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Editorial,
The New Yorker, September 18, 1954. The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.
 Pakistan's permanent representative to the United Nations, Professor
Ahmed Shah Bokhari, who is generally considered one of the ablest
spokesmen for the Arab-Asian bloc, is also, we learned the other day,
generally considered the leading humorous writer in Urdu, the language
of Muslims in Pakistan and India. Being interested in both permanent
representatives and humorous writers, separately or in combination, we
tried to lay hands on the Professor's writings, only to find that almost
none of them have been translated. Determined to pursue the matter, we
telephoned the Professor himself, and received an invitation to lunch in
the U. N. Building. Well, the Professor is one of the most
light-hearted, most urbane, most learned permanent representatives, or
humorous writers, that we have met in a long time. He led us to a
dining-room table overlooking the East River, ordered steak and
tomatoes, and said that until 1948, the year after Pakistan gained its
independence, he was a teacher, translator, and writer, rather than a
diplomat. Since 1947, he has been principal of Government College,
Lahore; during the thirties, as professor of literature there, he kept
the institution's experimental theatre supplied with material by turning
out Urdu versions of, among other things, a good deal of Shakespeare and
Shaw, Ibsen's A Doll's House, and Elmer Rice's The Adding Machine. "The
last forty years have been the most intense period of translation in the
Muslim world since the apogee of ancient Baghdad under Harun-al-Rashid,"
the Professor told us. "Back in those days, Muslims were translating
everything they could get their hands on in the fields of philosophy and
science. Now it's literature. You ought to hear Shakespeare in Urdu!
Bottom is great fun in the local Lahore dialect. The wonder of
Shakespeare is that no matter how badly one translates, something comes
through."
Professor Bokhari, who has piercing blue eyes and was wearing a tweed
suit and a blue knit tie, has also translated British and American
nonfiction, edited an Urdu humor magazine, and written literary
criticism in English and Urdu. His reputation as a humorist rests on
essays and short stories, appearing under the pen name Patras. "Some of
the reasons for their popularity are the wrong ones," he told us with a
smile. "Critics have said of them that although they are funny, they may
safely be introduced into homes. Patras is considered a thoroughly
wholesome fellow in Pakistan. The few stories that were translated into
English made a hit with the British for the same reason; the British
claimed to be astonished to find an Oriental humorist who doesn't
concentrate on gazelle eyes and exotic situations." We asked what Patras
does concentrate on. "There's a pattern in the stories," Professor
Bokhari said. "Always a little man, with little inadequacies, drawn by
human foibles into a situation in which he doesn't belong. In one story,
he tries to become a critical demagogue. At the end, he is a nicer man
for having failed. I used the first person, so the joke would be on the
narrator. Pakistanis love that. My motto is 'Be gentle.'"
Born in Peshawar in 1898, Professor Bokhari studied at Cambridge off and
on for six years during the late twenties and early thirties, was
director-general of broadcasting for India during the Second World War,
began his diplomatic career as head of Pakistan's delegation to the
International High Frequency Broadcasting Conference at Mexico City in
1948, and has been Pakistan's head U.N. man since 1950. He is an expert
phonetician, and once spent six months mastering the nuances of Cockney.
"Cockney has its own grammar and vowel system, you know," he told us
warmly. We looked expectant. "I wouldn't dare try it any more," he said.
"I'm afraid I've backslid into the King's English - reversed the
'Pygmalion' situation." We inquired how diplomatic duties mix with
humorous writing, and the Professor replied that his output has been
considerably reduced. "One difficulty is finding time," he said, "and
another is that in diplomacy the things you laugh at and the quantity of
laughter are fixed by tradition. I love New York - I'm a big city man
although I am still constantly chided about my slowness in walking.
Drugstores fascinate me. When I was first here, I ordered a sandwich in
one, and the counterman said, 'White or rye?' It took some time to
establish his meaning. Oh, your language! 'Check' means 'bill'. What
next? I used to send long letters about America to my students at
Lahore, to be read to them in groups. In one of them, I mentioned that
there is a drugstore on every corner. They wrote back in alarm, and in
my next letter I had to explain that drugstores are not for dispensing
narcotics. Someday, when I am wise enough, maybe Patras will write about
America." |
