Hyderabad, TELANGANA :
What sets Zeenath Sajida’s creative repertoire apart is its reach, stretching well beyond the domestic concerns and romantic themes one might stereotypically associate with a female writer in mid-twentieth-century Hyderabad.
Image of Zeenath Sajida’s book, translated by Nazia Akhtar
Can humorous essays and fictional stories by a single writer paint a holistically authentic portrait of the Deccan? Particularly when filtered through an urban, middle-class, academic lens?
And what happens when that prose is resurrected for an English-reading audience? Translation demands fluency across traditions, sensitivity to historical currents, and an intuitive grasp of possibilities.
The Deccan Sun, a selection of Zeenath Sajida’s Urdu writings, represents exactly this kind of sustained care. Translated and curated by Professor Nazia Akhtar, this collection brings together nine satirical essays and five short stories that offer bundles of pleasure and provocation.
Hyderabad’s Zeenath apa
A prolific Urdu Professor at Osmania University and a literary icon shaped by the leftist wave that turned many youngsters of princely Hyderabad toward rebellion, the mere mention of Zeenath Sajida still evokes a smile among a fading generation of the city’s progressives.
She produced works of considerable intellectual ambition, including A History of Telugu Literature, written in 1960.
But what sets her creative repertoire apart is its reach, stretching well beyond the domestic concerns and romantic themes one might stereotypically associate with a female writer in mid-twentieth-century Hyderabad. Her questions span the practical and the metaphysical: from work-life balance to memory and ageing. This breadth, alongside her engagement with gender, establishes Sajida as a crystallising force within Deccan literature.
Sadly, Sajida’s writings have suffered critical neglect.
Until now, only a single essay of hers had found life in English—thanks to Nazia Akhtar’s earlier offering, Bibi’s Room. The book also contained tantalising glimpses of Sajida’s inimitable biographical sketch of Makhdoom Mohiuddin, the celebrated poet she exalts and irreverently mocks, even branding him a lapoot (scoundrel). Originally delivered at a gathering in Hyderabad’s Urdu Hall, the event was jokingly dubbed Jashn-e-Makhdoom: part tribute, part roast of a comrade. The sketch hinted at the easy cosmopolitanism that once threaded through the city’s cultural circles.
But those were just glimpses.
The Deccan Sun finally delivers, showcasing Sajida’s full creative range. More importantly, the collection corrects reductive narratives that have long confined Hyderabadi women’s stories to tales of exploitation. It provides crucial cultural clues and gives interior lives the breathing space that more documentary modes often flatten or omit altogether.
Ox at an oil press
Sajida’s central tension seems to revolve around competing hungers: the quiet solitude for reading and writing versus the public acknowledgement of her labour. This struggle animates the essay I Got Myself a Job, where she likens the drudgery of a stagnant workplace to “an ox circling in an oilpress”, grimly awaiting holidays that arrive only upon the death of eminent people. This rage at invisibility, whether in households or intellectual circles, surfaces through observations about poets jealous of Makhdoom’s fame. It’s a pain that resonates universally, yet cuts especially deep for women navigating careers within constrictive social structures.
The satirical method at play follows a deceptively simple pattern. First, open with bland, widely held assertions and then excavate them through unflinching personal experience until readers question her true position. Is she earnest or sarcastic? In If I Were a Man, the writer begins by wondering how delightful male privilege might be. Then she chips away at heroic masculinity, and in the process, exposes revolutionaries for what they truly are.
And that is aimless poseurs marching under the banner of self-respect. The game becomes clear: there’s zero intention of being a man. Her worldview remains stubbornly intact and cheerful as ever.
No one is spared in the collection’s funniest piece, From Storeroom to Museum, be it a famous king, his moustache, historians who invent their own history, or doctors “in whose name graveyards thrive”.
Even the qazis and the rigid interpretations of Islamic law they uphold come under fire. Writing as a Muslim woman in post-Razakar Hyderabad, when her community faced suspicion and strain, turning satire inward and choosing stark honesty over protective silence was no small risk.
Naturally, such wit and honesty carry complications well beyond fatwas.
In Building a House, Sajida wryly catches herself making classist remarks—about servants using her soap when she’s away or taking advantage of her generosity. She knows their innocence is something she ought to celebrate. Still, resisting those barbs proves difficult because their exploitation stings!
Though the translator suggests a self-deprecating tone, the humour feels more defiant than apologetic. Comparing stories with essays reveals Sajida’s evolution. The stories, chosen from Jal Tarang (published in 1947 when she was just 24!), infantilise the titular characters’ desires without retribution, while the essays own those same longings with fierce pride. They embrace her job, gender, and sartorial choices, laughing in the face of absurdity.
My Hens embodies this mature confidence with perfect clarity. Against family objections, the narrator acquires chickens and endures subsequent chaos. These birds become emblems of unruly desire, pushing back against blanket resistance.
She recoils in disgust when some are slaughtered. Nonetheless, the ending is satisfying as she’s already anticipating her next trip to the market. Nothing deters her from wanting. The searing rage and humour intertwine to yield a stance that is utterly assured.
Chasing fireflies
The short stories reveal a younger Sajida, one who is still finding her artistic footing. Where the essays crackle with precision, the stories sometimes drown in ornamental excess, mirroring preoccupations of mid-1900s Urdu readers. The translator’s admission about reducing repetitions confirms the original’s verbosity. Even so, young Sajida possessed remarkable instincts for imagery. In The Stranger, memories become “moments flitting like fireflies on a dark night” before melodrama takes over, chasing those fireflies to a dead end.
Formally, Bibi stands apart, approaching the analytical brilliance of Chekhov’s The Darling—both protagonists transform recurring domestic episodes. Here, Sajida demonstrates her architectural sense, building tension through careful structural pacing. Each section shifts the emotional register while maintaining the same configuration. What begins as amorous banter gradually sours into genuine bitterness, yet paradoxically, the acts of care deepen. The story rewards multiple readings, revealing omissions and callbacks that initially escape one’s notice.
Does loneliness lick or feed on us?
Translations inevitably create friction. Most readers prize smooth prose that overlooks the translator’s labour, but Nazia’s occasional bumps through deliberate references (Hatim Tai, Alif Laila) gently remind us that we are entering a world rooted in another language.
The friction becomes sharper when comparing languages head-on. Professor Shagufta Shaheen’s lively Urdu reading of the story What Time Is It? shows how even a thoughtful rendering of a dramatic line—“loneliness feeds on them like termites”—dilutes its original menace: “tanhai unhe deemak ki tarah chaat rahi hai”. Though it lands smoothly, feed can’t quite match the threat of that slow, intimate licking (chaat). Likewise, scoundrel misses the mischievous warmth of the Dakhni lapoot. English’s imperfect lens will always create such distortions. Yet receiving anything from the previously inaccessible feels miraculous.
The translator didn’t just convert Urdu into English; she collated specific pieces from Sajida’s larger corpus, provided context, secured publication, and built literary networks across years, believing in its relevance. Such cultural stewardship enables conversations that couldn’t have existed otherwise.
Nazia amplifies the Deccan sun’s raging flame like oil feeding a lamp, letting us moths finally gather around it in ecstatic circles.
Surya Bulusu, a Researcher and Software Engineer at Avanti Fellows, is working on open-source tech for government school systems. He lives in Mumbai, but has spent several years in Hyderabad. His write-ups can be accessed on his blog.
Views expressed are the author’s own.
source: http://www.thenewsminute.com / The News Minute / Home> Telangana / by Surya Bulusu / July 18th, 2025
