Review of 'Bread, Cement, Cactus: A Memoir of Belonging and Dislocation' in Cha journal

A new-ish review of my book Bread, Cement, Cactus: A Memoir of Belonging and Dislocation in Cha journal:


'The plurality inherent in the experience of belonging necessitates a perspective that moves beyond national constructs. While borders impose physical limitations, the sense of belonging is irreducible to a singular or monolithic national identity. The persistent enmity between India and Pakistan has repeatedly forced individuals to define their sense of home in terms of national affiliation, leading to existential questioning of their identities. National belonging, however, cannot supplant the deeper sense of belonging, which transcends borders and walls. Before asking “Where is home?”, one must first grapple with the preceding question: “Where do I belong?” The search for home, in and of itself, signifies dislocation—a condition that has become increasingly acute in contemporary India.

Each essay in the book addresses distinct issues, problematising various aspects of life in modern India. Zaidi’s narrative traverses timescapes, weaving historical contexts with contemporary realities. Rather than offering a definitive answer to what home means, her memoir questions what it means to live in today’s India, a reality that proves more daunting than the book’s length might suggest. Another commendable aspect of the work is its brevity, a stark contrast to the trend of overly lengthy memoirs that often lose focus. Zaidi avoids falling into unproductive digressions, instead delivering a concentrated exploration of longing and memory.'

- Fathima M in Cha. Read the full review here: https://chajournal.blog/2025/01/12/bread/

Another nazm by Ali Jawad Zaidi

Kufr hai gar na karoon naghma e asnaam ki baat

Yaad aati hai har ik baat pe ilhaam ki baat

Jhanjhana uthte hain sab taar kisi veena ke

Zehen mein goonjti hai guzri hui shaam ki baat

Ye mohabbat hai koi shakl e riyazi to nahin

Tumne aaghaaz mein kya chhed hi anjaam ki baat

Jalwagah, qatlgah, ahl e mohabbat bhi to hai

Jo na jaane vo kare mehar e lab e baam ki baat

Muskuraate hue alfaaz ki tah tak jaao

Mere ashaar mein hai shorish e ayyaam ki baat

Zindagi jalwa e sadrang hai pehle ki tarah

Ik guzarti hui ru hai gham o aalaam ki baat

Poochho Zaidi se ke bas ek vahi hosh mein tha

Subah ke bas mein kahaan hai ke kahe shaam ki baat

- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 70, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Vocabulary:

Asnaam: Idols, plural of sanam

Ilhaam: Revelation or intuitive inspiration 

Shakl: Face, likeness, condition

Riyazi: Mathematics

Ahl: Able, suitable, or inhabitant

Mehar: Love, mercy or grace

Lab e baam: Corner of the roof; also decadant 

Shorish: Commotion, confusion

Ayyaam: Period, season

Sadrang: Hundreds of colours

Ru: Cause, countenance or surface

Aalaam: Grief, adversity 

Interview in Helter Skelter magazine

From an interview in Helter Skelter magazine:

The first thing that struck me when reading The Comeback is that it feels like it takes place at a distance from where the quote unquote “action” is. I found that such an interesting choice, where we’re hearing about things from a distance, and we’re not on the stage itself. What made you want to set it at that distance? 

That’s interesting you pick up on that. It was not done consciously, but I think one of the reasons I wrote the book at all was that I felt like I was at a distance from everything. I was missing theatre. I wasn’t writing theatre anymore, I wasn’t even watching too much professional theatre. It came out of my own sense of feeling like I was missing out on something and wanting to be at the centre of things, but at the same time, being in a smaller place and recognising that being at the centre of things doesn’t necessarily mean being in a big city. Sometimes you can be in a big city and still have serious F.O.M.O. because all the cool things are happening somewhere else, you know? 

Also, a little bit consciously, I was thinking about our commitments to big cities in the arts. I think it’s unconscious and we can’t always control it, because we go where the money is, and we go where the big industries are. Writers tend to congregate around places where the publishing hub is, [actors] to where the film scene is. But at the same time, I think that we also are then controlled by the big scene. It’s a trade-off, and we trade our own sensibility. The other possibility that is traded in is of actually having control over what you want to do, setting up your own thing in your own social context. So I think it comes a little bit from there, the sense of wanting and not wanting to be in the thick of things.

Link to the full interview: https://helterskelter.in/2025/03/interview-annie-zaidi-the-comeback/

New reviews for the newest book

'Annie Zaidi’s new novel, The Comeback, is a delightful journey into the heart of Indian theatre, with a focus on small-town India...' 
- Jahnavi Acharekar in Frontline magazine

Link to review: https://frontline.thehindu.com/books/theatre-life-review-the-comeback-annie-zaidi/article69385271.ece


'... economical and absorbing. It contains more than a few touches of broad irony, especially when it comes to the business of art and the way eastern and western dramatic traditions are appropriated by the cognoscenti.'
- Sanjay Sipahimalani in The Hindu

Link to review: https://www.thehindu.com/books/book-review-the-comeback-author-annie-zaidi-theatre-films-friendship-betrayal-drama/article69412332.ece


'Through the story of a somewhat successful actor, Zaidi imagines how corrupting any kind of adulation can be. If being ruthless in the guise of ambition is bad, then being conceited as a natural result of one’s success is even worse.'
- Sayari Debnath in Scroll.in

Link: https://scroll.in/article/1080920/the-comeback-annie-zaidis-short-and-sweet-novel-about-second-chances

'Zaidi gently unfurls several interlocked questions about art, friendship, and the perpetually ugly business of making a living. Is "true" or "honest" art necessarily decoupled from the needs of the marketplace? Is the converse true, then, especially in a vastly inequitable country like India? What does "performance" even mean for someone pathologically incapable of being honest with themselves and their closest friends?... This is an accomplished, compulsively readable short novel that may force you to take a good look at your own dormant friendships.'
- Aditya Mani Jha in the Mint

Link to review: https://www.livemint.com/mint-lounge/art-and-culture/book-review-annie-zaidi-the-comeback-friendship-stagecraft-11740722742207.html


'The book grapples a lot with the worlds of theatre, cinema, and television; and through this, triggers contemplation on an interesting hierarchy that's right in front of us but never paid heed to - that of the politics of where a play should be performed.'
- Garima Sadhwani in the Financial Express

Link ti review: https://www.financialexpress.com/life/lifestyle/the-comeback-by-annie-zaidi-review-returning-to-your-roots/3778064/

'At its core, The Comeback is a meditation on lost dreams, fractured relationships, and the possibility of redemption. With a narrative that is both intimate and expansive, Zaidi masterfully captures the emotional turmoil of betrayal, the quiet resilience of those left behind, and the unexpected ways in which life circles back.'

- Anjali Chauhan in the Deccan Herald

Link to review: https://www.deccanherald.com/features/books/meditation-on-broken-bonds-and-lost-dreams-3456598

'The author’s own training in theatre is evident in how the novel is structured. She sketches the backdrop with an enviable economy of words, then allows the characters to take over. The dialogue is crisp, the characters (including the supporting characters) are well-developed, and the plot moves forward at just the right pace.
- Natasha Ramarathnam in Youth ki Awaaz

Link: https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2025/02/a-story-of-friendship-and-betrayal-set-in-the-theatre-world/ 

'What follows, thereafter, is a tale of soured friendships, bruised egos, fluctuating fortunes, starting from scratch, and, of course, drama in every which way. An award-winning dramatist, Zaidi has seen the world of theatre, up-close and up-front, and is clearly partial to it. Her descriptions of rehearsals, the shoe-string budgets, the uncompromising determination to stage quality stuff, make for inspiring reading.

This is a book that many from the world of grease-paint and arc lights will identify with. Others will enjoy a story, well-told.'

- Alpana Chowdhury in The Free Press Journal

Link: https://www.freepressjournal.in/lifestyle/book-review-the-comeback-by-annie-zaidi-a-captivating-story-of-ambition-friendship-and-betrayal

'Asghar’s journey, from brokenness to renewal, is rendered with a sensitivity that avoids clichés, making his evolution not just compelling but deeply affecting. His rediscovery of theatre serves as both an artistic and personal revival, showcasing his resilience. The supporting characters—family, friends, and the theatre troupe—enrich the narrative...'

- Namrata in Kitaab

Link: https://kitaab.org/2025/03/27/book-review-the-comeback-a-novel-by-annie-zaidi/

'The Comeback tells us that relationships can be old and strong, yet, fragile.. It deftly delves into the anxieties of people in the contemporary world and the issues that crop up with fame along with personal egos and social status.'

- Newsbits.in

Link: https://newsbits.in/the-comeback-annie-zaidis-novel-on-friendship-and-a-strange-betrayal-charms-the-readers#google_vignette

A first review for The Comeback in Youth ki Awaaz:

 A first review for The Comeback in Youth ki Awaaz: 

'The entire novel is built on the perceived hierarchy of the performing arts, and the author subtly makes a point about how many of the attempts at decolonisation end up magnifying the same systems they were supposed to overthrow. Through Asghar’s stubborn decision to insist on centring his theatre in his hometown, Baansa, the author pays homage to the theatre, which could flourish in smaller towns but is subsumed in an attempt to reach a wider audience. At least in this novel, Asghar is able to resist the temptation to do so!

The blurb promises that The Comeback “is a story of the price of betrayal, friendship and forgiveness, second chances, and the transformative power of art,” and the book certainly lives up to that promise. In this book, Annie Zaidi demonstrates yet again why she is considered one of the finest Indian novelists writing in English today.'

Link: https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2025/02/a-story-of-friendship-and-betrayal-set-in-the-theatre-world/

An extract from my newest novel

An extract from the first chapter of my newest novel, The Comeback. Read, and if you find yourself enjoying it, do pick up a copy.

There were five missed calls. By the time I got around to calling Asghar back, it was past midnight but he wouldn’t mind, I was certain. We often talked into the wee hours even on weekdays. He never said a word about having to be up at six in the morning and dropping the kids off at school at a quarter to eight. My own brother might say something like, some of us have real jobs, you know? Not Asghar.

I used to get drunk a few times a year and call him, raving and ranting about how I was passed over yet again, the injustice of it, and how I was sick of everyone, mostly myself. Asghar would get me through the night and into the pale dawn of a new day. Me pouring myself cheap gins, him rooting about in the fridge for a midnight snack. He didn’t get fat, no matter how many kebabs and cream rolls he ate, and his eyes never failed to crinkle when I called him a good-looking bastard with his head of curls, hazel eyes, and lanky frame. If he spent any time at all in the gym, he’d have the kind of torso that sells business suits. He could sing and I bet he could dance, too, if he took lessons. I, on the other hand, with my short legs, big nose, and square jaw, would never turn any heads. Yet, I had ended up the actor and Asghar, the bank manager.
It could so easily have been the other way around. Asghar had a better grip on literature and stagecraft. I had a better head for math. But then, I cleared high school with less than 80 per cent marks and all hopes of getting into engineering college died. Not that I especially minded. I didn’t particularly want to be an engineer, or, for that matter, a banker. Because my own father was a banker, I had signed up for a Bachelor’s in commerce but my first week on campus, I ran into Asghar and I never attended a lecture again. Asghar and his group of friends had founded an undergraduate theatre club in Baansa and I had started acting only because he picked me to play the lead in the club’s first production. That’s all I had been trying to say in the Buzz interview that set off a storm and blew all our boats off course.

For over fifteen years, I had hung about on the fringes of Bollywood. While I waited for my big break, I did whatever jobs came to hand. Plays, theatre lighting, bit parts on television, radio jingles, audiobooks. Fifteen long years of auditioning for meaty roles but, zilch. Then a film producer happened to listen to a Hindi novel that I had narrated. He didn’t just buy the adaptation rights, he insisted I play the narrator’s role in the film. This character was supposed to be an unattractive guy, fortyish, and with a mean streak, and the producer thought that I looked and sounded the part. The film was shot on a low budget. I was paid peanuts but the day I was invited to see the rough cut, I knew, from now on, things were going to be different for me. And they were.

The week the film released in theatres, Buzz called about doing a profile. Now, a profile is already different from merely being interviewed. First, the magazine sent a photographer who shot my face with some love, bringing light to its creases, gouging the hollows under my eyes even deeper. There I sat, holding a book under a lamp, cast into shadows that made me look like a man of obscure and dangerous origins. There I was again, leaning against a balcony railing in a rumpled night suit. Unwashed, unbrushed, almost sexy.

Then a journalist came over to interview me. She insisted on visiting me at home because, she said, she was looking for texture. So I made her a cup of tea and talked about growing up in a small town called Baansa, north of Lucknow but south of Bareilly. How I’d cut classes to meet girls, how swirls of dust rose up in the first week of June and how they filled your nostrils and throat until you felt as if you’d choke to death, and how December brought a sort of rolling fog that blinded you and made you jump at the sound of footsteps so that you started to believe in ghosts. That sort of thing.

This chapter was published here: https://scroll.in/article/1078778/by-annie-zaidi-devastated-by-betrayal-asghar-retreats-to-his-hometown-and-rediscovers-theatre

Against the Calculus of Skin

I have a new essay in Ananke magazine's 10th anniversary special edition. My essay is titled 'Against the Calculus of Skin'. I was thinking of how much of a woman's existence is defined by her body - how much skin is (in)visible, and how cultural notions of attractive/acceptable intersect with politics in our times. A brief extract from it, here: 

I am tired of skin. I am tired of the way women’s skin seem to swallow up their kidneys, aortas, phalanges. For all the space taken up by skin in public discourse, it is almost as if these other bits of us had nothing to do with us being women.

Skin. The largest and most vulnerable organ in the body. It protects us with no protection of its own. At one time in history, humans began to cover up skin with more layers. Some scientists suggest it was during the first iceage, 180,000 years ago. Clothing brought us protection from cold, but also sun and rain, from insect bites and bruising gravel. Men needed it as much as women did. But ever since people began to read gendered meanings into clothing, it has begun to mess with our sense of justice. We make assumptions about how others, especially women, deserve to be treated based on what part of her skin can be espied – how low a saree hangs on her hips, how high the skirt, whether or not her ears and neck are covered – at what time of day. And while I am tired of men who look at a woman’s knees and jump to the conclusion that she desires sexual congress, I am thoroughly sick of women who look at another woman in a bikini and call her a prostitute.

Those who say such things surely know in their hearts that they’re wrong. They say those things anyway because, if a woman is neither within grasp nor concerned about how she’s viewed, they feel compelled to punish her. Some punish with rape, others by perpetuating a moral binary whereby women are split into whore/saint. And I am very, very tired of women rationing out their allyship based on skin so that some of us are cast to the wolves of harassment and bigotry.

Reader, I say, ‘we’, although I want to exclude myself from this reckoning. Still, I say ‘we’ because so many women fall prey to one form of categorical splitting or the other. If it’s not the whore/saint binary, it’s the oppressed/liberated one. Can white women in France or Denmark possibly believe that a woman who refuses to show her face does not deserve to eat? Do Indian women across the spectrum of religious affiliation (or even atheists) truly think that a woman who keeps her neck and chest covered, cannot achieve financial autonomy? Are you that brown woman who refuses to accept that there might be a kind of freedom in not showing off your legs or your cleavage in a culture that demands it of you? Do you sit around calculating how much of an education, what jobs, how much of a political voice should be allowed to a woman based on what percentage of her skin is visible? Hands and arms, elbow down, okay? Ankles, okay? Shoulders, great? Waist, mandatory reveal?

I am sick of this calculus. The expectation of majoritarian assimilation often masks a wilful blindness towards the human struggle to balance individual circumstance and choice against cultural norms, and nowhere is this blindness more insistently inscribed than upon the skins of women. Yet, the meanings we attach to women’s decisions to clothe themselves in particular ways almost always turn out to be wrong if only we would bother to look closer. An image that brought me up short recently was a representation of St Hild of Whitby in the Durham Cathedral. At first glance, I thought it was it a painting of an Iranian or South Asian woman in a chador. Indeed, but for the saint’s name written on the painting, anyone would have thought so. I found myself wondering how people might be impacted by the painting with or without the name. How does our response change, knowing that it is not a present-day Muslim woman, but a medieval Christian saint who dressed that way? Would the average white woman looking at that painting think of St Hild as oppressed or subservient to any mortal man? 

You can read the whole issue here: https://issuu.com/anankemag/docs/ananke_10th_29_

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra (ghazal by Ali Jawad Zaidi)

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra
Ik-ik lamhe par hashr ka gumaan guzra

Nok e khaar par chalna kal humin ko tha maloom
Aaj khaarzaaron se poora kaarwaan guzra

Zikr doston ka tha doston ki mehfil thi
Dushmanon ko kya kahiye dost ko garaan guzra

Jab firaq aa pahuncha bhoolne ki manzil tak
Qafila ummeedon ka dil mein nagahaan guzra

Tohfa e judaai tha ashk e surmaye e aalooda
Main jo ro pada aakhir mujhko kya gumaan guzra

Bheek humne maangi thi zeest se tabassum ki
Vo bhi ik ravaan lamha jaane kab kahaan guzra

Khatm hai safar apna, ab kahein to kya Zaidi
Kaise sakht dushman par dost ka gumaan guzra

- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 48, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Vocabulary:

Gumaan: suspicion, false belief

Khaarzaar: thornfields

Garaan: dear/costly

Nagahaan: unforeseen

Alooda: polluted/soiled

Some more reviews of Prelude to a Riot

Was very pleasantly surprised to find some new(er?) reviews of my novel Prelude to a Riot. 

One in Countercurrents says: 'Zaidi’s withholding of subterranean dark forces which “it” can unleash with lightning speed and unassailable strength is a narrative masterstroke.'

Link to review: https://countercurrents.org/2021/07/prelude-to-a-riot/

Another in Writersmelon: https://writersmelon.com/book-review-prelude-to-a-riot/

And one more in DURA (the Dundee University Review of the Arts). Glad to see it (although it is mistaken in one thing; it is not the Hindu girl but the Muslim girl, Fareeda, who is tricked/forced into eating pork). Link to review: https://dura-dundee.org.uk/2021/01/15/prelude-to-a-riot/

Link to buy: https://www.thedogearsbookshop.com/shop/books/fiction/historical-fiction/prelude-to-a-riot-hb/

Or, if you must, buy off Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Prelude-Riot-Annie-Zaidi/dp/9388292812

Two 4-line poems by Ali Jawad Zaidi

Dil oob gaya khamosh rahte rahte

Dum ghutne laga ranj sahte sahte

Ik jaam idhar, haath badha kar saaqi

Aghyaar se koi baat kahte kahte 

- Ali Jawad Zaidi 

page 30 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

                    *

Chaak e sar damaan e khiza milta hai

Mausam naye mausam se gale milta hai

Aur aisi fizayein, hai ye aalam apna

Ik chot si lagti hai jo gul khilta hai.

- Ali Jawad Zaidi 

page 45 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'

Making an attempt to translate one of my favourite Hindi poets, Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'.


When I found no other path to liberation
I have sat down to write

I want to write 'tree'
Though I know that to write is to become tree
I want to write 'water'

'Man' 'Man' - I want to write
A child's hand
A woman's face
With all my strength
I want to hurl words at man
Though I know nothing will come of it
On a bustling street, I want to hear the explosion
Of word colliding with man

Though I know nothing comes of writing
I want to write.

-

Original poem in Hindi


मुक्ति का जब कोई रास्ता नहीं मिला
मैं लिखने बैठ गया हूँ

मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ 'पेड़'
यह जानते हुए कि लिखना पेड़ हो जाना है
मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ 'पानी'

'आदमी' 'आदमी' - मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ
एक बच्चे का हाथ
एक स्त्री का चेहरा
मैं पूरी ताकत के साथ
शब्दों को फेंकना चाहता हूँ आदमी की तरफ
यह जानते हुए कि आदमी का कुछ नहीं होगा
मैं भरी सड़क पर सुनना चाहता हूँ वह धमाका
जो शब्द और आदमी की टक्कर से पैदा होता है

यह जानते हुए कि लिखने से कुछ नहीं होगा
मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ।

- Kedarnath Singh

[Translation: Annie Zaidi]

MA as fantasy

Julia Kristeva has written of consecrated motherhood as a fantasy of lost territory that is nurtured by all adults. In the religious sphere, we see it in the form of a Mother Goddess or as Mother Mary, while in culture, we see it as the ordinary-seeming Ma who holds her son’s heart in her fist. In politics too, it emerges as the motherland, although politicians also tap into the power of consecrated motherhood when they bring their flesh-and-blood mothers into political discourse. We saw this most recently when Kamala Harris described her mother as an immigrant in the US – “a brown woman with an accent” who was tough, courageous, and yet, never lost her cool.

What Harris doesn’t quite say is that her mother, being human, is fallible. Instead, she sticks with the fantasy Ma – an unfailing, temperate presence who compensates for other lacking, including an absent or distant father...

Interestingly, the Hindi screen Ma looms larger if she is widowed, divorced or has been abandoned by the father. In this form, she is nearer to the primal Mother – the unrivalled creator and provider whose primacy cannot be challenged. In this way, she becomes an article of faith rather than a flesh and blood woman. The tricky part, of course, is that articles of faith never have any longings of their own. In Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution, Adrienne Rich writes that it is only as mothers that women’s bodies are seen as “beneficent, sacred, pure, asexual, nourishing”. In order to be deemed worthy, a woman must be seen as maternal, or at least potentially maternal, and these ideas still play out in public discourse.

Read the full article here: https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/columns/kamala-harris-salim-javed-mother-9539227/

Of love as fodder for fiction and a self-concious formal experiment

Is a novel a beautiful thing? What of a novel that is presented as an “outline” for the first draft of a novel that the narrator intends to write? Should the reader approach it as a finished aesthetic product or should it be taken for what it claims to be: a loose skein of ideas and character notes? Rahman Abbas’ On the Other Side is a tricky novel to read partly because it poses these questions even as it sidesteps genre conventions through the device of a narrator who claims to be working on a “bulky novel” based on the diaries of his deceased protagonist, the novelist-teacher Abdus-Salam.

Abdus-Salam is not necessarily a likeable or an admirable character, and the unnamed narrator does not tell us why he (or she) cares about him or his legacy. In many respects, Abdus-Salam is a fairly ordinary man. He chews a spiced-up tobacco mix and teaches at a suburban school while harbouring creative ambitions. While he has complex and conflicting thoughts about religion, in this, too, he is not very different from most people. He veers between opting in occasionally (going to the mosque once in a while, if only out of long-standing habit), to claiming that “God is everyone’s shield”, to doubting god privately even as he fears divine retribution in moments of crisis, such as illness. His amorous adventures, however, do make him an exceptional protagonist, if only because of how long the list of his paramours is, and how he uses them as fodder for fiction.

Read the full review in Frontline magazine: https://frontline.thehindu.com/books/rahman-abbas-on-the-other-side-indian-translated-fiction-experimental-writing-review/article68553415.ece

Against the Death of Dream (in Wasafiri, 40th anniversary issue, Autumn 2024)

I've written my first essay for the lastest issue of Wasafiri, themed Futurisms. Here's a very short extract from my essay, Against the Death of Dream: 

One of the most dangerous things, Pash warned, is the clock that moves on your wrist but not in your eyes. For years I wondered at this image of a stopped clock in the reader’s eye, and the way the poet juxtaposes frozen time against water frozen inside eyes. (Sabse khatarnaak vo aankh hoti hai/jo sab dekhti hui bhi jami barf hoti hai). If to dream is to have a vision for the future, then the death of dream is to accept that the present moment is all of time, and that we must lose all hope for a safer, more loving, more leisurely time. Read in this light, I would argue that the danger is not restricted only to the loss of hopeful dreams; it is just as dangerous to lose our nightmares.

In Radical Hope, philosopher-psychoanalyst Jonathan Lear writes that anxiety can be a realistic response to the world, which suggests that anxiety-induced dreams serve to alert us to individual and collective threats. If we know how to ‘read’ our nightmares, we may find that they serve as timely warnings. In my own experience, I find nightmares to be a useful aid in reconnecting with my instinctive ‘self’. Last year, I had woken up from a miserable dream...

Please read the rest of the essay in the lastest issue of Wasafiri (119, 40th anniversary issue, Autumn 2024).

Annie Zaidi

Ye na samjho matwalo

One of Ali Jawad Zaidi's Urdu ghazals, likely written soon after India won independence: 

Ye na samjho matwalo! Kaun ab sataayega?

Haar maan li dukh ne, sukh to aazmaayega

Bekasi ke mele mein jo bhi gaahak aayega

Jholoyaa.n to bhar lega, khud bhi lut ke jayega

Dhoop mein naha legi jab asaadh ki dharti

Zarre-zarre mein saawan phir se kunmunaayega

Har guzarte lamhe par muhar lag chuki lekin

Laakh bhool jayega, phir bhi yaad aayega

Humne kitne afsaane likh ke chaak chaak kar daale

Waqt apna afsaana, hum ko kya sunaayega!

Baar-baar mud-mud kar yoon na dekh, deewane

Kaun raah dekhega, kaun phir bulaayega

Aankh kyun ladaate ho, dopahar ke sooraj se

Shaam ke dhundhalke mein, khud ye milne aayega

Za'm khud-parasti  mein aaj ka naya insaa.n

Zindagi ki mayyat se butkada sajaayega 

Fard-fard tanha hai, kul samaaj tanha hai

Main jo chup rahoon Zaidi, kaun gungunaayega? 

      [From the collection, Nazeem-e-dasht-e-Arzoo]

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔

I've tried my hand at translating a poem from English into Urdu. The poem is 'I find Faiz Blowing on his Saucer of Tea' by Imtiaz Dharkar. You'll find the same text in Nagri letters and Naskh. 

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔

 طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے 

پڑوس کی دکان میں. 

فیض چچا، میں نے کہا، اپنا پرانا محلہ پہچان میں نہیں آتا۔

مکان مالک نے کرایہ بڑھا دیا  

اور جن لوگوں کو ہم جانتے تھے، سب چلے گئے۔

اکال میں اجڑنے کو آپ کا باغ چھوڑ آئے۔

کسی نے آپ کی کتابیں طاق سے اتاریں  

اور دوبارہ چھاپ دیں الفاظ بغیر۔  

ساری کوئلیں اٹھا لی گئیں اور پنجروں میں بند کر دی گئیں۔

وہ گلوکار جو آپ کے نغمے گایا کرتے تھے  

سامعین کے سامنے ہی ان کے گلے دبا دیے گئے۔

فیض نے طشتری اٹھا لی اور چائے پی۔  

جب دل بھر جائے، وہ زمین کا چہرہ

چیر دیتا ہے۔

تم اسے دکھ کہتی ہو،  

میں اسے امید کا ایک پھول۔

انہوں نے کہا، مجھے ایسا لگا مگر  

شاید مجھ سے سننے میں کوئی غلطی ہوئی ہو۔

ہو سکتا ہے ترجمے میں ان کے الفاظ  

الٹے ہو گئے ہوں۔

- Imtiaz Dharkar/Tr. Annie Zaidi

Many thanks to Saif Mahmood for discussion on a couple of tricky lines, and for correcting any mistakes he found in my Urdu spellings.

तश्तरी में चाय को फूंक मारते, मुझे फ़ैज़ मिल गए

पड़ोस की दुकान में

फ़ैज़ चचा, मैंने कहा,अपना पुराना मोहल्ला पहचान में नहीं आता

मकान मालिक ने किराया बढ़ा दिया

और जिन लोगों को हम जानते थे, सब चले गए

अकाल में उजड़ने को आपका बाग़ छोड़ आए

किसी ने आपकी किताबें ताक़ से उतारीं 

और दोबारा छाप दीं अल्फाज़  बग़ैर 

सारी कोइलें उठा ली गईं और पिंजरों में डाल दी गईं

जो गुलुकार आपके नग़मे गाया करते थे 

सामाइन के सामने ही उनके गले दबा दिए गए 

फ़ैज़ ने तश्तरी उठा ली और चाय पी

जब दिल भरा हो, वो ज़मीन का चेहरा 

चीर देता है 

तुम इसे दुःख कहती हो

मैं इसे उम्मीद का एक फूल

उन्होंने कहा, मुझे ऐसा लगा मगर

शायद मुझसे सुनने में गलती हुई हो

हो सकता है तर्जुमे में उनके अल्फाज़ 

उल्टे हो गए हों ।

[From Imtiaz Dharkar's 'Shadow Reader', page 79]

'Mohabbat karti aurat'

I took the liberty of doing an Urdu translation of Manglesh Dabral's Hindi poem 'Prem karti stree'. It didn't take much translation to be honest. The basic grammer and syntax is the same in Hindi/Urdu and Dabral's poetic idiom is rooted in the sort of everyday Hindi that is quite similar to everyday Urdu. This poem in particular had very few words that needed translation. I have only changed a few words, substituting everyday Urdu words that are also common to Hindi.

محبت  کرتی عورت دیکھتی ہے

ایک خواب  روز 

جاگنے پر سوچتی ہے کیا تھا وہ 

نکالنے بیٹھتی ہے معنی  

دکھتی ہیں اسکو عام فہم چیزیں 

کوئی ریتیلی جگہ 

لگاتار بہتا نل 

اسکا گھر بکھرا ہوا 

دیکھتی ہے کچھ ہے جو نظر نہیں آتا  

کئی بار دیکھنے کے بعد 

محبت  کرتی عورت  

یقین نہیں کرتی کسی کا 

کنگھا گرا دیتی ہے 

آئنے میں نہیں دیکھتی خود کو 

سوچتی ہے میں ایسے ہی ہوں ٹھیک 

اس کی سہیلیاں ایک ایک کر

اسے چھوڑ کر چلی جاتی ہیں 

دھوپ اسکے پاس آیے بنا نکل جاتی ہے 

   ہوا اسکے بال پریشان کیے بنا بہتی ہے 

اسکے کھاتے  بنا ہو جاتا ہے کھانا ختم 

محبت کرتی عورت 

ٹھگی جاتی ہے روز 

اسکو پتا نہیں چلتا باہر کیا ہو رہا ہے 

کون ٹھگ رہا ہے کون ہے بدکار  

پتا نہیں چلتا کہاں سے شروع ہوئی کہانی 

دنیا کو سمجھتی ہے وہ  

گود میں بیٹھا ہوا بچہ 

نکل جاتی ہے اکیلی سڑک پر 

دیکھتی ہے کتنا بڑا پھیلا شہر 

سوچتی ہے میں رہ لون گی یہیں کہیں 

- منگلیش ڈبرال  

In Roman font:

Mohabbat karti aurat dekhti hai

ek khwaab roz

Jaagne par sochti hai kya tha vo?

Nikaalne baith'ti hai maa'ni 

Dikhti hain use aam-fahm cheezain 

Koi reyteeli jagah

Lagataar behta nal

Uska ghar bikhra hua 

Dekhti hai kuch hai jo nazar nahin aata

kayi baar dekhne ke baad 

Mohabbat karti aurat

yaqeen nahin karti kisi ka 

Kangha gira deti hai

Aaine mein nahin dekhti khud ko

Sochti hai main aise hi hoon theek

Uski saheliyaan ek-ek kar

usey chhod kar chali jaati hain

Dhoop uske paas aaye bina nikal jaati hai

Hava uske baal bikhraaye bina behti hai

Uske khaaye bina ho jaata hai khana khatm

Mohabbat karti aurat

tthagi jaati hai roz

Usko pata nahin chalta baahar kya ho raha hai

kaun thag raha hai kaun hai badkaar

Pata nahin chalta kahaan se shuru hui kahaani

Duniya ko samajhti hai vo

go'd mein baitha hua bachcha

Nikal jaati hai akeli sadak par

Dekhti hai kitna bada phaila shehr

Sochti hai main reh loongi yahin kahin. 

- Manglesh Dabral 

(Urdu rendition of his Hindi poem 'Prem Karti Stree'. The original can be found here: https://www.hindwi.org/kavita/prem-karti-istri-manglesh-dabral-kavita)

An Ordinary Woman and Twelve Ordinary Men

CAN A WOMAN tell the unvarnished truth about what happened to her? This is the central question at the heart of Anand Ekarshi’s Aattam (The Play), the 2023 Malayalam film that was recently adjudged the best film at the 47th edition of the Kerala Film Critics Awards.

The film takes its structure from the iconic Twelve Angry Men (1954), a teleplay that has inspired multiple films since, including the Hindi film Ek Ruka Hua Faisla (1986). A bunch of men weigh in on what appears at first to be a matter of outright criminality, and must decide the fate of the accused.

However, what makes the creative twist in Aattam particularly successful is that it has freed the “judgement” from legal institutional frameworks and moved it into a creative workplace. The “case” in question is sexual harassment. Anjali (Zarin Shihab), the lone female member of a small drama company, has been molested and the other members must decide whether or not her alleged abuser should continue working with them.

I wrote this short essay about Aattam, Indian movies and representation of sexual harassment, especially at  the workplace. My own headline for it was: 'An Ordinary Woman and Twelve Ordinary Men'. 

Read it the rest of it here: https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/columns/aattam-frames-woman-loneliness-sexual-harassment-9343881/lite/ 

Look out for 'Two Way Street'

Very pleased to hear that 'Two Way Street,' a short film I wrote has been named by Platform magazine as one of the shorts to look out for in 2024. Do look out for it at festivals, screenings or wherever it might be available to watch. 

Here's what they say about the film: 

As a versatile artist encompassing roles as a screenwriter, filmmaker, actor, and stage lighting designer, Asmit has made a significant mark in the film industry. His films have been featured at prestigious festivals such as MAMI, IFFLA, IDSFFK, SASFF, and many others. His recent short film, Two Way Street, garnered acclaim by winning the V Shantaram Golden Award for Direction at the South Asian Short Film Fest. Following its success as a winner at the Best of India Short Film Festival, the film qualified for the Academy Awards 2024. In this compelling narrative, an ordinary taxi ride transforms into a battleground when the Taxi Driver refuses to enter a particular lane. The passenger, in response, decides not to disembark until reaching his destination. The story unfolds as a poignant projection of the taxi driver's inherent bias against a specific community and the passenger's determination not to become a victim of discrimination.

Here's a link to the article: https://www.platform-mag.com/film/short-films-to-watch-in-2024.html

Three new poems in Usawa

Three new poems in Usawa Literary Review's tenth edition (Jan 2024) . One of them, below. 

There was a country we could have been

 

There was a country we could have been

together – utterly shapeless

and well past reform

 

A laughing country with as many sides

as a well-cut diamond – tumbling valleys

of rusty lakes, rivers above,

seas to the right and left

 

The world would look and lust

for this land glistening emerald and sapphire

sitting in the sun rocking

on its heels with night's cool laughter –

How they'd hate us and how they'd long

for our warmth, our knowing, our winking

and getting by

 

If the mist came down real thick

some morning with the blinding rain

with the mountains plush and forest thick

and the bears standing guard

while everyone was busy fighting –

could we be our country yet?

*

 (c) Annie Zaidi

Link to three of my poems in Usawa: https://www.usawa.in/issue-10/poetry-10/there-was-a-country-we-could-have-been-and-other-poems-by-annie-zaidi/