Three Begums: The Women Who Shaped My Life
By Ziauddin Sardar
C Hurst & Co Publishers Ltd
ISBN: 978-1805263333
276pp.

Ziauddin Sardar is arguably the UK’s leading Muslim public intellectual. He is an exceptionally versatile and engaging scholar, with a prolific and wide-ranging output. Over the course of his career, he has written and edited more than 50 books, spanning the fields of contemporary Islamic studies, British Muslim history, cultural theory and criticism, science and society, and futures studies.

Sardar is also a journalist and broadcaster and has worked extensively with The Guardian, BBC and Channel Four. He has written four major autobiographical works: Desperately Seeking Paradise: Journeys of a Sceptical Muslim (2005), Balti Britain: A Provocative Journey Through Asian Britain (2009), A Person of Pakistani Origin (2018) and, most recently, Three Begums: The Women Who Shaped My Life (2025).

Sardar’s latest memoir, Three Begums, is an attempt to make sense of what life has done to him after the deaths of three influential women in his life, one after the other. Their loss broke his heart, not only emotionally but also physically, and he had to undergo cardiac surgery.

Three Begums revolves around a central question that Sardar poses at the end of Chapter Two: “Why should a mere thing like death separate us?”. In reliving the memories of his begums, writing about them and sharing the book in various circles and literary festivals, he finds his answer: death cannot sever the bonds of love — it only imposes a spatial distance.

In his latest memoir, British author Ziauddin Sardar reflects on love, loss and language as he remembers three women who shaped his life

Love and memory, however, are resilient, as they bridge that distance and return to visit the living when grief becomes unbearable. During his grieving process, Urdu poetry and Munni Begum’s ghazals were his companions.

Three Begums is divided into three chapters, each dedicated to one begum. The first chapter focuses on Sardar’s mother, Hameeda, who comes across as a matriarch, a larger-than-life figure: a fighter and a devoted lover of Urdu literature. The chapter opens with an Urdu sentence written in Roman English, “Baitay kya baat hai?” [What is the matter, son?] which, the author notes, reflects how his mother addressed not only her own children but even a stranger’s child.

She is presented as a mother who believes in interdependence, who is traditional yet firmly believes that men and women are equal. This childhood, embedded in love, Urdu literature, and regular mushairas, left a lasting imprint on Sardar. Later in life, these memories became a source of reference and solace amid political and personal turmoil.

Hameeda possessed diwans [poetry collections] of Mirza Ghalib, Mir Taqi Mir and Bahadur Shah Zafar, as well as several volumes of Allama Iqbal’s poetry, including Bang-i-Dara [The Call of the Marching Bell]. Her personal library also included numerous Urdu novels, among them works by Zubaida Khatoon and Deputy Nazeer Ahmad, Sadiq Siddiqui’s Andulus Ke Do Chaand [Two Moons of Andalucia] and Nasim Hijazi’s Aakhri Chataan [The Last Rock].

In reliving the memories of his begums, writing about them and sharing the book in various circles and literary festivals, he finds his answer: death cannot sever the bonds of love — it only imposes a spatial distance. Love and memory, however, are resilient, as they bridge that distance and return to visit the living when grief becomes unbearable. During his grieving process, Urdu poetry and Munni Begum’s ghazals were his companions.

Hameeda is portrayed as a hopeless romantic and, therefore, financial constraints and the hardships of immigrant life in London did not break her spirit. She was a mother not only to Sardar and his siblings but to many others as well.

The second part of the book is dedicated to Sardar’s friend Merryl, who emerges as another strong presence in his life. She was his intellectual partner, co-writer and co-editor on many projects. The chapter discusses how both Sardar and Merryl were deeply committed to social justice around the world, particularly in Malaysia. It also details Sardar and Merryl’s camaraderie with the Malaysian Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim and his wife, showing how they supported one another during both personal and political challenges.

Merryl, a Muslim convert, was also interested in debates around Islam and the politicisation of the religion. She and the author “spent some time discussing issues of tradition and modernity, the problems of Islamic movements, the lack of critical thought in Muslim circles, and the then hot topic ‘Islamisation [sic] of knowledge.’”

The chapter further highlights how global political patterns give Sardar a “sinking sensation that the world is terminally insane” while Merryl urges people to learn to ask new questions. The friendship between Merryl and Sardar thus became another anchor during his difficult times, as well as a source of robust political and religious debates that helped shape both his politics and his writing journey.

The book’s final chapter is dedicated to Sardar’s wife, Saliha. It opens with the Urdu words “Meri jaan” [my life] and describes in detail how a marriage that began as an arranged one gradually developed into an “unconditional love emanating from both of [them].”

Sardar built a life with Saliha and their three children, Ziad, Zain and Maha. The reader can sense the depth of love that Sardar had, and continues to have, for his wife, whom he describes as his “invisible but ever-present co-author” in all his work. He also describes how the ghazals of Munni Begum became an important part of their love story and how her music pops up “at fateful junctures of [their] lives.”

Saliha’s love sustained Sardar’s heart and mind and, therefore, when she died, his grief was not silent but vociferous, so overwhelming that he felt as though he “was disintegrating into so many atoms and molecules. The glue that held me together had dissolved; half of me had gone, and the remaining half was falling apart.”

Three Begums places emotion at the centre of the narrative, allowing it to shape the text’s movement. Sardar’s memoir suggests that, in the grieving process, it is not sympathy from others that offers the greatest solace, but rather the reassurance that one is still needed, an affirmation that enables a person to grieve as fully and humanly as possible.

He further reflects that recognising the depth of one’s relationship with the deceased makes it possible to approach life with less severity, to move forward while carrying the presence of those who are absent. This insight is powerfully expressed at the end of the chapter about Saliha when, after returning from Malaysia, he senses her presence all around him.

He “walked down to the living room, and then all over the house, with Saliha wrapped around me, as though she was a life-enhancing blanket… She turned my grief into grace,” and, for the first time, he feels “free living with my grief.”

This journey through grief is further articulated through Sardar’s use of Urdu, which conveys how the unpredictability of loss cannot be contained within a single language. He has remarked that he ‘feels’ in Urdu but writes in English, and the memoir vividly demonstrates his ease and intimacy with both.

The gentle interlacing of Urdu words into English, especially “meri khwaahish” [my desire], “meri hasrat” [my unfulfilled wish] and “meri tamanna” [my longing], placed at both the beginning and the end, evokes the full spectrum of human desire and longing, all of which ultimately converge on the inevitability of death.

The lyricism of Urdu, combined with the discipline of English, lends the narrative a profound lucidity, sustaining the intensity of heartbreak alongside the recognition that loss is a fundamental human condition, one most of us encounter, often more than once.

For those navigating the mazes and confusions of grief, the book offers a tender guide, suggesting how love, memory and language together can illuminate a path through both loss and life.

The reviewer is Assistant Professor of English and African literature at LUMS, Lahore. She can be reached at sadia.zulfiqar@lums.edu.pk

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 12th, 2026

Fasana Badosh
By Akhlaq Ahmad
Sang-e-Meel
ISBN: 978-969-35-3712-3
466pp.

Since the birth of literature, cities have figured prominently as metaphorical characters in fiction. They draw the jaded and the dreamer, the insider and the outsider, the opportunist and the altruist. And even though they are fixed in terms of their hierarchies, they depend on — and foster — social mobility.

Besides being a journalist, Akhlaq Ahmad is a prolific short story writer. His Urdu stories have appeared in major literary magazines in Pakistan and India. He has also translated hundreds of short stories into Urdu for many magazines, including the famous Sabrang digest.

Fasana Badosh [Tale Wanderer] is a new collection of 24 short stories by Ahmad, in which he treats Karachi as a character with its own personality. His deep affection for Karachi is unmistakably woven into the fabric of his stories. These narratives predominantly feature individuals from diverse linguistic communities, yet they are united by their lives in the same vibrant metropolis.

Whether it’s the warmth of a greeting exchanged on a bustling street or the spontaneous joy upon seeing a friend after a long absence, these experiences are universally understood, transcending ethnic or dialectical differences.

A gripping collection of Urdu short stories feature Karachi as a vibrant metropolis in which individuals from diverse communities are united through their lives

In the story ‘Gutka’, a dynamic scene unfolds in Murree, a city far from Karachi. A person, caught up in the immediate present, suddenly spots a face from their distant past — a long-lost friend. In a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, all semblance of decorum vanishes. Manners are forgotten as the individuals rush forward, their excitement erupting in a flurry of enthusiastic kicks and punches, accompanied by the loud, familiar call of the friend’s nickname, Gutka!

This raw, boisterous greeting speaks volumes about the depth and history of their bond. The name ‘Gutka’ itself, while referring to a specific cultural item made of areca nuts and chewing tobacco, encapsulates the unique intimacy shared between the two individuals. The very act of using such an informal, perhaps even crude, moniker — and shouting it with such abandon — underscores a friendship forged in shared experiences and comfortable familiarity, where societal niceties are replaced by effusive, genuine affection. It signifies a relationship so solid, so personal, that such a greeting becomes a triumphant declaration of enduring connection.

Ahmad’s ability to capture the essence of a place is remarkable. Specific mentions of familiar road names, the vibrant hum of bustling thoroughfares, or even the stark descriptions of collectively endured harsh weather, resonate far beyond mere observation.

These details act as powerful anchors, drawing the reader back to their own lived experiences. It’s as if the author has tapped into a collective memory, articulating sentiments that the reader himself or herself has cherished — or perhaps wrestled with — about their own native city. This shared understanding fosters a sense of belonging and validation, reminding us that personal connections to our urban environment are part of a larger, shared human narrative.

The story ‘Baara Joker’ [Twelve Jokers] revolves around a disturbing undercurrent that often ripples beneath the surface of middle-class life, punctuated by unsettling acts that have become alarmingly normalised. Among these is the quiet vanishing of men, often spirited away under the cloak of night. These disappearances occur without explanation — no stated reason, no identified captors and no clear authority cited. The sheer abruptness leaves families reeling, utterly devoid of information about their loved ones’ fate. What follows is a poignant, almost surreal, period of hushed uncertainty for the neighbourhood.

Despite the palpable gravity of the situation, people often continue with their daily routines, caught between a shared, unspoken understanding of a serious crisis and the gnawing absence of concrete facts. In this delicate balance, some offer genuine solace and support to the affected families, while others, sadly, seize upon the vulnerability to exploit the situation. This complex interplay of fear, resilience and opportunistic behaviour paints a stark, yet increasingly common, portrait of life in contemporary Karachi, where the extraordinary has, regrettably, become an everyday narrative.

Amidst the kaleidoscope of distant lands and unfamiliar horizons, the writer found an unexpected anchor: a face from the past. In the story, ‘Kami Harami’ [Kami the Rascal], this chance encounter, a ghost from memory that surfaces in a bustling borough market of London, serves as the catalyst for a deeply personal narrative. The story that unfolds isn’t just a reunion, but a poignant exploration of a cherished friendship and the abrupt departure of a dear companion.

With the practised hand of a storyteller, the writer delves into the circumstances that led to Kami’s expatriation. This isn’t a simple journey abroad: it is an exit, a severing of ties that beg for understanding. In the bustling yet often harsh environment of Karachi, a labour union worker, nicknamed Kami Harami, finds himself embroiled in a fierce battle for justice. His conviction lies in championing the rights of a widow, ensuring that she receives her rightful dues. This principled stand, however, was perceived as a direct challenge by a powerful local business owner, who wields considerable influence. The confrontation escalated, leading to a scandal that deeply affected the owner.

Facing repercussions that threatened his safety and freedom, the protagonist was ultimately forced to abandon his life in the city and flee Karachi. This isolated incident is, tragically, far from uncommon in the region. It vividly illustrates a systemic issue, where influential figures frequently weaponise the police force against their workers.

False cases are a common tactic, designed to instil fear and maintain control. In severe instances, like the one depicted, the pressure and persecution become so unbearable that the victims are left with no recourse other than to seek refuge beyond the country’s borders, leaving behind their homes and livelihoods, due to the unchecked power of those at the top.

Demonstrating Ahmad’s extensive background as a journalist, certain narratives within this collection stand as compelling testaments to his seasoned experience. One particular story, ‘Ooncha, Lamba, Tanha Sardar’ [The Lofty, Tall, Lonely Chief], vividly recounts the life of a formidable protagonist, a man whose roots are deeply embedded within one of the nation’s most recognised ethnic communities. The narrative meticulously details the Sardar’s strategic choices, charting his ambitious ascent to prominence in the country’s political landscape.

The account highlights not just the struggles and triumphs of the Sardar’s career, but crucially, the principles that guide his actions. As the protagonist reaches his twilight years, the story illustrates a remarkable and voluntary transition of power. He willingly cedes his esteemed position to his son, a decision explicitly framed within the established customs and socio-cultural norms that govern their community. This resolution offers a nuanced portrayal of legacy, leadership and the enduring influence of tradition, all filtered through the lens of journalistic observation and storytelling acumen.

The stories in this collection should appeal not only to the people of Karachi but also to those who like to explore narratives with multiple viewpoints from different backgrounds.

The reviewer writes short fiction in Urdu and is currently working on her first novel

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 12th, 2026

The Argentinian genius of a writer Jorge Luis Borges once said: “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” Libraries, big or small, personal or public, are captivating, but bookstores are equally fascinating for some of us. There is a freedom that you feel in a bookstore that is not the case when in a library, particularly a public or a university library, where a certain discipline has to be observed.

During my stay abroad or travels taken over the years, I have always been overawed by bookstores offering old and new books and enjoy visiting them even more if they house a café, where you can get yourself a cup of hot black coffee while browsing through books or magazines. Such activity brings so much pleasure and deep comfort.

Dillons bookstore on Gower Street, one of the largest multi-storeyed bookstores situated in central London, was my permanent haunt during my longer stints in the city for work and studies, spanning from 1995 to 2000. It was later acquired by those running the bookstore chain Waterstones and is now called Waterstones, with the café still named Dillons. Maybe that is to keep the legacy of the old store alive.

The range of subjects and the titles available under each of the subjects was remarkable. Since my primary interest was fiction, creative non-fiction, history and poetry, there was hardly a title I looked for that was not found there. I remember some leading writers visiting the store on occasion for book-signing events.

After I left London, I kept visiting Waterstones on Gower Street on my subsequent trips as well, before falling for a relatively smaller Foyles bookstore at Southbank by the river Thames. The Foyles at Southbank has some sales staff who are passionate about books themselves and introduce you to contemporary writings of merit. It has a wide collection of children’s books and a good stationery store as well. I have already written once about Saqi Books near Bayswater in London, which I visited a few weeks before it was closed down in 2023. It was one of finest bookstores offering titles in both Arabic and English.

In New York, my friends Sajid Samoon and Hasan Mujtaba once took me to the majestic New York Central Library and then to the Strand bookstore on Broadway. The first visit to Strand made me feel so rich and exuberant. The store has a collection of old, new and rare books, magazines, maps, and reference materials, all together in the millions. By any standards, old books were quite reasonably priced.

The Strand has a different ambience compared to the British bookstores. In fact, it is even different from the bookstores Second Story and Kramers near the Dupont circle in Washington DC, where another friend Nazeer Mahar took me when I was visiting the city some years ago. Second Story offers a good collection of second-hand books, including some rare books on a variety of subjects. It also has maps and archival materials. Even when old or used, the books are in good shape. Perhaps, some are restored after acquisition by Second Story itself.

In the same vicinity, Kramers is not just a bookstore but also houses a nice bar and a fine restaurant. Many artists, authors, booklovers and foodies gather at Kramers. Besides contemporary and traditional collections, it offers a good number of audio books as well. At Kramers, after buying a couple of books, Mahar and I had our meal after sharing a somewhat rustic beverage.

After I left London, I kept visiting Waterstones on Gower Street on my subsequent trips as well, before falling for a relatively smaller Foyles bookstore at Southbank by the river Thames. The Foyles at Southbank has some sales staff who are passionate about books themselves and introduce you to contemporary writings of merit.

Let me now take you to my favourite bookstore in Delhi. Between 1994 and 2014, I visited India multiple times for a host of reasons — academic or literary conferences, research work on education and child labour, progressive writers’ moots, poetry readings or track-2 dialogues. I haven’t been to India since but always feel happy when I find a mention of Bahrisons Booksellers, one of the cosiest and friendliest bookstores anywhere.

It is located in the Khan Market. The market is named after Khan Abdul Jabbar Khan (commonly known as Dr Khan Sahib), the elder brother of Bacha Khan. The market was established in 1951 to support the refugees who had migrated to Delhi from what is now Pakistan. Bahrisons was established there in 1953 by a refugee from Malakwal, district Mandi Bahauddin, now Pakistani Punjab. I have met the next generation, the couple who are running the bookstore now — Rajni and Anuj Malhotra. Once, Anuj and I had a long chat on the partition of Punjab and the suffering inflicted on refugees on both sides as a consequence.

Over the years, Khan Market has become an exotic and expensive shopping area in India. However, Bahrisons not only exists but thrives as a bookstore. It must have been hard to survive the pandemic a few years ago and then manage the old business of selling books under extensive market pressures in the neoliberal world.

I can say that, until 2014, books were much more affordable in India as compared to the UK or the US. That made one crave for more and to buy more. The joy of visiting Bahrisons is only comparable to the feeling I once had when my dear friend Divya Singh in Delhi used to send me wonderful books covered in bubble wrap in hard envelopes.

The writer is a poet and essayist. His latest collections of verse are Hairaa’n Sar-i-Bazaar and No Fortunes to Tell.

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 12th, 2026