The book is a literary achievement that brings to life the dreams, struggles, and inner worlds of women
LAST week (May 20), Kannada writer Banu Mushtaq’s book Heart Lamp won the International Booker Prize. The momentous news sent waves of joy through the literary circles across the country. The prize, worth 50,000 pounds, roughly Rs 57.5 lakh, was jointly awarded to the author and the book’s English translator, Deepa Bhasti, who shares equally in this laurel.
Until Heart Lamp was shortlisted for this prestigious honour, Banu Mushtaq remained relatively unknown beyond the borders of Karnataka. Now, in the 78th year of her life, her name resounds on the world stage. She has joined the ranks of India’s literary luminaries such as Arundhati Roy and Geetanjali Shree. But she has also carved out a niche for herself in history, for this is the first time that a work in Kannada and consisting of short stories has been chosen for this global accolade.
Banu’s educational journey began in an Urdu school in the Hassan district of Karnataka. When her father was transferred to Shimoga, she was enrolled in a Kannada-medium school. Completing her studies, she went on to pursue law and became actively involved in social movements. She began writing in Kannada journals and periodicals. From a young age, a spirit of protest against injustice was embedded in her temperament. She became associated with the “Bandaya” or Rebellion movement in Kannada literature — a platform through which she raised a voice for social and economic justice for Muslims and the marginalised. She worked for social reform within the Muslim community. When she advocated for space for Muslim women in mosques, she endured a three-month social boycott in the year 2000. When a knife-wielding assailant attacked her, it was her husband who saved her life. Just two years ago, she raised her voice in support of the right to education for hijab-wearing college girls in Karnataka.
Banu Mushtaq’s stories offer glimpses into the rhythms of rural life, the workings of the panchayat system, domestic violence, women’s quiet rebellion, and the labyrinth of human psychology. Her style, marked by simplicity and symbolism, leaves a profound imprint. She is a courageous and sensitive fiction writer with a strong social conscience. The stories in Heart Lamp poignantly reflect the emotions and experiences of Muslim women. Banu is indeed a rebel, but not the one who turns her back on her community. Rather than opting for disengagement, she calls upon her people for introspection and reform.
The story that lends its title to the book Heart Lamp, revolves around a woman named Mehrun. Her husband, Inayat, was once deeply enamoured of her. Mehrun, in turn, fulfilled his every desire, burning like a lamp to illuminate his life. She bore him five children, one after another. Then, sixteen years into their marriage, Inayat began an affair with a nurse. One day, Mehrun left her home, carrying her infant in her arms, and returned to her parents’ house, only to find no one willing to stand by her. Her brother returned her to her husband’s doorstep. Her eldest daughter, Salma, busy preparing for her tenth-grade examinations, was young but deeply attuned to her mother’s silent sorrow. Caught in the crosscurrents of despair, Mehrun resolves to end her life.
The psychological complexity of Mehrun’s mental state is portrayed with disarming simplicity. Inayat’s cunning calculation hangs heavily over her. What could a mother of five possibly do? Any drastic step by Mehrun could jeopardize her daughter’s future and those of her two unmarried sisters. One evening, as the household lights are turned on, the lamp within Mehrun’s heart begins to flicker and dim. She gathers some kerosene. Late at night, once the children are asleep and Salma, exhausted from her studies, dozes off, Mehrun lays her infant in the hall and walks into her room, towards her fateful decision. What transpires next is best discovered by the reader within the pages of the story.
The protagonists of Heart Lamp are primarily Muslim. Each story delivers a piercing commentary on the customs and norms of society. But is Bano critiquing the Muslim community simply because it is Muslim? Bano herself told Deepa that these issues are not confined to any one community. Though appearances and names may change, the essence of these struggles remains the same everywhere, and those are the stories she chooses to tell.
In the story Black Cobras, we meet Ashraf, a helpless woman abandoned by her husband for bearing three daughters. Seeking work, she stumbles into the home of a woman named Zulekha Begum, who is always busy reading books. Zulekha explains to Ashraf, in detail, that God and the Prophet have laid down her rights, and that she must stand firm in demanding them. Moved by this revelation, Ashraf enters the courtyard of a mosque with her daughters and sits in silent protest for justice. The story ends on a note that is both heartbreaking and stirring, especially in its portrayal of the village women’s scathing rebuke of the mosque’s custodian for his failure to intervene in time. One feels not as though reading a story but rather standing before a painting, drawn into its canvas and deeply immersed in the imagery artfully displayed.
In the tale Fire Rain, Jamila, the younger married sister of the mosque’s custodian, demands her rightful share in their father’s inheritance. His wife, Arifa, supports the claim, believing the sisters should be granted their due. But the custodian, Usman Saheb, begins to hear crows cawing in his head. The story takes an intriguing turn: he holds a prominent position in the local Muslim leadership or dealership… whatever way one interprets. When the police bury an unclaimed corpse in a non-Muslim cemetery, he launches a full-blown protest movement. Under the weight of this communal fervour, Jamila withdraws her claim. In truth, she had no desire to confront her brother. She acted under pressure from her husband. Is this a flaw in the story — that a woman will only fight for her rights when a man pushes her to do so?
This writer asked himself: In an age when the scales of thought tip heavily towards feminism, isn’t some of today’s creative output touched by a whiff of contrivance? When a writer enters the field already armed with a fixed worldview of society’s structure and simply seeks characters to graft upon their ideological scaffolding, can such writing truly be called literature? The answer may lie with the critics. As for this writer, who confesses, with both hands to his ears, that he is no authority to pass judgment on fiction. Yet in these stories, he did glimpse the reflection of our society.
The translation by Deepa Bhasti is equally praiseworthy. At the book’s end, she has written a perceptive and enlightening note. Translation is no easy task. It is far more than the substitution of one word for another in a different tongue. Each language carries its own idioms and modes of expression, steeped in layers of culture and history. A translator must grasp all these nuances and also possess considerable literary skill. Through her adept craftsmanship, Deepa Bhasti has brought Bano’s work onto the global stage. In the acclaim now showered upon Banu Mushtaq, Deepa rightfully stands as her equal partner.
Heart Lamp is a literary achievement that brings to life the dreams, struggles, and inner worlds of women. It is not only an important contribution to literature but also a potent force in awakening social consciousness. It is a valuable document that opens a window into the lives of Muslim women in southern India. Warm congratulations are due to both Banu Mushtaq and Deepa Bhasti for the honour, prestige, and renown this award has bestowed upon them.
Buy the book — and read it without delay!
