anjum Bhatti came out with a thought-provoking presidential address raising some valid questions in a candid manner. We intend taking up these questions pronounced as follows: Why are there no movements in literature? Why do people refuse to die for love or ideology? Why have the writers become apathetic to fellow writers? Why are there no more study circles? Why every new entrant harbours an illusion of greatness? Added to these questions were are few suggestions -- that writers must read great works done in history, research and creative arts. She wondered why the new generation doesn't display a longing to learn. Why are senior writers so dismissive of the youth? She insisted that Halqa could play a key role in finding out the talent and bringing it to the forefront. It in fact is the cry of a worried and disillusioned soul who painfully realises the gravity of situation we are all in and attempts to shake the audience with these burning questions. This generation (another old generation after the pre-partition one) is adamant to accept the defeat of its optimism and dreams. They had a bipolar world in their young days and one could swing rapturously among the currents and countercurrents crisscrossing each other till the collapse of Soviet Union. It would be too pessimistic to infer that there is a total black out on the literary scene altogether. There are many people advancing with commitment and talent inspite of the realisation of the frightening catastrophe ahead, quite capable of engulfing almost everything. There are very clear powerful waves on literary scene, visible to everyone. If we are looking for a literary movement, 'post-modernism' is the answer. Paradoxically this theory follows the dictates of the creative work done and refuses to play an inspirational role for literary pursuits. People do die for love and ideology even today. It's true that our new entrants in literature are 'Allamas' from the day they make their appearance but if such youth find a well-functioning system and institutions like Halqa to attend, it is highly improbable that they would reside in this illusion of greatness. It has been witnesses whenever the young people are allowed such opportunities, they have invariably shown responsibility and a desire to learn.
The
Witch of Portobello By Amara Javed Some novels have the
harrowing ability to delve deep into the human soul and bring to the The protagonist this time is a young woman named Sherine Khalid but later on comes to be known as Athena. She is the daughter of a Romanian gypsy abandoned by birth and adopted by a privileged Lebanese couple. Coelho mixes in sentiments of rootlessness and longing for home in Athena's quest for the truth. She constantly feels out of place; whether it is Lebanon because she feels she doesn't belong here, or in Britain after her family flees from war where she feels discriminated against or even when she finds her mother in a gypsy village in the woods of Transylvania -- Athena is always dislocated. Her biography is presented from a variety of viewpoints from people she encountered throughout her experiences as they are interviewed by an unknown authority. Instead of giving a detached presentation of Athena's life, this interesting structure gives the reader a well-rounded understanding of hers. As Athena endeavours to learn calligraphy in the Arabian Desert, she begins to understand the void in her life; this void is represented by the 'blank spaces' between the characters of her calligraphy. The blank spaces symbolise the moments we are liberated, unburdened by work and free to indulge in contemplations of life and its significance. Most people desperately work to fill these spaces with futile activities so they don't have to try to search for the truth of their own lives. As soon as Athena discovers the importance of filling blank spaces with something more meaningful, she embarks on a mission to find her birth mother. The 'blank spaces' are easily relatable for those who find discontentment in a life blessed with everything. Coelho explores the strength of women through Athena, her teacher Edda and the Mother. Athena is the epitome of a survivor; not only in her role as a struggling single mother desperately travelling the world in search of contentment, but also as a manifestation of the Mother. Through vulnerability, sensuality and yearning for truth, Athena becomes a teacher and seduces people to enter into her world. With time she becomes like a goddess, guiding and inspiring people through her affiliation with the Mother. The Mother, as Coelho presents her, is Mother Earth. There are numerous discussions in the book about the increased following of the female face of God. Where the 'male' God represents strict institutions, rigid codes of morality and harsh punishments for disobedience, the 'female' God is maternal and nurturing and stresses the importance of love. In an example of the severity of the Church, Coelho presents an incident where the immensely religious Athena, seeking solace and comfort, is turned away from Church rituals because she is divorced. Those guided by the Mother follow no rules and face no consequences; all they do is embrace their destiny and search for love. Human relations, as well as spiritual ones, are about trusting another so completely that you are prepared to surrender it all. However idealistic that concept may sound Coelho presents it through Athena's life, a life of pain, dissatisfaction and agony. The reader comes to realize that such a path is thorny -- difficult enough to devastate and break your spirit. Keeping with the tradition that has made him a virtual literary phenomenon, Coelho employs a poetically simple language: no fancy metaphors, no impossible-to-decipher riddles. Instead, the reader is given the license to apply his brainpower where it is really needed -- the analysis of the theme. As in the rest of his novels, the basic theme remains the same: a spiritual quest being undertaken to find the essence of life. The way to happiness is to give up preconceived notions and barriers set by society. For true happiness one must discover the truth about themselves and the only way to this truth is to understand the relationship with a higher being. As you achieve some kind of communion with God, or the Mother, you begin to see and feel life and its true meaning all around you. Although the constant discussion of spirituality in the novel does become overwhelming at points, the overall message is powerful. Zia Mohyeddin column A fan marked Windows When I am invited to deliver a lecture to university students, or to a literary society, I make it a point to tell the organisers that I am neither a scholar nor an author. Perhaps they don't believe me; or perhaps they think that I must be given some respect, because, in the publicity blurb that they print, I am described as a dramatist (sometimes a dramaturge) This elevates me to an eminence that I may have aspired to, but, never, really, been able to achieve. My only connection to a dramatist (or dramatists) is that I have, in the course of my professional life, interpreted his work, sometimes reasonably well; other times merely competently, almost never to my own satisfaction. I am not entirely unaware that it is my reputation as a performer of sorts that prompts people to seek my company. It does not matter what topic I speak on: 'Misinterpretation of Chekhov' or 'Everyday Solecisms', I am informed by the organisers, at the end of the lecture, that my speech was good, very 'high class', but what the audience was really looking forward to was to hear me recite some Urdu poetry -- and a bit of Shakespeare. I remind them, as politely as possible, that at the time they approached me they had never said anything about 'recitations'; I tell them that a dollop of Faiz, Ghalib and a slice of Shakespeare wouldn't have fitted into the framework of the theme, but they still feel let down. Urdu poetry (and Shakespeare) means high-sounding words and our audiences have an unending thirst for rhetoric. A few years ago I planned to write a novel. (Actually, many years ago I had written a novel, a very bad novel, I don't mind telling you, but I still kept the manuscript in a trunk along with other discarded objects). The trunk disappeared, providentially, when I moved from Highgate to Acton. I imagined my second effort to be a fictional work of epic proportions. I put together nearly twenty thousand words, but then reading them over, tore them up. "Was my travail entirely worthless? Why did I throw away all those words? I was not particularly profligate with my narrative". Some of my writing made sense and, now and then, I was able to produce some felicitous passages. There might have been a surfeit of prepositional phrases; too many "at", "in" and "over", but I could have scraped them off by re-writing sentences to include modifying phrases. No, I chose to toss away all the pages because I wasn't excited by what I read. The words didn't move me. My propensity for rumination is boundless. There are days when pen, poised in hand, I do no more than doodle or, worse still, chew the pen and fall prey to acedia or accidie, whichever you prefer. On such occasions even a rehearsal becomes a great chore and I wholeheartedly agree with that laid back actor, Robert Mitchurn, who said that the only thing wrong with acting is that you cannot phone it in. I once knew an Australian oboeist who read the dictionary for relaxation. He obviously had a vast vocabulary but if you asked him the meaning of a word he had the dreary habit of going into its etymology. Madonna, to him, was not the luscious heartthrob of millions but MA i.e. mia i.e my plus DONNA i.e. lady. The joy of a dictionary is not that you find the meaning of a word your are looking up, but other words that you come across that you didn't know anything about. This is where the trouble starts. You now want to use the new word in your conversation or in your novel. So you prepare your character to be in a state of mind in which using such a word is apposite. In other words, you pick up an abstract notion and try to insert reality into it. This is like the city of Los Angeles in which the architecture of a new colony in the San Fernando Valley is the imitation of pseudo-Spanish haciendas that never really existed. In an effort to create a post-modern cosmos, the planners have created a style which is a non-style. This I believe is called the 'real fake' that is to say a fake more real than reality itself. Back to my creative efforts: it is amazing how well I write in my sleep. My words reach, what Eliot calls 'the stillness as a Chinese jar still/Moves perpetually in its stillness'. The style is lucid; the writing is witty, revealing, evocative and yes, I say it unabashedly, elegant. It's a pity that except for the odd oxymoron like 'perfidious simplicity' I cannot recall any of this ingenious prose in my waking hours. I like writing with a sharp pencil. My mind goes blank if I sit down to type. The insouciance of a q, the angularity of a k and the curving posture of a y matters to me. I see words being formed by my hand and the thought takes shape from them until a sentence grows and develops some kind of a meaning. A typewriter puts me off. The words, as they appear on the page, seem to be antiseptic, untasted and unsavoured. Typing on the computer screen is even worse, for you rely not so much on your fingers but that utterly defiant gismo called the mouse, who makes a small arrow dart off in such wayward directions that not merely the line, but the whole paragraph is erased. The screen goes blank and rows of lemons and bells begin to go up and down as in a Las Vegas slot machine. This goes on for sometime until the screen is occupied by an insipid mulatto fanning herself with a Chinese fan marked WINDOWS. This is what happens whenever I have tried to write on the computer screen. I can type all right and as a two finger typist I have a reasonably good speed, but looking up to see what I have typed I find that 'quagmire' has turned out to be 'quaggmire' and 'suggestion', 'sugggestion'. A child of seven knows how to take out the extra g, but it is a task way beyond my capacity But if, by some divine intervention, I were to acquire the knack of handling the mouse, would I begin to adapt myself to writing on the computer screen? I rather think not, which is a pity, because it means that I will never be a writer. All the major -- and even the minor -- writers, I am told, create their literary output on the computer these days.
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Arbab-e-Zauq. Only a year ago the annual elections were spectacular, bringing
out the most celebrated and senior men of letters, like late Munir Niazi, to
vote for their candidates. Endless meetings and campaigns went on for an
entire month on both sides. Each supporter had marked the list and picked the
literati he was supposed to persuade.
surface every discontentment that one feels impossible to express. 'The Witch
of Portobello' is the latest offering by the renowned Brazilian author Paulo
Coelho. It revolves around themes that have become synonymous with Coelho:
love, sacrifice and spirituality. The 'witch' is a title given to a woman
embracing and expressing her spirituality in a way that other people do not
understand; this fear of the unknown causes discrimination and ultimately the
disappearance of this 'witch'.