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review Devoted
to Urdu
Zia Mohyeddin column
review Try the Morgue: A Novel Author: Eva Maria Staal Translated from the Dutch
by Pim Verhulst Publisher: Liveright, 2012 Pages: 224 There are many things that
make this book stand out when you browse the fiction list of any bookseller.
The book defies categories. It is fiction but the author is not willing to
reveal her identity because the novelist, like the protagonist, has also been
a weapons dealer. Some reviewers call it an autobiographical novel, a point
further complicated or substantiated by the fact that the pseudonymous author
has the same name as the protagonist. The Dutch publisher has also claimed
that the book is based on actual events. If the book is based on
real happenings, we are living in a very scary world where greed, power, and
profit are the prime movers and everything is up for grabs. The state of
nature, a war of all against all, is not eliminated by modern institutions
but rather accelerated by them. In primitive times,
violence made both the perpetrator and the victim vulnerable by bringing them
in close proximity. You had to go near your victim to stab him with a dagger
or hit him with a club. Rationality started increasing the distance between
the perpetrator and the victim. The distance also helped reduce any moral
pangs of the perpetrator. You are less likely to feel guilty if you do not
see the consequences of your violent stratagems. But the protagonist of this
novel is convinced that a good pay and a personal connection with the
Chinese-Canadian employer are valid enough reasons to join the global network
of weapons dealers: “[my boss] sees in me things that I don’t see, that
no one sees. Not even Martin [my life partner].” From the first assignment,
exchanging a cache of guns for a baby left behind in China by a couple
running from the Chinese re-education gulags, to the last, procuring children
for camel races in UAE, it is a thrilling, rather chilling, read. The chapters are divided
into alternative versions of the protagonists life as it has changed over
time. Then and Now are convenient pointers for the reader to figure out that
the criminal past has now been replaced by a cosy family life and the
suspense is sustained by the curiosity of the reader to find out how the
transition from the high-flying cutthroat life to a cosy life of a homemaker
and a mother took place. There is plenty of material
for Pakistani readers as well. And, if the publisher’s claims that the book
is based on real events are true, Pakistan is also a scary country. During
the reading, this reviewer started wishing for all this to be pure fiction.
The protagonist meets and deals with almost all the sensitive parts of our
security establishment and even gets sexually molested by them. The moral unravelling of
the protagonist takes place when she visits Balochistan to procure Afghan war
orphans for adoption in the UAE and later learns that the children are used
as camel jockeys and are deliberately kept undernourished so that they
don’t slow the camel down during a race. It is one of the scariest real
life scenarios in almost any contemporary novel and there are many in this
novel. There is a description of
biological weapons that is difficult to categorise as horror, science fiction
or the arrival of the moment when the human capacity for scientific inquiry
and innovation will turn upon itself and eliminate the species itself: “I learn a lot the next
few weeks. About how freeze-dried microorganisms endure being used as heavy
weaponry. About the technique for detecting aerosol particles that measure
0.8 by 4 microns and have a density of 1 gram per cubic centimetre: roughly
the volume of an anthrax spore. And about micro-encapsulation: a “packing
method” to protect germs from heat, oxygen, light and drying out. I read
about microcapsules that, due to gas generation, open up in sunlight. Fired
at night, they slumber, like their future victims, until just after the start
of a new day.” The consequences of this
nefarious relationship between scientific innovation, war industry, and the
human desire for profit are also made obvious when the author visits war-torn
places, such as Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, while the skirmishes are
still underway. The analysis of Chechnya, as presented in this novel, could
teach a thing or two to our warmongering strategists. The parallels between
Chechnya and Pakistan are too obvious after reading this passage: “Three
plotlines tell the story of this area. The battle between radical Muslims and
nonradical Muslims, the inequality between the corrupt elite and regular
citizens, and the war between the Russian Federation and Chechnya.” Replace
the Russian Federation with any external force that is hostile to Pakistan
and add a violent conflict between the minority of radical Muslims and the
majority of nonradical Muslims, you can have the Battle of Grozny here. All in all, it is a
rewarding read that could cure the reader of his or her idealism and utopian
daydreaming. It is also a testimony that Clausewitz had it right when
proclaimed “war is not a mere act of policy but a true political
instrument, a continuation of political activity by other means.” The other
means of ruling the world are the main professional concerns of the
protagonist of this novel. Therefore it is a must read
for those who are interested in war and peace and the place of democratic
idealism in the world of realpolitik. The lessons that the protagonist learns
make her give up her deadly occupation. The readers can also learn this
lesson.
Devoted
to Urdu Ask me if I have
seen the living example of the old saying “like father like son” and I
will respond: “Shabih-ul Hasan Hashmi.” He was a teacher by profession,
but a friend to his students and colleagues. Once you entered his circle, you
were there to stay, forever. He would leave such a good impression that you
wanted to see him again. He had the strength to attract you, and then mould
you the way he wanted. You would open up to him and welcome his advice in
professional and personal matters. He tutored hundreds of
students, mostly teenagers, a little rebellious, outspoken, bent on proving
that they were smarter than anyone. He was so seasoned that he knew what his
students were up to. I remember taking Urdu classes from him, when students
would show up to impress other students, and in a very clever way he would
make it clear that he knew what you were doing and didn’t appreciate the
sneakiness. No hanky panky under his watchful eyes! He had a distinct style
when it came to preparing his students for exams. If you were an Urdu
examiner, you would know that a student had been trained by Dr Shabih-ul
Hasan. Write a question with bold blue or black marker, write detail with a
pen — all in a beautiful symmetry, he would say. Besides studies he would
be available to his friends around the clock and go as far as he could to
help them out. I got close to him the
first year I took his Urdu class. We became family friends pretty soon, and I
was fortunate enough to sit down with his father, Urdu’s famous marsiya
poet Waheedul Hasan Hashmi. Later I got a chance to interview the elder
Hashmi for an English newspaper where he enthusiastically discussed Urdu
literature in the subcontinent and its future. It was Shabih-ul Hasan
Hashmi’s daily routine to tutor his students in the morning, then teach at
the college, and later take private classes in his house. Yet, he would find
time to attend conferences, write scores of books, research and meet his
friends. He once took me to see Ahmed Aqeel Rubi, where he introduced me as
his friend. We exchanged views about everything from the politics of the
teachers union and the upcoming elections to literature. He was devoted to
promoting Urdu. He published and owned a
literary magazine back then, and for that he had hired a “kaatib”. Most
magazines had moved to computer-based Urdu typing but his reason for sticking
to the same old kitaabat was based on sentimentality and humanity. He could
not bear to see his “katib” unemployed. That magazine was not a business
venture for him anyway. It was just a means to educate people and because it
had a tiny circulation that was more than enough for him. Given the literary scene of
Urdu marsiya in Pakistan, it was Dr Shabih who kept his father’s legacy
alive by printing and publishing his works. Dr Shabih was also kind enough to
compile the works of other forgotten or less known but brilliant poets. Out
of love and his down to earth personality, he would remember the
anniversaries and birthdays of these poets, hold seminars, present them with
gifts and check on their families. Every time he published a
book he would make sure to send me a copy, followed by a phone call to
discuss the chapters he had authored and researched. In total he managed to
get 28 books out. His little brother Urfi Hashmi, who was not only a business
management expert but also an excellent poet, set up a new computer training
college in Lahore. Shabih sahib, as we used to call him, was eager to start a
new branch of the school. He found a place in the Cantt area; and looked
after the branch himself. This was where he was shot dead, just because he
had a “Shia” name. In his own words: Given his contribution to
Urdu literature, people rightly compared his murder to Mohsin Naqvi’s; the
renowned Urdu poet who was shot dead because of his religious beliefs. The last time I was in
Pakistan I came to know about Waheedul Hasan Hashmi’s sad demise. This time
it was Dr Shabih himself has been taken away from us, and we are left rich
with his love and devotion yet poor without him among us. A few lines from a munkabit
he once wrote:
Zia
Mohyeddin column Batalvi took me under his
wings. He showed me how to get tube connections and arranged to find digs for
me in the same old Victorian block of apartments in Kensington where he had
resided as a cherished guest for the last four years. Kensington was one of
the most coveted residential areas in London and South Kensington, where we
were lodged was, of course, crème de la crème. What Batalvi didn’t know
— and I didn’t have the courage to tell him — was that the rent, four
guineas a week, was more than I could afford. Fortunately, through his
connections with the BBC Overseas Services, I was able to pick up occasional
freelance work which enabled me to make both ends meet — just about. I
should have moved to a cheaper district (which I did later on when better
sense prevailed) but for the first few months living at an SW7 address
gratified my vanity. Needless to say I skimped on meals and often had nothing
more than bread and stale cheese for supper. I say supper and not dinner
because supper is the last meal of the day. One of my earlier surprises
in England was to hear people refer to their mid-day meal as dinner which we,
who grew up in colonial times called lunch or luncheon. My favourite
etymologist, Mark Forsyth defines dinner as “the chief meal of the day
eaten originally, and still by the majority of people, about the middle of
the day, but now by the professional and fashionable classes, usually in the
evening.” For almost a year I only
got to know my way to the BBC studios at 200 Oxford Street, and the area in
and around Shaftesbury Avenue, apart from my daily route from my digs to the
Drama School in Gower Street at the back of Tottenham Court road. Shaftesbury
Avenue and Leicester Square was Theatreland where I queued up for many hours
to buy the cheapest seat in the pit. The farthest South East area I ever
visited was Waterloo Road to see Shakespeare’s plays performed at the Old
Vic by the finest classical actors of the time. In other words I remained
confined to the West-End of London. The East-End of London,
notwithstanding St Paul’s Cathedral, was a different city. (Indeed it is
called the city but that is for different reasons). The East-End was
cockneyland where “the lower classes, the ruffians, tarts and cut-throats
resided.” The stories one heard in the RADA canteen about places like
Bethnal Green and Spitalfields with streets which had been dubbed as the
foulest and most dangerous in the metropolis made one’s hair stand on end.
My friend John Gray (whom everyone thought to be the future matinee idol) had
some knowledge about Spitalfields. He informed me that it had been the haunt
of the serial killer, Jack the Ripper and that even now the notorious Dean
Street in Spitalfields was dominated by ruffians who roamed the street with
cleavers. It was almost a year before
I made my first trip to the East-End of London to see Joan Littlewood’s
production of “O What a Lovely War” at the Theatre Royal Stratford East.
Joan Littlewood was a working class lady who had created a revolution in the
theatre by staging drama about working class people, enacted by actors
brought up in working class environment. The Theatre Royal Stratford was a
lovely, intimate theatre and its surrounds were as serene as the Old Brompton
Road on a Sunday. Later on, I visited other
places in the East-end which were full of slums and unwashed faces that
smelled of poverty, but I never got a chance to visit Bethnal Green or
Spitalfields. For some strange reason I remained under the impression that
Spitalfields was a borough abounded with abettoirs. Perhaps it was because I
had heard that the ruffians of the area used to be armed with cleavers.
Anyway, when I at last visited Spitalfields, in the eightees, I didn’t find
many butcher shops. What surprised me was that some parts of the borough had
been as spruced up as Maidu Vale or Kentish Town. Indeed, there were streets
where most of the merchant terraces had been conserved by exponents of a
‘New Georgian ethos,’ and they were as expensive to buy as any property
in Swiss Cottage or Highgate. Why have I dwelled on
Spitalfields for so long? It is because in that wonderful book ‘The
Horologicon’ by that rare scholar, Mark Forsyth, the chapter on Breakfast
includes a couple of pages on Spitalfields Breakfast. Did you know what
‘Spitalfields breakfast’, means? I didn’t, until I read in the
‘Horologicon’ that ‘it was understood at the East end of London as
consisting of a tight necktie and a short pipe’. Now what should we make of
this statement? Forsyth says, “I assume it means dressing hurriedly and
valuing tabacco over food.” He then goes on to elaborate that back in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when the death penalty was punishment
for almost anything, there were more than a million artful phrases and
euphemisms for being hanged. “You could dance upon
nothing with a hamper cravat,” or if the hanging were at dawn, you could
have a “Hearty choke and caper sauce (to be hanged). He quotes from a story
written in 1843. The author is searching for a particular criminal and is
told by an informant that: “He died last Wednesday
morning of vegetable breakfast, that did not altogether agree with his
digestive system. ‘A vegetable breakfast!
What do you mean?’ ‘Mean? Well the like of that! And so you do not
perceive, that this is what Dr Lardner calls a delicate form of expression
for a “Hearty choke with caper sauce.” ‘As we live and learn
Sir; I am much beholden to you for the information’, I replied hardly able
to repress my disgust at the brutal jocularity of the wretch. Cockney humour can be dark
and cheeky. Before I end talking of the ‘Horologicon’ I must share with
you one last word — arrision — which I think ought to be revived. If you
are a lady you may give a man an arrision (which is the act of smiling at
somebody in a coquettish manner). It’s a lovely word and I know that I am
not the only one to have been beguiled by a coy arrision.
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