Ismat Chughtai: Fearless Voice Who Dared to Dream

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I was seventeen when I first read Lihaaf (The Quilt). It was an old book. It was slightly tattered. I found it in my college library. It was tucked away between heavier volumes of Urdu literature. The librarian, an elderly man with silver-rimmed glasses, gave me a knowing smile as he stamped the book. “You’ll remember this one,” he said.

I had no idea what he meant—until I turned the first page.

I read it in one sitting. My hands gripped the edges of the book. It was as if I were holding onto something dangerous, something I wasn’t supposed to touch. I had read about love before. But never like this. Never in a way that felt so raw. It was so forbidden and so unapologetically real. I remember closing the book and just sitting there, my heart pounding.

Who was this woman who wrote about things society preferred to keep hushed? Who was Ismat Chughtai?

I needed to know more.

A Rebel in the Making

Ismat Chughtai was born on August 21, 1911, in Budaun, Uttar Pradesh. She was the girl who didn’t just ask questions. She demanded answers. In a conservative Muslim family, daughters were taught to lower their voices. They were also taught to limit their dreams. Young Ismat refused to be tamed. Her father, a civil servant, moved often, exposing her to different cultures and ideas. But it was in Aligarh, at the Aligarh Muslim University, where her rebellion took shape.

Most girls her age were being groomed for marriage. Meanwhile, Ismat was sneaking books from her brothers. She fiercely debated with her teachers. She also became one of the first Muslim women in India to earn a Bachelor’s degree. She wasn’t just breaking rules she was rewriting them.

I think back to my own journey as a writer. I wasn’t raised in the same time or place as Ismat, but I know the weight of expectations. When I first told my family I wanted to write, there were hesitant nods. I meant not just essays for school but real stories. There were uncertain smiles as well. “Writing is a hobby,” they’d say. “But what about a real career?”

I wonder what Ismat would’ve said if she had been in the room with me that day. Maybe she would have laughed, patted my head, and told me to keep writing anyway.

Writing That Stung Like Truth

In the 1930s, Ismat joined the Progressive Writers’ Movement. This was a collective of literary revolutionaries. They believed words had the power to shake empires. And shake them, she did.

Her stories weren’t just about women; they were about women as they were, not as they were supposed to be.

• Short Stories That Scorched the Page: Lihaaf (1942) is her most famous short story. It was whispered about in drawing rooms. It was also banned in conservative households. It wasn’t just because it hinted at female homosexuality. It was also because it exposed the loneliness, oppression, and unmet desires of women trapped in loveless marriages. Other stories like Gainda and Chu Mui tackled sexual awakening, consent, and societal hypocrisy.
• Novels That Spoke the Unspoken: Tehri Lakeer (The Crooked Line, 1944) was semi-autobiographical. It traced the life of a young girl. She navigates love, education, and societal expectations. It was a deep dive into gender, class, and identity—themes that still resonate today.
• Essays That Cut Deep: Her unfinished autobiography Kaghazi Hai Pairahan was her way of holding up a mirror. It reflected both herself and society. It was raw, witty, and unfiltered—just like Ismat herself.

I remember trying to explain Lihaaf to a friend after reading it. She looked at me, wide-eyed, and whispered, “A woman wrote this? In 1942?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning. “And she was taken to court for it.”

Her jaw dropped. “What happened?”

“She won,” I said. “Because she refused to apologize for telling the truth.”

The Scandal That Made Her a Legend

No great writer escapes controversy, and Ismat was no exception. Lihaaf landed her in court on charges of obscenity in 1944. Imagine standing in front of British colonial officials and conservative critics, accused of corrupting society. But did she bow down?

No chance.

She fought back with wit and intellect, refusing to apologize for her truth. Eventually, she was acquitted, but the trial cemented her reputation as a writer who wouldn’t be silenced.

I wonder what she would think of today’s world. Writers still get censored. Women’s stories are still dismissed or ridiculed. Would she laugh at the irony? Would she pick up her pen and fight again?

A Legacy That Refuses to Fade

Ismat Chughtai was more than just a writer; she was a movement in herself. In 1976, she received the Padma Shri, India’s fourth-highest civilian award. Her true legacy isn’t in awards. It’s in the way she changed storytelling.

Even today, I sit with my laptop and write stories of my own. I wonder… Do I owe my courage to women like Ismat? Would I have dared to be a writer if women like Ismat hadn’t paved the way? Would I have had the courage to speak my truth? Would I have managed to write about emotions that aren’t always beautiful? Would I have challenged norms that suffocate?

I remember that seventeen-year-old girl. She clutched Lihaaf to her chest as if it held a secret meant just for her. Now, years later, I realize what that secret was:

Stories have power. And the ones that scare people the most? Those are the ones that need to be told.

Why We Still Need Ismat Today

In 2025, we’re still fighting many of the battles she wrote about- women’s agency, societal hypocrisy, freedom of expression. But every time we read her words, it’s a reminder change isn’t comfortable, but it’s necessary.

So here’s to Ismat Chughtai the woman who didn’t just write stories but set fire to silence.

And here’s to every writer who follows in her footsteps, unafraid to tell the truth, no matter the cost.

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