Note: This review, in homage to the indigeneity of the novel, employs “Kasheer” in lieu of “Kashmir,” and “Koshur” in place of “Kashmiri.” This linguistic choice aims to respect the language’s roots and cultural heritage.
“In this city, a day came when democracy, already limping along a precarious path, found itself at a perilous crossroads. The entire world echoed with the clamour of a looming disaster—an accident that seemed almost inevitable. Yet, the so-called democrats, trusted with steering this fragile vehicle, managed to navigate the sharp turn with surprising cunning, barely avoiding catastrophe.
This democracy, however, had been ailing since birth—a child of broken promises, lacking both morality and principle. It was crippled, faltering, and useless, though somehow hope still lingered that with time, it might find strength and purpose. But while it survived that treacherous bend, the damage was done. Its soul—if it ever had one—was shattered in the wreck, leaving behind scars that would fester and linger for generations to come” p. 29-30).
ییمِہ شہرک یہ تذکرہ چلان چھہ اتہ وٲژ دۄہہ اکہ جمہوریت تتھس اکس مقامس پیٹھ یتتھ اتھ اکھ خطرناک موڈ ژٹن پؠۆو. عالمس وژھ کریکھ زِہ ایکسیڈنٹ گو مگر مکار جمہور نواز ویم اتھ پکناونس پؠٹھ تاینات ٲسؠ کڈ یہ امہ موڈہ تلہ چالٲکی سان
یدوے یہ جمہوریت — بے دین تہ بے اصول آسنہ کنؠ —
زؠنہ گرِہ پؠٹھے پؠمار تہ لاغرٲس تاہم ٲس راے زِہ وقت گذرنس ستؠ ستؠ ما کرِہ یہ صحت تِہ وژھ پٲدہ. اما امِہ موڈہ تلہ اگر چہ یہ زندے درایہ توتہ گوس روح چھۄکہ دٲوؠ — یم چھۄکھ ٲس سرنؠ تہ پوشہ ونؠ
T hus begins the tale of Jahnamukh Panun Panun Naar, translated as One’s Own Hell, a novel that serves as a chilling prophecy and a harbinger of imminent socio-political turmoil for the present times. The novel, written in Koshur, stands as a poignant testament to the literary prowess of the late Akhter Mohiuddin, a luminary in the realm of Koshur literature with a versatile track record as a historian, novelist, short-story writer, and a playwright. Penned in 1975, yet unveiled to the world in 2002, Jahnamukh Panun Panun Naar transcends its temporal origins to resonate deeply with the complex weave of its era—the 1970s Kasheer, an epoch marred by resounding political turmoil and societal flux. The novel’s radical posture, combined with Mohiuddin’s relentless critique of state power, makes this work an unvarnished depiction of a fractured society—a society teetering on the precipice of collapse.
Mohiuddin begins the novel with a striking dedication that possesses an enthralling strength, a dedication that has traversed the boundaries of mere literary appreciation to entrench itself within the complex structure of Koshur political discourse. This dedication, often misquoted but persistently resonant, has captivated readers for over four decades amidst the backdrop of a long-standing political movement for self-determination. It reverberates with the words, “Tas nawjawanas nazraane yus yi samaaj paak karne khaetre godnyuk bundook chalaav’i,” translated as “an offering to that youngster who will fire the first gun to cleanse this society,” thereby immediately setting the tone for the rest of the work (inscription). In this contemplative statement lies a nuanced revelation of the extent to which ‘contamination’ has infiltrated the societal framework. The image of armed resistance, the gun as a purifier, speaks volumes about the contamination that has eroded the moral core of Koshur society. Mohiuddin’s use of this provocative imagery underscores his belief that transformative change can only arise from upheaval—a point that becomes tragically prophetic by the novel’s end.
Engaging with a Koshur novel for the first time marked a transformative journey for me. I found myself traversing its pages thrice, navigating the knotty diacritics that adorned the text. In that beginning, achingly slow reading that spanned several days, despite the novel being only 143 pages long and containing just 20 short chapters, I acquired a fluency that gradually overcame my initial hesitance. More than a literary exploration, it was an immersion into the poignant essence of my mother tongue, revealing the untapped emotional profundity that lay dormant within its linguistic nuances.
However, despite this journey, I hesitate to consider myself qualified enough to review a Koshur novel. The distance I felt while reading in Koshur made me painfully aware of a deep-seated tragedy: we, as Kaeshir, have become proficient in English, Urdu, even Arabic, and some can read Hindi as well, but not our own Kaeshir language. This is in large part due to a systemic marginalization of the Kaeshir language—where the deliberate absence of institutional support and standardization has pushed our mother tongue to the periphery, making it difficult for us to connect with our linguistic heritage. The issue of standardizing the language could not be settled through democratic deliberation or customary usage, as Kasheer lacked the necessary sovereignty.
Moreover, while reading the novel, I encountered countless grammatical errors, which compounded my sense of disconnection. The novel lacks consistency in its linguistic choices, often failing to follow a unified rule. For instance, the word for ‘page’ appears as kaakaz in one place (a modified form in Koshur) but as kaagaz (Urdu) in another. This inconsistency is not limited to just a handful of words—there are countless such discrepancies throughout the text, which I cannot enumerate here for fear of making this analysis tiresome. While these hundreds of errors may seem trivial to some, I believe they reflect a deeper, more political issue: the marginalization of Koshur and its cultural displacement from the tongue of the Kaeshir people.
I have found similar lapses in other Koshur literary works, which only highlights how neglected the language is and how indifferent the Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture, and Languages appears to this crisis. Such a crisis at once reflects the deprioritisation of Koshur as a native language, that is then compensated by linguistic adaptations of words from other languages (such as Urdu, Hindi and English) that are given greater privilege. That such linguistic inconsistencies exist in Mohiuddin’s novel, as such, cannot perhaps be coincidental, and instead a result of the historical and cultural circumstances under which such a literary work was produced.
Additionally, there are many instances in the novel where the author has inserted English phrases and words in place of their Kaeshir equivalents, which felt unnecessary given that our language already possesses suitable terms. It remains unclear whether this was a deliberate choice by the author—perhaps a subtle critique, using English words sarcastically to reflect the inferiority complex that many Kaeshir feel—or whether it was merely a stylistic decision to borrow from English for a different effect. Whatever the case, it brings into focus the broader dilemma of linguistic identity and the fading presence of our own language in literature as it relates to the historical and cultural formation of the Koshur, the Kashmiri subject.
Within the drapes of the novel’s setting, the 1970s Kasheer emerges as a crucible of political and social tumult. Mohiuddin deftly encapsulates this epoch, defining it as:
a constellation where prominent figures like the corrupt ex-minister, the transformational clerk-turned-contractor Mr. X, and the superintendent of police function as the central suns around whom the lesser moons orbit (p. 128).
گٹہ گارکس یتھ کہکشانس منز کٲتیا نظامِ شمای چھہ ےہ پرتھ آفتابس چھہ الگ الگ تہ بیۆن بیۆن سیارہ گتھ کران
An instrumental presence that binds this universe cohesively is the sinister figure of Haekim Aala, the chief ruler who orchestrates the symphony of power.
Tragically, the blossoming of Jahnamukh Panun Panun Naar within Kasheer remained a little stifled. This underappreciation might stem from multifaceted causes, yet two particular factors stand out with immediacy. Firstly, the reluctance of Kasheer’s literary luminaries, tasked with propelling the novel’s dissemination after Mohiuddin’s demise, echoes a palpable apprehension towards his resolute political stance and the preservation of their own careers seemed to have eclipsed the critical engagement with his literary work. Secondly, the apparatus of the Indian state, entrenched with its administration in the region, orchestrated a deliberate marginalization. Mohiuddin, armed with his pen that inscribed the atrocities perpetrated by the Indian state within Kasheer, had taken a resolute stand against the prevailing circumstances. His decision to return the Sahitya Akademi’s literary award, an accolade bestowed in 1968 solely for the literary excellence of his work, in protest against the hanging of Maqbool Bhat in 1984, spoke volumes about his unwavering political convictions. Bhat, a figure he deemed the “national hero of Kasheer,” received Mohiuddin’s vocal solidarity. His courage in renouncing the honour resonated widely, carving his identity as one of the rare indigenous authors who ardently aligned themselves with Kasheer’s political struggle for liberation.
In the inaugural pages of the novel, Mohiuddin embarks on a discerning critique of the broader doctrine of secularism, pinpointing his lens particularly on the contours of Indian ‘secularism’. His prose dissects this paradigm with precision, revealing its inherent complexities. Through his words, he illuminates the disquieting notion that the fabric of secularism can be manipulated to serve vested interests. He states unequivocally that within this construct, Sheen, the journalist, wields the power to tilt the scales of political contests. This assertion encapsulates a stark reality, as illustrated in the following passage:
Had Sheen wished, he could have effortlessly reshaped the outcome—making the triumphant Kartar Singh fall and the defeated Ghulam Rasool rise. In his newspaper, he had the power to claim that Kartar Singh ate halal, even if he consumed jhatka, or that Ghulam Rasool dined on jhatka, even if his meal was halal. After all, it was this creative narrative that kept the fragile balance of secular democracy alive (p. 8).
شین اگر ییٚژھِہ ہا زینؠ متس کرتار سنگھس ہار ناوِہ ہا یا ہٲرؠ متس غلام رسولس رینہ ناوِہ ہا تِہ کیازِہ تس اوس تگان پننس اخبارس منز ونن زہ کرتارسنگھن کھوو حلال یدوے تیمؠ جٹکے کھیمت آسِہ ہا یا غلام رسولن کھوو جٹکہ تہ کیازہ سکیولر جمہوریت چھہ تیمی ستؠ قائم
The vehicle for this distortion of truth is Sheen’s newspaper, a platform where the art of disinformation finds its space. The very essence of this act underscores the intricate machinery of a secular democracy. This significant paragraph extends beyond a mere deconstruction of secularism; it evolves into a revelation of the distortion of truth, the orchestration of disinformation campaigns, and the deliberate curtailment of the rights of the people within the context of Kasheer.
In a pivotal juncture within the narrative, Nancy and Sheen find themselves ensconced in the ambiance of a coffee house, a microcosm where the dynamics of human interaction are poised to unfold. The contours of their discourse expand with the arrival of Mr. X, a significant character in the novel’s tangled tapestry. It is during this exchange that the interplay of power dynamics becomes visible, with both Sheen and Mr. X sharing whispers that deliberately exclude Nancy. The exclusionary act, steeped in undertones of power and intention, is a calculated illustration of the hypocrisy that courses beneath the surface of seemingly convivial conversations.
With a discerning eye, Mohiuddin employs Nancy’s character as a vessel for introspection. Her countenance shifts into a semblance of dismay as she intrepidly remarks:
From one side we talk about progressive ideals and from the other side we show reservations (p. 10).
اکہ پاسہ چھہ أسؠ ترقی ژھانڈان تہ دۆیمہ پاسہ چھہ الگ الگ رزرویشنز
In this candid statement, the author masterfully reveals the discord between professed aspirations and concealed prejudices. Nancy’s disapproval injects a trenchant critique, casting a spotlight on the complicated dualities that cripple societal progress. Her voice resonates with a demand for authenticity, challenging the status quo by advocating for a dismantling of antiquated structures to birth the truly new, or else, acknowledging that what is often hailed as ‘development’ might simply be a veiled restoration of the past.
Mohiuddin adroitly employs the epistolary narrative device, a form through which a crucial stage is communicated to the reader as though whispered by an anonymous informant. This technique bestows a distinct vantage point, one that feels almost clandestine, evoking a sense of immediacy and intimacy. Amid this narrative outlook, a significant tableau emerges—a carriage driver’s arrest burgeons from an altercation with a recalcitrant bureaucrat who balks at paying the fare. The ensuing eruption of indignation from the tanga man ignites a sequence of events culminating in his confinement within the recesses of a central jail. Here, amidst the disparate amalgamation of bigwigs like political leaders, college students, and lawyers, he bears witness for the first time to the echoes of terms that resound with gravitas: freedom, responsible governance, government, politics, among others. Mohiuddin’s virtuosity lies not only in showcasing his multifaceted literary arsenal but also in delineating a profound dichotomy. This poignant scene serves as a crucible, a point of convergence where the antithesis between those who champion truth, justice, and liberty, yet find themselves imprisoned, stands juxtaposed to the very custodians of corruption, authoritarianism, and tyranny who wield the reins of authority.
As the novel progresses, Mohiuddin deftly navigates the evolution of Mr. X’s affiliations as he gets closer to the echelons of power. This transition is emblematic in his newfound proximity to influential individuals, marked by his presence at opulent restaurants and the coffee house. Within these hallowed spaces, an over-complex mishmash unfurls, weaving together the threads of power and status. It is a realm where connections expand with Mr. X’s interactions spanning the gamut, intertwining him with literary stalwarts, artists, musicians, poets, painters, and journalists, the likes of Sheen. In this mosaic of relationships, a web of complexity takes form, prompting introspection on the discernment of allegiances and intentions. Mohiuddin’s craftsmanship lies in his ability to demarcate the elusive boundaries between personas and their underlying convictions, casting an incisive spotlight on the perplexing dance between power dynamics and genuine camaraderie.
In a critical inflection point within the narrative, a corruption scandal unfurls, casting its shadow over the novel’s landscape. In a response that lays bare the complex nuances of power, Sheen, a journalist revered by Haekim Aala, pens an article that triggers the resignation of the minister. The intent behind the resignation resonates—“saving the face of immoral democracy,” as the narrator elucidates (p. 55). The minister’s emotional tumult, a fusion of anger and dismay, intersects with his calculated restraint. Unable to jeopardize his stance against Sheen, he stands entangled within a web where Sheen’s anger finds resonance in Haekim Aala’s anger. The narrative reflects a paradox—a public embodiment of Sheen’s crusade against corruption, contrasted with the hidden affiliations of mutual benefit—through relationships that intertwine like the strands of a reciprocal pact.
Mohiuddin’s darkly incisive critique of political assimilation emerges with chilling clarity. He states the grotesque demands of this democracy: a macabre ritual of self-erasure where one must not only subdue personal socio-political beliefs but also perform a metamorphosis—renouncing traditional attire, forsaking one’s cultural and linguistic identity, and obliterating any trace of religious and political affiliation through a deliberate renaming. This brutal process reveals a system that devours individuality and integrity, rendering them mere spectres in the shadow of political expediency. The resulting dissonance, a testament to the systemic ethical decay, underscores a realm where the pursuit of power corrupts with a ferocity that leaves no room for genuine dissent. The revelation of Sheen’s status as Haekim Aala’s favourite journalist complicates the narrative further, exposing the insidious convergence of personal ambition and systemic corruption—a radical reminder of the relentless and haunting dualities that plague the world Mohiuddin meticulously deconstructs.
Lurking beneath the corruption scandal is a darker, unspoken horror—young girls trafficked under the guise of musical education and cultural tours. The moment the vigilance officer learns of this in his office, he panics, immediately calling his wife to ensure his daughters have returned safely from school. Mohiuddin sets the stage for this revelation with a cryptic statement:
a rumour spread that an earthquake was felt, but it was felt in government offices only (p. 139).
آفاہ پھٲلییہ زہ بنیل ہسا آو تہ یہ بنیل آو ژیننہ صرف سرکارؠ بالا خانن منز
He further delves into the rumour-fuelled atmosphere of Srinagar, a city where:
people don’t believe newspapers or news broadcasted on radios…people listen to radios and read newspapers but believe only what is whispered into their ears (p. 139).
ییتکؠ لوکھ چھنہ اخبارس پژھ کران تہ نہ چھہ ریڈیو پؠٹھہ ونیہ مژِہ نیوزِہ کَن تھاوان. یم چھِ اخبار تہ پران تہٕ نیوز ت بوزان مگر پژھ چھِ تتھی یوت کران یہ لۆت لۆت کنہ پھسرایہ بوزن
After the scandal breaks, the vigilance officer rushes to the homes of the accused only to find Mrs. X dead in her bed, the Superintendent of Police having committed suicide, while Mr. X is on the run. Chaos erupts, but it soon dissipates. The officer is quietly transferred the next day. Mohiuddin compares this to an earthquake:
Earthquakes last for only a few seconds—people run, panic, shout, and worry, but once it’s over, they laugh again, talk again, go back to their routines. Earthquakes don’t stay (p. 142).
بنیل یوان ژہس کھنڈس. امہ ساعتہ تٲجلی منز لوکھ ژلان، لاران، بامبران، کھۄژان تہ تھاران. ژہؠ کھنڈؠ بنیل بؠہان. ژہؠ کھنڈؠ لوکھ بییہ اسان. بییہ کتھ کران. بییہ آرامہ سان پننین کارن بؠہان — بنیل ما چھہ روزہ ون جیزا — ؟
In a haunting rhetorical turn, Mohiuddin points to a more profound reckoning:
the hereafter, the Day of Judgment—that is a different matter. People say there is time until it comes” (p. 142).
وۄن گو قیامت، سہ چھہ بدل کتھ، دپان تتھ چھہ ونہِ سل
The whole scene speaks to the moral decay of a system designed not to deliver justice but to perpetuate corruption and exploitation.
Throughout the expanse of the novel, Mohiuddin eloquently highlights the significance of bearing witness, an integral facet woven into the fabric of the human experience. Yet, the inquiry arises: who precisely shoulders the mantle of this solemn duty within the novel’s narrative amalgam? The author’s disillusionment with the societal panorama resounds unmistakably, a sentiment that refrains from absolving even the writer himself. This reflective stance prompts a thought—does Mohiuddin position himself as the harbinger of testimony, offering an unflinching gaze upon the intricacies he reveals? Alternatively, does the mantle of being a witness find its place upon the reader, beckoning them to step into the role of observer in their own temporal context? The interplay of these possibilities adds a stratum of contemplation, one that delves into the responsibility of perception, and the various layers of comprehension that echo through the pages of the novel.
Jahnmuk Panun Panun Naar emerges as a prophetic diagnosis, a piercing scrutiny into how the facade of democracy can evolve into the ravaging force of authoritarianism and tyranny. The novel’s essence lies in its revelation of the havoc these concealed attributes wreak upon lives, etching divisive chasms into society, and elevating mere political puppets to the status of demigods. A profound resonance with contemporary realities in Kasheer becomes inescapable; for those who delve beyond the surface, the Kasheer of times past and present echoes with the presence of myriad Mr. Xes and Sheens.
The origin of the cryptic nomenclature remains enigmatic, regardless of whether they sprang organically from the author’s creative consciousness or whether drawn from his engagement with Russian literature. Mikhail Bulgakov uses code names, as seen in his renowned novel The Master and the Margarita, penned between the 1920s and 1940s, and reverberating as a potential source of inspiration. However, it is pertinent to note that Bulgakov’s work faced censure and was not officially published in the Soviet Union during his lifetime due to its satirical and critical nature.
In a parallel vein, Mohiuddin’s deft utilization of code names emerges as an avenue to channel his critique—of injustice, corruption, authoritarianism, political despotism, class stratifications, and sexual exploitation—within the cloak of veiled prose. This creative stratagem imbues the work with the essence of both literary craft as well as political commentary. This novel can be celebrated for its sophisticated narrative architecture, infusion of magical realism, and incisive societal observations. The decision to refrain from naming characters extends an invitation to the reader’s imagination, igniting creativity to encapsulate these characters within their distinct temporal milieus.
Mohiuddin’s fervent wish for a youngster to wield a gun materialized during his lifetime, notably in 1989. This uprising sought not just societal purification but the complete dismantling of the prevailing power structure tainted by figures like the recurrent Haekim Aala. Tragedy struck close to home, as both the writer’s son and son-in-law fell victim to the bullets fired by opposing sides. The tumultuous canvas of the early 1990s finds poignant resonance within Mohiuddin’s finely crafted impressionistic short stories. The title, dedication, and plot converge with an intensity, mirroring the turmoil of a society gripped by political upheaval.
An arresting scene within the novel reflects a timeless vignette, mirrored even in contemporary Kasheer. The corrupt ex-minister’s brother shares a space beside a ‘saint,’ locally revered as ‘Pir Suob’. This juxtaposition masterfully unveils the convoluted dance between religion and politics—an alliance between tainted politicians and ostensibly ‘sacred’ figures, gaining greater public legitimacy.
Nearing the end, the novel delves into the realm of One’s Own Hell from an individualistic lens, a perspective tinged with a pervasive yet concealed guilt. The exposure of Mr. X’s corruption scandal triggers a frenzied uproar. Despite wielding the might of the state, Mr. X’s disquiet intensifies. His world, once trusted, fragments into shards of doubt. Seeking refuge at Pir Suob’s abode, he encounters Haekim Aala’s brother, who offers him solace. Yet, the restlessness persists, as a bar and incessant smoking become his sanctuary. A mysterious fire engulfs him, an inferno akin to his own hell. The plot paints a puzzling portrait in the end as Mrs. X’s life is rendered extinguished and the Superintendent of Police resorts to suicide. Such events remain shrouded, purposefully unexplained, heightening the enigma of the plot.
Mohiuddin’s opus remains a searing indictment of political machinations, tyranny, corruption, and authoritarianism that resonate across time and space. As it speaks to the complexities of democracy, power, and individual complicity, the novel cements its place not only as a literary masterpiece but also as a thought-provoking exploration of society’s enduring political struggle and hopes. The novel’s power lies not just in its ability to capture the political landscape of 1970s Kasheer but in its relevance today. The societal fractures it depicts, the erosion of justice, and the complicity of the elite resonate across time, making this work an enduring testament to the ongoing struggle for truth and liberation in Kasheer.
