������Ƶ

HASSAN, India: All writers draw on their experience, whether consciously or not, says Indian author Banu Mushtaq — including the titular tale of attempted self-immolation in her International Booker Prize-winning short story collection.
Mushtaq, who won the coveted literature prize as the first author writing in Kannada — an Indian regional language — said the author’s responsibility is to reflect the truth.
“You cannot simply write describing a rose,” said the 77-year-old, who is also a lawyer and activist.
“You cannot say it has got such a fragrance, such petals, such color. You have to write about the thorns also. It is your responsibility, and you have to do it.”
Her book “Heart Lamp,” a collection of 12 powerful short stories, is also her first book translated into English, with the prize shared with her translator Deepa Bhasthi.
Critics praised the collection for its dry and gentle humor, and its searing commentary on the patriarchy, caste and religion.
Mushtaq has carved an alternative path in life, challenging societal restrictions and perceptions.
As a young girl worried about her future, she said she started writing to improve her “chances of marriage.”
Born into a Muslim family in 1948, she studied in Kannada, which is spoken mostly in India’s southern Karnataka state by around 43 million people, rather than Urdu, the language of Islamic texts in India and which most Muslim girls learnt.
She attended college, and worked as a journalist and also as a high school teacher.

Constricted life

But after marrying for love, Mushtaq found her life constricted.
“I was not allowed to have any intellectual activities. I was not allowed to write,” she said.
“I was in that vacuum. That harmed me.”
She recounted how as a young mother aged around 27 with possible postpartum depression, and ground down by domestic life, had doused petrol on herself and on the “spur of a moment” readied to set herself on fire.
Her husband rushed to her with their three-month-old daughter.
“He took the baby and put her on my feet, and he drew my attention to her and he hugged me, and he stopped me,” Mushtaq told AFP.
The experience is nearly mirrored in her book — in its case, the protagonist is stopped by her daughter.
“People get confused that it might be my life,” the writer said.
Explaining that while not her exact story, “consciously or subconsciously, something of the author, it reflects in her or his writing.”
Books line the walls in Mushtaq’s home, in the small southern Indian town of Hassan.
Her many awards and certificates — including a replica of the Booker prize she won in London in May — are also on display.
She joked that she was born to write — at least that is what a Hindu astrological birth chart said about her future.
“I don’t know how it was there, but I have seen the birth chart,” Mushtaq said with a laugh, speaking in English.
The award has changed her life “in a positive way,” she added, while noting the fame has been a little overwhelming.
“I am not against the people, I love people,” she said referring to the stream of visitors she gets to her home.
“But with this, a lot of prominence is given to me, and I don’t have any time for writing. I feel something odd... Writing gives me a lot of pleasure, a lot of relief.”

‘The writer is always pro-people’
Mushtaq’s body of work spans six short story collections, an essay collection and poetry.
The stories in “Heart Lamp” were chosen from the six short story collections, dating back to 1990.
The Booker jury hailed her characters — from spirited grandmothers to bumbling religious clerics — as “astonishing portraits of survival and resilience.”
The stories portray Muslim women going through terrible experiences, including domestic violence, the death of children and extramarital affairs.
Mushtaq said that while the main characters in her books are all Muslim women, the issues are universal.
“They (women) suffer this type of suppression and this type of exploitation, this type of patriarchy everywhere,” she said. “A woman is a woman, all over the world.”
While accepting that even the people for whom she writes may not like her work, Mushtaq said she remained dedicated to providing wider truths.
“I have to say what is necessary for the society,” she said.
“The writer is always pro-people... With the people, and for the people.”

ISLAMABAD: With sacrificial goats commanding million-rupee price tags this Eid Al-Adha, many in Pakistan’s capital are seeking solace not in the livestock markets, but in a humbler tradition: a chilled bowl of falooda — a silky, rose-scented dessert layered with ice cream, nostalgia, and just enough sweetness to lift a heat- and inflation-weary soul.

A dessert with Persian roots, falooda made its way to South Asia during the Mughal era, evolving from a frozen, rose-infused noodle pudding in Iran to the vibrant, multi-textured treat beloved across Pakistan today.

At its best, falooda is an edible symphony, a tangle of thin vermicelli swimming in cold milk, softened basil seeds (tukhmalanga) floating like miniature pearls, and a generous scoop of vanilla or kulfi ice cream crowning the glass. The final touch is a fragrant pour of rose syrup, turning the whole concoction into a pink-hued celebration of summer — and now Eid.

Nowhere is this more evident than at Bata Kulfi Falooda, a small, family-run dessert shop in Islamabad’s bustling I-8 Markaz marketplace.

There, amid the clatter of spoons and the hum of Eid shoppers, customers line up for what’s become a seasonal staple, the shop’s signature Matka Falooda, served in traditional clay bowls that keep the dessert ice-cold, even under the blazing June sun.

“We first opened in Peshawar [northwestern city] in 1962,” said Shah Faisal, the shop’s manager, as he rushed between customers to take orders. “In 2015, we brought the same taste to Islamabad. Nothing has changed. The ingredients, the method, even the feel of it, it all comes from Peshawar.”

During Eid week, Bata Kulfi Falooda’s signature Matka Falooda becomes more than a dessert. It’s a celebration in a bowl.

“It’s a memory in every bite,” said Muhammad Kamil, a 27-year-old student who had just returned from a livestock market, saying he was stunned by the jaw-dropping prices.

“Right at the entrance, we saw a goat priced at Rs1.5 million [$5,350]. A little further in, there was a sheep for Rs2 million [$7,140],” Kamil said as he waited for his bowl of falooda.

“After seeing a goat worth Rs1.5 million, only ice cream could cool us down, otherwise it would’ve been hard to keep the spirit of sacrifice alive.”

Determined to celebrate in his own way, Kamil turned to falooda, at a far more palatable Rs450 ($1.60) per bowl.

What drew him in, he said, was the comforting presentation: the cold earthen bowl, the soft noodles slicked with syrup, and the melting scoop of ice cream sinking slowly into the milky depths. He’s even considering gifting bowls of it to friends this Eid.

Indeed, with families across Islamabad and beyond rethinking how to celebrate Eid this year, it may not be the size of the goat that sets the mood but rather the shared sweetness of something simple, familiar, and deeply rooted in tradition.

So, while this Eid may see fewer families walking home from markets with goats in tow, many are still finding ways to savor the spirit of the season with a humble bowl of falooda, which is doing more than just cooling people down — it’s lifting spirits, one spoonful at a time.

According to shop manager Faisal, falooda easily outpaces even their famous kulfi in popularity during the Eid holidays.

“In this heat and with everything getting so expensive, people still want something festive,” he said. “And falooda brings joy that doesn’t cost a fortune.”