BY EHTESHAM SHAHID 23 August 2007
IT was a chilling winter evening of 1994. Hardly a soul moved in the streets of Noida near New Delhi. But I jumped off the sofa when my friend and host suggested – “let us go to Aini Khala’s place.” The friend in question was Saif Haider Hasan, my classmate at Aligarh, himself a budding writer and grandson (not biological) of Qurratulain Haider, the legendary Urdu fiction writer, who almost everybody in that family called Aini Khala (Aunty Aini).
Elsewhere, she was referred to as Aini Aapa (sister Aini). Hidden behind the enthusiasm of an audience with a septuagenarian Urdu novelist was the pretence of two seemingly boastful English literature students who probably thought their recent tryst with WB Yeats and Thomas Carlyle would hold them in good stead through the evening. And it did seem to work. Aini Khala was impressed. At least she looked impressed. She pampered us, responded with her favourite pieces of English poetry, outdid us verse-by-verse, thought-by-thought.
While we were engaged in our own little repartee, her housemaid committed the cardinal sin of serving tea to just the two visitors. Never to be left behind, she so endearingly called in an effervescent Awadhi style — ek cup chaae humhoo ko pila dijiye… (Please make a cup of tea for me as well).
Her charm and earthiness had floored me. There was also to be a twist in the tale. As soon as my confidence got the better of me, I proudly announced my Bihari origin. Pat came a query. “Which district in Bihar are you from?” “Darbhanga” was my reply and I was already getting sheepish. “Oh! Darbhanga, have you people saved some works of Vidyapati or is everything lost?”
My knowledge of Vidyapati was limited. I had heard of him as a Maithili (language of the Mithila region in Bihar) poet who lived in my hometown, unknown, and died unlamented. I was already embarrassed at the realisation that Aini Khala knew more about the life and times of Vidyapati than a so-called proud Bihari. But in this moment of realisation I had seen a glimpse of the greatness of Qurratulain Haider.
She had not only paid a tribute to Vidyapati, she had also celebrated the Indianness that was so much part of her living.
Aini Khala did not stop at that. She also enquired about Mazhar Imam, an Urdu poet who happened to be my grandfather (not biological again) and who was awarded India’s highest literary honour, the Sahitya Academy Award, for his Pichhle Mausam Ka Phool (flowers of the last season) in 1994.
Mazhar Imam belonged to Darbhanga but had made Delhi his home. What unfolded before us that evening was her ability to transcend boundaries of culture and religion and share the joys of creativity, enriching the world around her in the process.
On Tuesday morning (August 21, 2007) my friend Saif called from Mumbai.
He could speak just a few sentences. The first one was: “Aini Khala is dead.”
A sudden sense of loss was palpable on both the ends, a collective feeling that a voice of wisdom, great sensibility and amazing grace was no longer with us.
Whatever Aini Khala achieved as a journalist and an author will forever remain in the annals of Urdu and English literature. But she was more than just a legendary writer. Her authority and her craft goes far and beyond.
She took the task of refining the form of the Urdu novel at a time when the language was obsessed with poetry.
But for these attributes, her most famous work, Aag Ka Dariya (River of fire), would not have been possible. The sheer scale of this epic historical — spanning 2,500 years, published in 1959 — tells the tale of her towering stature.
The grand dame that she was, Aini Khala herself translated the book into English in 1999, warding off even the likes of Khushwant Singh, who was keen to translate it.
Although I have not managed to read Aag Ka Dariya yet, I did read Aakhir e Shab ke Hamsafar (companions of the last night) and found it overwhelming to say the least. However, the piece of Aini Khala that remains embroiled in my memory is a column that she wrote for the Times of India in the late 90s.
Titled The Age of Unreason, the piece was a narration of the undercurrents of modern living. It deeply influenced the way I looked at the world. Like any other literary giant, Aini Khala was at odds with the conventions of life.
She lived life in her own terms and in her passing away we are all united in grief। She will always remain in our collective memories.
IT was a chilling winter evening of 1994. Hardly a soul moved in the streets of Noida near New Delhi. But I jumped off the sofa when my friend and host suggested – “let us go to Aini Khala’s place.” The friend in question was Saif Haider Hasan, my classmate at Aligarh, himself a budding writer and grandson (not biological) of Qurratulain Haider, the legendary Urdu fiction writer, who almost everybody in that family called Aini Khala (Aunty Aini).
Elsewhere, she was referred to as Aini Aapa (sister Aini). Hidden behind the enthusiasm of an audience with a septuagenarian Urdu novelist was the pretence of two seemingly boastful English literature students who probably thought their recent tryst with WB Yeats and Thomas Carlyle would hold them in good stead through the evening. And it did seem to work. Aini Khala was impressed. At least she looked impressed. She pampered us, responded with her favourite pieces of English poetry, outdid us verse-by-verse, thought-by-thought.
While we were engaged in our own little repartee, her housemaid committed the cardinal sin of serving tea to just the two visitors. Never to be left behind, she so endearingly called in an effervescent Awadhi style — ek cup chaae humhoo ko pila dijiye… (Please make a cup of tea for me as well).
Her charm and earthiness had floored me. There was also to be a twist in the tale. As soon as my confidence got the better of me, I proudly announced my Bihari origin. Pat came a query. “Which district in Bihar are you from?” “Darbhanga” was my reply and I was already getting sheepish. “Oh! Darbhanga, have you people saved some works of Vidyapati or is everything lost?”
My knowledge of Vidyapati was limited. I had heard of him as a Maithili (language of the Mithila region in Bihar) poet who lived in my hometown, unknown, and died unlamented. I was already embarrassed at the realisation that Aini Khala knew more about the life and times of Vidyapati than a so-called proud Bihari. But in this moment of realisation I had seen a glimpse of the greatness of Qurratulain Haider.
She had not only paid a tribute to Vidyapati, she had also celebrated the Indianness that was so much part of her living.
Aini Khala did not stop at that. She also enquired about Mazhar Imam, an Urdu poet who happened to be my grandfather (not biological again) and who was awarded India’s highest literary honour, the Sahitya Academy Award, for his Pichhle Mausam Ka Phool (flowers of the last season) in 1994.
Mazhar Imam belonged to Darbhanga but had made Delhi his home. What unfolded before us that evening was her ability to transcend boundaries of culture and religion and share the joys of creativity, enriching the world around her in the process.
On Tuesday morning (August 21, 2007) my friend Saif called from Mumbai.
He could speak just a few sentences. The first one was: “Aini Khala is dead.”
A sudden sense of loss was palpable on both the ends, a collective feeling that a voice of wisdom, great sensibility and amazing grace was no longer with us.
Whatever Aini Khala achieved as a journalist and an author will forever remain in the annals of Urdu and English literature. But she was more than just a legendary writer. Her authority and her craft goes far and beyond.
She took the task of refining the form of the Urdu novel at a time when the language was obsessed with poetry.
But for these attributes, her most famous work, Aag Ka Dariya (River of fire), would not have been possible. The sheer scale of this epic historical — spanning 2,500 years, published in 1959 — tells the tale of her towering stature.
The grand dame that she was, Aini Khala herself translated the book into English in 1999, warding off even the likes of Khushwant Singh, who was keen to translate it.
Although I have not managed to read Aag Ka Dariya yet, I did read Aakhir e Shab ke Hamsafar (companions of the last night) and found it overwhelming to say the least. However, the piece of Aini Khala that remains embroiled in my memory is a column that she wrote for the Times of India in the late 90s.
Titled The Age of Unreason, the piece was a narration of the undercurrents of modern living. It deeply influenced the way I looked at the world. Like any other literary giant, Aini Khala was at odds with the conventions of life.
She lived life in her own terms and in her passing away we are all united in grief। She will always remain in our collective memories.
Ehtesham Shahid is an editor at TRENDS magazine, Dubai. He can be reached at e2sham@yahoo.com
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