Ismat Chughtai Ke Niswaani Kirdaar
In the background of most of Ismat Chughtai's female characters stands a woman who refuses to remain a mere nameless cog in the domestic machine. By asserting her independent existence, she has, if not entirely demolished the established values and customs of her environment, certainly shaken them to their core. Consequently, cracks have appeared throughout the tightly bound bricks of the household structure. This by no means implies that Ismat's female characters are all cut from the same cloth or exhibit identical reactions. Rather, it simply means that the prototype upon which they are based possesses a fundamental pattern of its own.
When discussing fictional characters, a distinction is generally drawn between a type and a character. A type, for instance, is a social framework in which an individual, sooner or later, becomes imprisoned—to such an extent that their individuality fades away, and their generic traits become prominent. Just as an onion has layers, society too consists of layers that appear tier upon tier in the form of various classes and professions. People involuntarily and gradually mold themselves into these layers. Examples include shopkeeping, teaching, moneylending, toll collection, clerical work, and factory ownership. A profession acts like a pair of scissors, snipping away all of an individual's protruding edges and distinct contours to fit a standard size. Consequently, the individual surrenders their uniqueness, blending into the multitude of others within that profession. Certain types are also temporary in nature. For instance, when a person embarks on a journey, they become a traveler the moment they board a vehicle; upon entering a shop, they are labeled a buyer; and when stepping onto a field, they become a player.
On the other hand, a character is an individual whose wings either could never be clipped, or if they were, grew back again. Spilling out of their prescribed mold, they emerge as a personality defined not by the drabness of conformity, but by the vibrant colors of individuality. Northrop Frye once noted that all characters are built upon the foundation of a stock type (or prototype). In essence, a prototype serves the same function as a skeleton in the human body. It is the blueprint that dictates how physical features will manifest. Yet, despite the fundamental uniformity of the skeleton, every body looks different from others due to its unique features. The same applies to a character in fiction: although built upon a prototype, they undergo an internal psychological transformation—often triggered by external events and tragedies. This transformation allows them to emerge as a unique entity, entirely distinct from others of their type, and it is this very individuality that elevates them to the status of a character. The same holds true for Ismat Chughtai's female characters. Behind them lies a woman who is far more interested in breaking and scattering things than in gathering and preserving them. Mythology offers several such examples. Consider Kali from Hindu mythology, whose role is to tear apart the ordered and structured universe, or the Sumerian Tiamat, whose turbulent existence sweeps everything away like mere debris. If we examine the social environment of the Indian subcontinent—where women have been kept in such absolute subjugation for millennia that even the slightest social deviation is branded as a stigma—the rebellion of Ismat Chughtai's female characters, with its far-reaching consequences, appears akin to the destructive forces of Kali or an apocalypse. It seems as though the prototype of the woman, confined within a societal mold, has been spurred by an internal tempest and is now ready to overflow. Consequently, a new imprint has emerged on the surface of this prototype's mold. If we equate this mold with the home, then Ismat's female characters can be seen punching holes through the traditional veil and the four walls of domesticity. If, in this process, the bricks of the house shift from their places and cracks begin to appear everywhere, it signifies that the prototype has broken out of its fortified world and begun to shape itself into distinct characters.
In Ismat's work, the manifestation of the rebellious woman's prototype across various characters becomes apparent from the very first reading. It is clear that her female characters represent a stark departure from the traditional concept of a fictional character. Traditional fictional characters are typically distinguished from the general populace by their specific physical or psychological traits. Examples include Khoji's short stature, Don Quixote's clumsiness, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame's ugliness, Long John Silver's lameness in Treasure Island, Odysseus's adventurous spirit in the Odyssey, and Hatim Tai's legendary generosity. All these distinguishing traits manifest vividly within these extraordinary characters. Thus, traditional fictional characters possess distinct physical or psychological features that set them apart from ordinary people; however, these characters also function as a kind of closed system. To borrow a term from painting, it would not be wrong to say that these traditional characters resemble a portrait, characterized by bold, heavily defined strokes. In the lens of structuralist criticism, these traditional characters are autonomous wholes, recognized solely by their specific physical and psychological attributes. On the other hand, characters created by writers like Virginia Woolf are temperamentally different from this traditional model. It would be a mistake to judge them against the classical concept of a character; nevertheless, they undoubtedly hold the status of characters rather than mere types.
According to structuralist criticism, a character is not merely a manifestation of a few unique features that serve as their distinguishing marks. This means that a character is not just a static portrait; it also possesses a certain dynamism, moving in a specific direction. However, as the character moves forward, the impact of events and tragedies begins to blur their defined features, though they never become entirely unrecognizable. In other words, the hero does not transform into an anti-hero. In my view, the emergence of the anti-hero does not expand the concept of the hero; rather, it obliterates it. Therefore, I consider the rise of the anti-hero to be the very antithesis of the art of characterization. Fortunately, in contrast to the traditional concept of the hero, structuralist criticism has introduced the idea of a character who is not defined by inherent traits or essence. Instead, this character establishes their distinct identity by acting as a participant in the story and undergoing a process of structuring. In other words, they do not allow their existence to dissolve into the nameless, faceless masses. Despite their immense flexibility, they maintain their status as a unique entity. The traditional characters of fiction are heroes or heroic figures whose actions are predetermined and whose fates are obvious. Modern characters, however, do not begin their journey as fully formed, defined entities. Instead, as they navigate various experiences along the way, their core inner traits gradually evolve, ultimately taking on a unique shape. Even if they do begin their journey with a fixed and defined persona, as they move forward, these predetermined traits begin to seem like mere masks. A prominent example of this can be found in Saadat Hasan Manto’s female characters. They can be described as masked characters because they do not reveal their true selves at the beginning. However, by the time the story concludes, they cast off their masks, revealing to the reader a character entirely different from—and often the exact opposite of—their initial masked persona. For instance, Manto makes a deliberate effort to reveal the woman hidden inside the prostitute (proving that the character's initial form was merely a facade). Incidentally, this technique is a natural extension of Manto’s broader literary approach. Influenced by Guy de Maupassant and O. Henry, Manto frequently attempted to introduce a twist at the end of his stories, one that completely shifts the narrative's axis. He applied this very same technique to his characterization. On the other hand, Ismat Chughtai’s female characters do not rely on such narrative acrobatics. They retain the exact same traits from their initial appearance right through to the end. However, as the story flows, these traits gradually reveal their hidden dimensions. Ultimately, we are left with the impression of a fully realized character—one who is not rigid and inflexible like the traditional concept of a character. This means that Ismat Chughtai’s female characters do not oscillate between two extremes.
Some argue that a story should be studied in the same way a linguist studies a sentence. Rather than focusing on the content of the sentence, a linguist examines the linguistic relationships that construct it. For example, they might analyze the connection between a noun and a verb. In doing so, the linguist studying the sentence is actually uncovering its underlying grammatical system. They map out its horizontal (syntagmatic) and vertical (paradigmatic) dimensions, thereby presenting the sentence as a pattern that, due to its horizontal and vertical dynamism, deserves to be called a process. (Even physics has ceased to define the atom as a static unit, now recognizing it instead as a unit of relationships.) It is through this process that the meaning of the sentence is illuminated. When a structuralist critic examines a story, they subject it to a similar analysis (mirroring linguistic analysis), which causes another story to emerge upon the surface of the original narrative. This newly emerged story is a mosaic of signs. To illustrate this, consider playing the piano. Each key produces its own distinct sound, but when these sounds combine, they create a melody. Because this melody is something more than just the sum of the individual keystrokes, it seems to float above the sounds themselves. This means that the pianist, by playing the instrument, transforms the sounds and brings forth new melodic meaning. The structuralist critic performs the exact same function; by analyzing a story, they succeed in endowing it with multiple new layers of meaning. This also proves that the critic is not merely an observer of the story, but an active participant in it.
A study of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters reveals a distinct pattern. At the level of the noun (the name or identity), we encounter characters such as Rani in Til, Rukhsana in Amar Bel, Gori in Do Haath, Sethani in Pesha, the narrator (I) in Kafir, Aalima in Chiriya Ki Bachi, Begum Jaan in Lihaaf, Nani in Nanhi Ki Nani, Amma in Jarein, and Amma Jaan in Daayan. Outwardly, these are normal individuals who do not exemplify any physical or psychological abnormalities. Unlike the characters of classical fiction, they do not possess extraordinary strength, unusual appearances, or abnormal behavior. Within the story, they function like piano keys, each with a fixed and predetermined sound. For instance, Rani in Til is introduced as an unrefined, carefree girl who, driven by the heat of youthful blood, is incapable of respecting social rules and regulations. Rukhsana in Amar Bel appears as a beautiful young maiden who becomes the bride of the forty-year-old Shujaat. She becomes an integral part of the story as a normal, loyal, and thoroughly domestic woman, seemingly devoid of any character eccentricities. Gori in Do Haath represents a lower class where the highest morality is securing two meals a day, and where all other values fall prey to the naked reality of hunger. Sethani in Pesha is depicted as a courtesan existing on two levels: donning the guise of a respectable lady during the day and adopting the demeanor of a courtesan at night. This does not imply an internal transformation; rather, the very pattern of her life is woven from the contrasting colors of day and night. The narrator in Kafir is an educated, self-aware girl capable of analyzing her every move. Aalima in Chiriya Ki Bachi exemplifies the unfortunate girl who is rejected simply because her physical appearance fails to meet the standards of a beauty contest. Begum Jaan in Lihaaf seemingly deviates from the norm due to being a psychological case, but upon closer inspection, she too initially enters the story merely as a representative specimen of her gender. Nanhi Ki Nani (Nanhi's grandmother) is also a common noun—a figure one might spot in any neighborhood. Despite being distinct from ordinary people, she is not different from others of her specific type. Similarly, Amma Jaan in Daayan is a completely normal entity who attempts to live out the lifespans of others.
All these female characters of Ismat are nouns to which certain fundamental adjectives (attributes) are attached—attributes that help determine their position. The educated girl, the lower-class girl, the courtesan, the domestic woman, the ugly girl, the lesbian, the Amar Bel-like female character, the skilled homemaker, etc., are all characters easily recognizable by their specific traits. In the context of narrative, various structuralist critics have given different names to these attributes. For instance, Greimas called it Qualification, Kristeva termed it Qualifying Adjective, while Todorov simply referred to it as an adjective. Todorov further categorized it into different states (e.g., happy, unhappy), different behaviors (e.g., good, evil), and various physical, social, and religious distinctions (e.g., male, female, Christian, Jew, or of noble lineage). The attachment of an attribute to a character assigns them to a specific category on a social, psychological, or religious level. Adjectives are clearly attached to Ismat’s female characters; therefore, these characters are not faceless, abstract entities like those typically found in abstract fiction. The issue with the abstract short story is that the character is not only deprived of their physical features but is also disconnected from their attributes. Consequently, they appear merely as a thread woven into the story's Grammar of Narrative. In contrast, Ismat’s characters are adorned with proper nouns and equipped with adjectives. One could say that, in this regard, they are largely in harmony with the classical concept of character. The condition of identity is essential for a character's existence, and Ismat’s characters possess a distinct existence based on their social, psychological, and intellectual distinctions. For example, Rani in Til or Gori in Do Haath belong to the lower class, where the inclination toward restraint and prohibition is nonexistent. As a result, these characters appear to be at the mercy of their vibrant, pulsing blood. Conversely, the narrator in Kafir, being aware of societal demands, falls prey to hesitation before taking any revolutionary step, and Begum Jaan in Lihaaf is seen committing the act of throwing a quilt over her natural life.
The use of adjectives in a story generally reveals the author's attitude toward a character right from the beginning. For instance, by associating goodness and nobility or wickedness and evil with a character, the author incites the reader's emotions either in support of or in opposition to that character. This is why, in classical stories, the concept of a hero and an opposing villain is based on adjectives. Both are complete entities in their own right, with fixed and predetermined roles, and the author successfully uses them to play with the reader's emotions—that is, to evoke love for the hero and hatred for the villain in the reader's heart. Modern fiction has abandoned the practice of attaching such rigid adjectives to characters that leave no room for flexibility. Characters in modern short stories appear in a molten state. In other words, the attributes of characters in modern fiction are not pasted on their foreheads like labels; rather, they are seen sprouting and bearing fruit like a seed. Most of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters are reflective of this modern approach. When they enter the story, the reader cannot predict what form they will take, but after reading the story, the reader sees these characters in their true form.
The interconnection of proper nouns and adjectives has granted Ismat’s characters the status of a Closed System. Through this process, her characters have become distinct from the nameless characters of abstract fiction. However, keeping the context of the modern Urdu short story in mind, this approach by Ismat does not seem entirely unique, as most modern Urdu fiction writers have also presented their characters as a Closed System. The difference arises where the function of the verb begins in the sentence, because during the operation of the verb, a good fiction writer does not merely stop at the position of a storyteller but also becomes emotionally involved in the events of the story.
Structuralism, in fact, rejects the hero-like character who merely represents fixed, predetermined traits. According to this framework, an individual is a unit of relationships that hollows out from within during a crisis. That is, a space emerges within them where events and forces converge, sparking a kind of internal Mahabharata. Through this process, the individual's fundamental traits manifest and rise to the surface—or rather, these traits collide with circumstances and undergo a transformation, bringing the character's true contours into sharp focus. Hence, the primary emphasis lies on the process of structuring. Transformation does not simply mean that the threads of these traits weave new patterns; it also means they are propelled in a specific direction. Tzvetan Todorov referred to this as a Direct and Teleological Set. In other words, when an individual, acting as a nexus of relationships, moves in a specific direction, they are elevated to the status of a character.
In Ismat Chughtai’s characterization, the author's own presence creates a dynamic where her characters not only stand apart from those of other fiction writers but also share a common thread—a direct consequence of Ismat embedding herself within them. This was, in fact, necessary; if an author does not weave themselves into a character to impart the direction latent within their own being, their character will fail to distinguish itself emotionally and psychologically from those of other writers. This by no means implies that the character is a mere replica of the author. It simply means that through the author's involvement, their core emotional orientation is transferred to the character, a process that occurs entirely subconsciously. Take, for instance, the foundational dimension of Ismat’s characters: it manifests as a form of rebellion, subversion, or at the very least, a deviation from rigid social and psychological patterns. In her autobiography, Ismat Chughtai writes:
I, too, began riding the white mare every day. Sitting on the mare gave me an overwhelming sense of triumph. This was the rebel Ismat's first victory.
I would play all the games with my brothers that boys usually played. Playing gilli-danda, flying kites, and playing football, I turned twelve.
In my childhood, I had a habit of sleepwalking. This habit lasted until I was ten. I would get up in my sleep and wander off anywhere. Once, I unlatched the door and walked into the garden. When I woke up, I was standing under a tree.
By the time I reached college, I had completely abandoned the burqa.
Before our marriage, I thoroughly warned Shahid that I was a troublesome sort of woman and that he would regret it later. I have spent my entire life breaking chains. I will not be able to remain bound in any chain now. Being an obedient, pure woman simply does not suit me. But Shahid did not listen.
A man is ready to worship a woman and turn her into a goddess; he can give her love, he can give her respect, but the one thing he cannot give her is equality. Shahid gave me equality, and the two of us lived a good domestic life.
These excerpts reveal that Ismat viewed herself as a rebellious woman and took pride in it. But did she truly comprehend the full nature of this rebellion? My assessment is that when Ismat observed herself as a character, she recognized this rebellion on a surface level, but she could not fully grasp its hidden dimensions. These concealed aspects unconsciously seeped into the female characters she created. Consequently, when we compare the actions and behaviors of these characters with Ismat’s own life and her rebellious attitude, it becomes apparent that she was not entirely self-aware. This is actually a good thing; if a person could read themselves like an open book, the entire mystery of life would vanish. Fortunately, it is impossible to read oneself in absolute totality. The human heart is a river deemed deeper than the ocean, and three-quarters of an iceberg remains submerged underwater. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Ismat did possess some awareness—even if only at a surface level—of her personality's dominant inclinations.
This inclination toward rebellion exists as a common denominator across Ismat’s female characters, yet it is not an intellectual kind of rebellion, as her autobiography makes clear. The adoption of masculine traits—such as participating in boys' games, rejecting the traditional feminine pursuits of cooking and sewing, refusing to become a mere housewife, discarding the veil, or choosing to work—were all considered acts of social rebellion in her time. However, Ismat’s true rebellion was not defined by these minor infractions. Her real rebellion lay in the fact that her female characters brought forth a woman who existed as a prototype within Ismat’s own psyche. Initially, this woman would enter the narrative as an ordinary being, but as she collided with other characters and navigated various circumstances, the rock, the witch, the parasitic vine, the courtesan, or the lesbian within her grew increasingly stronger. One might say that because this woman was inherently rebellious, any characters, traditions, or social norms that crossed her path would inevitably clash with her out of an instinct for self-preservation.
In both scenarios, the woman became progressively more active, while the characters and phenomena that stood in her way continued to unravel. Numerous female characters of Ismat’s can be cited in this regard. Take, for example, Aalima from the story Chiri Ki Ikki (The Ace of Clubs). Due to her lack of physical beauty, she is treated as a cheap commodity in the marriage market, yet a fiercely robust woman lies hidden within her. Thus, when she enters Abdul Hai’s life, she deliberately incites his hatred, ultimately using that very weapon to cut him down. To conquer a man, women have historically wielded their beauty as a weapon, but Aalima is deprived of this asset. In compensation, the woman within her awakens, and with her very first strike, she shatters Abdul Hai’s personality—or rather, his entire defense mechanism. Consequently, while Abdul Hai outwardly expresses revulsion, he continues to break down from within. Aalima’s magnetic personality renders him so utterly helpless that he is ultimately forced to accept her. At the end of the story, when Abdul Hai’s mother asks:
Alas, didn't you feel repulsed by the Ace of Clubs (referring to Aalima)?
Abdul Hai replies, That I do, and I always will.
Then what has happened to you, my son... why have you ruined your life?
'The dark witch has cast a spell,' Hai said, putting on a pitiful face, and with great fanfare, he ruined his life.
Calling the Aalima (scholar) of the soil by the title Kali Mai is highly significant. It immediately draws the mind to the goddess Kali, or the Devouring Mother. This represents the destructive aspect of a woman, a trait hidden within every female character that surfaces whenever necessary. Perhaps this is why it has been said about women:
There is a jungle in the heart of every woman.
A similar situation applies to Rani, a character in Ismat Chughtai’s short story Til (The Mole). Rani belongs to the lower rungs of society and is therefore free from the restrictions and taboos prevalent in the upper classes. Beyond this, however, Rani embodies a sexually charged woman, and in this respect, she too resembles Kali. A mole is seemingly just a small dark spot, but within the story, it not only becomes a symbol of Rani’s very existence but also grows and expands to emerge as a parallel force challenging societal morality. This parallel force acts as a storm that shatters the oars and splinters the planks of Ganesh Chandra Chaudhry’s seemingly solid and intact personality. It does so to such an extent that Chaudhry’s very persona is deconstructed. At the end of the story, the situation unfolds as follows:
It wasn't Chaudhry's, she declared under oath in a packed courtroom.
Chaudhry is impotent, she said carelessly. It's Ratna's, go ask him. How should I know, wow! she swaggered with her usual flair. With a silent thunder and flash of lightning, a black mountain erupted over Chaudhry's existence, and far off in the darkness, an even rounder, raised dot began spinning like a top.
Chaudhry now sits by the roadside, drawing lines with charcoal... long, triangular, round, like a burnt scar.
It is as if the mole, which in Rani’s possession acted as a visceral, blood-drawn vortex, has now sunk deep into Chaudhry’s heart. He is left revolving around this magnetic black sphere like a lifeless planet.
Most of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters rise up and wreak havoc on the sheer strength of their negative power. For instance, in the story Do Haath (Two Hands), central importance is ostensibly given to an economic issue, and morality is portrayed as subordinate to economic necessity (an approach that, to some extent, reflects the Progressive ideology). However, the true nucleus of the story is Gori. Much like Rani, Gori belongs to the lower class and is therefore incapable of respecting societal taboos. The difference is that while Rani emerged as a sexually charged woman, Gori serves as an embodiment of deviation from social morality. Even while living within society, she operates under the law of the jungle—a law that prioritizes the continuation of the species above all else, regardless of whether this process aligns with societal rules. Gori is a creature of the jungle. Yet, within the story, her presence—with all its natural audacity and rawness—emerges in such a way that the cloaks of social respectability around her are shredded, and the tightly wound turbans of honor come undone. Consequently, the wives in her neighborhood are left haunted by the looming threat that their husbands might sink into this filth. The situation is described as follows:
What was Gori? She was simply a headstrong, long-horned stray bull roaming free. People would gather their fragile glass pots and pans with both hands and clutch them to their chests. When the situation became critical, a formal delegation of the servant-class women presented themselves at Amma's court. The danger and its terrifying consequences were debated with great fervor. A 'Husband Protection Committee' was formed, in which all the sisters-in-law voted unanimously.
Thus, much like Rani, Gori too exhibits a destructive force. The difference is that while Rani shattered the persona of a single individual, Chaudhry, Gori makes a mockery of the entire neighborhood's morality. She drags society out from under the umbrella of social laws and abandons it to the jungle.
While Gori from Do Haath is a masterpiece of nature, Begum Jaan from Lihaaf (The Quilt) exemplifies a deviation from the natural order. On the surface, her actions might be deemed an act of vengeance, as she retaliates against her husband, the Nawab, for his neglect. Fundamentally, however, this represents the violent facet of her personality, one that stands in direct opposition to nature. Begum Jaan suffers from an itch, which is less a physical ailment and more a psychological restlessness. She initiates her rebellion by making her own body the testing ground, and then proceeds to spread this virus to others. For instance, the narrator (I) of the story is a young girl—a bud destined to blossom into a flower and carry forward the continuation of the human race. Yet, Begum Jaan, entirely unconsciously, attempts to derail this girl from her natural purpose, trying to drag her into her own barren world. This is a blatant violation of the laws of nature. Begum Jaan has draped a quilt over her instinctual life to keep it hidden from the piercing gaze of society. However, society is a force that penetrates even solid walls. The old adage that walls have ears implies that the very objects a person uses to conceal their actions eventually become the informants of those deeds. In the story, Begum Jaan uses the quilt as a veil, but the quilt itself, morphing into ghostly, spectral shapes and forming gaps and crevices, ends up exposing the reality hidden beneath it. As a result, the narrator, rather than being drawn into the quilt, becomes utterly repulsed by it.
In a way, this is a victory for society, as it manages to stop the virus from spreading. However, Begum Jaan’s endeavor is also successful in its own right, as she manages to inflict deep psychological trauma upon the narrator. (Manto’s story Khol Do was accused of obscenity, but the real charge against it should have been that it induced a psychological complex by making minds utterly repulsed by sex). The lingering effects of the quilt on the narrator of Lihaaf serve as proof of this very phenomenon. In essence, what Begum Jaan failed to achieve on a physical level, she succeeded in accomplishing on a psychological one. The ultimate goal on both levels was to alienate the other character from her natural biological functions. In this, she was entirely successful.
However, Ismat’s stories also feature characters who do not embody the violent, enraged, or vengeful woman, but rather represent her Annapurna (nurturing) or positive form. Yet, in terms of their ultimate impact, there is little difference between the two, as both completely upend the existing environment and its characters. One does so with an iron sword, the other with a golden one. For instance, Amma in the story Jarein (Roots)—who, in Ismat’s words, remained as firmly rooted in her place as the roots of a banyan tree stand fast in a fierce storm—is a female character who refuses to join her family in their migration. She does so simply because she views being uprooted from her soil as a death sentence. The situation unfolds in such a way that the winds of time first begin to stir, then turn into a tempest, and all of Amma’s flowers and fruits (the pieces of her heart) are blown away by this fierce gale. But Amma herself is a root; her orientation is vertical, unlike the horizontal winds of time, and so she remains firmly attached to her earth. Because Amma is the nucleus of her family, when the family embarks on this journey without her, it shatters. Amma’s action cannot be dismissed as mere stubbornness. It is an existential necessity, for a root draws its nourishment from the earth, not from the wind.
Sixteen-year-old Rukhsana Begum (from the short story Amarbel), who embodies this positive form, is another female character of a similar mold. Rukhsana Begum does not exhibit any rebellious behavior; instead, she continuously compromises with every situation. For example, when she is married off to the forty-year-old Shujaat, she accepts him wholeheartedly. She remains loyal to him until the very end and serves him like a dutiful wife, yet her sheer youthfulness ultimately demolishes her husband. On the surface, Rukhsana Begum’s youth is a badge of honor for her husband, but behind the scenes, this very youth drains Shujaat’s blood like an amarbel (a parasitic vine), much like the witches of old folktales. Rani from Til (The Mole) and Rukhsana from Amarbel are fundamentally similar characters in that they completely unravel the personality of their counterpart. However, on a superficial level, they are worlds apart. Rani belongs to the lower class of society, and thus the morality of the lower class governs her. Rukhsana, on the other hand, is a middle-class woman, bound by a middle-class morality that insists on suppressing sexual desires. Similarly, Rani is an aimless, unmarried, and sexually charged woman, whereas Rukhsana is married, virtuous, and beautiful. Yet, just as Rani’s mole rendered the Chaudhry utterly helpless, Rukhsana’s beauty and youth completely devastate her husband. In Ismat’s words: The amarbel continued to spread, and the banyan tree continued to wither. In the end, when Shujaat’s adorned corpse was laid out in the courtyard, Rukhsana Begum sat in stunned silence, as if nature’s most masterful artist had painted and displayed a masterpiece with an unparalleled brush.
A somewhat similar situation arises in the short story Dayan (The Witch). Amma Jaan in Dayan is Hamid’s mother-in-law, who casts a shadow over the entire household like an amarbel and wishes to consume the lifespans of Razia and Hamid for herself. Consequently, Hamid’s marital life begins to fall apart, and he feels as though a witch has infiltrated his home and snatched his wife, Razia, away from him. Ultimately, when Hamid can no longer tolerate his mother-in-law and reacts fiercely, Amma Jaan attributes his extraordinary outburst to some fabricated love affair, saying:
May God destroy that wretched witch who is ruining my child’s home!
She remains entirely oblivious to the fact that she herself is the wretched witch who has torn her child’s home out by the roots.
Viewed holistically, Ismat Chughtai’s female characters possess a language of their own, and much like language itself, they are structured around the noun, the adjective, and the verb. At the level of the noun, the mythological or archetypal facet of the woman is clearly visible within the inner depths of Ismat’s characters—such as Rani in Til, Gori in Do Haath, the narrator ('I') in Kafir, the Sethani in Pesha, Rukhsana in Amarbel, Aalima in Chiri Ki Ikki, Begum Jaan in Lihaaf, and Amma in Dayan. However, this woman is not merely the sum total of all these female characters; she is something more. This element of something more has been infused by Ismat’s own personality. Were this not the case, these exact characters would have appeared identically in the works of other fiction writers, and Ismat’s own female characters would have seemed like mere carbon copies of one another. But this did not happen. Each of Ismat’s characters possesses a unique existence, transforming into something entirely different through the touch of Ismat’s own persona. At the level of the adjective, because these characters are drawn from various strata of society, they emerge with their own specific traits. Yet, they are not mere types. That is to say, even though their foundation rests on a prototype, Ismat has managed to carve out highly individualized character traits upon that prototypical base. One might say that when the prototype overflows its mold, it takes on new attributes and crystallizes into a distinct character. As for the level of the verb, Ismat’s female characters pass through various events and tragedies, developing organically. Instead of remaining static and fixed from beginning to end like classical characters, they are constantly seen revealing their dynamic inner selves.
The truth is that at the level of the verb, Ismat has fully illuminated the individuality of these characters, for it is only in moments of crisis that a character’s hidden strengths are mobilized and fully expressed. Ismat’s characters appear active on both vertical and horizontal planes. The vertical plane is built upon resemblance. At this level, language draws upon its collective, foundational aspect; through selection and association, it activates metaphorical behaviors, thereby creating vertical depth in the narrative. The exact same process occurs in characterization, where the fiction writer peers into the background or the inner depths of the character, successfully generating vertical depth through selection and association. The presence of the quintessential female form in Ismat’s characters is indicative of this very paradigmatic approach in her work. As for the horizontal plane, here too Ismat has cultivated a natural flow of events and tragedies—a structure where incidents and calamities are positioned exactly where they belong, much like the syntactic arrangement of a sentence. Consequently, they do not generate mere noise; rather, they all culminate in a specific, unified meaning.
The relationship between a short story and its reader (or critic) is unbreakable. However, the reader does not merely sit before the story with an outstretched hand, waiting for the writer to drop the alms of a narrative or a character into it. On the contrary, by engaging and playing with the text, the reader succeeds in creating new layers of meaning. This implies that the reader essentially rewrites the story. Yet, the reader faces a dilemma of their own. Deep within every reader, certain innate paradigms exist, and they expect to view the story's plot and characters through the lens of these paradigms. In this context, Northrop Frye has mentioned four Mythos—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—which serve as the ready-made categories of life. Under Spring, we find plots and characters where love triumphs, and the cruel society—the eternal enemy of lovers that always obstructs their path—is ultimately defeated and thwarted. Under Summer, characters embark on adventures; they navigate the perilous stages of a journey and do not rest until they have vanquished their enemies. In the case of Autumn, the character's tragedy unfolds, meaning they are defeated at the hands of human or non-human adversaries. Under Winter, the character's quest fails, and they either die or descend into madness.
An ordinary reader expects the writer to tell a story that perfectly aligns with these categories. However, a discerning reader will combine the natural desire to hear a story with a quest for aesthetic satisfaction, which offers a way to break free from the rigid, predetermined confines of the plot. The Russian Formalists termed this process Foregrounding. This meant that the creator presents the text in a unique and unfamiliar way, providing the reader with moments of wonder that ultimately lead to aesthetic pleasure. Structuralists argue that this process of making strange (defamiliarization) is inherent in the act of reading itself. But this is not the whole truth; if it were, there would be no difference left between an ordinary tale and a literary masterpiece. The reason is that a reader, by activating their instinct for meaning-making, could theoretically generate multiple psychological layers even within a mediocre story. Similarly, in the realm of poetry, the Structuralist claim that ordinary journalistic prose can evoke poetic states simply by being formatted as a poetic text is incorrect. Personally, I believe in the creativity of the reading process, but only when the text itself achieves a high level of artistic merit—that is, when it possesses the power to defamiliarize and evoke wonder.
When it comes to character portrayal, any attempt to downplay the writer's creativity is incomprehensible. It is through the creative process that the writer succeeds in making a character overflow the rigid mold of a prototype. Only after this does the reader bring the character's other hidden layers to light, assigning it multiple new semantic dimensions that make the process of defamiliarization even sharper and more intense. The significance of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters lies in the fact that they visibly overflow the molds of standard character types, and in doing so, they compel the reader to participate in their completion. Just as viewing a masterpiece of painting stimulates the observer's imagination—prompting them to fill the spaces and gaps within the image through the very act of looking, thereby making it even more wondrous and unique—the reader of a character does exactly the same. By filling in the inherent gaps within the character, the reader grants it greater depth and expansiveness. Ultimately, the artist's job is not to present a state of artistic completion that brings the reader's own creative process to a halt. Rather, their task is to leave the creation open-ended, ensuring that the reader's creative engagement continues. Ismat Chughtai’s female characters are not mere specimens of rigid craftsmanship devoid of any gaps or voids. They are, instead, a dynamic pattern where the threads of character are constantly being woven and unraveled. When the reader enters this pattern and participates in this process of making and unmaking, they immediately realize the boundless possibilities these characters hold.
In the background of most of Ismat Chughtai's female characters stands a woman who refuses to remain a mere nameless cog in the domestic machine. By asserting her independent existence, she has, if not entirely demolished the established values and customs of her environment, certainly shaken them to their core. Consequently, cracks have appeared throughout the tightly bound bricks of the household structure. This by no means implies that Ismat's female characters are all cut from the same cloth or exhibit identical reactions. Rather, it simply means that the prototype upon which they are based possesses a fundamental pattern of its own.
When discussing fictional characters, a distinction is generally drawn between a type and a character. A type, for instance, is a social framework in which an individual, sooner or later, becomes imprisoned—to such an extent that their individuality fades away, and their generic traits become prominent. Just as an onion has layers, society too consists of layers that appear tier upon tier in the form of various classes and professions. People involuntarily and gradually mold themselves into these layers. Examples include shopkeeping, teaching, moneylending, toll collection, clerical work, and factory ownership. A profession acts like a pair of scissors, snipping away all of an individual's protruding edges and distinct contours to fit a standard size. Consequently, the individual surrenders their uniqueness, blending into the multitude of others within that profession. Certain types are also temporary in nature. For instance, when a person embarks on a journey, they become a traveler the moment they board a vehicle; upon entering a shop, they are labeled a buyer; and when stepping onto a field, they become a player.
On the other hand, a character is an individual whose wings either could never be clipped, or if they were, grew back again. Spilling out of their prescribed mold, they emerge as a personality defined not by the drabness of conformity, but by the vibrant colors of individuality. Northrop Frye once noted that all characters are built upon the foundation of a stock type (or prototype). In essence, a prototype serves the same function as a skeleton in the human body. It is the blueprint that dictates how physical features will manifest. Yet, despite the fundamental uniformity of the skeleton, every body looks different from others due to its unique features. The same applies to a character in fiction: although built upon a prototype, they undergo an internal psychological transformation—often triggered by external events and tragedies. This transformation allows them to emerge as a unique entity, entirely distinct from others of their type, and it is this very individuality that elevates them to the status of a character. The same holds true for Ismat Chughtai's female characters. Behind them lies a woman who is far more interested in breaking and scattering things than in gathering and preserving them. Mythology offers several such examples. Consider Kali from Hindu mythology, whose role is to tear apart the ordered and structured universe, or the Sumerian Tiamat, whose turbulent existence sweeps everything away like mere debris. If we examine the social environment of the Indian subcontinent—where women have been kept in such absolute subjugation for millennia that even the slightest social deviation is branded as a stigma—the rebellion of Ismat Chughtai's female characters, with its far-reaching consequences, appears akin to the destructive forces of Kali or an apocalypse. It seems as though the prototype of the woman, confined within a societal mold, has been spurred by an internal tempest and is now ready to overflow. Consequently, a new imprint has emerged on the surface of this prototype's mold. If we equate this mold with the home, then Ismat's female characters can be seen punching holes through the traditional veil and the four walls of domesticity. If, in this process, the bricks of the house shift from their places and cracks begin to appear everywhere, it signifies that the prototype has broken out of its fortified world and begun to shape itself into distinct characters.
In Ismat's work, the manifestation of the rebellious woman's prototype across various characters becomes apparent from the very first reading. It is clear that her female characters represent a stark departure from the traditional concept of a fictional character. Traditional fictional characters are typically distinguished from the general populace by their specific physical or psychological traits. Examples include Khoji's short stature, Don Quixote's clumsiness, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame's ugliness, Long John Silver's lameness in Treasure Island, Odysseus's adventurous spirit in the Odyssey, and Hatim Tai's legendary generosity. All these distinguishing traits manifest vividly within these extraordinary characters. Thus, traditional fictional characters possess distinct physical or psychological features that set them apart from ordinary people; however, these characters also function as a kind of closed system. To borrow a term from painting, it would not be wrong to say that these traditional characters resemble a portrait, characterized by bold, heavily defined strokes. In the lens of structuralist criticism, these traditional characters are autonomous wholes, recognized solely by their specific physical and psychological attributes. On the other hand, characters created by writers like Virginia Woolf are temperamentally different from this traditional model. It would be a mistake to judge them against the classical concept of a character; nevertheless, they undoubtedly hold the status of characters rather than mere types.
According to structuralist criticism, a character is not merely a manifestation of a few unique features that serve as their distinguishing marks. This means that a character is not just a static portrait; it also possesses a certain dynamism, moving in a specific direction. However, as the character moves forward, the impact of events and tragedies begins to blur their defined features, though they never become entirely unrecognizable. In other words, the hero does not transform into an anti-hero. In my view, the emergence of the anti-hero does not expand the concept of the hero; rather, it obliterates it. Therefore, I consider the rise of the anti-hero to be the very antithesis of the art of characterization. Fortunately, in contrast to the traditional concept of the hero, structuralist criticism has introduced the idea of a character who is not defined by inherent traits or essence. Instead, this character establishes their distinct identity by acting as a participant in the story and undergoing a process of structuring. In other words, they do not allow their existence to dissolve into the nameless, faceless masses. Despite their immense flexibility, they maintain their status as a unique entity. The traditional characters of fiction are heroes or heroic figures whose actions are predetermined and whose fates are obvious. Modern characters, however, do not begin their journey as fully formed, defined entities. Instead, as they navigate various experiences along the way, their core inner traits gradually evolve, ultimately taking on a unique shape. Even if they do begin their journey with a fixed and defined persona, as they move forward, these predetermined traits begin to seem like mere masks. A prominent example of this can be found in Saadat Hasan Manto’s female characters. They can be described as masked characters because they do not reveal their true selves at the beginning. However, by the time the story concludes, they cast off their masks, revealing to the reader a character entirely different from—and often the exact opposite of—their initial masked persona. For instance, Manto makes a deliberate effort to reveal the woman hidden inside the prostitute (proving that the character's initial form was merely a facade). Incidentally, this technique is a natural extension of Manto’s broader literary approach. Influenced by Guy de Maupassant and O. Henry, Manto frequently attempted to introduce a twist at the end of his stories, one that completely shifts the narrative's axis. He applied this very same technique to his characterization. On the other hand, Ismat Chughtai’s female characters do not rely on such narrative acrobatics. They retain the exact same traits from their initial appearance right through to the end. However, as the story flows, these traits gradually reveal their hidden dimensions. Ultimately, we are left with the impression of a fully realized character—one who is not rigid and inflexible like the traditional concept of a character. This means that Ismat Chughtai’s female characters do not oscillate between two extremes.
Some argue that a story should be studied in the same way a linguist studies a sentence. Rather than focusing on the content of the sentence, a linguist examines the linguistic relationships that construct it. For example, they might analyze the connection between a noun and a verb. In doing so, the linguist studying the sentence is actually uncovering its underlying grammatical system. They map out its horizontal (syntagmatic) and vertical (paradigmatic) dimensions, thereby presenting the sentence as a pattern that, due to its horizontal and vertical dynamism, deserves to be called a process. (Even physics has ceased to define the atom as a static unit, now recognizing it instead as a unit of relationships.) It is through this process that the meaning of the sentence is illuminated. When a structuralist critic examines a story, they subject it to a similar analysis (mirroring linguistic analysis), which causes another story to emerge upon the surface of the original narrative. This newly emerged story is a mosaic of signs. To illustrate this, consider playing the piano. Each key produces its own distinct sound, but when these sounds combine, they create a melody. Because this melody is something more than just the sum of the individual keystrokes, it seems to float above the sounds themselves. This means that the pianist, by playing the instrument, transforms the sounds and brings forth new melodic meaning. The structuralist critic performs the exact same function; by analyzing a story, they succeed in endowing it with multiple new layers of meaning. This also proves that the critic is not merely an observer of the story, but an active participant in it.
A study of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters reveals a distinct pattern. At the level of the noun (the name or identity), we encounter characters such as Rani in Til, Rukhsana in Amar Bel, Gori in Do Haath, Sethani in Pesha, the narrator (I) in Kafir, Aalima in Chiriya Ki Bachi, Begum Jaan in Lihaaf, Nani in Nanhi Ki Nani, Amma in Jarein, and Amma Jaan in Daayan. Outwardly, these are normal individuals who do not exemplify any physical or psychological abnormalities. Unlike the characters of classical fiction, they do not possess extraordinary strength, unusual appearances, or abnormal behavior. Within the story, they function like piano keys, each with a fixed and predetermined sound. For instance, Rani in Til is introduced as an unrefined, carefree girl who, driven by the heat of youthful blood, is incapable of respecting social rules and regulations. Rukhsana in Amar Bel appears as a beautiful young maiden who becomes the bride of the forty-year-old Shujaat. She becomes an integral part of the story as a normal, loyal, and thoroughly domestic woman, seemingly devoid of any character eccentricities. Gori in Do Haath represents a lower class where the highest morality is securing two meals a day, and where all other values fall prey to the naked reality of hunger. Sethani in Pesha is depicted as a courtesan existing on two levels: donning the guise of a respectable lady during the day and adopting the demeanor of a courtesan at night. This does not imply an internal transformation; rather, the very pattern of her life is woven from the contrasting colors of day and night. The narrator in Kafir is an educated, self-aware girl capable of analyzing her every move. Aalima in Chiriya Ki Bachi exemplifies the unfortunate girl who is rejected simply because her physical appearance fails to meet the standards of a beauty contest. Begum Jaan in Lihaaf seemingly deviates from the norm due to being a psychological case, but upon closer inspection, she too initially enters the story merely as a representative specimen of her gender. Nanhi Ki Nani (Nanhi's grandmother) is also a common noun—a figure one might spot in any neighborhood. Despite being distinct from ordinary people, she is not different from others of her specific type. Similarly, Amma Jaan in Daayan is a completely normal entity who attempts to live out the lifespans of others.
All these female characters of Ismat are nouns to which certain fundamental adjectives (attributes) are attached—attributes that help determine their position. The educated girl, the lower-class girl, the courtesan, the domestic woman, the ugly girl, the lesbian, the Amar Bel-like female character, the skilled homemaker, etc., are all characters easily recognizable by their specific traits. In the context of narrative, various structuralist critics have given different names to these attributes. For instance, Greimas called it Qualification, Kristeva termed it Qualifying Adjective, while Todorov simply referred to it as an adjective. Todorov further categorized it into different states (e.g., happy, unhappy), different behaviors (e.g., good, evil), and various physical, social, and religious distinctions (e.g., male, female, Christian, Jew, or of noble lineage). The attachment of an attribute to a character assigns them to a specific category on a social, psychological, or religious level. Adjectives are clearly attached to Ismat’s female characters; therefore, these characters are not faceless, abstract entities like those typically found in abstract fiction. The issue with the abstract short story is that the character is not only deprived of their physical features but is also disconnected from their attributes. Consequently, they appear merely as a thread woven into the story's Grammar of Narrative. In contrast, Ismat’s characters are adorned with proper nouns and equipped with adjectives. One could say that, in this regard, they are largely in harmony with the classical concept of character. The condition of identity is essential for a character's existence, and Ismat’s characters possess a distinct existence based on their social, psychological, and intellectual distinctions. For example, Rani in Til or Gori in Do Haath belong to the lower class, where the inclination toward restraint and prohibition is nonexistent. As a result, these characters appear to be at the mercy of their vibrant, pulsing blood. Conversely, the narrator in Kafir, being aware of societal demands, falls prey to hesitation before taking any revolutionary step, and Begum Jaan in Lihaaf is seen committing the act of throwing a quilt over her natural life.
The use of adjectives in a story generally reveals the author's attitude toward a character right from the beginning. For instance, by associating goodness and nobility or wickedness and evil with a character, the author incites the reader's emotions either in support of or in opposition to that character. This is why, in classical stories, the concept of a hero and an opposing villain is based on adjectives. Both are complete entities in their own right, with fixed and predetermined roles, and the author successfully uses them to play with the reader's emotions—that is, to evoke love for the hero and hatred for the villain in the reader's heart. Modern fiction has abandoned the practice of attaching such rigid adjectives to characters that leave no room for flexibility. Characters in modern short stories appear in a molten state. In other words, the attributes of characters in modern fiction are not pasted on their foreheads like labels; rather, they are seen sprouting and bearing fruit like a seed. Most of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters are reflective of this modern approach. When they enter the story, the reader cannot predict what form they will take, but after reading the story, the reader sees these characters in their true form.
The interconnection of proper nouns and adjectives has granted Ismat’s characters the status of a Closed System. Through this process, her characters have become distinct from the nameless characters of abstract fiction. However, keeping the context of the modern Urdu short story in mind, this approach by Ismat does not seem entirely unique, as most modern Urdu fiction writers have also presented their characters as a Closed System. The difference arises where the function of the verb begins in the sentence, because during the operation of the verb, a good fiction writer does not merely stop at the position of a storyteller but also becomes emotionally involved in the events of the story.
Structuralism, in fact, rejects the hero-like character who merely represents fixed, predetermined traits. According to this framework, an individual is a unit of relationships that hollows out from within during a crisis. That is, a space emerges within them where events and forces converge, sparking a kind of internal Mahabharata. Through this process, the individual's fundamental traits manifest and rise to the surface—or rather, these traits collide with circumstances and undergo a transformation, bringing the character's true contours into sharp focus. Hence, the primary emphasis lies on the process of structuring. Transformation does not simply mean that the threads of these traits weave new patterns; it also means they are propelled in a specific direction. Tzvetan Todorov referred to this as a Direct and Teleological Set. In other words, when an individual, acting as a nexus of relationships, moves in a specific direction, they are elevated to the status of a character.
In Ismat Chughtai’s characterization, the author's own presence creates a dynamic where her characters not only stand apart from those of other fiction writers but also share a common thread—a direct consequence of Ismat embedding herself within them. This was, in fact, necessary; if an author does not weave themselves into a character to impart the direction latent within their own being, their character will fail to distinguish itself emotionally and psychologically from those of other writers. This by no means implies that the character is a mere replica of the author. It simply means that through the author's involvement, their core emotional orientation is transferred to the character, a process that occurs entirely subconsciously. Take, for instance, the foundational dimension of Ismat’s characters: it manifests as a form of rebellion, subversion, or at the very least, a deviation from rigid social and psychological patterns. In her autobiography, Ismat Chughtai writes:
I, too, began riding the white mare every day. Sitting on the mare gave me an overwhelming sense of triumph. This was the rebel Ismat's first victory.
I would play all the games with my brothers that boys usually played. Playing gilli-danda, flying kites, and playing football, I turned twelve.
In my childhood, I had a habit of sleepwalking. This habit lasted until I was ten. I would get up in my sleep and wander off anywhere. Once, I unlatched the door and walked into the garden. When I woke up, I was standing under a tree.
By the time I reached college, I had completely abandoned the burqa.
Before our marriage, I thoroughly warned Shahid that I was a troublesome sort of woman and that he would regret it later. I have spent my entire life breaking chains. I will not be able to remain bound in any chain now. Being an obedient, pure woman simply does not suit me. But Shahid did not listen.
A man is ready to worship a woman and turn her into a goddess; he can give her love, he can give her respect, but the one thing he cannot give her is equality. Shahid gave me equality, and the two of us lived a good domestic life.
These excerpts reveal that Ismat viewed herself as a rebellious woman and took pride in it. But did she truly comprehend the full nature of this rebellion? My assessment is that when Ismat observed herself as a character, she recognized this rebellion on a surface level, but she could not fully grasp its hidden dimensions. These concealed aspects unconsciously seeped into the female characters she created. Consequently, when we compare the actions and behaviors of these characters with Ismat’s own life and her rebellious attitude, it becomes apparent that she was not entirely self-aware. This is actually a good thing; if a person could read themselves like an open book, the entire mystery of life would vanish. Fortunately, it is impossible to read oneself in absolute totality. The human heart is a river deemed deeper than the ocean, and three-quarters of an iceberg remains submerged underwater. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Ismat did possess some awareness—even if only at a surface level—of her personality's dominant inclinations.
This inclination toward rebellion exists as a common denominator across Ismat’s female characters, yet it is not an intellectual kind of rebellion, as her autobiography makes clear. The adoption of masculine traits—such as participating in boys' games, rejecting the traditional feminine pursuits of cooking and sewing, refusing to become a mere housewife, discarding the veil, or choosing to work—were all considered acts of social rebellion in her time. However, Ismat’s true rebellion was not defined by these minor infractions. Her real rebellion lay in the fact that her female characters brought forth a woman who existed as a prototype within Ismat’s own psyche. Initially, this woman would enter the narrative as an ordinary being, but as she collided with other characters and navigated various circumstances, the rock, the witch, the parasitic vine, the courtesan, or the lesbian within her grew increasingly stronger. One might say that because this woman was inherently rebellious, any characters, traditions, or social norms that crossed her path would inevitably clash with her out of an instinct for self-preservation.
In both scenarios, the woman became progressively more active, while the characters and phenomena that stood in her way continued to unravel. Numerous female characters of Ismat’s can be cited in this regard. Take, for example, Aalima from the story Chiri Ki Ikki (The Ace of Clubs). Due to her lack of physical beauty, she is treated as a cheap commodity in the marriage market, yet a fiercely robust woman lies hidden within her. Thus, when she enters Abdul Hai’s life, she deliberately incites his hatred, ultimately using that very weapon to cut him down. To conquer a man, women have historically wielded their beauty as a weapon, but Aalima is deprived of this asset. In compensation, the woman within her awakens, and with her very first strike, she shatters Abdul Hai’s personality—or rather, his entire defense mechanism. Consequently, while Abdul Hai outwardly expresses revulsion, he continues to break down from within. Aalima’s magnetic personality renders him so utterly helpless that he is ultimately forced to accept her. At the end of the story, when Abdul Hai’s mother asks:
Alas, didn't you feel repulsed by the Ace of Clubs (referring to Aalima)?
Abdul Hai replies, That I do, and I always will.
Then what has happened to you, my son... why have you ruined your life?
'The dark witch has cast a spell,' Hai said, putting on a pitiful face, and with great fanfare, he ruined his life.
Calling the Aalima (scholar) of the soil by the title Kali Mai is highly significant. It immediately draws the mind to the goddess Kali, or the Devouring Mother. This represents the destructive aspect of a woman, a trait hidden within every female character that surfaces whenever necessary. Perhaps this is why it has been said about women:
There is a jungle in the heart of every woman.
A similar situation applies to Rani, a character in Ismat Chughtai’s short story Til (The Mole). Rani belongs to the lower rungs of society and is therefore free from the restrictions and taboos prevalent in the upper classes. Beyond this, however, Rani embodies a sexually charged woman, and in this respect, she too resembles Kali. A mole is seemingly just a small dark spot, but within the story, it not only becomes a symbol of Rani’s very existence but also grows and expands to emerge as a parallel force challenging societal morality. This parallel force acts as a storm that shatters the oars and splinters the planks of Ganesh Chandra Chaudhry’s seemingly solid and intact personality. It does so to such an extent that Chaudhry’s very persona is deconstructed. At the end of the story, the situation unfolds as follows:
It wasn't Chaudhry's, she declared under oath in a packed courtroom.
Chaudhry is impotent, she said carelessly. It's Ratna's, go ask him. How should I know, wow! she swaggered with her usual flair. With a silent thunder and flash of lightning, a black mountain erupted over Chaudhry's existence, and far off in the darkness, an even rounder, raised dot began spinning like a top.
Chaudhry now sits by the roadside, drawing lines with charcoal... long, triangular, round, like a burnt scar.
It is as if the mole, which in Rani’s possession acted as a visceral, blood-drawn vortex, has now sunk deep into Chaudhry’s heart. He is left revolving around this magnetic black sphere like a lifeless planet.
Most of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters rise up and wreak havoc on the sheer strength of their negative power. For instance, in the story Do Haath (Two Hands), central importance is ostensibly given to an economic issue, and morality is portrayed as subordinate to economic necessity (an approach that, to some extent, reflects the Progressive ideology). However, the true nucleus of the story is Gori. Much like Rani, Gori belongs to the lower class and is therefore incapable of respecting societal taboos. The difference is that while Rani emerged as a sexually charged woman, Gori serves as an embodiment of deviation from social morality. Even while living within society, she operates under the law of the jungle—a law that prioritizes the continuation of the species above all else, regardless of whether this process aligns with societal rules. Gori is a creature of the jungle. Yet, within the story, her presence—with all its natural audacity and rawness—emerges in such a way that the cloaks of social respectability around her are shredded, and the tightly wound turbans of honor come undone. Consequently, the wives in her neighborhood are left haunted by the looming threat that their husbands might sink into this filth. The situation is described as follows:
What was Gori? She was simply a headstrong, long-horned stray bull roaming free. People would gather their fragile glass pots and pans with both hands and clutch them to their chests. When the situation became critical, a formal delegation of the servant-class women presented themselves at Amma's court. The danger and its terrifying consequences were debated with great fervor. A 'Husband Protection Committee' was formed, in which all the sisters-in-law voted unanimously.
Thus, much like Rani, Gori too exhibits a destructive force. The difference is that while Rani shattered the persona of a single individual, Chaudhry, Gori makes a mockery of the entire neighborhood's morality. She drags society out from under the umbrella of social laws and abandons it to the jungle.
While Gori from Do Haath is a masterpiece of nature, Begum Jaan from Lihaaf (The Quilt) exemplifies a deviation from the natural order. On the surface, her actions might be deemed an act of vengeance, as she retaliates against her husband, the Nawab, for his neglect. Fundamentally, however, this represents the violent facet of her personality, one that stands in direct opposition to nature. Begum Jaan suffers from an itch, which is less a physical ailment and more a psychological restlessness. She initiates her rebellion by making her own body the testing ground, and then proceeds to spread this virus to others. For instance, the narrator (I) of the story is a young girl—a bud destined to blossom into a flower and carry forward the continuation of the human race. Yet, Begum Jaan, entirely unconsciously, attempts to derail this girl from her natural purpose, trying to drag her into her own barren world. This is a blatant violation of the laws of nature. Begum Jaan has draped a quilt over her instinctual life to keep it hidden from the piercing gaze of society. However, society is a force that penetrates even solid walls. The old adage that walls have ears implies that the very objects a person uses to conceal their actions eventually become the informants of those deeds. In the story, Begum Jaan uses the quilt as a veil, but the quilt itself, morphing into ghostly, spectral shapes and forming gaps and crevices, ends up exposing the reality hidden beneath it. As a result, the narrator, rather than being drawn into the quilt, becomes utterly repulsed by it.
In a way, this is a victory for society, as it manages to stop the virus from spreading. However, Begum Jaan’s endeavor is also successful in its own right, as she manages to inflict deep psychological trauma upon the narrator. (Manto’s story Khol Do was accused of obscenity, but the real charge against it should have been that it induced a psychological complex by making minds utterly repulsed by sex). The lingering effects of the quilt on the narrator of Lihaaf serve as proof of this very phenomenon. In essence, what Begum Jaan failed to achieve on a physical level, she succeeded in accomplishing on a psychological one. The ultimate goal on both levels was to alienate the other character from her natural biological functions. In this, she was entirely successful.
However, Ismat’s stories also feature characters who do not embody the violent, enraged, or vengeful woman, but rather represent her Annapurna (nurturing) or positive form. Yet, in terms of their ultimate impact, there is little difference between the two, as both completely upend the existing environment and its characters. One does so with an iron sword, the other with a golden one. For instance, Amma in the story Jarein (Roots)—who, in Ismat’s words, remained as firmly rooted in her place as the roots of a banyan tree stand fast in a fierce storm—is a female character who refuses to join her family in their migration. She does so simply because she views being uprooted from her soil as a death sentence. The situation unfolds in such a way that the winds of time first begin to stir, then turn into a tempest, and all of Amma’s flowers and fruits (the pieces of her heart) are blown away by this fierce gale. But Amma herself is a root; her orientation is vertical, unlike the horizontal winds of time, and so she remains firmly attached to her earth. Because Amma is the nucleus of her family, when the family embarks on this journey without her, it shatters. Amma’s action cannot be dismissed as mere stubbornness. It is an existential necessity, for a root draws its nourishment from the earth, not from the wind.
Sixteen-year-old Rukhsana Begum (from the short story Amarbel), who embodies this positive form, is another female character of a similar mold. Rukhsana Begum does not exhibit any rebellious behavior; instead, she continuously compromises with every situation. For example, when she is married off to the forty-year-old Shujaat, she accepts him wholeheartedly. She remains loyal to him until the very end and serves him like a dutiful wife, yet her sheer youthfulness ultimately demolishes her husband. On the surface, Rukhsana Begum’s youth is a badge of honor for her husband, but behind the scenes, this very youth drains Shujaat’s blood like an amarbel (a parasitic vine), much like the witches of old folktales. Rani from Til (The Mole) and Rukhsana from Amarbel are fundamentally similar characters in that they completely unravel the personality of their counterpart. However, on a superficial level, they are worlds apart. Rani belongs to the lower class of society, and thus the morality of the lower class governs her. Rukhsana, on the other hand, is a middle-class woman, bound by a middle-class morality that insists on suppressing sexual desires. Similarly, Rani is an aimless, unmarried, and sexually charged woman, whereas Rukhsana is married, virtuous, and beautiful. Yet, just as Rani’s mole rendered the Chaudhry utterly helpless, Rukhsana’s beauty and youth completely devastate her husband. In Ismat’s words: The amarbel continued to spread, and the banyan tree continued to wither. In the end, when Shujaat’s adorned corpse was laid out in the courtyard, Rukhsana Begum sat in stunned silence, as if nature’s most masterful artist had painted and displayed a masterpiece with an unparalleled brush.
A somewhat similar situation arises in the short story Dayan (The Witch). Amma Jaan in Dayan is Hamid’s mother-in-law, who casts a shadow over the entire household like an amarbel and wishes to consume the lifespans of Razia and Hamid for herself. Consequently, Hamid’s marital life begins to fall apart, and he feels as though a witch has infiltrated his home and snatched his wife, Razia, away from him. Ultimately, when Hamid can no longer tolerate his mother-in-law and reacts fiercely, Amma Jaan attributes his extraordinary outburst to some fabricated love affair, saying:
May God destroy that wretched witch who is ruining my child’s home!
She remains entirely oblivious to the fact that she herself is the wretched witch who has torn her child’s home out by the roots.
Viewed holistically, Ismat Chughtai’s female characters possess a language of their own, and much like language itself, they are structured around the noun, the adjective, and the verb. At the level of the noun, the mythological or archetypal facet of the woman is clearly visible within the inner depths of Ismat’s characters—such as Rani in Til, Gori in Do Haath, the narrator ('I') in Kafir, the Sethani in Pesha, Rukhsana in Amarbel, Aalima in Chiri Ki Ikki, Begum Jaan in Lihaaf, and Amma in Dayan. However, this woman is not merely the sum total of all these female characters; she is something more. This element of something more has been infused by Ismat’s own personality. Were this not the case, these exact characters would have appeared identically in the works of other fiction writers, and Ismat’s own female characters would have seemed like mere carbon copies of one another. But this did not happen. Each of Ismat’s characters possesses a unique existence, transforming into something entirely different through the touch of Ismat’s own persona. At the level of the adjective, because these characters are drawn from various strata of society, they emerge with their own specific traits. Yet, they are not mere types. That is to say, even though their foundation rests on a prototype, Ismat has managed to carve out highly individualized character traits upon that prototypical base. One might say that when the prototype overflows its mold, it takes on new attributes and crystallizes into a distinct character. As for the level of the verb, Ismat’s female characters pass through various events and tragedies, developing organically. Instead of remaining static and fixed from beginning to end like classical characters, they are constantly seen revealing their dynamic inner selves.
The truth is that at the level of the verb, Ismat has fully illuminated the individuality of these characters, for it is only in moments of crisis that a character’s hidden strengths are mobilized and fully expressed. Ismat’s characters appear active on both vertical and horizontal planes. The vertical plane is built upon resemblance. At this level, language draws upon its collective, foundational aspect; through selection and association, it activates metaphorical behaviors, thereby creating vertical depth in the narrative. The exact same process occurs in characterization, where the fiction writer peers into the background or the inner depths of the character, successfully generating vertical depth through selection and association. The presence of the quintessential female form in Ismat’s characters is indicative of this very paradigmatic approach in her work. As for the horizontal plane, here too Ismat has cultivated a natural flow of events and tragedies—a structure where incidents and calamities are positioned exactly where they belong, much like the syntactic arrangement of a sentence. Consequently, they do not generate mere noise; rather, they all culminate in a specific, unified meaning.
The relationship between a short story and its reader (or critic) is unbreakable. However, the reader does not merely sit before the story with an outstretched hand, waiting for the writer to drop the alms of a narrative or a character into it. On the contrary, by engaging and playing with the text, the reader succeeds in creating new layers of meaning. This implies that the reader essentially rewrites the story. Yet, the reader faces a dilemma of their own. Deep within every reader, certain innate paradigms exist, and they expect to view the story's plot and characters through the lens of these paradigms. In this context, Northrop Frye has mentioned four Mythos—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—which serve as the ready-made categories of life. Under Spring, we find plots and characters where love triumphs, and the cruel society—the eternal enemy of lovers that always obstructs their path—is ultimately defeated and thwarted. Under Summer, characters embark on adventures; they navigate the perilous stages of a journey and do not rest until they have vanquished their enemies. In the case of Autumn, the character's tragedy unfolds, meaning they are defeated at the hands of human or non-human adversaries. Under Winter, the character's quest fails, and they either die or descend into madness.
An ordinary reader expects the writer to tell a story that perfectly aligns with these categories. However, a discerning reader will combine the natural desire to hear a story with a quest for aesthetic satisfaction, which offers a way to break free from the rigid, predetermined confines of the plot. The Russian Formalists termed this process Foregrounding. This meant that the creator presents the text in a unique and unfamiliar way, providing the reader with moments of wonder that ultimately lead to aesthetic pleasure. Structuralists argue that this process of making strange (defamiliarization) is inherent in the act of reading itself. But this is not the whole truth; if it were, there would be no difference left between an ordinary tale and a literary masterpiece. The reason is that a reader, by activating their instinct for meaning-making, could theoretically generate multiple psychological layers even within a mediocre story. Similarly, in the realm of poetry, the Structuralist claim that ordinary journalistic prose can evoke poetic states simply by being formatted as a poetic text is incorrect. Personally, I believe in the creativity of the reading process, but only when the text itself achieves a high level of artistic merit—that is, when it possesses the power to defamiliarize and evoke wonder.
When it comes to character portrayal, any attempt to downplay the writer's creativity is incomprehensible. It is through the creative process that the writer succeeds in making a character overflow the rigid mold of a prototype. Only after this does the reader bring the character's other hidden layers to light, assigning it multiple new semantic dimensions that make the process of defamiliarization even sharper and more intense. The significance of Ismat Chughtai’s female characters lies in the fact that they visibly overflow the molds of standard character types, and in doing so, they compel the reader to participate in their completion. Just as viewing a masterpiece of painting stimulates the observer's imagination—prompting them to fill the spaces and gaps within the image through the very act of looking, thereby making it even more wondrous and unique—the reader of a character does exactly the same. By filling in the inherent gaps within the character, the reader grants it greater depth and expansiveness. Ultimately, the artist's job is not to present a state of artistic completion that brings the reader's own creative process to a halt. Rather, their task is to leave the creation open-ended, ensuring that the reader's creative engagement continues. Ismat Chughtai’s female characters are not mere specimens of rigid craftsmanship devoid of any gaps or voids. They are, instead, a dynamic pattern where the threads of character are constantly being woven and unraveled. When the reader enters this pattern and participates in this process of making and unmaking, they immediately realize the boundless possibilities these characters hold.
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