The Hindu Business Line : Magic of a bygone era

Just a few pages into the book and you know this is the work of an exceptionally gifted and talented writer. Through prose that is more akin to poetry in several places, Urdu language’s greatest writer Qurratulain Hyder recreates the romance and turmoil of four decades of East Bengal’s history in her novel Fireflies in the Mist (Women Unlimited, an associate of Kali for Women).

Published first in 1994 and again in 2008, with an introduction, by Aamer Hussein, of the author who passed away last year, this is a story with several themes told at different levels. At one level this book is about the romance between the middle-class Deepali Sarkar, the daughter of a doctor whose ancestors had seen much better times, and Rehan Ahmed, the mesmerising nephew of the aristocratic Nawab Qamrul Zaman. The firebrand youngster, who is educated in London, spurns the cushy life offered by an alliance with his cousin, the beautiful Jehan Ara, and joins the extreme left wing of the nationalist movement.

But woven with this plot are several sub-plots; the nationalist movement led by Rehan draws into its fold not only Deepali, but also Rosie, the daughter of a pastor, and others. At the other end of the spectrum is the world of Jehan Ara, a traditional Muslim woman who would not dare to defy her father on anything, and her siblings and friends.

The chasm between these two worlds is reflected when Deepali gets into an argument with the Nawab on the creation of Pakistan. At the end of it he tells her patronisingly: “I didn’t realise you had become so learned. It worries me. Girls shouldn’t become too clever. It complicates life for them. They become unhappy. I wouldn’t want Jehan Ara to join the university. Too much knowledge would unsettle her. Now run along and help her stitch the wedding dresses.”

In the same discussion the Nawab is bitter that slowly the Muslims of East Bengal had become marginalised. He asks her, “Did your community ever admit the fact that the folk music and folk literature of Bengal are largely the contribution of the Muslims? By ‘Bengali culture’ you only mean Hindu culture.”

But in Jehan Ara’s world there also exists the young and defiant Yasmin Majid, a highly accomplished poet and dancer, who ends up in England where she is tricked into ‘marrying’ an Englishman only to be deserted by him and left with a daughter. Having no means to raise and educate her, she gives up her daughter Scheherezade to her paternal grandmother to be brought up as a Catholic. But even the ‘modern’ Yasmin cannot stomach her daughter modelling in the nude for Playboy magazine.

Later, in a letter to Deepali, the daughter says: “I do not understand why you people attach so much importance to the simple act of wearing or taking off one’s clothes. Why such a hoo-ha about the human anatomy? I am a successful nude model but I am not a whore. I am just a liberated, healthy, normal young woman.”

As she traverses the path of East Bengal’s history from the British rule through Independence, the Partition of the subcontinent and the Independence of Bangladesh, Qurratulain records the shattering of many a dream and as many heroes.

The biggest fall is that of the young, dashing, super ideologue Rehan Ahmed, whose heart had once bled for the poor and deprived Indians, and who after Independence unabashedly accepts a Minister’s post in Calcutta. In 1968 he migrates to East Pakistan after transferring his “capital to India through the back door”, and later also ends up inheriting his uncle’s huge empire.

Political comment

Fireflies in the Mist is also a strong political comment and an expression of the author’s huge disappointment at the evolution of the protagonists who had fought for independence from the British. The butchering of the Nawab and his entire family as a result of the violence that preceded the birth of Bangladesh; the pomp and show with which the Yasmin Majid Memorial committee pays homage to the “illustrious daughter of Bangladesh” after she dies penniless and miserable in an alien land; the very sight of her old sweetheart, dressed in expensive suits, smoking Dunhills and presiding over her dear Arjumand Manzil of yore shatters Deepali, who now lives in Florida.

When she is puzzled that not many in Dacca even seem to remember or talk about the Nawab, who had been a father figure to Deepali, Rehan, the new ‘Nawab Saheb’ philosophises: “When a calamity wipes out thousands in one stroke, the details get blurred. Who remembers the countless families that perished during the London Blitz and in the bombings all over Europe? There is an Urdu saying that nobody dies with the dead. This was, of course, a distinguished family, but a large number of eminent writers and artists were also killed. Too much death and destruction make the survivors secretly rejoice that they are still alive.”

The once young and idealist squabble over who has made what compromise. When Deepali confronts Rehan on how he could have made “such shameful compromises, first in Calcutta and now here (Dacca), he accuses her of becoming a “wealthy expatriate” by marrying “Uncle Scrooge” and advises her: “Don’t be so bloody self righteous, seething with moral indignation. We must bravely face a drastically changed world.” He wonders why after migrating to the West Indies she didn’t keep the “red revolution” going by organising the plantation workers there. “But you chose to marry a wealthy fool with whom you attend Government House banquets, and vacation in Florida”.

In this work, translated by the author herself, the reader gets to see many facets of the writer. Qurratulain the feminist is, of course, all over the place; Qurratulain the superbly skilled craftswoman of words can be seen in the evocative description of the Padma river. “The Ganges is young and sparkling when it comes out of the snow-covered Himalayas. It grows muddy and middle-aged as it traverses the hot and dusty plains of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. By the time it crosses half of Bengal and reaches Narayan Gunj near Dacca, it becomes world-weary and is called Boorhi or Old Ganga… (and) also as Padma or Lotus River.”

And the characters she has created walk out of the pages of the book and inhabit your world. Whether it is Nawab Qamrul Zaman trapped in an unhappy marriage and so spends most of his time in the library working for the benefit of the Muslim community; or of the eccentric and diabolic Uma Roy; or Deepali, who once thought that apart from “womanisers Muslims were fanatics and toadies” and was hence surprised to find so many among the leftists; or Rosie, when she is casually asked if she is a true Indian, replies, “Is patriotism a monopoly of the Hindus? Why are they so patronising? Bah”. But you mourn most the fall of the demigod Rehan, who had once written a book titled ‘The Condition of Peasantry in 19th Century Bengal’. To Deepali’s persistent taunts he responds thus: “To keep any lamp burning requires a lot of oil, but the oil runs out soon. Now you have become a ringside spectator. You have your sympathy for the downtrodden. You hate injustices and wars, but you are no longer in the actual arena. To remain consistently inside the sphere of misery and struggle requires a hell of a lot of courage. Those who do so are considered eccentrics or plain fools.”

Or real-life heroes, you find yourself muttering.

A more fascinating or compelling account of the history of East Bengal through four turbulent decades would be difficult to find. Through magical strokes the author evokes for us the charm, grace and dignity of an era gone by. If an English translation can make such a compelling read, the sheer power of her poetic-prose in Urdu can be imagined.

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