240

ahmed ali



A Night of Winter Rains
*





[tra ns l ator s note: When it was published in 1932 in Lucknow, A!g"r#
created an immediate sensation. Only a few hundred copies of the volume
of ten Urdu short stories, of which three are translated here, had been
printed before the British censors proscribed the volume under substantial
pressure from Indias leading Muslim voices. All but five copies were
destroyed by the authorities. The authors of the stories, all MuslimsSajjad
Zaheer, Rashida Jahan, Ahmed Ali, and Mahmuduzzafarcame under fierce
attack for their criticisms of Muslim orthodoxy, traditional social and sexual
mores, and prevailing attitudes towards women and the poor. The Urdu and
Muslim press excoriated the book at length, while Muslim organizations ral-
lied against the perceived attack on Islam. The Central Standing Committee
of the All India Conference, Lucknow, for example, passed a resolution that
strongly condemns the heart rending and filthy pamphlet called Angare
which has wounded the feelings of the entire Muslim community by ridi-
culing God and his Prophets and which is extremely objectionable from the
standpoints both of religion and morality.
1

It was, in many ways, this controversy that made the collection important.
The attack on the freedom of speech and expression as well as on the right
of authors to critique religious ideas was opposed by leading literary and
artistic figures throughout India, and the movement to defend the writers
and their volume slowly brought together a group of people who would
form the All India Progressive Writers Association. The book became a
cause c!l"bre as a symbol of the destruction of culture under the weight of
imperialism and tradition, and it signaled the presence of a whole genera-
tion of writers in the 1930s who were challenging orthodoxy, flirting with

*
Mah#vao$ k% &k R#t originally appeared in A!g"re (Lucknow: Ni'#m%
Press, 1932). Translation from 1995 edition (Delhi: Taqs%mk#r, Ej(keshnal
Pablishing H#)us), 15462.
1
Quoted in Shabana Mahmud, Angare and the Founding of the Progressive
Writers Association, Modern Asian Studies 30(2):448.
Ahmed Ali 241
socialism, and involved in the heady movement for national independence.
It marked also a willingness to revolutionize the forms of Urdu letters, mix-
ing more conventional patterns with British modernist techniques, bor-
rowed from Joyce, Lawrence and Woolf.
Most critics of the collection, though, have noted that the book suffers
from all the problems of early, polemical writing. Many of the stories are
poorly conceived and the writing is a thin veneer for an angry, though im-
portant, political critique. At times the critiques against Islam suffer from a
misunderstanding of the Qur)#n and instead merely translate inherited Eng-
lish rationalist critiques of Christianity into an Urdu or Islamic idiom. And,
because of the early proscription of the text, it was never really allowed to
proliferate in a way that might have allowed the forms and ideas in the col-
lection to make a more long-standing intervention in Urdu letters. Still, there
is something exciting in the rebellion of this collection as it declared war on
conservatism and empire and hoped to pave the way for a genuinely pro-
gressive literary idiom that could permanently alter both the artistic world
and the political future of a nation still in chains.]


Rum-um-um-ble dear God. The heavens look like theyre about to
collapse. The roof isnt falling, is it? Rum-um-ble!
And with that sound, the cracks in the broken door glowed with a
throbbing light. A strong gust of wind shook the whole building. Its
soooo cold! Ice and snow seep into every part of the body and its shiv-
ering so hard it feels as if it will be torn apart.
A small housetwenty-four by twenty-four feet, more than half of it
taken up by a narrow porch and, behind that, a sliver of a room, low and
dark. Theres not even a proper carpet. Some old, tattered sacks and
canvas line the floor, leaving it sticky with dampness and dirt. Trunks are
heaped up in the corners. Theres a lone, broken wooden chest with
some earthenware pots on top, blackened from years of use, missing bits
and pieces and falling apart. Theres a copper kettle toothe edges are
chipped, it hasnt been polished for years and its so worn the bottom is
about to give out.
Nothing of the roof remainsjust the rafters and now the rains, dear
Godthese winter rains. Its coming down fiercely, as if it was never go-
ing to rain again. Stop it now. Where can I go? What should I do? Death
would be better than this. God, why did you have to create the poor? It
would have been better if you had never shown us better days. Its so bad
now theres not even a place to lie down. The roof is leaking like a sieve.
Weve tried huddling in every corner like kittens, but where can a person
242 The Annual of Urdu Studies
find peace? It doesnt matter that I have nothing, but the children suffer
like the condemned. Who knows how they got to sleep. Its so cold, oof!
Every bit of my flesh is quivering. And to make matters worse, there are
four people and only one quilt. Dear God, show a little mercy! There was
a time when there were palaces, servants, carpets and beds. And if you
could have seen my room! A four-post bed, sparkling with golden cur-
tains, velveteen sheets, and chenille pillows. There was a mattress so soft
you could just lie down and fall asleep. And the quilts? Oh! The silkiness
of the chintz, and a hem of real gold lace. The maids and the servants
stood around: Mistress, shall I rub your forehead? Mistress, shall I rub
your feet? One rubs oil, another gives a gentle massage. Soft, comforting
bedcovers, and on top of all this pampering, its sleep that stands before
me clad in celestial clothes. Green panes of glass with blue and red and
orange reflections, entire pieces of large multi-faceted jewels sparkling
endlessly. The tablecloth had silver plates set on it, a flicker of light,
korma, pilau, biryani, mutanjan, b"qarkh"niy"!, and sweetmeats. A
garden surrounded by trees with verdant leaves that caught the sparkle of
the stars in drops of dew, creating even more stars. Good heavens, what
beautiful fruits. Mangoes, all sorts of exotic varieties. What gorgeous
apples. Red and pink and green ones hanging from the branches of the
dark trees. Just look at the berries: fat and grape-colored, just like the
ones from Sheikhupur. A canal, like a silvery blanket draped over the
dark nightperhaps its of milk. This isnt Paradise, is it? A small boat,
drifting very gently with the grace of a swan. Hurry up, sit down quickly,
let us take you on a tour of Paradise. What ladies: pure, noble, clear as
crystal! Sparkling white clothes and graceful like the wind. Drifting like a
floating candle, the boat floats away on the water. Open fields on both
sides, covered with green grass. And in between, colorful flowerbeds and
trees laden with fruit could be seen. Birds calling out, making a ruckus.
So, is this Paradise? Are we in Heaven? Yes, Heaven, the place of Gods
good and beloved subjects. The boat, like a small seashell with a round
dome, moved on, passing in front of a few gleaming houses. What beauty
and what brilliance. The boat doesnt even stop long enough for the gaze
to settle. They dont leak, do they? Will I find a room in one of them?
Theyve been reserved for Gods good and true subjects, for his pure
subjects. Theres a clawing in my stomach, something pulling at my heart,
my insides are in knots. It felt as if someone put something in my lap. It
was a large fruit like an apple, white as a pearl, with two bright, green
leaves still on its stem looking as if it had just been plucked from a
branch. Ah, what flavor. If only there were more. My lap was full. The
Ahmed Ali 243
boat was passing between two mountains. There was a bend. After the
boat had passed through the bend, suddenly, from a tall, distant moun-
tain, a column of light, more powerful than lightning, rising up like fire,
began to appear. My eyes closed, blinded by the flash. It was pitch black.
A commotion was heard, louder than thunder. The Doomsday trumpet
sounded, so deafening that I couldnt even hear. The ladies from the boat
were running in every direction. Suddenly, another flash of light ap-
peared. The sun was falling. Nearby, another sound was suddenly heard,
as if a volcano had exploded. An earthquake struck. The boat was de-
stroyed and everyone was drowning in the river.
Rum-um-um-ble! Drip-drip, the sound was coming from every direc-
tion. Amma, Amma! There was still a ringing in my ears. My heart was
racing. What it is it, son? Whats wrong? Im scared. Whats that noise?
Its nothing, son. Just the thunder. All three children were huddled
together in a corner, curled up in little balls. The rainwater had soaked
their quilt. The part next to Maryam was quite soaked. The poor thing got
up and moved the children farther away. Now they were pressed right up
against the wall. Dear God, if it keeps raining like this, well all be
drenched. Amma, its cold. Siddiqa was lying next to her. She hugged
her close and made her lie down next to her. There was no cotton, so
company would have to do. And over there, the two boys held each other
close, entwined, like a snake around a tree.
Dear God, have mercy. God is supposed to be with the poor, to help
them, to hear their cries of pain. Am I not poor? Why doesnt God hear
me? Does God exist or not? And what is God, after all? Whatever He is,
Hes very cruel and extremely unjust. Why is anyone rich? Why is anyone
poor? Its His wisdom, a benevolent wisdom. Someone writhes in the
wintry cold, without a bed to sleep on, with no clothes to wear, weather-
ing the chill, suffering the rains, starvingand the relief of death still
doesnt come. Some have lakhs, they have everything in the world, no
worries at all. If they were to give us just a little, what would it cost them?
The poor would be able to survive. But why should they care? Why
would anyone feed a goat he didnt own? Who made us? God? Why
doesnt He care about us? Why did He make us? To suffer through sor-
rows and withstand troubles? What kind of justice is this! Why are they
rich and were poor? This will all be recompensed in the afterlife. Thats
what the maulvi always says. Whose afterlife? To hell with afterlives. My
troubles are here and now, my needs are here and now. The fever is rag-
ing today and the medicine is supposed to be delivered in ten years? Bet-
ter to stay the hell away from such afterlives. It would be just as good to
244 The Annual of Urdu Studies
suffer the consequences later and have some relief now. God? its just
an excuse, a con. A patronizing consolation for remaining poor, a futile
hope in desperate times, a means for remaining content in times of trou-
ble. God? Just a smokescreen. And then theres religion, it teaches the
same thing, the same thing, and on top of that they say its a mine of
knowledge and a justification for poverty. Its a fools wisdom. It takes the
ones who are advancing, who are climbing higher, and pulls them back.
Its a roadblock on the path of progress. Stay poor, you can only find God
in poverty. I havent seen Him. Why doesnt He get the rich to pay us?
What would we do with wealth? I only need enough to survive. What do
the rich do with their wealth, after all? It rusts in their basements. And its
not spent wisely eitherwhat is spent is spent willy-nilly and wasted.
Why doesnt the government do something? If nothing else, it could dis-
tribute the wealth evenly and if not that, then we should at least get
half of our share. Why should the government trouble itself? Its coffers are
full. It finds money without effort. What does it matter to the government?
Were the ones who are going to die. Only the ones who suffer know
when a camel is laden with the weight of a mountain it groans in pain.
But now
Amma
Yes. What is it?
Amma, Im hungry.
Hunger. A quiver ran through Maryams body. Dear God, what can I
do! Poor children Mian, is this any time to be hungry. Hunger must
have gone mad to come at this hour. Go to sleep. Eat in the morning.
No, Amma, I want to eat now. Im so hungry.
No, son, this isnt the time, lie down. Look there, lightning. Poor
child, the sound of the thunder scared him and he went back to bed.
Where can I get work? What can I do? Because of the rain, I couldnt even
go out to someones house to get a little of whatever I could find and
bring it home to sew it together. I couldnt even go to see poor Fayaz
Begum. The poor woman is the only one who saves whatever she can
and always gives me what she has left. And if I cant find work anywhere
tomorrow either, then what? How long can I go on begging? People get
tired of giving over and over.
Amma, Im hungry. Look, my stomachs empty. I havent eaten any-
thing since yesterday. I cant sleep. I cant stand it. The poor woman
eventually got up. Feeling her way in the dim light of the small lamp, she
went to the chest so that, if she found anything, she could give it to the
child. After all, hes only five years old. If only I had never given birth to
Ahmed Ali 245
these children. I could have suffered it all and survived by myself, but
now I have the burden of these children. She found a dry piece of bread
in the breadbox, soaked it in some water and put it in front of the chil-
dren. The stomach is a terrible affliction. The poor boy pounced on it like
a dog. After eating a little, he said, Amma, give me a little raw sugar if
there is any.
Maryam got up again, thinking that she might find a piece of raw
sugar. Luckily, she found a small piece. The boy ate what he could. There
were a few mouthfuls left, and Maryam, unable to stop herself, ate them a
little at a time
The lightning and thunder had stopped. The rain had slowed too. She
went and hugged Siddiqa to her, then went to lie down, alone.
If only he were still here. If he were here. Him, him, him. When he
would come home at night, he always brought something with him.
What did you bring? Its Sohan-halva. Itll be that blasted pap$% stuff
again. You know I like Habshi-halva. And there you go yelling again,
you could have looked first. Oh, those quarrels and reconciliations, the
romances of the rainy season. Those were the days, now theyre just a
dream. And those moonlit nights when we strolled past the flower-sellers.
Ah, those flower trellises, the fragrance was enough to make your head
spin, and now, there arent even stale flowers, or even withered flowers.
If only he were here. Those legs, a green, lush tree made of flesh and
bones and marrow. The sap was warmer than blood and the bark was
softer than flesh. The trunk was light and strong, with two branches and
one trunk grafted onto another, clinging to each other, ones spirit in
the other, conjoined, entangled in each others lives. And in both of them,
the hope of a third life, the treasure of a full life, the riches of the moment
but the potential for existence in non-existence. Ah! Those legs, two
serpents entwined, drenched in dew, lying drunk on the grass. Thread
through the eye of a needle, two fingers moving quickly, flying, embroi-
dering flowers on soft, downy velvet. Standing in place, a spider spins its
web, moving up and down, unaware that a fly has been caught in the
web, its saliva goes on creating thread, continues weaving a web. A
bucket sunk in the depths of a well, touching the bottom, feeling the heat
of the smooth sand.
The small ripples that were steadily growing on the surface of the
water spread everywhere. They began to reflect off the walls. Then they
started returning to the center, filling the water with joy and warmth. A
pair of trees, a peepal and a mango, grown from the same root, born from
the same trunk. They shared the same life because they were growing
246 The Annual of Urdu Studies
together. They were each others support, each others solace, breathing
the same air, drinking the water of the same stream. Ah, that body. But
now the lightning had burned the peepal down, crushed it to its roots! But
the mango, because of fate, remains standing. If only lightning had struck
it down leafless, alone, withered, the life of a horsefly, still here to
suffer the torments of life. If only he were here.
Movement in the quilt, Siddiqa rolled over.
Time cannot be cajoled or conned by anyone. And Im all alone, Im
all alone. It would have been better if Id never had any joy in my life,
then I wouldnt have to feel this loneliness now. There wouldnt be an
empty space in my heart, loves space. Hope is nothing but being rocked
into a deceptive slumber. Sometimes it comes close, sometimes it aban-
dons you.
But hope for what? Despair has now spread everywhere, like the
clouds, swelling. That cotton rope, that swing, and four girlfriends, com-
panions, two on each end of the plank. The swinging made the tree
shake, reaching the dark, gathering rain clouds. Who pushed the swing,
Ammorya? Anwari and Kishwar, is that as high as you can swing? Watch
how high Kubra and I can go. Dont stop until you get dizzy and then
the roar of laughter, the outburst of cackling and now lifes a monster.
The Garden of Paradise and the flirting houris, garlands of flowers and a
strand of dew. No branches with berries. Where is my nest? Then a sun-
baked cliff, barren, hard, and from its sidelife. Then a new existence, a
new way, the enjoyment of manna and quail. Bathing in canals of sweet
milk, and playing in them too. Then the days were Eid and the nights
were deliverance from sin. But alas, in an instant Satan and the apple
and expulsion, utter loneliness, a mountain lying in ruinsif only he
were here Adam! Then no pain, no trouble, no problems, blame, or
woes. Then that same joy and celebration. A doomsday is upon us. Its the
time of My soul, my soul, the trumpet of the Angel of Resurrection, and
the Anti-Christ trying to seduce everyone. Ill just go to him. There is at
least hope. Oh, this loneliness. No one to even care for me. No solace, no
reassurance, no comfort. Utter loneliness. A dark, terrible night. Yes,
someone bring me a jungle a jungle to me a bazaar a ba
bazaar. Me-e-e, night. !

Translated by Snehal Shingavi