Safia was very young when her father passed away. He was a subordinate judge who died in his youth. As a result, the family savings did not amount to much. With four children in tow, Safia’s mother found herself a widow at twenty-five. Safia was six at the time. How could she have any memories of him. A dreamlike image would sometimes appear before her mind’s eye. She had three younger sisters and the youngest, a brother, was still a baby when this misery befell them. After her husband’s death, Safia’s mother took her four children to her native town and settled in a small house near her brother’s home.
Every passing moment reminded Safia’s mother of her own lack of education. Being educated would have been so useful in these trying times. She made up her mind that come what might, she would see that her daughters were educated. The whole clan opposed this, but she did not relent and sent her children to the nearby missionary school. The girls were clever and comfortably passed their exams each year. And Safia was a proper bookworm. Her mother had set her heart upon her daughters getting at least their B A degrees. In the city, there was an intermediate college for women where the Hindu girls would go. Once Safia passed her school-leaving exams, her mother sent her there to continue her studies.
Safia had not yet taken her first-year college exams when her uncle’s friend asked for Safia’s cousin’s hand in marriage for his son. This son was the deputy superintendent of police. The family was well-settled. Since Safia’s uncle had already got his daughter engaged elsewhere, he told his sister that the boy was decent, and if she wished it, he could mention Safia to his friend. His sister was keen on Safia’s B A degree and began to decline the offer but he, his wife, and all the other relatives badgered her: How can you be so foolish? Where will you find another boy like him? You will be taken under someone’s wing. If one daughter gets settled, it paves the way for her sisters. You do have three daughters. Be practical. Don’t act against their interests. The girl has turned eighteen and also completed her school. Allah forbid, not everyone has to face such hardship. If the husband has a good job, then why would she have to earn a living? Together, everyone managed to persuade Safia’s mother, and the engagement took place. As soon as she had taken her first-year exams, Safia was wed.
*
Hasan Mirza was a good-looking man with such a pleasant air about him that whoever met him was instantly smitten. Safia was an innocent girl; Mirza easily made his way into her vacant heart. The sight of Safia also gladdened his heart. Safia, who had never in her life as much as glimpsed at any male, and for whom the yardstick of a man was a bookish one, was very pleased with Hasan Mirza. She had studied the novels of Jane Austen and was well-acquainted with Mrs Henry Wood’s novels too. She had also read her Charlotte Bronte. Just as the heroes of all these women were tall, handsome, brave, upright, honest, and strong not only of body but character too, so was the man of Safia’s dreams. Once married, she found all these qualities in Hasan and the missing ones were filled in by her mind, so that she came to regard him as Virtue personified.
But soon she observed a flaw in her husband which made her quite unhappy – he would open and read her letters. The principal of her school, Miss Martin, had taught her that this was a vulgar habit and anyone who did it failed the standards of civility. In the beginning, Safia remained quiet but when she noticed it becoming routine, she remarked to him, ‘Hasan, it’s good of you to open my letters, but if you asked me, I would anyway grant you my consent. The other day you yourself were saying that a woman has a separate identity of her own. I personally find this behaviour odd. Even Amma never opened my letters.’ Hasan Mirza was taken aback by his wife’s grave face. He had not opened her letters with any ill intention. He simply possessed this Indian trait of reading another person’s correspondence without compunction.
In his family, no letter was private. Once, his uncle had opened and read his niece’s letter to her husband and had stirred up such a storm: ‘Go teach your daughters more Urdu! Come and see what a romantic letter she’s written!’ The entire family had been made to read the letter and the wretched girl had cried herself into misery. She never wrote to her husband again.
Even Mirza’s father, a liberal-minded man who had lived abroad and who had not even objected to Mirza breaking Safia out of purdah, used to open the letters of others. Mirza blushed, asked Safia’s forgiveness and said to her, ‘My intention wasn’t bad, Safia. But this habit is, and I’m sorry for it. Really, there was no other thought behind it.’ This pleased Safia and she replied, ‘I happily allow you to read them – please do. I raised the point simply as a matter of principle.’ But Hasan Mirza never opened his wife’s letters again.
*
Hasan Mirza was an accomplished cardplayer and often played bridge. Safia would call it gambling. He agreed, but declared that in this matter, he would not listen to her. Safia challenged him, ‘In that case, why do you crack down on gambling addas in the city? What’s the difference between the two?’ Mirza tried his best to explain to her that that sort of gambling took place in lowly gatherings and the people running it were unscrupulous cheats who made a living from swindling others. Safia replied, ‘They gamble in addas and you, in clubs. One is an English word, the other Hindustani. As far as cheating is concerned, you yourself say that some of the players are very dishonest and even that the lawyer Ramnath lives off his bridge earnings? I don’t see any difference between the two. The same habit is harmless in your case but criminal in others?’
Mirza laughed and said, ‘Darling wife, I won’t give up my bridge.’
‘Well, that’s your obstinacy. Otherwise, in principle, there’s no difference between the two. You surely admit this?’
‘Yes, I admit it’, said Mirza, in a bid to evade further discussion.
‘When you admit it, then why do it?’
A bemused Hasan Mirza drew his wife onto his lap and crushed her to him. He covered her mouth with his and stopped the words once you understand something, how can you act against it from fully leaving her lips, and then stood up and left for the club.
*
The fear of Hindu-Muslim riots hung over the city. There was talk of this in every house. Every corner of the city was under police surveillance. Mirza too was busy working day and night. He would come home for meals and leave for patrol duty at night.
Safia could not understand what made these Hindus and Muslims fight. Lawyer Brijlal, who was Mirza’s friend and addressed Safia as his sister-in-law, would try to explain to her how the British were to blame. Mirza would say, ‘Yaar, as students, how we used to roam around wearing khadi! Now after eight years of this work, I realise what rubbish all of that was, when we ourselves shed each other’s blood over mosques and temples.’
Safia would insist that all this malice must have some point of origin. And there had to be a concrete reason behind it. Brijlal would trace the cause to British rule. Mrs Brijlal would try to heap accusations upon Muslims in hushed tones, at which Sultan Hassan, another lawyer who frequented Mirza’s home, would angrily interject and blame Hindus instead. And Hasan Mirza would hold both sides guilty. Safia would attempt to emerge out of this labyrinth. ‘See, I think this Hindu-Muslim conflict is a disease. Just as my daughter Razia fell sick with malaria two months ago, I think Hindu-Muslim clashes are a sickness plaguing Indian society. I was after the doctor’s life to understand what malaria was, what caused it, how it could be cured. Even though he was quite fed up with me, I still went and read up his medical books. Only then did I calm down and now, Inshallah, dare malaria bother my Razia again! And here you sit back and blame each other: our fault, their fault. If the malaria mosquito was discovered, so can the cause of this illness. And if the malaria medicine was invented, then this too must have some cure.’
‘Your Mirza Sahib just stopped a riot, ask him the cure?’
‘How is this stopping anything? It’s only postponing it. It’ll return in what, another six months? I want a remedy that will uproot this horrible disease from this country forever.’
‘Arre bhai, what is this talk of stopping anything? We are government servants, bound by duty to obey orders.’
Rankled, Safia said, ‘Nice job this is! Tomorrow if the government orders the hanging of innocents, should one just obey them?’
Mirza answered her solemnly, ‘Begum, he who wants to keep his job will definitely follow orders.’
Safia stared at him, dumbfounded. She felt as though he had slapped her. After a few seconds, mortified, she said, ‘No no, Hasan, at least you will never be able to do it.’ She gazed at him with beseeching eyes.
‘Now now, Bhabhi, how you blow things out of proportion! Whoever gets the innocent hanged?! Always quibbling! Getting all worked up and upsetting others for no good reason. Now please go and fetch Razia. Should wives of government servants, and that too those of police officers, speak like this? Mirza?’
Mirza, who had come to know Safia all too well in their two-and-a-half years together, got up quietly, lit his cigarette, and began pacing the room in silence.
*
Safia’s younger sister’s wedding had got stalled. Safia wanted to gift her some precious jewellery, so she began to watch her household expenses closely. Hasan never accepted a bribe and would make do with his salary and allowances. Indeed, he earned a lot of respect from Safia for this virtue. Several times, tempting opportunities presented themselves to him, but he stood firm in his integrity. He was very honest and upright by nature. Out of the two peons assigned to him, one was always paid ten extra rupees a month when asked to run any errands for the house, and the other was restricted to official duties.
In the first winter of their married life, Safia became pregnant and once Razia was born, Safia mostly stayed at her mother’s, so she was unable to join her husband on his official tour. She was very taken with village scenery, which she had, so far, only glimpsed on train journeys. And now she wanted to see those surroundings up close. The following year, Hasan Mirza took his wife and child along on his tour. Safia was very glad. For one, the weather was fine, and then, since Hasan could not play bridge on tour, they ended up spending more time together. The thanedar made excellent arrangements everywhere and every requirement was met properly. Bullock carts, coolies, and lorries for travel, everything reached their doorstep well before time. Chicken, eggs, ghee, milk, all were in abundance. This extravagance troubled Safia, who was worried that Hasan would squander away all their savings on trifles, leaving her with little for buying her sister’s gift. She even said to him, ‘What’s the need for all this luxury?’
Hasan told her, ‘Well, this is in your hands. After all, the thanedar is supposed to follow your instructions and fetch whatever you ask for.’
When Safia summoned the thanedar and asked for an account of the expenses, he began to say, ‘Begum Sahiba, it is my honour that you have graced my precinct with your visit. I wish I could have hosted your stay.’ On Safia’s insistence, he agreed to show her the accounts. Safia asked him to take her orders and show her the expenses daily. The thanedar replied, ‘Begum Sahiba, that would be tough for me. I will ask you for the total amount in the end? Whatever you need, just send a word through your peon and it will be delivered.’
Safia was relieved to hear this but fearing being overcharged, she began to keep a record of all the orders. She even noted down the details of carts and coolies and prepared herself for every possible frugality. After fifteen days, upon her repeated requests, the thanedar finally answered, ‘Begum Sahiba, not that I wrote down your expenses, but some twenty or twenty-five rupees must have been spent. You could pay me that.’
Safia was astonished at this figure. Even fifty or sixty rupees was too little by her reckoning. She reasoned that the thanedar was offering her a bribe of sorts. Indignantly she said, ‘Thanedar Sahib, you must be mistaken. My husband and I don’t appreciate this kind of talk. For fifteen days, nine or ten men have been posted everywhere at the camp, not counting the coolies and the carts. Thrice, fully loaded lorries have arrived from the city. Then the food expenses, and all the wood burning ... How can you say that only twenty-odd rupees have been spent?!’
How could the thanedar take a twenty-year-old girl seriously? He said, ‘Begum Sahiba, government servants are always on patrol duty here – the village already has guards, a headman … Isn’t it for such occasions that servants are employed? Besides, everything is cheaper in the village. You must be comparing the cost with your city prices.’
Safia reeled at this and after collecting herself, asked, ‘In that case, how much does a chicken cost here?’
‘Must be two or three annas,’ he replied carelessly. ‘Hey you, how much does a chicken cost?’ He accosted a passing villager, and furtively held up two fingers as a prompt. The man got scared and assuming that Thanedar Sahib must be meaning to sell his chicken for a hefty sum, blurted out, ‘Two rupees, Sir’.
‘Ei! You quote the price of horses! I am asking about chicken. Chicken!’
The man saw Thanedar Sahib’s two raised fingers again, finally understood him and quoted the price of two annas. Safia burst out laughing. The thanedar was embarrassed now, but Safia was afflicted with the habit of getting to the root of any problem. She said to him, ‘Very well, Thanedar Sahib, I will find out the village prices for you.’ Saying this, she set out for the nearby village.
The helpless thanedar went in search of Hasan Mirza. After a while, he found Mirza and politely began his complaint of Safia, ’Mirza Sahib, I have made a big blunder. I misjudged Begum Sahiba. I thought she was like the other Memsahibs and would be pleased with the bill, like them.’ ‘But what’s the matter?’ asked Mirza.
‘Begum Sahiba had instructed me to show her the accounts. Today when I showed them, she got very angry.’
Mirza assumed that this time the expenditure must have spiralled out of control and frustrated Safia, who was determined to save all she could. He asked, ‘How much was it?’
‘Sahib, I asked for twenty – twenty-five rupees.’ Mirza stared at the thanedar, for he could make no head or tail of the matter.
‘Begum Sahiba took offence at how little the amount was.’ Now Mirza understood the issue.
‘What to do Sahib, either way I get into trouble. Now, one officer arrives and never even asks for the bill. Another comes along and pays a little and thinks he has paid a lot. Believe me Sahib, each winter I end up spending a thousand or so from my own pocket on them. Why hide anything from you, Mirza Sahib, you are the kind of officer a man can speak with frankly. Ninety-five rupees is what I earn. Now tell me, is it my father who will come and foot their bill? Now Begum Sahiba is accusing me of showing her wrong figures. What else can I do? Just twenty-five days ago, Collector Sahib came on a visit here. He stayed for twelve days and brought along his friends to go hunting with him. Just don’t ask me about the expenses. I asked for only fifty-five rupees. Memsahib cut even that down and paid me barely thirty rupees.’ He fished out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, saying, ‘Here, see. Now Begum Sahiba…’
At this point, Safia arrived. Her anger had intensified. She too had come to Hasan Mirza in search of justice. The thanedar spotted her and began to withdraw. She turned towards him and asked him to wait. He greeted her and said, ‘I have confessed before Mirza Sahib. Begum Sahiba, how is it my fault if this is how things are done around here?’ He explained everything again and presented the crumpled bill to support his claim. Safia was amazed at what she heard. Nevertheless, she did not give in. She asked, ‘Still, you must know what Mirza Sahib is like, he has come here several times?’
Her question sent an arrow straight into Mirza’s heart. The thanedar glanced at Mirza and weighing his words, replied, ‘Begum Sahiba, if I am allowed to speak frankly, Mirza Sahib has barely ever had any expenses. He would kill a bird, roast and eat it. As far as travel went, he hardly ever left one spot, or else he would ride out on a horse. All these expenses are on your account. Why, he never stayed for more than three days.’ This made sense. Safia fell silent.
Mirza made them reach the compromise that all the workers present there would be compensated on the spot. Since it would be difficult to return to the places they had left behind, the thanedar was to settle the rest of the accounts later.
Safia did not mention this matter again, but the memory of that trip turned to ashes for her. The faces of all the labourers she had not been able to pay, would not leave her mind. She gave up eating meat altogether.
Mirza too never spoke a word about it. But whenever the tour came up in conversation, Safia’s face would put him to shame. Mirza used to take care that no labourers were exploited on his account but how far was it possible to ensure this when the practice of begar was an established one? But his conscience would call out to him: why couldn’t you have been vigilant like Safia? Now his heart had begun to nurse this dread of his wife. How could such firm principles survive in the police force? The other day, a car mechanic had not let him pay for getting his car fixed, even after being threatened with jail. Then there was Nawab Jafar Ali who would, each year, send mangoes and dry fruit to all the deputy superintendents. On being refused, he landed up before Mirza, demanding to know why his attentions were being spurned. Mirza said to him a thousand times, Sir, I have never met you before, but he would just not listen. A month later he returned to ask a favour and Mirza could not turn him away for courtesy’s sake. He knew that Safia would have flatly refused but then, she was impeccable; poor Mirza often succumbed to politeness.
As for Safia, although her heart was pricked by a thousand thorny questions, the biggest among them was that of Mrs Thomas’ thirty rupees. For the first time, the British struck her as hypocrites, to the extent that she even began to doubt old Miss Martin.
Meanwhile, a thin veil fell between husband and wife.
*
A few days after their return from the trip, when they went to the club, everyone naturally asked Safia about their visit. Mrs Thomas, who was lavishing Safia with special attention, asked where they had been. Safia described it all and in turn enquired how much the Thomases’ expenses on tour generally amounted to. Mrs Thomas, who came from genteel British stock, was not accustomed to such rude conversation. She had considered Safia to be a cultured Indian lady. She turned red and remarked frostily, ‘This is an exceedingly private question. Why do you ask?’ Safia replied, ‘I ask with no special motive. It’s just that I found out that we are always billed for far less than our considerable expenses.’
‘Billed for far less!’ Mrs Thomas laughed, ‘Once that thanedar almost looted me, isn’t it so, Jack? If I hadn’t checked the figures, he would’ve surely swindled me.’
The district collector, Jack Thomas, stepped forward in his wife’s support. ‘It is a sickness. All these thanedars and tehsildars are alike. I halve their bills on principle.’ Safia was stunned at the mention of principles. For her, life itself was an exercise in principle. Mirza had teasingly named her Principle Madam. Observing her face now, Mirza began tugging at his tie in alarm. He coughed in the hope of catching her eye, but Safia was now fully intent upon understanding this new kind of principle. She said, ‘Mr Thomas, I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’
Mrs Thomas replied on behalf of her husband, ‘All natives are cheats.’ Then taking one look at Safia, she hastily added, ‘I mean all these people of the lower classes, like servants and coolies…’
Safia was trembling but she interrupted Mrs Thomas gravely. ‘You are right Mrs Thomas, Indians are dishonest by nature. But we have seen your British honesty all too well. For twelve days you went touring with six friends. You went hunting and there was hukkah too, hundreds of servants and three lorries waited upon you throughout, not counting the dining expenses. When the cheat Sundar Singh handed you a bill for fifty-five rupees, you reduced it further to thirty on principle. Indeed, remarkable British principles.’
Mrs Thomas was in the habit of conveying through her demeanour to any Indian she deigned to speak to, that she was doing them a great favour. As the district collector’s wife, she considered herself the empress of the district; for the first time she was confronting such audacity. Turning red with anger, she rose to her feet and thundered, ‘How dare you!’
Mrs Morgan, the wife of the police superintendent, who was just as livid, demanded to know the source of Safia’s allegation. Safia paused for a moment and then answered, ‘I have seen the accounts with Sundar Singh myself.’
At this point, the joint magistrate, Pritam Sahay, who was following the conversation, stepped forward to intervene, ‘The audacity of Sundar Singh! I’m certain Mrs Mirza has made some mistake and will apologise to you.’ With these words, Mrs Thomas found herself restored to her throne. Safia’s words had made her feel as though she had been invited to preside over some function and a prankster had pulled the chair out from under her, making her fall face down in full public view. Pritam Sahay’s assurance of Safia’s guilt had helped her back to her feet.
Safia gaped at Pritam Sahay, seeing for the first time who he truly was and recognising his past words for the empty words they had always been. She looked into his eyes and said, ‘Pritam Sahib, why are you so agitated? It is Mrs Thomas who should be asking our forgiveness, she was the one who first called us all cheats, yourself included.’
A tense Hasan Mirza began scratching his neck and left the room. Not that Safia needed his help. When it came to the matter of principles, she was fully capable of taking on not just Mrs Thomas, but an entire regiment, on her own. After Safia’s reply, a heavy silence fell over the room. A British man and two women who were present turned beetroot red. Safia was absolutely still on the outside and roasting in a tandoor on the inside. Pritam Sahay was like a mass of debris that was flying around the room, embarrassing the hosts before the guests.
Safia got up, picked up her purse, left the club and went and sat in her car outside.
As soon as she departed, Mrs Morgan took a deep breath and declared, ‘Well.’ Mrs Thomas found her tongue: ‘This is what comes of mingling with your subordinates.’
Spotting his wife in the car, Hasan Mirza too climbed into it and drove back home. Neither uttered a word on the way back or at home. Mirza went out for a walk. Safia kept sitting in her chair, her mind empty of all thought. Mirza returned, took out his police files, and got to work. For the first time in their three-year marriage, neither spoke to the other, or ate anything. Early in the morning, Mirza left for work. By now Safia was disturbed. She knew that he was furious with her, and also that she was not at fault. She could not sacrifice her conscience for his sake. Hasan skipped his lunch as well. Who knew where he spent that time?
In the evening, Brijlal, his wife, and Sultan Hassan paid a visit. Word had spread outside the club. The lawyers’ bar too was gossiping about it. Some people were angry with Mrs Thomas, others with Pritam Sahay. And everyone waited in anticipation to see how this scandal would affect Hasan Mirza’s career. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that this was the end of thanedar Sundar Singh.
Seeing Safia’s face that bore evidence of a full day’s hunger, they didn’t have the heart to repeat the gossip. They were talking of this and that, when Mirza burst in and lashed out at Safia. ‘Happy? Fought and built a fort around yourself. Who knows what world you live in. If your principles are so high and mighty, then kindly stay at home. Who asked you to wander around the world with them?’
Throwing his coat over a chair, he addressed Brijlal, ‘I’m in a proper fix. Morgan and I got into an unnecessary quarrel.’ No one replied. Safia had stiffened into a statue. Mirza sat down on a chair. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and said, ‘She sits at home and flaunts her integrity and honesty at the world. What does she know of the troubles we face at work?’
‘Yes sister, what is it to us women what the men do out there?’ Mrs Brijlal, who did not quite know what the fuss was all about, began to counsel.
All of them made Safia feel like a culprit. She felt like an innocent, cornered rabbit about to be pounced upon by hunters.
‘She went and picked a fight. Leave alone what might happen to me, but she ruined poor Sundar Singh. Today Morgan was saying that Sundar Singh…’
‘Did you exchange words with Morgan then?’ Brijlal asked. ’Exchange words!’ Mirza laughed drily. ‘When I reached office at three, there was a note from Morgan on my desk that read Kindly come and meet me. When I went to his home, that villain kept me waiting for an hour, then called me to his office and said I regret the row that took place between your wife and Mrs Thomas. I replied that I too regretted it. Then he said to me Mrs Thomas expects your wife to apologise to her. I replied that these were women’s matters and that whatever Mrs Thomas had to say, she could go and tell my wife directly. We should not interfere. He flared up and said Not just I, but all the officers have never treated you as any lesser than us. But you should not forget your place. It is not only Mrs Thomas who expects your wife’s apology, but I do too. I asked him to give me this order in writing. If it was about me keeping my job, I would apologise, but my wife was not a government servant nor was Mrs Thomas her superior. He stood up livid and said This won’t bode well for you, Mirza. I said, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In short, hot words were exchanged.’
Mirza sat down, holding his head in his hands. Nothing close to this had happened to him in his nine years of police service. The room fell silent. Mirza rose and called out to the servant for tea and then began to pace the room, switching between lighting a cigarette and throwing it away. Eventually he said: ‘One should never take on these Britishers. Arre bhai, why do you care what someone else pays whom, just keep your own accounts clear. What is it to you whether someone pays a ten or a hundred?’
‘It was Mrs Thomas who first called all Indians cheats’, said Safia with some difficulty. Mirza did not respond. ‘Then do you want me to go apologise to her?’
‘Who asked you to apologise?’ Mirza thundered at her again.
The servant brought in tea and buttered toast. Mirza made his tea and began to sip it. He didn’t offer any to his guests, or to his wife. An uneasy silence hung in the air.
Sultan Hassan broke the silence to say, ‘Come Brijal, let’s leave.’ All three noiselessly rose to their feet and left. Out in the verandah, Brijlal said, ‘Yaar Sultan, these words must not get out or else things will get worse for the poor fellow.’ Sultan Hassan shook his head.
Mirza had his tea and toast. With some warmth in his stomach, his temper cooled down and he gathered his wits. He looked around and saw his wife sitting mute, staring beyond the door. She looked terrible after fasting all day. Mirza gazed at her for a while and then softly called out her name. Safia’s eyes welled up with tears, but she remained seated. He called out in English, ‘Safia, come here.’
Safia got up and went over to Hasan; she sat down on the floor with folded legs, dropped her head on his lap, and sobbed her heart out. Hasan raised her and said to her in his old voice, ‘First you went and got into a fight and now you cry. Is this something to cry about now?’
‘Hasan I will go back to my home … You are suffering because of me…’ Safia whimpered as she added, ‘I will leave right away.’
‘Where?’
‘Do you really believe I made a mistake?’
‘Well, you did raise the topic.’
‘I didn’t mean to bring up the matter of that fifty-five. But when she called all Indians cheats, I couldn’t help my anger.’ After a pause she asked, ‘Then do you really think I should ask her forgiveness?’
Hasan slowly shook his head and said, ‘No, I never said that.’ Safia wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his chest, and said, ‘Even if you asked me to, I wouldn’t have listened, for I spoke the truth.’
After a spell of crying, they both felt the light haze that had fallen between them lift and began to speak freely about the incident. It was as though they had found each other all over again.
*
A note on the translation: This translation was based on a Devanagari transliteration of the story available online. The translator thanks Ashaq Hussain Parray and Saliha Shah for all their generous help in consulting the story in its original Nastaliq script and their subsequent feedback on the English translation. Thanks are also due to websites Rekhta and Hindi Samay for their collating and cataloguing of Urdu and Hindi literature for an online readership.
*
Rashid Jahan (1905-1952) was a writer of short stories and plays in Urdu, and a doctor by profession. Besides being a founding member of the Progressive Writers’ Association, she was also a member of the Indian People’s Theatre Association. She was actively involved in the Communist Party of India and served as co-editor of its magazine Chingari. But her political commitments exceeded these formal contributions, especially in the form of her grassroots activism, which was also reflected in her writing that is remarkable for its intrepid engagement with many contentious issues of her time. Her fiery contributions to the controversial anthology Angaarey, Nizami Press, 1932, co-written with three other subversive young Urdu writers of her time earned her the notorious sobriquet ‘Angaareywali’. In her lifetime, she published only one book, Aurat Aur Digar Afsaane, Hashmi Book Depot, 1937, although her stories and plays appeared in journals and over the radio. Her pioneering contributions as ‘Urdu Literature’s first angry young woman’ left a lasting impact on the trajectory of Urdu Literature and paved the way for a radically new generation of (especially women) writers. Her grave carries the tellingly sparse epitaph: ‘Rashid Jahan: Communist Doctor and Writer’.
*
Published in Urdu as ‘Faisla’, the story appeared posthumously in the collection Shola-e-Jawwala , India Publisher, 1974.
*
This is Rituparna Sengupta’s first translated short story to be published. She translates poetry and literary fiction, and writes essays on literature and cinema for academic and popular publications. She has recently submitted her PhD dissertation in Culture Studies at IIT Delhi. Her published writings are catalogued here.