What history does Basti represent?

Hamari tareekh kahan sey shuru hoti hai? Yeh musalmanon ki tareekh hai, ya is sar zameen ki tareekh hai?

Intezar Hussain, KLF’14

Intezar Hussain’s concept of the Basti is a continuous one. It is not limited to the idyllic Roopnagar or the newness of Shamnagar and Lahore; instead the community and settlement flow across geography and memory. At first, the ’47 partition description is shown as the time of welcome; it can be compared to the Hijrah, almost as if there were associations between Muhajir and Ansar over houses and new space that Pakistan was, to ease the difficulties of migration. Zakir’s first night in the new Pakistan, depicts the crisis of this migration and at the same time, makes the whole idea of Pakistan a personal one.

“He had thought Abba Jan was asleep, but he was awake."What's the matter, can't you sleep? You were awake all last night. Go to sleep."  "I can't get to sleep."  "Yes, it's a new place, and the first night," Abba Jan said hesitantly. He fell silent, then said, "It's happened to me like this before too, that I went to some new place and the first night I couldn't sleep at all."  Zakir covered his face with the sheet; his eyes had again filled with tears. 

That night with its sleeplessness glowed more and more brightly in his imagination. That day, with its night, was within his grasp. So that was my first day in this land. The whole day I walked on a fresh earth under a fresh sky, suffused with happiness. Then night came, and my sleepless eyes were wet with tears.”

This contrast between ‘Din’ and ‘raat’ is interesting because it eases the process of partition into this categorized, routine behaviour. One which Zakir slowly immersed in to, and critiqued for its short –lived newness. He said, “That day seemed very pure to him, with its night, with the tears of its night. I had forgotten that day. He was surprised -- such a luminous day! After that, the days gradually grew soiled and dirty. Perhaps it's always like this. The days go on passing, and the purity of the first day is gradually lost as the days revolve. How quickly the purity of our days was lost, how quickly the coolness fled from our nights! But still that one day, my first day in this land, should always shine in my memory. But with this thought some neighboring days were illumined too, and gathered around that one day. A constellation of illumined days came together. When Pakistan was still all new, when the sky of Pakistan was fresh like the sky of Rupnagar, and the earth was not yet soiled” Words like ‘pakeeza’ and ‘maila’ are strange vocabulary to allow for the changes in the Basti. Eventually settlement in the new Pakistan is itself a frustrating process for an individual like Zakir and because Abba Jan agreed to have gone through the same phase once, it only re-iterates the larger idea of historical circularity in the narrative. What is interesting then is what the idea of community represents. Does Basti represent the cause, the ideology of Pakistan that later fails all? Do the events of ’71 as described in the novel, in their utter hopelessness, sterility and confusion make Basti a historical, nostalgic yearning? Or does a Basti struggle across memory to show eventual societal corrosion, the failure of the individual, and on the most significant level – eventually the failure of the Muslims.  Intizar Hussain’s basti is one where Zakir walks down the same streets plastered with ‘Ishtihaar’ and ‘naarey’. He does not recognize people’s faces , and notices their walk and his own for its absurdity and unnaturalness. All this stems from either the historic failure of a ‘Muslim homeland’ that the ‘47 partition hoped to achieve, and it represents the geographic decay of the place that is no longer embracing, but entering into a war zone. Basti, the concept is fluid, and moves from the idyllic Roopnagar to a disturbed and chaotic settlement. “Those were good days, good and sincere. I ought to remember those days, or in fact I ought to write them down, for fear I should forget them again. And the days afterward? Them too, so I can know how the goodness and sincerity gradually died out from the days, how the days came to be filled with misfortune and the nights with ill-omen.” Basti is the individual's history: It's Zakir's, Abba Jaan, and all others' place in a certain region. It is a larger historical pointer to the absence of a community in a modern day settlement, and the failure of a Muslim state. 

Sabirah – the true ‘hero’ of Basti

Zakir, the character who is initially apparent as the main character of Basti, later seems to fail to fill the shoes of the ‘hero’ of the novel in a multitude of ways. His biggest flaw as a protagonist is his inability to struggle adequately to gain his beloved, Sabirah. Zakir’s memories and encounters with her pervade the text, illustrating the passion and emotions he possesses for her. However, he fails to undertake the necessary steps to actually acquire her, exhibiting Intizar Hussain’s clever technique of focusing on Sabirah as the real ‘heroine’ despite keeping her in the background as the manifestation of Zakir’s hopes in the despair that surrounds Partition.

Sabirah exhibits a strange and wonderful combination of strength and simplicity. She is described as beautiful even when she dons a plain white Indian dress and fashions her hair into a schoolgirl-like plait. Her bravery in standing up to her family and her boldness in defying social norms is remarkable, especially for a girl in her situation and time. Her encounter with a man called Surrinder is illustrative of how defined she is about the direction of her life. When he shows his judgmental side by questioning her about her intentions to get married and advises her to show him hospitality, she is sure of herself and her values when she replies:

“Dekhiye aap ne ghalat ilakey mein qadam rakh dia hay.”

She firmly stands for what she believes in other instances as well. She refuses to shift out of Delhi and pursues the search for the job as a radio announcer (something she wants to do) despite being looked down upon and subjected to disproval by her family. She does not appear very often in the novel but is able to create an extensive impact on the reader through the positive impression she makes in her few appearances.

Her superiority as a character to Zakir is highly evident especially in the scene when Zakir refuses to build her a grave like his own. She is rendered alone in this this task but emerges as an independent individual when she is successful in digging a grave that is better than his. The scene of the grave may actually be seen as the essence or manifestation of the relationship between Sabirah and Zakir as well, with Sabirah emerging as the one truly deserving the title of Basti’s protagonist.

Basti - The endless chain of 'whens'

 The world seemed to be an endless chain of 'whens.' When and when and when –

In Basti, time is presented as a continuous, uncontrollable and  irresistible force - with both the powers of healing and destruction. Rather than revolving around a single, climatic event the story unravels into a series of events and fluidly manoeuvres between past and present. The thunderstorm that wreaks havoc is shown to subside with the effect of having washed and renewed the land, "just as the loaded, overflowing bullock-carts had gone away, so they came, loaded and overflowing, back again" to Rupnagar after the plague and the shaven head of the son of one of its victims, a proclamation of mourning, gradually grew hair again and the "and the gaps in the Small Bazaar began to be filled."

  

In the same way, just a day after the "brick-hurling, slogan-shouting procession," there was peace. "No scattered bricks, no fragments of glass. The flow of traffic moved evenly. Cars traveling at their ease, a second after the first, a third after the second." The roads, the college, social interactions at the Shiraz, all resumed as if nothing had happened.

This circularity of history and insurmountable power of time serves the important function of establishing the significance of identity. For while time is able to continually restore the earth and maintain a natural harmony and balance - it is unable to affect identity - it is neither able to change it or cause it to fade. Zakir is left "empty inside, indifferent outside," wandering the streets of the city. His walking lacks purpose and identity, and thus while the muslims like, "Rupnagar's monkeys [who] had learned to live in the age of electricity," had learned to live in this new divided India, they were unable to recover their "lost trees, lost birds, lost faces." 

"I'm on the run from my own history, and catching my breath in the present. Escapist. But the merciless present pushes us back again toward our history. The mind keeps talking."

The circularity of time thus in this one instance, as pertaining to the individual consciousness, becomes linear. Its cycle of destruction and revival fails to take place and what is lost is lost forever. Aware of this, Zakir is seen to cling on to his memories, to seek refuge there from time, and protect his identity from its forces of change. 

Furthermore this conception of the circularity of time is seen to result in both anxiety and indifference. The former, along with a great sense of uncertainty is depicted by the recurring questions "What's happening? What's going to happen?" that are continually asked by different characters in the novel. However, at the same time, these questions symbolize a kind of apathy or indifference. Tumultuous, major events such as revolutions and wars, are regarded as causal topics of conversation and are seen to become a normal part of daily interactions. Furthermore, the constant posing of questions such as these suggest a renunciation of any kind of power or control over the situation. 

Yes, the overturned car near the petrol pump was still lying there on its back. But now the pedestrians' eyes showed no anxiety or astonishment, as though the car had been overturned in some other age and by now, with the passage of time, had lost its power to surprise.  

Generational Relationships and Zakir's Failure

The dialogue between Zakir's father and Khwaja Sahib is very revealing. It presents the disconnect and dissonance between fathers who dwell on uselessness and sons who want to change everything without really doing so. The narrative of historical events, such as the Jallianwala Bagh incident, that they talk about symbolizes memory functioning against the official narrative of history, or an uneasy alliance between the two. But this alternative history through memory also serves to show the wide gap existing between two generations who do not even share a common memory, let alone a common perspective of that history.
The fathers represent the disappointed generation of man who are desirous of political control and authority, as opposed to the sons who, while willing to disobey the macrocosm authority (besides Zakir who doesn't really exhibit any individual desire to do so) are actually just disappointed with the generation that came before them. There's this feeling of rigidity between the two where they never have a healthy exchange of ideas as they refuse to change who they are. The parents' failure in their eyes signify a failure of the state, and Zakir's father, who had a voice before partition now becomes increasingly silent because his words carry no weight.
Therefore, Zakir's failure lies not in his homelessness or state of exile, but in his failure to criticize and act, as we came to the conclusion in class that perhaps it is really apathy and listlessness which Intezaar Hussein is deeming the most violent acts as opposed to anything else.

Electricity and Memory

Aata hai yaad mujh ko guzra hua zamana,

Woh bagh ki baharein, woh sab ka chehchahana

I heard recently that my great-great- grandfather, when he lived in undivided India, perhaps in Lahore or Amritsar, which is where my ancestors were based, refused to get his house wired when electricity came to their town. He protested that it was the conspiracy of the British and the light from electric bulbs would weaken their eyes. The irony of the story is ofcourse, that his two sons went on to work in WAPDA. This narrative was told to me by my grandfather who likes to reminisce with us about the past, and long gone people of the family, that he seems afraid that we will never know.

I brought up this narrative in comparison to the one about Zakir’s father in Basti. The aim of looking at this is not to talk about resistance to colonialism and the shapes and forms it came in, but for me it signifies staying rooted to the past as opposed to moving on and forward, of the difference that time creates. Zakir’s father was also against “innovation” of any sort, it wasn’t just a battle that he put up against the British.

In this case of course moving on, is the practical course to take, why would anyone keep using lanterns when electricity was available and easy to use and efficient. Yet I think the ‘novel’ questions whether change is indeed practical or positive. For example, was coming to Pakistan, or the making of Pakistan positive and practical?

The other sense in which it looks at change is to question whether it really does take place, or there is any use in trying to affect the change. This is why the ‘revolutionaries’ like Salamat for example are mocked, for the elders say even the prophets were unable to change the world or the system, how did they then, expect to change it.

But what the story of my ancestors seems also to point towards is the change that time brings, the void that is then created in the understandings of the previous generation to the next. Thus most of the youth in Basti regard their parents, as well as other elders as being ignorant. It is perhaps in this way that change seems inevitable, as inevitable as the passing of time.

Yet despite the need for change voiced by some of the characters, there is a strong association with memory, in most part it can be argued that the ‘basti’ also just exists in Zakir’s memory. Nevertheless the fact of the narrative seems to be that though change is inevitable, but the past is always beautiful. 

Sabirah and Zakir

Zakir is arguably a displaced figure in the novel and I will argue that Sabirah represents home for him. 

Zakir’s relationship with Sabirah can be explained in three distinct parts. In Rupnagar as a child when he meets Sabirah for the first time, on page 26 of the novel, in the first paragraph, Zakir first dawdles around her, until he sums up the courage to approach her and asks her to play with him. The very first time that Zakir addresses Sabirah he calls her ‘Sabo’. This encounter is very dissimilar to other encounters with girls from Zakir’s childhood. For example, in his encounter with the Hindu girl Vasanti, Zakir asks her to play with him and she refuses saying, “Chal Musallay kay chohray”. Afterwards he goes home happily, not offended in the least at what Vasanti says. What’s important to notice is that he’s narrating these stories from memory, sitting now in Lahore after Partition. The difference is apparent that he always remembers Sabirah with fondness and it’s always her that she remembers out of everyone else in Rupnagar. 

The second part of the relationship can be described as the time he goes back to Rupnagar when he’s at college in Meerut. This is the first time he goes back to visit Rupnagar after his family leave for Vyaspur when he’s still an adolescent. This time we see a marked change in Zakir’s encounter with Sabirah. He notices that Sabirah has matured physically; her height, her bosom that she now has to cover with a dupatta, she no longer meets her eyes, these are the very first things that Zakir notices about her.

The third part of their relationship can be described as the time after partition when Zakir is living in Lahore and Sabirah is living in Delhi. Zakir learns how Sabirah chose to stay back after partition despite her entire family moving to Pakistan. Surindar also writes that Sabira appears despondent and sad, on occasions when he mentions Zakir she doesn’t reply and remains silent. This part of their relationship is made important by the fact that they are not only separated from each other geographically but are also no longer exchanging letters. Towards the end of chapter six, the 1971 war breaks out and any chance of Zakir leaving Lahore to meet Sabirah goes out of the window.

In many ways Zakir is a displaced figure in this novel because once he leaves Rupnagar, he is never able to form strong associations wherever he goes. As a history professor at the college where he teaches, he questions the real need for his work. Even his relationship with his parents cannot be construed as deeply meaningful for him. He obeys his father’s wishes but laughs at his archaic memories of the failed Khilafat movement. His own actions lie in congruence to his father’s religious values, when he does not allow Salamat and Afzal to consume liquor in his house. As a child even he remembers growing up in an idyllic community of Hindus and Muslims, where his Bi Amma bemoans that he should have been born in a Hindu household. Stories of origins of human life are fused for Zakir between competing Hindu and Muslim narratives.

On page 146, Zakir says that “Main uss ki udaasi aur kharein main zinda hoon” plainly exemplifies that Zakir associates his own activeness with Sabirah as opposed to his passivity as a protagonist throughout the novel. So, if we think about it given that's represented as an exilic figure in Basti, Sabirah becomes the only figure that represents his home and gives and helps Zakir to anchor his memory somewhere in the past, in Rupnagar. 

Zakir: A Mirror image of Abba Jan

Part of our class discussions focused on the continual disavowal of sons from their patriarchal structure and in turn, the widening disconnect between fathers and sons. This blog will show that Zakir is, to a large extent, a mirror image of his father: They both remain passive and apathetic to their situation. This view can be extended to other father-son relationships in the novel.

This view can be established by examining their personal spaces. Personal space can be defined as   is the region, physical or spiritual, surrounding a person which they regard as psychologically theirs- that which they turn to in times of crisis for comfort, refuge or solace. Aba Jan’s personal space is vested in his religious orientation. His reflex response and solution to every circumstance is to abandon all effort and to place comeplete  ‘Trust in Him’. For instance, regarding the security of Batul (his wife’s sister), instead of inquiring about Dhaka he characteristically replies, ' our wishes are dependent on His pleasure; what He desires, that's what happens’ (59)

In contrast,  Zakir’s personal space is the Café Shiraz where he regularly meets his friends. For him, his personal space is absorbed within the social sphere.  For example, in Chapter 2 seeing the college in a state of disarray Zakir feels a kind of oppression after which he turns to Shiraz. He questions himself, “Now what’s to be done”?  and then decides, “All right, I’ll go to Shiraz. Perhaps the group might be there” (60).

In order to relieve himself of his oppression he turns to the comfort of Shiraz. We find a similar occurrence in Chapter 3. When suffocated by the silence on the streets he returns to Shiraz. The narrator observes, “He began to feel suffocated. He wanted to escape from this stifling atmosphere.  'The Mulla goes only as far as the mosque.'He went of course to the Shiraz…” in the company of his friends. Where the large portion of the time is spent talking about the failed masculinity of their fathers and the confusion surrounding the current affairs of the city.

The main difference between Zakir and his father is that their personal spaces vary- the spiritual faith is replaced by the physical Shiraz. Even though, Zakir or the youth may have more sources of information available to them the consequence is the same, both Zakir and his father remain inherently passive and apathetic to their current circumstances. Zakir is a mirror image of his father and hence no different than him because there is a complete lack of action on his part (much like that of his father).

Loss of Home as a Permanent State

"The mysteriousness that used to permeate everything seemed to have departed."

When Zakir returns to Rupnagar for the first time since leaving, he searches in vain for the same feel the village had for him when he used to live there but it is no where, not in the Black Temple, not in Karbala, not in the Fort, and not in the Raven Wood. This is, in my opinion, the ultimate tragedy of the exile--longing to return is the constant state of the exile and yet when, if, he does, the years of exile have already stolen even the sense of belonging to the actual home. The theme is repeated in works where the exile does manage to return home, like in the film Kandahar in which Nafas, exiled to Canada because of the dire situation in Afghanistan, does return to save her sister but finds herself not in her 'own' country but in a land that is strange to her and in which she is an outsider. 

It is as if the home moves on much like the exile grows up, neither waiting for the other during the period of absence, which results in a new form that makes the exile alien to the home and the home alien to the exile. When Zakir (and Habib) return to Rupnagar during the vacations (and it is important to note the return is temporary) they themselves are too changed to belong to their own former home ("His trousers were of a new cut. [...] now he had long English-style hair"). The parallel between the permanence of loss of homeland and the permanence of loss of childhood is a compelling one. Not only is childhood very deeply linked to a home and the 'safeness' of that home, it is also one of those things that cannot be got back once one has moved beyond it and I think so is also the case with belonging to homeland, one cannot have it back once one has moved beyond it--regardless of any attempts the exile might make at physical relocation. 

It's hard for me not to mention here the famous Palestinian symbol of 'Handala', a Palestinian child drawn by artist Naji al-Ali, who is forever 10 years old (and will not grow up until the return to homeland) because that is when al-Ali was forced into exile. This odd distention of time brings us to another very interesting theme, the permanent loss of belonging not just to a physical space but also to one's own time. Basti opens with Zakir repeatedly having various flashbacks (to childhood, interestingly enough) which are so pervasive that he has a hard time belonging to the present--and since one cannot actually go back to the past he ends up present neither there nor here. The same happens in Kanafani's Men in the Sun when Abu Qais becomes confused about his present surroundings due to his constant dives into memories of the village he belonged to before exile. Zakir almost seems to be imitating Handala in the first few chapters of Basti when he refuses to participate in his own life ("...the outer world had already lost its meaning. [...] he ran an indifferent eye over the headlines...") in the way he ignores the riots that are the center of conversation for everyone else, the way he cannot be bothered to read the news for his mother, there is a very stark disparity between Zakir and his surroundings so much so that not only does he not belong to the physical space that he inhabits but he seems separate from the very time he exists in (and since he can also belong to no other time, he ends up in a limbo of unbelonging). 

"main apni taareekh say bhaaga hua hun"

 In Intizar Hussain’s Basti, the protagonist Zakir never recalls the events of 1947, when the Indian sub-continent was divided into two countries, though the events preceding it and the conditions after it are detailed in the novel.  His inability to do is of particular importance because so many of the concerns of the book and Zakir himself stem from the partition of 1947.

The absence of the creation of Pakistan is particularly interesting because the novel reads like a creation myth, opening with the line, “Jab duniya nai nai thi, jab aasmaan taaza tha aur zameen abhi maili nahin hui thi.” This rememberance of his childhood is idyllic, and creates a past that is almost pristine. In comparison to this the events of 1947 are the first instance of trauma that Zakir truly faces, where he has to leave behind his home, his friends and the sense of awe and wonderment that is attached to these earlier memories.

Zakir’s reluctance to recall these events is again highlighted in these words, “Main apni taareekh say bhaaga hua hun aur zamaana-e-haal main saans le raha hun. Faraariat pasand. Magar be reham haal phir humain taareekh ki taraf dhakel deta hai.”  These words indicate that Zakir has deliberately shut out the violent events of 1947, because as a part of his history they are too painful to recall. The irony of this of course is that his own name marks him as the one to remember.

The memories chronicled in this book, both post and pre 1947 are a result of the 1971 partition of East and West Pakistan, a repetition of the earlier divide and what sets Zakir tumbling down history, “be reham haal phir humain taareekh ki taraf dhakel deta hai.” 

Abba Jan and Present Consciousness

Abba Jan and Present Consciousness

Abba Jan is a deeply nostalgic character; engaging with a profoundly Muslim history – this much cannot be disputed. In class discussions, there were a few points raised that equated his character as symbolizing the past. I do agree, but I want to assert at the same time that Abba Jan’s character is also very much used to bring out an awareness of the present.

The first chapter is one – especially - in which the narrative is highly weighed towards relating past events. However, the present interrupts at certain points providing a break in the narrative. It is interesting to see how these interjections are - more often than not – brought about by the character of Abba Jan.  The first mention of Sabirah in the text is interrupted by Abba Jan asserting the inconvenience of the present moment – ‘‘Mian Zakir!...Lagta hai aaj bhi ye log sonay nahi dain gay’’ (26). This forces Zakir to shift from the jungle of his memories – ‘‘Who burburaa kar jungle say nikla’’ (26) – to a consciousness that is very much entrenched in the present.

Later on in the first chapter, another one of Zakir’s recollection about Sabirah is interrupted by Abba Jan rather violently. [I say that this is violent because Hussain’s precise use of language itself shows a break indicated by a dash ‘‘…shhidat kay saath suskiyaan laynay lagi--’’ (39)]. Abba Jan once again makes Zakir aware of the present moment – ‘‘Mian Zakir! Ye kia ho raha hai?’’ (39).This particular line in the text not only provides a disjunction with the past but also, in questioning Zakir, demands of him to engage with the present moment in order to find an explanation for it. This interruption is also not appreciated by Zakir who dismisses the question apathetically, and pretends to be studying – ‘‘…kitab khul kay samnay rakh li jaisay jita raha ho keh who asal main kitab parh raha tha’’ (39).

The beginning of Chapter Two sees the continuation of the same trend – in relation to Zakir’s indulgence of the past we are told that ‘‘Yaadon ki badliyan kahan kahan say ghar kar aaye thein’’ (57). It is Abba Jan who reminds Zakir of the fleetingness of time – ‘‘Zakir! Kiya aaj tumhay college nahi jaana hai?’’ (57) and then again when he says ‘‘Phir jaldi nashta karo aur jao’’ (57). For Zakir, it seems as if time holds no meaning.

So perhaps, our equating Abba Jan with the past is fair but not entirely true. A much more complex relationship of the character with time emerges when we examine his use for bringing about a consciousness of the present.    

8: Reminiscence and the Idyllic: The Function of Historical Recollection in Basti (Saad Hafeez)

“Again the same long journey through the thicket of memories. When I was in Rupnagar -- the remote, mythic era of my life.”

In this work, the novel seamlessly alternates between the past and the present, providing a seemingly coherent continuity in the life of the protagonist as it is placed within the heritage of a larger Muslim movement and history. Conventionally defined, the function of history is to identify events which can spark some sort of learning for the present, so that one doesn't repeat past mistakes. The protagonist, himself, being a history teacher, should be aware of this. However, as reminiscence emerges in this work, we can note that the past is painted as more ideal than real, effectively mythologising the past. The argument presented herein points to the function of historical recollection being a way to identify key psychological traits of Zakir, so as to justify his passiveness and conduct to present events.

Zakir’s childhood village, Rupnagar, is recollected through his adult gaze and is portrayed in his memory as something very integrated and idyllic. This becomes clear in the earlier chapters where he constantly valorizes the space of the village, for instance, when he speaks of the lanterns and the bazaar at night. Clearly, for him, there is a certain harmony in the atavistic setting of Rupnagar: ‘… jab dunya naee naee thi, jab aasmaan taaza tha aur zameen abhi mayli nahi hui thi’. In the face of demonstrations and upheavals in the present, the protagonist elects to sink into his memories and keep musing in the possibility of the lost idyllic. However, his silence and inaction doesn't point to an apathy to the present, rather it points to a specific positioning in history, relative to the crucible of Karbala. For Shias, the idea of interiorization of suffering is very pervasive and this explanation would help us understand his seemingly immoral stance on current events. Instead of directly reacting to present events, he chooses to survive in this morally corrupt universe by drawing on his own memories and inner resources: ‘The more turmoil increases outside, the more I sink into myself. Memories of so many times come to me … My memories are my forest. So where does the forest begin? No, where do I begin?” This last quote strengthens the point that reminiscence on the past is more of a route to self-reflection than reflection on current events and happenings. 

The Function of the Idyllic Past - 'Basti'

‘When a little woodpecker paused in its flight to rest on a tall neem tree, it seemed that it had just delivered a letter to the Queen of Sheba’s palace, and was on its way back to Solomon’s castle’

This trancelike idyll presented by Intizar Hussain underscores something rather grave, an idea that the paradisiac space of Rupnagar, seemingly unaffected by change has finally submitted to the corrosive quality of time.

Zakir (the one who remembers) memorizes his childhood town, one that is pristine, wholesome and representative of an intricate balance between man and nature. Above all, it becomes a symbol of religious peace and mythological balance. The town’s corporate identity can be viewed as a cordial intermingling of the mixed Hindu and Muslim population, and in the synergetic existence of two opposed visions of truth, as manifested in the Hindu and Muslims tales about the origins of the world. Here, Hussain shows the worlds of Hindu mythology and Muslim folklore could coexist in the form of Bhagatji and Abba Jan respectively.

For me, the emphatic and sensual portrayal of Rupnagar becomes synonymous with fiction which is unlike most other cities in Zakir’s life. Rupnagar, translated as the city of beauty has no reality in geography and only exists as a cranial representation of one’s imagination. It can thus, be viewed as Hussain’s idealistic vision of utopic Hindu-Muslim interaction. However, the outbreak of plague in Rupnagar, along with the appearance of a black cat seems to resonate with the reader’s conscience bringing about a sense of impending doom and disequilibrium.

With the coming of Partition, the annihilation of Rupnagar as a haven (Panaah) of tranquility is complete. Communal violence and anomie comes as a stark contrast to the peaceful Edenic quality of the opening scene. Thus, Hussain uses two aspects of time and links them through Zakir’s consciousness to intensify the tumultuous nature of Partition and that one can use memory and a need for an idyllic past as psychological refuge. However, if one reads the text more closely, the idyll, in a figurative sense, is also the hell (Jhanam) because it is creation that essentially culminates in destruction.

If one reflects on the opening chapter, we realize that the blueprint of the entire novel is compressed into this scene where Hussain highlights the transitional flow of creation (Zakir’s first days in Pakistan), immorality (the deterioration of Pakistan as a moral ideal) and violence (Pakistan losing East Pakistan) and consequently, the death of Zakir’s father. 

The Home of Childhood

Basti starts off with the child protagonist describing the sky and the earth as pristine and pure; precisely this, for the protagonist, is a strong indication of the fact that his time was not far removed from that of the ancient times of the fantastical mythologies. He traces the call of the peacock to have come from Brindaban; he, upon seeing a woodpecker, thinks that it had delivered a letter to the Queen of Sheba’s palace and that it was on its way back to King Solomon’s castle and he associates the black stripes on the back of a squirrel to the “mark of Ramchandar-ji’s fingers”. In his fascination with these mythologies and his subsequent linking of them with the present, he effectively injects in the present the fantastical nature of these mythologies, something that made the present, for him, very much exciting to live in.

For the child protagonist fiction, therefore, became facts and those facts became his ways of rationalizing. Take for example his perceptions that elephant could fly and that they hatched out of eggs. When his grandmother provided scientifically rational reasons to prove his perceptions wrong, he just defended his position on the basis that because Bhagat-ji said so it must be true; Bhagat-ji was an old man who, by virtue of the sacred thread around his neck and the caste-mark on his forehead, seemed ancient and hence, to the child protagonist, was a much more sound source of knowledge. That he took fiction to mean factual information is also pretty much evident from the fact that he believed that earthquakes occurred because of the reasons put forward by his father and Bhagat-ji; the deeply fictitious nature of these reasons and their deep roots in different traditions are indicative of his willingness to gulp reality up as a fantastical story.

When sounds of the slogans destroy the flow of memory for the protagonist of the present, one instantaneously realizes that he is very much not at home in the present; why else would he choose to divulge in his memories as opposed to prepare his lecture for the next day? The fact that he chose to, yet again, delve into his memory, despite the fact that he had responsibilities (that is the lecture he had to prepare) in the present is an indication that for him his “forest of memories” was home. That combined with the fact that he obsessed over his own beginning, a time in which his perceptions of the world were most pure and unburdened by strife, is an indication that for him, his childhood, by mere virtue of its simplicity, formed the most stable home.

The Social Function of Origin Stories

Zakir's continuous forays into his fragmented and convoluted memories, a device that structures the narrative in Basti, are a search for "beginnings", both the world's and his own (Chapter 1). Intezar Hussain's detailed treatment of Hindu and Muslim originary myths in the opening chapter signals the importance origins play in the novel and the life of its characters. However, Hussain's treatment of these originary myths does much more. Most importantly, it exposes the social rather than metaphysical function of origin stories and myths.

Two important ideas surface from Hussain's treatment of the world's origins. First, the way in which these origin stories confer meaning upon the cosmos and life in it. The notion that the world began from darkness, from which a single pearl that birthed the world's oceans emerged, suggests how life shows a trend towards ever-growing complexity as time passes.

Secondly, this passage also suggests the arbitrariness of pegging down the origins of the world to a particular point in time. "The world seemed to be an endless chain of 'whens.' When and when and when --" (Chapter 1). The exercise, as suggested here, could go on ad infinitum and still not reach a stable end. Furthermore, the "when" seems to vary itself with the passage of time: "The 'whens' that had passed away, the 'whens' that were yet to come" (Chapter 1). This seems to suggest that we consciously or unconsciously create and subscribe to new originary conceptions, as time passes and circumstances change.

Thus origins stories themselves are reified, adapted and forgotten as people struggle to find meaning in their evolving social realities. This phenomenon can be witnessed in Zakir's memories of the birth of Pakistan (Chapter 4). Even though his origins go farther back in time, back to his life in Rupnagar, Zakir treats his first few days in Pakistan as a new beginning. The naivete and wonder of these days comes through clearly in his descriptions of them: these days are described as the "good days". "good and sincere", "luminous". In tone and imagery, these descriptions clearly hark back to the opening chapter's discussion of the world's origins. They render the experience of migration with meaning and significance: Pakistan is conceived as a new home for the growth of their community.

However the passage of time and changing of circumstance, and all that made the days grow "soiled and dirty", weighed heavily on these initial impressions. Zakir's impressions of the new life in Pakistan were initially invested with a sense of community. Pakistan is seen as a place for the flourishing of his community. However, as the people settle down the bonds of community begin to show signs of fraying. Fragmentary individual concerns start to take primacy over the unity of community: "Some residents gradually spread beyond their borders and were inclined to expand into the territory of others. From the others came resistance" (Chapter 4). In this context, Zakir's initial impressions of Pakistan are no longer relevant. Thus, he faces the problem of finding a new originary story that will confer meaning and significance onto social reality in its current, evolved form. "The truth was that I'd never been able to become very attached to the house, and for the room in which I spread out my bedding I felt no affection at all. I found myself constantly remembering the room I'd left behind. Such small, trivial things had suddenly become so significant!"

Thus, even though Zakir's nostalgia-ridden complaint in Chapter 4 suggests that it was the "diminishing spaces" in people's hearts that destroyed his initial optimism regarding life in Pakistan, it was actually the change from migratory existence to settled life that rendered the original conceptions of Pakistani nationhood both irrelevant and untenable.

Staying Indoors

In class we have touched upon the themes of passivity and action in Basti. One way these themes can be illustrated and brought into conversation is by studying spaces in the work. Several characters, especially Abba Jaan and Ammi, spend most of their time indoors, commenting on what is happening outside. In the first chapter, Abba Jaan refuses to pray at the local mosque once electricity has been installed there and so we see him withdraw from the outside world that was once familiar to him. 

Chapter Two opens with the family at the breakfast table. Zakir, our protagonist, is indifferent to the goings on of the outside world (he merely glances at the newspaper, for example), his mother is distraught however, constantly worrying about the political situation in Dacca and her sister who lives there. Her husband, Abba Jaan, tells her to trust in God to which she responds bitterly. All three of them may have responded to the political situation differently however all three responses are still passive ones. 

Later, Zakir sits in his office after realizing that his students have run off to be part of the procession. ‘Now it was no longer possible for him to take advantage of the leisure and solitude to sit at his ease, smoking a cigarette, and lose himself in the world of his memories. Seeing the college all topsy-turvy, he felt a kind of oppression.’ The boys have wrecked the college, smashing glass panes and flower pots. Interestingly, instead of feeling liberated by this energy, Zakir feels oppressed. Not only is he much more comfortable with the past and his memories, forceful reminders of the present make him obviously uncomfortable. Perhaps the realization that the college is also vulnerable has unsettled him because this is an indoor space and should therefore not be subject to the happenings and action of the outside world. 

Finally, there is a scene at the Shiraz (a restaurant that Zakir and his friends frequent) Zakir cannot escape the outside world here either, the procession makes its way to the Shiraz as well. The caretaker, Abdul, immediately closes the door and draws the curtains in order to shut out the chaos. Two young men enter the restaurant and demand to know why the restaurant has been closed off in such a manner 'And let some light and air come in from outside. Light, air and the voice of the people!' (Ajmal) They demand that those at the restaurant partake in the procession through observation in the very least. However, once these 'revolutionaries' enter the restaurant, they too are subject to signs of passivity. For example, they proceed to blame their fathers and curse them claiming their fathers have in fact ruined them. Their revolutionary spirit is also brought into question when they get up in the hope of scavenging some free liquor from a looted liquor shop. Irfan, Zakir's friend, claims he cannot stand these fake revolutionaries. This is an interesting comment because if Ajmal and the like are in fact part of the goings on yet are not true revolutionaries, perhaps they too are going through the motions and simply acting the way they feel revolutionaries should act. Their foray into the outside world births a new question; what kind of action is really going on outside? Thus it seems that these feelings of passivity do not necessarily need to be confined to the indoors.

Kandahar: Obscuration of Identity and Affinity Among Exiles

Throughout the film, there are many symbols and active instances of the obscuration of a person's identity. Nafas, though returning to her native country, must hide who she is under a burqa, the faux doctor, in the same country in exile, must cover his face with a faux beard, the man who's job it is to get Nafas to Kandahar near the end of the film must also don a burqa to hide among the wedding party. Besides the act of obscuring who one is through the act of putting on disguises, there is also the ever prevalent destroyed physical self in the form of all those crippled by war. A stark imagery of the destruction of identity is shown in the prosthetic legs that fall from the sky, removed from any human being they are part of no one and yet a mass of men run towards them to try and attach this synthetic thing to themselves, to try and fix the self rent in half.

So in an odd twist, when the exile, in this case Nafas, returns home, instead of solidification of identity and belonging there is obscuration of identity and strangeness and in this strangeness the only people that she feels comfortable with is those others who can also identify the strangeness of being rather than belonging in the land. So even though the little boy who is Nafas' guide is taking her to Kandahar and has led her safely thus far, she abandons him within 10 minutes of meeting this faux doctor, of whom all she knows is that he can speak English. This is repeated again in the general distrust that the doctor, and then later Nafas, has in the Afghan people, choosing instead to ask foreign Red Cross workers for help and acting on their advice, just as Nafas had acted on the doctor's advice. On the part of the doctor, he develops an immediate affinity with Nafas when she speaks English as an exile that has not been able to converse in his native tongue much. Just how strong this immediate affinity is, based on a recognition of mutual outsider status, is shown in the lengths the doctor takes to help Nafas.

Graves, Nostalgia and Memory

“Tab dafan kiya bhai nay bhai ko kaway ki misaal par. So woh thi pehli qabar kay bani ruyay zameen par aur tha woh pehla khoon aadmi ka kay huwa aadmi kay hathon aur tha woh pehla bhai kay maara gaya bhai kay hathon” (10-11).

Zakir, a history professor, engages with the past on several levels – firstly by teaching it to young boys at the college and, secondly, by reflecting on his own past through the jungle of his memories. Therefore, the past figures very intimately and recurrently in Basti. An interesting motif of the past that is used by Intezar Hussain is that of graves. It is my contention that the graveyard, for the novel, is a place most intimately related with loss, nostalgia and memory. The grave, therefore, becomes the place which holds the remains of past lives, arousing mourning and nostalgia from within the present life.

In the first instance, Zakir reads about the story of Cain and Abel and discovers that Cain buries his own brother, on the analogy of a crow. The conversation that Zakir has after this with Bi Amma shows that he is concerned with the notion of how one brother could kill another. For the young Zakir, I believe, this is the beginning of a sort of desensitization towards the notion of killing and death. In this way, the reader is introduced to the idea of a grave, not through the grave of Bi Amma or someone the protagonist knows intimately; but through history – through the first grave on the Earth.  After his conversation with Bi Amma, he goes to Abba Jan, who is discussing Qayamat with his friends. Within the same breath, therefore, the motif of graves sets up a view of history as a holistic continuity – from the Fall of man to the Earth to the Day of Judgment. The Muslim is linked with a pre-historic past as well as a distant future – but with this action, there’s no room for the present to interfere. Life becomes a continuity that moves from graves of others to your own grave.

In the second instance, we see two children playing and making their own graves. On the first count, the fact that children are playing with graves goes to show just how normalized the idea of graves has become – death is neither feared nor revered, it just simply becomes a fact, an inevitability. Secondly, it is interesting to note the way in which the kids talk about the graves – “paaon daal kay daikh lai” and “naram garam qabar” – as if they are having a sensual experience of graves. This bodily description of mitti entails a deep intimacy with the land. The grave, therefore, becomes symbolic of the zameen jis ko Bi Amma nay pakar kar rakha wa tha. It is the land that the graves are situated on that pulls the living towards it - as a site of nostalgia and mourning. Therefore, while the living physically leave behind the graves (during Partition), they continue to live on in their memories.

"Khalq-e-Khuda Pe Koi Bhi Aafat Toot Sakti Hai"

On leaving Roopnagar, it is evident that Abba Jaan loses all fervour for Muslim nationalism. He only talks about the glorified Muslim history including the hardships suffered in times like the War of Independence of 1875 and the Jallianwala Bagh incident of 1919. But when he talks about the present or the future of Pakistan, he is completely disillusioned. He continuously attributes the fate of Muslims to God (Ye use khabar hai (pointing finger to the sky)) and does not participate in any political and religious conversations saying “Khwaja Sahab, hum ab kissi qisay mein bolte he nahi”. His only conversations are with members of his own family or with his only friend Khwaja Sahib. In those conversations too, there is constant nostalgia and Abba Jaan seems rooted in Roopnagar.

But the only time that Abba Jaan reveals his thoughts about Pakistan, he is forced by Khwaja Sahab who diverts the question “Jang ho gi ya nahi ho gi” to his friend. Here, we see Abba Jaan’s severe emotions regarding Pakistan and specifically regarding the moment of 1971 as he says, Jab hakim zaalim ho jaein ge aur auladein sarkish ho jaein tou phir khalq-e-khuda pe koi bhi aafat toot sakti hai”. Though the word aafat can be translated literally as disaster or misfortune, here it has more harsh connotations and can even be representative of after-life or the Day of Judgment. One can therefore say that after leaving Roopnagar, Abba Jaan waits for that aafat to come and that he has no expectations from the youth of his country to make the situation any better. He himself remains passive and makes no attempt to suggest change or motivate his son or his friends. It is because of this that we always see him confined to the domestic sphere of the home, alluding to God as the caretaker quite frequently (Woh hifaazat karne wala hai). His death then almost seems to be his personal choice rather than something in the will of God. It seems that he didn’t want to see this new country or his family members facing the misfortune that he predicted and chose to escape the grief earlier.

Zakir in past and future.

We’ve discussed at length how passive Zakir is. But keeping in mind the point discussed in class about initially there being a hopeful outlook towards the future when people come to Pakistan, it’s safe to say that Zakir understands the fresh opportunity that this country presents:

“mien din bhar ek taaza zameen par ek tazaa asmaan taley khushi se sarshar chalta raha” (91)

However, he dulls the freshness that new Pakistan offers with his indolence; the result is a depression which emerges out of his inertia and an inability to resolve his matters.

After that bright and positive start early on, “din mailey hi hotey chaley gaye” (91) – says Zakir, as he continues to comment on the monotony of the days as they turn out to be, well aware that he himself is to be blamed for this.

And within this inactive present, days of past continue to crowd his thoughts: “beetey din uss ke tasawur mien hajoom kartey chaley gaye” (89).

Besides this nostalgic past and dull present, there is the anxiousness associated with the future. Zakir isn’t concerned with setting the present right to make for comfortable times to come. What worries him more is how he’ll look back at these present times:

“is dayaar mien mera pehla din meray hafzey munawar rena chahiye” (91).

An observer/recorder, Zakir’s idleness forces him to think about securing his present for future reference. Although a more active agent would try to directly engage with his relationships and community.

Thus, it appears there is no present for Zakir by virtue of his passiveness. He is either pained by his past or anxious about the future, while not being active in the present. He is concerned with recording his thoughts which we readers are well aware of. But perhaps that’s his way out of his depression (writing being an instrument of the Exile) which as I said is a result of his disengagement with his surroundings.  

Khak makes a friend

Several posts have noted the importance seeing, being seen and how these notions are connected to empathy in the movie Kandahar. The movie touches upon these concepts with regard to the burqa and the beard. Early on in the movie, the protagonist’s fake husband admonishes her for being careless with her burqa, reminding her it is not an ornament. She makes it clear that she does not care what people think of her however he states that he worries for his own reputation and not hers. The protagonist in the movie is an outsider and this is perhaps one of the reasons we, as well as certain male characters in the movie, are permitted to see her face; it is I feel a constant reminder of her ‘outsider’ status. She is not from Afghanistan and will eventually go back to Canada; the rules do not apply to her with the same rigidity.

The exchange between the doctor and the protagonist is interesting because they cannot confide in each other properly until he has seen her face. The protagonist feels comfortable discarding her veil in front of the doctor because he, like her, is obviously an outsider (his accent alone is enough proof) The doctor is empathetic, advising that she get rid of Khak (her guide) and resolving to help her find her way to Kandahar. It is however easy for the doctor to be empathetic to a fellow outsider not just because he has the resources to do so but also because she is relatable.

Before Khak leaves he insists that the protagonist buy a ring off him. This particular ring is one he found on the finger of a skeleton. Khak is an Afghan boy with little money who has proved his street smarts throughout their journey, constantly demanding (and being given) money (specifically dollars!) not just for guiding our protagonist to Kandahar but also for singing (a moment of potential friendship between the two, somehow diluted because he demanded payment) Our protagonist refuses to buy the ring despite Khak’s insistence and in the end he gives it to her for free before running off. This, I feel, is a real instance of a friendship that, unlike the doctor’s and the protagonist’s, came as a surprise. Khak could of course have sold the ring to anyone else but he chose to make a gift of it to someone completely alien to him. There is a certain vulnerability in the gesture (the act of gift giving rests on the other party accepting the gift) and it is interesting to see this considerate side of Khak. Because Khak and the protagonist have little in common this gesture is ultimately a testament to a friendship formed against the odds.

Intizar Hussain on the idea of identity

A highly significant notion that we did not explicitly name in class but explored through other avenues was that of ‘identity’ in Wo jo kho gaye. The concept of ‘identity’ pervades this short story by Intizar Hussain, but is most obviously highlighted in the narrator’s unique way of choosing not to give his characters names. Throughout his literary work, he refers to these figures by phrases, a technique I feel he has used to spur connotations of description. I believe he employs this device in an attempt to give these men an ‘identity’ that would not have been adequately provided to them by mere names.

By delving deeper into the significance of each phrase as an indicator of ‘identity’, we realize how the author has intelligently utilized words as alternatives to names.  I would understand the “baareesh waala” as someone who has been scarred by the traumatic experience of Partition, the “thailay waala” as a man displaced by the exile that ensues from the loss of his home, the “naujawan” as a symbol of the coming generations that will have to suffer sentiments of homelessness and despair and the “zakhmi sar waala” as a person wounded physically as well as emotionally, an idea emphasized by the fact that his injury is in the head. The reference to the “Aziz” ^[1] also gives rise to the idea of friendship as a temporary phenomenon.

The four men’s search for their lost fellow metaphorically signifies the search for retrieving their origins, for a new place to establish themselves in and on a broader scale, the new ‘identity’ they can claim as their own so that they are not recognized as exilic figures. This is further endorsed in the scene when they realize that this fifth person never existed and that each of them had ironically failed to count himself, lending support to their feeling of being stripped of their identities and of being non-existent. The crux of the scene can be found in this dialogue by the injured man:

 “Tou phir yoon hay ke jo eik aadmi kum hay, wo mein thaa”^[2].

 Moreover, their confusion over which direction to take and their debate over when they had embarked on the journey ^[3] is an image of the ‘identity’ they have lost in the web of events surrounding Partition.

Thus, Intizar Hussain focuses on ‘identity’ as a fluid entity, as subject to transformations in certain circumstances and as influenced by company. These men depend on each other to reaffirm their existence, which denounces their individuality and expounds on how they simultaneously regret and exhibit gratitude for how their life is meaningless if viewed in isolation from the others’ lives, as illustrated in the section that emphasizes on “gawahi”.

“Afosos ke mein ab dusron ki gawahi per zinda hoon”^[4].

“Shuker ker ke teray liay teen gawahi denay waley maujood hain”^[5].

 “Ager tum apni gawahi se phir jao tou mein bhee nahee rahoonga” ^[6].

^[1] pg 479

^[2] pg 486

^[3] pg 488

^[4] pg 487

^[5] pg 487

^[6] pg 487

Double Meaning in Woh Jo Kho Gaye

Woh jo kho gaye begins with the search for one person who has been lost somewhere along the way; and all this happens while there is a constant reference to the past; the past in which the trauma occurred and where these four men lost their families and relationships.

“Kia soortien thi kay nazron say ojhal hogayi” (483). Again, this is all in reference to the past and the four men continue to discuss their doubts over what has already transpired.  

But as the story progresses forward, the narrative starts to acquire a double meaning when the men begin to question their own existence at present. It’s absurd as it is, but they realize that each one didn't include himself while counting the total men earlier.

Speaking of that one missing man, the injured man says: “tou phir yun hain ke jo ek admi kam tha woh main tha”.

In itself, the statement makes no sense. The injured man is present, as our others, but this is where the narrative starts to attain a double meaning, when these men impose their doubts on their present state. For they don’t know where they are or where they are going, they are lost as well.

In connection with the title, woh jo kho gaye aren’t only the people who have been left behind in the past but also these four men in the present who are equally lost, with no sense of time, place and destination. So the narrative is not only about that which cannot be recovered from the past but also something out of grasp in the present, desperately needed to advance into the future. The four men appear to have no such source of development/advancement. 

Methods of Recording: the Visual VS the Aural

Vision in Kandahar is most often than not presented as partial. There is, of course, the burqa that physically constrains the sight of the wearer and in turn makes her own body invisible to the world. There is the curtain between the doctor and the patient - with only a hole allowing only the scope of vision that is deemed necessary. There is also Nafas' own search for the 'way to Kandahar' which manifests itself into a search which is very much optic. When Nafas loses her guide-boy, Khak, she desperately paces around the desert ''looking'' for him - (interestingly, she finds him by a skeleton - this unpleasant sight is perhaps a consequence of the fact that she has ''looked'' too much - that she has transverses the limitations of visibility). Nafas has to deal with the limitations of this partial visual outlook - and what is of utmost importance to the point I am trying to make is that she chooses the voice recorder rather than the camera or the video camera to tell her story. The only time a camera features is when she is forced to take a photograph with her 'fake family' for the sake of record. The photograph, much like the broader ability to see, is presented as distorted. It does not tell the complete truth - and in the case of the photograph, it is an obvious falsification. Hence, the visual form somewhat fails and requires Nafas to undertake the oral/aural form to tell her story.

What further makes this point of view complicated is the idea of the film itself, Kandahar, as a record of Nafas' personal journey. Central to this concept is - who is presenting the film to us? Are we meant to see it as a personal, auto-biographical re-telling of one's own journey? Or is it a third-person account of Nafas' journey that uses her voice-tapes as narrative? If it is the former, then Nafas' seems to have adopted the very form she rejects earlier - perhaps when she has returned back to Canada where the use of such a form cannot be hindered. If we take the later position, then we can come to the conclusion that the film itself is a visual interpretation of the oral/aural form adopted by Nafas. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note how personal experiences are recorded; and if the aversion to visual recording is an extension of the partiality of vision in Kandahar as a whole.