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Literary Review
Memories of a friend
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SHASHI DESHPANDE remembers Shama Futehally, whose poise, grace and propriety came out of a strong sense of right and wrong.
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IN the late 1970s I read Hers, an anthology of poems by Indian women writers. One of the many excellent poems in this was "Birdwatchers" by Shama Futehally — only a name to me then. I loved its tone of gentle wry irony and told the poet so when I met her a little later. She seemed more embarrassed than pleased; I gathered, somehow, that she didn't care much about the poem. I soon came to know what did matter to her. She sent me three short stories of hers asking me to "have a look". I liked them and suggested that Lakshmi Holmstrom, looking for stories for an anthology, read them. She did and included "The Meeting" in The Inner Courtyard. Shama's delighted letter telling me this showed me how much it meant to her. This was, perhaps, the beginning of her literary career. Not only did the book travel far, Shama, (so I guess) began to take her creative writing more seriously. She was already a reviewer at the time, a very fine reviewer too, in addition to being a teacher. Sadly, her reviewing gradually dwindled, though she continued to use her critical skills for the benefit of writer-friends. Her meticulous response after she had read the messy typescript of my novel — twice — was a triumphant union of friendship and critical honesty.
trong sense of duty
Shama, with her strong sense of duty, was never able to have the ruthlessness a writer needs. Family and job came first to her. When she was writing her first novel, Tara Lane, she told me how she worked in the little snippets of time — measured in minutes — that she could get. "I can't afford to wait for more time," she said. It helped that she brought her discipline and methodical habits into her work. She planned her novel, began at the beginning and then went steadily on. "I'm into the fourth chapter," she could say with exactness. Shama was endearingly open about her writing: she told you what she was doing and how her work was going in a matter of fact way, never attempting to mystify the process.
Though her family responsibilities and, soon, a full time job, as also my fewer visits to Delhi, meant we met less often, she always got in touch when there was some new writing. She spoke of her translation of Meera poems with pride and pleasure, though she was apprehensive about its reception. She sent me the manuscript of her second novel Reaching Bombay Central, which came out of her troubled feelings about the increasing intolerance and communalism. Coming from the family she did, how could she ignore social and political issues? What troubled me, however, was the insecurity and vulnerability the book revealed. Did she really feel that way? Yes, she did. It was an eye-opener to me. It seems to me now that Shama was searching for something, some answers, perhaps, to what was happening. She began a novel about the Uphaar theatre tragedy and after Babri Masjid she co-edited, with Githa Hariharan, a collection of secular stories for children. Then there was the play she was commissioned to write, for which she chose to focus on Shahjahan and his two sons, Aurangzeb and Dara Shikoh. I have not read the play, but I wonder whether it was the conflict between Aurangzeb, narrow, rigid yet deeply religious and Dara, open to other faiths, wanting to immerse himself in both the streams of culture that ran through the country, that really interested her.
On the cusp of change
Almost everyone who speaks of Shama will use words like "poise", "grace", "elegance" and "propriety". Yes, one saw all of them in Shama. But these were not superficial qualities kept for public display; they came out of her strong sense of right and wrong. "We have our standards," Munni says in Tara Lane. So had Shama. She adhered to her standards, whatever the cost — yes, even during her last illness.
Shama came from a privileged background and both her novels reveal some of her discomfort about this. But I think she was learning to accept what she was and where she came from — the first step for a writer. I have a feeling that the next step — of breaking free — would have soon happened. She was on the cusp of change; the play and her translations of poetry from Hindi and Urdu were indications of this change. She was a "golden child", her father said, one who did nothing wrong — except dying at the age of 52. The wrong time for a wife, a mother or a daughter to die. The wrong time for a writer too, for so much, the best maybe, is still to come.
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