George Bernard Shaw once remarked, “All autobiographies are lies.” The aphorism offers an interesting touchstone for reading any autobiography. The reader must ask whether the author has truly opened the windows of his life or merely arranged its furniture to present a flattering portrait of himself. Perhaps the most convincing test of authenticity is the author’s willingness to disclose his own limitations, vulnerabilities and moments of inadequacy. It is in such admissions that an autobiography acquires the texture of truth.
Yet an autobiography must possess more than truth. It must have substance, human interest and literary merit; and, above all, the life must be presented in a manner that makes the reader wish to travel with the author through his memories.
G.N. Adfar’s My Life, My Treasure: The Light and Shades of My Life largely succeeds on these counts. Adfar Sahib is already a familiar name in Kashmiri literary circles. His three-volume English and Urdu translation of Kalam-i-Sheikh-ul-Alam (R.A.), titled Alchemy of Light, his Urdu life-sketch of Sheikh-ul-Alam (R.A.), and his works on the history and cultural heritage of Kashmir, including Under the Shades of Chinar, testify to a sustained engagement with literature, history and intellectual inquiry. This autobiography therefore comes not merely from a writer looking back upon his life, but from a writer who has spent a considerable part of that life looking into books, ideas and the human condition.
There is, perhaps, some inexplicable cosmic thread that binds my association with Adfar Sahib. I have, on several occasions, been invited with great warmth by different organisations to literary gatherings and book-release functions, yet somehow I have rarely managed to attend them. With Adfar Sahib, however, the equation seems different. Whenever he invites me—whether sooner or later—I somehow find myself making it, despite my reservations about some of the venues where his programmes are held. Much of the credit belongs to his persistence. He does not merely invite; he remembers, reminds and waits. That, too, is a form of greatness.
I was particularly pleased that he chose a local school for the release of this book. Literary nourishment must begin where the future is being shaped: among children. If we fail to cultivate their imagination and intellectual curiosity, we risk leaving behind a society materially developed perhaps, but intellectually impoverished.
At the same time, literary gatherings deserve a little more thought in their curation. Familiarity should not always determine who occupies the dais. There are many quiet custodians of literature who possess knowledge without notoriety. A gathering should ideally give space not merely to “known faces” but to voices that carry literary substance. Popularity may garnish a function; intellectual depth gives it meaning.
Despite a busy schedule, I managed to steal some time for Adfar Sahib’s book. Spanning roughly eighty pages, the autobiography is compact but remarkably varied. It takes the reader through the old streets of Charari Sharief, where the author spent his childhood, and gradually opens into the struggles of his professional life before bringing into view his achievements, both professional and intellectual. The movement from childhood to struggle and then to accomplishment is handled almost like a symphony: each phase contributes its own note.
The book also possesses a deeply human and social dimension. Adfar Sahib reflects upon his relationship with his parents, brother and colleagues. I felt, however, that his father deserved a more elaborate treatment, perhaps an entire chapter. The author traces much of his earliest intellectual formation to him, and there is clearly a remarkable story there. His father’s knowledge of numerology and astrology is particularly fascinating. In our society, it is rare to encounter a person whose intellectual inheritance includes such specialised knowledge. I had myself heard much about his father from my late grandfather and my father, which made these portions of the book particularly engaging for me.
The passages concerning his mother are among the most moving in the autobiography. His precise description of her painful struggle during illness, particularly the moment when she would rise from sleep simply to provide comfort to her child, carries an emotional force that needs no ornamentation. It is in such intimate memories that an autobiography ceases to be merely the history of an individual and becomes a document of universal human emotion. May Allah be pleased with her.
Adfar Sahib also deserves appreciation for the candour with which he refers to an episode of courtship and the pain of eventually distancing himself from the girl. A writer of his social milieu might easily have chosen silence, given the constraints and conventions surrounding such matters. His willingness to acknowledge this vulnerable chapter lends credibility to the narrative and reveals a courage that is often absent from autobiographical writing.
His intellectual appetite is equally evident. His reference to translating and deciphering the mysteries surrounding the History of the Prophet (P.B.U.H.) reflects a mind unwilling to remain confined to familiar literary territories. I would particularly look forward to reading that work when it is published.
Stylistically, the autobiography has several passages of considerable brilliance. At places, Adfar Sahib transforms memories into almost poetic narration, allowing words to flow with a certain rhythm and emotional sweep. His descriptions of his teachers, particularly through the qualities he associates with them, display genuine linguistic artistry. The concluding poetic passages—many of them inspirational—are like jewels set within the crown of the book.
What impressed me most throughout the reading, however, was Adfar Sahib’s command of vocabulary. He appears to search instinctively for the precise word suited to a feeling, an explanation, a memory or a narration. The right word is not merely employed; it is often made to carry the exact shade of meaning intended.
There are, nevertheless, places where the narrative syntax changes abruptly, occasionally leaving the reader momentarily disoriented. A little greater uniformity in narration and sentence construction would enhance the readability of future editions. These, however, are refinements rather than fundamental shortcomings.
My Life, My Treasure ultimately remains a personal document of memory, struggle, relationships, intellectual curiosity and achievement. It is not merely a record of what G.N. Adfar has done; it is also an attempt to understand how the various shades of his life have contributed to the person and writer he has become.
I wish Adfar Sahib strength and freshness for his future literary endeavours. I would, however, leave him with one suggestion: let his future literary gatherings become even more inclusive. Invite those who know literature deeply but have not acquired what one might call “notoriety.” Let the dais occasionally belong to the quiet scholar, the uncelebrated writer and the serious reader. Literature gains nothing merely from familiar faces; it gains everything from genuine thought.
And Adfar Sahib—one question remains. Why did you drop the name “Rishi” from your name when, towards the end of the book, you proudly trace and describe your Rishi genealogy?

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