«Dilli Ki Sair» is an audio rendition by Afreen Akhtar of the eponymous Urdu short story written by Rashid Jahan in 1932 for Angarey, an anthology that birthed the Progressive Writers Movement in India. This feminist short story «Dilli Ki Sair», unusual for the times, was banned. The story is from the perspective of a woman who shares her experience of being subjected to the male gaze at a railway station in Delhi. The audio is spoken in Urdu, as was the story, and the translation in English can be found below.
This audio was made in collaboration with five women, all sharing the common experience of the protagonist’s unease as a woman in public spaces, subject to the invariably penetrating male gaze. The pandemic, when public spaces were closed to all, prompted a reflection on how much these spaces belonged to women in the first place, and how that alienation is universal as well as historic.
Another important aspect of the story is that the narration takes place in a neighborhood assembly of women, where they express themselves freely, in contrast to the male-dominated public spaces: something which continues to this day. Something as innocent as the laughter of a woman is regulated and suppressed due to social conditioning. Even in the age of Zoom calls and online meetings, women have often felt the same lack of space. This is why an online assembly of women was chosen as the site to mimic the traditional gathering. To achieve the effect of an informal and uninterrupted narrative, voices of many women and noises of the household, New Delhi Railway Station and Old Delhi were layered and interspersed among the words of the protagonist’s captivating tale. To add another, very essential layer to the identity of the story, I included sounds of a predominantly Muslim mohalla (street), bustling with activity and sounds of prayer, in the neighborhoods of Old Delhi.
Assembling the Narrative
The process of creation also reiterated the content and was spread over three different Zoom calls. The recording sessions ran all the way throughout June 2021. The idea was, at first, to thoroughly familiarize the participants with the story. As I narrated the story in the company of women, a discussion ensued and soon spilled out of the bounds of the story. We all shared our own experiences, not very different from that of the protagonist. We had unintentionally created a safe space of our own.
This virtual «safe space» was not merely performative, but had to be truly established. In the second meeting, we all shared our thoughts about the story and each woman was asked to pick a character/voice that they related to the most. We embraced the characters we chose and added our own personalities to them. In the last meeting, we performed the roles in a free-flowing manner as a way of rehearsal. We were the cheerful participants and the eager audience of our own play.
The actual recordings used in the sound artwork consist of the original short story narrated by me in Urdu and recorded on a Zoom H4n Recorder. The other participants helped in creating the background chitter-chatter. They recorded their voices, the sounds of jingling anklets and earrings, sonorous bangles, hand-held fans, running footsteps, trickling of water, etc. on their phones. This was merged with the main narration and helped in creating the rich soundscape of a room full of women.
Apart from our voices, the city too is a protagonist. So, in the process of assembling the sound piece, I headed to the New Delhi Railway Station, equipped with my recorder, and collected sounds essential to the particular soundscape. Trains departing and arriving, the commotion that follows, coolies wailing about, and snack vendors attempting sales. Women walking with their children, people bidding farewell to each other, the passing of time, and the strange silence that ensues after ear-piercing train honks. There is panic and anxiety in the air for fear of missing the train, followed with relief and glee upon catching it and more. However, while recording the sounds of the railway station, the irony asserted itself again. I was dressed in clothes that covered most of my body, yet at every step, I had to wade through a heavy stream of constant male gaze. The feeling of being at one with what I was trying to compose deepened that day.
There is a parallel engagement with the historical perception of the city among women. Delhi has been romanticized for as long as one can remember. «Dilli Ki Sair» does the same but also manages to capture the bitter truth about the much-discussed objectification of women in the city. Not only does the audio capture those emotions, it reflects on female friendships, solidarities, and extracts of time and experience from the previous century, a forbidden masterpiece of Urdu Literature.
Translation of Rashid Jahan’s «Dilli Ki Sair»
by Afreen Akhtar
«Let me come!», a voice came from the verandah and wiping her hands on her kurta, a girl entered the room.
Malika Begum was the first among her friends to have sat in a train. That too from Faridabad to Delhi, to stay there for a day. Even strangers from the neighborhood were present to hear the tale of her journey.
«O ho, come already. My mouth is tired from speaking. By Allah, I have repeated it hundreds of times. I took the train and reached Delhi and there we met some Station Master friend of his. Leaving me with the luggage, he disappeared and I, wrapped in the burkha, kept sitting on the luggage. First this damned burkha and on top of it, these men! Men are anyway no good and if they see a woman sitting like this they start circling around endlessly. One cannot even chew paan in peace. One rascal coughs, another makes some comment and here I’m out of breath for fear, and on top of it so hungry that God only knows the bounds. And this Delhi station! A fort is not as big. As far as the eye could see, it was all stations, and rails, engines, and freight trains. What scared me the most were those darkened men who live inside the engines».
«Who lives inside the engines?» Someone interrupted.
«Who lives there? I have no idea, Bua (aunt). They wear blue uniforms, some bearded and some clean shaven. With just one arm they hang on to the moving engine and the hearts of the onlookers start shaking. And sirs and madams are so many at the Delhi station, Bua, that one cannot count. They walk by, arm in arm, talking to each other. Our Indian fellows look on with gaping eyes. It’s a wonder their eyes don’t pop. One even said to me, ‹please show your face› and at once, I…».
«So you did not show your face?» someone teased.
«Think of Allah, Bua, had I gone there to show my face to these scoundrels? My heart skipped», and then changing her tone, «don’t interrupt if you want to hear!»
Such interesting events rarely took place in Faridabad and women used to come from afar to hear Malika Begum’s tales.
«And the hawkers, Bua, were not like the ones we have here. Their khaki clothes, at times white, were clean though some of their dhotis were dirty. They prance around carrying their baskets selling paan, beedis, cigarettes, shouting ‹Toys! Toys!› or selling sweets in closed boxes. A train stopped. The noise that followed was deafening, coolies shrieking on one hand, hawkers yelling at the other and passengers clambering on top of each other… and in the midst of it all, poor I, sitting on top of the luggage. Heaven knows the pushing and shoving I endured. Nervously reciting ‹Jal tu Jalal tu aayi bala ko taal tu› all this while. Finally when the train started moving the coolies and passengers started bickering.
‹One rupee.›
‹I’ll give only two annas›.
After an hour long bickering, the station cleared at last. The rascals of the station did not move, of course. After a couple hours or so, he appears, twirling his mustache, and asks me carelessly, ‹Should I get you some puris if you are hungry? I ate at the hotel…›.
I said, ‹for God’s sake, take me home. I am done with this visit to Delhi›. What a great trip you’ve brought me on! One cannot even go to paradise with you›.
The train to Faridabad was ready. We boarded it and he said, sulking, ‹Fine! If you don’t want to go on trips, just don’t›».
