Fortress of the Forgotten Ones
Translation of Qila-i-Faramoshi by Fahmida Riaz
Translated by Sana R. Chaudhry
Open Letter Books
ISBN: 978-1-960385-51-2
216pp.

Sana R. Chaudhry’s recent translation of Fahmida Riaz’s novel Qila-i-Faramoshi, titled Fortress of the Forgotten Ones, has won the 2026 Armoury Square Prize for Literary Translation.

To render the specificities of a work that qualifies as historical fiction is difficult enough; to do so across a linguistic divide is no mean feat. To understand the translator’s triumph, one must contend with the architecture of the novel itself.

The concise book opens with a poignant dedication to the Parsi community from Riaz, the original author, which serves as a prelude for the reader to begin a story set in fifth-century ancient Persia, during the Sassanid Empire. The narrative follows the life of the central character Mazdak, a historical figure whose story is artfully fictionalised in this work.

The narrative unfolds within the rigid geometry of systemic inequality, a landscape where the earliest echoes of human history are defined less by progress than by a siege. Its origins can be traced back to a foundational sin of the Neolithic era: the moment when granaries became the stronghold of a few. The priests and the well-born do not merely govern; they curate a surplus and preside over a hoard of resources, whereas the labouring classes are relegated to the thin, frantic margins of scarcity.

The English translation of late Fahmida Riaz’s novel Qila-i-Faramoshi offers the Anglophone world a window into ancient Persian history through an Urdu lens

By centring the story on the centralised control of the storehouse, the author exposes the machinery of the myth: the priests and nobles exist in a realm of perpetual excess, while the rest of humanity is defined by lack.

Amidst this picture of systemic inequality, the capital city of Ctesiphon is shown in the grip of a devastating famine. While traditionalists view the catastrophe as a divine curse, Mazdak interprets the crisis as a man-made failure of distribution. The ensuing revolt, the core of the narrative, originates from within Mazdak’s internal moral struggle. Driven by the core Zoroastrian tenet that “all are equal”, Mazdak transforms his private convictions into a public uprising and leads the labouring classes against the Sassanid elite.

A diverse cast of characters, which includes King Qobad, his high-ranking military officials, and his influential wife, is drawn into the unfolding struggle. Their involvement highlights the complexity of the revolution. As the uprising begins to permeate the highest levels of Sassanid power, it forces the ruling elite to confront Mazdak’s radical vision.

Riaz’s profound and rare command of Zoroastrian history offers readers a nuanced glimpse into the culture, social structures and linguistic dynamics of the Sassanid era. This scholarly depth firmly roots the work in the genre of historical fiction, a sophisticated amalgam of historical fact and creative imagination.

As the narrative progresses, Mazdak transitions from being a priest to a prophet. Drawing from his interpretation of Zoroastrianism, he introduces radical social and religious codes. Of particular interest is his emphasis on dietary abstinence, specifically the propagation of a strictly vegetarian diet. Furthermore, the author refuses to sanitise the more ‘scandalous’ tenets of ancient Persian society: its rejection of private lineage in favour of a communal sharing of wives and offspring. By refusing to look away from these ancient social ruptures, the novel achieves a rare kind of historical honesty.

While the narrative centres on the ignition of a revolution and the resulting palace intrigues, its true depth lies in Riaz’s exploration of historical symbolism. She masterfully traces the origins of the hammer and the chisel by conjuring the tale of a legendary blacksmith who once rose against a tyrant king. Similarly, the swastika is reclaimed as an ancient symbol of Aryan courage; its perpendicular arms represent the revolving sun and the ‘Wheel of Mithra.’

Crucially, if history is the ultimate litmus test for a writer of historical fiction, translating such a work is a bigger challenge. One must consider how this Urdu-to-English translation secured the prestigious Armoury Square Prize: the answer lies in Sana R. Chaudhry’s masterful execution.

Chaudhry’s translation is consistent and evocative. The translation undoubtedly reflects a sophisticated hermeneutical approach. In simple words, given the vast syntactical differences between Urdu and English, the translated version comprises remarkably clear and coherent prose. By avoiding over-saturation, she ensures the text remains fluid and accessible, all the while allowing the historical weight of the narrative to shine through without the interference of clunky phrasing. For readers who appreciate sensory detail, the novel offers exquisitely translated descriptions that breathe life into the Sassanid world, such as in the passage:

“The vast doors had been flung open. Inside, hand-woven rugs were lined with bolster pillows, while decorative pots and vases adorned tables of various sizes. In one corner, a large carpet held a low table set with a chessboard. Inside a lapis lazuli box lay chess pieces carved from black and white marble, and a glazed blue tray filled with dried fruits rested on a central table.”

We read historical fiction not to escape the present but to understand the ghosts that continue to haunt our current political and social landscapes. For the translator, the task is a delicate sort of dual demand that requires the creation of a language that revitalises the forgotten past while resisting archival coldness. Chaudhry achieves this without relying on unnecessary footnotes or endnotes, which can often be jarring for the reader.

It is through the use of italics that a seamless transition between the character’s inner monologue and the outer setting is achieved, an aspect of the text that doesn’t feel out of place. Most significantly, she successfully captures a range of distinct voices of varied characters that bring about different levels of consciousness. These characters span the social spectrum of the Sassanid Empire — from the resilient wives of common labourers to the politically astute Queen and the formidable, warrior-like fighters.

Each character possesses a unique personality and is given a voice that varies between poised and aggressive. This reflects different cross-sections of the Sassanid society, which includes farmers, miners, craftsmen, nobility and kings. True to the late author’s feminist legacy, the novel ensures that women are afforded equal voice and representation. By centring these diverse perspectives, Riaz elevates the narrative from a traditional historical chronicle to a vibrant exploration of female agency within a revolutionary struggle.

Published by Open Letter Books, the English translation of Qila-i-Faramoshi brings Fahmida Riaz’s vision to a global Anglophone audience. The Armoury Square Prize for Literary Translation has carved out a vital space for under-represented South Asian languages, by offering the Anglophone world a window into ancient Persian history through an Urdu lens.

Beyond its introduction of Zoroastrian customs and the “first socialist revolution”, the novel expands its canvas in the 40th chapter by linking the Sassanid era to the mysterious Ranikot Fort. Though its true origins remain shrouded in history, Riaz imaginatively suggests a Sassanid foundation — a connection that feels remarkably grounded and plausible within the narrative.

The novel’s structure is accessible and engaging, though its chapter divisions are notably irregular. Some chapters, such as the fourth, are as brief as a single paragraph, a stylistic choice that lends a sharp, cinematic vividness to the storytelling. While the narrative’s sweeping historical breadth leaves little room for exhaustive character studies, its compelling novelistic quality ensures a gripping experience.

Readers will find it deeply rewarding to trace the hero Mazdak’s journey through his trials, triumphs and eventual failures. Ultimately, the pulse of the novel is the timeless desire for equality, captured in the radical decree: “All the wealth of the rich must be seized and distributed equally among all people.”

And finally, it is in the deafening background thunder of the ongoing US war with Iran that the novel becomes all the more discernible and necessary.

The reviewer is a PhD scholar working on Punjabi poets.

She can be contacted at ayesharamzan83@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 19th, 2026

Ruttie
By Zaif Syed
Tilismaat Publications
ISBN: 9786-279487032
286pp.

It is the night of February 20, 1918. On the marble floors of the Taj Mahal Hotel, Ruttie Petit sways in a sea-green chiffon saree, as if water itself has learned how to dance. It is her 18th birthday.

In front of Bombay’s elite, she moves without hesitation into Jinnah’s arms and turns towards the Anglo-Indian bandleader Ken Mac, asking him, “Play Chopin’s Tristesse… for me today.” In that moment, her ethereal beauty and her laughter, light as bangles, are at their peak. The melody rises: “So deep is the night… no moon tonight…” and Ruttie feels as if life is eternal, as if nothing could ever dim this shimmering moment.

Years later, the same melody drifts into the marble veranda of the Karachi Club. It is the evening of August 15, 1947. A new nation is born, history itself stands at a turning point, yet one heart remains lost in the shadows of the past. The Quaid-i-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah has called Ken Mac over from Bombay. A whisper echoes: “Will your memory haunt me till I die? So deep is the night…” He stands alone; alone in the crowd, alone at the centre of history. The night is just as deep, and the moon is still absent.

Zaif Syed’s new Urdu novel Ruttie emerges from this inner sorrow, this unspoken ache beneath history’s grand narratives. It begins with a single letter, ‘J’, which becomes both the universe of Ruttie’s life and the symbol of its undoing. Syed is among those rare writers who break away from conventional storytelling, creating a narrative that is not merely told but deeply felt, almost lived. In Ruttie, love, history and memory merge into one another so seamlessly that the boundaries between them dissolve, as if time itself were a living character.

A new Urdu novel imagines the life of Ruttie Jinnah, bringing to life a woman lost in the margins of history and rescuing her from silence

The novel traces the 29 years of Ruttie’s life against the turbulent backdrop of the Subcontinent. Her love for Jinnah and the unrest within their marriage are woven, with remarkable subtlety, into the political upheavals of the time. One of the novel’s most striking features is that everyone and everything in it speaks, except Ruttie herself. There are multiple narrators who reveal the different layers of her personality, each voice adding a new shade to her presence.

Petit Hall reveals how her birth turned its barrenness into bloom. The Taj Mahal Hotel reflects her beauty and charm. Bombay tells its own restless story. And South Court Mansion sings of her love for art and beauty. Dina, her daughter, speaks with longing for her mother, while Kajal, Ruttie’s cat, reflects her quiet tenderness and emotional depth.

Kanji Dwarkadas, Ruttie’s friend, recalls her companionship and loyalty and Diwan Chaman Lal, Jinnah’s close friend and colleague who witnessed the final days of the couple’s marriage, recounts her final days with a restrained, almost unbearable sorrow.

Syed gently brings to life a woman lost in the margins of history, rescuing her from silence. Ruttie emerges as the rose of Bombay, a flickering light in darkness, the queen of Petit Hall, and a prominent Parsi woman of unshakeable strength. To Kanji, she was a brave and devoted friend and, to Mahatma Gandhi, she appears as a symbol of life itself: vibrant, restless and luminous.

The novel, at the same time, portrays Ruttie as a figure of remarkable courage, one who stood in court against her father, Sir Dinshaw Petit, in steadfast support of Jinnah, and who gave up wealth, privilege and certainty in the name of love. Yet, in time, she comes to realise that a life lived entirely on one’s own terms does not always lead to happiness; that freedom, too, can carry within it the seeds of solitude.

The author does not compare but he reveals. Jinnah is discipline personified, a man shaped by restraint, order and purpose, while for Ruttie discipline feels like a form of death. Jinnah knew that only Ruttie could truly see into his inner self, into the spaces he kept hidden from the world, and perhaps this very understanding became a silent torment for her, a closeness that deepened distance rather than bridging it.

Ruttie transformed Jinnah’s South Court, from a mere residence into a living, breathing space, filled with warmth and imagination. She replaced legal files with books by Shakespeare, Keats, Milton, Tagore and Ibsen; softened the cold marble floors with thick carpets; dressed bare windows with velvet curtains and adorned plain walls with fine paintings. South Court came alive because Ruttie had come there not just to live, but to truly exist, to create a space where life could be felt in its fullness.

Yet these two personalities — Ruttie, vibrant, impulsive and deeply attuned to beauty, and Jinnah, the embodiment of restraint and discipline — were like two shores that could never meet. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their world turned into a cold, silent stillness. It was not a silence born of conflict or confrontation, but of suffocation, a quiet, invisible erosion, like termites eating away at the foundation of their love.

Syed writes that Ruttie’s life was a continuous rebellion against the expectations imposed by society and, perhaps in more subtle ways, by Jinnah as well. The novel also explores her deep bond with animals; she had come to believe that humans may deceive, betray or withdraw, but animals remain purely loyal. As Jinnah became increasingly absorbed in politics and the demands of leadership, Ruttie turned inwards, seeking spiritual solace. Her bright eyes grew distant, her radiant presence dimmed. She still smiled, but her spirit was wounded.

Jinnah, consumed by his mission and its responsibilities, could not hear the heart that beat for him. The attention, which Ruttie had given up everything for, slowly faded into absence, and Jinnah became, above all else, a leader belonging not to one person, but to history itself.

Through Syed’s narrators, we watch Ruttie fade away moment by moment, while the bottles of the sleeping aid Veronal beside her bed multiply almost unnoticed. Jinnah, entangled in constitutional drafts and political complexities, could not untangle the complexities of his own life. On her 29th birthday, she finally freed herself from life’s burdens, leaving behind not just a memory, but a question that lingers. The date February 20 becomes both her beginning and her end — a single date holding an entire story.

The author leaves it to the reader to decide whether, for Jinnah, winning Ruttie was merely a case he sought to win against Sir Dinshaw Petit, or whether it was, in its deepest sense, love. Such is the power of Syed’s style and imagery that the reader no longer remains a spectator, but becomes part of Ruttie’s life.

One basks in the glow of her beauty, loses oneself in the rhythm of her poetry, laughs and dances with her, and then breaks down, grieving alongside her. And as life begins to slip through her fingers like sand, the reader, too, slowly begins to fade.

In the novel, the flow of events is so compelling that one cannot look away even for a moment. Every turn, every scene holds the reader in its grasp, refusing distance, demanding emotional presence. And then come those moments: quiet, deep and piercing, when one cannot hold back tears. And the story continues to echo long after it has ended.

The novel closes on a powerful and haunting note, linking Ruttie’s story to the 2008 Taj Mahal Hotel attacks and its legal aftermath, creating a haunting symbolic circle. In the end, Ruttie’s final letter leaves a lasting echo: “Remember me as the flower you chose, not as the one you crushed under your feet.”

The reviewer is a writer, social activist and performing artist

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 19th, 2026