Legitimacy,

Article Power and Subversion 67

‘Lihaaf ’: A Story of the Social Change

44(1) 67–80
Story © CSD 2014
SAGE Publications
Los Angeles, London,
New Delhi, Singapore,
Washington DC
DOI: 10.1177/0049085713514824
Anamika Priyadarshini http://socialchange.sagepub.com

Senior Research Associate

Council for Social Development
New Delhi
anamikapri@gmail.com

SE
Abstract

U
L
The common understanding of South Asian women’s identity is usually derived
IA
from the conventional perception that envisions the ‘third world’ woman as
C
a submissive victim of barbaric machismo. South Asian scholars, especially
ER

feminists, have been challenging this monolithic image and trying to throw light
on the various complex layers that define women in the so-called ‘third world’.
M

They are focusing, instead, on the living reality of the dynamic woman with a
body, mind and desires who cannot be shackled into the frame of victimised/
M

sacrosanct mother. ‘Lihaaf’—a story about two women’s erotic relationship;

O

published in 1942; written by an Indian Muslim woman—becomes critical to this

C

evolving understanding. This article is an analysis of the various narratives of the

R

publication of ‘Lihaaf’ which left a deep impact on the author Ismat Chughtai’s
FO

life and also on the history of Urdu literature and the heritage of literary work
on homosexuality. These narratives recognise ‘Lihaaf’ as a stand that reflects on
a more realistic aspect of Indian women, who can be more than a Mother, who
T

does not necessarily follow the script of the master narrative.

O
N

Keywords
Woman, writer, homosexuality, obscene, trial, feminist resistance

The ‘Lihaaf’ of ‘Mother India’

‘Mother India’1 (1927), a controversial book written by American journalist
Katherine Mayo and published during the uproar of interwar period, has
maintained its status as a crucial reference for South Asian women’s identity. The
extremely vulnerable and submissive image of Indian women, portrayed by
Mayo, is now a part of collective memory in which its meaning has been
68 Anamika Priyadarshini

retroactively fixed (Sinha, 2001: 250). The common understanding of South

Asian women’s identity still derives from the image of ‘Mother India’ and it has
been a major challenge for South Asian scholars and feminists, who have been
constantly working to disrupt this monolithic image and to unravel multiple
aspects of ‘Mother India.’ ‘Lihaaf’2—a story about two women’s erotic relation-
ship; published in 1942; written by a woman from a minority community of India
[an Indian Muslim woman]—becomes crucial in this context. ‘Lihaaf’ is a story
narrated by a child who is visiting ‘a household where she sees the mistress and
maid disappear in the night under a quilt while the master is away amusing himself
with the young boys he prefers’ (Desai, 1994: vii).
This article is a story of the various narratives of the publication of ‘Lihaaf’,
which left a deep impact on the author Ismat Chughtai’s life and also on the history
of Urdu literature and the heritage of literary work on homosexuality. These nar-

SE
ratives recognise ‘Lihaaf’ as a stand that reflects on a more realistic aspect of the
Indian woman, who can be more than a Mother with a body and mind that does

U
not necessarily follow the script of the master narrative.

L
IA
C
A Lost Voice of 1942
ER

‘Lihaaf’ was published in 1942, a year known as the climax of Indian freedom
M

movement and numerous other resistances that challenged not only the colonial
M

legacy but also the bourgeois/feudal class of the country. Gandhi’s slogan
O

Angrezon Bhaarat Chhodo3 was reverberating in colonial India and the country
C

was witnessing the outburst of various resistances that cumulated during the first
three decades of twentieth century (Sarkar, 1983: 46–50). Though publication of
R

‘Lihaaf’ generated turmoil in the literary world and in the life of the writer Ismat
FO

Chughtai, it could not capture the attention of historians and scholars as an impor-
tant contribution4 of 1942 and remained unnoticed in the momentum of this
T

tempestuous year. Chughtai was possibly the first woman writer of modern India
O

who wrote about a homosexual relationship. The story became a major contro-
N

versy and after two years ‘a charge of obscenity was brought against Chughtai by
the High Court’ (Naqvi, 2003: 376). Yet, there were very few scholars who could
recognise Chughtai’s story as a protest against oppressive structure of patriarchy
and heterosexism.
Even Chugthai didn’t realise that ‘Lihaaf’ was different than her other stories.
Women were the centre of her stories. She wrote about their intellect, skills,
dreams, desires, psyche and also about their bodies and sexuality. Women’s issues
and sexuality was not a prohibited subject in Indian literature. However, these
issues were dealt with by the male interpreters of women. A woman was not
expected to talk about women’s (or man’s) body, desire and sexuality. Chughtai,
was constantly daring to raise these secluded issues in her writings. Nevertheless,
she did not intend to shock the readers by discussing the ‘mysterious’ erotic

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 69

relationship between two women. She wanted to tell a story. The narrator of
‘Lihaaf’ is a child and Chughtai succeeds in portraying the naïve but honest
observation of a child who is witnessing the ‘unheard of and strange’ relationship
between two women. Chughtai even shared the story with two of her female rela-
tives, for confirming ‘Lihaaf’s’ ‘acceptability’ among the common reader, before
sending it for publication:

I wrote the story at night and read it to my sister-in-law the next day. She didn’t say,
‘This is filthy story,’ but she recognised the protagonist in it [. . .]. I sent the story to the
journal, Adab-e Latif (Fine Literature). The editor made some comments and published
it right away. About the same time, Shahid Ahmed Dehlavi included the story in a col-
lection of my stories that he was about to publish. (Chughtai, 2001: 136)

‘Lihaaf’, however, proved to be the most controversial story of this ‘uncivil

SE
woman writer’ (Patel, 2001: 345). Though her two female relatives who read
‘Lihaaf’ first did not find it ‘filthy’, the publication of ‘Lihaaf’ and the charge

U
of writing ‘obscenity’ made Chughtai’s life miserable. It was difficult for her

L
husband, friends, relatives and readers to understand the need for writing such a
IA
‘filthy’ story. The only person who supported her during this difficult time was
C
another renowned Urdu writer, Saadat Hasan Manto, who was also accused for
ER

writing obscenity in his story ‘Bu’ (‘Smell’). These two authors, known as two
pillars of Urdu literature, left their deep imprint on each other’s lives, ideologies
M

and writings. Chughtai always remembered Manto as a person who stood by her
M

in her difficult times. She writes in her memoirs of the ‘Lihaaf Trial’:
O

I was confessing my crime. Manto was the only person who was enraged by this cow-
C

ardly behavior on my part. I was against myself. But he supported me. All our friends,
R

Shahid’s5 and mine, didn’t pay any attention to this incident [. . .]. The Progressives
FO

[Writers Association] didn’t berate me nor did they commend me, and I found their
attitude very reassuring. (Chughtai, 2001: 135)
T
O
N

Progressive Writers Association

Chughtai and Manto were associated with Progressive Writers Association
(PWA), established first in London in 1935 and then in Calcutta in 1936. The
PWA was an integral part of the Left movement in India (Zeno, 1994: 39–40).
Branches were soon established all over the country by groups of socialist and
Marxist writers. The PWA aimed to protest against imperialism and the sex-class-
caste based power structure of the country by promoting the unheard voices of
women, Dalits,6 and many other groups whose voices were either muted or
manipulated. PWA was the first organisation that provided a platform to women
writers who were not ready to use the language of the ‘decent women’. PWA’s
women members’ writings included narratives of the working class women,

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

70 Anamika Priyadarshini

women’s resistance against patriarchy, women’s sexuality and many other issues
that were forbidden for ‘educated women from good families’.
PWA, which was a close-knit community of revolutionary writers and worked
as a shelter for these ‘uncivil’7 writers and poets, adopted a neutral stand on ‘Lihaaf’
case. They neither opposed Chughtai nor took any clear stand when Chughtai
was accused for writing ‘obscene’. Until the last quarter of twentieth century, the
political Left, along with academia, continued to maintain silence on the issue of
homosexuality in India. Indian culture and literature both testifies the acceptance
of homosexuality in India and therefore the issue is not a Western imposition for
the country. The country has ‘picked up other kinds of critical theory generated in
Western academy, such as Marxism, feminism, deconstruction and post colonial
theory’, and hence, it cannot be argued that Indian academia and culture is and
was absolutely intolerant towards Western theories and practices (Vanita &

SE
Kidwai, 193–98). Ruth Vanita and Saleem Kidwai, in their book ‘Same Sex Love
in India’ (2000) refers to a Marxist scholar H. Srikanth, who, considering the

U
long history of homosexuality in India, argues that homosexuality is ‘backward

L
and reactionary’ just like sati,8 polygamy, and the caste system. Srikanth insists
IA
that ‘Marxists do not hesitate to use force against such homosexual activities’
C
(2000: 199). Undoubtedly, Srikanth does not represent the common ideology
ER

of Indian Marxists, who strongly condemned the Hindu fundamentalist groups’

protest against Deepa Mehta’s controversial film ‘Fire’ (1996), which depicted
M

the homosexual relationship of two married women. Nevertheless, the Indian Left
M

and academia had not begun to incorporate the subject of homosexuality in the
curriculum or in the political discussion. It can be safely argued that though the
O

subtle stories about homoerotic relations were being written by male writers of
C

India, the Left and the PWA of colonial India were not clear about their stand on
R

the issue of homosexuality. Possibly, they were also not prepared to confront a
FO

situation when their members would be accused for writing ‘obscenity’.

It might have also been difficult for Indian Marxists to find any clear Marxist
T

standpoint on the issue of homosexuality as neither Marx nor Lenin talk about
O

homosexuality. Marxist–feminist and Marxist–LGBT9 scholars were yet to emerge.

N

Homosexuality cannot reproduce labour and this fact might have been recognised
as the most clear Marxist standpoint by the Indian Marxist of that era. Besides,
‘Capital’ had emerged as the key referral source for many Marxist and the newly
established Communist Party of India10 looked forward to the Marxist theory for
most of their quests. This dependency, which is still prevalent, diminishes the
space and scope for the construction of new and contextual interpretations of
Marxism. I recognise this dependency as an important reason that prohibited PWA
to take a clear stand on Chughtai’s accusation for writing ‘Lihaaf’. The ‘Lihaaf’
case might have been used as a historical point for incorporating homosexuality
in the intellectual debate and in academia. PWA, political Left and the Indian
academics missed an opportunity to capture the momentum that emerged after the
publication of ‘Lihaaf’ and during the famous ‘Lihaaf’ trial.

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 71

The ‘Lihaaf ’ Trial

Today ‘Lihaaf’ has been upheld as a historic piece of lesbian literature and Urdu
literature. The story once ignited a firestorm in Chughtai’s life. Chughtai’s friends
and relatives anguished over her writing while the orthodox critiques and funda-
mentalists attacked by their harsh letters. These violently abusive letters were
directed to Chughtai, her husband Shahid Latif and also to their two month old
daughter Seema:

I was shaken to the core by the horrifying tone of these letters. I immediately pulled in
the reins of my pen, and as far as I was concerned I didn’t loosen them again. But, a
curse to the environment in which I was raised; I didn’t give up my habit of expressing
myself openly and boldly [. . .]. Sitting down cordially after much contention and
bickering has always remained a habit with me. I do enjoy administering a pinch here

SE
and there, but if someone turns around and slaps me, I don’t let that develop into
animosity. (Chughtai, 1994: x–xi)

U
L
The letters and criticism, terrified Chughtai. But the day the police came to
IA
Chughtai’s door with a summons from the Lahore11 High Court that accused her
C
for writing a ‘pornographic obscene story’, she realised that she could not ‘let
ER

this slap develop into animosity’. Though the charge was unexpected, it did not
scare her at all. In fact, she was fearlessly making fun of everything in front of the
M

police officer who came with the court order (Chughtai, 2001: 132–33). She even
M

refused to sign the court order which would have led her behind the prison bars.
Shahid Latif, Mohsin12 and the police officer, who were fuming by Chughtai’s
O

unexpectedly fearless behaviour, managed to convince her to go to the Police

C

station where Mohsin put up the bail. ‘A trial, and that too for an obscenity case’
R

was soon in the news (Chughtai, 2001: 134). The case left a severe impact on
FO

Chughtai’s married life. She often remembered the day when she had to go to the
Police station for a bail:
T

After we came home Shahid and Mohsin [a friend] fought bitterly with me. And
O

Shahid kept fighting all night. We almost came to the point of divorce [. . .] He couldn’t
N

tolerate the thought of the dishonour and disgrace involved in a trial like this.
(Chughtai, 2001: 134)

The couple soon heard from Manto that he was also charged for writing
‘obscenity’ and his case was also scheduled for the same day in the same court.
This news was a great relief for them. They were not alone anymore. Chughtai
later recalled that while she was regretting writing ‘Lihaaf’, Manto was proud for
being accused ‘as if he had been awarded the Victoria Cross’ (Chughtai, 2001: 135).
Chughtai had also decided to fight instead of submitting. Manto’s reassurance
and her desire to see the great city of Lahore was two other factors that kept her
enthusiastic about the ‘Lihaaf’ trial. Her visit to Lahore appears as a holiday trip
in her memoirs of the ‘Lihaaf’ trial.

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

72 Anamika Priyadarshini

The publisher of ‘Lihaaf’, Shahid Ahmed Dehlavi and his calligrapher, who
were also accused, accompanied Chughtai during her Lahore trip. Chughtai first
appeared in the Lahore High Court in January 1945 and ‘nothing much happened’
which she found very ‘disappointing’ (Chughtai, 2001: 137). In her memoirs of
the Lahore trial, Chughtai completes the story of the first day of trial, including
her discussion with her lawyer, in eight short sentences. The description of the
‘beautiful Lahore’—the ‘heart of Punjab13’, Lahore’s gardens and bazaar, the
delicious food of the city’s restaurants and above all the ‘deep conversation’ that
she had with Shahid Latif and Manto, occupies almost two pages in Chughtai’s
version of ‘The Lihaaf Trial’ (Chughtai, 2001: 137–38). The description of
beautiful Lahore easily surpasses the boring court procedures.
The next date of trial was set for November 1946. Once again, Chughtai
was accompanied by the publisher and his calligrapher. The three ‘culprits’ of

SE
‘Lihaaf’ were guests of the famous Urdu writer M. Aslam. Aslam was a good
friend of Chughtai’s elder brother Azim Beg Chughtai, who himself was a

U
well-known Urdu writer and Ismat Chughtai’s mentor. The host, determined to

L
fulfill his duty to ‘fix’ his deceased friend’s younger sister, attacked on Chughtai
IA
by calling her style of writing ‘obscene’ which made Chughtai furious and soon
C
she ‘was embroiled in a battle’. Confrontation with Aslam has a significant
ER

space in Chughtai’s ‘The Lihaaf Trial’ and scholars consider this encounter
as an important reflection of Chughtai’s personality (Naqvi, 2003: 383). Aslam
M

was persuading Chughtai to accept her fault and apologise to the court, which
was absolutely unacceptable for Chughtai:
M
O

No, Aslam Sahib, it’s not right that we commit a crime, lead virtuous people astray and
C

make a clean exit simply by saying we’re sorry. If indeed I have committed a crime and
R

it is proven that I have; only punishment will appease my conscience. I was not saying
this sarcastically, I really meant it. (Chughtai, 2001: 142)
FO

This was the spirit of Chughtai and her stand on ‘Lihaaf.’ She was ready to
T

face all the consequences of writing ‘Lihaaf’ and never withheld from her respon-
O

sibility as a writer. The first day of the trial was for Manto’s case. Manto was
N

convicted for using the word ‘chhati’ for breast which is a commonly used word
in both Hindi and Urdu literature, and therefore, the court could not prove Manto
guilty. The second day was for Ismat Chughtai’s Lihaaf. ‘The court was packed
that day’ and people kept urging Chughtai to apologise (Chughtai, 2001: 145).
The ‘respectable citizens’ of Lahore were also ready to pay the fine as they wanted
to ‘save the honor of another respectable but fateful family’, which produced an
‘uncivil woman’ like Ismat Chughtai. Chughtai either avoided these offers jok-
ingly or firmly refused.
The witness, however, was having problem in finding any ‘obscene’ or ‘filthy’
word in ‘Lihaaf’. The story was re-read minutely and finally one objectionable
sentence was found! The sentence was—‘she was collecting ashiqs (lovers)’
(Chughtai, 2001: 146). The word ashiq, like bosom, was identified as a commonly

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 73

used word. But offenders, first of all, considered it an ‘inappropriate behaviour

for girls to collect ashiqs’ and secondly they found it highly objectionable for an
‘educated woman of a respectable family’ to use such sentences and words
(Chughtai, 2001: 146). The court, however, did not find any ‘pornographic,
obscene or filthy’ word in ‘Lihaaf’ and the two ‘notorious writers’ could not be
proved guilty. The judge himself called Chughtai to his chambers to talk to her.
Chughtai often remembered her conversation with the judge:

Judge: ‘I’ve read nearly all your stories and they’re not obscene, nor is ‘Lihaaf’ obscene.
But there is lot of filth in Manto’s writing.’

Chughtai: ‘But the world is filled with filth.’ I said meekly.

SE
Judge: ‘But is it necessary to fling it about?’

U
Chughtai: ‘Flinging it makes it visible and one’s attention can be drawn to the process
of cleansing.’ (Chughtai, 2001: 147)

L
IA
Chughtai was never interested in covering the so called ‘filth’ of the world.
C
Possibly, the notion of ‘filth’ was a dual concept for her and she was trying to get
ER

rid of this ‘dualism’ by unraveling the ‘exterior of the interior’ and creating the
space for it to become pour soi (Sartre, 1956: 3–5). Writing was her tool of resist-
M

ance and she was engaged in an endless project of unraveling the sophisticated
M

and civilised layers that covers the harsh, crude, difficult and sometimes ugly
O

realities of the world. Chughtai’s stand as a Marxist writer always remained intact.
C

Nothing—neither her family and friends nor a judge’s praising words—could lure
her and stop her from speaking for the cause and for her comrade.
R

The most interesting fact of the ‘Lihaaf’ trial is that terms ‘homosexuality’ and
FO

‘homoerotic’ were never used during the trial. The charge was of ‘obscenity’ and
the most objectionable sentence that the offences could identify in ‘Lihaaf’ was—
T

‘She was collecting ashiqs.’ The sentences used to paint the erotic relationship
O

between the two leading characters of ‘Lihaaf’, Begum Jan and her maid Rabbo,
N

were never mentioned during the whole trial. This silence could be interpreted
in many ways. One possible reason that I find crucial for this ‘story of Lihaaf’
is cultural acceptance of homosexuality in India. Obscene writing by an ‘edu-
cated woman of respectable family’ was more objectionable than writing about
lesbianism.

Homosexuality in Indian Literature and Culture

‘Lihaaf’ is not just about lesbian relationship but is also about cultural acceptance
of gay relationship in India. Chughtai begins her story with the depiction of
Begum Jan’s husband Nawab Sahib’s fondness for young men:

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

74 Anamika Priyadarshini

Nawab Sahib had a strange hobby…all he liked to do was keep an open house for stu-
dents; young, fair and slim-waisted boys, whose expenses were borne entirely by him.
After marrying Begum Jan, he deposited her in the house with all other possessions and
promptly forgot about her! The young, delicate Begum Jan began to wilt with loneli-
ness. But Begum Jan was destined to live… Rabbo arrived at the house and came to
Begum Jan’s rescue just as she was starting to go under. Her emaciated body suddenly
began to fill out. Her cheeks became rosy; beauty, as it were, glowed through every
pore! It was a special oil massage that brought about the change in Begum Jan. Excuse
me, but you will not find the recipe for this oil in the most exclusive or expensive maga-
zine!’ (Chughtai, 1994: 8–10)

Chughtai offers an elaborate explanation of the mysterious long massage

sessions behind the close doors, which was a topic of gossip but not something

SE
absolutely objectionable. She also talks about how the shaking quilt of Begum
Jan and Rabbo, which appeared like a ‘drunk elephant’, used to terrify the child

U
narrator14 of ‘Lihaaf’ in the night. Chughtai even mentions how Begum Jan
once asks the child narrator to scratch her back and directed narrator’s hand

L
IA
to the front part of her body with a mysterious smile. Chughtai did not specify
that particular body part and, unlike Manto, she didn’t use the word ‘bosom’.
C
These elaborate descriptions fail to capture the attention of the offences and the
ER

word ‘homosexuality’ was never pronounced during the trial. This silence res-
onates with the cultural acceptance for the practice of homosexuality in India.
M

The word homosexuality could have been problematic in that period but not
M

the practice.
O

India was going through a phase of industrialisation and urbanisation during

C

the time when ‘Lihaaf’ was published. Men were migrating to cities and
living away from their wives. Another group of single as well as married men,
R

living away from their wives, were Indian nationalists, who basically aspired for
FO

a ‘Hindu Rashtra’ (nation) based on the modern interpretation of the ancient herit-
age of Indo–Aryan Vedic culture. These nationalists believed in Vedic traditions
T

and one of the popular practices they followed was the practice of celibacy since
O

semen loss has been recognised as loss of strength in ‘Ayurveda15’ and some other
N

religious texts of India. In practice, many of these believers of Brahmacharya16 and

celibacy followed the Aristotelian idea of love that required an intellectual mind
in the body of the beloved. This desire obstructed men to recognise the bodies
of non-literate women as the owners of intellectual mind. Possibilities of erotic
relationship between men residing in the cities and among the Brahmacharis were
strong. Some Hindi writers like Yashpal and Jainendra capture these possibilities
in their fictions. Even some young Marxist men preferred educated and intel-
lectual male bodies over the veiled and uneducated female body. Some of them
were bold and frank about their sexual inclinations. The Urdu writer/poet Firaq
Gorakhpuri, who was a Professor of English and also a member of PWA, boldly
argues in defense of homosexuality:

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 75

[. . .] are you aware of Socrates’ autobiography, and his relationship with Alkibiades?
Are you aware of Caesar’s love affairs? Do you know what Walter Peter has written
about Winckelmann in his book The Renaissance [. . .]. What about the life of this
esteemed author? Sir, are you aware of Shakespeare’s Sonnets and their motives?
Do you know of Walt Whitman and his poem To a Boy? [. . .]. Do you know the
meaning of Lesbianism? [. . .]. What punishment will you give Tennyson for writing In
Memoriam because recently some researchers have brought to light his homosexual
feelings and statements? (Vanita & Kidwai, 265).

Thus, some of the progressive writers were writing about homosexuality and
were boldly defending the issue as well. These defenses, however, never emerged
as an important issue. The noble cause of freedom overruled all other voices of
resistance.
The discussion of homosexuality is evident even in the writings of nation-

SE
alist writers. The famous Bengali nationalist writer Bankim Chandra Chaterji,
who wrote ‘Vande Mataram17’— a popular nationalist anthem of India, portrays

U
a powerful kissing scene between two women in his story ‘Indira,’ published in

L
1873 (Vanita & Kidwai, 233). The history of homosexuality in Indian culture and
IA
literature could be traced even in ancient India, beginning from ‘Mahabharata’,
C
‘Panchatantra’ and ‘Kamasutra’ to ‘Indira,’ ‘Lihaaf’ and ‘Fire’. The poetic culture
ER

of ‘Sufism’ and ‘Rekhti’ could be considered as literary acceptance for same-sex

love whereas ‘Chapatbazi’ and ‘Laundebazi’ as the cultural practice of homosexu-
M

ality (Vanita & Kidwai, 220).

‘Sufism’ (Islamic mysticism) was introduced in India by the Persians
M

who immigrated to India after tenth century. The male Sufi poets considered
O

themselves woman, and God as their man/beloved/partner. The Sufi songs depict
C

philosophical, spiritual and sensual relationship between the Sufi devotee and the
R

God. ‘Rekhti’ is also about the culture of songs and poems which portray erotic
FO

relationship between two women. The use of two colloquial terms ‘Chapatbazi’
and ‘Laundebazi’ is also popular. ‘Chapatbazi’ is for lesbian relationship while
‘Laundebazi’, which was considered a status symbol in the medieval India and
T

is not uncommon even today, for gay relationship. Lappiers and Collins, in their
O

book ‘Freedom at Midnight’, which is about the last year of British Rule in India
N

(1946–47), refer a number of homosexual kings and landlords, including the

Nizam of Hyderabad who loved to cross-dress, dance and embrace the femininity
captured in his male body (399–402).
The resistance for these relationships was also there. Nonetheless there was
a subtle cultural acceptance for homosexuality. The common conflict regarding
homosexuality in India could be described as—‘it’s not fair—but it happens.’ In
this context, Ismat Chughtai’s ‘Lihaaf’, too, was not fair but it was not absolutely
unacceptable. This ‘notorious writer’ was dangerous because she happened to be
a woman and yet, she was daring to say whatever she liked and was always ready
to fight for proving her point. Chughtai offers an interesting description of her
popular image:

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

76 Anamika Priyadarshini

‘People would then call me Medusa, the monster on whose head snakes coiled about
instead of hair, and who turned men into stone the moment they glanced at her. And
anyway, the Lahore trial was still fresh in the public’s mind and everyone looked at me
as if I was behind prison bars.’ (Chughtai, 1994: xv).

‘Lihaaf ’—A Literary Feminist Resistance

This Medusa was not ready to compromise at all. She even worked to expand her
heritage and appealed to the next generation writers, whom she considered ‘mirror
makers’, to write:

SE
You must write [. . .] write about whatever you see, hear, think [. . .] write so much that
people begin to accept you as a reality [. . .] use your caustic literary material to destroy

U
the germs that exist around you [. . .] calling it dirty and running away from it will not
help remove the dirt. (Chughtai, 2001: 23)

L
IA
Chughtai was passionate about writing. Narrating whatever she saw, heard and
C
thought was more important for her than theorising her experiences. Although she
ER

joined PWA, which was closely associated with the Communist Party of India
(CPI), she never became the member of the CPI. She considered herself ‘too bold
M

for any party to make her a member’ as she ‘used to talk all sorts of nonsense’
M

(Chughtai, 2001: 28–30). The only label she was interested in was the ‘identity
of a free writer’. She did not know about lesbianism when she wrote ‘Lihaaf’.
O

But that was never an important issue for her. All she wanted was to write about
C

whatever she ‘saw, heard and thought’:

R
FO

When I wrote Lihaaf, this thing [lesbianism] was not discussed openly. We girls used to
talk about it and we knew there was something like it, but we didn’t know the whole
truth [. . .]. When I wrote the subject, I thought—how stupid of me! I thought that men
T

always went to prostitutes, but because girls can’t go to prostitutes, they do this.
O

(Chughtai, 1994: xii)

N

Publication of ‘Lihaaf’ and the ‘Lihaaf’ trial is a story of the stand of a writer
who belonged to the generation that was transcending from colonial to the inde-
pendent, modern and post-World War era and was deeply influenced by the
ideologies of Gandhi, Rousseau, Voltaire, Marx, Engels and Lenin and the works
of great writers like Chekhov, Dickens, Tolstoy, Brecht and Freud (Naqvi, 2003:
377–78). The image of female characters in Indian literature was also in tran-
sition. The ‘heroine18’ of the fictions of male Indian writers of eighteenth and
nineteenth century were mainly tawaifs19, who, unlike the housewives, were
sophisticated artists and were playing an important role in preserving and
enriching the culture of Indian classical dance, music and poetries. By late nine-
teenth century and early twentieth century, the ‘veiled, obedient and harmless’

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 77

homemaker of Premchand’s20 stories, who kissed ‘her man’s feet at every step’,
won the heart of the man (Naqvi, 2003: 380–81). The woman of the home was
replacing the woman of the bazaar—the tawaifs. But the writers of new genera-
tion were not happy with this either. The young writers, specially the members of
PWA, wanted to share the stories of normal human beings. Chughtai wanted to
portray a woman with all her body, mind, desire and passion. Her ‘heroines’ were
women—neither whores nor Madonnas.
‘Lihaaf’ is the story of a woman who is not a whore and she is neither
interested in sacrificing her life for the label of Madonna. The story is an interest-
ing psychosexual analysis of a woman’s existence. Chughtai brilliantly depicts
the loneliness of a rich married woman:

Who knows when Begum Jan started living? Did her life begin when [. . .] she entered

SE
the house as the Nawab’s new bride [. . .] and started counting her days? Or did it begin
from the time she realised that the household revolved around the boy-students [. . .].

U
From the chinks in the drawing-room doors, Begum Jan glimpsed their slim waists, fair

L
ankles [. . .] and felt she had been raked over the coals! Perhaps it started when she gave
IA
on magic, necromancy, séances and whatnot [. . .] broken hearted, Begum Jan turned
towards education. Not much to be gained here either! [. . .]. Sleepless nights became a
C
daily routine. Begum Jan slowly let go and consequently became a picture of melan-
ER

choly and despair. (Chughtai, 1994: 8–9)

M

Begum Jan’s character represents the ‘restless spirit’ of the ‘slave’ who is
M

struggling to feel the material presence of her body within the script of the master
O

narrative (Hegel, 1979: 267–70). Begum Jan could neither find her material self
C

in her desire for a living body, nor in any non-living stimulation. The process
of alienation of the body of the ‘slave’ by the ‘master’ leads her wounded spirit
R

towards a lonesome and deserted state. Begum Jan reaches to a state of complete
FO

‘helplessness’21 or as Chughtai describes it, she becomes a ‘picture of melancholy

and despair’. It is this point, when Begum Jan recognises the need to be free
T

from her aspiration to follow the prescribed script of what Hegel calls the Master
O

Narrative. This realisation symbolises the liberation of her spirit that transcends
N

into a material process with the arrival of her maid Rabbo, who according to
Chughtai, ‘came to Begum Jan’s rescue’. Rest of the story is about the transfor-
mation of Begum Jan’s ‘melancholy and despair’ picture into a woman whose
beauty ‘glowed through every pore of her body.’ (Chughtai, 1994: 9). The pow-
erful depiction of this ‘transformation,’ depicts Chughtai’s understanding of the
significance of material self in the being and the realisation of the materiality of
self in the process of becoming. Construction of a new and contextual narrative
is embedded in the process of ‘becoming’ of a free and self-conscience being.
Writing new narrative for themselves is an integral part of ‘becoming’22 of the
two women character of ‘Lihaaf’, who could not find themselves in their exist-
ence as the woman they were expected to become or the woman they were made
and chose to explore their ‘self’ in their fundamental existence as a woman. Their

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

78 Anamika Priyadarshini

narrative does not follow the grammar of the master narrative and thus, ‘Lihaaf’
is a story of two women’s attempt to disobey the master narrative.
From a feminist perspective, ‘Lihaaf,’ is as relevant today as it was seventy-
two years ago when it was first published. The violent public protest against
Deepa Mehta’s film ‘Fire’ (1996) mirrors the public reaction that Chughtai had to
face after ‘Lihaaf’s’ publication. For the feudal and patriarchal psyche, the most
challenging aspect of these two cases was to accept the dialectic of the ‘unveiled
minds’ and the sexed bodies that stood behind these stories. The free existence
of the ‘slave’ also implies loss of power for the ‘master,’ and hence, the master
narrative envisions the existence of the free minds and bodies of these ‘unmade
women’ as a more threatening issue than the issue of lesbianism.
Bankim Chatterji, Firaq Gorakhpuri and other male writers who wrote about
homosexuality never faced such a violent public retaliation as Chughtai and

SE
Mehta had to. Jaya Banerji (2001), in her article ‘Life Beyond Lihaaf23’, compares
the public reaction after the publication of ‘Lihaaf’ and release of ‘Fire’ and finds

U
it difficult to distinguish the level of public retaliation in these two cases: ‘How far
they succeeded in India is questionable—the public protest that accompanied the

L
IA
release of Deepa Mehta’s film Fire reveals our continuing desire to be ostriches
with our heads buried deep in the sand.’
C
Discussion of ‘Lihaaf’ will always be an act of feminist resistance for any
ER

society that is threatened by women’s free movements. The climax of ‘Lihaaf’ is

the point when Begum Jan understands the need to free herself from the desire to
M

follow the ‘master’ whereas her decision to welcome her erotic self is the process
M

of the construction of a new narrative that challenges the Master Narrative. This
O

is where Chughtai envisions her ‘heroine’ who is the survivor of ‘whore-Madonna

C

complex’ and is able to embrace the woman inside her. ‘Lihaaf’ is one of the
many stories of Chughtai’s aspired women who will always be relevant in any
R

patriarchal, racist, capitalist and heterosexist society. I conclude this story of the
FO

various narratives of ‘Lihaaf’ with Chughtai’s wish for the potential ‘heroine’ of
the future:
T
O

The heroine of the future will be neither heartless nor oppressed. She will be only a
woman, and instead of giving her the title of ahramen [Satan] and yazdaan [God],
N

writers will bless her with the title of woman. And then the process of construction will
begin. (Chughtai, 2001: 35)

Notes
  1. ‘Mother India’ was written and published during the interwar period when ‘the status
of British rule in India was at the hub of the forces unleashed by postwar restructuring
of the British Empire’ and when, as Winston Churchill noted in his book ‘History of
English Speaking Peoples’ (1956–58), the United States ‘had come much closer by the
end of the nineteenth century to appreciating the imperial responsibilities of Britain’
(Sinha, 2001: 33). Mayo, as an American citizen, ‘appreciated’ the civilising mission
of Britain and was keen to facilitate Britain in fulfilling its ‘imperial responsibility’.

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

‘Lihaaf ’ 79

  2. ‘Lihaaf’ literally means quilt. See Tahira Naqvi and Syeda S. Hameed’s The Quilt and
Other Short Stories (New Delhi: The Sheep Meadow, 1994) for English translations of
‘Lihaaf’ (‘The Quilt’) and Chughtai’s other short stories.
  3. English quit India! (Angrezon Bhaarat Chhodo).
  4. Feminist historians register ‘Lihaaf’ as a ‘historic piece of Lesbian literature’ (Jaya
Banerji, ‘Life Beyond Lihaaf’, Biblio 7, March 2001, 11 March 2007 (http://www.
biblio-india.com/articles/MA01_ar18.asp?mp=MA01).
  5. Chughtai was married to Shahid Latif who was a film director.
  6. The term Dalit (oppressed) refers to oppressed and/or untouchable castes. Dalit is a
term used for the castes placed in the lower levels of the hierarchal caste structure. The
members of these castes are often considered untouchables.
  7. Geeta Patel, ‘An Uncivil Woman: Ismat Chughtai’, Annual of Urdu Studies, 16 (2001):
345–49.
  8. Sati, the practice of widow immolation, was banned by British Government in 1829

SE
(Yang, 1989: 2).
  9. LGBT: Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual, Transgender.

U
10. Communist Party of India was established in 1925.
11. The city of Lahore was the cultural centre of pre-Independent India. The city is known

L
for its art, culture and beautiful architecture. Lahore is in Pakistan now.
IA
12. Mohsin was a friend of Latif and Chughtai who was present at the time when the
C
Police officer came with the court order.
ER

13. Punjab is one of the states of colonial India, which was divided during the India–
Pakistan partition in 1947. The state is known for its affluence and vivacious culture.
14. See Chughtai’s statement about writing ‘Lihaaf’ on page 3. Chughtai’s sister-in-law
M

could recognise the character of ‘Begum Jan’ which indicates that the child narra-
M

tor was possibly Chughtai herself. It is quite possible that the fiction was based on
O

Chughtai’s own childhood experience.

C

15. Ayurveda is the ancient knowledge of medicine. See R. Prasad and C. Robertson
(2005). Sex, Spirituality and Ayurveda. Ayurveda Elements, 20 February 2008 (www.
R

ayurvedaelements.com).
FO

16. Brahmacharya refers to ‘virginity among men’ while Brahmachari means ‘virgin
man’.
17. Hail Motherland! (Vande Mataram).
T

18. ‘Heroine’ is the title of Chughtai’s essay about portrayal of female characters in Indian
O

literature (2001: 25–35).

N

19. ‘Tawaifs’ (courtesans) were mainly singers and dancers and their residences were con-
sidered as ‘finishing schools’ for young men from aristocratic families. Tawaifs played
an important role in the preservation of north-Indian classical music and dance.
20. Premchand was a legendary figure in Indian literature.
21. ‘Of the three metamorphoses of the spirit I tell you: how the spirit becomes a camel;
the camel, a lion; and the lion, finally a child [helpless] … The child is innocent and
forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a self-propelled wheel, a first movement, a sacred
‘Yes.’ For the game of creation, my brothers, a sacred ‘Yes’ is needed.’ (Nietzsche,
1954: 26–27).
22. ‘One is not born, but rather, becomes a woman’ (Beauvoir, 1974: 301).
23. See Jaya Banerji, ‘Life Beyond Lihaaf’, Bibilio 7, March 2001, 11 March 2007 (http://
www.biblio-india.com/articles/MA01_ar18.asp?mp=MA01).

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80

80 Anamika Priyadarshini

References
Banerji, Jaya (2001, March). ‘Life beyond Lihaaf ’. Bibilio 7. Retrieved 11 March 2007,
from http://www.biblio-india.com/articles/MA01_ar18.asp?mp=MA01
Beauvoir, Simon de (1974). The second sex. New York, NY: Vintage Books.
Chughtai, Ismat (2001). My friend my enemy: Essays, reminiscences, portraits (Trans.
Tahiri Naqvi). New Delhi: Kali for Women.
——— (1994). The quilt & other stories (Trans. Tahiri Naqvi & Syeda Hameed).
New York, NY: The Sheep Meadow.
Desai, Anita (1994). Preface. In Ismat Chughtai, The quilt & other stories (Trans. Tahira
Naqvi & Syeda S. Hameed). New York, NY: The Sheep Meadow.
Hegel, G. W. F. (1979). Phenomenology of spirit (Trans. A. V. Miller). New York, NY:
Oxford University Press..
Lapierre, Dominique, & Collins. Larry (1975). Freedom at midnight. New York, NY:

SE
Simon & Schuster.
Mayo, Katherine (1927). Mother India. London: Jonathan Cape.

U
Naqvi, Tahira (2003). Afterwards. In Ismat Chughtai­­, The crooked line. (Trans. Tahira
Naqvi). New York, NY: Feminist.

L
Nietzsche, Fredrick (1954). Thus spoke zarathustra: A book for none and all (Trans. Walter
IA
Kaufmann). New York, NY: Penguin.
C
Patel, Geeta (2001). An uncivil woman: Ismat Chughtai. Annual of Urdu Studies,
ER

16: 345–49. Retrieved from http://minds.wisconsin.edu/handle/1793/18257?show=full

Prasad, R., & Robertson, C. (2005). ‘Sex, spirituality and ayurveda’. Ayurveda Elements.
M

Retrieved 20 February 2008, from www.ayurvedaelements.com

Sarkar, Sumit (1983). Modern India: 1857–1947. Madras: Macmillan.
M

Sartre, Jean Paul (1956). Being and nothingness. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
O

Sinha, Mrinalini (2001). Specters of Mother India: The global restructuring of an empire.
C

Durham, NC: Duke UP.

Vanita, Ruth, & Kidwai, Saleem (2001). Same sex love in India: Readings from literature
R

and history. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

FO

Yang, Anand (1989). Whose sati? Widow burning in early 19th century India. Journal of
Women’s History, 1(2): 8–33.
Zeno (1994). Professor Ahmed Ali and the progressive writers movement. Annual
T

of Urdu Studies, 8: 39–43. Retrieved from http://minds.wisconsin.edu/handle/1793/

O

11843?show=full
N

Social Change, 44, 1 (2014): 67–80