Magazines
FICTION: AN ASSURED DEBUT
Forty Days of Mourning
By Arslan Athar
Run ; On Press
ISBN: 978-627-94758-0-0
234pp.
Arslan Athar’s Forty Days of Mourning arrives quietly but confidently, announcing itself as a debut deeply aware of history, place and emotional restraint.
Set in the princely state of Hyderabad Deccan, the novel revisits a place often sidelined in mainstream narratives of the British Raj and Partition. It provides a textured, intimate portrayal of a world shaped as much by memory as by loss. Athar does not attempt spectacle; his strength lies in layering, in creating depth in his characters, in addition to language and historical awareness.
From the very first pages, it is clear that this is a novel that takes its readers seriously and asks them to pay attention to subtleties rather than grand gestures. The book opens with a note from the author that serves almost as an invitation, gently guiding the reader into the story’s geography and emotional terrain.
Hyderabad Deccan is not merely a setting in this novel. It is a living, breathing presence that shapes the people who inhabit it and the events that unfold. Once a princely state rich in terms of material wealth and cultural plurality, Hyderabad carried a distinct identity that rarely finds adequate representation in narratives of colonial India. Discussions around the British Raj and Partition often reduce history to binaries, and Hyderabad’s nuanced past is frequently overlooked. Athar’s novel resists this erasure with care and precision.
One of the most compelling aspects of this historical richness is the attention paid to language. The state’s capital Hyderabad is depicted not only as a city of wealth and political significance but also as a place with a unique linguistic and cultural identity.
A restrained first novel invites the reader to reflect on history, engage with an often-overlooked city, and witness a woman’s emotional life in all its complexity
Dakhani, which I had previously known only as a dialect, is presented as a fully realised language in the novel. Through dialogue and everyday interactions, the story illustrates how Dakhani carries centuries of history, memory and cultural pride. This attention to linguistic detail adds layers of authenticity, making the city feel lived-in and complex. Language in Forty Days of Mourning is not just a means of communication; it is a vessel of memory and identity.
At the centre of the story is Saleema, a protagonist who immediately challenges assumptions. Wealthy, sharp-edged and emotionally guarded, she initially comes across as snobbish, which feels deliberate and familiar, given its realism. Athar does not attempt to soften her for the reader’s comfort, and Saleema is complex and contradictory from the very beginning. Her wealth creates distance between her and those around her, but it also functions as a shield, hinting at experiences of loss, obligation and survival beneath the surface.
The novel is set during the uneasy year after the British left, when Hyderabad briefly existed as its own independent state. Life goes on, but under a constant sense of waiting, waiting for decisions, for war, for things to fall apart. Political negotiations drag on, rumours spread through streets and homes, loyalties are tested, and fear quietly seeps into everyday routines.
As pressure from the newly formed Indian state increases, Hyderabad’s fragile independence begins to crack. The story follows this slow unraveling, moving from hope and denial to violence, loss and reckoning, ending with the state’s forced integration and the collective grief of a world that disappears almost overnight.
As the wife of a high-ranking army officer, Saleema moves through the city’s elite circles, aware of every whisper of political tension, every shifting alliance. But as the Nizam’s Hyderabad faces the inevitability of annexation, Saleema realizes that neither status nor cunning can fully shield her, and the choices she makes ripple through both her personal life and the crumbling world around her.
The novel is set during the uneasy year after the British left, when Hyderabad briefly existed as its own independent state. Life goes on, but under a constant sense of waiting, waiting for decisions, for war, for things to fall apart. Political negotiations drag on, rumours spread through streets and homes, loyalties are tested, and fear quietly seeps into everyday routines.
Within the first few chapters, we see Saleema interacting with her husband and her family, which complicate our initial impressions and begin to reveal emotional layers that are not immediately apparent. If these moments are insufficient to fully convince the reader of her complexity, the narrative later delves into her backstory, revealing motivations, insecurities and the personal history that informs her present behaviour.
Athar does not justify her actions, and neither does he ask the reader to excuse them. He provides context, allowing empathy to develop without demanding approval. It is a subtle yet significant distinction that demonstrates the author’s careful attention to character psychology.
Athar’s writing is another strength of the novel. The prose is measured, deliberate and restrained, never overreaching or indulgent. Scenes are allowed to unfold naturally, and silences carry as much weight as dialogue. There is a rhythm to the narrative, especially when history and memory intersect, and this makes the reading experience immersive.
Hyderabad Deccan emerges not merely as a backdrop but as a character in its own right. The streets, the buildings and the everyday life of the capital are all integrated into the story, influencing the people who live there and reflecting their histories, anxieties and desires.
The novel’s historical elements are woven into daily life rather than presented as exposition. References to the British Raj, Partition and the political uncertainty surrounding Hyderabad surface organically in conversations, traditions and silences. The novel captures how history persists in private lives, shapes relationships, and continues to resonate long after the events themselves have passed.
This approach makes the past feel intimate and personal rather than distant and abstract. The reader is invited to experience history as lived experience rather than as a series of dates and events.
Even the book’s cover contributes to the narrative experience. The bright yellow background and the striking red eyes immediately draw one’s attention. The eyes feel watchful, almost confrontational, mirroring the story’s emotional undercurrents. They demand that the reader engage with them, much as the novel itself does.
The cover is visually striking but also thematically resonant. It sets the tone for the story inside, signalling that this is not a conventional or safe narrative but one that examines grief, memory and human complexity with honesty and care.
What is most refreshing about Forty Days of Mourning is that it centres on a woman’s inner world unapologetically. Saleema is not written to be likeable or to provide comfort to the reader. She is allowed contradiction, anger, grief and quiet moments of reflection. Her emotional life is complex and layered. In focusing on her experiences, the novel resists reducing her to her relationships or her social roles alone.
It allows the reader to sit with her, to witness her inner life, and to understand her as a fully realised human being. In a literary landscape where women’s complexity is often softened or simplified, this focus feels quietly radical.
The novel is also remarkably patient. It does not rush to reveal everything about its characters or setting. It trusts the reader to notice subtleties, to observe behaviour, and to draw connections between the past and the present.
Even small gestures or conversations carry significance. Saleema’s silences, choices, and interactions are given space to breathe. The novel builds its emotional resonance gradually, which makes the impact of its revelations all the more powerful.
At the end of the day, Forty Days of Mourning is a debut that is confident, layered and assured. It invites the reader to reflect on history, engage with a city that has often been overlooked, and witness a woman’s emotional life in all its complexity. It is a novel that lingers, quietly but persistently, long after the final page has been read. Saleema’s presence, Hyderabad’s streets, and the weight of history remain in the mind.
This is a book that reminds readers why literature matters. It does not seek to entertain with spectacle or drama. Instead, it engages the intellect, empathy and the imagination. For a debut novel, Athar has delivered something rare, thoughtful and lasting.
The reviewer is a pharmacist turned journalist.
X: @dalchawalorrone
Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, February 1st, 2026
A recent video showing a Quran that survived the devastating fire at Karachi’s Gul Plaza has reignited a centuries-old conversation. Throughout history, accounts of Bibles, Qurans or Buddhist sutras emerging unscathed from catastrophic floods and fires have been celebrated as Divine interventions. While these events offer profound spiritual solace, a closer look reveals a fascinating intersection of material physics and psychological bias.
From a physical standpoint, Dougal Drysdale, Professor Emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, suggests that a hardbound book’s survival is often due to the ‘Closed Book Effect.’ When shut, a book functions as a dense, oxygen-starved block of cellulose. Because fire requires a steady flow of oxygen to consume fuel, the tightly packed pages resist ignition by preventing airflow from reaching the interior.
In the event of a flood, the surface tension of water against tightly pressed pages creates a natural barrier. This prevents deep seepage for a significant period, often leaving the heart of the book perfectly dry.
American psychologist Thomas Gilovich explains that when a sacred text survives a disaster, it often becomes more than just a book. It is elevated to a sacred relic. This transformation, according to Gilovich, can significantly redefine a community’s cultural path. In the aftermath of the 2011 Joplin tornado in Missouri, US, survivors and news outlets frequently highlighted the ‘miraculous’ discovery of intact Bibles among the rubble of flattened homes.
The survival of holy texts in the aftermath of natural catastrophes is often termed ‘Divine protection’, revealing the cultural and spiritual narratives people love to attach to such instances
While hardbound dictionaries and cookbooks likely survived in the same ruins due to their similar physical construction, these secular items were ignored by the media as mere debris. The surviving Bibles were immediately elevated from functional reading material to sacred relics, often being framed and displayed as symbols of Divine protection.
By focusing on these specific books, the media triggered a cognitive bias that led people to view the event through a supernatural lens rather than recognising the simple physical durability of bound paper.
British scholar Susan Whitfield, in her 2004 work The Silk Road: Trade, Travel, War and Faith, details the discovery of the Mogao Caves in China. In that instance, the sealing of the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra (868 CE) within a dry, walled-up chamber created a “natural vault” that protected the world’s oldest-dated printed book from the degrading effects of humidity and oxygen for nearly a millennium. The perception of such objects often shifts from the literary to the ‘miraculous’.
During World War I, pocket Bibles carried by soldiers occasionally stopped shrapnel due to the high density of their compressed paper. This led many soldiers to treat the Bibles as protective talismans.
The Codex Amiatinus, frequently referred to as the ‘Grandfather’ of Latin Bibles, has survived for over 1,300 years due to its immense physical durability. According to Drysdale, this enormous volume, created around 700 CE in Northumbria, England, weighs over 34 kilogrammes and was crafted from the skins of more than 500 calves.
The use of high-quality parchment makes the Bible significantly more resistant to fire and decay, as organic animal skins lack the highly flammable, oxygen-trapping fibres found in wood-pulp paper. This Bible remained virtually untouched for a millennium, preserved by the stable environment of an Italian abbey that served as a ‘natural vault.’
In West Africa, the Desert Manuscripts of Timbuktu offer a compelling example of texts surviving environmental factors, a story often framed as miraculous. When Islamist militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute in 2013, there was widespread global concern over the potential loss of thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. However, according to the researcher Mauro Nobili, the extreme aridity of the Sahara desert was critical in aiding their preservation for centuries.
The persistently low humidity prevented mould growth and kept the delicate ink stable, allowing for their long-term survival, which many viewed as a modern miracle. However, the more vulnerable manuscripts were secretly shifted to safer locations before the militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute.
During the Viking raid on Lindisfarne — a tidal island off the northeast coast of England — in 793 CE, a legend emerged concerning a sacred book, Lindisfarne Gospels, which was said to have been dropped into the sea by fleeing priests. Three days later, it washed up perfectly dry. While this specific account is often considered apocryphal, the physical survival of such ancient texts is frequently due to their durable leather and metal bindings, which act as a protective shell for the internal vellum.
Gilovich would point to stories such as this ‘dry’ recovery of a Bible as prime examples of how the media and oral tradition prioritise miraculous narratives over the mundane reality of material science, thereby reinforcing spiritual beliefs.
According to the prominent professor of psychological sciences J. Park, communities frequently transform these survival stories into powerful symbols of “Divine protection” as a means of processing the profound trauma of disasters. This phenomenon ultimately highlights a dynamic intersection, where material science meets deep human sentiment.
While the inherent fire-resistant properties of vellum offer logical, scientific explanations for the physical survival of many books, the human psychological element remains paramount. The inherent human need to find order, meaning and hope within chaos is what elevates these surviving sacred objects from mere material items to vital spiritual anchors for a community’s recovery and continuity.
The endurance of these texts represents a profound intersection between material science and human psychology. It is not merely the density of vellum, the chemical stability of ancient inks or the aridity of a desert that ensures survival. Rather, it is the way these physical realities interact with our inherent drive to find order in the wake of destruction.
Gilovich’s research posits that when a community witnesses the survival of a sacred text, they are not simply observing a quirk of physics. They are engaging in what Park describes as “meaning-making”, using the survived sacred object to process trauma and reclaim a sense of ‘Divine protection.’ Whether through the preservation of the Diamond Sutra in caves, or a Bible or a Quran found amidst the ruins of a modern disaster, these serve as a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent. Their survival is a testament to the fact that, while fire and time may consume the material, the cultural and spiritual narratives we attach to them remain indestructible.
Yet, it is equally important that we recognise the physical realities of their endurance, acknowledging that the science of material durability does not diminish the ‘miracle’, but rather provides a rational foundation for understanding how the written word survives the very elements meant to destroy it.
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Different varieties of leafy green vegetables (locally known as saag) are commonly grown in the Subcontinent due to the favourable growing conditions here. These green vegetables are prepared in traditional meals that contain the signature South Asian touch. However, Swiss chard remains relatively unknown to many.
Swiss chard is one of the easiest-to-grow leafy green vegetables. Unlike other leafy green vegetables, Swiss chard has beautiful bright green-coloured leaves with white, yellow or maroon midribs and stem. No wonder that a few sub-varieties of the Swiss chard are referred to as rainbow chard!
It is also known as spinach beet and leaf beet, while other names reflect the colour of its stems. For instance, the ones with white midribs are referred to as silver beet and those with red or maroon stems are known as rhubarb chard. Its striking colour combinations make it attractive enough as an ornamental plant.
Scientifically known as Beta vulgaris L. var. cicla, Swiss chard belongs to the Amaranthaceae family, which was formerly known as the Chenopodiaceae family. While it is also considered a beet, its root is inedible. Due to its close resemblance to spinach and beet root, it is not recommended to grow Swiss chard near either of them. Pests and diseases affecting beet root and spinach will likely attack Swiss chard as well.
While many other types of saag dominate South Asian kitchens, Swiss chard — of Mediterranean origin — remains largely unknown here…
Contrary to its name, Swiss chard does not originate from Switzerland. The origin of the ‘Swiss’ prefix remains contentious. One theory is that it is widely grown in Switzerland. In fact, Swiss chard primarily originates from the Mediterranean region. However, it is extensively used in Swiss cuisine.
Another theory is that the botanist who first classified this vegetable was Swiss and used the prefix to create a distinction from other leafy vegetables. The most common theory is that the European seed merchants added Swiss to distinguish it from the closely related French chard. If that were not enough to confuse you all, the word ‘chard’ is of Latin origin, meaning thistle — a common gardening term referring to a flowering plant which has prickly bracts.
Swiss chard seeds are easily confused with those of spinach, due to their stark resemblance. The seeds of Swiss chard are faded brown to dark brown in colour. They have a dry, rough texture and are irregular in shape. The seeds are hard and are surprisingly light for their size. Like spinach, one seed of Swiss chard can result in three to four seedlings. For this reason, it is known as a seed ball, containing potentially three to four seeds.
Being hardy, Swiss chard has minimal requirements. One of the best aspects about sowing Swiss chard seeds is that they can be grown in almost any available space. You can grow it on a strip of land, small pots and even around other plants in the same pot. However, when sowing Swiss chard seeds for a full crop, certain aspects should be taken into account.
In climates similar to Karachi, the seeds can be sown from mid-October onwards or when the temperature falls to 20 degrees Celsius. The potting mix should be pre-moistened and clear of pebbles and stones. Seeds should be placed half an inch below the surface and covered with a layer of compost. The soil should remain moist, not wet.
Depending on the desired yield, any pot size can be used, since the roots are small. Pots should then be placed in a cool shade with indirect sunlight. If the Swiss chard plant is being grown in an open field or in raised beds, it should be shielded from direct sunlight exposure, to minimise evaporation.
Some gardeners prefer to soak the seeds in water for four to six hours to ensure better and quick germination. In favourable conditions, Swiss chard seeds are likely to sprout within one week to 10 days.
Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Dear Auntie,
Hope you are well. I am seeking your advice regarding a situation that has been bothering me for a long time. I’m a university student and I met this girl. She seemed very interested in me at that time and so was I in her. We had great chemistry, something I’ve never felt in my life. But I never confessed my feelings to her because of certain things I heard about her. Later, I found out she was dating someone. I internalised my love for her for quite a long time, almost a year, until I couldn’t hold it in, and confessed everything to her, even though I knew she was in a relationship.
The nature of my work requires me to face her and, whenever we work together, that chemistry-like muscle memory hits like a truck and I fall head over heels for her all over again. Even though getting her is nothing but a distant dream, I still can’t get over her and long for her all the time. It’s like a stalemate. I would really appreciate your advice on this.
Longing and Yearning
‘I Am Obsessed With a Woman I Can’t Have’
Dear Longing and Yearning,
This is a classic case of excellent chemistry but bad timing. Auntie has seen this film before and the hero always thinks that this one love is ‘different’. Maybe it is different for you. But the situation is very, very old.
Let’s start with the fact that you don’t want to face… that this is not love. This is emotional attachment, mixed with a heavy dose of imagination. And it is a powerful mix, made more powerful because the person in question is unavailable.
Every time you see her, your brain tells you “Ah yes, the unfinished business.” But notice something important… the girl chose someone else. This was not because you are not good enough, but because her life moved in a different direction. That is her choice, and chasing emotionally after someone who has chosen another path slowly kills your self-respect.
The chemistry you talk about is a result of you training your mind for a year to revolve around her. Of course, your brain runs back there. Our minds do what seems familiar and comfortable. Right now, you are feeding the feeling every time you replay moments and analyse your interactions with her. You are emotionally investing in a door that is firmly shut and you are wondering why you feel stuck outside. Of course, you are stuck!
It is time to start acting professionally with her. And it is time to stop any emotional conversations with her and avoid needless eye-contact. When your mind starts romanticising anything about her, interrupt it with reality, by reminding yourself that she is in a relationship and that you deserve someone who is available.
The person who is meant for you will not require this much suffering just to exist in your life. Mutual love is supposed to feel stable.
You are not losing her. You are grieving a life that you imagined. The grief will pass when you stop feeding it. You are simply holding on to an illusion because it once felt beautiful. Just let it be beautiful. And let it go.
Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query. Please send concise queries to: auntieagni@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
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