RECENTLY, distinguished Indian historian Prof Mushirul Hasan and Prof Zoya Hasan were on a visit to Pakistan. They delivered lectures in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi. I had the opportunity to attend their lecture in Lahore. Prof Mushirul Hasan spoke on his favourite subject: the partition of the subcontinent. I will not touch upon some of the main points that he raised during the lecture, though certain remarks from him proved to be very revealing. For instance, it took many listeners by surprise when he said that in the ‘40s, Gandhi was not able to play the leading role in Indian politics.
What particularly grabbed my attention was his attempt at seeking help from pieces of fiction written on the partition in his historical discourse. That was of course in line with what he has done in his Legacy of a Divided Nation. He, in fact, considers fiction written with reference to the events during the time of the partition, as source material for his research work on the batwara of the once undivided India. He has extensively analyzed novels, short stories and allied writings such as reportages, personal reminiscences and diaries related to those fateful years. After going through extensive research, he incorporated some selective material, which appeared to him more relevant, into his study of the partition, Legacy of a Divided Nation. Then he compiled the selected material in two volumes entitled India Partitioned. “It is,” he says, “designed to support and supplement the historical literature on India’s partition.”
I may refer here to another historian of the partition, Ian Talbot, who too has employed this kind of fiction to serve his academic purposes. In his book, Freedoms’ Cry, he claims to have done this in order to introduce a human dimension to the historical discourse on Pakistan’s birth. He has devoted a whole section to this topic. There he makes an analytical study of selected novels and short stories on the partition and draws his own conclusions with reference to Pakistan’s birth.
It will be interesting to note that the attitude of these historians towards this kind of fiction is very different from that of literary critics. A literary critic may summarily dismiss a number of stories and novels for having no literary worth and deem them not fit for critical studies. But the historian thinks differently. If a piece of fiction has the possibility to provide material for historical research, he will give it due importance, not much thinking about its poor literary quality.
Talbot has, however, shown wisdom when he points out: “The great writers can transcend their own experience and echo the feelings of other classes and communities, but lesser novelists frequently lack this empathy and produce merely stereotypes and stylized emotional responses.” Well said, indeed. But Talbot is, after all, a historian and has to accommodate stereotypes too. So he has to offer some justification for it. And here it is:
“Even highly stylized works may be of value to the historian as they can reveal more than they intend when read between the lines. Moreover, the reception of such works lends valuable insights on conventional wisdom surrounding the events which they portray.”
But can these be, in a stereotype, something really meaningful to be read between the lines?
Prof Mushirul Hasan commenting about writers included in India Partitioned says: “They articulate, in varying degrees, the mood and the sensitivities of large number of aggrieved and tormented people who had no say in the actual transfer of power to two sovereign nations.”
But if that was his aim, he should not have relied so heavily on Fikr Taunsvi, who appears here with three excerpts from his writings. In Urdu, far better novelists and short story writers can serve this purpose in a better way.
The difficulty with partition fiction is that much of it is what Talbot calls stereotype brimming with “stylized emotional responses”. We have loads of sobbing stuff in the name of humanism. This kind of humanism in most cases doesn’t help the writer to transcend his nationalistic loyalties and prejudices, therefore, he cannot help being partisan.
I feel tempted here to refer to two novelists, who have been generously quoted by Mushirul Hasan — Rahi Masoom Raza and Attiya Husain. Rahi Masoom Raza, swayed by emotions, easily betrays his partisanship in Adha Gaon. On the other hand, an emotional restraint on the part of Attiya Husain saves her from this kind of betrayal, despite the fact that we do get an idea regarding which direction her emotions are moving in. In that sense, she comes out as a better artist. But it was left for Manto to transcend all kinds of prejudices and portray the human situation in an unbiased way.
So Talbot is justified in cautioning that “all literary sources must therefore be treated with utmost care and sensitivity.” But ironically he himself cares little about being cautious. That at times leads him to draw wrong conclusions. For instance, he says: “Khak Aur Khoon is as popular with Pakistani readers as is Aag Ka Darya with Indians.” It is a misleading statement based on wrong assumptions. Talbot did not care to understand the kind of popularity Nasim Hijazi enjoyed. Similarly, he cared not to understand the phenomenon of popularity among Pakistani readers of Indian writers like Krishn Chandr, in spite of their strong reaction against the partition, which led to the creation of Pakistan.
RECENTLY, distinguished Indian historian Prof Mushirul Hasan and Prof Zoya Hasan were on a visit to Pakistan. They delivered lectures in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi. I had the opportunity to attend their lecture in Lahore. Prof Mushirul Hasan spoke on his favourite subject: the partition of the subcontinent. I will not touch upon some of the main points that he raised during the lecture, though certain remarks from him proved to be very revealing. For instance, it took many listeners by surprise when he said that in the ‘40s, Gandhi was not able to play the leading role in Indian politics.
