A magician of prose.

- Window seat-Udayan Thakkar

- After that, the girl did not appear for a long time. Don't know the address, nor the name. One day a yellow shadow fell at the writer's door, the silver core of the urn appeared, the glass bangles jingled...

In Sai Ka, there are four or five people who change the face of Gujarati prose. Ghulam Mohammad Shaikh is such a person. On 22 December, his book of autobiographical essays 'Gher Janata' won the Sahitya Akademi (Delhi) award.

The author remembers his childhood in Ghanchiwad in the southern corner of Surendranagar like this: 'A mosque in the street, two or three medis of Memon Setho, everything else is almost single storey... All the world in two rooms: half sitting, half sleeping, kitchen and hole... in the name Kaladiya, Loladiya ne we Madakia... Names include Valo, Black, GV, Bachi. My mother Ladu and Dada Nathubhai, their brother Nanji... The quarrels of parents are not forgotten... My village mother used to quarrel with my father who could hear the whole khadki and he ran away from the khadki to the mosque. The older brothers inherited the vadhwad and quarreled with their father... making references to invaders like Ghazni, Ghori and the bigoted Aurangzeb... watching the characters of Afzal Khan and Shivaji and Pratap vs. Akbar in the plays... there was always a feeling of guilt.'

(This is not book language, but the language spoken in the writer's homeland: not a mosque but a mosque, not a seat but a seat, not a bedroom but a bed. In such a style we find ourselves wandering the streets of his childhood. Most autobiographers are self-praises; narrates. The author's secular personality comes through here and there. Neutrally notes that in school studies one gets information about Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, but nothing about sects of Islam. The surnames of his community are similar to Hindus. In college, "A Muslim student from Jamnagar started teaching Islam. I thought that he would send me back to the mosque, so I cut him off..." Thus the author gives a glimpse of his liberal approach.)

Leaving Ghanchivad and getting admission in Vadodara college, the writer calls it second birth. 'New food, friendship and excitement came in the open air of Fine Arts. The art of the world has spread... With the company of students from the country, abroad and Samovdi students, the vision of seeing the world has changed... The alternative of creativity has turned into a fence of religiosity.'

(Padmabhushan Ghulam Mohammad Sheikh is a famous painter. His paintings are housed in museums in Delhi, Chandigarh, Bhopal, Britain, America. The author does not waste words, he uses words.)

Hostel days are strict. A brother offered Rs 300 for a portrait of the grandfather's image, and painted it immediately. Three days later, the brother came back in a daze, saying that Dadaji seems to be crying. If you look, because you used too much linseed oil in a hurry, the streaks came down under the eyes. Dadaji's tears were barely wiped! 'Then no portrait commission was taken. Over the years, Indira Gandhi's advice for the government came to be 'that was postponed.'

(Nowhere given. Only one line is spent on the occasion of refusing to do the portrait of the Prime Minister. President Zakir Hussain himself is told in half a line that he cut and fed the hafus.)

Ghulam Mohammad Sheikh started writing Achandas poetry in Gujarati. Some of the prose chapters of this collection of essays are like poems. Similes All writers use this writer's similes are unique- (examples include metaphor, imagination and simile).

'Wanting to go back after leaving home is like planting roots in old soil.' 'The rattling tongue of the train would pick me up like a worm and drag me away from my childhood.' 'The yellow sun beating down on the thorny ground peeping through the red bins' 'The deep soil eroded by the heavy rain' 'The butcher's shop standing in a gift of neem' 'A line of rich shade filled the bottom of the wall as the dogs sniffed and tried to pull it out.'

Gabriel García Márquez of Colombia used the style of 'magical realism': what is real and what is imaginary cannot be discerned! Sheikh Saheb has written the 'Godadi' chapter in such a style. The writer's mother used to save rice rags and make them into carpets. When the writer falls into bed, 'the imperceptible entities hidden in the seams of the carpet, in the shower and in the seams, hurry to descend in the organ... the lower cellars of the organ are opened and the animal sleeping in them wakes up. A shower of unique scents for everyone. In each one's bosom a hive like musk... Sometimes all the animals cling like wild cats, hawks and hawks like wild dogs... blisters stick to neems...' (Adolescent sexual excitement is expressed through metaphor and imagery.)

One day, while the writer was painting, the door bumped and the hollow of the raw horn fell into the hall. Looking out the door, a pale yellow blanket disappeared behind the wall. The writer's mind was stuck in Odhani while getting the grain of the horn. On the second Sunday too, it is raining in Khokhan. Barek Varas thin body visible - invisible where not visible! On the third Sunday, the author was alert, rushing to see: 'A wet rump like a baked wheat bread, a tori chibuk like a totapuri.. a sharp nose... a thick braid of disheveled hair... a body hidden in the folds of a rag- a snake-like gait crawling in a sack closed by a madari basket. ' (In the description of the girl, the simile of the food items is indicative.) After blowing the horn, 'the juice was released and the hair reached the organ and the hair became a lamp... That night the rug became gay. As the feet fell, the abyss opened up, opening further into space. Stitch by stitch, mansions exploded in the air, balconies rose. If I turn sideways, the bed is the middle of the sea, if I sleep upright, the sky will fall upside down in my palm, if I pass my limbs, the universe in my bath.' (Jivanananda Das's poetry also has the idea of ​​a cot flying in the sky.)

Then the girl did not appear for a long time. Don't know the address, nor the name. One day a yellow shadow fell at the writer's door, the silver core of the urn appeared, the glass bangles jingled. Everything disappeared in Palakwar. A perfume-bottle was found on the threshold, 'from its loose butch, the cheap scent of flies buzzing from a broken honeycomb.' The writer went to the river, dug a hole with two hands and took out layers of sand. Veerdo happened, water came. Nagi the vial, straight edge into the pit. 'Tarbatar Vas went into the belly of the river or its roots were shaken. As the gin filled with sacs in the bottle was released, the smelly balloons flew up into the sky... The deserted street turned high... The buffalo roared in the swamp... The washerman's hand stopped washing the cloths.' The author clenched his fists. 'Here I go digging rotten sand... I climbed the wall of the deserted street and the ground of the mill... If now I climb to the top of the tower, if I change the fork then if, if now I have the whole village in hand...'