Azadi - Arundhati Roy

the generally non-accusatory atmosphere of his surroundings, he began to boast about his counterintelligence
operations and how he had passed himself off as a Hindu, a Sikh, or a Punjabi-speaking Pakistani Muslim,
depending on what the particular covert operation demanded.
A baby girl appeared on the doorstep, unaccompanied. Anjum moved in with astonishing speed, swooped her up,
and would not let anybody else come close for at least two weeks. A hand-delivered letter arrived from the forests of
Bastar. It was written in cramped, tiny handwriting. English, as far as I could tell. It was addressed to Dr. Azad
Bhartiya, who, for some reason, read it aloud to Anjum, translating it into Urdu on the fly:
Dear Comrade Azad Bharathiya Garu,
I am writing this to you because in my three days time in Jantar Mantar I observed you carefully. If anybody knows where is my child now, I think
it might be you only. I am a Telugu woman and sorry I don’t know Hindi. My English is not good also. Sorry for that. I am Revathy, working as a
fulltimer with Communist Party of India (Maoist). When you will receive this letter I will be already killed . . .
My home became a commune and a confederacy of languages. Over time all of us housemates learned to talk to
each other, translate each other.
The new slow-cooking recipe involved considerable risk. I had to throw the language of The God of Small Things
off a very tall building. And then go down (using the stairs) to gather up the shattered pieces. So was born The
Ministry of Utmost Happiness .
It is not necessary for readers of The Ministry of Utmost Happiness to know or understand the complicated map
of languages that underpins it. If it were, if readers needed a field guide in order to properly understand the book, I’d
consider myself a failure. To see it in bookshops sitting side by side with pulp fiction and political thrillers gives me
nothing but pleasure. The fun and games with the Language Map is just that—an extra layer of fun and games. In
truth, the Map of Languages of The Ministry , and their intertwining histories, could become a rather large book in
itself. So, all I can do right now, just as an illustration of what I mean, is to drill below the surface of the first few
chapters. I’ll start with the opening sentence: “She lived in the graveyard like a tree.” 8
“She” is Anjum. She’s middle-aged now, and has left her home in the Khwabgah (the House of Dreams), where
she lived for years with a group of others like herself. The Muslim graveyard where she now lives is close to the
walled city of Delhi. The first time she gives us a hint about who she really is begins at an intersection between two
languages. The traffic policeman is none other than William Shakespeare himself.
Long ago a man who knew English told her that her name written backwards (in English) spelled Majnu. In the English version of the story of
Laila and Majnu, he said, Majnu was called Romeo and Laila was Juliet. She found that hilarious. “You mean I’ve made a khichdi of their
story?” she asked. “What will they do when they find that Laila may actually be Majnu and Romi was really Juli?” The next time he saw her,
the Man Who Knew English said he’d made a mistake. Her name spelled backwards would be Mujna, which wasn’t a name and meant nothing
at all. To this she said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m all of them, I’m Romi and Juli, I’m Laila and Majnu. And Mujna, why not? Who says my name
is Anjum? I’m not Anjum, I’m Anjuman. I’m a mehfil , I’m a gathering. Of everybody and nobody, of everything and nothing. Is there anyone
else you would like to invite? Everyone’s invited.”
The Man Who Knew English said it was clever of her to come up with that one. He said he’d never have thought of it himself. She said,
“How could you have, with your standard of Urdu? What d’you think? English makes you clever automatically?” 9
Anjum is born to Shia Muslim parents in Old Delhi, in the years soon after Independence. Her father, Mulaqat
Ali, who traces his family’s lineage directly back to the Mongol emperor Changez Khan, is a hakim, a doctor of
herbal medicine who works for the family that makes the legendary sherbet Rooh Afza, which is Persian for “elixir
of the soul.” Her mother, Jahanara Begum, supplements the family income by stitching white Gandhi caps that she
supplies to Hindu traders in Chandni Chowk. She is already the mother of three girls when Anjum is born.
In the second chapter, “Khwabgah,” we witness Anjum’s birth. In addition to her mother and the midwife, her
mother tongue, too, is present. And found wanting:
Ahlam Baji, the midwife who delivered her and put her in her mother’s arms wrapped in two shawls, said, “It’s a boy.” Given the
circumstances, her error was understandable. . . .
The next morning, when the sun was up and the room nice and warm, she unswaddled little Aftab. She explored his tiny body—eyes nose
head neck armpits fingers toes—with sated, unhurried delight. That was when she discovered, nestling underneath his boy-parts, a small,
unformed, but undoubtedly girl-part. Is it possible for a mother to be terrified of her own baby? Jahanara Begum was. . . .
In Urdu, the only language she knew, all things, not just living things but all things—carpets, clothes, books, pens, musical instruments—
had a gender. Everything was either masculine or feminine, man or woman. Everything except her baby. Yes of course she knew there was a
word for those like him—Hijra . Two words actually, Hijra and Kinnar . But two words do not make a language.
Was it possible to live outside language? Naturally this question did not address itself to her in words, or as a single lucid sentence. It
addressed itself to her as a soundless, embryonic howl. 10
To live outside language—for a family whose lives are intricately, obsessively, wrapped up in language—is the
crisis that Anjum’s birth creates. For the first few years, Jahanara Begum manages to keep her secret. But then a
time comes when she has to tell her husband. Mulaqat Ali is a man whose real passion is Urdu and Persian poetry.