Memory is a funny thing. Especially when it records you meeting your heroes. You pick up on little quirks during the encounter and store them somewhere in the recesses of your mind. Most of the time, it doesn’t matter how scrupulously you’ve stored those details because so much of what’s recorded will never need to be retrieved again. Until it is. And then, when you try to recall something, that niggling detail isn’t exactly forgotten by time, but is coloured by so many other things, you cannot place where they came from. The mind has a way of combining disparate elements because, subconsciously, it decides that they belong together. And so, together they reside.
My memory holds a vivid picture of Bapsi Sidhwa, sitting relaxed in a Bergère chair in the Nishat Room at the Punjab Club. She is dressed in elegant white, a starched muslin dupatta with delicate blue flowers embroidered along its border framing her just so. A cigarette rests languidly between her index and middle fingers as she talks to me about how she came to transform all the languages she spoke into her writing practice.
I don’t know if she actually smoked. I don’t know why the soft flame at the end of that cigarette lives so sharply in my memory—like a pointing laser in a classroom. Maybe it was real, but I can’t be sure. And the people who could verify that for me have passed on, one by one.
I reconcile my doubt with a simple thought: Bapsi was cool. Decades of tobacco marketing have, without question, established that, though injurious to health, smoking is cool. My mind was playing its trick of combining disparate elements. As I now consider whether the wonderful Ms. Bapsi Sidhwa smoked or didn’t smoke, instead of counting the ways in which she carved a path for Pakistani literature in English, I can’t help but think of her in that moment when she was so beautiful to me. This petite woman with so much presence, both calm and commanding, and generous with those who sought her company, eager to learn.
Memory takes center-stage in Sidhwa’s work. It is often fluid, shifting between personal recollections and broader national or cultural history, showing how past events are internalized and transformed over time. In Ice-Candy-Man memories—sharp, and yet, clouded by time—serve as a lens through which the narrative unfolds, revealing the human cost of political violence. In The Crow Eaters, memory preserves cultural identity and historical experience. In Water, it underpins the emotional and psychological landscape of the novel. The memories of the widows’ past lives, their families, and their losses are powerful forces that guide their present actions, revealing the impact of personal and social history on the individual psyche.
Sidhwa used memory not only to explore individual identities, but also to comment on how collective memories of historical events—such as Partition and colonialism—continue to shape lives today. So, how should one remember her now that she has gone - a writer who understood what a complicated thing memory is?
“Memory, I think, is a very tricky thing,” she recounted in an interview with The New York Times. “We remember things, but the way we remember them is very much coloured by the time and the perspective from which we view them.” Why this matters is because the past influences the present: how we think about what has been affects how we approach what is yet to come. And any engagement with Pakistani literature in English is incomplete without exploring Bapsi Sidhwa’s work, which is vital to the Pakistani writers’ canon.
If Pakistani literature in English is a door, Bapsi Sidhwa is its key. It is through her work that the Pakistani novel first made its way to the global stage. Especially significant was her exploration of the trauma of Partition, particularly in Ice-Candy-Man, where she gifted us with a unique, emotional perspective on this pivotal event. Told through the eyes of young Lenny, the novel not only presents the horrors of Partition, but also captures the innocence of childhood and the gradual loss of that innocence against a backdrop of historical upheaval.
Sidhwa’s work was deeply rooted in the experiences of women and minorities in South Asia, offering an empathetic lens through which readers could explore themes of gender, identity, and power. In The Crow Eaters, she brought the Parsi community to life with humor and warmth, portraying the eccentricities and challenges of a group often overlooked in South Asian literature. With Water, she confronted the plight of widows in colonial India, creating a powerful narrative of oppression and resilience that continues to resonate. Her novels went beyond storytelling; they were acts of preservation and critique, ensuring that the histories and experiences of marginalized communities would not be forgotten. Sidhwa’s voice was fearless, unapologetic, and deeply compassionate, earning her recognition far beyond Pakistan. Her works were translated into numerous languages, studied in universities, and adapted for film, most notably in Deepa Mehta’s Earth, based on Ice-Candy-Man.
For all her international acclaim, however, Bapsi Sidhwa remained a storyteller at heart, grounded in the belief that literature could foster understanding and empathy. Her writing was a bridge between cultures, offering Western audiences an authentic glimpse into South Asia while giving South Asian readers the gift of seeing themselves represented in literature.
Beyond her literary achievements, Bapsi Sidhwa was a mentor and a friend to countless writers. She had a way of making you feel seen and heard, of encouraging you to believe in the power of your own voice. Her generosity of spirit extended beyond her words; it was evident in the way she lived her life, always open to new ideas, conversations, and connections.
Her passing marks the end of an era, but her legacy endures. Bapsi Sidhwa’s novels remain as relevant today as they were when they were first published, offering timeless insights into the human condition. As we remember her, we must also celebrate the doors she opened, the stories she told, and the lives she touched. To read Bapsi Sidhwa is to understand that literature is more than words on a page; it is a testament to the power of memory, the resilience of the human spirit, and the enduring need for stories that challenge, inspire, and unite us. Bapsi Sidhwa will be remembered not only as a literary pioneer but as a woman of extraordinary grace, intelligence, and courage—a true icon whose voice will continue to resonate for generations to come.
And perhaps, in some quiet corner of memory, she will always be there, seated in that Bergère chair, dressed in white, the soft flame of her imagined cigarette illuminating her face as she speaks. A reminder of the beauty of storytelling, and the profound impact of a life well-lived.
Khadija A. Malik is a writer based in Lahore.
