'At the doorsteps of Dostoevsky'

You may look at literature from any angel, from any side, you will find Dostoevsky exactly (عین)at the centre of literature.

The novels of Fyodor Dostoevsky are the highest and finest of creative and literary works, be it-- The Idiot,The Brother Karamazov,Crime and Punishment,The Gambler, Demons, The Double, or The Eternal Husband. These noble works are the paintings,spreading from earth to the wide horizon, of an individual, his psychology and his society. He would , infact, not write the novels rather paint novels with the words in such a way that each character of the novel would get out of the book and rise on their feet in front of the reader and the readers would feel the characters of novel walking around them here and there. So much so that the reader could feel the smell of the characters during the process of reading.

I have spend all my boyhood with the characters of Dostoevsky's novel. The Idiot is a lengthy of Dostoevsky's novels. Prince Myshkin is the central figure of the novel. Let's examine and look at the fineness of Dostoevsky's characterisation and depiction of its characters. Prince Myshkin get off the railway station and get to his residence. Dostoevsky has given a description of 168 pages to this very walking distance of Prince Myshkin from station to his residence. Depiction of his whole novel ranges from station to residence. Journey of Prince Myshkin from station to his apartment covers the entire story with all its details. Save for Dostoevsky, no writer or novelist can afford to write a lengthy description of such a short journey. His words has the power to shake the reader from the core and can move the reader so strongly that his or her inner world of emotions dismantle into pieces. For example, he has written some profound sentences somewhere in his writings;-- 'You are so old that you look to be your own father.'-- 'How come you don't have a story to tell, if you take breathes'-- 'One who thinks of child as a child forgets the fact that, he himself used to be a kid someday, and one who dreams up(fancy) the fact that he knew manything at his childhood what he misconceives of his kids not to be knowing'--'If you are a human being, you are apt to talk nonsense', 'To go on a wrong way at one's own will and choice is better than to go on a right path out of compulsion of an order or command'-- the darker the night, the brighter the stars,--'the intensity of sadness leads close to God'--etc. 

Save for fiction, He was a magnificent and excellent realistic writer as well. Dostoevsky's words were not mere downpour of words, anybody who would read him not only would get wet of raindrops of his words,but also would feel irresistible to wrap up the blanket around his arms in the evenings of the summer after going through the pages of his masterpieces.

Winter of Moscow, sorrow of evening, paucity of rainless, dry woods, rising steam of fresh warm food,-Once you get accustomed to the imagism or imaginings of Dostoevsky, you will scarely forget its taste to your last breathe. He was an ailing and ill and sick soul. 'Epilepsy' diseased him. During Epileptic shocks, he would have intuitions, and these intuitions would prove as fertile ground for his work and would encourage his activity of fertile and prolific imaginations. He would draw a sketch of future developments from the mouth of his characters and henceforth,the events would materialize exactly,unerringly the same as would have been predicted by him.

He would love his kids too much. He used to drink his evening tea with his children and would talk to them about their education. He would smoke profusely. He was an addictive smoker. He would not write without smoking cigarettes. Throughout night, he would puff the smoke of cigarette and would keep on writing and writing until he get tired and slept. He went for his treatment to Germany which couldn't prove successful and so, a great writer of the world passed away at the Sixty on 9th febrary 1881.

In the history of Saint Petersburg, Dostoevsky's funeral was massive. From royal and noble to bond servants, people of every class participated in his funeral. Dostoevsky had life full of difficulties. His primary education was from Military Engineering College, he was deployed in army. He began his writing, got arrested for it,and for five years on, he kept on grinding and hammering iron in the prisons of Syberia. During that period, the government banned on his activity of writing. Having completed penalty, he retained his relation with writing activities.

Dostoevsky's abode was at one side of the apartment--away from the centre, I arrived at his residence. Dostoevsky was born in Moscow, although spent major part of his life in Saint Petersburg. He always lived in lodging house, last part of his life was breathed in this building though--I was standing next to it. He talked of apartments,stairs,and main gates in his novels and stories. While climbing the stairs, I had a recollection of all the characters,the apartments,and the stairs. Most probably, the characters of his novels had been the living figures residing next to him in the same building or the threads of these creations might have been weaved otherwise or Dostoevsky had,most likely, created these characters meanwhile stepping upwards and downwards on the stairs I was standing upon.

Walls of his room had standing candle sticked upon it. There was a table, upon it were his cigarettes, his pens, pages, and some books scattered uncollectively, randomly on the table..He would work throughout the darkness of night in winters, and cold and so would fall upon his bed tired and exhausted, with his sick bones,ailing soul.. Windows of the flat would turn open, outwards. Fireplace made of precious iron framework. It proved the intensity of winter and the coldness of Petersburg-- of that time. Dry Woods, fireplace, and the flames of burning fires are usually the prime part of Dostoevsky's novels. He was habitual of study in the light of candles. He would eat so lightly, would take tea at constant intervals. He had his own feelings, he lived his whole life in difficulties, pain,and suffering. He wrote 'sufferings and pains are unavoidable for great minds and deep hearts.. real great people of the world are of sad disappointed temper' (بڑے لوگ دنیا کے سب سے اُداس لوگ ہوتے ہیں).. 'What is the Hell?', asked once dostoevsky 'Lack of capability to Love is the hell'-- he replied.. He kept his search for real love throughout his life,he kept fighting to his inner dejection and sadness to his last breath, 'At the corner was a clock. It was gifted by his brother,and the minute and hour hand of clock stopped, the moment he left for the world ,unknown. He wanted to live for his kids,he struggled a lot,but despite countless efforts, his life ended like the incomplete characters of his novel. 

Writing the whole time his life, he left the world but along with his departure, he left his sadness,his pains,and the incompleteness of his longings,sickness of his soul, and widespread despondency of his existence, and the light of his intuitions in his room... I took a heavy breathe, and filled my lungs with the sadness of dostoevsky's existence. With heavy steps,I begin to stair, down outside the room.. the characters of Dostoevsky's novels;the Prince Myshkin, Alyosha, the beautiful women of royal and nobel class of Saint Petersburg, all of them were standing on the stairs,in constant wait for the arrival of their creator (Dostoevsky) from the skies, --with his brown long coat, his black bowler-hat and with walking stick in his hand, they wanted Dostoevsky to stop near them,smile and say' still standing here', and then arrogantly turn his neck away... but...perhaps this was not possible any longer, the greatest of creator is destined to turn back to his ultimate abode towards his real Creator, without any chance of coming back. Characters keep on waiting for the rest of their life..why? Because bygone days, and slipped-drops of clouds don't come back, they are lost forever ,in perpetuity! Life is the pitcher jug of copper(زندگی پیتل کا مَرتَبان ہے), dismantled into pieces, so distmantled for all the time.. never to be made, ever again.

NOTE: Translation of Javed Chaudhry's Urdu Column, 'Dostoevsky K Dar Par' published in Daily Express Newspaper from Moscow.

Bio: Interested in Persian,Urdu,and English Language and Literture,Islamic  Modernism, Iqbaliat, Feminism, and Gender Studies. Love Solitude, and Music.