Jalalabad – Borderless

Naulakhi Kothi: A Saga by Ali Akbar Natiq

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Naulakhi Kothi

Author: Ali Akbar Natiq (Written originally in Urdu)

Translator: Naima Rashid

Publisher: Penguin Random House India

The recent interest of big publishing houses in India venturing to bring out translated texts from various regional languages and bhasha[1] literatures into English is adding not only richness to the publishing arena but is also spreading the awareness of the existence of so many classic Indian texts which were inaccessible to the layman reader due to their inability to read the language used by the author. This has not only increased pan-Indian readership but spread the richness of Indian literature worldwide.

The novel, Naulakhi Kothi[2], containing 56 chapters and 464 pages, was written originally in Urdu by Ali Akbar Natiq, and has been translated into English by Naima Rashid. It contains a wide historical and meticulous geographical canvas in the micro-level as well as the sweeping narrative of rural Punjab that begins in British India and goes on in the years leading up to the Partition and ends around the nineteen-eighties. It brings us face to face with the lived culture of this place. The days of ordinary people of the entire rural Punjab region going about their business also come alive before us.

The wide canvas of Naulakhi Kothi offers more or less three simultaneous perspectives – that of the feud in the villages of Punjab between the Muslims and the Sikhs and the role of the British administrators who, in trying to maintain law and order in the region, also have their own axe to grind. In the sprawling canvas of characters, in the intricate, multi-layered world that Natiq conjures, with subtext, backstory and arcs, it seems as if we are literally living in the world and conversing daily with its contours.

The first chapter aptly titled “Homecoming” tells us the story of one of the protagonists of the novel, the Britisher, William, who after eight long years in England was returning to Hindustan, the land he had spent his childhood, to work as the newly appointed assistant commissioner of Jalalabad in eastern Punjab. He dreamt of returning ‘home’ to the idyllic Naulakhi Kothi, the titular bungalow built by his grandfather. The manner in which the Britishers had been spoilt silly in Hindustan made many families live like Nawabs and they lived a class apart – often more powerful than the kings who ruled the country. Throughout the novel William is warned by the hardened commissioner Hailey that his behaviour and softness towards the locals does not bode well for any British officer living in Hindustan. His nature was said to display “signs of a certain rebellion and a proclivity towards a poetic bent of mind”. He was reminded that the British were there to rule these lands and not to romance them. He was asked to maintain a distance between the ruler and the ruled and in dispensing justice, distance himself from the wrongdoer and the wronged.

For the four years he was posted in Jalalabad, William took many radical steps. He toiled so diligently, putting his heart and soul in his work that he managed to change the entire face of the region. The standard of education alone had surpassed that in all other tehsils[3] of Punjab. He also had a new canal and several other small streams built. As a result of these, there was a plentiful supply of water across the tehsil, and an abundant produce of wheat, rice, and maize crops; a general well-being began to show on people’s faces. Because of his connections he could prevent his transfer from the place for some time but could not do so for ever. Through many twists and turns of events, after frequent transfers, and after the war broke out, he realised there was a grand conspiracy in which everyone had teamed up against him – the Hindus, the Muslims and the British. By the end of the novel, we find a decrepit old man who, shorn of his former British glory and power, living a lonely life in Naulakhi Kothi when his wife and children left him and went back to England. But soon he was even thrown out of that place to settle in one of the nehri kothis [4]nearby, and in the end, he died like a pauper with no one to even remember him. So much for his love for Hindustan!

The next sub-plot centres around Maulavi Karamat who for the past thirty years, had been the head imam of the small village mosque. The poor people of the village who could barely make ends meet, could not pay him a salary but instead supplied him with rotis daily which were religiously collected every day by his son Fazal Din. Whatever Maulavi Karamat had learnt from his father, Ahmed Din, and even that which he didn’t fully know, he used to transfer it all to Fazal Din, for the survival of their family rested with him. The fortunes of this man took a good turn when he was appointed by William to become the head munshi in Jalalabad and teach Urdu, Arabic and Persian to young children. This move was basically undertaken to do away with the disparity and poor percentage of Muslim students attending the government schools. From then on, we find Maulavi’s fortunes rising and gradually his son Fazal Din turns into a mature and sensible sarkari babu[5]. After two years of working at the Governor House, Fazal Din had enough to buy his own land and build a house. Post Partition, Fazal Din’s work increased considerably and with adequate means to prepare false property documents, he got enmeshed in corruption and amassed a great amount of wealth. His desire to learn more English and to go to Britain to rise above his class is an example often found among those who worked in the administrative service of the government.

The other most significant strand in the narrative is of course the constant enmity between the Muslims and the Sikhs. We are given the story of Sher Haidar who was the zamindar of a certain area being killed by Sardar Sauda Singh and his men — not in a clandestine way, but in an open, offensive manner. Ghulam Haidar, the son of Sher Haidar was entrusted by his subjects and relatives who pledged their loyalty to the new heir to take revenge of the killing and after a lot of incidents, looting, and fighting that ensues between the two rival religious groups, their fortunes kept fluctuating while the ordinary villagers continue suffering. The Sikh leader who was accused of murder remains free and he showed his prowess by moving around with arms in the open. Detailed descriptions of attack and counterattacks between the warring groups are narrated meticulously and one becomes aware of the looting, arson and treachery that prevailed in the villages of Punjab at that time.

It is difficult do justice to the vast canvas of storyline that Natiq so brilliantly interweaves throughout the novel in this review. The problems the British rulers faced during the world war, the changing equations in the country with the Quit India Movement, Jinnah’s policy for an independent Pakistan, the role of the Muslim League, the silent exodus of the British leaving Hindustan, the idea of Partition that had silently started ripping the population apart, the resultant flow of refugees after the Partition was officially declared, the exodus – all these find detailed mention in the narrative as well.

Ali Akbar Natiq’s unique narrative style and the equally brilliant translation by Naima Rashid that stays close to the Urdu text preserving the flavour of Urdu sprinkled with regional dialect is to be really appreciated. There are no footnotes or glossaries but the context holds enough clues for flow of the narrative. In the translator’s note at the beginning, Rashid mentions that in the creative choices she has made. She favoured the mood and tone of the original – “If it’s bitingly sarcastic or insulting in the original, I’ve attempted to recreate the same tone and tailored the other choices accordingly.” Throughout the novel the very detailed descriptions of characters and incidents create a great visual impact upon the reader, and we see the sequences like we do in films. Natiq has managed to cover such a wide canvas of the storyline with dexterity by juxtaposing chapters in such a way that they unfold like a cinematic reel in front of our eyes. Thus, despite its length, this novel with its social, political, religious, historical, and geographical issues covering a wide cross-section of the Punjab region remains a page-turner and is strongly recommended for all classes of reader alike.

[1] Language, referring to different languages of India

[2] Translates to House of nine lakhs(ninety thousand)

[3] Subdistricts

[4] Houses by the river

[5] Government officer

Somdatta Mandal, critic, academic, and translator is a former professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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Red Sky Over Kabul

Title: Red Sky Over Kabul: A Memoir of a Father and Son in Afghanistan

Authors: Baryalai Popalzai and Kevin McLean

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

One

Kabul, Afghanistan, 4 October 1980

On a breezy October day, a kite-flying day, my cousin Kader surprised me with a visit. He looked much older than I remembered, his hair thinner, his once smooth face now lined with worry. He was a well-known political writer who had worked for the Ministry of Education before the Spring Revolution. He was also known for his short stories.

For generations, his family had been one of the most important families in Kabul. Kader looked at me with his deep-set black eyes and spoke in a frantic voice, ‘Bar, you must leave immediately. The National Security and Russian soldiers are now searching house to house. They’ve already searched half of your neighbourhood and they won’t stop. You must come to my house immediately. It’s the only place that will be safe for you now.’

I did not know what to think. Things were so bad now, I wondered if I could trust my own cousin. He could have given in to the Communists; or he could be telling me this because they were holding someone in his family hostage.

I hated the Russians for making me doubt him, and I hated myself for doubting him.

‘Tashakor (Thank you). I’ll be okay,’ I assured him. ‘I have a hiding place that the National Security will never find.’

But he was adamant. ‘You must come to my house. It’s the only place that will be safe for you now.’

‘I need time to think,’ I said, deflecting his request.

‘There’s no time!’ he said.

I told him, ‘I have to think of my wife and children, my father and mother. I’m the only one who can take care of them.’

‘You won’t be much use to them dead,’ he said.

‘That is true, Kader. But before I leave my family and go to your house, I must speak with my father.’

Kader just sighed. ‘God be with you.’

That night I lay on the floor, unable to sleep. I could hear the National Security guards in the street outside my house shouting at people, ‘What is the password for tonight?’ If there was no response, there would be the sound of gunfire and I would flinch as if the bullet had ripped through me.

As soon as the sun appeared, I went up to my father’s bedroom where he spent most of his time since losing his leg years before. I told him about Kader’s visit. ‘Things have changed,’ I said. ‘Every house is being searched now. They will even search the general’s house. I can no longer hide from these crazy people.’

‘So, you think you should go stay with Kader?’ Baba asked.

‘We don’t know who’s honest anymore,’ I replied. Then the words I had dreaded saying for so long escaped my lips.

‘The time has come for me to leave.’

Baba didn’t say anything at first. This unsettled me because my father was never at a loss for words. When he finally did speak, his voice was weak. ‘I was afraid it might come to this,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken with Abbas. He agreed that when the time comes, he would go with you. I will get word to him. You can leave tomorrow at first light.’

When I told my mother, who I called Babu, her body shuddered, but her lips were silent. My mother had a habit of never sitting still when she was nervous. First, she paced back and forth in the room. Then she walked from one room to the other. Then from one house in our compound to another.

She returned to our living room and continued pacing back and forth until I could take it no longer.

‘Sit!’ I told her. But she never sat. My wife Afsana was asleep in another room with our two children. I couldn’t find the tongue to tell her. But I knew I must.

‘Afsana?’ I called, waking her.

‘Baleh? (Yes?)’

‘It’s not safe for me here anymore…I must leave tomorrow.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, panic rising in her voice.

‘Kader came to see me. Things have become too dangerous now. Abbas is coming for me in the morning. He’ll make sure I get out safely. I’ll send for you and the children as soon as I can.’

A painful silence followed. Afsana started to speak, but stopped. She knew there was nothing she could say or do now. We both lay awake all night.

As dawn approached, I went to say goodbye to my father.

He was sitting up in bed staring at nothing, his books and newspaper lying next to him, unread.

‘Ah, the time has come,’ he said. He seemed to be searching for something else to say; some last words of wisdom, some final advice from father to son. When he finally spoke, he spoke slowly, the words sticking in his throat, ‘Take care of yourself.’

I could not do this. ‘I won’t leave without taking you and Babu. I can’t leave without Afsana and the children,’ I said.

‘We’ll all go together!’

He was silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘Nay, you know that’s not possible,’ he said.

‘I can get friends to help us. They can take all your things. We’ll go to Jalalabad. Everything will be all right.’

‘Nay, Bar. It is not practical. I’m too old and weak to be moved. The Russians won’t bother Babu, or Afsana, or the children. We’ll be safe here. If we try to leave, none of us will survive. Things are very bad, but I still have my house and my writings. But it is true, you are no longer safe here, so you must leave to save yourself. Let’s pray that in a few months, things will change.’

‘If that is your wish,’ I gave in.

‘Say goodbye to me now,’ Baba said. ‘I’m afraid you won’t see me again.’

‘How can you say that?’ I protested, feeling the pain of those words as though he were already dead.

Extracted from Red Sky Over Kabul: A Memoir of a Father and Son in Afghanistan by Baryalai Popalzai and Kevin McLean. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2023.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Red Sky Over Kabul is the deeply personal, moving and dramatic story of a royal Pashtun family—the Popalzais—intimately connected with Afghanistan’s history from the 1800s. After the Soviet invasion in 1980, the narrator, Baryalai—Bar—is forced to leave his beloved country as National Security guards carry out a house-to-house search for young men who refuse to fight for the Russians against their fellow Afghans. He flees to Pakistan, where he is imprisoned as a spy, eventually making his way to the US, to make a new life for himself. He returns twenty years later, to reclaim his family homes in Kabul and Jalalabad, only to find them occupied by drug dealers and warlords.

This memoir is as much a story of Bar as it is a story of Afghanistan: Bar’s father, Rahman, was tutor to Zahir Shah, who would become the last king of the country after the assassination of his father in 1933; Rahman Popalzai continued to serve Zahir as his advisor and confidant for 40 years. At the heart of this book is the relationship between a father and son—Rahman and Bar— who share a fierce love for their homeland, but whose paths diverge.

Red Sky Over Kabul is also a vivid portrait of a vanished Afghanistan—a world of kite flying, duck hunting and sitar lessons; a world lost to unending, horrific violence. But even in loss and tragedy, the human spirit finds hope and resilience—which is Afghanistan’s triumph, as it is Bar’s.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Baryalai Popalzai was born in Kabul, Afghanistan in 1952. After the Russian invasion in 1980, he fled the country and eventually settled in San Diego. When the Taliban were ousted in 2002, Bar returned to Kabul for the first time in twenty years and has been returning a few times every year since then.

Kevin McLean received his JD from Boston University School of Law and practised law for many years in Boston and San Diego. He is the author of Crossing the River Kabul (2017).

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