Bringing a character alive from within his own psychological context, Ikramullah meticulously recreates the domestic scene, which in turn merges into the social and reveals the norms, attitudes, behaviour patterns, rituals and practices of a distinct class of people. The recognition of the ethnic geography emerging from Ikramullah’s body of writings is disturbing, not because of its rather explicit realism but because it brings with itself a poignant awareness.

Ikramullah was born in 1930 in Jandiala, India, and finished primary school in Amritsar. After partition, he moved to Multan where he earned a bachelors degree before proceeding on to the University Law College in Lahore for LLB. He joined the Insurance trade in 1965, after practicing as an independent lawyer. His first collection of short stories ‘Jungle’ was published in 1962 to critical acclaim, followed by several other works of fiction including ‘Badaltey Qalib’, ‘Sawa Naizey Par Sooraj’ and ‘Saaye Ki Awaz’. He also translated Chinua Achebe’s ‘Things Fall Apart’ as ‘Bikharti Duniya’ on behalf of National Book Foundation.

In the interview below, the cantankerous octogenarian talks to TNS about Partition, changing trends, alternative sexuality and laments the loss of interest in Urdu literature.

The News on Sunday: It’s been a long journey, from Jandiala to Lahore. Did literary fiction offer itself up as a means to cover that journey?

Ikramullah: The journey from Jandiala to Amritsar to Multan was not a journey of choice; exchange and transmigration kept taking place, sometimes due to the force of circumstance and at other times out of sheer necessity. It was a matter less of freedom than of might.

The period of time I spent in Amritsar as a young man was an impressionable age. I was an average child like any other Muslim child coming from a middle-class background, with very ordinary bearings. The memories of those days, vivid as they are even today, found their way into my short stories. My short stories are based on mundane events; they are impressions, not life extraordinaire.

TNS: What attracted you to Urdu literature?

IU: I was living in Amritsar when I was still in the 9th grade. In those days, entertainment opportunities were fairly limited. Ironically, there was great enthusiasm to study and a connoisseurship for reading Urdu poetry among young men. Saadat Hassan Manto, Ismat Chughtai, Krishan Chander and Balwant Singh were very popular and we used to read their books with excitement. They were our heroes. This is how I got interested in Urdu literature —the interest that has lasted me since, in some one way or the other. Due to my profession as a lawyer, I came to know of many incidents — even events I experienced and observed — that became the baseline of my stories. ‘Uttam Chand’ was the first story I ever wrote. I read it out to a mehfil organised by Multan Academy where it was much appreciated, motivating me to write more. I sent the story to Adab-e-Lateef. (Intizar Husain used to be its editor at that time but I had no acquaintance with him.). He did publish the story after pruning it with a pair of sharp scissors, leaving out the second half of the story. (I came to learn afterwards that he did not like the ending of the story). I felt so discouraged that for another 2-3 years, I did not write at all.

Finally, I sent another story ‘Mumtaz’ to Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi of Funoon. He responded the very next day. He liked the story and said he will publish it in the coming issue. His quick response and the prospect of getting published propelled me to write further.

TNS: What kind of an impact did Partition of 1947 have on your fiction?

IU: My story ‘Ley Gayi Pawan Ura’ speaks about Partition in thorough detail. A more complex account of Partition and its aftermath can be found in stories written after Partition — stories influenced by the migration of Muslims from East Punjab, by conditions prevailing in Karachi in those days. Anyone who has witnessed Partition cannot escape its influence or forget it. It reflects in the struggle of every writer of the time. In one of my novelettes, such as ‘Kitna Paani’, pre-Partition conditions have been highlighted that offer a concentrated view of the society in those days. The anecdotes pertaining to the Mental Hospital were based on what I saw there. The period portrayed is that of 1940s. (My father had been deputed as a doctor at the Mental Hospital, and designated residence on its compound).

TNS: ‘Sawa Naizey Par Sooraj’ is said to carry hints of homosexuality as its subtext.

IU: Facts of life don’t dissipate in thin air, if you ignore them; somehow, they continue to flourish. Alternative sexuality is a way of life, a fact that has had a shared acceptance among the bourgeoisie, the aristocrats and the feudal lords, from ‘khawaja sara’ to roadside eunuchs and transvestites. Oblique references to them exist in literatures of all ages and cultures. ‘Sawa Naizey Par Sooraj’ is a throwback on reality. The story is set in times when it was virtually impossible to catch a glimpse of a middle-class or an upper-class woman in our society, with the consequence that ‘alternative’ attraction began to wake up among men. ‘Sawa Naizey Par Sooraj’ is a story based on that attraction. But homosexuality is just a password in the story; I haven’t dilated on it. However, it’s referred to consciously. In the first half of the story, there is a description of sexual craving, and the natural outcome of it is to find gratification in alternative sex.

The story was named ‘Sawa Naizey Par Sooraj’ with particular reference to Multan. Multan’s significance remains unshaken since ancient times.

There were two reasons for naming the story as such: One because of its climate; Multan used to be a lot warmer in the past. Now, there are mango orchards and green all around it and the temperature doesn’t soar. Secondly, because of the emotional heat among young men, their lust for each other is like sun at its peak – it doesn’t die down; it doesn’t dissolve or subside; and it doesn’t let anyone relax.

TNS: Some of your works encountered resistance from the publishers and the state. What was its background?

IU: There’s a short story about a community ‘Aankh Aujhal’ in my book ‘Bar-e-Digar’ set against the backdrop of Partition. It’s about the suffering people had to go through, and about the fact that that suffering had taught them nothing — the tyranny of being neither dead nor alive, of living in the shadow of constant danger of a bullet, mob attack and killing. And yet, when they arrived here as a majority group, they were hell-bent on tyrannising the minority groups. They carried with them no remnants of the suffering they had endured. The events before Partition served as a comparison to make people realise that they had re-established what they left behind, and that they are busy making everyone’s life as miserable today as theirs had been before Partition. It was because of this story that Sang-e-Meel Publishers refused to print the book. Fiction House in Karachi finally printed it, and there was no public reaction or a court case against it.

Since Zia-ul-Haq had prolonged his stay in power in the name of Islam, objection was raised against certain publications. Unfortunately, my novel ‘Gurg-e-Shab’ came under fire. The publisher and I were informed that there were sentences pertaining to divinity, which were inappropriate and, therefore, should be expurgated. In addition, that in some passages of the novel, parts of female anatomy had been described in graphic detail, which was obscenity of the highest order. The book was confiscated and removed from the market, and what appeared to be just an order by the government of the Punjab initially soon became the order of the entire country. What was banned in one province was to be considered banned nationally

TNS: What makes a successful writer?

IU: Each man has his own perception of ‘success’, according to his psychological trends. Unless, literature provides the means of livelihood, it can’t progress. As is the custom in some progressive countries, writers are full-time writers. On the contrary, we are part-time or Sunday writers who write when we feel the urge to write or when something ignites our imagination. We can’t survive on the income, literature generates. We have very few writers who have been able to make writing their career. Take Faiz, for instance, who served newspapers and educational institutes. Likewise, Qudratullah Shahab was a CSP Officer who later joined UNESCO. Mustansar Hussain Tarar is perhaps the only writer of our times who has devoted himself to writing full-time, and been able to generate an appropriate income. Even a senior writer like Intazir Husain writes weekly columns in Dawn and Express. He used to work for Mashriq. Literature and livelihood are separate in our society.

Aasim Akhtar, The News Sunday, 13 May 2012

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Ikramullah: Conspicuous absence from contemporary Urdu critical discourse