Tanvir was in his early 80s when he decided to put pen to paper. He had planned to encase his memoirs in three volumes but could only finish the first one which focuses on the events and the people in his early life. Though highly proficient in English, Tanvir perhaps felt more at ease giving vent to his feelings in his mother tongue, Urdu, in which the memoirs are originally written. Interestingly, Tanvir’s father was a Pushto-speaking Pakhtun, but had settled in Raipur, the capital of Chhattisgarh, a state carved out of Madhya Pradesh.

The narrative ends in 1954, a year before Tanvir went to seek training in theatre in England, though he had by then written and staged the widely acclaimed Agra Bazaar, based on the life and poetry of Nazeer Akbarabadi. His period at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, where he became acquainted with the Brechtian style of theatre, was fruitful though incomplete. Tanvir returned to India to present combinations of the folk theatre of Chhattisgarh and the best of the Western stage experimentations.

Tanvir is a gifted storyteller and this makes his anecdotal narration captivating. He also has the ability to bring out the minute yet interesting aspects of the people he talks about in detail or in passing. Unknowingly, he uses what hard-boiled critics would dispute — the stream of consciousness technique.

While writing about the people he met, Tanvir writes about the linguist Raza Ali who impressed him with his fluency in modern Persian. He also refers to Professor Manzur Husain Shor, whose accent was contrived and whose knowledge was restricted to classical Farsi. He then drifts to an amazing woman called Zarina, who spoke many languages including French, Romanian and Russian, not to speak of English and the Delhi dialect of Urdu. Having a fair complexion, when accompanying foreign dignitaries in places like Urdu Bazaar in New Delhi, people would wonder how she could speak their language. “She was a fascinating talker, had a mesmerising turn of speech, captivating, merry, witty and humourous,” Tanvir writes. “In fact, she was quite a good painter and would often hold exhibitions.” Tanvir regrets that he lost contact with her. He then reverts to Raza Ali, whose name is given to the 50th chapter of the book, and proceeds to chisel the character in an endearing light.

Having personally known Vijay Kishore Dube, a broadcaster of repute and once the general manager of HMV India, I found Tanvir’s description of the man highly realistic. He brings to light his fads and foibles with the skills of a craftsman, but never in the process loses the spontaneity which is the hallmark of his style. In fact, all his characters, be they celebrities like Manto and Miraji or simple people from his childhood and early youth, emerge with freshness. They are lively, if one is to describe them in just a single word, mainly because he entwines them with the anecdotes associated with them.

Tanvir’s memoirs also include his confessions. He has a crush on a courtesan which he is unable to express. He jilts a woman called Kamla and feels guilty about the affair, but the guilt vanishes when he recalls Jill, an English woman who gets pregnant with his child but miscarries. He gets married to Moneeka, a theatre activist with Bengali lineage. She is by Tanvir’s side throughout his career, but when he meets Jill again he strays. He has daughters from both the women. Nageen, his daughter from Moneeka, still runs Naya Theatre, which Tanvir had set up after his return from England. Had he been able to write the two subsequent volumes, we would have got first-hand information about his career in theatre.

The memoirs also read as history. Tanvir writes about the Progressive Writers’ Movement to which he subscribed but also points out the mainstream writers’ indifference to those who were not communists. Cases in point are Manto and Akhtarul Iman. His also discusses the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) and the people involved in running it, such as actor Balraj Sahni and poet-writer Shailendra, who was to later join the film industry and write lovely lyrics for film songs.

Mahmood Farooqui, who translated the memoirs and wrote the introduction, deserves full marks. He paints a clear picture of Tanvir and mentions important developments that took place in his later life. For instance, Farooqui recounts the various awards and honours including Tanvir’s membership of the Rajya Sabha (the upper house of Indian parliament). Farooqui, who is also part of show business, has to his credit the revival of the art of dastangoi along with a couple of enthusiasts and writes extensively about IPTA and its relevance to the times.

His translation carries the flavour of the original language. For instance, “Eik din ye huwa keh …” is conveyed as “One day what happened is …” Certain words such as chawwani (four annas or one-fourth of a rupee) are used as in the original. There is, of course, a glossary for readers ignorant of such terms.

Strangely, the memoirs went into print in the original Urdu language after they appeared in the English translation. The Urdu edition will be published in Pakistan as well, but those undertaking the venture should ask Farooqui to also translate his introduction into Urdu, otherwise the volume will lose half of its charm.

No less important is that certain lapses of memory on Tanvir’s part should be taken care of in subsequent editions of the book, irrespective of the language it is printed in. For instance, he mentions a surfeit of black burqas in Kabul. The fact remains that in Afghanistan, burqas are in light blue colour. Black burqas are found in Iran and the subcontinent.

Tanvir also claims that the Grand Trunk Road once connected Madras with Peshawar and that after Partition it terminated in Amritsar. One wonders what made him forget that the GT Road, as the highway is commonly called, starts from Calcutta and crosses into Pakistan at the Wagha border before ending in Peshawar. Madras is far away from its route. Tanvir also often confuses relations. The one glaring example is that of writer Akhtar Husain Raipuri’s elder brother Muzaffar, who is mentioned as his younger brother.

But these are minor points which can be taken care of and don’t mar the good read that Habib Tanvir’s memoirs provide. One can open any chapter in the book and enjoy it. There is no beginning, no middle and no end. Aristotle can be ignored.

Habib Tanvir: Memoirs

(Memoirs)

Translated by Mahmood Farooqui

Penguin Books, India

ISBN 978067099

345pp.