Twilight in Delhi

by Ahmed Ali

Set in nineteenth-century India between two revolutionary moments of change, Twilight in Delhi brings history alive, depicting most movingly the loss of an entire culture and way of life. As Bonamy Dobree said, "It releases us into a different and quite complete world. Mr. Ahmed Ali makes us hear and smell Delhi...hear the flutter of pigeons’ wings, the cries of itinerant vendors, the calls to prayer, the howls of mourners, the chants of qawwals, smell jasmine and sewage, frying ghee and burning wood." The detail, as E.M. Forster said, is "new and fascinating," poetic and brutal, delightful and callous. First published by the Hogarth Press in 1940. Twilight in Delhi was widely acclaimed by critics and hailed in India as a major literary event.

Genres: India, Fiction, Historical Fiction, Indian Literature, Classics, Novels, Asia

275 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1940

About the author

Ahmed Ali (1910 in New Delhi – 14 January 1994 in Karachi) (Urdu: احمد علی ‎) was a Pakistani novelist, poet, critic, translator, diplomat and scholar. His writings include Twilight in Delhi (1940), his first novel.

Born in Delhi, British India, Ahmed Ali was educated at Aligarh and Lucknow universities, graduating with first-class and first in the order of merit in both B.A. (Honours), 1930 and M.A. English, 1931. He taught at leading Indian universities including Lucknow and Allahabad from 1932–46 and joined the Bengal Senior Educational Service as professor and head of the English Department at Presidency College, Calcutta (1944–47). Ali was the BBC's Representative and Director in India during 1942–45. During the Partition of India, he was the British Council Visiting Professor to the University of China in Nanking as appointed by the British government of India. When he tried to return to India in 1948, K. P. S. Menon (then India's ambassador to China) did not let him and he was forced to move to Pakistan.

In 1948, he moved to Karachi. Later, he was appointed Director of Foreign Publicity, Government of Pakistan. At the behest of Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan, he joined the Pakistan Foreign Service in 1950. He went to China as Pakistan's first envoy and established diplomatic relations with the People's Republic in 1951.

Reviews

[Sairam Krishnan · Rating 5 out of 5]

A glorious novel.

I read City of Djinns earlier this year, and with Dalrymple reccomending this book, had been meaning to get my hands on it for quite some time.

And on (surprisingly) moving to Delhi last month, bought it immediately. Read it this rainy weekend, and reading it, broke my heart.

Ahmed Ali writes with a sadness that permeates into you, and you cringe inwardly at scenes that time has now rendered obsolete. The story of Mir Nihal and his family is a classic, and the novel brings to life Old Delhi and its inhabitants in a way that you can actually feel them, hold them.

I've always been convinced that novels, in a way, are also about the places in which they are set. If a writer does not succeed in making us smell the air of that place, he has, in effect, failed as an artist. I do not rate Life of Pi highly because of this. Martel never resurrected my Pondicherry in those pages. He just couldn't.

Here, Old Delhi is the protagonist, & the story itself; the characters are all drawn in relation to it. The rendition is almost magical - the pigeon fliers, the faqirs, the lace makers, the ice cream vendors, the poets!
If the book leaves you sad & filled with anger at our colonial oppressors, it should. That was Ahmed Ali's aim.

The most powerful passages for me for was when Mir Nihal watches the coronation of King George near Jama Masjid, curses his nation's lack of spine and laments the plight of the once-great Mughals. It is a moving, evocative scene where an old man remembers the glorious past and knowing that his city will never be the same again, walks home, lost and broken.

Read this book not to understand what happened to Old Delhi, not to learn the history of your capital city, but to look at the time when Delhi was much more than what it is today - where poets composed, where artists discussed everything under the sun, and whose intellect, language, manners and culture were greater than the greatest of the cities of the Muslim world.

As Ahmed Ali writes -

"What happened to the great poets of Hindustan? Where were Mir & Ghalib & Insha? Where were Dard & Sauda & Zauq?"

Where, in fact, is Delhi?

[Ali · Rating 5 out of 5]

ہوا کچھ ہوں کہ داستاں شروع ہوئی اور ماحول پر گہری اداسی اور یاسیت چھانے لگی۔ دل پر وہی کائناتی تنہائی اورزندگی کی بے ثباتی و بے معنویت سے پیدا ہونے والی کیفیت چھاگئی۔ اسی کیفیت میں اپنی زندگی کے مشاہدات و تجربات کو ایک بار پھر نئی نظر سے دیکھنا شروع کیا۔ یاد آیا خاندان کے کئی بوڑھے جوانی میں کئی سال تک سونا بنانے، اسم اعظم سیکھنے اور جن قابو کرنے کی کوشش کرتے رہے تھے۔ ان کا یہ ایمان تھا کہ اگر ایک بار ان کی کوششیں کامیاب ہوگئیں تو ان کی زندگی سنور جائے گی۔ مگر سب کی زندگی اداس رہی۔ سب یہ سمجھتے رہے کہ وہ اس دنیا میں کچھ کر کے جائیں گے جسے آنے والے لوگ یاد رکھیں گے۔ ان کے اس دنیا سے خاموشی سے جانے کےبعد ان کی دوسری نسل کو ان کے نام بھی ٹھیک طرح سے یاد نہ رہے۔ کئیوں کی قبروں پر بھی سالوں کوئی پھول چڑھانے نہیں جاتا۔

کئی سال گزرے ہماری نوجوانی آئی تو ہم نے سوچا ہم جیسا تو کبھی اس روئے زمین پر آیا نہ ہوگا۔ ہ ،ہم سا محبت کرنے والا کوئی پیدا نہ ہوا ہوگا، ہم سا سوچنے اور عمل کرنے والا کوئی نہ ہوا ہوگا، ہماری زندگی کا کوئی نہ کوئی عظیم مقصد ہے ہم ضرور کچھ ایسا کریں گے جو رہتی دنیا تک یاد رکھا جائے گا۔ مگر ہمارے ساتھ بھی وہی ہوا جو ہمارے بزرگوں کے ساتھ ہوا تھا۔

وائی نادانی کہ وقت مرگ یہ ثابت ہوا
خواب تھا جو کچھ کہ دیکھا جو سنا افسانہ تھا

یہ داستاں کچھ اپنی اپنی سی لگتی ہے، یہ اپنے ماضی اور حال کا نوجہ محسوس ہوتی ہے۔ دل میں ایک گہرا احساس جاگتا ہے کہ شاید وقت گزرنے کے ساتھ کچھ بھی تبدیل نہیں ہوا۔ میر نہال میں اپنے بزرگوں کا عکس دکھائی دیتا ہے اور اصغر اپنے جیسا ۔ تمام کردار اپنے اردگرد جیتے جاگتے لگتے ہیں، وہی توہمات ہیں، وہی سونا بنانے اور اسم اعظم حاصل کرنے کی باتیں ہیں،
گلیوں میں اب بھی پاگل اور مجذوب پھرتے ہیں، وہی کاٹھے انگریز کے طعنے اور تہذیبی نرگسیت، وہی ماضی کی شان و شوکت واپس لانے کے نسخے، وہی ہر شخص کے دل میں قوم کا درد ۔
یہ ایک مردہ تہذیب کے کچھ کرداروں کی کہانی ہےجن کا اپنے حالات پر اختیار ختم ہوگیا ہے، وہ پنجرے میں قید ایک ایسے کبوتر ہیں جن کے پنجرے میں بلی گھس آئی ہے اور وہ آنکھیں بند کیے شدت سے یہ تمنا کررہے ہیں کہ وقت رک جائے یا اس کا پہیا الٹا چلنا شروع ہوجائے۔ کاش وہ وقت واپس آجائے جب وہ آزاد فضاؤں میں اڑا کرتے تھے

یہ ناول ان بہت خاص ناولوں میں سے ایک ہے جو صرف داستاں نہیں ایک تجربہ ہوتے ہیں۔ یہ ناول آپ پڑھتے نہیں آپ پر بیت جاتے ہیں۔

[Asha Seth · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sweet. Poignant. Tragic. Flawless. A better lens to scan the Delhi of British India is hardly there.
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In 'City of Djinns' by William Dalrymple, I saw Delhi in a light no one had ever painted it before. But that was until I hadn't read Twilight in Delhi. Everything that had squeezed my heart in Dalrymple's masterpiece, rendered it bleeding in Ali's tour de force. I came across this novel early this year when it popped up in 'Books on Indian History' list on Goodreads. The cover itself was enough to have my heart pounding in its cage sensing the absolute pleasure that awaited me. I had to order it. The book arrived with the first showers of rain and I was ready for another heart-wrenching experience.

Ahmed Ali's novel is set in pre-war India between 1911 and 1918. The story is that of the Mir Nihal family and the part of Delhi that was left unaltered by the colonial rule. Mir Nihal, the head of the Nihal family is struggling to reinstate life to normal in a fast-changing Delhi. His son, Asghar, however is more keen on adopting to the new ways impregnated in the pristine environment of Delhi. Both the father and son are raging a cold war against each other. From flying pigeons to his solitary walks to the house of his mistress, from consenting to wedding his son to a low-case muslim girl to his profound loathing for his country's captors, this novel is an overwhelming dive in the transforming landscape of Pre-partition Delhi, through the eyes of its protagonist - Nihal.

Other characters such as Nihal's children, Asghar's wife, Nihal's mistress, are lack-lustre figures in the tales of longing and loss that was Mughal Delhi. Metaphorically, the Nihal's family represents the last Mughal, his family, and the deteriorating Mughal line. In a drastically-changing environment; following the advent of the British, the line of control soon went from Mughals to the captors, and what was left of the people and city was a mere sinking, rotting debris of past memories, ruined under the weight of desperate attempts of freedom and holding on to one that once was. The pervading melancholy greatly defines and disturbs the mood as one soaks in the aftermath of a pristine culture, soon lost to careless hands and hearts. What one gets instead, is the ravaging of a most beloved; which hapless individuals such as Nihal couldn't save, but only mourn.

A historical novel, in which history takes precedence, then poetry does, and soon they keep swapping places, until they amalgamate into one to give the reader a heart-wrenching account of one of the oldest, richest, and most magnificent cities of the world - Delhi. Sweet. Poignant. Tragic. Flawless. A better lens to scan the Delhi of British India is hardly there. If your heart doesn't bleed upon reading this elegy, you've simply not done it right.

[Madhulika Liddle · Rating 4 out of 5]

Twilight in Delhi is the story of a Muslim family, headed by the patriarch Mir Nihal, living in the Walled City of Delhi. The story begins a little before 1911, and goes on till past the First World War.

While that’s a turbulent period—what with memories of the uprising of 1857 still fresh; the Coronation Darbar of 1911, the Great War, and the Home Rule Movement gathering momentum—the emphasis is on what’s happening in the lives of Mir Nihal and his family. His younger son Asghar’s passion for the most ineligible Bilqueece, whom he is adamant he will marry, though Mir Nihal disapproves. Mir Nihal’s love for pigeon-flying and his interest in alchemy. The friends and relatives and servants and neighbours who flit in and out of the narrative.

There are many things to love about this book. The way Ahmed Ali depicts the life of a Muslim family at an important juncture in history is brilliant: you see the way life is changing, the external influences on the family and the resistance that causes; the memories of a past people want to cling to, and the fears about the dawn of a new and brash age, of which many are suspicious. The way Ali evokes Dilli, and shows us a glimpse of a cityscape that is no longer the same, is superb, as are his detailed and very interesting descriptions of rituals, beliefs, and so on, whether it’s about pigeon-flying, weddings, funerals, or the ‘magic’ attached to the countering of diseases through charms and talismans. You see how a people so deeply wedded to the trappings of religion and a certain mysticism could regard with dread the hard-boiled science of an alien culture. And yet, you can’t help but sympathize with Mir Nihal and his family, watching as their world crumbles.

The plot is good, the characters believable (there are so many here, even the ones only briefly glimpsed, whom one can relate to). The ambience vivid, the juxtaposition of the micro and the macro very well done.

Highly recommended for anybody interested in Delhi and its history.

[Divij Sood · Rating 1 out of 5]

Remarkably ordinary book that has unnecessarily been elevated in status. Flat descriptive writing. Amazingly shallow character development and at the end of the book, you come out feeling you did not gain any insight in to a time period that the book attempted to explain. It would probably add value to someone who has been living under a rock and has no idea about Indian traditions in general and Islamic traditions in particular. Go read the Wikipedia page on India in the 20th century instead.

[Olga · Rating 5 out of 5]

I got to Twilight in Delhi through City of Djinns by William Dalrymple. I found the book by chance in one of the second-hand bookstores somewhere in Asia. I don't even remember what country it was, but it wasn't India. I had it for five years and a few months more, before I finally read it and was amazed by the book's simplicity and, at the same time, subtlety. It reads like a story from One Thousand and One Nights and it reminds me of other stories, more real ones.

“It was the terrible summer of nineteen hundred and eleven. No one had experienced such heat for many years,” so a chapter of Twilight in Delhi starts. Outside my room, the hottest summer has just ended in my own city, as well, and the story sounded in a more familiar key.
“The temperature rose higher and higher until it reached one hundred and fifteen in the shade. From seven in the morning, the loo began to moan, blowing drearily through the hopeless streets. The leaves of the henna tree became seared and wan, and the branches of the date palm became coated with sand. The dust blew through the unending noon; and men went out with their heads well covered and protected. The pigeons flew for a while and opened their beaks for heat. The crows cawed and the kites cried and their voices sounded so dull.
The sky lost its color and became dirty and bronzed. The loo did not stop even at night. the stars flickered in the sky behind the covering layer of dust. The sand rained down all night, came between the teeth, covered the beds, and sleep did not come near parched humanity.
Tempers rose and from all around came the loud voices of women quarrelling, husbands beating their wives, mothers beating their children, and there seemed no rest for men.
Fires broke out every now and then. At such times the sky was made red with the flames that shot up from the burning earth.”

As Ahmed Ali continues his story of ruin, love and broken hopes in the Muslim Delhi, Mahatma Gandhi was holding his action of peaceful resistance in South Africa and more decades would pass before the Independence and the dreams of Midnight's Children would be written by Salman Rushdie. Another story comes across, as a thread of silk, hinting on a more intricate design made of events, accidents, lives, passions.

On the other side of the continent, that same year of 1911, as The War That Ended Peace by Margaret MacMillan states, “It was an uncomfortable summer for [Sir Edward] Grey, [British foreign secretary]. He had suffered another personal tragedy earlier that year when his beloved brother George was killed by a lion in Africa and the Morocco crisis was keeping him in London, far from the respite of his estate at Fallodon. The Cabinet was divided over how firm to be with Germany and how much support to offer France. In the country, the wave of strikes went on and the heat wave was breaking records. (In the evenings Churchill would collect Grey and take him for a swim in his club.)”

The crisis over Morocco went on and Paul Bowles, whose marvelous novels and short stories are set in Morocco, was not even one years old at that time. But when he will cross the Atlantic to settle down in Morocco in 1947 the country would be still divided between France and Spain.

Speaking about the Atlantic, 1911 was exactly the year when the Titanic was launched in Belfast.

The heat that summer caused fires not only in Delhi. In Istanbul in the summer of 1911 a huge fire destroyed the downtown area.
Right at that time Le Corbusier traveled across the East getting inspiration and gathering material for his travelogue. Le Corbusier was a witness to the fire and noted that it was a melancholic spectacle. His drawings of Istanbul captivated Orhan Pamuk in his Istanbul.

One could continue playing with threads till the end of days. The number of events and characters that pass from one year to another, that cross at one point and get reconnected at some other place and time once again, is enough for a lifetime or even two. And when your eyes get tired, you lift your head from another thread and see folds and waves of that glittering fabric, your heart is full of enchantment and beauty.

[J.C. · Rating 5 out of 5]

I make a practice of not reading introductions before reading a book, because they tend to give away too much of the story and also I don’t like having my response to the book influenced. I do sometimes glance at them when I’ve finished the book, but don’t always persevere. This was a case where I read the book straight through, with something of a cultural awakening, and found myself drawn to deepen my understanding of the novel by reading the introduction (written by the author, so, perhaps more of a preface). It sets the historical context, and Ahmed Ali does not mince his words about the British conquerors. I found it as interesting and challenging as the novel itself, and I wondered why I remained in ignorance for so long of this important novel. Perhaps it was that old map on the classroom wall that still showed about a quarter of the world in a sort of faded pink . . .
“Twilight in Delhi” was completed in 1939, shortly after the founding of the All-India Progressive Writers’ Movement and Association, by Ahmed Ali and other Indian writers. EM Forster was one of the people who fought for its publication, when, despite the willingness of Hogarth Press to publish it, the printers refused, as they considered the criticism of British Indian rule to be subversive (I suppose this was during World War II and Britain needed the Indian troops). Pushed through by Desmond McCarthy, EM Forster and Virginia Woolf, the book was finally published, but was then somewhat eclipsed by the war.
Ahmed Ali’s writing is superb. The novel is a lyrical portrait of Delhi just before and during the First World War, when the Home Rule Movement had started and “a fire of anger and hate had been ignited in the hearts of Indians.” The book mourns the loss of old Delhi following the end of Mughal rule in 1857, described in the introduction as “the blind persecution and massacre of the citizens of Delhi”. Language and culture were eradicated with utter ruthlessness and abominable savagery. It occurred to me that the same thing happened here in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland after Culloden, with similar brutality.
The evocation of Delhi and of its daily life and colour centres round the family of the patriarch Mir Nihal, and Ahmed Ali does not refrain from comment upon the status of women’s roles in Indian society of the time and how it shaped them. As Mir Nihal goes about his favourite occupation of pigeon-flying, or his son Asghar joins other young men in kite-flying, or whether the novel’s characters are just walking about the streets and lanes, Ali evokes a sensual Delhi, its sights, smells, sounds, superstitions; when the characters meet they converse by quoting the lost voices of poets, prophets and mystics, whose role, formerly central, is now marginal (established right at the beginning of the book through the account of the poet who sang the last dirges of the seventh Delhi while travelling in a bullock-cart, but when he reached Lucknow, the rival town, no-one asked him to recite his verses).
Part II opens with this:
“My despair does not know
The turnings of the wheel of time;
The day turned disastrous
Knows neither dusk nor dawn.”
Ghalib.
I’m tempted to share with you the identity of some of the beggars who have their calling cards, but won’t spoil the story entirely! Cultural barriers meant that I was unaware of many aspects of Indian life including compassion for beggars. “They are all God’s creatures, and you never know when you might displease Him . . .” But is it compassion? Another character is described as “feeling guilty for having annoyed him (the beggar) and was afraid of the wrath of God”.
There are also detailed accounts of celebration, a family wedding contrasting sharply with the coronation in Delhi of the British King George V. I was surprised to discover that the novel was written in English – I had assumed I was reading a translation that came across as seamless. Ahmed Ali chose to write in English to make the book more widely accessible (Salman Rushdie has mentioned the same dilemma for Indian writers today). I quote from Ahmed Ali’s introduction again:
“During the quarter century of its existence out of print, it was read in my wife’s exemplary translation in Urdu published in 1963, which in the opinion of some critics restored the natural language to the book. Those who read it in the translation said it could not have been written in English, while those who had read it in the original English said it was untranslatable. This curious controversy was put to an end by an American critic, David D. Anderson, when he said that the novel “transcends language as any substantial work of art ultimately must do.” (Source supplied).
There were a few words in what I assume is Urdu, but the context elucidated these. I did find it hard to empathise with the characters, except perhaps Mirza the seller of milk. I think this is due to cultural barriers. Ahmed Ali does offer a psychological palette, and Mir Nihal’s son Asghar is a good vehicle for this and for the loss of cultural identity that is, after all, one of the main themes of the book. I found, as I have found with any other book about India that I’ve come across (bearing in mind those cultural barriers), that the characters are swamped by their context. It’s as if India is just too crowded, noisy and poor, too multitudinous in its history and too savage in its divisions.
There are powerful descriptions in the book of the barbaric actions of the British that make uncomfortable reading, not only recalled from the century that had ended but also taking place in the year in which Part IV is set, 1918. A young man goes to “non-co-operate” with the British and is immediately shot. A son of Mir Nihal’s comments, “The English frankly say that they fear no-one but Muslims in India and that if they crush the Mussalmans they shall rule with a care-free heart.” Near the end of the book Mir Nihal lies on his bed listening to “men sing in vulgar tunes new verses cheaper than any that had ever been written before” . . . (verses given) . . . “What had happened to the great poets of Hindustan? Where were Mir and Ghalib and Insha? Where were Dard and Sauda or even Zauq? Gone they were, and gone with them was the wealth of poetry. Only a poverty of thought had come to stay, reflected Mir Nihal, and in place of emotion and sentiments a vulgar sentimentality. Time had reversed the order of things, and life had been replaced by a death-in-life. No beauty seemed to remain anywhere and ugliness had blackened the face of Hindustan …”
So the book is a lament, but in it there is also the echo of a call, like the beautifully described azaam, the Muslim call to prayer; a call to the prophets of a new age, today the age of the ninth – or tenth? Delhi. Ahmed Ali ends his introduction thus:
“Life, like the phoenix, must collect the spices for its nest and set fire to it, and arise resurrected out of the flames.”

[Sumirti · Rating 4 out of 5]

The British had only built a new capital outside the city walls. The present rulers have removed the last vestige on which the old culture could have taken its stand and are moving it farther away towards Indraprastha, affirming the prophecy of the book: Seven Delhis have fallen, and the eighth has gone the way of its predecessors, yet to be demolished and built again. Life, like the phoenix, must collect the spices of its nest and set fire to it, and arise resurrected out of the flames.

To me, personally, Delhi is a rogue city. It is that city which has the smell of power in the air, the high-handedness of the money and corruption, the lofty words with hollowed purposes, promises unkept; the city which rapes its women and colors them in its own shade of darkness; the city which has miseries and mysteries around the next corner; the city which had glory and poverty stark clear; the city which brings awe and disgust. I have been to it only twice, and both the times as a visitor. My loathe towards Delhi could be best explained with the fact that I never tried for a job there until this day, although I do actively look for the best opportunities in other Metropolitan cities of India. And, I should add, I am wrong in my judgment.

My shroud of wrong impressions got pierced and tore by William Dalrymple's The City Of Djinns. Yet, for all its beauty, it didn't make me fall in love with Delhi although it greatly helped me to understand it. Lo and behold, came Ahmed Ali with this book, who resurrected this city with all the emotions and liveliness vividly that one's heart goes to Delhi, to look at the city differently once done with reading.

More than the city, the novel evokes the lifestyle of Delhites of early 1900's - the year when King George was coronated and the British brought the city under its command fully. It looks at the history through the eyes of an old man, Mir Nihal, who was much alive during the 1857 Mutiny and during the 1911 coronation of the King and continues to live until the dreaded year of 1919, when the Jallianwallah Bagh Massacre took place. Much like himself and his family, the city slowly weans away, until the power of Lord (be it the God, or the King, and that depends upon the reader) and he stands as a hapless witness to the slow degradation of a country and a civilization.

Unless someone has come to Twilight in Delhi through Dalrymple, I don't think one would understand the very importance of this book. It portrays the life and lifestyle of a lost civilization which was erased by the imperialism of the British. Bahadur Shah, the last of the Mughals, continues to be told as 'Their King, even after his death, by the then people of Delhi. The poems of Mir, Ghalib, Zauq fills the air and it continues to be breath of every living soul of the city.

The best part of the book is when Mir Nihal reluctantly attends the coronation of King George from Jamia Masjid amidst a jubilant crowd welcoming the King, the very place where he saw his own men butchered to death during the 1857 Mutiny to protect the city. The city has transmogrified, the crowd has forgotten, but Mir Nihal's pride and identity is much evoked by the sadness which engulfs him and his voicelessness to say the truth to the now forgotten people.

The tone of the author is nostalgic and his unbridled admiration for the glory of the lost culture has the whimsical nature of a lover which longs for his lost love. And, this almost came as a surprise when one learns that it was Ahmed Ali's anger which drove him to write this work. And, for all his lament for losing a culture to the imperialists from the west, it is quite ironical that he chose to bring attention to the destruction of his city by writing this work in the language of the enemies, English. It worked. This book was praised high during its period, and that it is another an important reason why it came back in circulation.

But, the old Delhi is not all poetry, romance and art. There are other glaring truth - unintended ones by the author - which comes to the knowledge of the 21st reader. Men, even those married ones, invariably have a mistress, women are pushed to household work and strict purdah, and a young girl as much as fourteen years old gets married to a sixty year old man only to die in the next six months. There are palanquin bearers whose story and life we never know, and the tales prostitutes who serves their masters are never told. There is also a subtle communal tone lacing the narration. Mughals and Mussalmans are portrayed as more patriotic of Hindustan than Hindus, and the author does make sly comments muffled under the grandeur voice and style. Sister of Ashwaq could remarry under the code of Quran but abstains from doing it because the Hindu morals and social code prevent it. Every muslim warns of how the coronation is bad omen, yet Siddiq the 'fat bania*' stands with the farangis, the British. Perhaps, the 21st century me is overlooking the nuances. Even the Arthasastra calls 'Banias*' to be men whom one has to see with suspect, and the Hindu-Muslim divide was more pronounced then, under a homogenised culture. Yet, I believe, the liberal tradition and mindset of today India was brought and assimilated into our culture, thanks only to the same British Imperialists. The nostalgia for a lost tradition and the anger at the imperialistic destruction is justifiable although, I am afraid, if not warned, there is a danger that one would linger on to the glories of the past and forget the gifts of the present.

Yet. I wish, an Ahmed Ali had lived in every city in India to raise a voice and record how the imperialism, war, oppression changed the city and the country; and to make us remember what we once possessed and what we lost. As the story went, Mir Nihal was crippled and pushed to see the gradual demise and deterioration of his own sons and daughters while he continued to be alive remaining hapless and useless. Perhaps, that is how Delhi (or India) was crippled by the British - slow and steady - to remain yet without complete destruction when all her sons and daughters died until saved by a man in loain clothes and spectacles. But, that is another story. Another, history.


----

*Banias - The merchant caste who are allowed and largely responsible for trading and other related activities in pre-Independence India.

Note: To have a better understanding of the background of this work, try to read the 'Introduction' in William Dalrymple's The Last Mughal

[Momina · Rating 1 out of 5]

I am so sorry for not liking this book as it is a part of our course this semester. *sigh* Papers and exams will only make me more impatient with this. -_-

[Salman Khalid · Rating 2 out of 5]

This novel is unnecessarily long making it dull and boring for readers. Story is also not very interesting either - more like a biography of Mir Nehal (main character) set in the background of Old Delhi rather than a novel.

On a plus side, it describes the culture of Muslims of Old Delhi in quite depth and mentions some of the historical (and less reported) events of British period affecting Delhi.
Language of the book is also beautiful with abundance of Urdu and Persian poetry translations.

If you are keen about Indian culture and day to day lives of people in India during British era - try this.
Looking for a leisure read? Unfortunately I can't recommend.

[Alfa Hisham · Rating 3 out of 5]

Twilight in Delhi is the story of Mir Nihal and his family staying in a livid mohalla in Old Delhi. Doused in elaborate descriptions, Ahmed Ali takes you through an era during which the British takes power from the last mughal ruler. What I loved the best is the Sufi poetry and couplets which are sprinkled all over the narration.

That said, having seen brilliant flowing prose about Muslim communities from other Muslim writers, this seem slightly jagged in comparison.

[Rehan Farhad · Rating 5 out of 5]

উপন্যাসের মূল চরিত্র কোনো মানব নন, নয়াদিল্লি শহর নিজেই। নয়াদিল্লিকে ঘিরে মানব চরিত্রগুলোর গল্প চলতে থাকে। ব্রিটিশ শাসনের শেষ পর্যায়ে ক্ষয়িঞ্চু নয়াদিল্লি; ধীরে ধীরে ভেঙে পড়ছে ঐতিহ্যবাহী এই শহরের সমাজ। সব মানুষের ভিতর সেই পরিবর্তনের প্রভাব এত বাস্তব, অদ্ভুত বিষন্ন ভাবে ফুটে উঠেছে। মুসলিমদের সাংস্কৃতিক অবক্ষয় ও বিউপনিবেশায়নের প্রভাব শুরুর মধ্য দিয়ে পুরো উপন্যাসের মূল ঘটনা আবর্তিত।

*সময় পেলে বিস্তারিত লেখার ইচ্ছে আছে।

[Isha · Rating 5 out of 5]

Traversing hurdles created by publishers in Britain, this book’s publication was made possible by none other than Virginia Woolf. First published in 1940, the book gained immediate prominence and acclaim in India, only to be lost and re-found in post-partition India. Set in pre-partition India, the novel conjures a magical world of Old Delhi and a sense of nostalgia for passing of the Old world along with its culture, traditions, myths etc. which is established in the opening verse by Bahadur Shah:

Delhi was once a paradise,
Such peace had abided here;
But they have ravished its name and pride,
Remain now only ruins and care.


Set in the political milieu of 1930s, the novel takes us back to the 1857 “mutiny” as phrased by the Imperial masters and the fall of disintegrating Mughal Empire with the capture and death of Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Witnesses of the 1857 revolution, Mir Nahal and Begum Nahal remember an alternative narrative to the revolution as opposed to what is taught by the British. A keeper of history and troubled by his own memory, Mir Nahal ruminates the banishment of Muslims from their own city in the aftermath of the Revolution and juxtaposes the men of 1857 to 1911 who are all too happy with subjection and revels in the glory of the British Empire. Murmuring to himself “…Time will show them a new and quite a different sight, a peep into the mysteries of life, and give them a full glimpse of the sorrows of subjection”, he comes across the progeny of Shah Jahan who in today’s world “have no place on the earth” and has become a laughing stock due to his “poverty and plight…”.

Chronicler of history, we see an entire different Delhi with the eyes of Mir Nahal which is no longer available to us. The author rekindles the old Delhi, where pigeon flying or Kabutarbaazi is a serious art, the prostitutes are of two types, the cultured ones and whores, where in zenana “the time passed mostly between eating, talking, cooking, sewing, or doing nothing”. Graphic description of marriages, deaths, child births and religious festivals, brings alive the old traditions and rituals. A world where djinns, fakirs, hakims, alchemists are common household names and friends sit for hours “comparing notes and relating anecdotes about faqirs and herbs, remnants of an alchemic life”. However, with progression of novel, we see the passing of this world and its replacement by unfamiliar world, symbolized by the construction of the eighth city by the British. The author prophesies this change and the annihilation of old culture and its replacement by new customs, new ways and most of all the language, “on which Delhi had prided herself, would become adulterated and impure, and would lose its beauty and uniqueness of idiom.” Lamenting the death of his beloved Delhi, the author cries “She would become the city of the dead, inhabited by people who would have no love for her nor any associations with her history and ancient splendor.” With death or fading off of people associated with the old city, the city fades into a blanket of darkness and gloom.

The novel is an interesting read for anyone fascinated by old Delhi (Shahjahanabad) and its culture and traditions which are lost today.

[Parikhit · Rating 2 out of 5]

Perhaps I am one of those very few who found the book to be just okay contrary to the high praises, which this book has received over the years.

It promised readers a glimpse of the life in Old Delhi, of the crumbling glory and slow doom of this once thriving city in the early 1900s, pre-independence era, enough to draw my attention. But after finishing this book I failed to sense that magic which I assumed will hypnotise me. I was rather disappointed. I am a person who dwells in the realm of nostalgia and also somebody who adores the city of Delhi but 'Twilight in Delhi' failed to charm me or show to me a Delhi that I expected this book would. And for someone who has spent hours gazing at the lanes and minarets of Old Delhi and adored it with poetic love, my expectations were sky high. The book certainly shines in parts, that cannot be denied but something was grossly missing, a spark? The description of Chandni Chowk, Jama Masjid, of Eid does evoke happy memories but it doesn't rise to a sense of adulation.

I couldn't help but draw parallels with the Cairo Trilogy by Naguib Mahfouz who shows to his readers an Egypt that charms and fascinates. But Twilight in Delhi falters to conjure that magic. Also, I couldn't connect with any of the characters. The protagonist Mir Nihal who laments of the unpleasant changes in Delhi, of poets fading, of streets changing, of life downgrading from the grandeur of the past, is the only one whose portrayal seemed complete; the rest of the characters fade before you can absorb or understand them. And the book ends suddenly-it didn't feel continuous.

I just wish it were as promising as I had expected it to be.

[Christiane · Rating 2 out of 5]

I read this book because William Dalrymple in his "City of Djinns" calls it a brilliant and very fine novel which recaptures the vanished world of Old Delhi as represented by an extended traditional Muslim family and their friends.

Though I could appreciate the author's anger and nostalgia for his lost way of life, overall I didn't care for Ahmed Ali's writing style (though I admit that there were some beautiful, evocative descriptive passages) and his characters (especially whiny, self-pitying Asghar) didn't appeal to me at all. The most interesting part of the book for me was the - obviously not entirely objective - introduction.

As for the lost way of life, apart from the pigeon flying and quoting of poetry the religion, culture, traditions, mentality, customs, conditions and situations depicted in the novel didn't seem all that much a thing of the past but very much alive and well in certain parts of the world : ignorance and superstition, filth and disease, men's self-indulgent, irresponsible behaviour, women's dreary, shut-in, loveless, repressed lives, bickering and cheating, arranged (child) marriages, crippled beggars, starving dogs, heat and dust etc., etc.

[Lori · Rating 1 out of 5]

Muslim family at time of British rule. Interesting culture, history, but dull story.

[MI Abbas · Rating 4 out of 5]

اس کتاب کو پڑھنے سے پیشتر مجھے صحیح طور علم نہ تھا کہ جب کسی ترجمے کے بارے میں کہا جاتا ہے کہ اس پر اصل کا گمان ہوتا ہے تو اس کے کیا معنی ہوتے ہیں۔

میں تو احمد علی کے ناول ٹوائلائٹ ان دہلی کے ترجمے کو پڑھنے سے پہلے ہر قدرے بہتر ترجمے کو رواں ترجمہ یا یہ کہ ترجمہ تو لگتا ہی نہیں کہہ دیا کرتا تھا۔ لیکن اب بلقیس جہاں کے اس ترجمے کو پڑھ کر میں نے فیصلہ کیا ہے کہ آئندہ پڑھے جانے والے ہر ترجمے کو جانچنے کیلئے اس کتاب کو معیار یا بینچ مارک کے طور پر رکھ کر پرکھوں گا۔ اور جہاں تک خود اس ترجمے کی بات ہے تو میں سمجھتا ہوں کہ یہ ترجمہ تو اصل سے بھی کچھ بڑھ کر ہی ہے۔ کیونکہ دوران مطالعہ کئی مرتبہ ایسے اقتباسات جو مجھے بہت زیادہ پسند آئے ان کے موازنے کیلئے انگریزی میں بھی پڑھ کر دیکھا تو احمد علی کی انگریزی اپنی جگہ خوبصورت ضرور لگی، لیکن جو لطف اردو نے دیا وہ ناقابل بیان ہے۔

یہ ناول دلی کی بکھرتی تہذیب اور افسردہ فضا کو انگریزی میں پیش کرتا ہے، جسے بلقیس جہاں نے اس کا ٹکسالی محاورہ دیکر دوبارہ دہلوی زبان کا ذائقہ عطا کیا ہے۔ اس ناول کی نثر کمال ہے اور اس کی منظرنگاری خوب تر ہے۔ مکالمے ایسے مزےدار اور برجستہ محاوروں سے پروئے گئے ہیں جیسے تیسوں دن کی نازبرداریاں، بیسوں گھڑی کے چاؤ چونچلے، خواب میں ٹاٹ کا پیوند، ہاتھ کو کنگن آرسی کیا، کہ کئی کئی صفحات و اقتباسات بار بار پڑھنے سے تعلق رکھتے ہیں۔

آج جب کہ ہم اچھی نثر لکھنا تو درکنار پڑھنا بھی بھولتے جا رہے ہیں، تو ایسے میں اس ناول کو پڑھنا نہ صرف اپنے اوپر احسان کرنے جیسا ہے بلکہ اپنی زبان کو اردو کے اصل لطف اصل ذائقے سے ایک بار پھر ہم آہنگ کرنے کے مترادف ہے۔

[Anagha Gopal · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book has the most gentle writing. The narrator sets the scene with a lot of detail and it seems as if conversations and events come up on their own. Things are not pushed, instead many paragraphs end with ellipses with a rich suggestiveness rather than surety. At the same time, there is a lot of control in terms of characters and their feelings. This combination really worked for me and I was more moved by the book than I expected to be at the beginning.

I also liked the structure of the book, which is divided into four parts. At the end of each part I went back to the couplets quoted at the beginning and spent a few minutes puzzling over why they had been chosen. I loved the first three parts of the book and feel that I am biased against the fourth part because I was so invested in Mir Nihal's family that I disliked reading the downward spiral of the last part. It felt set apart from the rest of the book and yet I am surprised that I did not expect it, as the book is often described as a lament.

Ahmed Ali has written about Delhi with such carefulness. I enjoyed all of his descriptivity, even when it came to the weather. And I was often surprised because the pace has this everyday-life quality (I don't know what else to call it, it just felt real!) that things which don't seem very significant at first become important symbols. This may also be why I didn't enjoy the fourth part, where things were just a little more obvious.

As for the characters, I wanted more for Bilqeece and Mehro, and Asghar exasperated me. I loved Begum Waheed and Begum Nihal. And the sections with Mir Nihal flying his pigeons or talking to his friends about alchemy (which is of course, always just out of reach) or walking through the market are just...precious. By the end I even began to enjoy Saeed Hassan's moral tales.

I know there is a lot more to this book, especially in terms of its historical significance. It begins a few decades after 1857 and goes up to the 1920s. And throughout there is a sense of foreboding and loss, feelings which initially sneak up on the characters and reader in small moments and then gradually take over the plot.

[Shatarupa Dhar · Rating 2 out of 5]

Synopsis:
The story is about the Saiyyed family, specifically Mir Nihal and his young adult son Asghar. They live their life in that part of Delhi, an area entirely devoid of the British rule. It is a family drama about their lives as well as those of their relatives and friends.

Review:

Delhi was once a paradise,
Such peace had abided here;
But they have ravished its name and pride,
Remain now only ruins and care.

- Bahadur Shah

First published in 1940, the author's prose reads like poetry, such is the writing that you can feel the surroundings with your five senses.

The smell from the flowers escape, scents a few yards of air around them and dies smothered by the heat.

Heat exudes from the walls and the earth; and the gutters give out a damp stink which comes in greater gusts where they meet a sewer to eject their dirty water into an underground canal.

I could feel the heat (or maybe, it is because I'm reading it in summer!)

Peppered with translated Urdu verses, stories of that era always fascinate me. I had read rave reviews about this piece of literature, but, sadly, it was not to my taste.

Divided into four parts, the book tells us a story about a big family living in what is now the area of Old Delhi. The main characters in the book are Mir Nihal, a 62-year-old male, and his youngest son, Asghar, aged 22. The rest of the characters revolve around these two.

Set in Delhi of 1911, Part I is about a regular family, the Saiyyeds, who have a humdrum existence in the stifling heat, unaffected by the British rule, in the area which is now known as Old Delhi. Mir, the patriarch, is a man of the olden days, not liking the fact that his youngest son is getting influenced by the English way of living. Moreover, he is incensed, when he comes to know of his son's wish to marry Bilqeece (the only woman whose name was mentioned, as in those days, women had no identity of their own, and were rather known by their husbands' names). Bilqeece didn't belong with their exalted selves since Mir's family was descendants of Prophet Mohammad himself, where she was of Mughal blood, daughter of a prostitute. All this talk of mudblood and pure-blood got to me. There are also minor history lessons in the background, about King George V's Coronation, the 1857 mutiny, etc.

Part II is more or less a continuation of Part I with the festival of Eid thrown in.

Part III takes us towards Asghar's Big Fat Indian Wedding. Though Mir accepts the sweet and shy (and meek?) Bilqeece as his daughter-in-law, he still can't spare a glance for her parents. A few months down the line, a daughter is born to Asghar-Bilqeece and his interest in her wanes. The author doesn’t make his character favour a son over a daughter, but I couldn't see any reason, and nor was one provided, as to what drove away Asghar from Bilqeece, the one he had married for love!

Part IV is about diseases, death, the frailty of human life; while the greed of grave-diggers knows no bounds.

The hustle and bustle at the beginning of the book gave way to death and desolation towards the end. Other than the poetic prose, the story was a mashup of heat, magic, pigeons, diseases, deaths, and family politics. While translated verses bring colour to it, the rest of the book is mired in grief.

Now, let me tell you about the main characters. Both Mir and his son Asghar were nothing but dorks. With extra-marital relations, illegitimate kids that did/did not survive, neglecting their spouses (to death) even after marrying them for love, not loving – truly loving – their kids enough, the list goes on! As much as I would like to heap praises upon the writing, I have never ever read such shallow main characters. And here, I wouldn't even blame the wrong era, as it was not the Neanderthal period but the 1900s. So, come on! I couldn't just understand neither Mir nor Asghar's characters.

P.S. I read this book as a part of the #discoveringindiareadathon (Discovering India Readathon), which was held from 1st to 15th August 2018. In its second year now, this challenge has been curated by three wonderful bookstagrammers:
Padmaja (https://www.instagram.com/thebookisht... )
Aritri (https://www.instagram.com/theliquidsu... ), and
Ankita (https://www.instagram.com/theblue_bal... ).
It is a great way of reading as well as discovering the gems of Indian Literature. Just follow the hashtag on Instagram, and the above three accounts, and you are good to go! (I am hoping it makes a comeback next year!)

What is your opinion about this book?

Originally posted on:
https://sassyshaina.wordpress.com/201...

[Ashok Krishna · Rating 5 out of 5]

A classic! ❤️

[Amirtha Shri · Rating 3 out of 5]

'...ruin has descended upon its monuments and buildings, upon its boulevards and by-lanes. Under the tired and dim stars the city looks deathly and dark. The kerosene lamps no doubt light its streets and lanes; but they are not enough, as are not enough the markets and the gardens, to revive the light that flared on the waters of the Jamuna or dwelling in the heart of the city. Like a beaten dog it has curled its tail between its legs, and lies lifeless in the night as an acknowledgment of defeat.'

Ahmed Ali is harpooned with nostalgia for a Mughal style Delhi that is tampered by the colonizing firangis. In the midst of the changing cityscape, he tells a story that predominantly involves patriarchal conception of power, poetry, love, relationships, and professions. If the writer's aim is to induce an unwieldy nausea and steady retching, he has clearly succeeded.

'Asghar had built most beautiful castles around her (Bilqeece's) lovely frame. He ascribed her coldness to shyness and to the atmosphere of restraint which prevails in Indian homes, and went on loving her with an intensity which she did not understand. Yet he was not so much in love with her as with his own self, his own dreams and illusions which she had created in his mind.'

I felt sharply the juxtaposition of deterioration of art and the improvement of humanity in this story, and I am thrown as to why one does not go hand in hand with the other.

[Mehak · Rating 2 out of 5]

This book was about the fall of Delhi and i started it with love. I am sorry to say it disappointed me 😞 It felt like the author had nothing specific in mind while writing it. This book might work for some people but for me it didn't.

[Trv · Rating 2 out of 5]

there are patches of brilliance - particularly the descriptions of the hot, dusty days.

[Danesh Hussain Zaki · Rating 3 out of 5]

Twilight in Delhi is a novel by Ahmed Ali set in the pre-independence era. The main protagonist is Mir Nihal, the head of the household of an upper middle class Muslim family in Delhi. The chapters paint a picture of Delhi of the time, giving a feeling that things were not hurried and moving at a sedate pace. I often felt wanting to get myself transported into that era in order to escape the hustle and bustle of today’s life.

The story revolves around Mir Nihal’s family and Asghar, his youngest son occupies quite a few chapters in the book. Asghar’s marriage is detailed in vivid detail along with his wavering character. The novel also captures the coronation of the British King George V as the Emperor of India, detailing the scene and the mood of the people. Mir Nihal feels saddened as he recalls the atrocities committed by the British after the 1857 revolution. The author calls for freedom from the British through the characters of the novel and this is the highlight of the book. Towards the end of the book, there is also mention of the Home Rule Movement and some more atrocities committed by the British.

The tone of the book for the most part, is a bit sad and as the book draws to a close it does make the reader feel sad too. Overall though, the novel is engrossing and I, despite not being a fan of novels, was able to finish it in a week. The book would interest those who want to know about life in pre-independence Delhi and do not mind viewing it through the eyes of a middle class family.

[Poonam · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book has been on my 'To read' list since two years now. William Dalrymple mentioned this book in 'City of Djinns'. Indeed book is a classic - it chronicles the period when last Mughal king had collapsed, his relations reduced to beggars and maids and coronation of King George is about to take place. It is set in part of Delhi - we now know as old Delhi. It chronicles the lives and times of Nihal family. The pigeon flying days, days when people were still learning to get accustomed to foreign rule. As always, there are apples who kowtow to whoever rules and those who can't breathe in air that is devoid of freedom. The book also reminded me of M. S. Sathyu's 'Garam Hawa' focusing on lives of Balraj Sahni's family. Only a different period.

'Twilight of Delhi' was once published with support from likes of E. M. Forester and Virginia Woolf. I read it as a chronicle of period. As a story is it very sluggish, really nothing to impart other than general sense of pessimism, which is understandable. It is interspersed with lots of poems, alas, none of which appeal to me in English as they would have had they been in Hindi and Urdu. But yes, I can tick off another Delhi classic on my list.

[Suraj Alva · Rating 2 out of 5]

It is said that this book's publication was only made possible by the intervention of E.M. Forster. And I am inclined to think there is good reason for this. No, it has nothing to do with racism/ imperialism or its derivatives but rather the story or lack of one.

The writing is clear, easy to get into and it conveys the setting. But I did not pick up a picture-book. As a novel, it lacks essentially, a compelling story. Making it impossible for me, to read past pg. 100.

[Umesh Kesavan · Rating 3 out of 5]

A poetic semi-historical novel on the Old Delhi. Best passage from the novel is when Mir Nihal's mistress passes away and to add to his worries,he comes back home to find many of his pigeons killed by a cat. The despair and emptiness is captured so evocatively by Ahmed Ali in these pages.

[Eesha Sajid · Rating 3 out of 5]

review to come soon..

[Maganraj Bafna · Rating 1 out of 5]

Waste of time and money

[Rabia · Rating 4 out of 5]

اصل میں کتاب کا نام ہی دلی کی شام ہے۔ شام میں اداسی کا ہی عنصر پایا جاتا ہے۔ آج کے دور میں اچھی نثر نہ تو پڑھنے کو میسر ہے، نہ ہی کوئی لکھ رہا ہے۔ دلی کی شام ایسی کتاب ہے جو میں نے دونوں زبانوں میں پڑھ لی ہے، لیکن جو لطف مجھے اس کے اردو ترجمے میں حاصل ہوا وہ ناقابل بیاں ہیں۔ اس کو پڑھتے وقت مجھے یہ سمجھ نہیں آرہی تھی کہ اس کو انگریزی سے اردو میں ترجمہ کیا گیا ہے یا اردو سے انگریزی میں! نہایت خوبصورت رواں اسلوب اور ہر لفظ ایسے نکھرا نکھرا سا ہے۔

بلقیس جہاں احمد علی صاحب کی بیگم ہیں۔ جنہوں نے یہ کارنامہ سرانجام دیا ہے۔ دلی کی شام ایک مکمل تہذیب و تمدن اور رسم و رواج کی کتاب ہے۔ ایک ایسی دنیا کا منظر نامہ ہے جو اب شاید کہیں بھی نہیں پائی جاتی یا پھر یوں کہیے کہ پرانی تہذیب سے نئی تہذیب کی جانب رواں دواں سفر کی مصوری کا نام ہے.

اس ناول نے ایک بدلتی ہوئی تہذیب جو افسردگی کے دہانے پر ہے اس کو بیان کیا ہے۔ دلی جو کبھی اپنی مثال ہوا کرتی تھی وہ کیسے روزمرہ کی شاموں میں بدلتی رہی اور جدت اختیار کر گئی۔ کتاب کا سفر چونکہ انگریز دور تک محیط ہے تو اس لیے اس میں بادشاہوں کے میلے اور انگریزوں کے جشن شامل ہیں۔ کچھ چیزیں تو ابھی بھی شاید نہیں بدل سکی مجھے ہندوستان کا تو معلوم نہیں لیکن پاکستان میں کبوتر بازی کا شوق اج بھی ویسے ہی قائم دائم ہے اور ویسا ہی اثر رکھتا ہے۔ لوگ کبوتروں کو ویسے ہی پال رہے ہیں، جیسے میر نہال پالا کرتے تھے۔

بلقیس جہان نے اس کتاب کے کرداروں میں گویا دوبارہ سے جان بھردی ہے۔ کردار سازی کے حوالے سے اس میں مرکزی اور ثانوی کرداروں کا ملاپ لاجواب طریقے سے کیا گیا ہے ۔کسی کو بھی پیچھے نہیں رکھا گیا اور کسی کو بھی اگے نہیں کیا گیا۔ مطلب اس کا یہ کہ قاری کو سمجھ بھی اگئی ہے اور مرکزی کردار اور ثانوی کردار بھی اپنی جگہ پر بالکل اچھے طریقے سے بیٹھے ہیں۔

زبان سازی کے لحاظ سے بھی انتہائی احتیاط برتی گئی ہے۔ مکالمے برجستہ اور رواں اور دلی زبان کے برابر عکاسی کر رہے ہیں

اس ناول نے میرے دل کو شدید اداسی سے بھر دیا ہے۔ کسی نے اپنے تبصرے میں خوب لکھا تھا "یہ ناول ان بہت خاص ناولوں میں سے ہے، جو صرف داستان نہیں ہوتے بلکہ ایک تجربہ ہوتے ہیں یہ ناول آپ پڑھتے نہیں ہیں بلکہ اپ پر بیت جاتے ہیں" جیسا کہ میں نے سب سے پہلے بھی یہ کہا کہ شام اداسی کی ہی نمائندگی کرتی ہے۔ ویسے ہی دلی کی شام دلی میں پھیلتی ہوئی اداسی کی نمائندگی کرتی ہے۔

یہ داستان اپنی اپنی سی لگتی ہے۔ وہی حالات جو عین جوانی میں ہمارے تھے۔ کوئی ہم سا نہیں ہے، نہ ہی ہو سکتا ہے۔ مگر اب دیکھو تو سب ایسے ہی تھے۔ میر نہال کا عکس ہمارے بزرگوں سا ہے اور اصغر ہم سا۔ وہی تہذیب کی تبدیلی، وہی حالات بدلنے کے طالب، وہی ماضی کو پلٹ لانے اور حالات کو بدل ڈالنے کا رویہ اور اپنے وطن کی تکلیف کو دل میں بسائے پھرنا۔

دلی کی شام عہد رفتہ کی یاد کو تازہ کرتی ہے۔ دل کو یاسیت اور اداسی سے بڑھتی ہی جا رہی ہے۔ جن لوگوں کو تاریخ سے محبت ہے یا ان کے دل میں بھی میری طرح اچانک سے اداسی ا اترتی ہے ان کو اس خوبصورت کتاب کو لازمی پڑھنا چاہیے۔ جب میں نے یہ کتاب مکمل کی تو یہ کتاب میرے دل کو ایک لازوال سے ہی اداسی سے بھر گئی۔