Between
Silence and Survival: Gendered Representations in Khalid Jawed’s The Book of Death and The Paradise of Food
Bushra
Zaman,
Ph.D. Research
Scholar,
Department of
English,
Aligarh Muslim
University,
Uttar Pradesh,
India.
&
Jawed
S. Ahmed,
Faculty Member,
Department of
English,
Aligarh Muslim
University,
Uttar Pradesh,
India.
Abstract: This paper examines the representation of women in
Khalid Jawed’s novels The Book of Death and The Paradise of Food. Both works
engage deeply with questions of life, memory, and mortality while
simultaneously portraying women's complex roles within domestic, cultural, and
social spaces. In The Paradise of Food, women are primarily associated with the
kitchen and the routines of daily life, symbolizing both nourishment and
endurance. Their silence, however, points to unspoken struggles and suppressed
desires. In The Book of Death, the female presence is shaped by themes of
decay, violence, and existential anxiety, showing how patriarchal and cultural
forces often control women’s bodies and identities. By reading these texts
together, the study highlights that Jawed does not present women as marginal
figures but places them at the center of his narrative world. Although his
writing does not explicitly adopt feminist discourse, it uncovers women’s
suffering, resilience, and quiet resistance, making their presence crucial to
understanding his contribution to contemporary Urdu fiction.
Keywords: Khalid Jawed,
women’s representation, Urdu literature, domesticity, gender
The
representation of women in literature has long been recognized as a reflection
of broader cultural, social, and political realities. Across literary
traditions, women have been portrayed in ways that reveal the shifting
boundaries of domesticity, morality, and individuality. In South Asia,
patriarchal structures, religious norms, and collective memories of tradition
often shape these representations. At the same time, literature has provided
space to question, reimagine, and complicate such structures. Simone de
Beauvoir describes how women have historically been positioned as the “Other,”
defined not by their own subjectivity but in relation to men, and how literary
portrayals mirror cultural narratives that sustain patriarchal hierarchies and
limit female subjectivity (Beauvoir).
Urdu literature
has a vibrant history of engaging with questions of gender. From the
progressive writers of the 1930s and 1940s to the feminist voices of the
mid-twentieth century, women’s roles have been a site of contestation and
creativity. Writers like Rashid Jahan, Ismat Chughtai, and Qurratulain Hyder
highlighted the contradictions of domestic and social life, exposing how women
were expected to uphold tradition while being denied agency. This legacy
fostered the expectation that gender-conscious writing should be explicitly
resistant. Yet, as Butler argues, gender is not natural but constructed through
repeated performances. In Jawed’s fiction, the repetitive depiction of women
confined to kitchens exemplifies this performance, in which domestic labor is
presented as a cultural script that reinforces patriarchal order even in the
absence of overt acts of resistance. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak has famously
argued that subaltern voices are often erased in dominant discourse, and in
Jawed’s novels, women’s silence reflects this erasure. Their muted presence is
not emptiness but a sign of the structural conditions that deny them speech,
making their endurance a form of testimony.
The recurring
images of food, domestic space, and femininity highlight this tension. In South
Asian societies, the kitchen is a place of sustenance and confinement. Bell
hooks explains that patriarchal systems normalize women’s sacrifices by framing
them as acts of love or duty- even if these sacrifices erode individuality. In The Paradise of Food, women’s
association with nourishment underscores their indispensability, yet their
confinement to the kitchen reflects their restricted agency. Their bodies and
labor sustain the family, but their struggles remain unarticulated, revealing
the paradox of presence without recognition.
The Book of Death positions women within
narratives dominated by decay, silence, and existential anxiety. Julia Kristeva
develops the concept of abjection to describe how the human body and its fluids
are sites of both fascination and repulsion (Kristeva). Jawed’s grotesque
imagery linking women’s bodies to food, death, and decay fits into this
framework, as female characters are portrayed as both desired and abjected.
Their presence reminds readers of mortality and fragility, even as they endure.
These two novels
reveal complementary insights into how gender operates in contemporary Urdu
fiction. One situates women in everyday rituals of food and domestic labor,
while the other places them in the shadow of death and despair. Chandra Talpade
Mohanty cautions against homogenizing women’s experiences in postcolonial
contexts, insisting that they must be understood within specific cultural
frameworks (Mohanty). Jawed’s female characters exemplify this, as their roles
cannot be reduced to abstract notions of “victimhood” but are shaped by
religion, patriarchy, and family structures. Their silence, endurance, and resilience
are rooted in these specific intersections.
This broader
approach also contributes to debates about the aesthetics of contemporary Urdu
fiction. Experimental narratives that emphasize allegory, fragmentation, or
surrealism might appear to distance themselves from social concerns. Yet, the
author’s work demonstrates that women remain central to meaning-making even in
such forms. Luce Irigaray has shown how women are often represented through
male discourse, their subjectivity mediated rather than expressed (Irigaray).
Jawed’s fragmented portrayals reflect this paradox: women are indispensable to
the narrative but rarely given an autonomous voice. Their presence challenges
us to see how experimental aesthetics can expose the contradictions of patriarchy
as powerfully as overt feminist narratives.
By representing
women in ways that are at once ordinary and symbolic, Jawed’s novels highlight
the contradictions of South Asian societies. On one hand, women are entrusted
with responsibilities that ensure cultural continuity; on the other, they are
denied recognition and autonomy. This duality of care and confinement, survival
and silence, exposes the fragility of cultural systems that depend on women’s
endurance while erasing their individuality. Feminist theories thus help us
understand how these representations resonate beyond the page, offering a
critique not only of individual families but of the structures of patriarchy
that shape gendered life.
One of the most
striking representations of women in The
Book of Death emerges through their entanglement with domestic life. Far
from embodying stability or comfort, the household is depicted as a space of
abuse, suspicion, and alienation. The narrator recalls moments from his
childhood when his mother, central to the rhythms of the home, is repeatedly
subjugated by her husband’s violence. In a disturbing scene, she is dragged by
the hair, accused of infidelity, and reduced to tears as she pleads for
recognition of her son’s legitimacy: “My father has again grabbed my mother by
her hair. And he’s tugging it continuously. You whore, you slept with that
fugitive soldier, the one who died a wretched dog’s death…” (Jawed, 44). This
household, rather than protecting its members, functions as a stage for
patriarchal domination. The father’s suspicions are not grounded in truth but
in the deep anxieties of masculine control, which transforms the domestic
sphere into a site of terror. Foucault’s analysis of disciplinary power
illuminates this dynamic: even intimate spaces like the family home become
sites of surveillance and control where authority is exercised over vulnerable
bodies (Foucault). In this case, the mother’s body bears the imprint of power,
making the home itself indistinguishable from a prison.
The child narrator
internalizes this violence through fear and retreat: “Frightened out of my
wits, I hide my face in the sheet again. I am scared. I want to sleep again. I
feel sleepy. Light again enters my eyes, illuminating the same black wall and
crack overgrown with wild plants” ( Jawed, 45). Here, domestic violence is not
only directed at the mother but shapes the consciousness of the child, who
learns to associate the home with dread rather than comfort. Though marked by
protests of innocence, the mother's silence carries little authority against
patriarchal suspicion.
Violence against
women recurs throughout the text, not as isolated incidents but as a larger
pattern of systemic oppression. The female body becomes a site upon which male
authority is repeatedly inscribed. The brutal beating of the mother and the
accusations of adultery dramatize how patriarchal power legitimizes itself
through physical and verbal abuse (Jawed, 45). Elaine Scarry’s argument that
pain resists language but marks bodies with authority is crucial here: the
mother’s body is turned into evidence of her supposed guilt, even when no proof
exists. (Scarry)
Another
unsettling episode depicts a young girl resisting the narrator’s father on a
rain-soaked rooftop, insisting, “No! I won’t go to anyone else’s house. I will
raise it myself” (Jawed, 41). Her cries are followed by her fall and the
grotesque intrusion of animals feeding on her wounded body. The detail of the
dog gnawing her while rain lashes down exposes the brutal naturalization of
women’s pain, as if her suffering is just another spectacle in a cruel world.
Gayatri Spivak’s idea of the silenced subaltern resonates here: the girl’s
defiance, though momentarily voiced, is drowned out by violence and reduced to
a grotesque image of decay (Spivak). Her resistance is remembered not as an act
of agency but as a spectacle of suffering, showing how patriarchal structures
transform even defiance into erasure.
Silence plays a
defining role in the representation of women. Though the narrator’s mother
pleads her innocence and insists on her fidelity, she is drowned out by her
husband’s rage. Later, her sudden disappearance leaves no resolution,
explanation, or closure behind. The narrator glimpses her near the burial
mounds, only to watch her vanish forever. This absence is not explained but
absorbed into the bleak rhythm of the story, where women’s lives dissolve
without recognition.
This
disappearance is not simply narrative convenience but reflects a larger
cultural reality. Women’s voices and presences are often erased from official
histories and personal memory. Spivak’s observation that the subaltern woman
“cannot speak” because her words are structurally denied authority helps
explain this phenomenon (Spivak). The mother’s vanishing illustrates how
patriarchal systems can erase women without a record, leaving behind only
absence. Silence here becomes more than muteness; it becomes cultural erasure,
the obliteration of women’s stories from memory.
The narrator’s
perspective also constructs women through desire that is inseparable from
disgust and guilt. In one passage, he recalls sitting with a woman whose
dupatta slips, exposing “sallow arms” and “hollow eyes,” while she encourages
him to eat from a bowl of golden gravy with bones (Jawed, 9). The moment blends
attraction and revulsion, suggesting that desire is haunted by mortality and
decay. Luce Irigaray’s critique of phallocentric desire is helpful here: within
patriarchal culture, women’s bodies are never experienced as autonomous but as
projections of male fear and longing (Irigaray).
Sexual intimacy
is similarly stripped of emotional connection. The narrator describes marital
relations in mechanical terms, marked by dysfunction and bitterness: “I fell
asleep after a perfunctory act of lovemaking. I had already swallowed several
blue pills, so I succumbed to a deep sleep” (Jawed, 57). The wife is
represented not as a partner in intimacy but as a mirror for male inadequacy.
Here, Simone de Beauvoir’s critique of reducing women to functions as wives,
mothers, and mistresses becomes sharply visible (Beauvoir). The female figure is positioned not as a
subject of desire but as a screen for male anxiety and impotence.
The novel also
portrays women as figures of sacrificial devotion. One female character fasts
for the narrator’s longevity, adorning herself with henna and bangles,
embodying traditional forms of feminine piety. Yet even her devotion collapses
into withdrawal when she realizes the futility of her sacrifice. Her
abandonment reflects the asymmetry of gender roles: women endure and sacrifice,
while men exploit or ignore their labor. Judith Butler’s theory of gender
performativity clarifies this imbalance: gender roles are sustained through
repeated enactments, but when those enactments falter, the fiction of stable
identity is revealed (Butler). Her withdrawal destabilizes the ritual of
feminine sacrifice, showing its dependence on repetition and recognition. The
maternal figure is central to the text, embodying both victimhood and symbolic
presence. During wartime, she briefly reclaims vitality, adorning herself with
bangles and flowers, her lips blooming “like a lotus.” Yet this resurgence is
short-lived, eclipsed by renewed violence. Her eventual disappearance creates a
void that shapes the narrator’s identity, leaving him haunted by her absence.
Later, maternal
symbolism re-emerges through the narrator’s daughter, imagined as free of
patriarchal lineage: “her name will not be in the book of death” (Jawed, 63).
Here, the maternal becomes a figure of continuity beyond violence and
mortality. Unlike the silenced mother, the daughter is envisioned as carrying
survival outside the cycle of patriarchal suspicion. This vision, though
fleeting, suggests the possibility of regeneration in a narrative otherwise
defined by despair.
Women in The Book of Death are marked by
contradiction. They are central to the narrator’s memory yet often marginal
within the action, desired yet degraded, nurturing yet absent, silenced yet
symbolic. They embody violence and survival simultaneously, haunting the
narrative even when absent. Butler’s notion of gender as a fractured
performance explains this ambivalence: women’s roles in the text are never
stable but oscillate between extremes, reflecting the instability of cultural
norms themselves (Butler).
Marriage in
particular functions as a stage where these contradictions are dramatized. The
wife is present in the household but absent in intimacy, embodying the collapse
of gender roles into emptiness. Rather than being empowered by rejecting these
roles, she becomes spectral, a ghostly presence marking the death of intimacy.
Women here are not protagonists but haunting presences, shaping memory and
mortality without being granted complete subjectivity.
In The Paradise of Food, women are
inseparably linked with the kitchen, but this space is not considered
nurturing. Instead, it is described as perilous, filled with suppressed
energies and hidden violence. The narrator bluntly observes that “the kitchen
is the most dangerous place in the house” (Jawed, 21). This remark undermines
the conventional image of the domestic sphere as a place of care and stability.
Instead, the kitchen becomes a zone where danger and repression converge.
The text
elaborates on this idea by emphasizing how instruments of labor can double as
tools of harm: “Has anyone given serious thought to the fact that almost all
the things in the kitchen have concealed within them the ability to turn into a
weapon? … the burning block of wood, the lit-up chulha with the crackling,
raging fire burning within it” (Jawed, 34). The implication is that women live
daily in spaces with the potential for nourishment and destruction. Foucault’s
theorization of disciplinary power explains this well: even the ordinary
rhythms of domestic life are structured by mechanisms of control that leave
women constantly vulnerable (Foucault). Far from a refuge, the home is a site
where power relations are enacted and maintained. The grotesque detail that
“women have sex with pots and pans in the kitchen” ( Jawed, 35) intensifies
this association of labor with suppressed sexuality. This unsettling imagery
conveys how erotic desire is displaced into domestic work, as if women’s bodies
are consumed by their obligations. Rather than experiencing intimacy as
fulfillment, they are forced to sublimate desire into routine acts of survival.
The grotesque exaggeration strips the kitchen of romantic idealization and
reveals the psychological toll of confinement within the domestic sphere.
Female figures
are also mediated through patriarchal desire, which renders them objects of
longing and control rather than independent subjects. Anjum Baji, remembered by
the narrator with affection for her maternal care, becomes the site of guilty
erotic imagination: “I imagined myself removing her clothes and looking at her
body” (Jawed, 42). This conflation of maternal tenderness with suppressed
sexual fantasy demonstrates how women are denied stable identities. Simone de
Beauvoir’s argument in The Second Sex
that women are constructed as the “Other” clarifies this dynamic: they are
positioned in relation to male desire rather than to themselves (Beauvoir).
Masculine authority is also embodied in figures such as Aftab Bhai, described
as having “brown and cruel eyes” and a bulldog-like face (Jawed, 43). His
eventual violation of Anjum Baji shows how female bodies are reduced to
territories upon which masculine control asserts itself. The brutality of his
power is not random but structural: women are depicted as constantly vulnerable
to patriarchal domination. Luce Irigaray’s critique of phallocentric culture
helps explain this ambivalence: within such systems, women are positioned
simultaneously as maternal figures and as sexual objects, required to nourish
and care while also being subjected to possession and violation (Irigaray).
Amidst violence
and repression, women also embody caregiving roles that sustain both
individuals and cultural continuity. After the death of the narrator’s mother,
it is Anjum Baji who takes on the maternal role, “loving and caring for him
like a mother” and “often carrying him in her arms” (Jawed, 41). Her affection
fills a void and demonstrates how women’s nurturing roles extend beyond
biological motherhood. Later, the narrator meets Anjum Jaan, a nautch girl, who
is also described in maternal terms: “Her motherly affection was like a balm on
my wounds” (Jawed, 291). These figures highlight women’s capacity for
tenderness even when socially marginalized. Yet, these caregiving roles are
depicted as fragile. They are overshadowed by betrayal, repression, or social
neglect, emphasizing the precarity of women’s emotional labor in a patriarchal
world.
Butler’s theory
of gender performativity clarifies why these roles persist- Caregiving
functions as a repetitive act that enforces cultural expectations of femininity
(Butler). By performing motherly care,
women sustain the illusion of stability within households marked by violence
and decay. However, because such performances rely on repetition, they are
inherently unstable. The maternal figures in the novel reveal both the
necessity and the fragility of such performances, exposing how they can
collapse under pressure.
The most
unsettling depictions of women in the novel emerge in scenes of sexual violence
and bodily mutilation. The rape of Anjum Baji by Aftab Bhai is narrated through
grotesque imagery: “It wasn’tkorma, it was blood. Fresh bloodstains. Her
dupatta, lying helpless, creased and crumpled on the chulha, had these stains too”
(Jawed, 111). Here, food ordinarily associated with nourishment is collapsed
into blood, signaling the contamination of domestic life by violence. This
grotesque fusion reinforces Elaine Scarry’s insight that pain resists ordinary
language, requiring metaphor and imagery to convey its force (Scarry). By
narrating rape through the imagery of food, the novel demonstrates how female
suffering becomes visible only when mediated through grotesque metaphor.
Another harrowing episode is Anjum Apa’s forced marriage to an alcoholic man
who mutilates her: “One day he cut off her nose with a blade” (Jawed, 145).
This act literalizes the silencing of women, transforming her body into a site
of punishment. The disfigurement is not only physical but symbolic: her mutilation
enacts the erasure of female voice and presence.
Public violence
is portrayed with equal force. Political goons rape Alauddin’s sister in a
college canteen, yet “the newspapers wrote a different story” (Jawed, 229). The
event reveals not only the violence itself but also the structures that rewrite
and erase women’s suffering. Spivak’s argument that the subaltern cannot speak
is embodied here: women’s voices are not merely absent but actively overwritten
by dominant discourses that protect male perpetrators (Spivak).Marriage in the
narrative functions less as intimacy than as a system of compromise and
control. The narrator’s union with Anjum, Alauddin’s sister, is not built on
affection but on restoring “honor” after rape. Yet he confesses that “my wife,
Anjum, could never love me, and so there was a perpetual feeling of
homelessness in me” (Jawed, 266). Marriage here symbolizes cultural
arrangements that prioritize reputation over personal connection.
Motherhood is
similarly fraught. When Anjum aborts a female fetus because “it was not a boy”
(Jawed, 281), the scene dramatizes the internalization of patriarchal values.
Women themselves become enforcers of systems that devalue femininity. Simone de
Beauvoir observed that women often participate in their own oppression by
reproducing cultural norms that define them as secondary (Beauvoir). This
episode starkly embodies her point: Anjum enacts the same logic that
historically marginalized her.
Later, the
narrator’s sense of alienation deepens when his wife and sons unite against
him, calling him an “old infidel” (Jawed, 377). This moment demonstrates how
women, though historically confined, can also wield agency in ways that
perpetuate exclusion. Female characters are not entirely powerless, but the
forms of power available to them often reinforce patriarchal structures rather
than subverting them. Silence is one of the most pervasive motifs in the
representation of women. Anjum Baji’s trauma after rape is never articulated
from her perspective. Instead, her suffering is filtered through the narrator’s
retrospective memory. Similarly, confrontation and emotional absence convey
Anjum’s detachment in marriage. These silences are not accidental but
structural, reflecting a broader cultural system that excludes women’s voices.
The narrator’s
acknowledgment of his inability to grasp women’s emotions underscores this
structural erasure. Female subjectivity remains beyond his comprehension,
revealing how patriarchal narratives themselves obscure women’s lives. Spivak’s
concept of structural silence helps explain this: women are denied speaking
positions not because they are voiceless, but because the cultural frameworks
of narration do not permit their speech to carry weight. (Spivak). Beyond
literal portrayals, women carry symbolic weight in the novel. They embody
nourishment, mortality, and continuity. In a recurring dream, the narrator
imagines a girl who “always cooked something for him” (Jawed, 92), reducing her
to a figure of service and fantasy. This symbolic association underscores how
women are tied to food and desire in ways that limit their autonomy. The novel
concludes with a striking image: Anjum Baji, Anjum Apa, and the narrator’s wife
come together to carry his bier (Jawed, 387). This surreal gathering collapses
time, uniting figures of care, violation, and estrangement in a final ritual
act. Symbolically, they mediate between life and death, continuity and loss.
Even in silence and suffering, women remain central to cultural memory.
The
representation of women throughout The
Paradise of Food is marked by contradiction. They are caregivers yet
violated, nurturing yet neglected, present yet absent, resilient yet silenced.
Their lives reveal both complicity in patriarchal systems and resistance to
them. These contradictions mirror the paradoxes of existence itself:
nourishment coexisting with decay, intimacy bound to violence, and survival
intertwined with erasure. Judith Butler’s insight that gender roles depend on
repetitive performances clarifies why such contradictions persist. Women are
compelled to enact roles of devotion, sacrifice, and care, yet these roles
collapse under the weight of violence and neglect (Butler). The instability of these performances exposes
the fragility of gender norms and the ambivalence of women’s representation.
The narrative’s reliance on grotesque imagery, blood mingling with food,
mutilated bodies, and silenced voices, reinforces this ambivalence. Women are constant
presences in the text, yet they rarely speak. Their identities are defined more
by labor, suffering, and memory than by agency. Their haunting presence
reflects cultural realities where women endure, not as liberated protagonists,
but as figures whose endurance ensures survival even in silence.
Conclusion
Examining
women’s representation in The Book of
Death and The Paradise of Food
reveals a fictional universe where gender is inseparable from questions of
mortality, memory, and cultural survival. Across both texts, female figures are
neither peripheral nor autonomous; rather, they occupy an uneasy space of
contradiction. Their roles are fractured, at once essential to narrative
continuity and marked by silencing, disappearance, and symbolic reduction. A
central concern that emerges is the insistent presence of patriarchal violence.
Whether through accusations, physical assault, or sexual violation, the novels
show how women’s bodies become surfaces upon which control and suspicion are
enacted. Yet, the texts do not stop at depicting women as passive sufferers.
Their persistence, however muted, interrupts the totalizing power of
patriarchy. Defending a child’s legitimacy, providing care despite trauma, or
simply refusing erasure, these acts demonstrate that endurance itself becomes a
form of survival, even if it does not dismantle structures of domination.
Silence, both
literal and symbolic, is another defining thread. The absence of women’s voices
is not merely stylistic but reflects wider cultural suppression practices.
Disappearance without explanation or trauma narrated only through male
consciousness draws attention to how women are excluded from articulating their
experiences. Silence here acquires dual significance: it erases female
subjectivity while haunting the narrative as a reminder of what remains unsaid.
In this way, the novels compel readers to recognize silence as both loss and
testimony.
Equally
significant is the symbolic function of women within the novels’ allegorical
structures. They are tied to food, continuity, and death, becoming nourishment,
decay, and regeneration emblems. In kitchens, funerals, and dreams, female
figures embody the contradictions of cultural life, linking survival to
confinement and resilience to pain. The final visions of women sustaining
continuity through imagined daughters or ritualistic participation in funerals
highlight their role as carriers of cultural memory, even in contexts of
profound violence. These contradictions underscore the novels’ larger philosophical
ambitions. Women are not simplified into categories of heroines, rebels, or
victims. Instead, they represent the paradox of being simultaneously necessary,
silenced, central, and erased. The grotesque imagery that pervades these works
situates women at the heart of existential dilemmas, making them indispensable
to the texts’ exploration of decay, survival, and the instability of human
life.
In conclusion,
the representation of women in these novels functions less as social commentary
than as a meditation on existence itself. Their lives illustrate how gender is
entangled with broader mortality and cultural continuity questions. Their
silences and presences remind readers that the struggle for representation
extends beyond feminist victory or patriarchal nostalgia. By placing women at
the center of allegories of death and food, the novels reveal gender as
fundamental to the human condition, a lens through which life’s contradictions
are most vividly articulated.
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