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    Kaifi and I: A Memoir
    Kaifi and I: A Memoir
    Kaifi and I: A Memoir
    Ebook208 pages3 hours

    Kaifi and I: A Memoir

    By Shaukat Kaifi

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZubaan Publishers Pvt Ltd
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9789381017500
    Kaifi and I: A Memoir

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      Kaifi and I - Shaukat Kaifi

      Aika.

      Translator’s Note

      N

      ASREEN

      R

      EHMAN

      Ihave long admired Shaukat Kaifi Sahiba’s work as an actor and for decades have enjoyed her hospitality in Janki Kutir, Bombay and the village Mijwan. It was during the winter of 2001 at Kaifi Sahib’s birthday celebration that I first heard her read from her engaging memoir, a work in progress at the time. Her beloved Kaifi died in May 2002 and she finished the book as a testament of love; Yad ki Rehguzar (Memory Lane) was published in 2004. When the author asked me to translate the book into English, I was delighted but also nervous at the possibility of her turning around and saying, in her singular manner, ‘I appreciate all the hard work you have put in, but I am sorry, I cannot accept this; it is not my voice.’ I am relieved that my translation has her approval.

      Kaifi and I is a love story, but it is also an important corrective to the proliferating stereotypical representations of Muslims as conservative moderns, incapable of engaging with liberal and progressive politics or secular concerns. The book is a montage of recollections moving between the city and the village, interspersed with poetry, reportage of direct speech, theatre pieces and snippets of screenplays, bringing into focus an autochthonous modernity rooted in middle-class Muslim and Urdu speaking milieus. Shaukat Kaifi Sahiba’s life is lived at an intersection where communist, progressive, and nationalist politics converge with literature, cinema, popular culture and everyday life. (See Introduction and Foreword)

      In translating this book I have tried to capture the tenor of the author’s prose, which has the spontaneity of conversation, and is never florid. I have retained Urdu words where I thought this was the best way of conveying the author’s intentions. The use of honorifics like Sahiba (Madam) and kinship terms such as Mamun (maternal uncle) may sound odd to some readers of English, but they convey a very good sense of the South Asian emphasis on the etiquette of address and the ordering of familial relationships. The well known Urdu scholar Dr Ralph Russell asked me why I had not used ‘gold thread’ and ‘gold embroidery’ for ‘gota’, ‘zari’, ‘kamdani’ and ‘karchob’, and agreed with my usage after I had explained the differences between these various braids and embroideries. He agreed that I retain the names of flowers, food and items of clothing: a gharara, a shalwar and a churidar pyjama are trousers or pantaloons of sorts, but they are very different from each other; qaliya and qorma are both meat curries but this is where the similarity ends; and a mogra flower is not simply a jasmine. For the reader familiar with these worlds, the terms will evoke a picture very close to the one that the author intended; for others, I hope that with the help of the glossary (Appendix 1) her world will become more vivid. In translating the poetry, after long discussions with Russell Sahib, I decided not to recreate the poems but render into simple English poetry that is in fairly complex Urdu, in order to give the reader some flavour of the original.

      Readers who are familiar with Yaad Ki Rehguzar in Urdu will find some additions in this book; these have not been inserted arbitrarily by me. My publisher Urvashi Butalia and I had questions where we wanted the author to expand upon her feelings about certain matters or clarify an ambiguity. I spent several weeks with Shaukat Kaifi Sahiba, reading the first draft of the translation to her and discussing our queries. She was forthright in responding to my questions, but firm in insisting exactly how and where she wanted these additions. I took some editorial liberties, particularly in restoring the end of the book in accordance with the author’s first Urdu draft: again, I had her permission to do so.

      There are people I would like to thank for giving generously of their time to read and comment on the various drafts of my translation: Shabana Azmi for her crucial editorial input; Shaheen Choudhury, Antonia Douro, Mariam Faruqi, Nasheed Faruqi and Katy Fizmon for important stylistic suggestions; and Urvashi Butalia for her patience. My debt is greatest to two individuals who are not here to see this book in print, my mother Begum Qamar F.R. Khan (d. 6th March 2008) and Dr Ralph Russell (d. 13th September 2008). Amma who had loved the book in Urdu was involved enthusiastically in the process of translation. I had four day-long sittings with Russell Sahib who was generous in the spirit of the ustad shagird relationship. His praise was warm, his criticism acute, but softened by his hospitality as he fed me lunch, tea and cakes through a strictly timed routine. In Delhi, the late Dr Bharat Ram and his family, provided me a home during long and frequent visits. Finally, I would like to thank Shaukat Kaifi Sahiba for trusting me with her book. I am mindful of the responsibility, and hope I have been able to capture for the reader something of the flavour of the original.

      1

      Growing up in Hyderabad

      Iwas born into a family that was mildly progressive. My father Yahya Khan was a champion of girls’ education but his father Hakim Inayatullah Khan and brother Ayub Ali Khan were decidedly against it. Abbajan wanted my older sisters Liaqat Khanam and Riasat Khanam to have the best available education and enrolled them in the local mission school in the face of strong opposition from his entire family. The school was co-educational, which meant that the question of purdah had to be tackled; on this matter too, Abbajan’s position was equally clear: as early as 1907 he had persuaded Ammajan to relinquish purdah. Soon after they were married and were on their way to Hyderabad from their ancestral village of Saharanpur Lohari in north India, Ammajan packed away her burqah in an attaché case at Delhi railway station.

      Hyderabad, which was the largest and most prosperous princely state in India, was ruled by the Nizam who was perhaps the richest man in the world at the time. Young men from all over India went there in search of employment. One such, Latif Yar Jang, had moved to Hyderabad from Lohari in the late nineteenth century. He secured a comfortable position in the State administration and did everything in his power to promote talented young men from his village. It was through his good offices that men from Abbajan’s family moved to Hyderabad to complete their education and find suitable employment. Latif Yar Jang was distantly related to us and the children of our family called him Latif Dada. My real Dada was an orthodox maulvi and a scholar of Arabic and Persian who had translated the Holy Qur’an into Urdu. He ensured that my father completed his classical Arabic and Persian education but excluded instruction in English as he was against everything British. However, when it became clear to Abbajan that without English he would not get a good job, he decided to study it on the quiet and passed his matriculation. Such was my father’s command over the language that he could teach B.A. students.

      Throughout his life Abbajan enjoyed teaching and spent a great deal of his leisure time tutoring children. When he got a job as an Inspector in the Excise Department Abbajan had to study Telugu, as this was mandatory for official employment in Hyderabad. Abbajan had regular features with exceptionally kind, light brown eyes and he looked taller than his five foot ten inches. My mother Khatoon Khanam was a good-looking Pathan with a fair oval face and large black eyes. They made a handsome couple. Ammajan was a good and prudent wife who followed her husband’s bidding but with dignity. Although she was unable to read or write Ammajan respected learning. Both my parents observed the Islamic strictures on fasting and prayed five times a day. There was no pressure on me to do so, but like all other members of my family, I too offered my prayers. Ever curious to learn, I would read the Holy Qur’an in its Urdu translation because I wanted to find out for myself what was so special about the holy book that half the world had faith in it. My sister, Riasat Khanam, had finished reading the Holy Qur’an in Arabic when she was seven and before she was nine, had committed the entire book to memory and become a

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