Pakistani-Indian Writer, Scholar, Critic and Linguist
I have freed myself from each and every restraint of religion, ethics,
and social responsibility and the result is that I have made myself into a
question mark. I cannot accept the old order. I cannot make a new order
for myself. I wish I could be a plain and simple Socialist or Progressive.
People generally take me to be a Progressive, and I call myself one too.
But I am truly a decadent. The bitterness, despair, reclusiveness and
extreme individuation in my story “ƒar≥mj≥dµ” is an example of that. I
want to infuse my stories with a spirit that will create hope for a new
world and a new life for humanity. But my stories are severing even the
threads of hope that remain. I cannot grasp the spirit of unity. I am
bonded with the spirit of disunity. So aren’t my stories harmful and poisonous for the new life? Aren’t sick temperaments my examples? Is it justifiable that I write such stories at a time when there is a battle going on for
the fate of humanity? That I should write stories about the illusions and
imagined narcissistic fancies of an utterly personal nature? […] I too have
no “character.” My opinions and thoughts change with the wind. Only
despair is my constant feeling.