In my life, books have had the greatest influence on me. I have received something or the other from every book. I looked for solutions to many of my problems through them, and most often, found my answers there. Books turned out to be my dearest friends and proved to be a relief in sorrow.Thousands of disappointments, countless dark moments were made bearable, thanks to these friends. I have felt kinship with the author of every book. Now, whose names should I reel out? Starting with Hardy and the Bronte sisters, I arrived at George Bernard Shaw. But the books by Russian litterateurs had the greatest influence because I encountered them when I was looking around for a guiding spirit. Not finding answers in dry political philosophy, I fed on Russian literature. Even today, I read Chekhov for the blessing of a lesson well-learnt. When I cannot come to grips with some story that I am writing, when I don't know where to start and where to end, then I read a few stories of Chekhov for some mental exercise. Immediately, my wits sharpen and my pen starts moving.I turn to the subject of talking after the one of reading. My family is a very talkative one. All sense of time is lost when two or three members get together. I enjoy talking to everyone shopkeepers, grocers, taxi drivers, even beggars. Teasing old men and women, listening to their curses and abuses, gives me a strange kind of pleasure. It is not necessary that the person be highly educated. Sometimes, talking to uneducated and simple people can open the windows of the mind. To understand a person, it is absolutely necessary to speak with him. Now I am so practised in the art of talking that I can extract the story of their life in five minutes. I only need to ask a few straightforward, small questions and I have all the information I want.Talking is an interesting activity. I have talked with Safiya Jaan Nisar more than I have done with anyone else over the years. Speaking to Manto sharpened the sensibility. One could continue to speak with him for six to seven hours. His wife Safiya was a talkative person too. One could simply chat with Sultana Jafri. One could exchange repartee and have a lowbrow discussion with Ali Sardar Jafri. Those who have experienced the bitter, sour bite of his speech also know that he is capable of an equal measure of tenderness and sweetness. If he sought to sing, he could also burn to ashes.There was a time when having earmarked his prey, he would rest only after reducing his victim to tears. One could never talk enough to Qudsia Zaidi. Talking to Salma Siddiqi meant taking a whiff of fragrance. Annie takes the cake though. She speaks so fast, as if time is running out and she has so much to say.But as far as talkativeness goes there is no one to beat my maternal cousins, Akhtar and Jameela. Compared to them normal people seem dumb. After talking for hours with them, my tongue feels raw shorn of its colours. Sentences slip off the lips on their own. Broken, unfinished sentences, but full of meaning. Thanks to their maternal lineage, there is a peculiar sweet Dilliwala slant to their speech. And now, my thoughts on writing. Persian is considered to be our mother tongue.My father's elder brother was a lone soldier in the battle for supporting the language. He did not educated his sons in English. He could speak, read and write Persian with great fluency but could never get a job. He died in penury but still insisted that his nephews be taught Persian.Our father, who would normally listen to him, put his foot down. Okay, not the boys, but the girls at least could be taught Persian! No harm in that!.Excerpted from `Ismat: Her Life, Her Times', edited by Sukrita Paul Kumar and Sadique, Katha, Rs 395
