Talk:M. Hameed Shahid: Fiction Writer
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[edit] National Tragedy of 1971 debacle: Pakistan
Mohammad Hameed Shahid's Urdu novel "Mitti Adam Khati Hai" launched at Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) Islamabad is an attempt to portray the national tragedy of 1971 debacle in a more humanistic way. Starting from the title to the neatly woven realistic characters, the author paint a symbolic picture of the debacle, connecting it to the impact left on the hearts and minds of the people of this country.
In an informal ceremony, PAL Chairman Iftekhar Arif, National Language Authority Chairman Professor Fateh Mohammad Malik, eminent writer and literary critic Mansha Yaad and Ali Mohammad Farshi evaluated the book as a unique experiment reflecting the point of view of the author presented through a creative window.
Professor Fateh Mohammad Malik, in his comment on the book, said that it raises those pertinent questions about the 1971 debacle that have remained unanswered even today. Talking about Intezar Hussain's 'Basti' and Mustansar Hussain Tarar's 'Rakh', he said, very little has been written on Pakistan's independence and 1971 debacle in Urdu Novels and travelogues. Fateh Malik expressed contentment that today's writers have started reflecting on national thoughts in their writings.
Iftikhar Arif said that very little has been written about the 1971 debacle in Urdu literature and whatever came in writing was one-sided. He said that one cannot blame any one or a group , but there was a need to capture the event on the whole, giving the true perspective of the role of United States, India, the freedom movement of Bengalis and the mistakes made by our leaders of the time that led to this national tragedy. He said that apart from Masood Mufti's memoir, very little has been written on this national tragedy in Urdu. Iftikhar Arif said that Hameed Shahid's book raises issues that are our very own in an effort to highlight a point of view expressed with inspired porthole.
Mansha Yaad reflected on the book as an experiment of the author. He said that being an 'afsana-nigar' with a number of books to his credit, Hameed Shahid could not refrain from his style and evolved a new style by absorbing both fiction and short story style in his first novel. Giving a detailed snap of the characters portrayed by the author has woven a pragmatic portrait of people experiencing the same sensitivities of ache and pain in the same chronological background.
Ali Mohammad Farshi sketched the technical and philosophical context of the book and the weaving of various characters by the author, terming it as a parallel story linking the national and geographical tragedy. He said that the book depicts a humanitarian element out of a political upheaval.
(The News: Islamabad: 20.03.2007)
[edit] How Grief Perishes : Short Story by Mohammad Hameed Shahid
Nabeel felt nauseated as he entered the emergency ward. The pungent smell of tinctures filled his nostrils and disrupted his breathing. His destination was Ward 3, but he had to pass through the emergency ward which was located at the entrance. Every time there would be a new case in need of urgent attention. Whenever Nabeel happened to be there, he would see people in a serious condition. They would be bleeding, maimed, seriously injured, in agony or in the throes of death. Doctors and nurses would be frantically trying to save those wretches. Sometimes they would be stanching a hemorrhage, at times resuscitating the heart by pressing the patient’s chest. Another patient would be retching to cough out the blood flooding his lungs. Do they survive? He often wondered. He hoped they did. But in his sojourn through the emergency ward he would invariably see a couple of dead bodies laid out on stretchers. They would be surrounded by wailing women, hysterical with grief, falling all over them. The men would be trying to extricate them, consoling and gently advising them to accept the grim reality with fortitude.
Nabeel wouldn’t think these thoughts when he heard the heart-rending wails. He would allow himself to ponder on these, only when he reached the long corridor of the cardiology ward. The reason was that he had seen many corpses here too, but the people accompanying the stretchers wouldn’t be mourning. No sobs. No tears. Nothing. Their faces would be drained of colour. White like a shroud, they would walk by the stretcher reverently, as though they had been rehearsing this walk for years. And now that the moment had arrived, they would not undermine their long patient preparation by acting in an un-becoming way. On his walk from the emergency through the cardiology ward, he would rationalize everything and his breathing would become regular. He had visited the ward about three weeks back with Nudrat. Nudrat’s father was concerned about her mother. He suspected that she had a heart condition. One day when she lay down for her daily siesta, she felt heaviness in her chest. A lump of pain and discomfort would begin in her navel and rise up to her chest near her heart and then subside leaving a trail of dull throb. Nudrat’s dad had her checked up thoroughly and only when the doctors had given a clean bill of health, was he reassured. Nabeel never even suspected that she had a heart condition. He firmly believed that a cautious, patient person would never be susceptible to such an illness. Despite this belief, when he came to visit Nudrat’s mother, he felt very uneasy. On his second visit too, the nagging feeling was there. Perhaps what he had learnt was self-control and not acceptance and the ability to bear. Patience he had mastered long since. Medical wards were ahead, Ward I to the right, II and III along the corridor. In Ward III in a private room lay his own sick mother. She had been ill for so long that he had virtually forgotten the times when she used to be healthy. After his father’s death, the right side of her body had been paralyzed and since then she had been bed-ridden. In the beginning, she would become thirsty very frequently. Her throat would be dry; her stomach would churn with hunger. And she had been incontinent too. The wetness of the bed would slice through her back. She made desperate efforts to call out to her son, but incoherent guttural sounds would be produced. The effort would almost kill her. Her chest would be strained and her lower jaw would drop. Her frail body would double up. At first he would respond with alacrity, but when this became a routine, he was a bit weary. In the end he actually had to drag himself to attend to her needs. One day, when his mother was going through the same agonizing routine, the door-bell rang. One short abrupt ring followed by a persistent one. Nudrat’s distinctive trade-mark style. The sound terminated and silence fell. A long silence in which his mother’s incoherent sounds drowned. His heart missed a beat. He had reached the front door before the sound had subsided. He opened the door but her demeanour indicated that she had not come to sit. She motioned towards the car. He followed her like a serf. He had no will in her presence and neither did she care for it. She was that kind of a person; confident, sophisticated. She was not only exceptionally beautiful, material well-being oozed from her as a bubbling stream cascading down an incline. On that day he returned home after many hours. The offensive smell of stale urine hit his senses. He looked at his mother. There was a little puddle of urine under her bed, trickling down to the door. A gasp of remorse and grief burst out of him unintentionally. No one wants to be grieved and no one can will grief away. Time spent with Nudrat was euphoria. He was brimming with a sense of well-being. The fragrance-filled charm of the pretty girl evaporated from his senses. His mother turned her face away. His hands went about their work mechanically. When he had dried and changed his mother, he lifted her and placed her on the adjoining bed. He was shocked at how much weight she had lost during her illness. She was feather-light. The way he had gone about the chores with tender, meticulous care had wiped away all the frowns of displeasure from her face, her disappointed demeanour cleared and her open, ever-fluttering eye was filled with tears of gratitude. In the hospital corridor, ahead of the cardiology ward, where another corridor intersected the fist one, four benches were placed along the wall. Before entering the ward, he used to sit there for a few moments. Not initially, but now, after two months of his mother’s hospitalization he would always sit if there was an empty bench. The first time he had sat there with Nudrat when she had come to enquire after his mother, Nudrat was very concerned about the fact that the patient had a slim chance of survival. She never visited again, but whenever she called she would always show concern about the prolonged illness. The illness definitely had gone on for long. The bed-sores were not healing due to diabetes and her breathing had become laboured, wheezing gasps. She had been oxygen-dependent for some time; still every breath was an agonizing ordeal for her. The doctors performed tracheotomy and inserted a tube through her throat to facilitate breathing. No doctor would give them a clear picture as to when her lungs would resume breathing on their own. Sometimes they would sound very hopeful, at others they would seem to be on the verge of giving up. Nudrat had given up on him too. Her parents had goaded her on. They had selected a very suitable match in their own family but they were helpless before their daughter’s resolve. They loved her immensely and did not want to force her. But the uncertainty of his mother’s condition paved their way in convincing their daughter. They fueled her doubts. A pre-occupied son, devoted to a very sick mother presented a bleak scenario. No one knew how long the ordeal could drag. The doctors’ prognosis was that if the patient survived, she would need constant care and support. Nudrat was disappointed, dejected but the disappointing old woman’s son would glean out many hopeful strands out of the doctor’s talk. For the next fifteen days, Nabeel waited for Nudrat. She never visited, but called him every day. She would want to talk about things other than his mother’s condition, but he would be so drained emotionally by the time he had tackled that issue, that she did not have the nerve to put her query across. A lovely girl, with life’s charmed vistas open before her, she did love him, but she could not live on hospital talk alone. And she could not wait endlessly. So the fragrant love inside her gradually wafted away. No surprise. On the fifteenth day she shrugged her love away. She rationalized that their love had outlived its span. She did call him on the two following days in an effort to drag him out of the depressing situation. He did not respond to her satisfaction and with a sigh she gave up on him. Nabeel was not the son who would give up on his mother. He felt as though he was still a part of her; attached by the umbilical cord, curled up in her womb. Like Abbas Shah’s sculpture of quasi-marble in which a fetus was placed in the mother’s womb. It was Nabeel himself. He touched the translucent statue with curiosity. It was surprisingly light and shaky. His mother’s frame had also become light but it wouldn’t shake. When he looked at it, all sorts of fears would drift through his mind. He couldn’t even conceive life without this frame. But unstoppable time flew on. Nudrat had stopped calling altogether. He called her a few times but he was told that she was not in. One fine day she called to inform him of her engagement, unceremoniously. She did not even enquire after his mother. His heart sank. The shock made him speechless. Disappointment rent his heart. The lovely time spent with Nudrat floated through his senses like an elusive dream. His true love had abandoned him. He survived. He had to, because he had no recourse. He was fully cognizant of what the doctors were saying. ‘Cannot say with any certainty, how long it would take for the patient’s condition to stabilize.’ Whenever the doctors tried to remove the tracheal tube, the patient’s body would go into agonizing spasms. He sat on the bench and dozed. God knows how long he had been sitting there. His mother’s condition had deteriorated in the night. The doctors had re-installed the tube. The feeding-tube inserted through her nose was bothering her. Perhaps it had lacerated the delicate tissue inside and she was feeling burning pain. She would raise her shivering hand towards it again and again. He told the doctor about it, who informed him that it was possibly a minor rupture which would heal in time. He advised Nabeel to ensure that his mother did not pull it out. He felt like pulling it out himself to end his mother’s ordeal, but he controlled himself. He stayed awake all through the night. When dawn peeped through the window, he followed it out. He wandered aimlessly for sometime. When he returned, an emptiness had seized his being. He cast an empty gaze at the activity within the emergency ward. He found the wailing women vulgar and distasteful. ‘Will this sordid display bring back their dead?’ He laughed a bitter laugh to quell the question rising within. One of the mourning girls was very beautiful, and the old dead woman she was mourning, very graceful. He gave them a passing glance and moved on. Each time the passage through the emergency to the cardiology ward would be a painful one, but today, he was drained of all emotions. He collapsed onto one of the benches and remained there. He had lost all sense of time. A stretcher emerged from Ward 3 and he was jolted out of his stupor. He was curious to look at the corpse’s face. It was not of his mother. He slumped back on the bench. That was the first time he prayed for his mother’s deliverance from this pain. And he prayed on till he had exhausted the cache of all the pious terms. He was suddenly destitute as if all the currency he possessed had been blown away. His incantation was incoherent gibberish. Words were like insects, wriggling in his mouth, stuck to his palate. Lifeless. His eyes were glazed. He watched but nothing registered. The mourners and the mourned lost distinction. Dead bodies were being transported in front of him. Instead of grief he felt relief, something akin to release. Perhaps this was an indication that he was still living. He could clearly rationalize that the people who had been attending to the sick and dying were finally relieved of their burden. A stench arose in him. He delved deep into his consciousness. He could see two corpses engulfed in pitch darkness. One was his dead love. He did not look at the other. He made a very sincere effort to shed tears but he was adrift on that wave of stench, gradually being carried away.
Translated from Urdu by Atia Shirazi PAKISTANI LITERATURE:Vol.8 2003 No.1 Editor-in-Chief:Iftikhar Arif Guest Editor: Yasmeen Hameed
[edit] An evening with story-writer
KARACHI: (BY Hasan Abidi) Story-writer and literary critic Mohammad Hameed Shahid presented his story at the meeting of the Karachi Literary circle the other day.
The Islamabad based writer, known for his Urdu short stories, also wrote prose poems in near past and gave this form a different name 'nasain' (prose and poetry combined).
'Dukh kaisay marta hai' (how the pain dies?) was the title of the story. It was about an ailing bed-ridden mother and her devoted son. The boy was also attached to a girl, who frequently visited the house and had her sympathy with the mother and son. But, the girl who wanted to marry the boy since long, lost her patience and got married with another person. With the passage of time, 'dukh' (pain) in the boy's heart also began to fade and finally rubbed out.
Among those, who gave their comments on the story, included Prof Saher Ansari. He found that the story was based on realism and closely linked with the tradition. In the case of the couple, had their position been vice versa, what would have been the girl's choice, so one raised the question? Had she left the mother and got married? The story depicted the conflict of values and attitudes.
Mr Shamshad Ahmad admired the treatment of the story, weaving the background with small details and thus making it effective in conflict situation. The story though a narrative carried deeper meaning, he added. Mr Firdous Haider said, the main character devoted to mother was singular and supported our values and traditions.
Among others, who commented on the content and treatment of the story, included Mr Mubin Mirza, Mr Muslim Shamim and Mr Mazher Jameel, who was also the host of the evening. Ms Saba Ikram introduced the guest and conducted the proceedings.
Dawn-July,23 2003
[edit] Can suffering also be made to 'die'? by Muhammad Hameed Shahid
Urdu Short Story : Dukh Kaise Marta Hai?
Islamabad:(Mufti Jamiluddin Ahmad),july 20: The short story Dukh Kaise Marta Hai? (how suffering dies?), read at the meeting of Halqa-i-Arbab-i-Zauq at Islamabad on Saturday evening by shot story writer Hameed Shahid seemed to suggest that, perhaps, at some level, it could. The psychological setting that he had adroitly woven around his characters and the kind of locale build up, that brought their thoughts in the traditional stream of consciousness style in the present-day fiction, might, at times, seemed to have been rather repetitive, but it did help the writer to convey theimpact of his thought.
The story revolves round three characters,Nabeel, his beloved Nudrat and his mother who was lying in hospital bed (she had been ill for such a long time, that now he had even forgotten whether she was ever healthy). The kind of care that his mother required kept Nabeel busy all the time, with hardly anytime to spare for the beloved who ultimately on persuation of her parents seems to break the engagement in favour of some other suit-or. In between, one finds the grue some but real pictures from a hospital: Nurses and doctors would pace up and down the room to save the lives of patients. Somebody's blood was being stopped from gushing out from sores; for some others, efforts were being made to circulate the blood blocking in veins by constantly pressing against the chests...Or:...these dead bodies had started giving him a sense of satisfaction, not satisfaction, but almost a sense of it.; similar to it ,and away from it too.... And, this feeling perhaps indicated that he was alive.
He could understand that it was not the dead who were passing into peace from their infliction; but it was the living whose problems were coming to end. He felt a stench rising from inside. To examine himself he dismantled his entire body. Deep inside the pitched darkness two bodies were lying. He could surely recognize them. One was that of his love, and he turned his face and he saw the other, and tried to cry with full sincerity, but the gush of stench was gliding him far away from the agony.
Some participants called it a powerful story. Ali Mohammad Farshi, who presided over the meeting, thought it was continuation of the trend of realism in Urdu fiction. Akbar Hameedi praised the description of scenes, where the writer had kept many doors open. Asghar Abid spoke of the beautiful handling of characters, which could be seen as if a story on a screen. Zafar thought it to be story of the dichotomy of generations. Col Sharafat Ali emphasized the aspect of a sence of self-preservation. Fayyaz thought the story had very strong colours. Zubair Tipu praised its style. DAWN July 20, 2003
[edit] ظفراقبال: مجھے منٹو یاد آ گیا
پچھلے دنوں محمد حمید شاہد کا افسانہ “برشور” پڑھنے کا اتفاق ہوا جس میں کردار سازی کا ہنر دیکھتے ہوئے مجھے منٹو یاد آ گیا کہ یہ کام اس سے خاص ہو کر رہ گیا تھا، اور، آپ کو کوئی تحریر پڑھ کر منٹو یاد آجائے تو بلاشبہ یہ کریڈٹ کی بات ہے۔
[ظفراقبال]http://www.zafariqbal.org
[edit] دکھ شاید سب کچھ سکھا دیتا ہے۔:شمس الرحمن فاروقی
محمد حمید شاہد اپنے افسانوں میں ایک نہایت ذی ہوش اور حساس قصہ گو معلوم ہوتے ہیں۔ بظاہر پیچیدگی کے باوجود (مثلاً ان کا زیر نظر ناول، اور ’’شب خون‘‘ ۳۹۲تا۹۹۲میں مطبوعہ ان کا افسانہ ’’بدن برزخ‘‘) ان کے بیانیہ میں یہ وصف ہے کہ ہم قصہ گو سے دور نہیں ہوتے، حالانکہ جدید افسانے میں افسانہ نگار بالکل تنہا اپنی بات کہتا ہوا محسوس ہوتا ہے۔ (اسی بات کو باختن نے یوں کہا تھا کہ فکشن نگار سے بڑھ کر دنیا میں کوئی تنہا نہیں، کیوںکہ اسے کچھ نہیں معلوم کہ اس کا افسانہ کون پڑھ رہا ہے اور کوئی اسے پڑھ بھی رہا ہے کہ نہیں۔) اسی وجہ سے جدید افسانہ نگار اپنے قاری کے لئے کتابی تو وجود رکھتا ہے لیکن زندہ وجود نہیں رکھتا۔ محمد حمید شاہد اس مخمصے سے نکلنا چاہتے ہیں اور شاید اسی لئے وہ اپنے بیانیے میں قصہ گوئی، یا کسی واقع شدہ بات کے بارے میں ہمیں مطلع کرنے کا انداز جگہ جگہ اختیار کرتے ہیں۔ محمد حمید شاہد کی دوسری بڑی صفت ان کے موضوعات کا تنوع ہے۔ اس لحاظ سے وہ منشا یاد سے کچھ کچھ مشابہ لگتے ہیں لیکن محمد حمید شاہد کے سروکار سماجی سے زیادہ سیاسی ہیں، حتی کہ وہ اپنے ماحولیاتی افسانوں میں بھی کچھ سیاسی پہلو پیدا کر لیتے ہیں۔ ’’مٹی آدم کھاتی ہے‘‘ اس لحاظ سے بھی منفرد ہے کہ اس میں مشرقی پاکستان/بنگلہ دیش کی حقیقت سے آنکھ ملانے کی کوشش رومان اور تشدد کو یکجا کر دیتی ہے۔ اسے محمد حمید شاہد کی بہت بڑی کامیابی سمجھنا چاہئے کہ وہ ایسے موضوع کو بھی اپنے بیانیہ میں بے تکلف لے آتے ہیں جس کے بارے میں زیادہ تر افسانہ نگارگو مگو میں مبتلا ہوں گے کہ فکشن کی سطح پر اس سے کیا معاملہ کیا جائے۔ دکھ شاید سب کچھ سکھا دیتا ہے۔
[شمس الرحمن فاروقی]http://sabaqeurdu.com/18/shumara/faruqi_dukh.htm
[edit] Hameed Shahid introduced a different genre in Urdu fiction:Prof Fateh Muhammad Malik
Hameed Shahid’s stories written in the backdrop of 9/11 have introduced a different genre in Urdu fiction and by doing this he has set an example for other writers to follow. Hameed Shahid’s short stories are woven well. They remind one of Baidi and Manto as far as the questions of self and identity are concerned. He has never lost touch with his soil and takes us back to days when values had certain place in our lives and people had an ear for a word of advice and goodness.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04)
[edit] “Marg Zaar” is one of the best collection:Iftakhar Arif
The collection “Marg Zaar” is one of the best written on the 9/11 incident. The use of the local vocabulary in Hameed Shahid is commendable. Though he looks at the world beyond him while his feet are firmly planted on earth. “Sovarg Mein Sour” (a pig in the paradise) is his representative story.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04),(Dawn 5.12.04)
[edit] Shahid’s stories are almost pitiless in their indictment:M. Saleem ur Rehman
As critiques of our moral bankruptcy and hypocrisy Shahid’s stories are almost pitiless in their indictment. The fractured style and the frenzied pace give them considerable impetus. Stories like “Sovarg mein suvar” and “marg zar” make a mockery of our autocratic establishment. (Friday Time)
[edit] Outstanding Fiction Writer of Urdu: Mansha Yad
By writing these stories the writer had joined the ranks of outstanding fiction writer of Urdu. Dawn 5.12.04)Hameed Shahid has experimented with dictions, plot and different techniques of the story.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04)
[edit] Whole World has Turned into a Battlefield:Ali Muhammad Farshi
According to writer of Marg zaar the whole world after 9/11 has turned into a battlefield where people in confusion as to whom their real enemy is. The stories foretell that thus graveness of future days the world is going to face.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04)
[edit] Writer’s Creative Genius: Mubin Mirza
Hameed Shahid’s short stories not only reflect suffering of those living around but they also point out the global conspiracies and big powers’ ruthless use of force against the down-trodden nations. These aspects have contributed a great deal the growth of the writer’s creative genius.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04)
[edit] Self-reflexivity and Realism Blended with Creativity and Folk Wisdom:Nasir Abbas Nayyir
Hameed Shahid’s short stories are a good example of self-reflexivity and realism blended with creativity and folk wisdom.(Pakistan Observer 6.12.04)
[edit] It is journey within : It is discovering self = M. Hameed Shahid
""A profile by Zubair Qureshi""
Otherwise, he is a down to earth humble man a "yaron ka yar" but when it comes to appreciate a literary piece critically, you can not expect any favour. In the weekly meetings of Islamabad’s Halqa-i-Arbab-i-Zauq, Hameed Shahid, the short story writer, and critic is always there to evaluate, to appreciate and….to give unprejudiced opinion. He does so since he believes Halqa is a training institute for both the newcomers and the seasoned. Being a member of the executive committee of Halqa-i-Arbab-i-Zauq, he is always in the frontline to organize receptions for the guests, to hunt new talent and to make the regular meetings a possibility. Hameed Shahid weaves his stories around the Wheel. By doing so, he manages to get a larger canvas. In his stories, he not only highlights the sufferings of the deprived living in dark alleys, he also shows various dilemmas faced by the expatriates living abroad in the post-9/11 scenario. Another familiar theme of his short stories is the increasing distances between the urban and the rural communities. The powerful onslaught of "media revolution" on our lives is also his favourite subject matter. And he does all that in a single stride. In his own words, "Nothing else but life is the subject matter of his short stories. In my stories, I grapple with the question, What life is and how it should be?, and sometimes I try to recreate but very often I let it be". A banker by profession, Hameed Shahid, does all the business of plus and minus (since the job requires of him) during the daytime. It is the night that fascinates him much and he finds time to write in the peace of night. According to another great name of short story, Mansha Yad, after Mushtaq Ahmed Yousafi, we have another banker who is enlisted among the prominent names of Urdu literature both afsana and criticism. So far, three collections of his short stories "Band Ankhon se Paray", "Janam Jahanam", and "Marg Zar" have appeared. His book of criticism on Urdu fiction "Urdu Afsana; Soorat-o-Ma’ana" has appeared recently. Over a hundred short stories to his name, Hameed Shahid is a prolific writer. But what involves in the making of a short story? It can be anything, he says. You may call it an idea, a character some fleeting thought may turn into a serious subject of great significance. This is how story takes shape in my mind. Born in 1957, Hameed Shahid hails from a rural background. He cherishes the memories of his school days and sees them as a golden period of his life. "Those were really the days of colour and romance and it was of course the beginning of my creative journey". After intermediate, he got admission to Agriculture University Faisalabad. It was precisely the time when students countrywide had started agitation against the dictatorship of Ayub Khan. Hameed Shahid delivered many speeches in that era of agitation but soon his first love for literature took precedence and he returned to books. After graduation from Agriculture University, for a brief period he joined Law College Punjab University Lahore but later quit Law education due to unforeseen circumstances. Meanwhile, a job was offered in a bank and he fell headlong in the banking sector. But how does he take time out of the busy bank schedule? "In the beginning, it was really a challenge. I busied myself too much with the bank work but with the passage of time I learnt how to spare some moments for my creative pursuits. Short story is Hameed Shahid’s favourite genre but extensive reading has also produced "side effects" of criticism in him. He insists that he should be known and recognized as a short story writer. His stories appear in all the big and small literary journals of the Urdu world including Funoon,Auraq, Mah-e-No, Shab Khoon, Aafaq, Symbol, Alamat, Duniyazad, and Makalma. Is writing short story is easier than writing or composing poems? According to Hameed Shahid afsana or short story requires toil and what you call "gehra mushahida" or keen observation and command over language. He is also writing a novel whose various chapters have appeared in Shab Khoon (Allahabad, India). To Hameed Shahid, Saadat Hasan Manto and Rajindar Singh Bedi are two greatest names of Urdu short story. Bedi gives us psychological analysis of his characters and makes them dear to us in spite of the entire shortcoming they have. Manto on the other hand, has lent the short story form smartness. He has made the narrative a compact and precise. This is something, which has never been done before and for that Bedi and Manto deserves all praise. Ghulam Abbas is another name to whom Urdu story owes a lot but his sole merit lies in "Anandi". This short story has made his name immortal in short story. He says Islamabad is Shehr-e-Afasana in the true sense of the word. "Mansha Yad has given this title to Islamabad since great short story writers have lived and written here". Qudrat Ullah Shahab, Mumtaz Mufti, Sadiq Hussain, Akhter Jamal, Waqar bin Ellahi, Mansha Yad, Rasheed Amjad, Masood Mufti, Mazharul Islam, Mirza Hamid Beg, Ahmed Javed, Ejaz Rahi, Amjad Tufail, Rana Abdul Waheed, Shabana Habib, Asim Butt, Irfan Ahmed Urfi, M, Ilyas, Nilofar Iqbal, Shabnam Shakeel, Lubaba Abbas, Nighat Saleem, Farida Hafeez, and many others. They credit this city to be called so. When asked what is Story-writing, Hameed Shahid says, “It is journey within. It is discovering self. In my opinion short story or afsana is nothing else but a recreation of life. You will have to understand subtleties of creative process before you understand that. In creative process you may come across a world of secrets, which are of metaphysical nature. You have to cope with all that. In writing a short story, you have to draw a balance between all these elements and than narrate a story. It is a mystery let me say and very difficult to explain. You may use symbols, metaphors, similes, allegory and any device or medium but mere use of certain medium does not make a short story successful. A genuine writer however, has a command to use certain symbols and can make his story widely read, well received by its use. Actually it is the writer and the way a symbol is used which matter and not the symbol or the use of symbol. Hameed Shahid says for a person who writes or aspires to write, extensive reading of other writers is must. If you are not aware of the literary trends of your age and do not know the contemporary work and names you can not produce good literature. He regards Mutalia, Mushaida and Mujahida (Study, Observation and Toil) as the essential components of a good short story. This "three-meem" theory has benefited me a lot, says Hameed Shahid and besides, the company of great writers has helped me discover new possibilities in the realm of short story. (PO2:Pakistan Observer)
[edit] Independence of the Short Story as a Literary Genre: Asif Farrukhi
Hameed Shahid has developed his arguments in a number of separate essays. However, there are two important points of departure in the case he builds. He is emphatic about the independence of the short story as a literary genre and not simply a diminutive form of the novel. He refuses to see the short story as a novel cut up in halves or chopped down to size. He gives a wider meaning to the term ‘afsana’ and, in doing so, raises questions about the meaning of the narrative. He sees a richer heritage behind this term as he links it to the various forms of narrative in use within our society rather than simply accepting it as an alien form introduced under western influence. This sense of infusing the short story with widened horizons is, to my mind, the most distinctive feature of Hameed Shahid’s work as a critic.Asif Farrukhi
DAWN:Books & Authors 10.12.2006(http://dawn.com/weekly/books/archive/061210/books12.htm]
[edit] Mitti Adam Khati Hae: A Novel on Separation of East Pakistan
Mitti Adam Khati Hai (مٹی آدم کھاتی ہے)
By Mohammad Hameed Shahid(محمد حمید شاہد):
There have been a over extended silence in the field of Urdu novel writing, making one wonder as to what stopped our writers from trying there hands at an art from as vast as life itself. The situation has suddenly changed during the last couple of years when novels of substantial merit started appearing one after the other. ‘Mitti Adam Khati Hai.’ By Muhammad Hameed Shahid is latest in series. It’s a short novel, and once you start reading the same brevity and the economic yet creative utility of words become its mainstay. The central theme of the novel is the separation of East Pakistan in 1971. We may note here that the author belongs to the generation that was born and brought up as Pakistani, having no traumatic recollections of the partition of 1947. The novel is one f the first creative pursuits addressing the split of our country by a member of this generation. The story portrays two landscapes. One is the rural feudal setting in Punjab where the intricate human relations, the cruel dominance of landlords and the psyche of the deprived is beautifully presented. From this local the two main characters emerge. One is the narrator, who apparently announces his impartiality and assigns himself the task of only compiling a story. Soon we realize that he is the integral part of the central theme. From the same setup, Caption Salim emerges as the central character.
The other theme is the battle field of east Pakistan where Caption Salim with other members of fighting force approach the shores of Chittagong in a ship, all charged with a throbbing emotion to display their skills and bravery in order to save there country. But as they approach the costal city, they perceive an air of hostility and enmity which dilutes there idealism into a haunting suspicion—strong enough to demoralize them.
After they land, there is narrated a series of events which gives the reader a flavor of what happened, both in battlefield and outside. The story ends with the solders on a steamer waiting for Caption Salim in the dark of night. He appears with Muniba, the Bangali wife of his fellow officer, who has fallen in love with him and decided to leave her spouse, land and people. She is refused passage by the other solders but helps the wounded Caption on boat. In the night of parting, Caption Salim catches a glimpse of Muniba who after being shot rises up, only to settle in the cruel ocean waves. The following chapters contain a far more captivating narration which addresses the conclusion drawn from this adventure. The author beautifully philosophises the bitter realities and fate of humans who fought for land both at micro and macroscopic levels. For land, he says, is destined to cover the dead bodies of human only. Water and soil are two metaphors which in the perspective of a unified Pakistan convey a certain specific meaning. Soil is solid and firm while water moves restlessly and turns into a cruel tide when disturbed—a tide which destroys any land. The novel contains chapters with titles for each one—a rare method adopted in a short novel. We usually witness such titles in voluminous works. The author could do very well without them. Nevertheless, it’s an impressive novel which unfolds the talent of Muhammad Hameed Shahid as a competent novelist. By creativity utilizing poetic metaphors in the place of flat details he has infused an element of uniqueness in his work. A brace intact officer turns schizophrenic when he gets deprived of love and in haunted by memories of defeat and desertion. In his incoherent thoughts, he remains fixed to the eternal truth of love and death. The author has affectionately dealt with human situation and the novel bears a rare quality of becoming an integral part of the memory of any reader of Urdu Fiction. Works of value:literary endeavours of considerable merit By Dr Abrar Ahmad: [The News dated 18.03.2007] http://www.jang.com.pk/thenews/mar2007-weekly/nos-18-03-2007/lit.htm
