Amin Kamil, the renowned Kashmiri literary figure, was a beloved author, and I had the privilege of being acquainted with his work. Born on 3rd August 1924, he passed away on 30th October 2014, leaving behind a legacy of literary brilliance. Amin Kamil was not only a recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award but also a Padma Shri Awardee, reflecting his immense contribution to the world of literature.
His remarkable collection of short stories, titled ‘Kathi Manz Kath,’ captivated readers with its profound themes and exquisite storytelling. Recognizing the merit of his work, I obtained his permission to translate most of these stories into Hindi. They were subsequently published in esteemed Hindi magazines such as Saptahik Hindustan, Dharmayug, Maya, Bhasha, and more. The story ‘Laag’ garnered immense praise from the Hindi literary community, with the editor of ‘Saptahik Hindustan,’ Sheela Junjunwala, publishing it in the very next issue due to its sheer brilliance. In my book “Kashmir Ki Shresth Kahaniyan,” published by Rajpal & Sons, Delhi, I have included two of his captivating short stories.
During the 1960s and 1970s, I had the opportunity to meet Amin Kamil several times in Kashmir. I distinctly remember his advocacy for the Hindi language, often emphasizing the need for Kashmiris to embrace it. He would say, “When Kashmiris have established a connection with India, why hesitate to learn Hindi? At least our children should learn this language.” Even though Amin Saab is no longer with us, his words continue to resonate with me.
Amin Kamil, whose full name is Mohammad Amin Nengroo (with Kamil being his pen name), stands as one of the most renowned literary figures Kashmir has ever produced. Hailing from the village of Kapran in South Kashmir, he embarked on a journey of education and enlightenment, pursuing higher studies at Aligarh. In 1945, he successfully passed the B.A. LL.B. examination, laying the foundation for his future endeavors. He practiced law for two years after joining the Bar in 1947. Subsequently, from 1950 to 1952, he served as a lecturer of Urdu at Government Sri Pratap College, Srinagar, before dedicating himself entirely to writing. His literary prowess spanned across various genres, showcasing his versatility and mastery in Kashmiri literature. Not only did he excel in short stories, but he also made notable contributions in poetry, drama, criticism, novels, essays, translation work, literary criticism, and editing. In 1958, he was among the founding members of the J&K State Cultural Academy, where he initially served as the Convener for Kashmiri language and later became an editor. For many years until his retirement in 1979, he edited the journals Sheeraza and Son Adab.
As already said, Amin Kamil’s literary achievements garnered significant recognition throughout his career. In 1967, he was honored with the coveted Sahitya Akademi Award for his collection of 58 poems titled “Lave Ta Prava.” Additionally, he received the prestigious Padma Shri Award in 2005, further solidifying his standing as a literary luminary.
In the preface to his story collection “Kathi-Manz-Kath,” Amin Kamil eloquently explains how he transformed thoughts that couldn’t manifest as poems into captivating stories, giving birth to his unique narratives. This collection comprises ten enthralling stories, which have garnered critical acclaim and a wide readership. Furthermore, his in-depth research aptitude shines through in his well-researched documents about prominent Kashmiri Sufi poet Nund Rishi (14th Century) and poetess Habba Khatoon (16th Century).
Among Amin Kamil’s most celebrated stories is “Laag,” which captures the essence of its time and continues to resonate with readers. This poignant tale beautifully portrays the yearning for a fulfilling life experienced by a dejected woman, finding solace and support in the compassionate embrace of a man, a compounder, who showers her with love and dedication.
Another remarkable story, “Potkal,” skillfully delves into the complexities of maternal desire. Through the portrayal of a married village girl, Amin Kamil explores deep into the character’s inner conflicts, vividly depicting her mental states and offering readers a thought-provoking exploration of human emotions. The yearning for motherhood forms the essence of this story.
Amin Kamil’s contributions to literature have enriched the Kashmiri literary landscape, leaving an indelible mark on readers and critics alike. His ability to craft compelling narratives across various genres has cemented his position as a literary luminary, and his work continues to inspire and captivate audiences to this day.
Ghulam Nabi Gowhar, a poet and novelist, referred to Kamil as “a genius” and emphasized his exceptional talent. He writes, “Kashmir has produced many greats, including multi-faceted personalities. But geniuses are rare. In my opinion, Kamil is truly our genius.”
It is regrettable that Amin Sahib did not receive the Jnanpith Award, an honor he truly deserved. During my tenure as a member of the “Language Advisory Committee” for the Jnanpith Award Committee, his name was recommended several times. However, the nomination process for the Jnanpith Award involves considering prominent authors from all major Indian languages, with authors from South Indian languages often taking the lead. Hence, some factors influenced the final decision.
Nevertheless, Amin Kamil stands out as an exceptional poet, storyteller, editor, and essayist. Above all, a remarkable human being! The Kashmiri literature will forever be indebted to him for his invaluable contributions.)
A Meaningful Smile: Amin Kamil
After doctor left the dispensary, Aisha heaved a long sigh. She stood up, and with that, her ankles also jingled. With sad eyes, she looked at the other patients and slowly made her way out of the dispensary. The doctor’s words kept echoing in her mind, “Daughter, you should have the courage. In tuberculosis, almost every patient thinks of suicide.” For a while, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Near the dispensary’s counter, the compounder was preparing medicine for a sick person. He had been silent until now. When he saw Aisha leaving, he spoke in a loving voice, “What you said to the doctor, you could have told that me too. Sometimes, a compounder understands and cures the illness of a patient better than a doctor.”
Aisha was around twenty or so. If she hadn’t been afflicted by tuberculosis in her prime youth, she wouldn’t have let any other woman stay ahead of her in the entire Islamabad. Such a beautiful and enchanting lady was she. But now, besides her almond-shaped eyes, nothing else had remained on her face.
With his prominent veins and weak hands tightly holding the reins of the horse, stableman was narrating this story to a Bengali visitor who in turn was listening to the story with great interest. It looked that Saees (stableman) himself was suffering from some kind of illness. He coughed a few times, spat out the phlegm stuck in his throat, and then began the next part of the story:
Aisha was pulled closer to the compounder and asked, “Can you really cure me?” In the compounder’s words, she saw a small ray of hope to escape from her suffering.
“But you were just asking the doctor for a medicine to die,” the compounder said while weighing a powder for a patient.
“Will you help me?” Aisha exclaimed. This disease had devastated her completely. Life had become a struggle for her. Indeed, what is the value of a person in this world whose health has been snatched away? It is better to end everything in one go than to spend days crying.
“If this is what you truly desire, then so be it. I will make a medicine for you that will relieve all your pain and suffering, and you will be free from this world,” the compounder said, his tone becoming serious. He started preparing a red-colored medicine/mixture in a bottle.
“For this favour, may God grant you a long life. Whatever money you ask for, I will give it to you,” Aisha’s almond-eyes were filled with the shadow of pain, swimming in agony.
“Money!” the compounder laughed, “Money is only needed for things that can give life. Why charge money for death? It is free, take this bottle. But remember, don’t tell anyone I gave it to you…”
“Why would I say that to anyone? I am not so ungrateful. I swear on Dastgir Sahab,” she genuinely swore an oath from her heart.
The compounder looked at her almond-shaped eyes and the tremor on her chest. Casting a compassionate gaze, he said to Aisha: “Put the entire bottle under your pillow secretly when you go to sleep at night, understand?” The bottle touched Aisha’s body, and a dense feeling of horror emerged on her face.
“How beautiful your eyes are! If only this disease hadn’t touched you,” the compounder murmured softly.
Aisha’s ears stood up as if in shock. A momentary blush appeared on her face. If she didn’t have to bid farewell to this world now, she would have made the compounder regret saying such indecent things. But maybe, if that were the case, the compounder wouldn’t have had the courage to say such things either. She emerged from the dispensary. The compounder kept observing her with curiosity until she disappeared from his sight. The compounder was a brave young man who had acquired courage from life’s hardships and struggles. He had no one ahead of him, nor behind. He had been tasting the bitterness-filled life since childhood. Such a life in which the heart yearns for someone’s loving gaze.
After Aisha’s departure, he let out a deep sigh and began washing the container with water with which he had just prepared medicine for Aisha. The Bengali visitor was listening to the story silently. But now, he was eager to know about Aisha’s fate and asked, “Did Aisha die…?”
This time, the compounder cleared his throat for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he began speaking, “The next morning, when the compounder was preparing medicine for a patient, and the doctor had gone somewhere, Aisha entered the dispensary. An innocent shyness played on her face. Until yesterday, she had been troubled by her illness, but today, the touch of her beautiful eyes was stirring a new sensation in every part of her being. After dealing with the patient, the compounder looked at Aisha with a surprised gaze and said, ‘So you didn’t drink the medicine? I can’t believe it, why?'”
A slight smile appeared on the compounder’s lips, “Actually, isn’t life precious to everyone?”
“How could I not drink it!” Aisha’s eyelids were fluttering excessively.
“Then why didn’t it have an effect?” The compounder didn’t say this to Aisha or to himself. His statement was directed towards the empty bottle that Aisha had brought with her.
“After consuming it, her whole body felt as if it was breaking apart. Then a strange intoxication filled her eyes. I thought it was the end. But in the morning, I saw that I was alive!” Aisha’s eyelashes continued to flutter with speed. A meaningful smile appeared on the compounder’s lips. He cast a longing gaze upon Aisha’s almond- shaped eyes and said, “It seems the medicine didn’t work. Well, no need to worry. I’ll prepare an even stronger dose for you now.” As he spoke, the compounder began to wash the measuring cup.
Aisha had become infatuated with her own life. She no longer wanted to die. She started to believe that it was necessary for her to stay alive for her almond-shaped eyes, whose praise the compounder had secretly whispered before her. She wanted to recover from this illness so that she could regain her good health and understand the significance behind the compounder’s compliments about her eyes.
“No, don’t make the medicine anymore,” she blushed, “See what God does. Maybe I will recover naturally.” Upon hearing this, the compounder couldn’t hold back his laughter. In reality, the compounder had given her a mixture to induce a deep sleep, and nothing more.
“Well, if that’s your wish, so be it. I also don’t want at least your almond-shaped eyes to suffer,” he said. For a moment, the compounder’s gaze merged with Aisha’s. Aisha’s eyelashes dipped with shyness. All the blood rushed to her face, and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks. She hurriedly stepped out of the dispensary with brisk steps. The compounder called out, “Where do you live? You didn’t tell me.”
“I live in Kavaj Mohalla,” Aisha turned back to answer, “I am from Islamabad, but I have been staying in the city with my mother for the past two to three months for treatment.”
It was true that the compounder’s interest had grown significantly towards Aisha’s eyes. But it was equally true that behind this interest, the compounder’s motive was to divert Aisha’s attention from this deadly disease because Aisha had become acutely aware of the severity of her illness. Perhaps, because she was young.
The face of the Bengali visitor lit up with joy, “So, did she recover?”
“Babuji” stableman smiled first, then lost in his thoughts and began to say, “After that day onwards, Aisha and the compounder’s interaction increased. Both of them were sad. One was scorned by society, the other was afflicted by illness. They both sought solace. In the gardens of Nishat and Shalimar, under the moonlit nights, amidst the romantic atmosphere, they began to spend beautiful moments of their lives. During this time, they grew closer to each other. The compounder started spending a significant portion of his salary on Aisha’s comforts. The compounder continued playing this beautiful game of life for four months. Meanwhile, Aisha forgot about her illness and instead started feeling the essence of her youth. A slight blush appeared on her cheeks permanently, and her weight also increased slightly. However, one day, she suddenly went to Islamabad with her mother and never returned. “How strange! What happened to that compounder then?” The Bengali Moshai became serious.
Stableman’s cough resurfaced. As soon as he got the opportunity, he started speaking again, “The compounder truly saw that intoxication in Aisha’s almond-shaped eyes, which he wanted to immerse himself in and forget his bitter life. However, he had to pay a hefty price to savor that intoxicating gaze. He was affected by Aisha’s contagious disease in this attachment. The final statement robbed the Moshai of his ability to speak for a while. After struggling with words, he said, ‘Oh, what a tragic incident! Where did the compounder go? Do you know anything?’
Stableman became serious, “Babuji, for labour class, their health and well-being are everything. Who cares about the weak in this world? Let me tell you, later he lost his job, and he ended up on the streets. He had to do something to survive. So, he took up a job at a ‘government-run tourist stable.’ It’s possible that he might currently be working for some visitor who has come from outside Kashmir.”
Author is Former Fellow, IIAS, Shimla. He can be mailed at skraina123@gmail.com
Discussion about this post