I had been a long distance admirer of her craft for many years; my opinion formed on the basis of a short story here, another one there. And often heard her name whispered with natural reverence in literary circles. Yet for all my years in journalism, I had not had many occasions to speak to Ajeet Cour; her books were almost always in Punjabi, a language I struggle with, if I must be generous to myself. There were a couple of English translations though which acted as my window to the many layered world of Ajeet Cour. She was not often seen at lit fests, a kind of must-do for authors in recent years. The distance helped in keeping the mystery going. Then one day, a little under 10 years ago, she surprised me. She was in the process of getting together authors from India and Pakistan and some other neighbouring countries for a SAARC writers meet in Agra. She called up, asking me to come down. I felt obliged to go, yet could not as the invitation had come at the last minute and I had prior commitments. I could not muster up courage to tell her the truth directly, so I replied through a couplet of Sahir Ludhianvi, “Sharm rokey hai idhar, shauq udhar kheenche hai, kya khabar thhi kabhi iss dil ki yeh haalat hogi” . Of course, I promised to make amends the next year. Very much a senior citizen then, she had her wits about her, saying, “Miyan, aa jaate to achcha lagta. Any way, maybe next time but jo wada kiya woh nibhana padega. Next time no excuses ” . Without boasting, she had paid me back in the same coin, effortlessly quoting Ludhianvi from Taj Mahal .
Take that for a sense of occasion. However, unlike me, Ajeet Cour needed no help from contemporaries. She did not need to bask in reflected glory. Her 20 books of short stories speak for her as do her edited works and novelettes, an art of writing she has pioneered in Punjabi. Over the past few years, our interaction picked up some momentum and she never ever fails to send me Eid greetings — every time I open her mail it makes me feel young and happy that there is a venerable elder who cares for me. In brief tele-conversations, she often talks of Indo-Pak authors and has at times seemed a shade worried about the change in political climate. Yet, she always refrains from naming people, never ready to use her power of speech to hurt or to provoke.
She brings the same approach to her writing, as I discovered courtesy a book of short stories titled, “The Other Woman” (translated by Khushwant Singh and others) which her daughter, noted artist, Arpana Cour, sent across. I have this habit of starting books as also newspapers from the last page. In this case, inexplicably I reversed the order and started with the first story, “Ali Baba’s Death”. She in scintillating form! Exposing the double standards of our society, the endless urge to be among the haves and pretend to have more than we have, she takes many digs at our system. Beginning with newspapers which confine the unnatural death of a commoner – Ram Lall, a clerk, in this case — to a brief item on the local page to socialites’ dos where it is more important to look well groomed than to be well informed and on to a public relations officer, who sells what you do not need to buy, Ajeet Cour puts together a story which evokes and provokes by turn. All along, she blends the specific with the universal, personal with the public. And gives us a story that has more hues than a rainbow contains.
The mood turns infinitely more sombre with her story, “November 1984”. Here her description of Mrs G without naming her even once is outstanding, a delightful master class in understatement. To quote, “The woman who had ruled the country for so many years, the woman who had launched an attack on Harimandir Sahib at Amritsar like Abdali, the woman who had treated the country as her private property, that most exalted express had been assassinated. Of course assassination is deplorable. Reprehensible. Particularly of that woman who had several sensitive layers in her soul too! The woman with large eyes which seemed to announce that she was in control of the universe, the woman with beautiful little feet and nimble hands, the stunningly beautiful and intelligent woman who made friends with Castro and any American President with equal ease, the empress of her times.” What follows hurts, deeply, profoundly. And quietly, Ajeet Cour tells us she can draw uncanny parallels. Talking of 1984, she reminds us of Ghenigis Khan, Abdali, Nadir Shah, even the pogrom of the Jews. Then she widens her canvas to link up Delhi of 1984 to Gujarat of 2002; again leaving a lot to be understood between the lines.
Her latest collection of short stories indeed will have a long and lasting impact. As for me, I just have to remember those words of Sahir Ludhianvi, “Jo wada kiya…” the next time she holds a literary meet.
