Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of Madness of Waiting by Muhammad Hadi Ruswa, Krupa Shandilya and Taimoor Shahid

There are books that whisper to your soul, and then there are those that leave behind echoes — lingering, lyrical, impossible to shake off. Madness of Waiting is one such echo. Have you ever felt the urge to learn a new language simply because a translation — no matter how brilliant — doesn’t feel enough? That’s exactly what this book did to me. It made me yearn to understand Urdu in its pure, undiluted form, to feel the emotions nestled between its delicate verses.

Originally connected to Umrao Jan Ada, a 19th-century Urdu classic by Mirza Hadi Ruswa, this book takes an intriguing turn — it flips the narrative. Here, Umrao Jan isn’t a silent muse anymore; she picks up the pen, reclaims her story, and gives us a new version — one soaked in melancholy, anger, and an old-world grace.

Set in the cultural heart of 19th-century Lucknow, Madness of Waiting is a novella that unfolds through letters and memories. It imagines a world where Umrao Jan, the iconic courtesan-poetess, reads the previously published work about her life — without her consent — and decides to retaliate the best way she knows how: by revealing Mirza Ruswa’s secrets. The tale that follows isn’t hers, but his. Through a series of letters and translated verses, we meet Sofia, Ruswa’s beloved, and we witness a saga of unrequited love, simmering jealousy, and quiet heartbreak.

What struck me most was the simplicity of the prose juxtaposed with the emotional weight it carried. The writing is delicate yet haunting, melancholic yet defiant. Urdu poetry is translated into prose to maintain the flow, but it still reads like music. Phrases like Junoon-e-Intezar — madness of waiting — just don’t quite hit the same in English, do they? And yet, the translators do a commendable job at preserving the essence. You feel the pull of old words — “beloved,” “tormented,” “bewitching” — words that don’t just decorate sentences but deepen emotions.

Umrao Jan, as a character, fascinates me. She speaks little, but her silence feels loaded, intentional. Her voice — subtle yet sharp — guides the narrative like a soft current under still water. Ruswa, on the other hand, comes across as both passionate and tragic, a man unravelling under the weight of longing. Sofia’s anger and vulnerability offer a foil to both, creating a triangle that feels more emotional than romantic. What stands out most is the boldness of Umrao Jan taking control — this isn’t just fiction; it feels like literary justice.

The structure is compact — just about 50 pages of story — but it doesn’t feel short. The narrative, largely epistolary, weaves between past and present, between poetry and prose. It’s quiet, slow-burning, and it doesn’t rely on dramatic twists but on emotional resonance. You get the sense that you’re eavesdropping on hearts rather than reading a linear tale. The intro by the translators helps frame the cultural and literary backdrop beautifully.

The central theme? Love — but not the rosy, convenient kind. This is about love that waits. Love that burns quietly. Love that turns to rage. The idea of telling your truth, of writing back against someone who wrote your story without your consent, also feels incredibly timely — even if set in the 19th century. There’s also a deeper commentary on agency, voice, and the way women’s stories have been co-opted or silenced.

This book didn’t make me cry, but it made me ache. That deep, soft ache that only comes from old heartbreaks and old books. There’s a line about patience being as passionate as love, and that stayed with me. Isn’t it true? The quiet waiting, the acceptance, the endless wondering — it’s madness, but a beautiful one.

The greatest strength? Atmosphere. You feel like you’re in old Lucknow. The scent of it, the poetry of it, the slow, simmering pain of it. The layering of voices — Umrao, Ruswa, Sofia — is handled with grace. And the translators? They’ve done a brilliant job of not just translating language but mood.

If you’re someone who loves fast-paced stories with action, this might feel slow or “too quiet.” And without prior context of Umrao Jan Ada, some parts may lack emotional depth. I wished the book were longer, but maybe that’s part of its charm — it leaves you wanting more.

I’ve always believed that letters are where the heart truly speaks. This book reaffirmed that. I haven’t read Umrao Jan Ada in full (yet), but now I have to. It also made me reflect on how many stories are told for women, rather than by them. This was Umrao’s answer, and I felt proud of her in a way that surprised me.

Madness of Waiting isn’t just a sequel — it’s a response, a reclamation, a whisper-turned-roar. It’s short but powerful, lyrical but sharp. Read it if you love poetry. Read it if you’ve ever waited on love. Read it if you’re curious about 19th-century Lucknow or Urdu literature. Or just read it because it makes your heart feel something rare in today’s noisy world — quiet longing.

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