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Twilight in Delhi
History and romance make an intoxicating cocktail. And when a novel has been reprinted umpteen number of times and outlives its author, it can be deemed a classic. A novelist, poet, critic, diplomat and scholar, Ahmed Ali was born in Delhi in 1910. He was a multi-faceted person who had been associated with many educational institutions. He has been BBC’s representative and director in India during the war and has a literary repertoire that few can boast of. Twilight in Delhi follows the life of Mir Nihal, a Muslim feudal gentleman of aristocratic tastes caught in the changing times. It weaves in the narrative the post-World War I era and recounts the tales of the bygone times through his eyes. Twilight in Delhi is a tale of love, of family ties, male dominance and subtle manipulations. Although it was written eons back, it is as relevant today as it would have been then. Mir Nihal has five live children and his wife to look after, apart from his duties towards his siblings and their families. But that does not deter him from pursuing interests of his own. He devoted a fair share of time to his flock of pigeons, which were among the best that anyone bred in Delhi. His aristocratic hobbies also included alchemy (a very popular hobby at that time), medicine, collecting old china and last but not the least, his interest in other women. Although his sexual escapades had caused considerable heartbreak to his wife in an earlier instance, he was especially attached to his mistress. His son fully exploits the situation for which he holds his father guilty, to get his wish fulfilled. The novel is a touching account of games that one plays and unknowingly becomes a part of in the hands of their loved ones. It gives a peek into the Muslim way of life. Society is depicted as a merry mix of dictates of varied religions. While Islam permitted second marriage of a widow, women often decided not to for fear of being socially outcast. Mir Nihal’s daughter takes the decision to stay on with her husband’s family for similar concerns. On the other hand there is Asghar, the protagonist’s son who had married against his father’s wishes and then again wishes to remarry within six months of his wife’s passing away inspite of opposition from certain quarters. It was a period when the British were seen with a lot of contempt and so was everything and everyone associated with them. They were inevitably blamed for all the ills that ailed the society and implausible stories were spun around their modus operandi. The author cites certain very Indian traits like tagging along families where only one person is invited and thinking nothing of slyly swapping unattended footwear at ceremonies. All these make the book very endearing. The language is such that it neither overshadows the story nor does it leave any scope for improvement. The nuances are taken care of and expressed so beautifully that they cannot be bettered.
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Love
is the only language that knows no bounds. It transgresses age, religion
and region. In an age of soap operas, when family sagas surround us on
all media, falling in love over and over again seems natural. Nothing
surpasses either the elation or the torment of being in love. It is
perhaps the only instance when even a furtive glance can bring on an
avalanche of emotions, when your every emotion is controlled by another.
It leaves you vulnerable like never before, and all you can think of is
the one who has precipitated this affliction.