Magazines
FICTION : RETURNING TO THE PROMISE
Jeena Wada Khilafi Hai
By Ghazi Salahuddin
Aaj Publications
ISBN: 978-969-648-128-7
194pp.
Stories are ubiquitous and take on many forms. Even the stories themselves have their own accounts — detailing how they came to be, sometimes shared in an instant and, in other instances, forgotten only to be revived later. Occasionally, the story of stories proves to be more captivating than the stories themselves.
Ghazi Salahaddin, a distinguished journalist and social activist, has recently released his first collection of Urdu short stories, titled Jeena Wada Khilafi Hai [Living is Against the Pledge]. The story behind this book is just as intriguing as the 10 stories it contains.
These stories were penned in the 1950s, nearly 70 years ago, and were featured in esteemed literary magazines such as Adab-i-Lateef [Light Literature] and Naya Daur [New Era]. However, the stories faded into obscurity, even forgotten by the author himself. He ceased writing stories. Why? Ghazi sahib addresses this question in the book’s preface.
He reminisces that these stories received praise from editors and peers, but he needed to learn English for his journalism career. He is entirely self-taught when it comes to his command of English. He acquired the language not through formal education, but by utilising the resources of the British Council library in Karachi. He proudly claims that, for him, this library is his equivalent of Harvard and Oxford.
A collection of long-forgotten short stories by journalist Ghazi Salahuddin resurfaces in the form of a book, leading to the question of whether these tales of young angst about love and belonging still resonate
Did he forsake Urdu, his mother tongue and national language, in favour of English, the colonial global language? The reality is that he did not forsake Urdu; he continued to write Urdu columns and, particularly, essays about his travels in Jang, which were later compiled into Meray Sahil, Meray Darya [My Shores, My Rivers]. However, he never returned to fiction writing. His departure from fiction was complete. Nevertheless, he has remained an enthusiastic reader of both English and Urdu fiction all along.
His departure from writing fiction seems more related to writer’s block than merely his pursuit of a journalism career. Writer’s block can manifest in various forms and durations; some instances are fleeting, while others can be enduring. In every case, writer’s block stems from a deep shift in the writer’s mindscape. Simply put, the causes lie within, not outside.
We can infer that Ghazi sahib explored what he needed to through his Urdu short stories. If he had left fiction unfinished, he must have eventually returned to it. Only unfinished endeavours and unfulfilled commitments continue to haunt us, prompting us to resume them. The pressing question is why Ghazi sahib chose to publish stories that are 70 years old.
Over the past seven decades, Urdu fiction has experienced numerous thematic and aesthetic transformations. Does he — or his younger associates who insisted on him to publish these stories — believe that these stories possess literary significance that transcends both history and time? Do these stories resonate with readers in this postmodern, post-truth, AI-driven era? Moderately, yes.
All 10 stories in the collection delve into the theme of love through a young male narrator. This Karachi-based protagonist is a solitary adult, searching for his Sosan, an archetypal figure of womanhood. Although he encounters women, he quickly loses them. In these tales, moments of joy are rare, while hours of suffering are plentiful. In our contemporary society, the concepts of love and sexuality have undergone major shifts. So, at places the protagonist of these stories appears like an individual of an old generation.
What renders these stories valuable today is their stylistic approach. Ghazi sahib’s fictional prose is remarkably creative, engaging and captivating, allowing it to still resonate with readers. It is astonishing that he possessed such a flawless yet imaginative style even in his teenage years.
Additionally, there are several other factors that contribute to the relevance of these stories.
In the 1950s, when these stories were crafted, the Urdu literary landscape was overwhelmed by three significant movements: Progressive, Modernist and Cultural Nationalist. Each of these movements grappled with the critical issues surrounding Partition, including the resulting violent communal riots, migration, displacement, and questions of cultural and national identity.
At that time, Ghazi sahib was a teenager living in Karachi. On the surface, his stories may appear to be disconnected from these grand national issues. Yet, on a deeper level, the characters endure the pain of displacement and crises of identity as well.
These narratives are characterised by a modernist approach, as they delve into the inner turmoil of young individuals marked by romantic struggles, while largely ignoring the anxieties stemming from the class system. It is important to emphasise that the romantic struggles faced by the young protagonists bear significant psychological similarities to those induced by displacement. All 10 stories can be classified as ‘love stories’ told from the perspective of a young protagonist. Yet, in each tale, we encounter desires and dreams that remain unfulfilled, leading to feelings of angst and sorrow.
The most striking and memorable tale is the opening story of the collection, ‘Veeranay Mein Do Awazain’ [Two Voices from the Wilderness]. In this narrative, human existence is depicted as a wilderness, with the two voices representing passion and revulsion, loyalty and betrayal, acceptance and rejection.
The conflict inherent in the perception of love is central to the story. The main characters, Faruq and Abida, embody this conflict, resulting in their inevitable separation. Their longing for love only exacerbates the horror of their wilderness and sense of homelessness. Intriguingly, Faruq equates love with the concept of home, suggesting that we seek a home not only for safety but also for order, tranquility in our lives and for a space of mediation on our fundamental existential issues. Love serves as a sanctuary for our wandering spirits.
Kashif Raza, in his essay included in the book has skillfully peeled back the layers of this story. It is noteworthy that in Ghazi sahib’s stories, the young lovers based in Karachi grapple with a profound sense of internal displacement.
‘Jeena Wada Khilafi Hai’ is a story that highlights the idea, as expressed in the second line of Mahbub Khizan’s famous couplet (‘Ek mohabbat kaafi hai/ Baaqi umr izaafi hai’ [One love is enough/ The rest of life is surplus]), that we only need one love; living without it feels like a betrayal. It emphasises the harsh truth that love often leads to tragedy — a tragedy that we lose our loved ones, even betray them, but keep living in the wilderness of our beings.
Is it merely a coincidence that one of the stories is titled ‘Mera Ghar Kahaan Hai’ [Where is My Home?]. The narrator-protagonist reminisces about his beloved Nafeesa, who has married someone else, while he searches for his home, a small paradise on earth. He states, “I hate big houses; I just need a small home.” Ghazi sahib’s fictional characters struggle to find their home. The quest for home is a recurring theme throughout these stories. They often feel ‘out of place’, whether they are in cafes, at the airport, in Murree or in Lahore.
‘Ban Basi’ [Jungle Dweller] is another short story where the protagonist feels disconnected. He comes to the realisation that neither his father nor his mother truly belongs to him. He feels estranged from his parents’ home as well. Even in his own home, he experiences a sense of being ‘out of place’. He grapples with an identity crisis and feelings of estrangement, which continue to resonate with us.
The reviewer is a Lahore-based critic and short story writer.
He edits LUMS’ Urdu research journal Bunyad.
His new book Mera Daghestan-i-Jadeed is in the press
Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, November 23rd, 2025
Recycling things is one of those habits that makes you feel proud, like you did something good without trying too hard and also helped the environment.
We all have things lying around, some in use, some totally useless, and half the time we don’t even notice them. So one random moment, a thought came into my mind: why not turn a paper cup into something useful instead of throwing it away? And then I came up with making this tiny DIY craft dustbin from a simple paper cup. It’s a small, fun idea that actually “works” and looks cute on the table. Let’s start making.
Things you need:
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Two paper cups (you can also use plastic)
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Scotch tape
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Scissors
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Craft stick one
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Pencil
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Glue stick
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Two pieces of coloured paper (green and any other colour)
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Hot glue (optional)
Directions:
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Put the cup upside down on any coloured paper (other than green). Trace a circle around the rim with a pencil and cut it out; pictures 2 and 3.
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Take another paper cup and cut off the curved top part along with about one centimetre of the cup below it; see pictures 4 and 5. This trimmed cup will go inside the main cup later.
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Cut a cup-wrap shape from green paper. Then cover the outside of the main cup with a glue stick; pictures 6 and 7.
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Make a small slit at the bottom of the cup, with scissors or a paper cutter, just big enough for a craft stick to slide in easily; pictures 8 and 9.
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On the craft stick, measure about one inch from one end, flatten the curved sides and paste the flattened part down one inch from one side of the remaining stick; see pictures 10 and 11.
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Carefully push the smaller end of the stick into the slit at the bottom of the cup, leaving the longer part of the stick outside; see picture 12.
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Now insert the smaller cut cup (the one we trimmed earlier) inside the main cup; picture 13.
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Take the circle you cut from the coloured paper in step 1, place it on top of your dustbin as a lid and tape it on from one side with scotch tape. When you press the stick outside, the inner cup lifts upward and the lid opens just like the real dustbins; see picture 14.
Isn’t it amazing and cute DIY?
The writer can be contacted at ithecraftman@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
My school had taken us to the State Bank Museum as part of its educational field trip programme. I was on cloud nine, as I had a keen interest in finance and how the commerce and banking system operate. My friends had brought snacks for the trip and we enjoyed them along with constant giggles and commotion. The view was mesmerising as we passed the beach, watching the waves seamlessly crash into the sand.
As we reached our destination, my eyes immediately locked onto the massive building. It was a fine piece of stone and brick, with the marble shimmering in the distance. I noticed the lead used for the windows and the concrete shaping the entrance. According to the guide, the materials used in designing and building this colossal structure had been imported from England and Italy decades ago and had been well preserved ever since.
The air conditioner’s cool air greeted us as we entered the museum’s premises. The guide showed us a presentation about money and how it had evolved over the decades. After that, we were escorted to a room with large paintings.
They resembled Roman mosaics and contained a great deal of colour and detail. I learnt that the paintings explained how commerce worked in ancient times through barter trading and then gold. Agriculture was also visible in the paintings, highlighting its significance, and then modern-day banknotes and vaults were also depicted. We looked at a few other paintings, but quickly began to feel listless, as did the others; only a true artist could comprehend and appreciate the effort put into them, which we were not.
Moving on, we entered a room filled with glass cases. They contained numerous coins of various colours and sizes. Different figures were engraved on them and they looked fascinating. Alongside them were ancient forms of money, such as seashells, miniature clay tablets and so on.
“These are ancient relics spanning from the kingdoms in India, such as the Guptas and Dravidians, to the Muslim and Mongol empires,” explained the guide.
I scanned the cases, pondering how each ruler was so eager to have their face minted on the coins of their kingdoms. I came across old banknotes as well, dating back to the time the British ruled India. The banknotes had pictures of King George of England on them and I felt as if I had teleported back in time, especially since the interior of the museum also resembled a British building from the post–World War II era.
The guide then led us to a hall decorated with stamps and posters collected over the past century. Looking at posters and stamps doesn’t really float my boat, so I slipped out of the crowd.
Suddenly, something peculiar caught my attention. Bizarre sounds were echoing from a room and curiosity gripped me. I made my way towards it. A person was inside, their face obscured by a veil. I was puzzled as to whether the figure was male or female, but I was determined to uncover their identity. Just then, I couldn’t control myself and sneezed.
The figure spun around and noticed me. I held my composure, keeping my eyes locked on the mysterious person, and spotted a rope within my reach. My heart began racing, yet I steadied myself and flung the rope at the individual’s feet, causing them to trip. The veil came off and, dumbfounded, I scratched my head briefly.
It was Elvis Presley standing there, staring at me!
“That man died decades ago… so how could he be right before my eyes?” I wondered.
Immediately, I smelt rubber and understood what had transpired. Without thinking twice, I yanked at his face. He resisted, but due to my dogged persistence, he had nowhere to run.
After relentless effort, I managed to pull the mask off and before me stood the manager of the bank. My jaw dropped.
My school teachers and students, along with the security, had gathered as I had caused quite a commotion. The manager was arrested on the spot and after a few inquiries, the police informed our school that he had been after the ancient relics. He had calculated their approximate worth ever since he assumed office. The value ran into the billions, and he was planning to steal it all under the guise of being manager.
The security forces and museum staff thanked me, and my school was notified that the executive board, as well as I, had been invited to the capital for a state dinner celebrating this remarkable achievement. I was to be awarded a medal and recognised as a national hero.
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
“Guys, wait for me!” I called to my friends as I was packing my bag.
They didn’t seem to want to wait and just kept walking. I caught up with them, but they looked pretty miffed about me buzzing around them. They finally heaved a sigh of relief when I headed towards another door, as we went through different gates, me to the van area and they to the car parking.
We were a group of five, that perfect gang that was fit to be on a drama cast. We had the innocent Mishal, the sassy Bismah, the fashionista Rumaissa, the quiet Aliza and, of course, the high scorer (I’m only admitting this for a good intro), me. We had been together since day one of this year. But now, they were ignoring me.
Okay, so a little fact about me: I’ve always been ready to please people, ready to adjust. I make friends with everyone, though I kind of prefer if they are a bit like me.
Being totally unaware of why I was being ignored, I started guessing the reason. Obviously, I thought it was because I always wore desi clothes while hoodies and T-shirts made up most of their wardrobe. I assumed it was because I was a bit behind on trends. So, determined to change things back to normal, I decided to show that I was hurt.
I started getting quieter in class, more distant. I don’t know how I actually looked, but I might have done a great job; my classmates were asking what was wrong. But my friends weren’t. They were too busy in their own lives. All except Bismah, though. She always made me feel like I mattered.
It was just an ordinary science class when the teacher asked us to divide into groups of four for a project. The marks would be added to the final exams, so, for once, our class was taking it seriously.
“Hey, let’s do it together,” Bismah whispered. I nodded fervently. “Though we need two more members…” she trailed off.
“You can ask Mishal and Aliza,” I offered. I seriously thought that would do the trick. And it did.
We worked hard for a week, our WhatsApp chats flooded with ideas and documents. We actually got a pretty good grade, and I thought everything was back to normal, that we were travelling back to Friendshipville.
But the second we walked out of the classroom, they forgot I was there. Only Bismah stayed by my side. It was tempting to wave my arms and say, “Hello? You guys know I exist or was I only real for doing hard work so you could get a good grade?!”
But I didn’t say anything. I never do. I was officially replaced in my gang by Zunaira, Amira and Hannah. I just went into a loop of endless confusion and sprained trust.
It was just luck that one day, when our teacher shuffled our seats, I got a seat next to Zara, Maryam and Friha.
Zara was the cricket expert, like seriously, The Cricket Expert. She could hit ten sixes in a row and won us every match against other classes. Maryam was the music fan, the one who is a bit annoying and sarcastic, but a very good friend. Friha was the class buddy, always checking in with everyone and providing emotional support.
They had always supported me. Once, I was hesitant about talking about a particular thing because I thought people would think I was weird or cringe. Maryam and Friha had towered above me (even though I’m taller than both of them).
“Seriously, Fatimah, stop worrying who will think what,” Maryam said.
“Life’s too short to worry. What has to happen, has to happen,” Friha added, grinning.
Zara, as usual, was ready to distract my mind with a cricket bat in her hand.
They always stayed by me, never letting me feel alone in a crowd. They always made sure they had an endless supply of humour and comebacks for me. I was very hesitant about playing sports, but one day after a random game of throwball with them, I got so much encouragement.
“You should play a whole lot more, maybe even consider entering school matches,” Zara had said.
“Maybe… I don’t know. I just like playing with you guys. Thanks, though,” I had replied, grinning.
I always felt scared about setting boundaries with other people. But my new friends had already asked to set some rules. They made sure I wasn’t hiding anything that was bothering me.
I tried my best to be there for them as well. I remember that during the class party, Maryam had been freaking out because a girl in another class had worn the exact same dress as her.
“Please, relax,” I had hissed while she muttered about being accused of copying. “She has a different print on hers. No one has time to notice.”
I still talked to my old group, smiled at them and stayed friendly, especially with Bismah, who I still text, because I hadn’t really left them. I had just let them be more complete without me, more perfect without me. And honestly, I agree. They seem better off without me.
Sometimes there are places where you fit, but there are places where you fit even better. Sometimes it’s hard to let go, but sometimes, you have to.
I did, and now, when I see Mishal, Rumaissa, Bismah, Aliza, Zunaira, Amira and Hannah goofing around, I realise I not only found new friends, but I also let them be themselves more freely without me there, accidentally ruining their vibe.
I get it, it’s hard. But once you do it, chances are you’ll cherish your decision.
Stop running after people, stop depending on them.
See the people who trust you, who make you feel you have a place in their hearts.
Because they, I must say, might be the ones who are truly yours.
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
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