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You are here: Home / Archives for Culture & Society / Books

Inside the Anda Cell: Excerpts from Arun Ferreira’s Prison Memoir

October 14, 2014 by Nasheman

Book excerpts from Arun Ferreira Colours of the Cage: A Prison Memoir

From 28 May to 14 June 2007, I was slapped with five more cases relating to Naxalite violence in Gondia, a district about 150 kilometres from Nagpur. Gondia and especially Gadchiroli, the other district lying at the extreme end of Maharashtra, are areas of intense Maoist activity. In almost all of Gadchiroli and parts of Gondia, armed Naxal squads have fought the police and paramilitary forces with support from the local tribals and peasants. This is in keeping with the Maoist strategy to establish revolutionary centres in rural areas in the hope of eventually growing to seize power throughout the country. It is no coincidence that these districts are also among the poorest areas in Maharashtra. In 2011, Gadchiroli had the lowest ranking on the state’s Human Development Index.

Arun Ferreira

The five new cases allowed the police to get me back into their custody for another twenty-three days, till 19 June. I was shifted to Amgaon, a police station in the interiors of Gondia, where I was subjected to more sleep deprivation, harassment and interrogation. This time though, I was fortunate to get away relatively lightly. But my co-accused were not so lucky. The police, under the direct supervision of the sub-divisional police officer, a man named Korate, injected petrol into the rectums of two of them. A couple of staff lifted their legs while an inspector infiltrated the 20 ml of petrol into their bodies. The vapours of gasoline burned the intestine linings, which resulted in agonizing days of anal bleeding, blood clots and continuous belching. I wonder how Korate knew that exactly 20 ml of petrol would cause such enormous pain yet not kill. Such knowledge could only have been acquired by some sort of training. Ashok Reddy did manage to complain to the court about this. However the state-appointed doctor, obviously a friend of Korate’s, diagnosed Ashok’s condition as piles and exonerated the officer and his accomplices.

I was, for reasons best known to them, protected from such treatment. The police would come by to interrogate me every couple of days—whenever they got a list of questions from a superior. When I didn’t reply to their first question, they never got further down the list, and that’s where the torture would start.

‘Arre, Bajirao ko bulao,’ the inspector would call.

A narrow belt attached to a wooden handle would be brought in by a constable—an implement that policemen across Maharashtra fondly call ‘Bajirao’. It takes its name from Peshwa Baji Rao, a lieutenant of Shahu Maharaj, a ruler who is credited with greatly expanding the Maratha Empire. Maharashtra’s police personnel, largely dominated by the Maratha caste, find this instrument similarly trustworthy. The Bajirao belt was deployed carefully, only on the palms or soles of the feet. When whipped, the cluster of nerves at the heel pad causes enormous pain but displays no external injuries, so I wouldn’t have any proof if I tried to complain to a magistrate. However, doctors know that such foot whipping can cause permanent nerve damage. It reduces the elasticity of the heel pad causing agonizing aches, especially on cold nights, for years afterwards. Such torture, though not so visible to the naked eye, leads to irreversible harm to the body.

Once in a while, often due to the inexperience or over enthusiasm of the torturer, this permanent damage extends to death. No wonder Maharashtra still retains its privileged position of having the highest number of custodial deaths in India. It recorded 22 in 2011, way ahead of Gujarat, which came next with 7 deaths. Invariably, the government’s National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) attributes these deaths to natural causes or to suicide. People like Korate and his seniors are never held responsible.


Book-Colours-of-The-Cage_A-Prison-MemoirMuslims are represented in prison in greater proportion than in the outside world. In Maharashtra, they account for 36 per cent of the prison population, whereas in society their share is 10.6 per cent. Muslim festivals in prison are important events. During the Ramzan fast, entire barracks are emptied out to accommodate Muslims. Food is served in these barracks at timings suitable for their roza, and prison authorities sell fruit and dates during this month. For those in cellular confinement like the anda barrack, such community gatherings are not allowed. However the cries of the azaan and the sharing of iftaar delicacies lend a festive air to even the anda.

In my section of the phasi yard, Asghar was the only Muslim inmate. He was allegedly a co-conspirator of Javed (who was in the anda) in setting off blasts on the Mumbai rail tracks. Before he was arrested, Asghar Kadar Shaikh, a resident of Mumbai, had worked part-time as an auto-rickshaw driver and the rest of the time as a florist. In jail, he worked as gardener in the compound surrounding the phasi yard. He was also entrusted with the job of keeping the gallows clean, oiled and functioning. Despite the grim task he was expected to do, he was extremely friendly and witty. He always had a unique take on the world around him, and made for good conversation in the yard.

‘Prisons will improve only if election rules are changed,’ Asghar would often philosophize.

‘How come?’

‘Once prisoners are allowed to vote, politicians will then pay heed to our needs.’

‘You mean, inmates can’t vote? But isn’t that a fundamental right?’

‘Not for us. Hum voting kar nahin sakte lekin chunav ladh sakte,’ he answered. (We couldn’t vote but we could stand for elections.) He explained how Section 62(5) of the Representation of the People Act, 1951 disqualifies any imprisoned person, whether awaiting trial or convicted, from voting. However, Section 8 and Section 11A of the same act allowed undertrials and convicted persons under certain offences with sentences less than two years to contest elections.

‘Dekho,’ he went on, ‘in slums or villages, the needs of the poor are only fulfilled during general elections. We need to become a vote bank. Politicians would then value our voice and improve prison conditions.’

‘But such change will be superficial and short-termed, much like charity.’

‘Sahi hai,’ he’d continue, ‘but it will still be an improvement.’

Debates and discussions with Asghar would continue for days. He often articulated his preference for a death sentence to being imprisoned for his whole natural life. An instant death would immediately end the suffering of his family. It would, he held, allow them to start life afresh.

By June 2008, the number of us in the yard branded as terrorists started increasing. We got three more Muslim boys, Sajid Ansari, Muzzamil Sheikh and Majid Shafi, who had been arrested in 2006 and were accused of planting bombs in a Mumbai train that year. They had been thrashed by the prison authorities in Mumbai and arrived with multiple fractures and bruises. Sajid and Majid were young fathers who had only enjoyed a few months of parenthood before they were arrested. Muzzamil was still unmarried. The three were deeply religious and adherents of Ahl al-Hadeeth, believers in the strict interpretation of the Koran. Sajid and Muzzamil were residents of Mumbai and had earlier been members of SIMI. We had intense discussions on politics and Islam. They despised the Indian state’s treatment of Muslims and would never fail to express their views passionately. I had hoped to learn Urdu from Sajid, who was an excellent calligrapher and now regret having failed. Majid, on the other hand, was a romantic. He’d often speak about his family, his baby girl and the football he missed in Kolkata. From our discussions it became evident that Sajid, Muzzamil and most of their numberkaari were arrested merely because of their previous allegiance to SIMI. Majid, on the other hand, was implicated in the concocted police story because he lived close to the Bangladesh border. All of them faced the Herculean task of defending themselves from being convicted of a crime that had left 209 dead and over 700 injured. The well-oiled gallows haunted them daily.

You can order the book online here.

Filed Under: Books Tagged With: Arun Ferreira, Books, Colours of the Cage, Maoist, Memoir, Muslims, Naxal, Prison, Undertrials

What Gandhi Says: About Nonviolence, Courage and Resistance

October 2, 2014 by Nasheman

APTOPIX MIDEAST ISRAEL PALESTINIANS

Book Excerpt: What Gandhi Says: About Nonviolence, Courage and Resistance – by Norman G. Finkelstein

A wave of popular revolts is now sweeping the planet.

In many instances, it was an act of nonviolent civil resistance that either sparked the local uprising or marked its turning-point.

In Tunisia, it was the self-immolation of a street vendor. In Cairo, it was the assault by goons on camelback against nonviolent protesters in Tahrir Square. In New York City, it was the voluntary mass arrest of demonstrators on the Brooklyn Bridge.

These actions “quickened” the public conscience. People who had stood by indifferently and passively for decades suddenly came to life.

The acts of nonviolent resistance resonated with a broad public because of an already existing consensus that the system was unjust.

In spirit and form, the epic events of the past year appear like a page out of Gandhi’s life.

But it is also easy to see the limitations of Gandhi’s teachings.

Neither Ben-Ali of Tunisia nor Mubarak of Egypt was “melted” by the people’s self-suffering. They had to be forced from power. Neither the liberal mayor of Oakland nor the liberal mayor of New York let their bleeding hearts prevent them from brutally clearing out the “Occupy” movement.

Self-suffering might sting the conscience of the 99 percent and get them to act. But only the concerted and courageous power of the overwhelming majority will get the 1 percent to budge and be gone.

The only language that the 1 percent understand, as Gandhi conceded in his more candid moments, is “open rebellion.”

Still, Gandhi had a point. However costly the price in lives of nonviolent resistance, it is probably still less than the price of violent rebellion, while a nonviolent struggle augurs better for the future than an armed struggle.

Once armed foreign forces entered Libya in “support” of the popular revolt, the number of deaths skyrocketed. The probable order of magnitude is ten fold greater than the total deaths in any of the other revolts convulsing the Arab world. The result of the armed victory in Libya is a power once again in thrall to external forces and likely to make most Libyans soon yearn for a return to the days of Qaddafi.

“Violence may destroy one or more bad rulers, but,” Gandhi warned, “others will pop up in their places.”

Art by Priti Gulati Cox.

The unspoken prejudice against nonviolence is that it is cowardly and unmanly. But nonviolence as Gandhi conceived it can hardly be dismissed on these counts. It takes an awful lot of bravery to march unarmed into the line of fire “smilingly” and “cheerfully,” and get oneself blown to pieces.

In his last days and amidst inter-communal slaughter, Gandhi insisted on opening his prayer services in Hindu temples with a verse from the Koran. It enraged Hindu fanatics to the point that one of them finally murdered him.

Who would be so bold as to deny that Gandhi’s was a heroic death?

If a criticism is to be leveled against Gandhi’s nonviolence, it is that he sets the bar of courage too high for most mortals to vault.

It is a central conceit of Gandhi’s doctrine that nonviolent resistance in the face of evil is not only more ethical than violence but could also achieve the same results.

The jury is still out on this.

It is certainly doubtful, as Arundhati Roy has pointed out, that nonviolent resistance can achieve any results against a ferocious enemy acting outside the glare of public scrutiny.

But what can be said with confidence is that the results of violent resistance have been at best mixed.

The day after, bloody revolutions seem always to disappoint, and in the scramble to the top, those with the most blood on their hands seem always to get there first.

The challenge for the younger generation as it embarks on the struggle to remake the world is to see how far it can advance without having to use violence.

The further along it gets nonviolently, the more likely it is that the new world will also be a better one.

Norman G. Finkelstein received his doctorate in 1988 from the Department of Politics at Princeton University. For many years he taught political theory and the Israel-Palestine conflict. He currently writes and lectures. Prof. Finkelstein is the author of eight books that have been translated into 50 foreign editions. His latest book is entitled What Gandhi Says: About Nonviolence, Courage and Resistance.

Filed Under: Books Tagged With: Books, Courage, Gandhi, Mahatma Gandhi, Nonviolence, Norman Finkelstein, Resistance, Revolution

'Someday I might end up as a poet': Prison letters from Faiz Ahmed Faiz to his wife

September 15, 2014 by Nasheman

Faiz Ahmed Faiz Alys

– by Salima Hashmi

The daughter of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the subcontinent’s iconic bard, discovers letters exchanged by her mother and father.

Since being Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s daughter has given me privileged access to the family archives, I have become an accidental archivist. In 2009 I embarked upon the Faiz Ghar project to set up a small museum in a house leased to us by a friend and admirer of my father. We commenced sorting through Faiz’s belongings, papers and books. It was not a massive collection by any means, owing to his nomadic, rather Spartan, but interesting life, that began on February 13, 1911, and ended on November 20, 1984. My mother Alys was instrumental in saving and sorting what little there was: a smart grey lounge suit, a cap, his scarf, his pen, and a reasonably large cache of letters, certificates and medals.

After my mother’s death in 2003 all these things had been packed away in cartons in my house, waiting for just the sort of opportunity that the Faiz Ghar project afforded. Sifting through the papers, I came across a plastic bag containing some scraps. On closer look, I deciphered Faiz’s writing, and the unmistakable stamp of the censor from the Hyderabad Jail, where Faiz spent part of his imprisonment between 1951 and 1955 for his role in the Rawalpindi Conspiracy – a Soviet- backed coup attempt against Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan. These few letters were in poor shape, but readable. It is surprising that they have survived at all. Alys and Faiz had moved to Beirut in 1978. On return, all seemed to be in order in the house – except the cupboard, which had been attacked by termites. That cupboard contained Faiz’s letters from jail, which were later preserved with the help of Asma Ibrahim, transcribed by Kyla Pasha, and published in 2011 under the title Two Loves.

A postcard from Faiz to his wife Alys.

A postcard from Faiz to his wife Alys.

Prison poetry

Faiz Alys

The letters offer a close look at Faiz’s correspondence with Alys over the years, especially from prison in the early 1950s. I persuaded thephotographer Arif Mahmood to identify and photograph my father’s cell, which I remembered, having been allowed to visit it once. The occasion was Eid. The prisoners’ families had been allowed into the inner sanctum of Hyderabad Jail, and into the courtyard, where in the centre, stood a courtroom. Faiz’s trial had been held there in camera, with no one but the accused, judges and lawyers present; the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case Act forbade any public access to information about the proceedings.

From his jail cell, on 25 March 1952, Faiz wrote to Alys:

I think pain and unhappiness are distinct and different things and it is possible to go on suffering pain without being really unhappy. Pain is something external, something that comes from without, an ephemeral accident like a physical ailment, like our present separation, like the death of a brother. Unhappiness on the other hand, although produced by pain is something within yourself which grows, develops and envelops you if you allow it to do so and do not watch out. Pain, no one can avoid but unhappiness you can overcome if you consider something worthwhile enough to live for. Perhaps I am becoming pedantic again so I shall leave it.

The weather here is exactly as you left it – only the nights have become a little colder and the days slightly warmer. I am in good spirits and better health and thinking of you and the funny faces with all the love there is in my heart. Kiss the little ones for me. All my love. Faiz

A day after Independence Day, on 15 August 1952, Faiz in all humility wrote about his poetic gift:

Your letter came today. I feel happy today after a mild attack of a blue period lasting over a few days. It must be the weather. It is more like spring than summer. The mornings are vaguely cool and disturbing like the first breath of love and the sun in the early hours brings more colour than heat. In the evening the breeze seems to bring the breath of the sea and the skies seem to close not on drab prison walls but on distant palm-fringed beaches … And it is said like all beauty that is within your sight and beyond your grasp – like all beauty you know to be an illusion.

Yesterday, we had a change. The prison gateway was festooned with lights, red blue and green and four loud speakers blared forth radio programmes in cracked discordant voices. The lights and colours – the din felt more like Anarkali than Hyderabad jail and for a long time I could not sleep. In the morning I woke up with a strange happiness in my heart and I wrote a poem which I enclose. I was astounded to find that it took me hardly any time at all and I had practically finished when we went down to breakfast. I am still feeling rather intoxicated with it and am beginning to fear that perhaps some day I might end up as a poet after all.

 

Faiz letters

Faiz’s poignant letter from 8 October 1952 reads:

Beloved,

This morning the moon shone so brightly in my face that it woke me up. The jail bell tolled the half hour after four. I sat up in my bed and at the same moment Arbab [a fellow prisoner] in the bed next to me also sat up and smiled at me. He went back to sleep at once but I got up and sat in the verandah opposite my cell and watched the morning come.I heard the jail lock open and shut as the guards changed the key and chains rattle in the distance and the iron gates and doors clamp their jaws as if they were chewing up the last remains of the night’s starry darkness.

Then the breeze slowly rose like a languid woman and the sky slowly paled and the stars seemed to billow up and down in pearly white pools and sucked them under. I sat and watched and thoughts and memories flooded into the mind.

Perhaps it was on a morning like this that the moon beckoned to a lonely traveller a little distance from where I sit and took him away into the unknown and the traveller was my brother.

Perhaps the moon is at this moment softly shining on the upturned faces, painless now in death, of the murdered men in Korean prison camps and these dead men too are my brothers. When they lived they lived far away in lands I have not seen but they also lived in me and were a part of my blood and those who have killed them have killed a part of me and shed some of my blood. Albeit they are dead, as my brother is dead and only the dead can adequately mourn for the dead. Let the living only rejoice for the living.

Perhaps someday I shall be able to put this morning into verse and I have threatened Arbab that if I do, he might become immortal by being in it.

Heat and dust

These handwritten letters that my parents exchanged are fascinating repositories of the turbulent times when the British Empire was being dismantled in the subcontinent. In a letter from 1943 in Delhi, in the midst of the Independence movement, Faiz said:

Darling

Delhi heat is coming into its own with 100 during the day and dust storms in the evenings but the nights are cool. Further heat is being engendered by the discussion, the talk of communal riots etc. I have twice visited the Imperial Hotel lawn in the evening in company with Morris Jones, and the atmosphere here needs a Voltaire or Swift or some equally great satirist to describe it. Every giggling ninny is a political expert these days and the Foreign Correspondents I bet are having the time of their lives. Woodrow Whatt (the MP) asked me to lunch the other day. He insisted on talking politics and I insisted ontalking about Freda Bedi [British-born teacher of English who participated in Gandhi’s Satyagraha], so there was a stalemate.

In 1947, the tumultuous year when Partition took place, Alys wrote from Srinagar:

 Dearest,

Haven’t heard from you yet but Taseer tells me that he had a telegram from Chris to say you have arrived … The expected disturbances fortunately did not materialise but there has been a new flare-up in the last two days involving 13 deaths. These were however, individual cases … no general panic. To make up for this there has been a terrible fresh outbreak in Amritsar and conditions there, I am told, are utterly indescribable. The Radcliff(e)Award came up and you must have seen it.

The Muslims have got their Pakistan, the Hindus and Sikhs their divided Punjab and Bengal, but I have yet to meet a person, Muslim, Hindu or Sikh who feels enthusiastic about the future. I can’t think of any country whose people felt so miserable on the eve of freedom and liberation. Both morally and politically the British could not have hoped for a greater triumph.

A day later, Faiz responded from Lahore,

Darling,

Arrived here safely the day before yesterday. For once, safety has some meaning, for if I had been a Hindu or a Sikh I could never have got beyond half-way. The situation in the West, however, bears no comparison to what has happened and is happening in the East. It seemed so unreal and far away as long as I was in Srinagar, but it has all come back and is far, far worse than anything I had feared and imagined. From early morning till late evening one hears nothing but tales of horror and even though one ties shut one’s mind and one’s ears tight against them there is no escape from the horror or tragedy that surrounds one from every side. To be alone and ponder over it all is an unbearable pain and one has conceived a horror of being alone with one’s thoughts.

It is difficult to see a path or a light in the gloom but one has to maintain one’s reason and one’s courage and I shall certainly maintain. I am glad you are not here although Lahore is peaceful for now, it resembles more a deserted wilderness than a populated city.

Faiz on Gandhi

At the height of the Kashmir conflict in 1948, Faiz flew to Delhi for Mahatma Gandhi’s funeral. In his editorial in the Pakistan Times dated February 2, 1948, Faiz wrote:

The British tradition of announcing the death of a king is “The king is dead, long live the king!” Nearly 25 years ago, Mahatma Gandhi writing a moving editorial on the late C R Das in his exquisite English captioned it as “Deshbandhu is dead, long live Deshbandhu!” If we have chosen such a title for our humble tribute to Gandhiji, it is because we are convinced, more than ever before, that very few indeed have lived in this degenerate century who could lay greater claim to immortality than this true servant of humanity and champion of downtrodden. An agonizing 48 hours at the time of writing this article, have passed since Mahatma Gandhi left this mortal coil. The first impact of the shock is slowly spending itself out, and through the murky mist of mourning and grief a faint light of optimistic expectation that Gandhiji has not died in vain, is glowing.

Maybe it is premature to draw such a conclusion now in terms of net result, but judging by the fact the tragedy has profoundly stirred the world’s conscience, we may be forgiven if we may store by the innate goodness of man. At least we can tell at the top of our voice suspicious friends in India that the passing away of Gandhiji is as grievous a blow to Pakistan as it is to India. We have observed distressed looks, seen moistened eyes and heard faltering voices in this vast sprawling city of Lahore to a degree to be seen to be believed.

We have also seen spontaneous manifestations of grief on the part or our fellow citizens in the shape of observance of a holiday and hartal. Let our friends in India take note – and we declare it with all the emphasis at our command – that we in Pakistan are human enough to respond to any gesture of goodwill, any token of friendliness and, last but not least any call for cooperation from the other side of the border. Earlier we have indulged in a bit of optimism – and that for a very good reason. In India, sedulous and we believe sincere, heart searching has been going on ever since the tragedy took place. The Government of India too seems to have at long last realised that they are sitting on top of a volcano. And above all, a small incident in Bombay in which a Hindu mob broke open the office of the Anti-Pakistan Front on Saturday and reduced its furnishing to smithereens is we believe, realisation – thought tragically belated – of the fact that Muslims are, after all, not the sinners – not to say the enemies of India. A large section of Hindus have discovered where their enemies reside and what political labels they flaunt.

Salima Hashmi is a Lahore-based artist, cultural writer, painter, and anti-nuclear activist. She is Dean of the School of Visual Arts & Design at Beaconhouse National University. She is the author of Unveiling the Visible: Lives and Works of Women Artists of Pakistan (2005), and illustrator of A Song for this Day: 52 poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

This article is adapted from a presentation at the first-ever meeting of archivists from across Southasia organised in 2012 by the Hri Institute in Bangalore and was first published in Himal Southasian in March 2013. This piece was first published by Scroll.

Filed Under: Books, Culture & Society Tagged With: Alys Faiz, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Writing

Sa'adat Hasan Manto: How I write stories

August 24, 2014 by Nasheman


Saadat Hasan Manto

–  by Sa’adat Hasan Manto

Honorable ladies and gentlemen!
I’ve been asked to explain how I write stories.
This “how” is problematic. What can I tell you about how I write stories?

It is a very convoluted matter. With this “how” before me I could say I sit on the sofa in my room, take out paper and pen, utter bismillah, and start writing, while all three of my daughters keep making a lot of noise around me. I talk to them as I write, settle their quarrels, make salad for myself, and, if someone drops by for a visit, I show him hospitality. During all this, I don’t stop writing my story.

If I must answer how I write, I would say my manner of writing is no different from my manner of eating, taking a bath, smoking cigarettes, or wasting time.

Now, if one asked why I write short stories, well, I have an answer for that. Here it goes:

I write because I’m addicted to writing, just as I’m addicted to wine. For if I don’t write a story, I feel as if I’m not wearing any clothes, I haven’t bathed, or I haven’t had my wine.

The fact is, I don’t write stories; stories write me. I’m a man of modest education. And although I have written more than twenty books, there are times when I wonder about this one who has written such fine stories – stories that frequently land me in the courts of law.

Minus my pen, I’m merely Saadat Hasan, who knows neither Urdu, nor Persian, English or French.

Stories don’t reside in my mind; they reside in my pocket, totally unbeknownst to me. Try as hard as I might to strain my mind hoping for some story to pop out, trying equally hard to be a short story writer, smoke cigarette after cigarette, but my mind fails to produce a story. Exhausted, I lie down like a woman who cannot conceive a baby.

As I’ve already collected the remuneration in advance for a promised but still unwritten story, I feel quite vexed. I keep turning over restlessly in bed, get up to feed my birds, push my daughters on their swing, collect trash from the house, pick up little shoes scattered throughout the house and put them neatly in one place – but the blasted short story taking it easy in my pocket refuses to travel to my mind, which makes me feel very edgy and agitated.

When my agitation peaks, I dash to the toilet. That doesn’t help either. It is said that every great man does all his thinking in the toilet. Experience has convinced me that I’m no great man, because I can’t think even inside a toilet. Still, I’m a great short story writer of Pakistan and Hindustan – amazing, isn’t it?

Well, all I can say is that either my critics have a grossly inflated opinion of me, or else I’m blinding them in the clear light of day, or casting a spell over them.

Forgive me, I went to the toilet…The plain fact is, and I say this in the presence of my Lord, I haven’t the foggiest idea how I write stories.

Often when my wife finds me feeling totally defeated and out of my wits, she says, “Don’t think, just pick up your pen and start writing.”

So advised by her I pick up my pen and start writing, with my mind totally blank but my pocket crammed full of stories. All of a sudden a story pops out on its own.

This being the case, I’m forced to think of myself as not so much a writer of stories but more as a pickpocket who picks his own pocket and then hands over its contents to you. You can travel the whole world but you won’t find a greater idiot than me.

Translated by Muhammad Umar Memon, Department of Languages and Cultures of Asia, UW-Madison; 2013. These translations were published in The Journal of Urdu Studies. This English translation was first published online by Scroll.

This short story has been published under the Creative Commons license.

Filed Under: Books, Culture & Society Tagged With: Hindustan, Muhammad Umar Memon, Pakistan, Saadat Hasan Manto, Short story, Urdu, Writing

My story of captivity

August 22, 2014 by Nasheman

– by Hafeez Nomani

Hafeez NaumaniThirty five years ago when this scribe was not even 35, on 13 May 1966, first part of the story of my captivity was published in Nida-e-Millat. This was based on those nine months day-and-night observations and experiences during captivity that was our ‘reward’ from the government for bringing out a special issue on Aligarh Muslim University.

In those days not only did the Government not like Nida-e-Millat but it was brazenly hostile. The proofs of its hostility were the 25 cases filed, after this episode, against my elder brother Maulana Atiqur Rehman Sanbhali as the editor and against this scribe as the printer and publisher in all of which the Government had to bite dust.

I have not used the word, ‘hostile’ on impulse. Among dozens of proofs of it is a particular case that substantiates my point. The known freedom fighter Mrs. Subhadra Joshi had published an article in the weekly Link. We carried the translation of this write up in Nida-e-Millat mentioning the names of the writer and the publication.

When the case against us for publishing this essay was brought before the court, we produced, in our defence, original copy of the newspaper in which it had been carried. But even such a concrete proof had no impact on the outcome. When one of the most Islamophobic Chief Judicial Magistrates of his time who was presiding over the case was asked by our benefactor and lawyer Mr. Abdul Mannan if there was any piece of legislation that allowed criticism against the Government in Hindi and English but made such exposition a criminal act if published in Urdu, he had no answer. May be he was just a puppet whose strings were being pulled by the very hands that had the power to promote, demote and transfer him and thus he was forced to defile the judge’s chair in the name of justice.

At about 9pm the door of my residence was forced opened and, with torches in their hands, half a dozen of high officials of CID, Incharges of Qaisar Bagh, Ameenabad and Hazrat Gang police stations, along with 115 armed personnel of Provincial Armed Constabulary (PAC), barged in without any permission or warning. With them was also a fruit seller who lived at the back of my house and was so heavily drunk that he fell unconscious at the door. We later found out that he was a ‘great witness’ of the great police who was brought to his thumb impression on the documents recording the proceedings of the police.

Syed Muhammad Haleem and Muhammad Hakeem Warsi were with me at that time as, because of the work going on, I had sent my wife and children to my father’s house.

‘Who is Hafeez Noumani?’ One of them enquired. I came forward and introduced myself. In response he said that he was the DYSP CID and showing me official orders told us that none of us was allowed to touch even a single piece of paper in the office. He further said that the Administration had learnt from sources that some of the contents in this issue were objectionable and, for the time being, their publication was being stopped.

‘Shall we consider ourselves under arrest?’ I enquired, upon which he replied that no decision had been taken by then and that was to be decided after consultation with High Officials. From his response it was obvious to us that we were in custody. We explained to them everything about the newspaper and handed over the complete and incomplete newspaper to them.

Six officers came downstairs one of them holding a copy in his hand. He asked me to open its page number 33. I told him quite bluntly that after the newspaper being taken in custody it was his property. ‘I will not even touch it’. One of them then suggested to his colleague that someone who could read Urdu be called. They ran upstairs and then went outside enquiring if some Urdu-knowing person was available. One constable told them that a Head Constable at Ameenabad Police Station could read Urdu. A Jeep was sent for him. When he arrived he was handed the newspaper and asked to read. It was a poem by Akhtar Bastavi. With his poor knowledge of Urdu the wretched person readout what he could, some of which could hardly be understood by anyone. However, he was asked to stop at a word, ‘Raqeeb’ (meaning rival).

‘What does it mean?’ He was asked.

‘Dus[h]man’ [enemy] came the answer.

‘That is enough.’ The DYSP opined; ie a word wrongly translated, wrongly pronounced and wrongly read would serve the purpose. And this is what happened. On the basis of one word, Raqeeb, we were arrested.

Roodad-e-Qafas has been published in Urdu and Hindi by Alfurqan Book Depot, Nazirabad, Lucknow. This excerpt was translated into English by UrduMediaMonitor.com

Filed Under: Books, Culture & Society Tagged With: Aligarh Muslim University, Hafeez Naumani, Hafeez Nomani, Islamophobia, Nida-i-Millat, Qaisar Bagh, Roodad-e-Qafas, Subhadra Joshi, Urdu

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